I thought through the sequence of events between the time I had arrived at the train station Saturday morning and now. I did it slow and easy. Putting events and people and things into place in my mind. The initial violence of the attempted mugging and then the actual murder of the Afghan. These events seemed to connect to the trail bike kids and the migrant trafficking operation that I had witnessed. It seemed credible that the trail led to the office above Le Foxy Kebab, and The Woodcutter. The Gilles Vaugeois connection looked tenuous. But all of it slotted in somehow.

One hour.

I remembered the receipt that I had found in the bathroom garbage can above Le Foxy Kebab. Pulled it out of my little change pocket. It was a small quartered square of paper. I unfolded it. The electronic printing was dark violet on white. There were five items purchased. There were no actual words anywhere on the receipt. Just codes and prices in euros and centimes.

Three items for five euros and sixty-nine centimes. One for thirteen twenty-eight, and another for thirty-two eighty-seven. Which made sixty-three euros and twenty-two centimes in total, not including tax. The three items for five sixty-nine had the same code. Same item. I played with the prices in my head. Five sixty-nine’s not a big amount, but it’s not a bag of potato chips either. The ticket wasn’t from a supermarket, it had no logo or store name. A mom and pop store maybe. A DIY hardware type of shop possibly. Tools. Maybe a place that only took cash. I didn’t have any way of knowing.

I had found the receipt balled up in the garbage can. I ran through the motions. Items bought in a store. Receipt gets balled up but there’s no place to throw it away. So you shove it in your change pocket. Then later, you’re cleaning up in the bathroom. You pull it out of your pocket and pitch it into the can. No brainer. But the profile is specific. This isn’t someone who litters. This isn’t a teenager. It’s an adult with responsibilities. A grown-up. Which didn’t exactly get me anywhere. So I folded the receipt back into quarters and stuck it back into my change pocket.

I got up and stretched. Walked over to the coffee machine and watched the plastic spout divulge another thin stream of something they called espresso.

Two hours.

The phone vibrated after three hours. A text message. ‘On my way.’