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

  There was no evidence Chrystos had intended to use the traps to kill people; they had been for catching food. When Beckett had found the camp, Panos was alive, but he was certainly, in Chrystos’ head, classed as food. Beckett had witnessed things in his military career, in Bosnia and Iraq, which could give birth to nightmares, things which twisted and warped the mind until it snapped, but the image of Chrystos chewing human flesh, blood dribbling down his chin, eyes wide with innocence, the women’s jewellery hanging around his wrists and neck, had never ever left him.

  Every other piece of jewellery had been returned to the victims, who, though mentally and physically scarred for life, managed in one way or another to resume their lives. All had been brutally raped by Chrystos, but always released when he’d finished. A week or so later, he would select another victim. Rosie, however, was different. She’d disappeared one day, and that was that. The fact Chrystos was wearing her bracelet was enough for everyone to conclude he had committed the crime. Though a body was never found, everyone was convinced he’d murdered her, and hidden her body somewhere on the Island. Enough for everyone, except Beckett. Chrystos was sent to a secure mental institution on the mainland, and the case closed.

  But, now, an identical bracelet had been found. He was certain Patrick and DNA tests would confirm it had belonged to Danni. His stomach stung with sickness. Of course, when Emmie went missing, when he had the call about the dead girl on the beach, he’d thought of Rosie, but he’d pushed those thoughts away. It was impossible to do that now. He’d never believed Chrystos had killed Rosie.

  As he let himself into the house, Beckett could hear voices drifting in from the terrace. The soft burr with the rounded vowels of Harper, and the flat Greek, mixed with London tones of…

  “When the hell did you get here?” Beckett stared at his dad, who was holding court at the large outdoor dining table. Harper sat opposite. Faulkner had somehow managed to conjure up a luscious fruit salad breakfast, with croissants and Danish pastries. He had always been able to magic things into existence. On his ninth birthday, Beckett had longed for a bicycle, but his mother had refused to buy him one. He hadn’t seen or spoken to his father for months, but Beckett had woken up on the morning of his birthday to find a bicycle, tied up in ribbons, leaning against their front fence—the exact model he’d wished for, but never told anyone. How had his dad known which one to buy?

  Faulkner leapt up, and grabbed Beckett in a bear hug.

  “Flew in a couple of hours ago. I could have given your lad here a lift, if I’d known. Saved him the Queasyjet experience.”

  “I didn’t know you were due over.” Beckett backed out of Faulkner’s reach. He had to admit, he still looked great for his seventy years. The effect of years of partying and touring had been shed with a few years of a more relaxing lifestyle. The familiar irritation Beckett always felt when near his dad started to niggle around the edges. He circled his shoulders, as if to rid them of tension.

  “I wasn’t planning on it. I just thought you might need some moral support.” Faulkner dropped his voice so Harper couldn’t hear.

  “Moral support. Why?”

  “You know… with the case.”

  “You think you being here will help me do my job better?”

  “Well… I… a friendly face, and all that.”

  “Which faces out here aren’t friendly?”

  “The longer it takes… if things don’t go… I just want to help.”

  Faulkner’s eyes were shining, animated with concern, his mouth open, desperate to conjure up some more convincing words, and his arms almost twitching with the need to grab Beckett in another comfort hug. Beckett looked past him, to where Harper was sitting, gaze fixed out to sea, pretending he wasn’t listening.

  “We’re going. You ready, Harper?”

  “Of course. Yeah.”

  Harper jumped up. Beckett turned to go.

  “Perhaps we can talk tonight, son.”

  Beckett kept walking.

  In the car, Beckett could feel the anticipation fizzing from Harper, like a shaken-up bottle of pop. It wasn’t an unfamiliar experience.

  “Go on, then,” Beckett said.

  “Go on, what?”

  “Whatever you’re desperate to spit out.”

  He could feel Harper look at him, consider his options, and then…

  “Your dad is Faulkner Lis. How did I not know that? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “Because it’s not relevant.”

  “But, it’s the sort of thing people gossip about.”

  It was impossible to work in any police force, and not be subjected, willingly or not, to endless rounds of gossip. He knew Harper wasn’t the sort of man who went down the pub with the rest of the team after a shift to share titbits. Beckett had never talked about his dad, so doubted other people did either.

  “I’m sure people have enough to say about me, without analysing my family tree.”

  That shut Harper up for a moment.

  “What was it like growing up with him? Did you get to go on tour?”

  “My parent’s split up when I was eight.”

  “You must have been the coolest kid in school.”

  Beckett shrugged. He’d never told school friends about his dad. They’d all assumed his dad was the man who picked him up every day, who’d taken him to football camp, who went to his graduation. Growing up, Beckett had tried to forget there was another man who had biological right to claim the title.

  “I asked about getting you a vehicle whilst you were here. There’s no budget, apparently, but I’ve got a pick up you can borrow. It’s a bit battered, but it works. We’ll pick it up later.”

  “Thanks.” Harper hesitated. “He says its fine for me to stay on. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure. I told you. He loves guests.” Beckett tugged on the steering wheel, as a tourist bus swept wide round a clifftop corner. Harper gripped the door handle, and sucked in his breath. Beckett almost felt sorry for him. This was a long way from his comfort zone.

