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.They could have a new hideout.’They could, but Trent doubted it.A discreet base would be hard to find.Until it was jeopardised, there was no reason for the gang to try somewhere new.His gaze slid sideways, towards the inert recording equipment.The silent telephone.He asked himself if Xavier might call again.He wondered if the gang would try to squeeze him for cash now that the Moreaus had paid them a generous fee.They knew that Jérôme had access to information he needed.They’d killed Girard.He was on his own now.He was desperate.Why wouldn’t they call? Why wouldn’t they contact him again?Wait.Contact him again.Trent stared at Viktor.He scrambled down off his stool.‘You’ve been watching me,’ he said.Viktor ducked and raised his arms in front of his face, as though afraid that Trent might strike him.‘No,’ Trent said, and pulled his arms down by the wrists.‘This is good.You told me that you’ve been watching me.From where?’Viktor delayed for a moment before answering.‘An apartment,’ he said.‘Across the square.’‘How about this morning? Early? Somebody left something here for me.They broke the lock on my door to get inside.Did you see that happen?’Viktor shook his head earnestly.‘Come on.You must have seen something.Anything at all.’He swallowed.His lips were moving as if he was rehearsing his words, testing them to see if they might trip him up.‘There was the florist,’ he said.‘Go on.’‘It was just after five o’clock.The noise of a vehicle engine woke me.I thought it could be you returning home.’‘And?’‘And there was a florist’s van parked in the street outside your apartment.It blocked your front door.I didn’t see the driver until he got back inside the van and pulled away.’‘How long was he there?’‘Ten minutes, maybe.’‘Ten minutes to drop off some flowers? I don’t think so.’‘Your door was open a little when he left.’‘Because he broke in.You saw that my lock was damaged, right? And what kind of florist makes deliveries at five o’clock in the morning?’Viktor scanned the room.‘Did you find flowers inside?’‘Not flowers, no,’ Trent said.‘He left a package for me.’ He paused.Concentrated hard.‘Tell me, was the van branded in any way?’Viktor nodded.He was confident about it.‘I remember the name.I made a note.Fleurs de Soleil.Trent was already moving.He was backing away towards the kitchen.He opened a drawer.Cleared some things.Then he removed a telephone directory.He cracked the spine.Riffled the pages with his thumb, ran his finger down through the listings.‘It’s on Rue Pavillon.’ He looked up from the directory, the waferthin pages splayed over his wrist.‘Would you recognise this man again?’‘Perhaps,’ Viktor said, more guarded now.‘Think about it.Think about his hairstyle.His clothes.His skin tone.The way he moved his body.’Viktor gulped.He unzipped a pocket on the front of his hooded top.Reached his good hand inside.‘I don’t need to remember.I have pictures.’Trent dropped the phone book and came around from behind the counter and watched as Viktor wiped the moisture from a compact digital camera.He powered the camera up.It was blue with a zoom lens that slid out and whirred as the aperture opened.A tiny screen on the back blinked to life.Viktor twirled a dial and prodded a couple of buttons, then passed the camera to Trent, an expectant look on his face.‘This is him?’Viktor nodded.Trent was looking at an angled shot, taken from above, of a thin, hippyish guy at the side of a small green delivery van.The van had a floral motif on the side and the name Fleurs de Soleil in gold lettering in a stylised, cursive script.The guy had long brown hair tied into a ponytail, a rangy beard, and he was wearing a green fleece top.‘This is good, Viktor,’ Trent said.‘This is excellent.’ He tossed the camera back to Viktor.Ruffled the kid’s hair.‘Wait here.I’m going to get some things together.’Trent didn’t take long.He didn’t want Viktor to become spooked or try to leave.He got changed very quickly, hauling on a pair of jeans, some socks and his desert boots, then fitting his shoulder holster over the vest he had on before buttoning a khaki shirt.He searched around in the base of the wardrobe for a canvas duffel bag he kept there.Carried the duffel into the bathroom and lifted his gloves out of the pool of water in the base of the tub and stuffed them inside the bag along with the shotgun.He steeled himself to enter the boxroom, doing his best not to look at the blood-spattered walls or Alain’s sorry corpse as he added ropes and cuffs, his torch and a serrated hunting knife to his stash.He located his Beretta and lifted up his shirt and slipped the pistol into the holster.He straightened his clothes, then closed the door on the room and inhaled deeply, as if cleaning his lungs.He moved through the living room into the kitchen and opened a drawer and fetched the Ruger and the spare cartridges, tossing them into his bag.‘OK,’ he said, tightening the drawstring on the duffel.‘We’re ready.’‘For what?’ Viktor had been looking sickly already, but right now his skin was pallid and slack.‘To find Xavier’s delivery man.To ask him some questions.’Trent hefted his bag of equipment.He advanced on the sofa.Placed a hand on Viktor’s damp shoulder.Partly a reassuring gesture, partly a way of digging his fingers into Viktor’s bony frame and lifting him to his feet.The kid’s knees almost buckled.Trent spun him round and flattened his hand on his back and steered him along the hallway.He opened the front door.Stopped abruptly.Stephanie Moreau was standing there, adjusting the fit of the blue polka-dot sundress she had on.Her sunglasses were large and round and dark.She was holding a clutch purse in front of her waist
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