He sat for a moment in solemn contemplation before taking out his spiral-bound reporter’s notebook and flicking to a fresh page to jot down four names one below the other: Tim Slater, Robert Gryffe, Michel Lapointe, René Jansen.

There had to be a common factor. Something that linked all four. Why else had Slater kept cuttings on them in unmarked folders? But the link was tenuous. There was no doubting the connection between Slater and Gryffe. However, it was possible that Lapointe and Jansen were simply red herrings. Bannerman could waste a great deal of time chasing them down. He tossed the possibilities around in his mind and looked out of the window at the heavy Belgian skies. There were times, he thought, when you had to chase red herrings, because there was nothing else to chase. He would need something before Tait got in tomorrow. Because Tait was going to want him to shut this thing down. And Bannerman would need something to convince him otherwise.

He became aware that his head was still hurting. There was a bad taste in his mouth from lack of sleep and his stomach was complaining that it needed more than the coffee and croissants he had fed it earlier. He got up and searched about the desks for a telephone directory. He found several and spent three or four minutes searching for the number he wanted.

Mademoiselle Ricain returned as he lifted the phone. Her smile was strained. ‘Dial zero if you want an outside line,’ she said. Bannerman saw that she had powdered her face and put fresh colour on her eyes and lips. He dialled, and a girl’s voice crackled in his ear.

‘Police Judiciaire.’

‘Inspecteur du Maurier.’

‘Ne quittez pas.’

He waited.

‘Du Maurier.’

‘Inspector. It’s Neil Bannerman.’

‘Ah, Monsieur. How are you today?’

‘I’d like to talk.’

‘Bon. Good. When?’

‘Whenever it suits.’

‘Hmmmm.’ He hesitated. ‘Five o’clock?’

‘Fine,’ Bannerman said.

‘But not here.’ Du Maurier cleared his throat. ‘At the Café Auguste in the Boulevard de Waterloo. It’s not far from the Rue des Quatre Bras.’

‘Okay.’ Bannerman hung up, then tried the keys that Mademoiselle Ricain had given him until he found the one that fitted Slater’s desk drawer. He pulled it open and slipped in the two folders he had set aside. He was about to slide it shut when he saw a scarred, leather-bound notebook squeezed down one side. Slater’s contacts book.

Bannerman thumbed through it, a record of all the people a dead man had known. People from whom information had been prised, or tip-offs received. Sometimes freely, sometimes under duress. A good journalist was not only good with words, he was good at getting information, research. Knowing where to look, who to ask.