The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 5

  “Most likely, but there’s some bruising around her neck. I’m not sure. It doesn’t feel… right.”

  “We don’t work on feelings, Beckett.” She sent her chair skidding backwards, and started pacing the office. “This is not good. This is not good at all.”

  She was about to turn sixty, but looked ten years younger. A blanket of mahogany hair framed her masculine face. She’d once been described to Beckett as having the ability to charm the birds from the trees, before crushing them beneath her fists. Nothing he’d experienced so far made him doubt that for a minute.

  Beckett wished she get on with whatever she wanted to say, and let him get on with his work. The situation was starting to spin out of control. He should have had a grasp on things by now, the scene, the victim, the way forward, but he felt only panic, spreading like a spider’s web in his gut.

  “Who is she?” She parted the Venetian blinds with two fingers, and peered down to the street below.

  “There was no form of ID on the body. We’ve taken fingerprints and DNA to see if we can run a match on any of the databases. If nothing comes back from that and no other missing person is reported, we’ll have to go public. Put out an appeal. And an appeal for the girl we know is missing, Emmie Archer.”

  “Not a chance.” The blinds snapped back like a whip cracking. “We can’t have this splashed all over the papers and the web. Publicity like this, it’ll scare off the tourists. The Island can’t afford it. We are struggling already. You’ve heard of the economic crisis we are having?”

  “But…”

  “We can’t have people scared of coming here, cancelling holidays. You know how it was last time. It destroyed the tourist season. You might have caught the Fiend, but the damage was done for many. And memories are long. One whiff of something, and the journalists will be dragging up his name, and we’ll have a deserted island for the summer.”

  “But, if this was an accidental drowning, as you think…”

  “I know you, Beckett.” She sat on her monolithic desk next to him, voice softening. “Your instincts. If this doesn’t feel right, then… God help us.”

  She went back to the window.

  “You’re the most talented detective I’ve ever worked with. Figure out who the dead girl is, and what happened to her. Track down this Emmie Archer, and deliver her back to her husband-to-be, in time for the wedding. And make sure this Island has a peaceful, and profitable, summer.”

  “If the dead girl’s death wasn’t accidental, if Emmie Archer hasn’t simply got cold feet, or if there’s any connection, we need to find Emmie, and we will need the media’s help.”

  “No.” Petrakis’ eyes flashed. “You will not go to the press, until I say go to the press. Find another way.”

  ***

  Beckett rested on his stick in the corridor, and listened to his voicemail from Mitchell Troy. He replayed it a few times, as white-coated people hurried by; his brain wouldn’t process what he was hearing. Mitchell Troy. He recognised that self-satisfied tone, without the need for any introductions, but not on his phone. And not in connection to this mess. How the hell did he know Bee? Did that mean he knew Emmie, too?

  “Hey. Kyriakoulis.” Elena stood, hands on hips, a few feet away. “Are you interested in this post mortem, or not?”

  “Sorry.” He hobbled towards her, “Voicemail message from Mitchell Troy. You know him?”

  “A little. Everyone knows Mitchell, don’t they?”

  “Not if they’ve got any sense. He’s been out looking for the missing girl.”

  “Good, as the police don’t seem to have been doing much.” Elena held open the door to the Pathology department.

  Beckett ignored the remark. “I don’t know how he’s connected. Nothing’s been made public yet.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “We don’t want to cause a panic. Not yet. Not until we know more about what’s going on.”

  She gave him a dark look. Her opinion of him as a human being was rotting away. “Perhaps this will focus your mind.”

  He followed her into the autopsy suite. They were in the basement of the hospital. Light hazed in from frosted windows running around the top of the walls. Gunmetal grey cabinets lined one wall. Sinks, work surfaces, mysterious tubes, and a sadistic array of tools lined the other walls. In the middle of the room, the body of the dead girl rested on a table under the arm of a giant spotlight, almost like a sacrifice to the forensic science gods.

