A Corpse on the Beach Read online

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Benedict Brown

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  First edition June 2020

  Cover design by [email protected]

  Contents

  Welcome Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Pre-order the next Izzy Palmer Mystery

  Get your Free Izzy Palmer Novellas

  About This Book

  Acknowledgements

  About Me

  List of Spanish References

  To my wife Marion,

  my daughter Amelie

  and my accomplice Lucy.

  Welcome Note

  Welcome back, everybody, to another Izzy Palmer mystery. This is just a quick note about language in this book (not the rude kind.) The story is set in my adopted country and so there are a few references to Spanish words and phrases.

  Most are very simple to understand in context, but I don’t like it when writers use foreign languages without any explanation so, if you need it, everything is translated on the very last page of this book.

  There are also several international characters who speak in a non-standard manner so, if you think you’ve found a typo, let’s say that’s the reason!

  Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy “A Corpse on the Beach”.

  Prologue

  The sun beat down in endless waves. I could feel my skin turning redder by the minute, but after the wettest September since British records began, I needed this. Lying on those Spanish sands, with no one else around, had recharged me after the strangest year of my life.

  The cove where I was sitting was cut off from the main tourist areas and was only accessible through the grounds of the hotel. I’d woken up early to make the most of the solitude and couldn’t help feeling a little proud of myself. It’s not often that I’m first at something but I’d beaten every last guest to the beach. There were a few gulls around, running away from the water like children whenever the tide came near, but they didn’t bother me and I didn’t bother them.

  I leaned back and listened to the sound of the sea. It had been years since I’d heard it. As a child, our regular daytrips down to the pebbly beaches of the south coast of England had been my greatest reward for good grades at school and inspired my choice of university. And now here I was; not at work, not at home, but on a distant beach at the beginning of October, just in time for an Indian summer.

  It was only nine in the morning but, like some fancy goose in a fancy restaurant, I already felt as if I’d been cooked twice over. I had my copy of “Death on the Nile” with me, ready to be enjoyed, but I couldn’t stop watching the tide rolling in and back out again. There was something hypnotic about the gentle swaying and switching. It was as if the waves were a puzzle that could only be solved if I concentrated hard enough.

  It’s curious to think what would have happened if I’d simply opened my book and got lost in Christie’s elegant mystery that morning. My life is not the only one that would have been immeasurably different.

  Even when I noticed it there, sticking up out of the sand, I could have stayed right where I was. I could so easily have taken it for some insignificant piece of sea-junk, carried across the Atlantic from who knows where; a hunk of polystyrene perhaps or maybe an old hubcap. But then, leaving things alone has never been my strong suit and I got to my feet. I thrilled in the feeling of warm sand beneath my toes as I padded between the foamy patches of sea spray on my way to investigate.

  I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing at first. It was as if someone was playing a practical joke and, at any moment, she would jump out of the sand to scare me. But there she was, a pretty face looking straight at me; her lips Hollywood red, her eyes deep brown and her life extinguished.

  For a moment, I thought I recognised her but then the tide washed in again and her features transformed. The look on her face was oddly serene and her long, dark hair splayed out in the water like seaweed. My heart stung a little as I noticed a slender wound on her forehead. I wished for a moment that it was just a game; that children had buried her in the sand to take a photo and would help her back out when it was done.

  But if wishes were horses…

  I think I’d known what I was about to find even before I got there. After three murder investigations in the space of six months, I’d come to expect dead bodies to pop up wherever I went. Perhaps if it had just been a foot poking out, she wouldn’t have caught my eye, but that strange, half-moon shape rising above the surface had reeled me in.

  Even after everything I’d seen, chancing upon a body like that made me stagger back to my towel in a daze. I stood there for a moment, staring at the red hardback book that I’d had since I was a child. I half wanted to reach down and open it. I had this ridiculous urge to skip to the end as if it could tell me who had killed the poor girl. Of course, I knew that real life doesn’t work like that so I pulled out my phone and called the police.

  Chapter One

  There’s something about corridors that I’ve never liked.

  Does anyone actively like corridors then?

  Perhaps it’s the memory of sitting outside my headmistress’s office in secondary school after she found out that I’d shared an intimate picture of Gary Flint. In my defence, he’d told Martin Thompson that I kissed like a giraffe, which annoyed me massively as, not only was it a really lazy insult – I’m tall, I know that – but I actually think giraffes would be pretty good kissers. They have huge tongues.

