The waiter who served him told him that the Chief Constable’s last word on the previous night had been that they must allow the Inspector to sleep as long as he wanted the next morning. Littlejohn thought better of The Laughing Man and Forrester for their consideration. There was one other man eating. A commercial traveller, small and fat, with spiders’ webs of red veins on his eyeballs and bags the size of half-crowns under his eyes. “Had a thick night last night … Got up a bit late,” he said, trying to open the ball. “Humph,” said Littlejohn, not feeling too bright himself. The breakfast had been poor and it was still raining outside. The traveller dried up and sat waiting for his fried sausages, large and still like an expectant toad. Littlejohn rose and looked through the window. The hotel was right on the waterfront. Things seemed brisk and men were busy unloading fish and coal. The sky was black with rain clouds and the wind tossed the smoke of the coasters about and flapped the ropes of the fishing craft.
What do You think about Death On The Last Train (2014)?
