I felt sorry for my techy millionaire mate, Dean, who was sandwiched between the exuberant Fernando and Mrs Dominski. Danny was sitting next to them and I was once more glad that he had adopted a more patient strategy than after his first attempt to woo me. Either way, I was still too hung up on David to even consider the previously unlikely possibility of us dating.
As we ate, small conversations broke out to dissect that morning’s events and I chatted with Ramesh. “I think I need another holiday. The last one didn’t cut it.”
“I have days to use up before the end of the year if you fancy going somewhere together. Patricia and I were supposed to be heading to the Greek islands for a bit of sun but, since she got her new job, I’ve hardly seen her.”
“Anywhere that isn’t waterlogged and preferably free of corpses would be great.”
“Oh come on, Iz.” He smiled his big goofy smile. “You like the corpses.”
“Thanks, Ramesh.” I shot him a sarcastic look. “You make me sound like a psychopath.”
“Tell you what, my uncle’s just bought a hotel in Spain. I saw him at my grandad’s funeral and he said we can go whenever we like. He showed me photos and it’s pretty swanky.”
I thought for a minute about whether Ramesh’s idea of a swanky hotel would match up with my own. I didn’t have any other offers of a holiday though, so I said, “Sounds perfect. Let’s get through the trial first though.”
After lunch, we managed to shed a couple of the less integral members of my mother’s crime solving squad and sadly Dean had to leave early too.
“I’m sorry, but we’re launching a new range of tracking devices this week and I should really get back.” He wasn’t apologising to me. He and mum had become firm friends since the investigation at Vomeris Hall. “It was lovely to see you, Rosie.”
He went around shaking hands with everyone in turn. Dean was a shell of his former self – actually, wait, what’s the opposite of a shell? He was suddenly friendly, polite and able to look people in the eyes. I kind of missed the nerdy weirdo I’d become friends with.
“Any luck on the dating front?” my mother enquired, before he could escape.
“Not for the moment.” His gaze dropped to the ground and I caught a glimpse of the old Dean. “I think I’m going to take it slow from now on.”
“Darling,” my mother made this one word last about fifteen seconds. “You mustn’t give up. The right person is out there waiting for you. What’s your next step going to be?”
I could see that Dean wasn’t comfortable with my mother’s interrogation techniques so I helped him slip away. “Thanks so much for being here. I really appreciate your support.”
“Come along then, Izzy my love.” My father threaded his arm through mine to escort me back to court. “Let’s get this over with.”
Despite looking like my mum’s sweet old uncle, the defence barrister’s grilling that afternoon was just as hostile as the prosecution’s had been. I thought he’d be on my side but he was quick to plant the idea in the jury’s mind that I was a meddler who had interfered in the investigation for my own ends.
As long as it helped David, I didn’t really mind, but it was not an experience I want to repeat. I kept catching his parents’ eyes and feeling guilty for building the case against their son.
That evening, alone in my bedroom with only my faded James Blunt poster for company, I had a bit of a cry and wished David was there with me. Five seconds later, my phone rang.
“Hello, Izzy.”
“David!” It still gave me a thrill when he used one of his limited calls to talk to me. My tears somehow dried on hearing his voice – such is the power of love. “I’m so sorry about today. Everything I said came out wrong.”
“Don’t worry about it, mate.”
Mate? Why is he calling us mate?
It was hard to know how to reply. “Are you feeling alright?”
For a few seconds, all I could hear down the line was the faint murmur of people talking in the background. “Well, if my girlfriend giving evidence goes that badly, what do you think the rest of the trial will be like?”
It was my turn to drop into silence. I’d never heard him sound so negative. We’d spoken just a couple of days earlier and he thought his chances were good. But that was before I messed everything up.
“Izzy, I don’t want you coming to the trial anymore,” he said and my heart split in two. “It’s not your fault, but today nearly killed me. My solicitor says we could be there for another week and I don’t think I can bear seeing you suffer day after day.”
