by Lin Anderson
Patrick was rescued from commenting further by the arrival of Veronique with a glass of red wine, which she plonked down in front of him. Patrick had been planning to order something else, but decided by Veronique’s expression it was better not to.
Oscar had moved to sit beside Moreaux, who was ruffling his ears, just the way Oscar liked it.
‘I do not like people who are cruel to dogs,’ Moreaux said firmly.
Patrick couldn’t agree more.
‘What of Angele?’ Patrick said.
‘Free to pursue her movie career, which will go very well, I believe.’ He raised an eyebrow at Patrick.
A few minutes later they heard the roar of Chevalier’s motorbike in Rue de la Misericorde. Chevalier looked decidedly pleased with himself as he approached them after parking it. Tonight he was dressed in cream with a blue silk cravat, fastened with a delicate diamond pin. Patrick was pleased to see the diamond had been put to good use. He glanced at Moreaux to see if he had noticed it.
Moreaux indicated his new ring. ‘Madamoiselle Ager stocks such pretty items, don’t you think?’
Without asking, Veronique arrived carrying a third glass of red and a selection of hors d’œuvre.
Chevalier smiled his thanks, then raised his glass.
‘Gentlemen, shall we have a toast?’
‘To Le Suquet,’ Patrick suggested.
‘To Le Suquet,’ the two men chorused.
Oscar barked his approval, while Veronique allowed a smile to fleetingly pass her lips before heading back inside.
A sense of peace descended on Patrick on his walk back along the quai.
Perhaps life had returned to normal as Moreaux had indicated. He hoped so.
He pulled down the walkway and stepped aboard. Oscar was immediately in attack mode, his hackles rising, a low growl in his throat. Patrick put a hand on his head to silence him. The scent when he opened the cabin door was not of a female, but of an expensive male cologne.
A suited man sat on the leather sofa, a whisky glass on the coffee table alongside the bottle of Islay malt. It was a face Patrick had hoped never to have to look on again.
‘Ah, Courvoisier. You surface at last.’ The voice was clipped and confident to the point of arrogance.
‘What do you want?’ Patrick said coldly.
‘You did not answer our invitation,’ the voice said in mild surprise.
‘I tore it up.’
The thin face narrowed even further, the lips a mere line.
‘That is unfortunate. We wish you to accept.’
‘You mean you order me to.’
‘I would not presume …’
Patrick cut him off. ‘I do not intend to return for any reason.’
His visitor looked nonplussed, but only for a brief moment. ‘I understand you’ve got into some local difficulty. A Russian national, killed on a yacht with a UK-SFK knife, which, I believe, belongs to us.’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow.
Patrick thought back to his recent meeting with Moreaux. Was this how Moreaux planned to remove Patrick from his patch?
He held open the cabin door. ‘I’d like you to leave. Now.’
Oscar, hearing his tone, growled menacingly and bared his teeth.
His visitor rose, nodded and exited, with the final words: ‘We will expect you at the Garden Party on the twenty-fifth of June. Come to the diplomatic tent at two p.m.’