She waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t she sighed. ‘Which is?’ She was doing a poor job of masking her curiosity with indifference.

Bannerman smiled. ‘I think you could probably hazard a guess.’ He saw the slight puckering of her lips, the tiniest manifestation of her irritation, and he said, ‘You speak very good English.’

A forced smile betrayed the realization that he was not going to give voice to his observation. So now she feigned boredom and cast her eye around the room. ‘I was educated in England and Switzerland. I also speak French, Flemish and German. But English has always been my lingua franca.’

Someone nudged her elbow as they passed, and she very nearly spilled her champagne. Bannerman caught her hand to steady it and felt the lightest touch of her breast on his arm. The scent of her perfume seemed suddenly more intoxicating than the bubbles in his champagne. Her face was too close to his. She smiled, her voice faintly husky as she leaned closer. ‘You’re an interesting man, Mr Bannerman.’

He smiled and moved imperceptibly away. ‘More interesting than Tim?’

Her smile settled like frost on her lips.

‘Bannerman, isn’t it? Neil Bannerman?’ The voice crashed into the intimacy of their conversation. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting.’ Bannerman turned to see a small, rotund figure in a dinner suit two sizes too big, a cheap rental job badly chosen off the peg. Its wearer was in his late fifties, bald with little tufts of greasy grey hair clinging around the edges of his head. His fat, unlined face smiled amiably, a familiar smile below bushy eyebrows. A soiled red handkerchief clutched in short stubby fingers mopped at his forehead and under his chins. His free hand was extended. ‘You remember me, don’t you? Platt. Richard Platt. We worked together on the Mail. Long time ago now.’

Bannerman heard Marie-Ange tut impatiently beside him. Of course he remembered Platt, but there was an unwillingness to acknowledge it. It was not a time about which he cared to remember. ‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly, and shook Platt’s soft, damp hand.

Platt said, ‘Must be, what, fifteen years? More. What a coincidence meeting you here in Brussels.’

‘Yes, isn’t it,’ Bannerman said without enthusiasm.

‘I’ve been following your career with great interest. Made quite a name for yourself.’ He paused and beamed at Marie-Ange, who glanced at him with distaste.

She turned to Bannerman. ‘You’re not doing a very good job of looking after me, Mr Bannerman. My glass is empty.’

‘Allow me.’ Platt waved towards a waiter and lifted three glasses when the tray arrived. ‘Sure I’m not interrupting?’

‘You are, actually,’ Marie-Ange said with the sweetest of smiles.

Bannerman shook his head and found a grin. ‘Not at all.’