The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 3

  His only other memory after that moment was stumbling out of Demetri’s car, shouting a goodbye, and meandering his way to his front door, wondering why there was a cascade of water pooling over his shoes where the path had been. He was most definitely alone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The twisted trunks of the trees lean in towards him; branches reach out with twisted, moss-coated fingers to grasp at his arms. It’s dark, the light barely breaking through the shield of leaves, and hot. Sweat rolls down his back. Or is it blood? It feels so hot and sticky. There is a whisper, a murmuring. In the gloom, the forest is alive, watching, warning him. He wants to turn around. But, something draws him onwards. He tries to stay silent, as he’s been trained, but the forest belies his presence. Branches snap, birds scream.

  He reaches the edge of the clearing. He knows what he is about to see, having been here more times than he can count. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to step out from between the trees, but he cannot stop himself. He cannot shut his eyes, and he cannot turn away.

  There, in the middle of the clearing, Chrystos Spiros. His wild, raven black hair and beard, like a thousand snakes writhing around his face, his eyes staring, full of madness, and his wolf white teeth glistening, as he bites down into the face of another man. The man moans, his legs kicking, as Chrystos rips a lump of flesh from his cheek. The blood dribbles down his chin. He looks Beckett in the eye, and smiles the smile of the monstrously insane.

  Beckett snapped awake. A dagger of light stabbed at his eyelids. Where was he? The edges of the dark underworld of sleep and the sun bathed world of reality splintered against each other. The horror of the dream was fresh and vivid. He could still smell the blood. The sweat. His heart was thundering. He took a long breath in. A calming breath, counting to ten, but he only got to three, and there was a shrill noise, like an angry insect.

  The real world won. His pillow was vibrating. He pushed the dream away, back into its box. Through half cracked lids, Beckett sent a hand rummaging under his pillow until his fingers found the phone. His fingers made contact, and dragged it to his ear. His skull felt like it had been split down the middle, and his throat crackled, so he could barely speak.

  “Yes?”

  A child’s voice spoke back to him. “Inspector? It’s Police Constable Floros.” She sounded scared. This was more than nerves at waking her boss. There was a quiver to her voice. A sickness. Beckett sat up in bed. Nerves firing. Sleep banished. Dread clenching his stomach.

  “What’s happened?”

  “There’s a body. Washed up on a beach near Skalia. I’m on my way there now. Sergeant Tomas is already there.”

  “Sex?” It came out as a whisper.

  “Pardon sir?”

  “Male or female?” It was a bark this time, betraying his fear.

  “Female.”

  He hung up. “Fuck.”

  ***

  Farou was a small island, but there were many places Beckett had never been. There were hundreds of small, secluded beaches on the North East Coast for a start. For many of them, access was such that they had never been developed for commercial purposes, and never would. Many you could only reach by boat, or were privately owned. The body had been spotted washed up on the beach by a passing fisherman, who’d called it in, before continuing on his way to check his nets.

  As Beckett drove, too fast, especially considering the amount of water and debris on the roads from the storm, he dialled Little Bee’s number. She answered within one ring. The sick feeling was lodged in the pit of his stomach.

  “Hello?” Her voice was small, fearful.

  “Beatrice? It’s Inspector Kyriakoulis. We met yesterday.”

  “Yes?”

  “Has Emmie come back? Got in touch?” He knew the answer, but hoped anyway.

  “No. Nothing. You haven’t heard anything then?”

  Apart from the news the body of a woman had been washed up a few miles around the coast from their hotel? Beckett sighed. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for calling. I wasn’t sure yesterday if you were taking me seriously. The others don’t. So, thank you.”

  There had been many times in his life where Beckett had found cause to hate himself, none more so than now, and always for things he hadn’t done. Standing to one side, not acting, only reacting after the event. Leaping in, doing something, was surely better. The times he’d done that he had felt better about. Even if the consequences - his battered body, shattered knee, and termination by the Metropolitan Police - might dispute. Better to do and fail than simply fail. For the first time in a long time, he longed for a cigarette. A living breathing stick of tobacco to fill his lungs, and coat his cells in nicotine. The e-cig was a poor replacement.

