‘Yes,’ he said. And he folded the statement and slipped it into an inside pocket. Then he stared without emotion at the old man. A frail creature destroyed by his own misguided philanthropy. And yet, in spite of it all, there was a certain dignity that clung to him still. Bannerman wished he could feel hatred for him, but all he could find inside himself was the dull ache of emptiness. Sad, watery eyes stared back at him.

‘I’ve done what I can,’ the old politician said suddenly. ‘But I don’t suppose it’s enough. You can never undo your mistakes.’ His head dropped and he gazed at his hands resting in his lap. His pipe had gone out again. ‘I think . . .’ he said, but could not finish. When he looked up again Bannerman saw that there were large, silent tears running down his cheeks. ‘Excuse me.’ He rose unsteadily, drawing a handkerchief from a pocket to wipe away his humiliation and his shame. He rounded his chair and disappeared through a door into an adjoining room.

Bannerman closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He would return to Edinburgh and tomorrow would write a story that would bring down a government. The irony of it lay in its injustice. He thought back on the last ten days. Slater, Tania, Marie-Ange Piard. Gryffe, Jansen, Lapointe. And the old woman. Platt lying dead on a pathologist’s table. Du Maurier. Sally. What did he know about any of them? And now old man Armsdale.

A single, loud report startled him and he sat forward in his chair in a sudden moment of fright and confusion. Then he realized what it was. He rose and crossed slowly to the open door through which the old man had left a few minutes earlier. He found himself looking into a small, oak-panelled bureau. Lord Armsdale lay face down on the floor, a pool of blood spreading outwards and soaking into the carpet. Bannerman could see brain tissue spattered across the floor and the wall. The top half of the old man’s head was almost blown away and the revolver lay a few inches from his white, clenched hand.

He turned away and wanted to throw up, a hand against the wall to steady himself. No matter how often you saw death you never got used to it.

The door from the hall flew open and Arthur ran in. He stopped as he saw Bannerman at the door to the bureau and then rushed across to look inside. He turned blazing eyes on the journalist, and it was clear from his face that for a moment he thought that Bannerman had done it. Then his shoulders slumped in despair and disappointment, and he accepted the reality. Without a word he turned and hurried from the room.