  The post mortem had been completed. The Y-shaped incision, which ran from both shoulders and down to her pubic bone, had been stitched back in place, and the flesh cleaned. The floor glinted, having recently been cleaned, and the blood washed away.

  Elena stood at the far side of the body. Beckett hung back.

  “No match on the finger prints or DNA, but this might help you.” She beckoned him forward.

  Embracing the victim’s left breast, was a tattoo. A grape vine was rooted underneath, and unfurled its tendrils up and around the nipple, carrying fists of bursting, succulent grapes. Each fruit looked so ripe, like you could reach down, pluck, and eat them. Anchoring the vine was a brown staff, topped with a bristling pinecone. The death of the canvas had done nothing to dull the vitality of the artwork. In fact, the paleness of her skin served only to enhance it.

  “This is high end work. Very expensive. Not many tattoo artists have this much talent. I’m pretty sure none of the tattooists on the Island could produce work like this. You’d have to go to Athens, London, Paris, for something this good.”

  “How does that help me? You’ve just widened the search to a global scale.”

  “You put a photo of that tattoo out on the web, and you’ll have the artist within a few hours.”

  “What else have you got?”

  “These are definite ligature marks.” Elena flicked on the spotlight, and pulled it closer to the body.

  The marks were obvious now the girl was laying on her back, sand washed away.

  “See how the imprint is pointed in an upwards direction. She’s been hanged; the width of the ligature marks indicates quite a wide cloth of some kind. Not a rope or a cord. But, strangulation is not the cause of death. There’s no damage to the trachea. It was done carefully, to avoid permanent damage. And this bruising is a few days old, certainly inflicted well before she died.”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  “Erotic asphyxiation is a possibility. She’d certainly had sex at some point in the last 48 hours. We found semen. We should have the DNA profile within a couple of hours.”

  “Forced?”

  “No bruising or tearing, but there were high levels of dimethyltryptamine in her system.”

  “Dimethyltryptamine? DMT?” he cut in.

  “Yes.” She frowned at him. “Mean something to you?”

  He shrugged it away. It did mean something, and it sent a chill through his veins. “Her grasp on reality would have been…?”

  “Tenuous, to say the least. It looks like we weren’t the only ones partying hard last night. But, the DMT wasn’t the cause of death either.”

  “She did drown then?”

  “Yeah, but not in the way you’re thinking. She was dead before she went in the water. I didn’t spot it until I opened her up. Cause of death was a haemothorax; She drowned in her own blood. It’s obvious when you look at her lungs, but the cause is much harder to find. The tattoo doesn’t help. Look. Here.”

  Elena touched her gloved fingers to the skin, just under the left breast, stretching it taunt. Beckett bent lower. He’d never have seen it, if Elena hadn’t pointed it out. Camouflaged by one of the wine-coloured grapes, a circular wound, only a few millimetres across, punctured the skin, angled upwards towards the lungs.

  “The weapon was long, thin, and very sharp. Like a knitting needle or a skewer? It penetrated the thorax, ruptured the serous membrane, and into the lungs. Blood loss was massive. It spilled into the pleural space, effectively drowning her. Sh
e would have been dead within ten minutes, or so. And if that hadn’t killed her, the blood loss would have done.”

  Beckett stared down at the body. The girl’s voice was silent, but everything about her told a story.

  “She would have suffered a great deal. Her lungs would have felt like they were being crushed, her heart about to explode, and the panic, as she tried to breath and couldn’t—the most primeval of instincts denied to her. It’s a horrible terrifying way to die.” Elena’s gaze pierced into his soul. “Find out who did this to her, before they do it to someone else.”

  “There’s no reason to think this has any connection to the missing girl.” Beckett said it as much to persuade himself Emmie was safe and happy, as it was to convince Elena. He failed on both counts.