  Half an hour later, Beckett was barrelling down an over-grown cart track, Grand Canyon-sized ruts sent the car pitching and groaning, like a tall ship in a force nine gale, between the grotesque, twisted trunks of the olive trees. Sergeant Tomas clung to the door handle, trying not to wince, as he was flung against the roof and the dashboard. With a thud, the Evoque’s right wing mirror was punched inwards, making Beckett jump. Another few inches, it would have been his front wing versus the tree, but he didn’t slow down. He hated the car, but it was the only one which could make an attempt at the track to the beach. The others were parked at the top, just off the road. He hadn’t needed Tomas to meet him up there to direct him, but Tomas had thought it would give chance to brief him. As it was, talking was impossible.

  Beckett stamped on the brakes, as they came around a bend. The track suddenly narrowed to a few feet. The nose of the car stopped against a barricade of tree trunks.

  “We have no choice but to walk from here.” Tomas flung himself out, grateful for solid ground.

  Beckett found it more difficult. The driving, digging, and the dancing from the day before had taken its toll. After ending the distress phone call, he’d climbed out of bed and collapsed to the floor, his knee screaming. He grabbed his crutch from the back seat.

  “Are you going to be okay, sir? It gets steep.”

  “You lead.”

  The path was narrow, channels gouged out by winter rain, slippery from last night’s storm, and loose rocks. Tomas descended like a mountain goat, using his arms to balance. Beckett used his crutch with one arm, digging it into the rubble trying to find grip, and his other arm to push himself off trees and hang onto branches. It didn’t stop him slipping and jibbing. His knee stabbed at every step. The crutch caught on up-turned roots, lost arguments with stones. His back prickled with sweat. His head throbbed, and his stomach churned, the heavy duty painkillers had yet to kick in, but threatened to make a U-turn from his stomach.

  “Can I help?” Tomas was waiting for him, eyes clouded with doubt at seeing the frailty of his boss. Tomas had only recently turned thirty. Young for a sergeant but an old head, Beckett’s new boss had assured him, with a pedant’s eye for detail and procedure, selling him the job, and the team that went with it. “This last bit is…”

  “Keep going,” Beckett growled between his teeth.

  The final ten metres was almost vertical and blocked by boulders. Tomas clambered around and down, crouching and jumping. Beyond, Beckett could see the golden crown of the beach. Cursing, he javelined his crutch forward over the rocks, and slithered down after it. Dropping onto the beach, he had to take a moment. Tomas held his crutch out to him.

  “Just beyond those rocks.” He cocked his head, and flicked an imaginary bit of sand off his shirt sleeve. His hand shook, as he did it. Beckett wondered if it was his first dead body. Probably not. There were old people aplenty on the Island, who had a tendency to die at home in their sleep, rather than the Western way, chained up to hospital machines. But, still, a body on a beach. A young girl at that. Tomas’ adrenaline was draining away, and shock was taking over.

  The beach was a delicate golden crescent, scattered with spears of rocks sticking up from the sand like dragon’s t
eeth. The two headlands leaned in towards each other, perfect twins protecting the bay, making the entrance barely wider than a channel. The sea was peacock blue, as motionless as glass. A miniature paradise.

  It would have been very different in the storm. There was evidence on the otherwise perfect beach – piles of seaweed, a tangle of driftwood. And, of course, a body. It, she, was sheltered by rocks, but the top half of Constable Floros was visible wielding the camera, firing off shots. Instinctively, Beckett checked the sand for footprints. He counted three sets going out, and one coming back.

  “Yours?” He looked at Tomas.

  “Yes. Of course. The body was washed up. No one else has been here. There were no other footprints. I was first one here.”

