The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue - 2005

  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 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

  The Hidden Island

  By

  Angela Corner

  Copyright © 2016 Angela Corner

  The right of Angela Corner to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  For my Dad

  We all have things we wish we hadn’t done. Mistakes we’ve made that seem irreversible. Not small things, like stealing a bar of chocolate from the corner shop, or breaking a neighbour’s window with a misplaced football, but big things, terrible things. We head down paths from where there seems no way back. Unfixable mistakes, things which can never be undone, and can never hope to be forgiven. We follow one mistake with another and another, because there seems no other way. So, why carry on? We can’t fix things, or put things back the way they were. But, we can always make things better. Try to be better. And hope those better things are good enough to recompense for the mistakes we made before.

  Prologue - 2005

  The sea whispered to him, as he directed the boat out past the headland’s sharp claws. There was no wind, no waves. The hull pierced the black water, sending out ripples, distorting the moonlight, as it rested on the water.

  He glanced back to the Island. Its mountainous silhouette loomed like a sleeping Fiend. Tiny lights dotted the cliffs and hillsides. Lives being lived. Meals being eaten. Life the same tonight, as it was yesterday. He looked away, concentrating. It was cool out on the water, but he was sweating. His stomach twisted and clenched, but it was not from seasickness. Even the weakest stomach would survive a boat trip tonight, the sea being so calm. However, he’d spent most of his summers on boats of one size or another. Winters, too, between lectures. Shouting instructions, winning races. He had never been afraid of water. Yet, tonight, it seemed possessed by a darkness from which nothing that entered could escape.

  The tip of the headland revealed another half-moon-shaped bay beyond. This one was different to the one he’d just left. This beach was illuminated; three restaurants elbowed next to each other. He knew each one, and had eaten at all of them, though Stiggies was their favourite. The food at Nemesis was better, the waitresses prettier, too, but someone, no one could remember who, had picked Stiggies as the place the chosen crowd went to. Where the loudest voices fought to out brag each other. He preferred to listen, to learn who people were, what they knew, and gauge who they might become.

  He wasn’t close enough to see people - his people perhaps - but he could hear the faintest hint of music, so faint he wondered if the music was only in his head, and if, maybe, this whole thing was a hallucination. A nightmare. He jumped. Another boat appeared around the next headland, heading straight for him. His breath caught in his throat. Then, the boat turned for the bay and the embrace of the restaurants. He recognised the flat-sided shape, and the canopy protecting the occupants. It was the Taxi boat, ferrying diners for food and wine, and taking them home again, once they could eat and drink no more. The boat was empty, apart from the crew. This must be the last lift home. Later than usual. Specially paid for, not part of the usual schedule. He could see the faces of the crew shining in the lights adorning the sides of the vessel. He doubted they had noticed him. Not that it mattered, he told himself. People stole up and down this coastline in boats, big and small, visiting friends, looking for seclusion, searching for fish, transporting people, and goods. He was doing his own transporting tonight, but no one would think twice about one more boat.

  He passed another couple of golden-edged bays, before rounding a sharkfin-shaped outcrop, and heading towards the shore. This was a tiny bay, cloaked in complete darkness. No villas dotted the mountainside, no restaurants. The land too steep, road access impossible. The beach here was small, hidden behind a swarm of sharp rocks. Nothing bigger than a small dinghy or rowing boat could land here, but he wasn’t heading for the beach.

  He dropped the engine to an idle, and steered left, seemingly heading into the rock face itself, but at the last moment, an opening revealed itself. A sea cave. The entrance was just big enough to manoeuvre the boat inside. Here, without the moon to help, he had to turn on the boat’s spot light. The light ricocheted off the fractured walls, but the water grew even blacker. It was deep in here, he knew that, but tonight, it seemed bottomless. Whatever entered the water here would sink forever. He felt calmer now he’d arrived. He killed the engine. It was now simply a job that needed doing. His job to sort things. Tidy messes, find solutions, and clear paths. He did it gladly. When you loved someone, you did those things for them.

  He wasn’t a tall man, and though he was strong, it was still an effort lifting the package. The black plastic - a tarpaulin found in the old olive press building - was slippery, his hands struggling to grip. The fishing weights he’d added doubled the required effort, but were a necessary evil. He used his legs and thighs to lever against the side of the boat, and force the package upwards. The boat pitched and rolled, but his sense of balance was good. The package. He could only think of it in those terms. A package to be tidied away. With a final heave, he was there, the package resting on the edge of the hull. Five foot four long, about 8 stone, if you didn’t include the weights. The path to their ruin. This dark pit the route of their escape.

