EIGHT

NANTES, FRANCE—JANUARY

Duncan headed South from Nantes airport in the hired white Simca. He left behind the endless vista of white blocks of high-rise flats, built with all the imagination of a child’s first attempts at Lego.

The car had been carefully chosen. It was identical with thousands of others on the road. Anonymity was essential, for he would be tailing Bouchin for about 250 miles from his base at Marans to the Channel coast. Bouchin would not be starting his journey until Thursday so he had slightly less than two days to complete his enquiries. He felt elated at being back in France. So much was appealing. It was lunchtime and he watched the neatly dressed youngsters going home, some clutching a baguette or two. There were chic ladies, oozing style with every move, their charm heightened by the contrast with the less fortunate, in heavy, dark coats and with their bulky bags filled with bread and cheap wine.

He saw a sign ‘L’Auberge du Moulin.’ It was too good to pass by.