We took our ham sandwiches and orange juice outside. Despite Ramesh’s prediction that a storm was on its way, the good weather had not let up. We were alone on the patio and the grounds were silent. I couldn’t hear anyone enjoying themselves on the beach and the tennis court and swimming pool were just as empty.
“They’ve gone off to this Next Phase thing,” he revealed. “I got talking to that Álvaro bloke last night and he made it sound like they’re all nutters.”
“You know what it is then?” I asked through a mouthful of crusty Spanish bread.
“Not a clue. We should ask Dean. He seems to know most things about most things.”
He’d come up with an inspired idea. I took my phone out and propped it up on the table to video call our favourite cyber-genius.
He wasn’t super happy that we’d rung. “Izzy, you don’t need to call me every time you have a question. There’s a thing called the internet now which will help you find whatever you need.”
Something wasn’t quite right with him. He’d only answered with audio for a start. “Dean, where are you?”
“So, Next Phase was it? Yeah I’ve heard of them.”
He couldn’t fob me off that easily. “Dean, why aren’t you answering my question?”
“Their leader Marco Romanelli was born in total poverty on the streets of Genova.”
I heard a voice in the background and realised what was happening. “Dean, are you with my parents?”
“Urmmm, I’m not going to lie to you, Iz. I may be at your house right now.” There was one of his typical breathy silences down the line. “But only because Greg got a new badminton net and they needed an extra person for doubles.”
“Seriously?”
Typical Mum. She’s always stealing my friends.
“Ahhh, say hello to Rosie for me,” Ramesh put in, as if to reinforce my point.
I growled in frustration. “Fine, Dean, just tell me what I need to know.”
“Okay. This Romanelli guy, born into poverty, inherited a fortune as the distant but sole remaining relative of the Carlucci fashion empire. Sold his stock in the company and bought out an Italian car firm which he turned into the hottest make going for mega-wealthy sheiks, shahs and internet millionaires. I thought about buying a Romanelli myself before I got the Aston Martin.”
“Meh…” Ramesh stuck his tongue out in disgust. “If I’d known you were going to talk about cars, I would have helped Cook clean the kitchen.”
“Yeah, come on, Dean. Get to the point.”
“Romanelli wasn’t satisfied with being a billionaire and decided to use his wealth to build a following. He started off on Italian chat shows, talking about his worldview and how things needed to change. It was benign enough at first – a mix between Karl Marx, Donald Trump and Marie Kondo. People ate it up and before long he was all over Facebook and on every TV programme.” There was another pause and I could hear two of my dads having a knockabout in the background. “Izzy, how do you not know this? I thought you liked to read. Not the news, apparently.”
“Ha ha ha. Hilarious.” I used my fakest of fake laughs. “Move it along now.”
“So Romanelli and his wife Gianna started a movement called Natural Order. They have this philosophy that everything has its place in the world and we’ve lost sight of what that should be. The poorest in society should have a job and somewhere to live, rare animals should be at home in the jungle or the savannah, and everything we buy should be made in our own countries like they used to be.
“The problem is that the logical extension of this is that all the immigrants across the world should go back to where their ancestors came from. Natural Order attracted the wrong sort of crowd, their rallies grew violent and the Romanellis did nothing to discourage the extreme, fascist following they’d built up. Gangs of hooligans started trashing immigrant neighbourhoods in Natural Order’s name; people were murdered. So Marco Romanelli was forced to stand back from the organisation he’d created and, though his wife continued to be involved, it eventually faded away.”
I can’t say that this is what I was expecting. “So where does Next Phase come in?”
“Next Phase is the obvious continuation of Natural Order, only presented in a more palatable way. It started out as a TV series. A kind of self-help concept to get your life in shape and, before long, Marco Romanelli had his face on every magazine again and he was organising conferences and seminars to promote his ideas all over the world.”
“So is Next Phase any different from Natural Order?” Ramesh asked. I was impressed that the conversation had held his attention.
“On the surface it is. They’ve managed to distance themselves from the looting and violence at least. But I’ve read articles which claim that all the pseudo-Nazi rhetoric is still there, hidden under a pretty façade. I’d be careful with Romanelli if I were you.”
“Dean, look at this!” Ramesh gleefully pulled out his mobile to point into the camera. “I got a selfie with him!”
“When was that?” I asked. The photo showed Marco with his arms around Ramesh, who a drunken Delilah Shaw was hanging off.
“Last night, after you went up. He practically saved me from that woman as well. He told her that she’d had enough to drink and should go to bed. Did it in this really smooth way so she didn’t get upset. The guy is pure class.”
I looked at him like he was missing his brain. “Ramesh did you not hear the part about him being a Nazi?”
No one is perfect, Izzy. Don’t forget that chocolate bar you stole from Woolworths when you were eleven.
“No one’s perfect, Izzy,” Ramesh echoed my thoughts exactly. I should really stop telling him my secrets. “You once stole a chocolate bar from Woolworths.”
“He’s a Nazi!” As I struggled to get my point across, Dean interjected.
“Anyway, guys. It was nice talking, but Rosie’s here now and we’re going to start the match.” He hung up before we had a chance to say goodbye.
