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

  “Are you certain?” Beckett shunted the orange juice and meats out of the way, and put a photo of Danni – a happy, smiling Danni – on the table, “All of you? This is one of the last places she’ll have been seen.”

  “One of the last places, but not the last place?” Mitchell looked at Beckett. All the relaxed friendliness had evaporated from his eyes. The eyes were now shark-like, wary, guarded.

  “She worked her shift at Taverna Nemesis on Wednesday, but wasn’t seen after that.”

  Mitchell nodded, and picked up the photo. He studied it for a few moments, and narrowed his eyes.

  “No, sorry. If she was working here, I must have seen her, but I don’t recognise her.”

  “You don’t eat in Taverna Nemesis? You would have seen her in there.”

  “If I eat out down there, I go to Stiggies.”

  “I thought Michale was the best chef on the Island?”

  “He is… but I prefer the atmosphere in Stiggies.” Mitchell passed the photo to Callum. “Did you see her Tuesday night, or were you too pissed to see the end of your own nose?”

  Callum flushed, but took the photo. He glanced, and passed it to his sister.

  “I don’t remember her. Maybe. I think I’ve seen her in Nemesis.”

  “Ever talk to her?”

  “Only to order steak, medium to charcoal,” Lily mocked her brother, “Yeah, I remember her from Tuesday night. I’m sure I saw you flirting with her, Cal.”

  “I was not,” he spluttered, cheeks red hot.

  “Don’t mess around, Lil, this is serious. I doubt Cal was flirting with anyone. He wouldn’t know where to start.” Mitchell shot her a warning look. She rolled her eyes.

  “I do remember her, because she spilt red wine on my dress, silly cow. I had to get changed. Wasn’t really her fault, I suppose. Some dirty old mate of Dad’s ‘accidentally on purpose’ brushed past her, and his hand accidentally groped her bum.”

  “Can you give me his name?” Beckett asked.

  “Yeah, who the hell was it, Lil? You better not be making this up,” Mitchell growled.

  “What’s his name? Erm… he’s the, erm… what do you call him? The Consul guy.”

  “The British Vice Consul?” Harper glanced at Beckett. “Neil Ticknall?”

  “He was here. With his wife. They brought their daughter.”

  “She’s, like, twelve. God knows why we invited her.”

  “She’s sixteen, and she’s a nice kid. Neil is a good guy. If he did knock into poor Danni, it would have been an accident.” Mitchell’s voice was constricted with fury.

  Lily dropped her shoulders, suddenly looking like a little girl. “It probably was an accident. I bet it was her boyfriend that did her.”

  “Did you know her boyfriend?”

  “No. Why would I? I just assumed she had one.”

  “Callum? When you were at Nemesis, did you ever see Danni with anyone?”

  “I don’t even remember seeing her, not really.”

  “Her and Michale were pretty friendly. I reckon they were banging each other. He’s kind of sexy in a weird way,” Lily piped in.

  “As you can see, my daughter is not necessarily the best person to rely on in your investigation.”

  “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll leave you to the rest of your day.” Beckett pushed himself to his feet. “Oh, we’ll need a list of everyone who was here that night.”

  “We haven’t done my statement about the incident this morning.” Mitchell also got to his feet.

  “You can do it at the station, when you drop that list in.” Beckett headed back the way they’d came. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  “You’ve forgotten your photo.” Callum took a few steps after him, holding out the photo of Danni.

  “Keep it. It might jog your memories.”

  “What d’you make of them, then?” Beckett asked, as he drove the car back through the vineyards.

  Harper wasn’t sure what he thought. This was a world totally alien to him. The mega rich, with their massive homes and lives, which spanned several countries. Most of the people he dealt with back in London had been born into shitty lives, which only continued downwards as they got older. There was violence, jealousy, drugs, anger, and hopelessness. Bad parenting, or often non-existent parenting, was the common thread. Perhaps here, too?

  “The kids are both spoilt. Over privileged, and under challenged. Typical private school educated.”