One thought jumped out in my mind and it was all I could think to say. “But I love you, David.” It was a line straight out of a soap opera.
His breathing had become short and noisy and his resonant voice dropped lower. “It’s not about that. It’s not about you and me. I just can’t have you there. Consider it a favour if you like. For my sake, you have to let me do it alone.”
I’d like to say I instantly respected where he was coming from and promised to stay away, but there was a lot more sobbing and insecurity to get through first. And when the conversation reached its conclusion, the last thing I said was, “You don’t deserve to go to prison, David. It’s not right.”
“I love you, Izzy Palmer. I should have said it before.” There was another painful hush. “Thank you so much for trying but I have to do this on my own now.” And then he hung up before I could start crying again.
I lasted about five minutes on my own and then went back to my mobile and dialled someone who’s always there for me when I need him.
“Ra, can you ring your uncle and find out when we can go to Spain? I really have to get away for a while.”
Chapter Two
Two days later, at a ridiculous hour of the morning, we drove in Ramesh’s car onto a Eurotunnel train headed for France. I should have known right then that this holiday was not going to go well. We could have flown straight to Santander but, with his girlfriend working long hours, Ramesh couldn’t leave his cats Elton John and Kiki Dee on their own. So there they were, crammed into the back of his little white Ford, staring angrily at us through the bars of their cat carriers.
“It’s not my fault, Iz,” my best friend claimed. “Elton hasn’t forgiven me for putting them in a cattery when I went to Edinburgh last month. If I’d stuck him on a plane, he’d never have spoken to me again.”
The tomcat let out a screeching howl to which Kiki quickly joined in. It was like a feline cover version of “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” except that it lasted all thirty-five minutes of the channel crossing.
I said nothing but my face told Ramesh everything he needed to know.
Sadly for me (and the big, fluffy tortoiseshell cats in the back) my friend is a uniquely terrible driver. I don’t quite understand how he has a licence as he doesn’t appear to know how to steer or change gears. He executed the thousand mile journey almost exclusively in second, with the motor revving like the engine on a transatlantic cruise liner. He went slowly on motorways, fast on country roads and seemed determined to go round each roundabout we came to at least three times. It gave me a greater appreciation for my mother’s idiosyncratic driving skills.
By the time we got past Paris, Ramesh had capitulated and allowed Kiki and Elton to break their imprisonment and wander free across the luggage which was piled up in the back of his car. An hour later, I could take it no more and insisted that we stop for a break from the symphony of engine torture, catty wailing and Ramesh’s attempts to sing along to French chansons on the radio – without knowing more than three words of French, one of which was fromage.
“It’s not my fault I studied Spanish at school.”
We were eating ham-and-cheese-filled croissants beside the motorway. “Yes, but nobody made you sing along.”
He looked at me like I was being t
horoughly unreasonable. “If the song is catchy, I can’t help it. It’s practically a medical condition.”
“In that case, I’ll choose what we listen to from now on and it’s going to be Japanese industrial noise music from here to Santander.”
Back in the car, I fired up the app on my phone and searched for the least singalong-able option I knew. Sadly, within ten minutes, Ramesh had found a way through the walls of radio static and endless bass and was imitating the high-frequency beeps and scratches, in a French accent.
Fun fact, I once dated a guy who was really into Japanese industrial noise music. And yes, I did pretend to like it too. And no, the relationship did not last long.
Urggggghhhh, Nigel. Shudder.
Oddly, that cacophonous noise helped to calm the cats down. Kiki came to sit on my lap in the passenger seat and Elton curled up in a ball on a stack of Ramesh’s Heat magazines and fell fast asleep. I lasted it out for about three tracks before I decided that French radio was the lesser evil.
“Bonjour, croissant fromage,” Ramesh was soon chanting once more, to the tune of an old Celine Dion song. “Croissant fromage, bonjour.”
