A Corpse on the Beach

by Benedict Brown

  I broke into a sprint and made it to the top level of the hotel in no time. My room was the first door I came to. Elton seemed almost as excited as I was and I fumbled with the key card to open the door.

  “Oh my giddy goat.” The space in front of me was like something from the golden days of Hollywood. It made my room at Vomeris Hall look like my room at home. The colour scheme was hideous, all pinks, peaches and purples, but that didn’t detract from the luxury on display all around me. “Elton,” I said to the cat who was already getting comfortable on a plush pink sofa, “I’m never leaving this place. They’ll have to drag my cold, dead body out when I’m ninety-five.”

  I ran inside, planning to belly-flop onto the bed, when I realised I still hadn’t reached the bedroom. Two great double doors divided the space into a living room – complete with a feature-wall television and walk-in mini bar – and sleeping area. On opening those doors, I beheld a sight which I’d never imagined possible.

  “A six-poster bed!” I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. “Now that is swanky.”

  I was about to check out the bathroom when I decided it was all too overwhelming and that I needed a sit down first. My suite had three balconies to choose from and each one gave a view over the gardens towards the cliffs and beaches of the Cantabrian coast. It was past midnight but a warm breeze still swirled about.

  On the patio beneath me, I caught my first sight of the other guests. There were tables set out across the elegant terrace. On the far left, in line with the path which led down to the sea, a woman dressed in a full-length silk gown was smoking a cocktail cigarette.

  “Everything goes downhill. What’s good one year is rarely good the next and I’ve been coming here for a decade.” She couldn’t have been more than fifty, but spoke with the weariness of a woman far older.

  A man directly beneath where I was standing called back to her. “Oh, I know that. I don’t have a problem with them doing the place up. I just can’t stand how creepy it is here without anyone else around.”

  He was a little younger than her and was dressed for a day on the beach. He sported the kind of vest that old men wear under their shirts, paired with lurid green shorts that stopped high above the knees. Every trace of skin he had on show was bright pink.

  If you work really hard, you’ll look like that by this time tomorrow, Iz!

  They were sitting half a building away from one another and were practically shouting to be heard over the sound of the crashing waves. Two children were trying to kick one another nearby and, from the look of their clothes, I assumed the man was their father.

  “It could be worse,” the woman stated. “Three years ago this place was infested with Belgians. Now, I’m no racist, but if there’s one group of people I can’t stand it’s Belgians. Are they French? Are they Dutch? I wish they’d make up their minds.”

  Just then, she caught sight of me and tipped her head back to get a better view. “Oh look, a newbie. You’re not Belgian, are you?”

  For a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. “Urmmm, no. But my dad’s cousin has a timeshare in Brussels.”

  The man swivelled in his chair to look up at me. “Oh good, another Brit. We were just saying how we’re normally outnumbered in these parts.”

  The woman picked up an empty cocktail glass from her table and raised it in my direction. “I’m Delilah Shaw,” she said in a manner which suggested I should already know her name. “Why don’t you come down to the bar and we’ll get Kabir to mix us a round of Manhattans?”

  The drink was tempting, the company not so much.

  “I think I’m going to call it a night,” I told her. “It’s been a long day; we drove all the way from London.”

  She did not reply, but raised one eyebrow to suggest she didn’t agree with my decision.

  “No doubt we’ll see you over breakfast.” The comprehensively ruddy man had already turned away before finishing his sentence.

  I was tempted to linger to hear what else this odd pair might have to say when there was a desperate knock on the door and I went to see who it was.

  “Izzy, I’m about to drop these,” a voice said from behind a pile of walking luggage. “Take one, would you?”

  I removed a bag from the pile to reveal Ramesh’s face. He staggered into the room with my remaining cases and dumped them down on the sofa, sending Elton screeching into the bedroom.

  “Why do you have so much stuff with you anyway?” He was particularly pouty having lugged my possessions up from the car.

