Du Maurier smiled again. ‘It is something we both overlooked, Monsieur.’

‘So she provided the dirt, Slater made it stick, and they shared the spoils. A very cosy arrangement.’

‘Unfortunately,’ the Inspector sighed, ‘I do not think it is something we can ever prove.’

Bannerman felt anger welling inside him. It rankled that she might be the only one to remain untouched by any of this.

As if he’d read Bannerman’s mind, du Maurier said, ‘In my business there are always the ones who get away. In yours too, no doubt.’

‘Yes, in mine too.’

Du Maurier clasped his hands on the desk in front of him, his mouth set in a grim line. Both men knew there were many things they could never hope to know or understand. The power and influence of old Madame Jansen. She had come as a surprise to them both. How much did she really know? And how had the arrangement between Gryffe, Jansen and Lapointe ever come about? Why had Gryffe risked an outstanding career in politics to deal in illegal arms? Was it really just greed? So many questions that would remain forever unanswered. Why men do the things they do. Bannerman knew they could only ever hope to scratch the surface.

‘It won’t go away, will it?’ du Maurier said at length.

Bannerman looked at him curiously. ‘What?’

‘The question of who had Gryffe and Slater killed – if it wasn’t Jansen.’

‘No, it won’t.’ An ugly little thought had been burrowing into Bannerman’s consciousness since the episode in Flanders. And now it returned. He remembered his conversation with the Foreign Minister the night before he left for Flanders, the sandy-haired man at the Gare du Midi, the professional’s specialist military rifle with the laser sight.

He was hardly surprised when du Maurier said, ‘The man who shot at you in Flanders was an SIS field man. British Secret Intelligence Service. Our own people have him on their files.’