Around Bordeaux, Ramesh got tired of singing and decided to discuss his current favourite topic. “Izzy, I’ve come up with a name for your new company. ‘IP PI’ Detective Agency. What do you reckon? IP, for your initials and PI, like a private eye.”
I thought about it for a minute. “Nice try, but I don’t want to start the name of my company with, ‘I pee pee…’”
“Hmmm, good point.” He quickly brightened up again and landed upon another idea. “What about Miss Palmer Investigates? You know, like Miss Marple.”
“Not bad.” I’d definitely heard worse suggestions, most of which were from my mother.
“Have you ever noticed that Palmer and Marple are anagrams?”
He turned from the road to look at me and I got very scared that we were about to hurtle into oncoming traffic so I pointed at the approaching truck in panicked fear.
“Yes, I have noticed that,” I said, once disaster had been averted and I could breathe again. “When I was a teenager I thought it was a sign I’d be a real detective one day.”
We were overtaken by an old lady on a bicycle, but Ramesh kept smiling. “I bet it was!” He reached forward to turn the radio up, again forgetting to focus on the task at hand. “Oooh, I like this one.”
He sang along to a Gallic rap song and I put my fingers back in my ears. Finally, after about twelve hours, we crossed the border into Spain and I no longer had to listen to those made up French lyrics.
“Buenos días, Buenos días, queso… croissant,” he crooned instead.
“I thought you said you studied Spanish at school?”
With his eyes on the road for once, he looked put out. “I did, Isobel. That doesn’t mean I’m any good at it. How do you say croissant in Spanish anyway?”
I may not have mentioned before, but there are a few areas where I excel. Aside from detective work, I play a mean accordion, bowl a 280 average and speak Spanish to a C1 level. I learnt it at school but didn’t get really good until university when I spent every summer taking courses and teaching English in a few different places on the Mediterranean coast. I still didn’t know how to say croissant though.
“I’d go with, ensaïmada. They’re Spanish and a bit like croissants. Except that they’re sweeter and covered in powdered sugar.” We were driving past the exit for San Sebastian and Ramesh suddenly wrenched the steering wheel to send us towards the off ramp. The cars he cut in front of expressed their disapproval with lengthy honks.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked as I grabbed hold of Kiki to stop her flying across the car.
“It’s your fault. You’ve given me a hankering for ensaïmadas.”
The unexpected pit stop turned into a lengthy break in the journey as first we had to find a bakery, and then we had to look through three more as none of them sold ensaïmadas. By the time we’d found our tasty treat, we were hungry enough for dinner.
We parked the car and searched out an incredibly busy bar on the seafront, which sold tiny morsels of deliciousness stacked on top of crusty bread.
“This is the best pincho de tortilla I’ve eaten in my whole life,” Ramesh declared as we sat looking across the golden sands and over to the pretty island within the bay of San Sebastian. Countless boats bobbed up and down in the water and, on the far hilltop, a gigantic statue of Jesus smiled down at his dad’s creation. The sun was dropping behind the headland, but the air was still toasty. It finally felt like we were on holiday.
I let out a sigh of contentment then felt guilty for not thinking about David in the last five minutes.
“Listen, Izzy, I know I’m not the easiest person to travel with.” Ramesh sounded genuinely sorry. “I’m really excited about being on holiday with you though.”
I tossed a scrap of jamón to the floor for Kiki and Elton to fight over. “Me too, Ra. Thanks for bringing me.”
Chapter Three
It was already dark by the time we finished dinner and we didn’t reach the hotel until late.
“Hello?” came the reply, when we finally pulled up to the grand gate of The Cova Negra Hotel and Spa and Ramesh pushed the buzzer to be let in.
“Uncle? Is that you?”
“Who is this?” The man spoke with a thick Indian accent, characteristic of the older members of Ramesh’s family and, I had to assume, Indian people in general.