  I figured I’d use his sort of logic back on him. “I’ve got so much stuff with me because I’m really bad at packing. You should think yourself lucky I didn’t take the extra case with the kettlebells I bought several years ago and keep promising myself I’ll use. I was this close to bringing them.”

  Having caught his breath and stretched out his back, my travelling companion had a chance to take in the suite I’d been given. “I can’t believe Uncle put you in here. My room would fit in your wardrobe.”

  “Sorry, Ramesh. But do you mean the wardrobe/dressing room with its rotating electronic shoe racks and mirrored ceiling, or the Napoleon the third antique beside my six-poster bed?” I would probably have been more sympathetic if I hadn’t had Edith Piaf’s seminal “La Vie en Fromage” stuck in my head.

  “You have a six-poster bed?” He sounded just as impressed as I’d been. “Is that even a thing?”

  “It is now.”

  A cheeky look crossed his face. “Izzy… Can we jump up and down on it?”

  I didn’t answer, but ran into the bedroom to get the best spot on the humungous mattress. Fifteen minutes later, we finally got tired of acting like children. I’d also got tired of being awake.

  “I think I’d better go to sleep before I crash out unconscious and split my head open on some valuable piece of furniture. You can sleep in one of the spare rooms if you like?”

  Ramesh looked disappointed as he climbed down from the bed. “No, it’s fine. I don’t want Uncle to tell my mum on me. I’ll go back to the single mattress on the floor of my plain white room with a toilet in the corner.”

  “Hey, at least it’s en suite.” This did not cheer him up. “Sorry mate. You can come up here whenever you like.”

  His face had fallen a few millimetres further. “Come on, Elton John. Daddy’s going home now.” He put his hands out and attempted a big smile but Elton stayed right where he was, licking his fur from buttock to foot, pretending that he hadn’t heard.

  “Night, Ramesh. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He turned and shuffled out of the door without another word. Alone once more, I took a peek over the balcony but the other guests had retreated into the bar. Muffled voices and the occasional clink of a glass floated across the deserted terrace.

  Still in my London 2012 Olympics T-shirt from the journey, I peeled my jeans off and climbed into my colossal six-poster. Elton came to stretch out beside me. He was the first man I’d shared a bed with in months and, ten seconds later, I was fast asleep.

  Chapter Four

  Breakfast the next morning was served on the patio.

  I’d been planning to get up early to make the most of the day, but failed to emerge from my room until ten o’clock. When I got downstairs to the dining room, I was surprised to see Ramesh in a crisp white shirt and black bowtie, serving hot drinks.

  “Save me, Izzy,” he mouthed as he bussed a tray full of empties back towards the kitchen.

  “Don’t worry about the boy,” his uncle told me. “A bit of hard work will do him good.” He was standing by the French windows onto the patio, welcoming each new table of diners. Now, Izzy, what can he get you? Tea, coffee, hot chocolate, herbal infusion?”

  Ooh, tough one.

  “I think I’ll go with some hot chocolate please, Kabir.”

  He pointed m
e to an empty table beside the glamorous yet trashy Delilah Shaw and disappeared back into the dining room.

  Dressed in a loose-fitting, gauzy beach dress, she looked at me in the haughty manner I’d already come to expect from her. “That’s the wonderful thing about Indians, they’re very good at taking commands.”

  For someone who claims she’s not a racist, she makes an awful lot of racist remarks.

  I wanted to deliver some really smart retort to shut her up but nothing came to mind. I smiled submissively and then felt bad about it.

  While I waited for Ramesh to appear with my drink, I took in the world around me. The terrace was raised above the level of the formal gardens and tennis court which occupied most of the space between the hotel and the cliffs. Further along the coast, large towns were visible with the typical, towering white buildings of Spanish coastal resorts, but The Cova Negra was a perfectly isolated enclave, for those who could afford it.