  “You don’t approve of private education?”

  “Why should the amount of money your family has determine the quality of your education?”

  “It’s a very British thing,” was all Beckett said.

  “Mitchell hasn’t got much time for the son. Thinks he’s a waste of space, from what I could see. Dotes on the daughter, though. I suppose it’s always going to be a weird dynamic, with a mother who killed herself.” He glanced at Beckett. “Even if that’s not how you believe it went down, the kids must do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, if they thought their Daddy had killed their mother, they wouldn’t be living in his house, letting him throw them birthday parties.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You haven’t forgiven your dad for splitting up with your mother. If you thought he’d killed her…”

  Beckett revved the engine, as they waited for the gate to open. “I’d have killed him. But, we all react in different ways.”

  As they passed through the gateway, Beckett’s phone rang. “Kyriakoulis.”

  “It’s Tomas. Where are you?” He sounded excited.

  “Heading back to the station, why? You got news?”

  Harper could hear the hint of desperation in his voice.

  “I couldn’t find any trace of Patrick Gruenanger on the CCTV, and neither could the guys in Patras. No response from his yachting friend, either. The Serbian Police have got back to us. He was convicted of physically assaulting his then-girlfriend, when he was seventeen. The Brazilian police, also. He was deported, rather than charged, but again, it was after assaulting a girl, we assume Danni, as that is where they met, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s right. They can’t confirm the name of the girl, though?”

  “No, but I don’t think it matters.” The line went quiet, as Tomas opted to build the suspense. “We have an eyewitness who saw Patrick, they think maybe with a woman – not Danni - in Farou town on Wednesday morning. A day after he said he’d left on his friend’s yacht. I think we’ve got him. The Chief wants him arrested. Do you want me to go?”

  “He is still at his friend’s apartment?”

  “As far as we know.”

  “Meet us there. We’ll be about forty minutes.” Beckett rang off, and glanced at Harper, “You don’t get travel sick, do you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Good.” Beckett floored the accelerator, and Harper was pressed back in his seat.

  “It was Patrick doing the cheating.” Harper tried to ignore the skull crushing trunks of the olive trees, as they sped past.

  “Or, perhaps, they both were. We haven’t had the results of the DNA test yet on the semen.” Beckett didn’t take his focus off the road in front.

  “If Danni was cheating, and Patrick found out, that’s motive.”

  “But, if he was also cheating?”

  “Wouldn’t stop his ego being hurt. He’s got a history of violent behaviour towards women.”

  “It’s possible.”

  Harper felt like banging his head against the dashboard, but he didn’t want to distract Beckett. The Evoque whistled around a tight bend, and accelerated down a hill.

  “You have to admit, he’s ticking all the boxes.”

  “We have no forensic evidence. We don’t know where Danni was killed. Why dump her body on that beach, rather than out at sea, where she wouldn’t be found?”

  “Maybe he was full of remorse. Maybe he wanted her body to be found, so he could grieve for her. Maybe that beach was s
pecial to them, in some way.”

  Beckett’s face broke into a wide grin. “I like those ideas.”

  “But?”

  “No ‘but.’ I think you are correct.”

  “I wish you’d make your bloody mind up.”

  “It still doesn’t make Patrick the killer.”

  “Luckily, we get the chance to ask him.”

  “I think you should interview him. I’ve spoken with him already. I think a new face would unsettle him.”

  “Okay. Yes. Good idea.” Harper tried to keep the surprise from his voice.

  “Patrick likes to be in control. He has a short temper. If you want to get a confession, then push those buttons.”

  “Cheers. After a few hundred interviews, I’m still really unclear about what to do.” Harper let the sarcasm leech into his voice.

  “Sorry. Just trying to be helpful.”

  They fell into uncompanionable silence. Harper watched the world flash by outside the car. The endless olive groves, the clusters of multi-colour houses, the tavernas, the tourist buses, donkeys in fields and rusting tractors momentarily impeded their journey, before Beckett overtook them in suicide-like manoeuvres. He missed the crisscross of London streets, the red buses, the rain, the sense you were surrounded by millions of people. He had to get this confession, and he needed to work out how.