  “How can you know that, when you don’t even know who this is? I thought this work was important to you? I thought the victims were important to you? This isn’t about what your boss wants, or what might be the best for the tourist industry. This is about one murdered girl and one missing girl. And you. You have to find who did this. And stop them.” Her eyes burned at him, her whole body radiating anger.

  Beckett knew she was thinking he wasn’t the man she thought he was, the big brave cop, the man who had saved people. Not anymore. He bowed his head, wishing he didn’t now have to ask her a massive favour. He hated to do it.

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were in a treatment room in the part of the hospital where the living, not the dead, hung out. He was sitting on the edge of a bed, in his boxer shorts, and Elena was drawing some clear liquid into a small needle.

  “Forget about the anaesthetic.” With his trousers draped over a nearby chair, he felt pathetic and vulnerable.

  “Don’t be an idiot. I’m not going to swoon over your bravery.” She jabbed his knee with the local, and then turned to prepare the steroid injection. He turned his head away, not wanting to think about the size of the needle.

  “I’m not happy about doing this.”

  “You said.”

  “When did you last have your knee injected?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “You know they give less relief the more you have.”

  “I know.”

  “And using them too often can damage the cells that manufacture cartilage, making your long-term pain much worse.”

  “I know that, too.”

  She gave him a look, as if to say the consequences would be nothing less than he deserved. “Okay, ready?”

  He nodded, and gripped the edge of the table with both hands.

  ***

  In the hospital car park, Beckett dialled Little Bee’s number. The pain in his knee was like a thousand razor blades being jabbed in and twisted around, but he knew in a few hours, the pain would dissolve away. Relief was temporary, but should last long enough to deal with this case.

  After a few rings, it clicked over to voicemail. “Beatrice, this is Inspector Kyriakoulis. I need to update you on a few things. I’ll come to the hotel. I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Apologies for it being so late.”

  He rang off. He’d wanted to warn her off Mitchell Troy, but didn’t know what to say. In his job, you dealt in evidence. Facts. Physical events. How did you explain you had a “feeling” about someone?

  At least he had some facts to tell her. Beckett needed to forewarn her about the dead girl. Reassure her there was no known connection to the whereabouts of Emmie, though he was getting increasingly worried. He’d sent Tomas to Georgiou’s place, who’d confirmed what he’d told Mitchell. Tomas was certain there was no cause to doubt him. Georgiou was from a good family, not that it meant anything. Beckett had been told that before. The Spiros had been a good family, poor but respected on the Island, but they had still produced a son like Chrystos. This was different, though. He knew Georgiou – not well, but enough to have an idea about the sort of man he was, and what he might or might not do. Chrystos Spiros had been in trouble with the police practically from when he could walk. Only petty crimes like theft, hurling stones at dogs, peeping through windows but petty crimes often escalate and Beckett’s instinct had pointed him towards Chrystos from the first time he’d picked up the case files.

  The tourist police in Rakos had spoken to the hotel where the fiancé was staying. They’d flashed Emmie’s photo around. She definitely wasn’t there. No one recognised her, but they knew Warren. He and his stag mates were raucous and visible. It was safe to say, Emmie hadn’t stolen her way down there, because she couldn’t wait until the wedding. She was nowhere. And Mitchell’s voice on his answer phone wouldn’t leave him alone.

  “Lovely to see you as ever, Beckett.” Kandace Anastas, editor-in-chief of the Farou News, kissed both his cheeks before sitting down. He’d lead her to a table in the back of a café on the main street. “And I would never complain about getting a phone call from you on a Sunday evening, but this is all very mysterious. I’m still a married woman.”

  She said it with a playful grin. Her pupils and the flush of her cheeks told Beckett she’d been drinking. She was mid-seventies, as glamorous as a Hollywood actress, and her husband, number four, was younger than Beckett. She’d been one of the most vociferous journalists in Athens. Taking over the Farou News was her version of retirement.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Kandace. Life treating you well?”

  “Better than you, I see. You’re lamer than when I last saw you. You really need to get that knee fixed.”