  The British man I’d spoken to from my window the night before was there with his family. His sneezy wife and rowdy children looked equally sunburnt and he was struggling to play peacemaker between them. The contrast with the adjacent table could not have been more dramatic. A man of about fifty with slicked-back, silver hair, wearing fine clothes like he’d just stepped off a yacht, was talking to his three perfectly behaved daughters. In immaculate black and white dresses with red ribbons in their hair, the girls looked identical. They had very dark features and, from the faint notes I could hear of their father’s sermon, I guessed that they were Italian.

  On the other side of the patio, an old Spanish couple were enjoying their silence together. Neither made eye contact as they covered their toast with pureed tomatoes and olive oil. The woman wore a bright floral dress and the man was kitted out for a tennis match. There was something very unusual about them and I struggled to pull my eyes away. If it hadn’t been for a sudden outburst back at the Italians’ table, I could have watched them all morning.

  The girls’ mother had appeared and did not look happy. Italian is not so similar to Spanish that I could understand more than a few words. I know that she was complaining that they would be late, but the only other thing I caught was a brief phrase in the middle of so much Latin flair.

  Ramesh would have transcribed it as something like this, “Bongiorno lasagne Next Phase cannelloni Donatello.” When she said those two English words, heads around the patio began to turn.

  A moment later, the sunburnt Brit came to speak to them, presumably happy to escape from his own squabbling family.

  “Mr Romanelli? Just thought I’d introduce myself. Ian Dennison’s the name. Sorry to intrude, but I’m a great admirer.”

  Mrs Romanelli looked shell-shocked and cast her eyes to the table as if she needed permission to speak to him. Her husband was similarly taken aback by the intrusion but soon found his words. “Nice to meet you, Ian,” he replied with a thick, almost musical accent. “We are all looking forward to tomorrow.”

  I was unable to hear the rest of the conversation as Ramesh had returned with my hot chocolate.

  “Iz, you’ve got to help me.” I could tell from his frazzled expression that he’d been up since the dawn. “I swear my uncle only allowed us to come here so that he could use me as cheap labour.”

  “That’s terrible. It sounds more like slave labour.” I took a sip from my drink. It was delicious. “You’ve got to stand up for yourself.”

  At that moment, Kabir came to check on his new employee’s performance. “Have you told Izzy about the continental buffet breakfast?”

  “No, uncle, I was just-”

  “So get to it.” Kabir was clearly a hard-nosed businessman. “And don’t call me uncle in front of the guests. They don’t need to know our family history.”

  Ramesh peered between me and his boss and when it was clear his uncle was not leaving until he’d performed the task, he launched into his spiel. “Good morning, Madam. Here at The Cova Negra Hotel and Spa, our guests are entitled to a full continental breakfast. Cooked options are available on request. Do you have any special dietary requirements?”

  “None whatsoever. Just keep the hot chocolates coming.” I honestly felt terrible for Ramesh’s situation, but who else would serve me breakfast if he didn’t? And besides, it was only fair. I kept having traumatic flashbacks to the twenty different near misses we’d had on our journey.

  Ramesh hurried away, but not before attracting the approving glance of Delilah Shaw, who clicked her tongue appreciatively the moment his back was turned, like a lecherous hen.

  “That’s another great thing about Indians,” she said with a leer. “The young ones come in pretty packages.”

  For the first time in my life, someone had made me feel cheap and seedy just for being a woman. I wanted to run upstairs and have another shower.

  I took my plate back into the dining room and filled it with seven types of pastry and a selection of cold cuts. I was pacing myself. Tomorrow I’d sample the English breakfast. By the time I’d got back to the patio, most of the other guests were preparing to leave. Fifteen minutes later, the only person remaining was a bloke about my age, sitting on his own beside the garden wall.

  He had a smiley face and a well-trimmed beard. His hair was dark, his skin late-summer brown and he sat very upright, like he was waiting for a job interview. Our chairs were pointed directly at one another and I felt self-conscious as I stuffed mini pain au chocolat after mini pain au chocolat into my mouth.

