A Corpse on the Beach

by Benedict Brown

  Halfway through the morning, the woman who I assumed was Mrs Romanelli appeared at the top of the cliff to shout down to her husband. She didn’t sound any more cheerful than she had at breakfast and her family quickly collected up their possessions and scampered back to the hotel.

  Perhaps that’s just how she speaks? Scottish people always sound like they’re about to start an argument, maybe Italians are the same.

  I wasn’t in the mood to point out to myself that two nations of people could not constantly be angry. Talk about a twisted mind.

  When the morning was done, the beach was vacated and everybody retreated from the midday sun to have lunch back at the hotel. I, on the other hand, had come prepared. I had sandwich-making provisions left over from our road trip and I could hide beneath a blue and white parasol that was slightly too small for me but did the job. If it hadn’t been for the occasional cry of a child, floating over from the dining room, and the sight of a small fishing craft, far out to sea, I might have imagined I was completely alone in the world.

  For a few seconds it was bliss.

  I felt the warm breeze on my skin and the sun just about catching the tips of my toes. The wind whispered, the sea audibly sighed but, the moment that rare feeling of tranquillity rose up within me, I remembered what was happening back home. My stomach knotted up like a ball of string and I couldn’t stop the tears coming to my eyes.

  David’s plea for me not to attend the trial did nothing to assuage my guilt that I was sitting on a beach of my own while the prosecution painted him as a savage murderer. If nine-hundred miles and a luxury hotel couldn’t distract me, there was only one thing that could. I reached into my drawstring beach bag and removed my battered copy of “Death on the Nile”. I’d read it at least five times before, but immediately drifted off with Poirot to that equally beautiful setting far, far away.

  Chapter Five

  I spent the afternoon in my book trance, only snapping out of it to pull my ridiculously long limbs back from the scorching sunlight. Inevitably, despite my near military efforts to the contrary – sun cream, sun hat, parasol (which, in Spanish, literally means stop sun) – I still left the beach that afternoon three shades closer to a tomato than I had been that morning.

  Back in my room, I had a quick shower of after-sun before changing for dinner. Walking down those elegant staircases, in what was, for me, a surprisingly appropriate evening dress, I felt like the hundred thousand pounds in my bank account (that I still wasn’t quite sure what to do with). Sadly, there was a huge, golden mirror in the foyer which served to disillusion me of the idea. Under the light of the grand chandelier, my skin turned neon and my teeth glowed yellow for some reason. I looked like I’d made myself up to go to a Halloween rave.

  Ramesh was working in the bar, pouring gin and tonics for the two German girls. Smiley breakfast man was there too, knocking back a whisky on his own. The place was far busier than at breakfast. There must have been forty new guests in the dining room and two waiters running about delivering food as Kabir oversaw the work.

  “It’s a coach party from France,” he told me. “They’re just here for the night. There’s a conference in Santander tomorrow and there was a problem with their hotel.” He didn’t sound happy about it and pleaded for my understanding. “I couldn’t turn down such a big booking, Izzy. I really couldn’t.”

  He immediately bustled off to see to a frowning guest and I went to visit Ramesh at the bar. I got the message that he was pretending not to know me.

  “Lemonade with a dash of lime, please, barman.” I figured that sounded more grown-up than my usual drink of lemonade with a dash of lemonade. “And go easy on the ice.”

  He nodded respectfully and got to work.

  “Are you here for Next Phase?” one of the girls asked as she played with the stirrer in her drink.

  We’re on holiday, Izzy. We can be whoever we like.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I definitely am.”

  The second girl beamed at me. “It’s going to be amazing. We’ve come all the way from Austria.”

  Austria, Germany; we weren’t far off.

  Up close, the two German Austrian girls looked quite different from one another. The first had big brown eyes and dark features and the other was pale with golden hair. They wore the exact same expression though and I wondered if they were related.

