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Chapters (45)
  1. The Man With No Face
  2. Also by
  3. Title
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. Contents
  8. INTRODUCTION
  9. CHAPTER ONE
  10. CHAPTER TWO
  11. CHAPTER THREE
  12. CHAPTER FOUR
  13. CHAPTER FIVE
  14. CHAPTER SIX
  15. CHAPTER SEVEN
  16. CHAPTER EIGHT
  17. CHAPTER NINE
  18. CHAPTER TEN
  19. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  20. CHAPTER TWELVE
  21. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  22. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  23. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  24. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  25. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  26. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  27. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  43. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

In the corridor he took his time walking along to the lift, replaying his joust with Palin. Something worried him. Something in Palin’s demeanour. Smugness betraying knowledge. Something he knew that Bannerman didn’t. And not just the news about the press conference. Palin had worked in the same office as Slater for nearly a year. You don’t work as closely with someone for that length of time and not get to know something about them. However obnoxious Palin might be, he was still a good journalist, even if he was just a shadow of the man he might once have been.

*

Palin watched the door close, anger and alcohol hardening the line of his mouth. He took out a cigarette and lit it with an unsteady hand before turning to Mademoiselle Ricain and catching the pity in her eyes. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said. ‘What are you looking at?’ She flushed deeply, lowered her head and started to type. But he wanted her out of there. ‘Take a hike, love,’ he told her, and without a word she abandoned her typewriter, lifted her bag and left.

When she had gone Palin sat for several minutes, un­decided. Then he went to Slater’s filing cabinet, unlocked it and crouched down to open the bottom drawer. He riffled quickly through the suspension files before realizing that the unmarked folders were gone. Fuck! Bannerman must have taken them. He stood up and felt the blood rush to his head. He took a moment to steady himself and looked quickly around the room. Then he crossed to Slater’s desk and yanked open the top drawer. He expelled a sigh of relief. There they were! He took a flask from his hip pocket, took a quick snort and smiled his satisfaction.

He lifted out Slater’s contacts book, shut the drawer and picked up a phone. He got an outside line, found the number he wanted and dialled. A woman answered and he spoke in slow, clear French. ‘I’d like to speak to Monsieur Jansen.’

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘He won’t know me,’ Palin said. ‘Just tell him I worked with a man called Tim Slater and that I have some information to sell him. I think he’ll speak to me.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I

The Boulevard de Waterloo was thick with people wrapped in heavy coats and brightly coloured rainwear. They clutched umbrellas and briefcases and shopping bags. Hurrying, heads bowed, through the darkness and the big white flakes of snow that fell brightly through the lights from cafés and shops. The snow was wet and was not yet lying on the pavement. It came drifting lazily over the tops of tall buildings that stood dark against the orange glow reflected in the thickly clouded sky, turning white in the light of the streetlamps, slapping softly against faces like the merest touch of icy fingers.