  In Spain they’re known as mini-napolatinas.

  Thanks a lot. Where was that kind of knowledge when I needed to translate croissant yesterday?

  It was becoming a bit silly that I hadn’t said anything to my breakfast companion. But, instead of waving hello and starting in on a conversation, I decided to be British and swivelled my chair away. I was relieved when he finally left and I could gorge myself in peace.

  “So, Izzy, what have you got planned for today?” Kabir asked as he cleared the last few plates which Ramesh had left behind.

  “I thought we might head down to the beach.” I smiled back at him. Despite his slave-driving tendencies, I couldn’t help but like the cheerful little man. He reminded me of an Anglo-Indian Poirot.

  “You’re very kind to think of me, Izzy.” He tilted his head appreciatively. “But I’m afraid I am too busy for sunbathing today.”

  I laughed at his joke. “I meant Ramesh, but you’re welcome to join us too.”

  “I’m sorry, but your friend will also be busy. I lost my best chambermaid yesterday and somebody has to make up the rooms.” Kabir glanced across to his nephew who was polishing silverware by the breakfast buffet. “It’ll do that boy good to experience some proper work instead of all this playing about on computers that he normally gets up to.”

  Ramesh must have caught what his uncle said as there was a clattering of falling cutlery and Kabir rushed off to chastise him.

  I took my time getting changed before indulging in a leisurely stroll around the gardens. The old Spanish couple, whose names I soon learnt were Sagrario and Celestino, were busy shouting insults at one another in thick Andalusian accents over a tennis net, but the rest of the grounds were free of people. I wandered along a curling path past more fountains and flower beds until it led me down to the beach. I was not the first to arrive.

  It seemed like everyone from the hotel was already there, laid out on beach towels and hotel loungers. The handsome Italian father and his daughters were splashing about in the sea, and there were two young German women, playing volleyball nearby. The cove was small, with little more than a spit of sand when the tide was in, and was enclosed by imposing cliffs. The land stretched out into the water on either side to prevent uninvited members of the public from having access to this exclusive spot. I spread my towel out near the rocks and got to work coating myself in factor fifty from forehead to toenail.r />
  I’ve always loved people-watching and the beach is one of the best places to do it. I spent that morning creating imagined personas for each of my fellow guests. Ian Dennison and his perfectly British family became undercover Interpol agents on the search for the two young, suntanned Germans – who didn’t let the ball touch the water for the first half an hour I was there. The Germans themselves were an up-and-coming synth pop duo who were using their burgeoning career to hide a narco-trafficking operation that extended from the ports of southern Spain to the frozen tundra of Lapland.

  Delilah Shaw, now free from her gossamer dress and laid out with only a bikini bottom to protect her modesty, was a more difficult proposition to uncover. Black widow? Minor Royal? In the end I decided she was a frustrated housewife who had abandoned her family and set off in search of the sun.

  Mr Romanelli was equally tricky. People kept coming up to talk to him throughout the morning. Not just Ian Dennison, but the smiley chap I’d shared the patio with took a photo and even Sagrario and Celestino, when they appeared, red-faced, after their tennis match, felt compelled to say hello. He was clearly well known and looked more like a politician than a film star, but I didn’t recognise him.

  One thing I could confirm, with all the investigative nous I’d built up over my three murder investigations, was that the Italian was a stone-cold silver fox. He may have been twenty years older than me, but I’d never seen such a ripped body – he made Danny look like a puny schoolboy. He could swim across the bay in no time and I couldn’t stop watching his wide, muscular back which was covered by a tiger-head tattoo. It seemed to be roaring at me as he frolicked with his kids.

  The German girls had been glancing at him the whole time and, when they finally got up the courage to approach, posed for a selfie with their three smiley faces sandwiched together. Delilah was the only one there who didn’t take an interest in him. In fact, the only time she moved was to turn over to continue her roasting.