  Harper ran through different scenarios in his head. Begin friendly or start hostile. Go in, and belittle him, wind him up, get him to lose his cool, or probe gently, hoping to catch him out. He found himself wondering what approach Beckett would take, and what methods he might have used to extract information when he was running around Bosnia and Iraq. Follow the evidence, was what he’d been taught. Let the suspect think you were trying to help them. Present them the facts, and let them explain the variances. Actual confessions were rare. They needed some forensics.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There was no sign of Patrick in his friend’s apartment. The officer parked outside hadn’t seen him leave but did admit, to his shoes and the pavement, he might have fallen asleep after lunch.

  The friend, an Italian called Cellesto, shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know where he is.” But, he shifted his weight, and wouldn’t look either Beckett or Harper in the eye.

  “I think you’re lying.” Harper nodded at him, keeping his tone light. “I can understand why. He’s your friend. You feel a sense of loyalty. But, he is a suspect in a murder. Did you know Danni Deacon?”

  “He wouldn’t have hurt her,” Cellesto whined.

  “If he’s innocent, then what’s the issue in telling us where he is? If he’s guilty, then why would you not want him brought to justice?” Harper glanced at Beckett, but he didn’t even appear to be listening.

  “I’ve told you, I don’t know where he is.” Cellesto turned to Beckett. “I haven’t seen him. I don’t know where he is.”

  “Obstructing an investigation is a criminal offence, as is aiding and abetting. I’m sure we can come up with some more.” Harper looked at Beckett. “I think we should arrest him. He might be more helpful down at the station.”

  “You can’t arrest me. I start work in half an hour. If I’m late again, my boss will fire me.”

  “DI Harper seems keen on arresting everyone today,” Beckett finally spoke.

  “Not me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “You’re lying to police officers.” Harper took a step towards him. Cellesto backed up.

  “Children, please. I’m sure we can come to an equitable arrangement,” Beckett said and coughed.

  Harper looked around, as Beckett picked up a magazine spread-eagled on the kitchen table. Underneath was a bag of cannabis, and some ready rolled spliffs. How the hell had Beckett known they were there? Harper turned back to Cellesto, whose eyebrows had disappeared under his fringe.

  “I don’t know how that got there,” he squawked.

  “You don’t know much today, do you?” Beckett said. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a choice. Either you don’t know where the cannabis came from, or you don’t know where Patrick has gone.”

  Cellesto’s mouth opened and shut, like a goldfish.

  “You know how long you’d get inside for even this much cannabis? Come on. Be sensible.”

  “I tell you about Patrick, and you forget the drugs?”

  “What drugs?” Beckett dropped the magazine back onto the table, so the drugs were hidden once more.

  “Okay, okay. Patrick left here about an hour ago. He was going back to his place.”

  “To do what?” Harper asked, a sense of dread spreading from his stomach outwards.

  “I think he was going to get some of his things from his place, and do a runner.”

  Beckett was already five paces towards the door.

  Harper growled at Cellesto. “Do not move from this flat. Do not try to warn him.”

  Beckett bounded down the concrete steps outside the block. Harper had to take two steps in one stride to catch up.

  “What about the drugs?”

  “You really want to arrest everyone?” Beckett answered, whilst jumping into the car.

  Harper threw himself in, as Beckett gunned the engine. He only just managed to shut the car door, before they flew through the gateway, and bounced onto the street. Harper scrabbled for his seat belt, as Beckett handbraked around a corner. Sod it, decided Harper. Beckett never did his belt up, and in less than a minute, they thundered into the grounds of the apartment block.

  Patrick was there, stuffing a suitcase into the back of a Mazda. Red, Harper thought. Bingo. Beckett jammed on the brakes, and Harper had to brace himself against the dashboard. This was why you wore seatbelts. Beckett was out of the car, and striding towards Patrick, as Tomas in a patrol car came screaming around the corner, sirens blaring and lights exploding.

