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Chapters (45)
  1. The Man With No Face
  2. Also by
  3. Title
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. Contents
  8. INTRODUCTION
  9. CHAPTER ONE
  10. CHAPTER TWO
  11. CHAPTER THREE
  12. CHAPTER FOUR
  13. CHAPTER FIVE
  14. CHAPTER SIX
  15. CHAPTER SEVEN
  16. CHAPTER EIGHT
  17. CHAPTER NINE
  18. CHAPTER TEN
  19. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  20. CHAPTER TWELVE
  21. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  22. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  23. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  24. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  25. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  26. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  27. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  43. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Platt watched Bannerman leave and wondered what he was up to. He drained his glass and peered at the faces of European society through a haze of alcohol and cynicism, wincing slightly as his ulcer issued the first warnings of a troublesome night. He took a tablet from a bottle in his pocket and chewed on its mintiness. It was not worth staying much longer, he thought. There was no copy in it. His news desk would be upset in the morning, but they could go to hell. It was not his kind of job anyway. Dinner suits and smoked salmon. Though he knew he could not push his luck too far. It was a long time since he had turned in a good story. But he would show them. Rémy and Clerck and the rest. There was no way he would lose this job too. He was happy in his exile. Anonymous, safe from the failed years in Scotland, safe from the single-end, the succession of hard-drinking pubs, the sole milk bottle on the doorstep and the letters of complaint from the woman across the landing. He signalled a waiter and told himself this would be the last whisky tonight. Perfect for washing down his antacid. Now he had Bannerman. An arrogant bastard, yes, but a bloody good reporter. Something must have brought him to Brussels. Something big. And if Platt played his cards right, maybe he could get a piece of the action, whatever it might be. He chuckled to himself. After all these years he might get some mileage out of Bannerman yet.

II

Sally sat listening to the slow interminable tick, tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. There was no sound from the child’s room and the apartment was deathly quiet. Her book lay open on the table beside the settee. She had been unable to read, unable to watch television. She had been thinking about Bannerman ever since last night. He’d had an unexpected effect on her. His extraordinary presence, powerful, but subtle at the same time, like the taste of a good wine. There was a sense of something tantalizingly concealed behind his smile, and she found herself wanting to reach out and touch it. But then somewhere deep inside her was that same old fear of commitment that she had been unable to shake off ever since . . .