  The last push was easy. Less of a push. More of a release. He let go, and the package dropped into the water. There was a hollow - comforting? – thwack, and the boat bucked with the swell. The sea spat at him, dousing his face in its blackness. Ignoring it, he leaned over the side of the boat to watch the package sink into the ocean and disappear. He tasted the salt, as it trickled down his face. It was done. The last bad thing he would ever do.

  CHAPTER ONE

  2016

  Inspector Beckett Kyriakoulis tilted his head back, eyes half shut under his sunglasses, and stretched his legs out in front of him. He let the conversation of his friends evaporate around him, whilst the warm, soft breath of the sun bathed his face, and the sea whispered back and forth against the shingle. It had been the first really hot day of the year, and even at 3p
m, it was still glorious. May could be a fickle month on the Greek Island of Farou. Days teasing of summer, neighbour to days which shut out the sun and hurled rain at the disappointed souls who’d plumped for an early holiday.

  Being early in the season and not yet overrun with tourists had given Rocco the time to leave his kitchen at the Sunrise Bar and Grill, and argue with the many friends who had dropped in for coffee. The other voice belonged to Welsh Nik. Tenth generation local, he was also taking advantage. He ran the boat yard across the road, hiring out boats - big and small - to tourists, who fancied themselves as Captain Jacks or Ben Ainsleys.

  On the table next to Beckett’s now empty plate - everywhere he went on the Island people would make him meals, as if he was a waif and stray needing feeding up, little wonder at his expanding waistline - was his police radio, cackling away like it had been possessed by a witch’s coven, and his radar gun. He had more use for it in the summer for stopping tourists, scaring them with tales of cars careering down mountainsides, not being missed for weeks; telling them to count the shrines at the sides of all the Island’s roads. Each one marked a fatality. He rarely, in fact had never, given out a speeding ticket. It wasn’t that the locals drove more carefully, quite the opposite, but Beckett had learned to pick his fights, and if locals wanted to end their lives in a metal coffin, that was their choice. His two days a week on speeding duty almost always ended up in one of his favourite restaurants drinking coffee, eating, of course, and listening to his friends argue about football, politics, the price of fish, and their recalcitrant women folk. He rarely joined in. Being an old British stronghold, the locals spoke English when being polite, and to tourists, and Greek at all other times. Greek wasn’t Beckett’s first language, and though he was fluent, when things got heated, and words were shuttlecocked back and forth, it was easier to listen.

  The police radio shrilled him into attention, shouting his name.

  “Wakey, wakey, Beckett. Mommy is calling.” Rocco teased, but Beckett was already on his feet.

  “Yep.” He turned away from the others.

  “Can you get to the Hotel Golden Sands in Nikisiopi?” At the other end of the radio, Police Constable Floros’ voice was tentative. Ordering one of the bosses around did not come easily to her. She was only a year out of the Academy. She made Beckett feel like an old man. One of a multitude of things.

  “Sure, what’s up?” He moved further away from the table. It was a small Island. People loved to gossip.

  “Missing person reported. Female tourist. British. Not been seen for a couple of days. Her friends are worried.”

  Beckett was in one of the Hyundai patrol cars, rather than his own car. Much better for slowing down speeding cars, but not great for actual driving. Even with the seat shunted right back, it was still a squeeze. Locals tended to be on the shorter side, and his larger frame was not built for small cars. He headed up into the hills, shifting his position, trying to get comfortable. His legs were too long, and his head claustrophobically close to the roof. It was also a manual, and before he’d even negotiated the first set of hairpin bends on a 25% gradient, his left knee was grumbling.

  He passed the turn off for his own village, cursing himself for not returning to the station in town and collecting his own car before making the journey. It was the big night tonight, the Festival of the Flowers. He’d promised his cousins he’d help set things up in the village square. Tables, seating, lights, and lanterns. One of his cousins, Thakis, would be battling the sound system, as he did every year. There can be no festival without music. ‘What will people say?’ Thakis would wail. ‘They will curse me into the ground, and my olives will shrivel on the branches.’

  The Golden Sands Hotel occupied a prime position two streets back from the end of the beach, but the salmon pink render was blemished, like that of a small pox survivor, and the sign in the front garden area was missing the ‘n’ from Sands. Like many hotels, it was suffering after a couple of lean seasons. There was so much competition for cheap holidays, even the more exotic destinations had plummeted in price. It was a struggle to attract holidaymakers, and with the Greek economy in a cesspit, there was no money for repairs or renovations. The manager, Fran Kingston, would not appreciate a patrol car parked outside, so Beckett drove another fifty yards up the road and parked outside a half-finished apartment block, the intentions of a top storey hinted at by the twisted steel poles which poked up from the top of the concrete shell. Nature was swarming back in, grass three-foot-high, bushes erupting from what should have been the reception area, and an elephant-sized grave, half filled with dank water, which would have been the pool. The locals were up-beat, despite how bleak things seemed. It must be a Mediterranean thing. His British genes always seemed to dominate, and he saw only the decay, not the pending opportunities. Next year. Next year.

