‘Hey,’ Bannerman snapped. ‘You know none of this was my idea. The Post owns your apartment here, and if Tait reckons he can save the paper money by having me shack up there then that’s up to him. If you have any objections you know where you can take them.’

Slater eyed him angrily for a moment, then took a deep breath and seemed to relent. ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I . . . well, this place gets to you after a while.’

‘Really? I thought you people had it easy out here.’ Bannerman’s sarcasm seemed to revive some of Slater’s antagonism.

‘Oh, sure, if you like the idea of quietly vegetating amongst all the decaying political ideals of a generation of squabbling Europeans.’ He hesitated and crossed to the window so that Bannerman could not see his face. ‘This is a cold, lonely city, Bannerman. It’s a God-awful place. There are more than two hundred thousand temporary or permanent immigrants in Brussels. Thousands of civil servants and politicians and journalists from all over Europe who have never integrated with the local population. Most of them live in the Euro-ghettos.’ His laugh was without humour. ‘Sprawling wealthy suburban areas on the edge of the city where life is divided into nationalities and private clubs and expensive social functions. If you can afford it.’ He turned back to face Bannerman. ‘You think I can? Working for the Post? There’s no way a paper like ours can compete with the money that’s being earned even by the average EEC official. These guys can make anything up to a basic eighty grand a year, with all kinds of additional allowances for home entertainment, household, family, school, cost of living.’

Bannerman felt Slater’s bitterness as powerfully as if he could touch it. Something about him jarred. He was more than just a disillusioned newspaperman, more than just bitter. But it was not easy to know what more there was. Bannerman knew that Slater’s wife had died shortly after the move to Brussels, that he had been left to support an autistic daughter – a girl who could not speak, who could barely write, whose terrible deficiency was her inability to communicate.

Slater was still talking. ‘The Belgians are okay to work with. But there is no way you will get to know them. Not socially. A Belgian will never invite you into his home, even if you’ve known him for months, or years. They are a strange, introverted, suspicious people. I don’t like them.’

‘It seems there are a lot of people you don’t like.’

‘That’s right.’ Slater stared at him, almost defiantly, then turned to lift his coat from the stand. ‘Time we went home.’