  Beckett nodded. He limped towards the rocks, no choice now but to rely on the crutch. Floros looked around, letting the camera strap hang loose around her neck. Her lips moved, warning of his approach. A second person stood up; Elena, Dr. Mariadas, busy in her role as Director of Pathology. Beckett’s stomach flipped over. He forced away the traces of the longing he’d felt for her only a few hours before. She flushed on seeing him, and managed a smile; enough of a smile telling him he’d not stepped out of line last night. He felt conscious of the crutch, his limp, his hungover eyes and mottled stubble. She looked as beautiful as she had at the festival.

  “Hello, Inspector.”

  “Dr. Mariadas.” He rounded the edge of the rock, took a moment, a breath, and then looked down at the body.

  She was laying on her front, face turned towards the sea, wearing a pale pink summer dress, material so light it was almost transparent. Her hair veiled her face, obscuring her features, the blonde strands crusted with gold and fragments of seaweed. He couldn’t see any blood, or bruising. It was as if she’d curled up on the sand and fallen asleep.

  He’d seen many dead bodies, too many, more than most people. He didn’t mourn for them; how could you mourn for someone you’d never met and didn’t know? But, it didn’t matter how many, or how culpable they’d been in their demise. He felt the same dark, leaden sadness. The human body, so frail, so easily snuffed out. Just another empty shell, another lump of flesh and bone to be stared at, poked, prodded, and then buried, left to rot, or burned and scattered into the wind, and finally forgotten. It was that utter loneliness in death which caught in his throat; the ache of sadness weighing down on his shoulders, so much so, he thought his feet might sink into the sand. Death was something you greeted alone, whether you ran towards it or fought to escape. In the end, it was just you and death. Inevitable, hopeless, and pointless.

  He thought about Little Bee, how worried she’d been, and how he’d fobbed her off. How he’d been more focussed on getting back for the Festival. How much he’d drunk, eaten, and laughed the night before. All that time, this poor girl was dead, or dying.

  “Can’t tell you much until I do a post mortem, but she hasn’t been dead longer than 24 hours. No obvious cause of death, though one would leap to the conclusion of drowning. There is some bruising around her neck.”

  Elena crouched down, her body language inviting Beckett to join her. He grimaced, but kept the pain silent. With a gentle hand, she lifted enough of the girl’s hair to show a dappled reddening of the pale skin under her jaw. Strangulation marks? He looked at Elena. She shrugged.

  “The sea was violent last night. Tossed around in that, it’s hardly surprising she’s bruised.”

  “Except she’s not. Apart from that.” He had to stand, and put some space between him and the girl. He felt unsettled. It crept under his skin.

  “Let’s turn her and see.” Elena motioned for Floros to help. Tomas was hanging back, and Floros went to pass him the camera. As they waited, Elena gazed at Beckett, the warm welcoming pool of those soft brown eyes, tempting him in.

  “Poor kid. She doesn’t look much more than a teenager. She doesn’t look Greek, so probably a tourist.”

  Beckett nodded. “There was a missing person reported yesterday. A girl. Most of her friends weren’t worried. I sided with them.”

  “What?” Her gaze tempered. Her body stiffened. A chasm opened up between them.

  “They thought, I thought, she was having a good time.”

  “You knew there was a girl missing yesterday, and you did nothing?” She did nothing to hide the accusation and disappointment from her eyes. She crouched back down, as Floros re-joined them.

  “Ready?”

  Floros nodded and gently, as if the body were made from the finest porcelain, they rolled her onto her back.

  Beckett’s breath caught in his throat. The girl’s hair now surrounded her head like a halo.

  “What is this girl’s name, then? We can begin to treat her with more respect.” Elena’s eyes glinted. Her shoulders bristled with anger.

  “I don’t know.” Beckett replied.

  “You took a missing person’s report, and can’t even remember her name?” Floros was looking at him now, too. More accusations. More disappointment.

  “The missing girl is called Emmie Archer.” He knelt down, even though he was already certain. He had the photos on his phone; the ones sent by Little Bee, “But, this isn’t her.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bee’s knuckles were white on the handles of the moped. She’d seen locust swarms of people – Island visitors just like her – buzzing up and down the streets of Nikisiopi since she’d arrived, brown ankles flying, crash helmets crooked on elbows. It had looked easy.

