“Her train was due in at St Pancras in forty minutes. It was important they met. No more than an hour of his time. The cafe was French, a small patisserie set back from the main road that ran immediately south from the station. There were a few tables on the pavement, maybe half a dozen more inside. Bread, croissants, baguettes and a gleaming espresso machine. Two women of a certain age, smartly dressed, sat near the rear window drinking coffee; a silver-haired man, camel coat folded over the ba...ck of his chair, was reading Le Monde and eating a croque-monsieur. Elder, who had used St Pancras enough over the years, had no idea the place was there. It was warm enough, just, to sit outside. Jet trails criss-crossed overhead and the sun was a rumour behind a screed of grey. A young man, white-aproned, brought them coffee. 'How did you know about this?' Elder said, looking round. 'Charlie told me about it.' 'Charlie?' 'Charlie Resnick. He said it would be a good place to meet.' 'You've been talking to him.' Maureen smiled.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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