Ramesh turned to me with a solemn look on his face. “Izzy, I’m worried that Dean might be a psychopath.” He gripped his glass a little tighter. “What normal person takes less than five attempts to say goodbye to friends on the phone?”
Chapter Seven
That day was the most fun I had all holiday. Even though we had to clean out the rooms and make up the beds for the remaining guests, there was endless joy to be had.
We sped down the corridors on top of Ramesh’s housekeeping cart and did time trials to see who could push the fastest. He was a surprisingly dedicated competitor and it was all frolics and laughs until he upturned the cart and sent me flying into a wall. After that, I limped off to the lobby to slide down the banister time and time again until Ramesh got a splinter in his leg.
Kabir came and told us off for wasting time so we headed back to the top of the hotel where the Romanellis had the suite next to mine.
I gawped once more on entering. “If I’m in the presidential suite, what’s this one called?”
“Uncle told me these are The Royal Rooms.”
It was hard to speak with my jaw hanging open. “Did a monarch stay here then?”
“Yep. Jóse Rovera, the used car king of Madrid. He’s a legend in the industry apparently.”
“Impressive.”
The suite was set out like a large apartment with several bedrooms, bathrooms and a spotless kitchen area that I very much doubted the Romanellis would be making use of. In fact the whole place looked like it had been cleaned before we got there; there was not a pillow out of place or a curtain half-drawn.
“You do the kids’ bedrooms and I’ll get to work on the master suite,” I suggested but Ramesh did not look happy.
“How is that fair? I’m the senior member of staff here.”
“You’re right.” I figured he’d earned this small luxury. “
I’ll do the kids’ rooms.”
We went our separate ways and I took my vacuum cleaner and feather duster over to a world of stunning pink. The room I entered looked like it had been painted by a three year old girl who was colour blind. There wasn’t an inch of space that did not contain some rosy hue. Even the furniture was pink. Somehow, even the mirror was pink.
I got to work stripping the beds, struggling to remember why I had offered to help and trying not to think about David for the thousandth time that day. I could only imagine what he was going through at the Old Bailey. Perhaps his solicitor had put him on the stand by now. Perhaps he would be ripped apart by the horrible prosecution barrister. Even if that Barton guy was only doing his job, he clearly took great pleasure in the cruelty he dealt out.
I was busy not thinking about this, and pulling the pillowcases off my forty-seventh pillow, when Ramesh came in holding a gun.
“Izzy, look at this!” Do you remember what I told you about Ramesh not always using the full capacity of his intellect? He was pointing the silver handled revolver straight at me.
“Have you lost your mind?” I instinctively dropped the pillowcase and put my hands in the air. “Did your parents never tell you not to pick up random guns and point them at people?”
He was all smiles. “Come off it, Izzy. I doubt it’s real. It is heavy though.”
“Ramesh, where did you find it?”
“In a cute little box in the Romanellis’ bedroom.”
I sidled out of his line of fire. “Yes, Ramesh. That will be a gun case. You’re holding a gun.”
His smile disappeared and he suddenly looked terrified. The weapon dropped from his hand and he let out a high shriek like a pig arriving at an abattoir.
As it fell through the air, time slowed down and I jumped for cover behind a pink armchair. I landed on the carpet and immediately put my hands to my ears, waiting for the inevitable bang. When seconds had passed and there was no sound, I looked out from behind my shelter. Ramesh was similarly braced for disaster but the gun was lying innocently on the floor between us and had not gone off.
“See, Izzy there was nothing to worry about.” Ramesh spoke in a breezy, relaxed manner but he was shaking like a stick insect.
With my hand in a pillowcase, I picked up the revolver. I studied it carefully, making sure not to get any fingerprints on the weapon. It had a long barrel with a round tube added to the end to muffle the sound and an inscription on the handle which read ‘To M.R. from FHD Jungend.”
I turned my attention back to Ramesh. “Are you actually insane? Outside of characters in bad movies, what kind of person sees a gun and thinks, I know I’ll pick that up and show it to my friend?”
“I didn’t think it was real.”
“It certainly looks real and it certainly feels real.” I hesitantly put the barrel to my nose. “Oh, guess what? It smells real too.”
“Sorry, Iz.” He looked like a schoolboy who had been caught cheating on a test.
I took pity on him. “Come on, before we get in any trouble. Let’s put it back.”
We hurried through the main living area to the Romanellis’ bedroom/aircraft hangar.
“Where did you find it, Ramesh?”
“It was in their wardrobe.”
In the five minutes he’d been in there, he’d managed to make the room less tidy than before. There were dusters all over the bed and the cleaning cart was on its side again.
“What were you doing in their wardrobe?” With my arm outstretched like I was holding something smelly, I walked the gun across the room.
The way he was glaring at me suggested the answer was obvious. “I was looking at their clothes, Izzy. What else would I be doing?”
One of the mirrored sliding doors was open and a drawer had been pulled out. Inside it, a varnished wooden box displayed a silky interior. How Ramesh could have thought such a grand case would hold a toy gun was hard to comprehend. The box of bullets beside it was also a pretty big clue that it should be left alone. I was about to wipe the handle down when we heard a noise at the door.
