Page 77 of Tempest’s Torment

I study the photographs. "He stripped it?"

Rogue nods. "We got there just after six, the place was already empty."

"How empty?"

"It’s exactly as in the photograph. There was no furniture, no paperwork, no electronics. He even wiped the place down."

Savage folds his arms. "Professional."

Rogue clicks to the next photograph. It's the outside of a commercial building, presumably where the office is located. "It's five minutes from here," Rogue says. "Close enough to keep an eye on Petals without drawing attention to himself."

I look at Ghost. "So why am I here?"

Rogue clicks to another file. "Before we went to the office, Ghost spoke to Louise."

Ghost folds his arms. "He made himself a regular."

Rogue nods. "Fifteen weeks. Every Thursday."

I think about Lilah. "He wasn't just watching her." I look at Rogue. "He knew her routine; he knew she wasn't working Thursday mornings, which meant someone else would've taken the order."

"Yeah."

The room falls quiet, but after a moment, Ghost speaks. "Nobody remembers him because there was nothing to remember."

Savage nods. "He looked like every other customer."

"Exactly," Rogue says. "That's what he wanted." Rogue clicks into the CCTV folder. There’s fifteen clips, each time is a Thursday, different cameras, all the same man. He has a dark jacket and baseball cap, his head down just enough to avoid a clean image.

"He knew where every camera was," Rogue says. The footage changes; there’s a coffee shop, a petrol station, outside Petals, the corner by the park, and the street outside Lilah's apartment.

He was always watching, but never lingering long enough to be remembered.

"He rotated his positions," I say.

Rogue nods. "No pattern. No routine anyone could pick up on."

"He knew what he was doing," Savage says.

"Yeah."

Rogue pauses the next clip. "This one's different."

It’s at the park, and Lilah's sitting on the bench she uses for lunch, a sandwich in one hand, her phone in the other.

She has no idea she's being watched. Webb's sitting twenty yards away with a takeaway coffee, he’s not looking at her, not directly, but he’s watching her in the reflection of the café window behind her. He’s professional and calculated.

I feel my jaw tighten.

Then Rogue zooms into the far side of the frame. "There."

I follow the cursor where a man stands near the park gates in a dark hoodie and a black baseball cap, most of his face hidden behind the trunk of a tree.

Ghost leans closer. "Can you sharpen it?"

"I've tried." Rogue switches between three different versions. "That's as good as it gets."

"He wasn't with Webb," Savage says.