The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

“Bugger me, what a place!” He shook his head. “It’s okay, I’ll wait until we’re airborne. Now, go and find a place to stay.”

16

King had adopted the soldier’s mantra of eating and sleeping when he could. There were enough periods of activity for it to have made no significant difference to his waistline. He worked out regularly, with daily routines he could perform anywhere. These were complimented by runs and swims. He used kettle bells, but didn’t lift heavy weights, always preferring instead to use his own bodyweight, either pulling himself up or doing push-ups or squats. He had learned the importance of getting out of trouble more quickly than he had got into it by running. He didn’t jog. He ran at a pace which would lose marathon runners or middle-distance runners, but he could do it for five miles. He could run at a full sprint for three minutes before slowing. He hadn’t run any distance for a while, but the last time he had he had carried a rifle, thirty-pounds of equipment and an eleven-stone wounded colleague for sixty-miles in the Syrian heat by day, and below zero by night. So today, in keeping with the hotel, he decided to ignore the gym or the opportunity for a run along the promenade and sit down for a full English breakfast and several cups of tea.

The restaurant at the St. Michael’s Hotel afforded King a spectacular view of Falmouth Bay overlooking Gyllyngvase Beach. Even so, King had chosen his table carefully, aligning his back to a pillar whilst still able to keep his eye on the entrance to the restaurant.

Old habits die hard, old warriors died harder.

The sea glistened silver in the rising sun and was as flat and calm as a millpond. The sky was blue and cloudless. King took in the view, the restaurant’s surroundings, and wished Caroline was with him to share it. He hadn’t spoken to her for two days. It was protocol. She was on a mission; it would be up to her to make contact. You never broke the rule.

He saw movement out of the corner of his right eye. He took in a casual glance, stopped in his tracks. Amanda Cunningham spoke to a member of the waiting staff. King knew she was relaying her room number and would be told to pick a table. The hotel was quiet. Just as long as a single guest or couple didn’t go and sit on a table set for six it wouldn’t be a big deal. He watched her hover at her table, listen to the waitress, nodded a few times and King could lip read her asking for coffee. She took a short walk to the buffet table and came back with an orange juice. She looked around the restaurant at her fellow diners and King caught her eye. He waved discreetly, and she frowned. She wandered over, the frown growing.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Are you following me?”

She hovered uncomfortably, and King beckoned her to take a seat. “If I were, then surely, I would be in Truro?” he replied. “That’s where you said you were staying, right?”

She was midway through sitting, looked perplexed as she sat down. “No, I…”

“Truro,” he said. “I can’t think how I’d confuse that.” He dipped his knife into a rosette of butter. “I was worried when you left, last night. I drove into Truro and scouted about.”

“I can’t think why,” she said. The waitress arrived with a pot of coffee and cream. She didn’t say anything as she placed them down beside the upturned cup. “Thanks,” she said to her, then looked back to King. “No, I don’t recall saying that I was staying in Truro. So, what are you doing here?”

“They do a good breakfast,” King replied, not wanting to elaborate on the events that had transpired after she had left. He shrugged like it was nothing and decided not to bring up the fact she had been seriously over the limit. He hadn’t been an angel in his past life, certainly wasn’t going to get evangelical about it. “So, are you going back to Sir Ian Snell’s house this morning? Or the Jameson’s?”

She sipped from her cup. She had made the coffee creamy and sweet. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Really?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You’re all wrapped up, then?”

“I am performing the autopsy on the body. Snell’s body.”

King nodded. “I think you should do the Jameson family as well.”

“What?”

King had spread marmalade on the wholemeal toast and took a bite. He had used a lot of butter and it dripped down his chin. He dabbed it with the back of his hand, realised he wasn’t in a wadi in Iraq or Syria and used his cotton napkin. “Transference,” he said. “The spread of DNA through fibres, materials, particles or liquids.”

“I know what transference is,” she said sharply. “I’m the one with the PHD.”

“And I watch CSI.” He moved his toast as the waitress swept in and placed a plate in front of him. He smiled a thank you and picked up his knife and fork. “Apparently, they usually have a buffet, but the kitchen is cooking to order because it’s so quiet. I had to bribe her to double up.”

Amanda looked at his plate of food, pulled a face. She stood up and smiled. “You’ll have a coronary with all that fried food,” she said. “Trust me, I’ve seen enough clogged arteries to know. I’m going to get some fruit.”

King watched her walk to the buffet table. The irony that she had drank a month’s worth of alcohol units in a night wasn’t lost on him as she left to fetch her healthy alternative. He buttered more toast and folded it around a slice of bacon, dipping