‘Ah, yes. Sent out to grass by the Herald and to pickle what remains of his liver, I heard.’

Palin was unimpressed. ‘Smart bastard!’ And he moved the match from one corner of his mouth to the other. ‘I heard about you, too. Shooting your mouth off the other day at some of the boys, like you were God Almighty.’

Mademoiselle Ricain looked uncomfortable and busied herself with some paperwork. Bannerman was in no mood for exchanging wisecracks with a drunk. All the same, he said, ‘Maybe I am. And maybe some of the boys need a good kick up the arse.’

Palin snorted, and his amusement seemed genuine. ‘Aye, maybe they do.’

Bannerman said, ‘And maybe when you’re sober you can tell me what you know about Tim Slater. And his relationship with Gryffe.’

Palin snorted. ‘What makes you think I would share information with the opposition, Bannerman? You might figure I’m just some drunk. And I won’t deny I enjoy a dram or three. But I’m still a fucking good reporter . . .’ He glanced towards Mademoiselle Ricain. ‘Apologies for the French.’ Then back to Bannerman. ‘This is the hottest story that’s broken in this shithole of a city in all the time I’ve been here, and I’m not about to give you a head-start on it.’

Bannerman leaned forward and said, ‘It doesn’t matter how good you are, if you’re drinking you’re no damned good to anybody, Palin. You can’t be trusted. By anyone. Your editor knows that, so he’s taking a calculated short-term risk in sending you out here. A fresh challenge. A new start. And you’ll probably do okay. Keep it up for a year, maybe two. Then you’ll start slipping, because people like you always do. And then you’ll be out of a job so damned fast you won’t know where your next half’s coming from.’

Palin was sharp enough to know the truth when he heard it, a truth that he might never admit to himself. And it hurt, because the truth usually does. ‘Fuck off!’ He dropped his feet to the floor and took the match from his mouth. ‘Think you know it all, don’t you?’ Amid the anger, there was a smugness in his voice. ‘Well, you don’t know half of it, Mr God Almighty Bannerman.’

Bannerman got up and slipped his notebook into his pocket. ‘See you around.’

‘At the press conference, no doubt,’ Palin said.

Bannerman turned. ‘What press conference?’

Palin’s grin widened. ‘Tomorrow at the Rue des Quatre Bras. Minister of Justice on the Slater deaths. Didn’t you know?’ He knew Bannerman didn’t. The announcement had only just been made. Mentally he notched one up.

‘I do now,’ Bannerman said. ‘Appreciate you sharing with the opposition.’ He nodded at Mademoiselle Ricain and left.