  I remember sitting out in the hall, trying to work out if I’d be in less trouble if I told our appropriately named head Mrs Raven that the frankly unimpressive photo I’d shown to every girl in the sixth-form was a fake. I had a similar dilemma to deal with now.

  “Miss Palmer?” The clerk emerged from the narrow entrance and held the door open for me.

  “Miss Palmer is my mother,” I said, wishing I could keep my mouth shut once in a while. “Well, actually her maiden name was Gibbs, but after she got divorced from my dad she kept her-”

  “They’re waiting for you.” He was a very beige sort of person and did not appear to be charmed by my no doubt adora
ble chattering.

  Ever since the date was fixed, I’d been dreading this moment. I walked through the door, up a few steps and emerged in the courtroom to be led over to the witness stand. Everyone was there waiting. It felt like I was the conductor and the orchestra couldn’t start without me.

  David was over in his little booth but I couldn’t look at him just yet. I scanned the courtroom for friendly faces and found the Izzy Palmer fan club in the back row. There was Dean, Mrs Dominski from the newsagents, Ramesh, three quarters of my parents and obviously Mum’s hairdresser too.

  “Go, Izzy!” Fernando from Penge shouted.

  He received an immediate glare from the judge. “Any more outbursts like that and I will clear the public gallery.”

  I’ve never understood why British judges and barristers wear long curly wigs. Presumably it’s not a health and safety issue, like hairnets in a kebab shop. I wonder if there are rules about exactly what kind of wig it has to be, or whether they could get away with something a bit more modern these days. At the very least, it would be good to have some highlights to liven up the grey.

  The prosecution rose and my interrogation began. “Miss Palmer, I’d like you to take us through the events of that fateful day in your own words.”

  “I had a curry pasty for breakfast.”

  Everyone in the courtroom laughed at that.

  Even the prosecuting barrister failed to keep a straight face. “Perhaps you could skip to the moment you arrived at work.”

  “Oh, okay.” It’s fair to say I was a little on edge. “I went up in the lift with my colleague Suzie. She doesn’t speak much and I felt very awkward. I do this thing whenever I’m with quiet people where I chat and chat and chat.” I was doing it right then. “It’s pretty embarrassing and, to be honest, I-”

  “Miss Palmer, what I’d really like to know about is the moment you walked into Mr Thomas’s office and what you saw there.”

  The courtroom fell silent and I dared a glance at David in the dock. If giving evidence against your boyfriend in a murder trial counts as a date, this would be our fourth. He looked calm – far more prepared for this than I was – and he smiled across at me supportively.

  “The first thing I noticed was that Bob Thomas wasn’t in his own chair. He was in front of his desk, not behind it and that struck me as odd.” I was trying to get the whole thing out without stopping. “I knew that he was dead. There was something about the position of his body. It was slumped forward uncomfortably and I doubted that he was just asleep.” I could no longer remember if what I was saying was actually true. “Oh, and the knife sticking out of his back, of course. That was a bit of a clue as well.”

  “You said you found it strange that he would not be in his own chair.” David’s enemy for the duration of the trial had a nasty glimmer in his eyes whenever he addressed me. “What exactly did that imply to you?”

  I hesitated, then said the wrong thing anyway. “I thought that whoever had killed him must have held some power over Bob.”

  Izzy, are you listening to yourself?

  “So, his boss for example?” The barrister smugly replied.

  “No. I mean… No, that didn’t enter my mind. It could have been anyone.”

  The bloke in the wig did not look happy with me. “I see. Please continue.”

  This was getting tricky. I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to make David’s life any more difficult than it had to be. Yes, he was a murderer, but he’d killed Bob for a very good reason. I sought out my mum’s face in the crowd and could tell from her wincing expression that my performance wasn’t up to standard.

  “I had some work to give Bob so I decided to go in a bit further.”

  “You thought Mr Thomas was dead and yet you still wanted to give him the work he’d asked you for?”

  Oops, he’s got you there.

  “Yes, but I’d never seen a dead body before and…” My words faded out. I could no longer remember what had compelled me to walk into a room with a corpse inside.

  “Let’s move on.” The barrister shuffled some papers and looked up at me with a patronising smile. “How would you characterise your relationship with Mr David Hughes before the murder?”

  “I didn’t think he knew my name.” My precarious balancing act wasn’t going too well but at least I’d got a few more laughs from the gallery.

  “But then, over the course of the next few weeks, the two of you started a romantic relationship, isn’t that right?”

  “You make it sound so sordid. I don’t think-”

  “A yes or no answer will suffice, Miss Palmer.”

  I didn’t like this guy. “Yes.”

