The telephone woke Bannerman just after eleven. Long single rings that brought to an end the strange dreams that come just before waking. He slipped from the rumpled bedsheets, still woozy from the restless hours of shallow sleep. He had lain awake almost until dawn, unable to stop his brain from replaying the events of the last forty-eight hours. He was still stiff and his head and face still ached. The air in the flat was cold as ice and he shivered as he went through the hall to lift the phone in the living room and sit heavily on the settee.

‘Bannerman.’ He ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw.

A familiar voice crackled in his ear. ‘That was a good piece you sent us last night, Neil.’

‘That’s what you pay me for, Mr Tait.’ Bannerman could barely disguise his sarcasm. He heard Tait sigh.

‘I’m flying out to Brussels tomorrow,’ Tait said. ‘For the funeral. I’ve been in touch with the Belgian authorities. Slater had no living relatives, so I didn’t see the point in having him flown back for burial. They’ll release the body after the post-mortem.’

‘Save the paper money, will it?’ Bannerman asked.

But Tait wasn’t going to be baited. ‘The arrangements are made,’ he said. ‘The funeral will be at the Cimetière de Bruxelles tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock. I want you to remain in Brussels until this whole thing is cleared up. You can stay at the Rue de Commerce. We’ll be making arrangements for the collection of Slater’s belongings. Oh, and you’d better pick up his car. I understand it’s been taken to the police car pound.’ He paused, but got no response from Bannerman. ‘I’ll meet you at the office tomorrow around midday. We can have lunch and then you can drive me out to the cemetery.’

‘What about his daughter?’

Tait cleared his throat. ‘Ye-es,’ he said, ‘that’s a bit of an unknown quantity. I suppose the paper has some kind of responsibility . . . Anyway, I’ll see about that after the funeral. Meantime you stick with the story. Give me a call before the five o’clock conference and let me know what’s happening.’

Bannerman hung up. It was all over already. He could read between the lines. By tomorrow night the story would be dead and buried along with Slater. The Post was embarrassed. There would be echoes of it in the other dailies and in the Sundays, but the Post would want it over and done with as expeditiously as possible. Bannerman heaved himself out of the settee and went into the bathroom to shave.