Journalists clustered around the podium and Lousière fed hands that reached out like the beaks of chicks straining for food from their mother’s mouth. Bannerman watched the melee with vague distaste, and yet whatever he felt, he could not detach himself from it. He was one of them. One of the vultures that gorged on the carrion of news, that fed the ugly millions their daily diet of death, tragedy, sex and intrigue. His cynicism ate at his insides, like stomach acid.

Two men had died, a child had lost her father and her future, and all any bastard could think about was the story it would make on tomorrow’s front page.

Including himself.

He remembered the years of knocking on doors, cadging pics. How do you feel about your son being killed, Mrs Smith?

Sometimes you got there before the police, and after you’d broken the news you searched out and removed every picture of the dead boy so that the competition wouldn’t get one. It was not how you wanted to work, but that’s how it was. Accept it or get out. Right now he was hurting in a lot of places, inside and out, and he took the easy option by joining the pack. He pushed his way to the front and took his own copy of the drawing from Lousière. Like the rest of the carrion creatures he would do a story himself.

Only, he had a head start. He was on the inside, and knew things the others didn’t.

‘I am sorry. No more questions,’ he heard du Maurier saying. The policeman collected his papers and headed for the door, only to be surrounded by radio and television hacks all wanting their pound of flesh; individual interviews, pics, the outside chance of an exclusive.

‘Why is there no face in the drawing?’ Bannerman heard a voice asking. Stiffly he pulled on his coat and pushed his way towards the door.

‘Neil, Neil!’ There was a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Platt at his back. ‘Good God!’ Platt said, beady eyes examining the damage to Bannerman’s face. ‘You look as though you’ve been in the wars. What the hell happened?’

Bannerman glared back at him. ‘None of your fucking business.’ And he turned away.

But Platt was not to be deterred, chasing after him to grab his arm. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘We could work on this together. You knew Slater. I know Brussels.’

‘Piss off.’ Bannerman shook himself free and turned away again.

‘I’ve got good contacts,’ Platt shouted after him. But Bannerman was gone.