Melvin got up and walked to the lake edge. He bent over and picked up a stick, throwing it for Acorn. She bounded into the still water and swam to retrieve the stick. After a couple of times, Melvin made his way back to the bench.
Paul watched him and he smiled generously at the lad.
He held out his hand and introduced himself. ‘Melvin Stone, and you are?’
The bloke looked at him curiously, and he felt a sinking feeling in his guts.
He’d done it again. He’d lost huge chunks of his memory and had wandered across the wrong side of the lake.
‘Have you seen my dog?’ Melvin asked the man, who pointed to his side, where he saw the lab panting for her stick.
‘Nice to meet you, I’m Melvin,’ he said, holding out his hand.
The chap pulled back and looked over his shoulder. Melvin had seen the look before; he was repeating himself again.
‘Did you know the chap who died?’ Melvin asked.
‘He was my partner, Melvin. But you already knew that.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. We just talked about it, sitting here together.’ The young chap was terribly polite.
‘I do apologise, it’s my condition, you see, I forget things.’
‘Ah, I see, I’m sorry.’
‘No need. It happens at my age. I take lots of medicine.’
Paul smiled at him sympathetically and Melvin wondered why the man looked so worried. He then excused himself and Melvin watched him return to the hotel looking back a few times, as if he’d forgotten something. Come to think of it, he did recall seeing him before, but he didn’t know where.
Melvin stared at the hotel and knew he’d been here before. The people inside must be wealthy, he thought, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
A chap had died.
Yes, that was it. That must be why the big lads were here. They looked like bodyguards. One in particular – the largest one – looked ex-military. Nasty. Mean. Hard.
He bent over and picked up a sachet off the floor and lifted it to his nose and smelt it. It was a colourful package, like they were when they were full of promise and lies. He licked his finger and poked it into the residue powder and tasted some. It didn’t taste bad at all.
And very familiar.
Chapter 13
In the restaurant, Sandy Cooper placed crustless quiche slices onto her plate. She was ravenous but she was never bowled over by the healthy crap on offer at these events. Juices of all colours were laid out lovingly and laden with supplements (all plant based of course). Real sustainable local food full of nutrition and adorned with labels suggesting pairings were on offer too. Glasses of superfood shots and all kinds of shakes boasted longer life and vitality but she ignored them and moved on, trying to not think about the police who were standing around the smeared stain in the foyer and huddled together trying to decide if Jamie jumped or was pushed. And now a detective had arrived.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and she took it out to look at it with one hand while she balanced her plate with the other. She eyed the caller ID and looked around. Then she ignored it and put it back in her jeans pocket. Some people said – especially other women – that women of a certain age shouldn’t wear jeans, but Sandy thought they could go and fuck themselves. It was nobody’s business but hers, and the conference and banqueting manager didn’t seem to mind.
Sure, she was getting a little soft and flabby around the edges. Her body wasn’t what it used to be. The menopause had hit with a vengeance and no matter how many creams, pills and potions she consumed, nothing seemed to pep her up.
But this weekend had been shaping up nicely in that department until Jamie fell off a stairwell.
She found a seat in the dining room and noticed Lee hovering at the buffet, panicking that his guests would tell the world what had happened here.
In time, the hotel would benefit from a high-profile suicide, she was sure of it, but now wasn’t the time to tell him. She must be gentle with him. The death had been spectacular. Typical Jamie. Consummately dramatic.
Jamie had been a creative type. Paul was the brain behind the supplement subsidiary they’d invested in with Hampton-Dent money. Jamie had been the artist. The visionary.
What a shame it was all over.