  He disentangled himself from the tin box, but it took most of the walk back to the hotel before his limp disappeared. It never went completely; some days were worse than others. His friends joked he needed a bionic knee. He might consider doing just that, one day.

  Fran greeted him, as he walked into reception. She was behind the desk, mobile phone clamped to her ear. She reminded him of a Rottweiler; a mostly friendly one, but the kids who populated her hotel tended to behave. She ended the conversation as soon as she saw him, and came to kiss him on both cheeks, like a true Mediterranean. Her accent was pure Brummie.

  “Inspector. It’s been ages. You look…” She hesitated. “You look well.”

  He shrugged, wishing he’d trimmed his beard that morning. His face felt unkempt to his hand. Grey mixed with honey. More grey now. “How’s business?”

  “Better than bad. Not as great as good. We’ll get there. I’m glad you’re still here. Everyone is.”

  “You didn’t think I’d last more than one summer?”

  “We were surprised you came back in the first place after what happened here ten years ago…” Her voice trailed off as she saw his expression darken. She forced an extra bright smile, “You’ll always be a hero to us but for you… finding Chrystos doing what he did when you captured him. No one would have blamed you for never wanting to come back here.”

  It had been a while since he’d heard the name Chrystos Spiros spoken out loud. The man – the serial rapist - he’d been sent to the Island to catch when the local police had struggled. He hated the reminder.

  “He was just another case.” Beckett brushed it off, “And an anomaly for Farou. I’m getting old. London was getting too loud and too crowded. I was more than happy to come back and don’t intend to go anywhere else now I’m here. A quiet life is what I’m after.”

  “You’ve done your ‘adrenaline pumping, outwitting the bad guys’ bit? For which we are all grateful, of course.”

  “Ancient history. Now, the missing girl?” He pushed the memories of Chrystos out of his head, trying not to feel resentment at Fran for mentioning him.

  “Emmie Archer. Come on. We’ll go to her room. The friend who reported her missing is in there.” Fran led the way down the corridor away from reception, numbered doors on either side.

  “You don’t sound worried.”

  “Her passport and valuables are still in the safe. She’s due to get married in a couple of days. Sounds like a case of cold feet and holiday romance to me. The friend who rang you guys is… erm… a sweet girl, but has never been abroad before. Bit naïve about the ways of boys and girls on holiday. I think this whole week has come as a bit of a shock. As worldly wise as a newborn kitten. Not like her mates. I think she’s just tagged along. Can’t imagine her having much in common with Emmie, or the rest, back at home. They’ve been out partying hard, as you would expect for a week long hen do. Little Bee’s hung around the hotel for most of the week, like a spare part at a Formula One garage.”

  “Little Bee?”

  “That’s what they all call her. I think she’s a workmate of Emmie’s.”

  They climbed a flight of stairs,
and passed more rooms until they reached number 22.

  “You think this Little Bee is panicking over nothing?”

  “See what you think.” Fran rapped on the door and stepped straight in.

  Clothes were strewn on the floor and hanging off the wardrobe door, both bed side lamps were listing drunkenly and empty wine bottles were lined up on the dressing table. There was even an unravelled toilet roll snaking out of the bathroom and out onto the small balcony. The room could be read two ways. Either there had been a violent argument or it was a room like a thousand other rooms belonging to wild teenagers-on-holiday in the summer season. Chaotic. Messy. Disgusting even. But, all of this was indicative of nothing more than too much alcohol, and having a thousand or so miles between the occupant and their loving parents. Beckett had seen more than a few, usually when the alleged crime was one of petty theft, but occasionally, something more serious, like sexual assault. No victim here though. Not like last time. He shook away the memory to concentrate on the room in front of him.

  Crime scene, or just a crime against tidiness?

  “When did you last see Emmie?” He looked at Little Bee. The name was apt. She was tiny. A decent gust of wind would pick her up with ease. She looked barely old enough to be a teenager, face free from makeup, eyes wide, mouth quivering at the corners. She’d refused to sit on the bed, preferring to shift her weight from foot to foot.

  “The day before yesterday. In the afternoon. We were on the beach. She said she’d had enough of the sun, and was going for a wander into town.”

  “Nothing after that? No phone calls, no texts?”

  The girl twitched her head, tears not far from the surface, “It's just not like her, you see. She never doesn't answer her phone. Or at least text back."

  "Don't be a drama queen, Bee. She'll be with that waiter from the Budapest Club. Gorgeous Georgiou. The tall one. They've been flirting with each other all week. She's all in love. Forgotten about us. Her mates. Just like last time." A second girl, maybe a couple of years older, with short cropped, blood red hair and two nose piercings, came into the room, kicking a purple sandal out of the way.