  “And would you say it’s normal behaviour for a man to murder a colleague and start in on an affair with a younger member of staff mere days after the killing?”

  The defence did not like that line of questioning. The slightly weary old man who was representing David lurched to his feet to object. “Leading question. Your honour, Miss Palmer is not on trial.”

  The judge deliberated silently for a moment. “Rephrase the question, Mr Barton. And can we please rein in the emotive language?”

  “Very good, Your Honour.” Nasty Mr Barton turned back my way. “Why was it that the two of you got together?”

  I wasn’t sure what had just happened but I answered anyway. “I think that people fall in love for all sorts of crazy reasons.”

  Izzy, get it together. You sound like you’re quoting a pop song.

  “I see.” The barrister changed topic. “From what I hear, you’re something of a murder mystery fan.” I didn’t think this required a response. “Was that what attracted you to the defendant?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  I could tell he was building up to another snide comment. I put my hands together in front of me and awaited the inevitable insinuation.

  “Did it give you a thrill to be involved with a killer?”

  The defence barrister was having none of it. “Your Honour, I must object to my learned friend’s treatment of the witness.” It suddenly occurred to me that he was the spitting image of my mum’s uncle Bill.

  The prosecution, meanwhile, looked like the villain from a Bond movie. “The question goes to the defendant’s thinking at the time of the murder, Your Honour.”

  The judge wasn’t impressed. “Mr Barton, I’ve given you one warning already.” She looked down her nose disapprovingly at the slick young prosecutor in a way that only people with glasses can.

  “Of course, Your Honour. It won’t happen again.”

  The look of feigned innocence on his face right then told me he knew exactly what he was doing. He’d been pinging between topics and pushing the limits of what he was allowed to ask, solely to unnerve me. It had worked until now, but the fact he’d tried to manipulate me into giving the worst possible account of David’s behaviour somehow gave me confidence. If my testimony was going to do anything but outright condemn him, I needed to find a way to shift the focus. I steeled myself for his next question.

  “I believe you were the one who ultimately revealed the defendant’s guilt.”

  “With a little help from my friends, yes.” I looked at Mum once more, but the barometer of her face had not budged a millimetre.

  “What was it that told you he was the killer?” Barton was too smooth for his own good and his question had given me a lifeline.

  “There were five people who had access to the Porter & Porter server room from where the surveillance footage was removed. Each of them had their reasons for wanting rid of Bob Thomas.” I checked the gallery to make sure Bob’s wife wasn’t there before continuing. “He was a very unpopular man and made working at P&P a nightmare for many of my colleagues. But the fact is that David Hughes was the only one who cared. The only one of us who was good and brave enough
to put a stop to the terrible things that Bob took such pleasure from.”

  Go, Izzy, you’ve got him on the ropes. Forget about being a detective, you should become a lawyer.

  There was some quietly impressed murmuring from the public and Mum gave me the half-smile I’d been hoping for. Mr Barton turned over the paper in front of him and searched for his next point of attack.

  It was a long morning and I felt drained by the end of it. For every moment like this one, where I could support my favourite murderer, the prosecution managed three more in their favour. It was a strange sensation to be up there and sometimes felt like I was trying to erase the work I’d done to find Bob’s killer in the first place. I never lied to protect David, but I wouldn’t let them represent him as a monster either.

  As the young barrister’s argument developed, he accused me of being a murder junky, a busybody, a tramp and a co-conspirator, all in the roundabout, borderline polite way that is characteristic of British High Court trials. I was happy when lunch was finally called and I could have a break.

  “You were amazing up there, Iz,” Danny told me, when we convened in a café across the road from the court. He was looking at me in his usual excitable way, which had been a feature of our limited interactions over the last couple of months.

  Ramesh was next to comment. “What I don’t understand is why they have to have a trial if David admits he’s the killer.”

  Everyone was there, huddled together around a table for four.

  “Keep up, darling,” my mother replied for me. “He’s claiming diminished responsibility in the hope of getting a lesser sentence.” I don’t know why she was being so smug, I’d had to explain the exact same thing to her a month earlier. “He hopes to show the court that Bob’s crimes and bullying had a psychological impact that drove him over the edge.”

  “It’s like watching the telly,” Dad put in as he emptied a bottle of ketchup into his bacon bap. “Only far longer and occasionally quite tedious. Could you pass the brown sauce, please?”

  There was a moment of quiet munching as we tucked into the greasy plates of deliciousness that had been served up by the rather sleepy old woman, who appeared to be the only person working in the packed café.