A Corpse on the Beach (An Izzy Palmer Mystery Book 3) by Benedict Brown

Author:Benedict Brown [Brown, Benedict]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Hawthorn Books
Published: 2020-06-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

I had a problem. There was one obvious suspect who wasn’t at the hotel at the time of the first murder. Three people who could have been involved in both killings but had no obvious motive and ten or so others who, for the moment, I would have to discard.

“I still say Ian Dennison’s son was involved.” I found Ramesh by the back door of the kitchen, on his break with Cook. “That little hell-seed told Delilah Shaw I fancy her. She was bad enough already, squeezing my bum all the time. I feel like a tenderised steak.”

Cook was smoking a fat Cuban cigar and, between puffs, would sympathise with Ramesh with a weary, Spanish sigh.

“Ramesh why are you smoking?”

“It’s the job, Izzy. It’s the relentless grind of life in the hospitality sector. You can’t imagine what it’s like. I’ve only been at it three days and I’ve already turned to nicotine.”

“Belén Esteban!” Cook suggested. “The killer is Belén Esteban!”

I still didn’t know who that was so I ignored her.

“It can’t be Ian Dennison’s son. For one thing, the chance of a ten-year-old boy indiscriminately murdering hotel guests is pretty infinitesimal, but more importantly he was with us at lunch when Álvaro was shot dead.”

Ramesh thought for a second. “What about that old Spanish couple? They’re kind of creepy.”

“Ramesh, I thought you wanted to help me with this investigation. Not just suggest people who can’t possibly have been involved in the murder.”

He bowed his head despondently. “I’m sorry, Iz. This working life is eating me from the inside out. I can’t even come up with convincing theories for who the killer could be.”

I didn’t like to point out that his previous track record was not much better. Instead, I put my most sympathetic face on and, avoiding a cloud of filthy smoke, gave him a friendly punch on the arm. “I appreciate you trying, buddy.”

“The one like Belén Esteban!” Cook tried again. “Much makeup, big lips. Dresses like prostituta from the twenties. You know!”

“Delilah Shaw?”

The middle-aged Spanish woman, in her standard-issue, blue kitchen uniform, exploded with joy. “That’s her! She’s the killer, I know this. She’s got face of killer.”

I could see that she and Ramesh were born to work together. They had a surprisingly similar attitude to life.

“Thanks for the suggestion, Cook.”

It’s funny how, every time you report a Spanish person’s speech in English, it’s full of mistakes and yet, when you speak Spanish, it’s like you’re a native.

I ignored my brain and my two companions’ theories. “Listen, Ramesh. I haven’t got much time. Who knows how long the police will keep everybody at the hotel. I can’t see Bielza forcing the Romanellis to stay here after tomorrow.”

“I’ll come with you,” he responded and stubbed his cigarette out on the brick wall. “My next shift is about to start.”

He said goodbye to his colleague, using the international language of grunting and she raised her cigar to us in salutation before puffing out an enormous, black smoke ring.

“You can do it, Iz.

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