Platt shuffled uncomfortably. His smile became fixed. ‘I . . . I’ve been in Belgium nearly ten years now. The evening paper here in Brussels. La Belgique Soir. Perhaps we could meet sometime, for a drink. Chat about old times. Next week if you’re still here.’ He searched his pockets before producing a grubby business card. ‘You can get me at the office most days. And I’m home most evenings after about ten.’ Bannerman took the card and slipped it in his pocket without looking at it. Platt positively wilted under Marie-Ange’s glare, and he backed off. ‘Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it.’

‘I’ll call you,’ Bannerman said, knowing that he wouldn’t. And fleetingly wondered what a low-life journalist like Platt was doing at a gathering like this. Platt nodded uncertainly at Marie-Ange and vanished among the dinner jackets.

With distaste in her voice, Marie-Ange said, ‘Lovebirds?’

But Bannerman wasn’t listening. He was thinking about Platt. About how little he had changed in all the years. The same drinker’s face, the same nicotine-stained fingers. The same nervous tic over the right cheekbone, the same bad teeth. Uncomfortable in his rented dinner suit, he would have been more at home in his shabby brown raincoat and felt hat. Still, all that had been a long time ago.

He replayed now what it was Marie-Ange had said on Platt’s departure. He turned to her and inclined his head. ‘Perhaps we make a more convincing couple than you and Tim.’

The crowd behind her parted suddenly like the Red Sea at the behest of Moses, and he saw Slater at the far side of the room in deep conversation with a man whose back was turned to them.

‘Excuse me,’ he said to Marie-Ange. ‘I have to see a man about a dog.’ He didn’t wait to catch her frown of consternation, and pushed off through the crowd as it ebbed and eddied ahead of him.

A frown of annoyance crossed Slater’s face when he saw Bannerman approaching, and the other man turned, running a tanned hand through thick dark hair. ‘Maybe time you got back to your good lady,’ Bannerman said. ‘She’s pretty high-maintenance, and I’m off.’

Slater could barely conceal his irritation at Bannerman’s intrusion. But his companion seemed to welcome the interruption.

‘Neil Bannerman, isn’t it? I thought I recognized you. You were at the Council of Ministers yesterday.’

‘This is Robert Gryffe, Minister of State for Europe.’ Slater made the introduction grudgingly.

‘Yes, I know.’ Bannerman shook Gryffe’s hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Minister. I’m flattered that you should have recognized me.’

‘Ah,’ Gryffe smiled. ‘But Mr Bannerman, you have a certain reputation.’

‘Would that be good or bad?’

Gryffe made a moue with pale lips. ‘Not for me to say.’

Bannerman grinned. ‘Ever the diplomat.’