“It’s me, Uncle. It’s Ramesh.” He waited for any sign of recognition. “Mum told you I was coming.”
“Ramu? But I thought that was next October. I haven’t prepared for your stay. You’ll just have to come back then.”
I looked at Ramesh, he looked at me. We both wanted to cry.
The intercom crackled and then burst into life. “I got you there, my boy.” Mechanised laughter boomed out of the little speaker.
The gate clicked open as if pushed by some invisible hand and Ramesh crept the car forward. I don’t know what I was expecting when he’d first mentioned his uncle’s hotel, but this wasn’t it. A huge blue and white, four-storey building stood large at the end of the stately drive. I could see the glow of an outdoor swimming pool, reflecting off the side of the hotel and pretty gardens stretched across the grounds.
We pulled up beyond an illuminated fountain with a statue of a young boy holding a porpoise as its centrepiece. A short man in a neat black suit and matching tie descended the stairs at the entrance as Kiki jumped from my lap and out of the window.
“Don’t worry about her,” Ramesh said. “She’ll turn up in a couple of days once she’s got the measure of the place.”
“Ramu!” The man exhaled and pulled my friend from the car with great joy. “Little Ramu, you’re all grown up. I haven’t seen you since your grandfather’s funeral.”
“That was about three weeks ago, uncle.”
The little man laughed. “I know but you’ve got awfully big since then.”
I got out of the car and Ramesh made the introductions. “Izzy, this is my Uncle Kabir.”
“It’s a pleasure to have you here, Izzy.” He opened his arms and spun around on the spot, as if he was just as impressed by the place as I was. “What do you think of my new venture? Not bad, eh?”
His great, noisy laugh exploded out to us once more. He was a very round man with chubby cheeks and dyed black hair. His hefty paunch was supported by two short legs and he had a manner of constant busyness even when he was standing completely still.
“It’s amazing, uncle.” Ramesh’s eyes, were possibly wider than mine right then. “I thought you were just going to buy a little B&B somewhere. This place is a palace.”
“Well, you only retire once.” He spoke in a self-deprecating manner, like it was really no big deal. “Now let’s get you inside and
I’ll show you to your rooms. We’re practically closed at the moment, Izzy, so you can have your pick.”
Ramesh grabbed Elton and, suddenly full of energy, we ran up the steps.
Uncle Kabir explained the situation as we entered the foyer. “We did the full summer season but I’ve taken the hotel off all the apps and websites until spring next year so that I can concentrate on stamping my own identity on the place. The only people here are a few existing bookings I couldn’t cancel. I have extra waiting staff who come in to help and a cook working, but most of the hotel is shut down.”
We’ll have to have a word with the cook about her lemon meringue pie.
There’s more to life than dessert you know.
How dare you!
The entrance hall was dominated by an obscenely large crystal chandelier. It was so big that it looked like it would bring the ceiling down at any moment. The rich red carpet beneath my feet was thick and springy and every ornament, fixture and frame in the room was painted gold.
Kabir popped behind the gilded reception desk and unhooked two keys. “Izzy, you will be in The Presidential Suite.”
“Wow, did a president stay here then?”
“That’s right!” I loved this guy, he was even more enthusiastic than Ramesh. “The president of the North Cantabrian Agricultural Society has stayed here for their annual meeting the last five years running.”
Hmmm. Slightly disappointing.
Kabir turned to his nephew. “And, Ramesh, you will be in one of the staff bedrooms, next to mine. Your mother told me to keep a close eye on you and I like to keep her happy.”
“Uncle! How is that fair?”
I felt genuinely sorry for my unfortunate friend, but that didn’t stop me launching myself up the sweeping staircase, in search of The Presidential Suite. Unsurprisingly, Elton the cat decided to join me.
“Third floor, Izzy,” Kabir shouted after us. “I’ll have somebody send up your bags once my lazy nephew unloads them from the car.”
A Corpse on the Beach Page 2