  “Assuming we survive the drive, where are we heading?”

  “To see the boyfriend. While you were sleeping, I took a boat out to look for where the body was loaded from. We know she must have been transported into a boat, and taken out to the beach where she was found.”

  “I take it you found it?”

  “Not just that. Someone was leaving flowers. They disappeared when they saw me. We’re trying to trace the car, and the flowers. And they left this.”

  Beckett passed him the bracelet, cocooned in an evidence bag.

  “Definitely Danni’s?”

  “That’s what we’re going to check now. I had a car outside the flat where Patrick Gruenanger stayed last night. He didn’t leave there all night, or this morning.”

  “But, you think he might have snuck out somehow?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “He’s still the most promising suspect.”

  “There’s something else.”

  Harper was studying the bracelet, turning it over in his hands.

  “I’ve seen a bracelet identical to this one before. Rosie Payne had one.”

  He had Harper’s full attention.

  “Identical? How can you be sure? That was years ago.”

  “I’m sure, because I found it.”

  “It’s just a coincidence. That case is closed. It’s of no relevance to this.”

  “You think?”

  “You don’t?”

  “The bracelet is not the only similarity. Danni had a tattoo.”

  “I’ve seen the PM photos.”

  “Rosie did, too. Grapes wrapped around a staff. Same as Danni.”

  “Rosie’s body was never found. How can you know the tattoos were the same? There were no photographs from before she went missing. All you had was a description from a friend. And I’m not convinced you can say for certain the bracelets were the same either. Not after so long. It’s a distraction. White noise. We need to st
ay focussed on the evidence in front of us. You know that as well as I do.”

  Beckett said nothing. For someone who was so certain the past was of no significance, Harper had enough knowledge of the Rosie Payne case to make it clear he’d at the very least been briefed, but more likely, had read copies of the case files.

  “Any news on the missing girl?”

  “The tourist police are handing out her photo. People have obviously seen the media coverage now, too. No sightings, as yet. There’s no evidence of any connection between Danni Deacon and Emmie Archer.”

  “You think it’s a coincidence a girl goes missing, and another ends up dead?”

  “White noise, maybe?”

  Harper bit back whatever he was about to retaliate with.

  “If the two are connected, then finding out who killed Danni will lead us to Emmie.”

  “If it is the same person, Emmie Archer is likely dead by now anyway.”

  “Are you always this positive?”

  “Realistic. Patrick Gruenanger’s alibi?”

  “Sergeant Tomas is checking out the CCTV at the port, to see if Mr. Gruenanger shows up arriving back in Farou early Monday morning, as he said. We’ve got people doing the same on the mainland. No response – either phone or email – from the friend he claims he sailed with last week. Forensics are down at the beach where we think the body was launched from. Tyres marks should be traceable to a make and model, and they’ll do a fingertip search for anything else. And we should get the DNA results later today to confirm who Danni slept with before she died. We’re also analysing her laptop to see if that can give us anything, as well as the forensics from the apartment.”

  Harper nodded.

  “If you think I’ve left anything out…”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you, if that happens.”

  “You leapt at this opportunity?”

  “I’m sorry if my presence makes things awkward for you.”

  “Some advice?” Beckett glanced at him, that blank face, the guarded expression. There was a slight shrug of the right shoulder. “Don’t ever apologise, unless you mean it. And never take a case because you think it will bring you glory. Those are the cases that’ll sucker you in, chew you up, and spit you out.”

  “You got your glory. You caught Chrystos Spiros. You’re still the local hero.”

  As if to prove the point, a faded Land Rover passed them, its side panels crimped and bent, headlights blinking, and the driver waving. Local hero, thought Beckett. How much longer?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Nikisiopi was emerging into consciousness, as Little Bee left the hotel. No one else in the hen party had surfaced. Even the news about the body on the beach, and Bee’s assertion Emmie wasn’t with Georgiou, hadn’t much shaken their faith Emmie was simply warming her cold feet with another man. The wedding was due to happen the following day, and that evening was to have been the last big night out for the girls. They’d booked a table at their favourite restaurant, Stardust, and Jos was 100% convinced Emmie would make a dramatic entrance. 150%, Jos had expanded. Bee pointed out it wasn’t possible to be more than 100% sure of anything. Jos had waved her away. Emmie loved to be centre of attention… a 150% of the time. Bee had gone back to her room, and slammed her door.

  She hadn’t been able to get hold of Kandace, despite leaving several messages. She guessed if there was any news, she would have called her back. She didn’t dare phone the Inspector. He’d be furious she had talked to the press. He’d probably arrest her, or worse, get her extradited back to London. She couldn’t stay hidden in her hotel. She needed to be doing something, and if the only thing left was to walk the streets of Nikisiopi, with a photo of Emmie, and ask each and every person if they’d seen her, then that’s what she’d do.