  Stamatis, of Stamatis’ Scooters, had reassured her, as he’d swiped her debit card. “It’s as easy as riding a bicycle.” He beamed at her.

  “I haven’t ridden a bicycle since I was ten. And I wasn’t very good at it then.”

  “But, you never forget. Everything will be fine. I promise you.”

  It didn’t help. In the week Bee had been on the Island, she’d learned the locals’ over riding outlook on life was, ‘everything will be fine.’ She was convinced even if an asteroid was hurtling down on them, they would still smile, shrug their shoulders to the sky, and say, “Don’t worry, it will be fine.”

  Despite his outward optimism, Stamatis had walked her past a whole row of gleaming mopeds, with shapely curves and futuristic headlights, and stopped next to a faded pink relic from Quadrophenia. The paint was chipped and scratched, with a skull-sized dent on one side, and a rip in the black leather seat, patched down with duct tape.

  “This one is perfect for you.”

  Bee couldn’t disagree. Stamatis had handed her the key, and helped her push the crash helmet onto her head.

  He’d been less helpful with directions to Georgiou’s farm.

  He had closed his eyes, as if in deep thought.

  “Why do you want to go there? Georgiou works in the Budapest Club. He will be there tonight. You should wait until then. Mopeds are for town and beach, not for the hills.”

  “I know where he works. I need to visit him at home. See if my friend is there.”

  “Your friend? What does she look like?”

  Bee felt a spike of hope.

  “About my height. Long, blonde hair. Green eyes. Pretty. I have a photo. Here.”

  She pushed her phone towards him. He glanced.

  “Very pretty.”

  “You haven’t seen her then? With Georgiou?”

  “I see Georgiou with a lot of girls in the summer.”

  “At his house?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Great. How do I get there?”

  “The roads are steep and dangerous. There are wild animals in the hills.”

  Shouting from the road behind them made them look around. A jeep flew past, sardined full of at least eight lads, some standing up hanging off the roll bars, arms and legs everywhere, like a giant octopus. The occupants were howling at the sun and barking like hyenas.

  Stamatis sighed. “Follow the signs to Massouri Village, then turn right just after the pink house, and go up the hill. Keep going until you find i
t.”

  “That sounds easy enough.”

  “It will be fine.”

  Bee wobbled up the main strip, impatient cars blaring at her, passing so close, she was almost swept into their passenger seats. A dozen times, she nearly turned back. She would have done, if she hadn’t been doing this for Emmie. If the tall, handsome detective, with his kind eyes and sad smile, was making the effort, phoning her so early on a Sunday, then it was only right and proper she did the same.

  She’d been worried about him at first, about his abilities. He hadn’t seemed interested. Hadn’t even bothered to shave. Even whilst he’d been talking to her, he’d seemed absent.

  After Inspector Kyriakoulis had gone, Fran had put her arm around her and squeezed, telling her not to worry. Kyriakoulis was the best at what he did. He’d worked all over the world, and before joining the Greek police, had been in the Army, Special Forces no less, and the Metropolitan Police. If Emmie was missing, Inspector Kyriakoulis would find her. Jos had cheapened things, as usual.

  “Sexy or what?” She’d smirked after he’d gone. “In a battered, Liam Neeson in Taken kind of way. Did you see that scar on his neck? Definitely a knife wound. Bet he got it from taking out some freaking terrorist. He won’t take shit from anyone. I quite fancy being a sugar baby. Might even let him fuck me.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “What’s his phone number?”

  “Like I’d tell you.”

  “No wonder Emmie’s done a runner. Fed up of you sniffing around after her. It was getting on her nerves. She only invited you along as a charity project, because she felt sorry for you. ‘Little Bee never goes anywhere. She hasn’t got any friends.’ You haven’t got any friends, because you’re a stuck-up bitch. Simples.”

  Bee spent a sleepless night alone in the hotel, listening to the echoes of music and voices from outside. She was the only person from work Emmie had invited to the wedding. Surely that meant Emmie counted her as a friend?