  “Where have you come from?” The blonde asked and I decided that my adopted persona for the evening would be someone who answers questions in a weird way.

  “West Wickham.”

  They looked at one another uncertainly before taking a guess where that was.

  “Great Britain?” the brunette replied. “Ah, yes. You have a fine political tradition.”

  Her friend agreed with this wholeheartedly. “Yes, our countries have very strong links. And they will only get stronger as the movement progresses.”

  I had no idea what they were talking about but I was having fun, so joined in with their nonsense. “Yes, I see a bright shining future for all of us.”

  This seemed to be what they wanted to hear and they smiled approvingly.

  “Heike and I got a photograph with Marco Romanelli on the beach today.” The blonde pulled her phone out and the selfie they’d taken was already set as her screensaver.

  “You’re so lucky.” I was sure they would catch the tone in my voice, before remembering that sarcasm isn’t the done thing on the continent. “I wish I had the guts to go and talk to him, he’s dreamy.”

  They looked puzzled again and Heike, the brunette, felt the need to correct me. “Oh, no. It’s his ideas that Lio and I connect with.” Perhaps afraid that her message wasn’t getting through, she continued in the loveably serious manner that Central Europeans often maintain. “We love him for his mind.”

  “Oh, exactly. That’s what I meant. His mind is just… dreamy.” The tennis match of their approval had swung in my favour and they looked relieved that we’d found common ground once more.

  Ramesh sniggered quietly and I decided to boost my standing with my companions. “Were you listening to our conversation, barman?” I narrowed my eyes to glare at him before turning back to Heike and Lio. “You have to put these people in their place, don’t you think?”

  They both nodded appreciatively.

  “That’s right.” Lio glanced at her watch and I could see she wasn’t the type of Austrian to buck stereotypes. “We have a booking for dinner at eight o’clock.”

  “Why don’t you join us for drinks after?”

  I did a weird sideways head nod, like a monk in a silent order, and they waved from three feet away and went in search of their table.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Ramesh once they’d gone.

  “Uncle put me behind the bar. He says I’m not to talk to the guests like they’re friends but to talk to my friends like they’re guests.”

  “Not that. I mean, why are all the people staying at this hotel so strange?”

  He stopped polishing the glass he was holding and raised it to the light. “Don’t ask me. I just work here.”

  I felt a tap on my shoulder just then and turned to see the bloke from breakfast leaning against the bar. “Excuse me, are you Izzy Palmer?”

  “Last time I checked.” I always know just the wrong thing to say.

  He looked me over for a moment without speaking. I kind of liked the idea that he was a very conscientious courier, who preferred to take his time and get to know the receiver before delivering his package.

  “My name’s Álvaro Linares.” Another pause, another quick flick of the eyes. “I read all about you in the papers.”

  “Oh, thank you very much.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “What is it? Two murders you’ve solved single-handedly already?”

  Three, but who’s counting?

  “T
hree, but who’s counting?” Oops, that was supposed to stay in my head.

  “Could be dangerous here with you around!” He flicked his floppy fringe from his eyes and knocked back the last drop of his drink. Putting his glass down on the bar, he winked and walked off to a table in the corner of the room.

  “See,” I said, “another weirdo.”

  “Izzy, you’re famous.” Ramesh sounded less impressed than I would have expected. Clearly the job was already getting to him.

  I knew that the Porter case in particular had been widely reported. A friend from uni had sent me a clipping from Le Poste in France. So I was already aware that word of my Miss-Marpling had reached mainland Europe, but it was no big deal.

  Gosh. You’re so humble, Izzy, not to mention modest! Has anyone ever told you how humble-

  Shhh! There are more important issues to think about.

  “Have you heard of this Next Phase thing?” I picked up my sophisticated drink and enjoyed the feel of the cool, wet glass in my hand.