  “One day.” He shrugged. He could feel the steroids starting to work their magic fingers. The knee already felt looser. In a few hours, his limp would be almost gone.

  “And stop throwing yourself off buildings.”

  He felt himself go cold.

  “Once a journalist, always a journalist. Not relevant to the here and now, though, is it?” She touched his arm, “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I need your help. And your discretion.”

  “This is a story, I take it? I might be an old woman now, but I’ll die a journalist. The story always comes before discretion.”

  “A few hours are all I need.”

  “Go on. I’ll do what I can. What’s happened?” The flirtation had gone. Her face pressed towards his, eyes hungry for the story, her journalist synapses firing into life.

  His phone burst into life. It was Tomas.

  “Sorry.” He held up his hand in apology, and turned his head away.

  “Boss, a guy has just come into the station to report his girlfriend is missing. He’s been on the mainland for the last few days. Got back this morning. Says she hasn’t been at work, and none of her friends have seen her. She’s not answering her phone. He’s very worried. It’s not like her, he says. I asked him what she looked like. Twenty-three, blonde, about five foot one, and has a tattoo on her chest.”

  “I’ll be there now.”

  Beckett hung up. His heart racing.

  “Well?”

  “I’ve got to go. I’m really sorry, Kandace.” He got to his feet.

  “What about my story? What were you going to tell me?”

  “I promise. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Please. It’s nothing. Until I speak to you again.”

  “Inspector!” she called after him, making the other diners turn their heads, but he barely heard her. The adrenaline was coursing through him. Finally, something he could do.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Beckett watched the man for a moment through a crack in the blinds. The door to his office was closed, and Tomas was sitting in Beckett’s moth-eaten chair, waiting. He had told Tomas to use his office. Both official interview rooms were slate walled, slit windowed boxes in the basement, not conducive to a relaxed or informal atmosphere, especially to someone who was already on edge. The man, the boyfriend, was drumming his left foot on the floor, his hands alternately in his lap, on the desk, scratching his head, rubbing his thighs. The snapping open of the door made him start
, head swivelling. Tomas jumped to his feet.

  “Hello. I’m Inspector Beckett Kyriakoulis.” Beckett offered his hand. The man half rose, and shook it. His palm was clammy, grip uncertain. “You are Patrick Gruenanger?”

  The man nodded. He was late twenties, square jawed, with close cropped hair and a zig zag nose.

  “Has Sergeant Tomas offered you a drink?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’m fine.” His English was natural, but spoken with an accent.

  Beckett located it straight away. “You’re Serbian?”

  Patrick’s eyes widened, and his mouth twitched.

  “I’ve spent some time in that part of the world.” Beckett dismissed it with a flick of a hand. “Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll take it from here.”

  Tomas’ face slumped with disappointment, but he left without a word.

  Beckett wheeled his chair from behind the desk, so he was sitting almost knee to knee with Patrick. “German father?”

  “Austrian. Look, I’m sorry. I’m not sure of the relevance. I came to report my girlfriend missing. No one has seen or heard from her in a couple of days.”

  “My apologies, Patrick. I can call you Patrick? You don’t mind?”

  “No… I…”

  “Where people come from interests me. The globalisation of backgrounds. My father is Greek, from right here in Farou to be exact, my mother is Danish, but I was born in London, and raised in Copenhagen. Mostly. And, now, I’m back here.”

  Patrick chewed on his jaw.

  “Your girlfriend is…?”

  “`Danni, Daniela Deacon.” He jutted his jaw. “She’s British. English. Born and bred, I think.” He was making a point.

  “You think? How long have you been together?”

  “A couple of years. We met In Brazil. I taught her how to dive.”

  “You’re a dive instructor? Interesting career choice, for someone from a landlocked country.”

  “But, we do have airports.”

  “You work here on the Island? Which dive school?”

  “Poseidon’s at Yianiki. I got the job last summer. Danni came with me.”