  Patrick froze, suitcase half in the boot.

  “Going on your holidays, Patrick?” Beckett quipped.

  Harper couldn’t keep the grin from his face.

  It was back to reality at the station. They had arrested their suspect, but Beckett had reiterated he wanted Harper to do the interview. Harper did not feel any less pressured when he found himself in the incident room. In fact, the station as a whole was underwhelming. It was housed in a 19th Century pillar-fronted, grey building off one of the town’s frantic main streets. It reminded him of a mausoleum. There didn’t seem to be any sign or plaque at the front indicating its true purpose. Reception was cavernous, lines of empty benches and a cubby hole encased in glass, where a police woman was sitting reading the Greek version of OK magazine.

  The incident room itself was a good size, plenty of desks, but most with an inch of dust on top. What he assumed was Beckett’s office – a stud wall and glass-windowed square in the corner—looked like many senior detectives’ offices he’d ever seen. Cluttered, chaotic, with a tinge of nicotine coating everything. The incident room was not what he was used to. There was no buzz of activity, apart from the officer he assumed to be Tomas, who was dancing from foot-to-foot, waiting for his boss to finish reading through the notes left on his desk. There were no white boards tracking the stages of the investigation, target sheets, or in-trays full of to-do actions. Harper wondered if Beckett worked entirely inside his own head.

  “The car actually belongs to Danni. At least, it’s registered in her name. As well as the RAV-4, that’s still missing,” Tomas was telling Beckett. “Is it the one you saw at the beach, do you think?”

  “Possibly. I only heard it, and caught the colour between the trees. Forensics are onto it?”

  “Yes, though, with it being Danni’s car, it will be full of her DNA anyway.”

  “Have we had the make and model back on the tyre treads found at the beach yet?”

  “Nope, they’re still working on them, but the lab results are back from the semen found in Danni…” Tomas’ voice died in embarrassment. “Anyway, it’s not Patrick’s. And we don’t have a match on o
ur database.”

  “Get in touch with Europol and the Met, get them to run it through their databases,” Beckett instructed.

  “Do you think Patrick knew she was sleeping with someone else?” Tomas was almost panting with excitement. Harper figured they were about the same age, but Tomas was like an enthusiastic puppy. This investigation was the biggest thing he’d ever worked on.

  “That’s what Harper is going to find out.”

  “You’re not questioning Patrick?” Tomas’ mouth dropped open to form a perfect O shape.

  “DI Harper is itching to have a go at him. You can sit in, Tomas. It will be a good learning experience.”

  “You don’t want to be there?” Harper asked Beckett.

  “You don’t need me. I want to speak to Warren, and bring the Chief up to speed. Do me a favour, though. Patrick confirmed the bracelet was Danni’s, but ask him if he bought it for her, or if she bought it herself.”

  “You’re thinking whoever she was sleeping with might have bought it for her?”

  “Perhaps. Any joy with the laptop, Tomas?”

  “I sent you a couple of things to look at. Nothing in her emails, 99% spam. She doesn’t seem to do social media – not on that laptop. Oh… none of the florists we talked to recognised the bouquet. They all said it looked homemade. Flowers from a garden.”

  “Good work, Tomas.” Beckett nodded at Harper. “Go get him, then.”

  Harper nodded back.

  “It’s this way.” Tomas spun his back on Harper, and marched out of the room.

  Harper sensed the Sergeant was not at all pleased to be paired with him. Fine, as long as he stayed quiet. Harper had his strategy lodged in his head. Now, all Patrick had to do was play along.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Beckett squinted through the slit in the door. Warren was hulked on the plinth acting as the bed. His shoulders were slumped into his chest, like he’d been deflated. Beckett nodded at the guard, and he unlocked the door and swung it open. Warren raised his head, and, eyes widening, pushed himself back into the corner.