“Quick, Izzy. Shove it in the case,” he said and bolted from the wardrobe.
I put the gun into its neat slot as quickly as possible whilst still holding it through the pillowcase. I kicked the drawer closed and ran out to the main bedroom area where Ramesh was pretending to dust the curtains. As poor as his acting was, he looked less out of place than I did. Standing in the middle of somebody else’s bedroom dressed in a sarong and an “I Heart New York” t-shirt, I can’t say I blended in.
“What are you doing here?” Gianna Romanelli came to a sudden halt when she saw me.
“Urmmm, just cleaning really.”
To my surprise, it was Ramesh who came up with an excuse. “I’m cleaning, she’s supervising.”
Mrs Romanelli did not look convinced. Eyeing me with her typically hard expression, she stepped past me to go to the bed stand. “My husband forgot some papers, I’m here to pick them up.” She grabbed a folder and moved to leave.
Just when I thought we were in the clear, she spun round in the doorway and addressed me once more. “I have to say that, in general, you’re doing a very good job. The hotel is immaculate.”
“Yes, that’s because of our strict one cleaner, one supervisor policy.” I don’t think I sounded very convincing. “We like to ensure that there’s no slacking off. It’s one of the many wonderful ideas that Mr Khatri has implemented.” My hands together in front of me, I offered her my most innocent look.
She smiled for the first time since I’d seen her. She actually looked like a half-normal person for a moment. “Keep up the good work then.”
“Thank you, Mrs Romanelli. We will.”
I waited for her to leave before breathing again.
“Ramesh, there are two things you’ve got to do right now,” I instructed. “Number one, wipe off that gun to make sure that your prints aren’t all over it. Number two never ever touch a weapon again for as long as you live. If it was used in a crime and got traced back to you, you could end up in prison.”
“Yes, Izzy. Sorry, Izzy.” He looked suitably chastised.
Once I’d finished the kids’ rooms, I went back downstairs for more janitorial fun. The only other interruption that afternoon was the old Spanish lady, Sagrario, barging in on me in the Dennisons’ room.
“Oh,” she said, looking confused.
“Can I help you?” I asked but, just then, her husband appeared.
“No, darling,” he said, gently pulling her back out again. “Our room is on the next floor.” He poked his head in to see me and apologised in broken English. “We sorry. Room wrong.”
An hour later, when I thought I was finished for the day, I went to check on Ramesh’s progress in the Romanelli suite. It didn’t look like there’d been any.
“You really are terrible at cleaning.” The duvet was only half inside the cover, he’d left footprints all over the bathroom and the floor was covered in croissant crumbs, which definitely hadn’t been there before we entered. Add all that to the fact he was asleep in the island-sized bed and he had not done a perfect job.
He yawned, placing a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. “It’s not my fault. All that dusting and polishing made me tired and I had to lie down.”
“That’s all right, mate. I think you’re more suited to bar work.”
He sat up in bed and I notice something shiny around his neck.
“Ra, what is that?”
He peered down at himself uncertainly. “Oops, I thought I’d already put that back.”
It was the diamond necklace that Gianna Romanelli had worn the previous night. I had to admit, it was stunningly pretty. I’ve never been very materialistic or one of those girly girls who only thinks of sparkly things, but I would have sold a lung to wear that necklace for
the night. Not that I let Ramesh know that.
“What is it with you and things you shouldn’t be touching? Put it back and finish tidying!”
My generosity had its limits and, with my work done, I left him to it and headed off to the beach. Though it was a little overcast, the air was the perfect temperature and the sand beneath my feet was as hot as a barbecue grill. I put my towel down, lathered on the sun cream and the heavens opened to wash it straight back off again. The day had turned in the space of five minutes and, by the time I got back to the hotel, I was soaking wet.
That evening was a much quieter affair than the night before. There was no coach party to crowd the dining room and the other guests didn’t get back until after dinner. Despite that, there was still plenty of drama.
I spent most of the evening at the bar with Ramesh. Uncle Kabir joined us for dinner in the near-deserted restaurant. He told me embarrassing stories about Ramesh’s teenage crushes back home in Watford and my friend sulked throughout. There was no lemon meringue pie to be had but the crema Catalana did a respectable job in its place.
Yum, crema Catalana – like custard but more… Spanish.
The only other diner was Delilah Shaw, who, it turned out, had no interest in that day’s conference and had spent her time in the spa. Thanks to the sauna and sunbeds she’d been using, she looked like a shrivelled grape that had been left behind after harvest.
“I feel invigorated,” she told us several times, shouting across the room to our table. “I was overdue some me time today and that’s just what I got.”
“I think she could do with a little less me time if you ask me,” Ramesh muttered under his breath.
When the Next Phase party reappeared at around eleven, Marco Romanelli was stern and distracted. He entered the hotel flanked by the Austrian girls, with his wife, daughters and other disciples following a little way behind.
“Inspirational, that’s what it was,” Lio told him.
Heike seemed to agree. “It’s not just what you say but the way that you say it that inspires me.”
A Corpse on the Beach Page 5