As he thumbed through the pages it occurred to Bannerman to look under J for Jansen and L for Lapointe. So obvious the thought might have passed him by. There were home and office numbers listed for both. He noted them opposite the names he had written in his notebook. And then, as an afterthought, looked up Gryffe.

There were three numbers listed. One was the flat in the Rue de Pavie, another was Gryffe’s London mews house. The third was a Belgian number with an H in brackets beside it indicating Home. Bannerman frowned. Had Gryffe possessed two homes in Brussels?

He noted all three out of habit and replaced the contacts book in the drawer. Mademoiselle Ricain was watching him over her typewriter.

‘Anything I can do . . .?’

Bannerman shook his head. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Not right now.’ He was distracted. The day was slipping away from him. After his meeting with du Maurier he knew the night would stretch emptily ahead, lonely hours in Slater’s flat or in some bar getting drunk. Depression settled on him like dust. Then an idea came, forming slowly, a burgeoning light in the darkness. He said to Mademoiselle Ricain, ‘Tim had a young woman who came in to look after Tania sometimes. Any idea where I can get in touch with her?’

She thought about it. ‘Sally Robertson. Her number’s probably in Tim’s contacts book.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Why hadn’t he thought of that? He took the book out again. The number was there, of course. He got an outside line and dialled. He let the phone ring several times before hanging up. No one home. He saw Mademoiselle Ricain watching him and tried not to show his disappointment. Carefully he made a note of the number in his own notebook.

The door opened behind him and Bannerman swivelled to see a middle-aged man shuffle in, accompanied by a rush of cold air and the smell of alcohol. He had a weary face as crumpled as his raincoat, and an untidy mop of greying hair that tumbled over heavy eyebrows. A dog-eared notebook was clutched between the ink-stained fingers of his right hand. He threw his coat over the remaining free desk, and half a dozen pens and pencils revealed themselves in the breast pocket of a jacket of indefinable shape and colour. He raised his abundant eyebrows when he saw Bannerman.

‘Neil Bannerman, I presume,’ he said in a voice gravelled by years of drink. He rounded his desk and slumped into a creaking chair to kick his feet up and rest them on the edge of it. ‘Someone been having a go at you?’ He screwed up beady eyes to examine the bruising on Bannerman’s face and took out a match to stick in one corner of his mouth. He allowed himself a small, humourless grin.

‘An accident,’ Bannerman said. ‘And you are . . .?’

‘Eric Palin.’