Lost Souls (James Quinn Book 2) by D.P. Johnson

Author:D.P. Johnson [Johnson, D.P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pine Cone Books
Published: 2022-09-20T23:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-TWO

It was well past eight o’clock when James barrelled down the stairs, clutching his room key and the OS map. He was a mess: unshaven; bed hair; his shirt tails untucked. He hated tardiness in others and despised it in himself. The culprit: one Guinness too many, last night at the pub.

It had been a stupid idea to go back.

There was a nasty whiff about the place, and it took him too long to realise it was him.

Of course, Mrs. Elliott happened to emerge from the kitchen the moment he stepped breathlessly into the hall. She wore a cook’s apron and wielded coffee and tea servers like they were weapons. The swing door behind her flapped violently in her wake.

‘You’re late,’ she said bluntly as she hurried past.

‘Is that your standard greeting?’ he muttered under his breath.

He followed her to the breakfast room. Against the left wall was a sideboard on which were jugs of water; milk and orange juice; a stack of bowls; upturned drinking glasses; individual boxes of cereals; a plate of fruit; a bowl of grapefruit replete with ladle; and some yoghurts. There were about a dozen tables squeezed into the space, only two of which were occupied, one by a middle-aged couple at the far end, the other by a lone man in the bay window. The man—slightly overweight; dark hair; olive skin—flashed James a brief and awkward smile. He replied with a slight nod of the head, grateful to discover he wasn’t the only solo guest. Mrs. Elliott busied herself attending to the couple.

James chose a table in the middle of the room and pulled out a chair.

‘Not there, Mr. Quinn!’ Mrs. Elliott called out.

‘Oh?’

‘I’ve set you this one, here.’ She gestured to a table, adjacent to the couple. The gap between the two tables was a couple of feet at best.

James didn’t feel inclined to resist or to question the logic. What was it about women of a certain age that made him so meek? It was the same with the woman at the pub last night.

He took his seat where he was told and unfurled the map, weighting it at each corner with his key fob, phone and the salt and pepper pots. The route to the first port of call—Seashore Holiday Park, on the northern side of town—would take him along the promenade. A quick walk would get him there in half an hour, he calculated. Quicker, if he jogged. Of course, he could drive, but what was the point in being at the seaside and not enjoying the sea air?

Mrs. Elliott left the couple and went over to attend to the man at the window table.

James sensed the woman at the next table looking in his direction, and he turned to meet her gaze. Late sixties, he guessed. Face heavily made-up. Hair lacquered into an almost spherical nest. ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ she said. Behind her, through the window, a watery sun was threatening to break through the clouds.

James smiled politely.

‘I’m Elsie,’ the woman continued.

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