  Ramesh was busy checking that the paper cocktail umbrellas were all neatly folded away. “It’s some kind of conference. The guy who runs it is staying here. I think he’s a lifestyle guru or something.” He stopped what he was doing and looked up at me cheerfully. “Uncle says I can have an hour off for dinner once everyone’s eating. Will you wait for me?”

  “I suppose so. But I’ll struggle to resist ordering any jamón croquetas before you join me. They’re practically my number one reason for coming to Spain.”

  His eyes flicked to the middle distance and I could practically hear his tummy rumble. “And chorizo and little Padrón peppers and potato omelette!”

  “Ramesh,” his uncle interrupted. “I’m not paying you to stand around talking.”

  “You’re not paying me at all,” my friend countered.

  “Which is lucky for you or else I’d have to cut your wages.” Kabir pulled himself up to his full height. For a short man, he had an impressive bearing. “Oh fine. Just take your break now, but I expect to see you back here after dinner.”

  He didn’t stick around for his nephew’s thanks but rushed off to put out fires in the kitchen, hopefully only metaphorically.

  Ramesh and I had dinner together in a private dining room that was even plusher than the main space. The two waiters that Kabir had hired were from the nearby village and I got to amaze them with my slightly above average Spanish.

  Eyes wide in wonder, Ramesh was equally impressed. “It’s like there’s a whole other person lurking inside you… and she’s Spanish.” He spoke through a mouthful of calamari. “Iz, what do they call that tomato bread they eat here?”

  “It’s called pan con tomate.” I admit I was enjoying showing off to him.

  “And what do they call Padrón peppers?”

  I snatched one from the plate and popped it in my mouth. It was spicier than I was expecting and I had to have a slug of red wine. “They’re pimientos de Padrón.”

  “What about chorizo?” Ramesh has a degree in computers (or something) and one of the finest mathematical minds of anyone I know. For a clever person, he can be a complete idiot sometimes.

  “It’s called chorizo, Ra. It comes from Spain.”

  “That’s brilliant!” I think I’d blown his mind. “They have the same word as us.”

  After dinner, we returned to the bar and went back to pretending that we didn’t know one another. This wasn’t a problem as the resident cougar Delilah Shaw kept Ramesh busy all evening. The lobster-human hybrid, Ian Dennison was there too and told me in excruciating detail about his classic car importation business. His faint, barely present wife stood beside him, not saying a word while their kids ran around the dining room trying to stab one another with forks.

  In desperation, I got Ramesh to add some vodka to my next drink. I struggled through the intricate particulars of the Dennison business empire and, just as I was about to make my excuses and disappear for the night, Marco Romanelli returned. Dressed in a pure black tuxedo, he looked like an Italian James Bond.

  The forty or so French guests, who were taking their time over dinner, erupted in applause when they saw him. He put one hand in the air in the really, it’s too much! gesture so common to celebrities. I saw no sign of his children, but, dripping with diamonds, his wife hovered beside him like an ultra-glam bodyguard. Petite but strong, with her daughters’ olive skin and long black hair, she was at least ten years younger than her husband. She had the kind of looks that would make her famous on Instagram and yet her beauty was diminished by the permanent scowl that lived on her face.

  Go on, Izzy! Tell her she’d be a lot prettier if she smiled more. You misogynist!

  They made their way over to the bar through a sea of admirers. Marco stopped every three metres to shake hands with anyone brave enough to come close. I kind of wished I hadn’t put on an act with the Austrian girls and had asked them who the highly worshipped figure in our midst actually was.

  “Mineral water and a white wine, please.” The woman ordered for them both without consulting her husband and Ramesh had to extract himself from the grip of handsy Mrs Shaw, who had been feeling his biceps over the counter since the commotion began.

  Passing the mineral water to her husband, Mrs Romanelli said something about the importance of making an appearance and then going to bed.

  Hey, our Italian comprehension is really improving!

  Marco glanced at the heavily made-up British woman disapprovingly and turned to the person next to him to initiate a conversation.

  “Are you here for the conference tomorrow?” he asked me.