  Bee turned right out of the hotel, then left onto one of the bar-lined main streets, and straight into the path of Warren. Her mouth dropped open, and her stomach clenched with fear. His mouth was drawn into a snarl, his eyes wild. He looked like a bull, ready to snort and charge at her. Behind him were three of his mates, their faces all etched with the same animal aggression. Bee felt like an ant, caught in the middle of the street.

  “Where is she?” Warren roared at her.

  “I don’t know. That’s why I reported her missing.” Her voice sounded tiny in her head, like someone had stolen the volume switch.

  “The first thing you should have done, the very first thing, you stupid little cow, is to tell me. She is my fiancée. I had a right to know.” He was right in her face now. He was over six foot, and when she looked up, all she could see was his nostrils flaring like a bull.

  “We didn’t want to worry you. Jos thought that…” She realised what she was about to say.

  “Jos thought what?”

  Bee backed away a couple of steps, but Warren grabbed her shoulder. His fingers dug in like claws, grating against the bone.

  “Jos thought what? That she was slagging about? Emmie isn’t like you lot… not that anyone would want to stick anything in you…”

  “Do we have a problem here?”

  Bee hadn’t heard the car drive up, of course, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see Mitchell Troy.

  Warren pushed Bee out of the way.

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend. You should be thanking her. She’s the only person who’s been doing anything to find Emmie.”

  “Friend? Shagging her, are you? Paedophile. You’re a fucking pensioner. Disgusting.”

  “You’re the one who’s disgusting. Just leave us alone.” Bee pushed at Warren, flushing with embarrassment. He brushed her away.

  “I think you should leave.” Mitchell stood between Warren and Bee. Bee could see the muscles either side of Warren’s jaws twitching.

  “Please, just go,” Bee pleaded.

  “Tell me where Emmie is,” Warren roared at her, sidestepping Mitchell. Bee could see the veins in Warren’s neck, and the spittle spraying from his twisted mouth.

  Mitchell put a hand on Warren’s chest. Bee felt herself go cold, as Warren grabbed Mitchell and hurled him into the kerb. Mitchell hit the ground so hard Bee heard all the air whistle out of his lungs. Warren turned back to Bee.

  “Now. You and me are going to have a discussion.”

  Bee could see Mitchell crawl to his feet. She wanted to scream at him to stay down. This was her problem. She didn’t want him to get hurt, and saving someone once was enough. But, the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. She felt tears on her cheeks, and sobs building in her throat.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mitchell yelled at Warren. Warren swivelled. A car pulled up behind Bee, though she barely registered it.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, old man?” Warren raised his fist.

  Bee wasn’t sure what happened. It was a blur. Suddenly Warren was on his knees, his outstretched arm twisted at an impossible angle behind his back, screaming for mercy. A tall hulk of a man standing over him, gripping the arm. Inspector Kyriakoulis.

  “Are you okay, love?” a gentle British voice was asking her. Through her tears, she saw a pair of brown eyes under a floppy fringe. “Come and sit down.” She let the man lead her to the pavement, where a seat miraculously appeared. She realised she was outside a bar. Mitchell sat down next to her.

  “Are you okay?” He smiled, brushing the dirt from his shirt.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologise to me. The guy is a thug. I take it that’s Emmie’s fiancé?”

  Bee nodded. A patrol car had arrived, and two uniformed officers were prising a now handcuffed Warren into the back seat.

  “Beatrice?”

  She blinked into the sunlight, holding a hand over her eyes. Inspector Kyriakoulis was smiling at her, worry clouding his eyes. Next to him, there was a shorter man, the one with the soft brown eyes and floppy fringe, and a face which made her stomach flip over.

  Kyriakoulis crouched down, so he
was at eye level.

  “Are you okay? Do you need to see a doctor?”

  “He didn’t touch me,” she managed to whisper. “But, he hurt Mitchell.”

  Kyriakoulis’ eyes flicked to Mitchell. She saw his expression change. His jaw clench.

  “Only my pride is bruised.” Mitchell winked at her, and smiled at Kyriakoulis. There was something in his smile she didn’t recognise. She felt like she was in the middle of a conversation she didn’t understand. “Good to see you, Beckett, even if the circumstances are less than agreeable.”

  “Mitchell. Why are you involved in this?”

  “Right place, right time? Or wrong place, right time? Did you get my voicemail yesterday?”

  Beckett stood up, face turning back into shadows. “You’ll both need to come to the station to make statements.”

  “I don’t want Warren to get in trouble. He’s upset, because I didn’t tell him about Emmie. It’s not really his fault.” Bee’s voice trembled.

  “Seems he learned about it from the internet. Not the best way to learn your fiancée is missing,” Mitchell said, shrugging.

  “We’ll still need those statements,” Kyriakoulis replied stiffly. “You’re sure you’re not hurt, Beatrice?”

  “Positive.”

  “I’ll look after her, Inspector. I’m sure you’ve got more than enough on your plate. Is this the cavalry?” Mitchell held out his hand to the brown eyes with the floppy fringe.

  “Detective Inspector Harper, Metropolitan Police.”

  “Mitchell Troy. Let’s hope you catch the bastard who killed that poor girl and find Bee’s friend, before anyone else gets hurt.”