  I thought about telling the truth, but didn’t know if the Austrian girls were lurking somewhere. “Oh yes, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “That makes my heart sing just to hear it.” He had piercing grey eyes and I could understand why everyone loved him. He was magnetic. Even if he’d changed the topic to talk about Ian Dennison’s business, I’d have listened intently. “None of it would be possible without good persons like you coming out to support our project.”

  Perhaps it was his accent that got to me most though. It was like he’d taken my language and mangled it into something precious and new. I was afraid I would copy the irregular intonation and misplaced stress of his words.

  “You’re welcome.” He was old enough to be my very young father but I’m pretty sure my tongue was hanging from my mouth right then, like a cat in a cartoon.

  His wife gave him a serious look and he got the message. “I must be going on, but I look forward to seeing you at the exhibition centre tomorrow.”

  He seized my hand in both of his and squeezed a bit too hard. There was something frightening about it, some undercurrent of violence packaged within a kindly gesture. I was about to thank him for… I don’t know what, but he turned and left before I could get a sound out.

  “Miaow!” Ramesh exclaimed. It was good to see his true self shining through the servitude. “He is hot stuff.”

  I watched that ripple of admiration once more pass through the crowd as Marco Romanelli moved across the room. He was unique, charismatic and a little bit scary.

  Chapter Six

  I’d promised myself I’d make the most of my time on holiday – despite the constant dark thoughts at the back of my mind – but didn’t manage to wake up until eleven o’clock the next morning. By the time I got downstairs, the only people about were Ramesh and Kabir, who were arguing in the foyer.

  “I’m supposed to be on holiday, Uncle.”

  “Don’t you give me that, boy. I’m letting you stay here for free.” Kabir attempted to win his nephew round by changing his tone from stern to gentle. “Is it too much for you to give me a little help? I’m practically running this place on my own.”

  “That’s only because you let the other staff go as soon as I arrived.”<
br />
  “Morning,” I called from the stairs to warn them of my presence. “Any chance of some breakfast?”

  “Izzy!” I loved the way that Kabir was always happy to see me. “The kitchen is closed but, if Ramesh is feeling generous, perhaps he could rustle something up.”

  “That would be very kind,” I replied in my most diplomatic voice. I was feeling a bit guilty for not standing up for Ramesh the day before. “And after that I can help with the rooms if you like. There must be a lot of work to do after last night.”

  Kabir’s look of exaltation grew. “Oh, Izzy, you’re a wonderful girl. Why can’t Ramesh find someone like you, instead of this terrible Patricia person who I’ve never even met?”

  I decided to speak up on my friend’s behalf. “Patricia’s lovely. I’ve met her at least twice. She’s just very busy. I’m sure she’ll come to visit when she hears about this place though.”

  Kabir let out a weary breath. “Ramu, my boy, come over here.”

  Standing at the entrance to the dining room, Ramesh inched towards his uncle in reception.

  “I’m very sorry.” The hotelier’s eyes glistened in the morning light which was flooding in from the front of the hotel. “This week has been incredibly stressful and I shouldn’t have expected so much from you.” He put his arms out and his nephew moved in for a hug.

  “That’s okay, Uncle.” Ramesh displayed a forgiving smile. It was sweet to see that he was not the only one in the family who was in touch with their feelings.

  “Go on, Ramu. Take half an hour off, but I expect you to have made up the rooms of the remaining guests by six o’clock.” Kabir’s hard-nosed instincts had returned. He thumped down the hatch on reception and disappeared into his office.

  I looked at my friend sympathetically. “How about that breakfast?”

  To the horror of the elderly Spanish woman who fulfilled the roles of cook, kitchen manager, sous-chef and skivvy, we raided the kitchen. Seeing her there, it was too good an opportunity to miss.

  “Perdona, Señora. Sabes hacer lemon meringue pie?” I asked, and she looked frightened and began sweeping the floor more furiously in my direction.