The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 8

  “We’ll find her. I promise.” Kandace smiled.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Beckett flicked on the lights. The apartment block was one of a cluster of four identical buildings behind a gated entrance. Blocks like these had sprung up all over the Island since the 1980s. Concrete, block, and steel. Giant Lego bricks dumped in the middle of scrub land. Some had fared better than others. The Riviera Apartments squatted amidst landscaped lawns, interspersed with olive trees tamed to provide shade. As he’d climbed out of the car, he’d spotted the black rectangle of a swimming pool.

  Danni and Patrick’s apartment was on the first floor of the second block. Each block appeared to have four apartments, two on the ground floor and two above, each with either a patio or terrace at the front.

  Beckett blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the brightness. The bulb in the stairwell was broken, and he’d had to find his way up in the dark. He also took a moment to clear his mind and focus. Thinking about the impending shit storm would not help. The forensic team would be here first thing in the morning, but he wanted to learn about how Danni led her life, before it was taken apart and altered forever.

  The apartment was open plan, the largest area consisting of the living room, with double width doors onto the terrace. A four-seat dining table occupied the far corner, and the back of the room was given over to the kitchen. A corridor disappeared off behind the kitchen, presumably to the bedrooms and bathroom. The floor was tiled, and dressed with ethnic patterned rugs. There were no signs of a struggle. It was all neat and ordered. Very neat and ordered.

  There was a wooden framed sofa, with tangerine cushions, and two matching armchairs, all facing a large flat screen television. The walls on either side of the TV were lined with shelves—on the left, DVDs and CDs, on the right, books. There were framed pictures on every spare inch of wall. Lots of photos – many taken underwater. Spectacular shots of rainbow-coloured fish, hulking shadows of manta rays, and the delicate tentacles of corals. There were other, more personal, shots of Patrick, in his dive gear, posing with friends after successful dives, standing on yachts or at quay sides, and his dive instructor qualification certificates.

  Most of the books were diving related or sports biographies. The DVDs comprised mostly of action movies, and the CDs, heavy metal. Beckett surveyed the whole room. There was nothing here which appeared to be Danni’s.

  The first door he opened in the corridor was the bathroom. It was small but neat. Bath with shower over, toilet and sink. In a metal shelf unit, by the bath, were the first signs a female was in residence—patchouli and lotus flower shower gel, and Trevor Sorbie shampoo and conditioner for long hair.

  There was a mirror-doored cabinet on the wall, by the sink. Beckett snapped open the door. He didn’t need to look at his reflection; feeling like a wreck was enough. He knew he looked bad, not quite a corpse ready for Dr. Elena’s methodical dissection, but not far off. A headache pulsed behind his left temple, and his knee throbbed. He’d lost count of the number of painkillers he’d taken. He’d been awake over twelve hours, and his thoughts were processing slower than usual. His eyes felt sunken into his skull, as if they were pressing into his brain, his throat was ragged, and his voice fading. The more beard he grew, the greyer it looked. He was aging with every second. He took a deep breath.

  “Focus. Come on. Focus.”

  The contents of the cabinet were more interesting. Alongside the ibuprofen and paracetamol were three small brown prescription bottles. Beckett picked up each one in turn. He had to move under the sharp florescent light in the ceiling to be able to read the printed labels. Temazepan, Zolpidem, and Xanax. The prescriptions were all made out to D Deacon, dated between January 2014 and March 2015. None of the bottles were more than half full. The address on each one was the same address in Milton Keynes Patrick had given to them as the home of Danni’s parents. Did Danni have trouble sleeping? If so, why? What did the young have to worry about that would keep them awake at night?

  He continued down the corridor to the next room. The couple’s bedroom. A king-sized bed took up most of the room. A double wardrobe was clearly designated—left side Danni’s clothes, right side Patrick’s. Apart from matching lamps, there was nothing on the shelves on either side of the bed. It was impersonal. More like a holiday home than a place people lived year round.

  The final door was on the opposite side of the corridor.

  Flicking on the light revealed everything which had been missing from the rest of the apartment. This was Danni’s haven. There was no bed. Instead, there was a sofa, a couple of elephant-sized bean bags, and a large desk wedged under the shuttered window. Whilst the other rooms had views out to the front or side of the village and the sea beyond, this room was at the back of the building, and the view drew you up into the hills and the forests. Even in the height of the day, it would stay shaded and cool. The vegetation outside was so close, it almost felt like you were living in the trees. He could hear the cicadas shrilling their night time harmonies.

  The walls were hung with photos of Danni. Danni with Patrick, Danni with friends, work colleagues perhaps, standing in front of a Taverna, all grinning like loons. Photos of her with an older male and female – her parents. There was a grizzled black Labrador with them, the hair around his muzzle tinged with grey. There were prints on the wall, too. One, an identical copy of her tattoo, or, rather, the tattoo was the copy, he guessed. There were more prints of Greek Gods - Zeus, Apollo, Athena, Dionysus, Demeter. Some were traditional, others modern, intensely coloured interpretations of the myths.

  There was a book shelf next to the desk, and the Greek mythology theme continued there, along with the more usual chick lit and self-help books. On the desk was a Macbook. Beckett disconnected the leads. He wasn’t going to risk leaving it for the forensic team to collect.

  He stood back, and looked at the room. All Danni’s life was condensed into this small box of a room. Was that her choice, or the boyfriend’s? Him controlling her, or her keeping secrets from him? He looked at the door. There was a keyhole. No key. But, it could be locked from the outside, and the inside. A legacy, perhaps, of when the apartment was used as holiday accommodation. The other bedroom door didn’t have a lock, but that door was different to all the others. Different wood. Different colour. Different style. It was a replacement. He went back to study the hinges. The screws were shiny. Fairly new. And there was damage to the door frame around the new hinges. At some point, not that long ago, the door had been kicked in, and replaced. From the angle of the damage, it had been kicked inwards. The way Patrick had described their relationship was they didn’t police each other. They allowed each other lots of freedom. A modern relationship, or a troubled one?

  He was interrupted by a knock at the front door.

  He opened it. A pale, chubby-faced man, with a gleaming helmet of black hair, stared up at him, eyes wide, mouth wider. The man looked at the laptop under Beckett’s arm, and then back up at Beckett’s face. He recoiled towards the door of the opposite apartment.

  “I’m calling the police.”

  “I am the police.” Beckett grabbed his ID out of his pocket. “Who are you?”

  The man scuttled forward.

  “Linus Sang. I live here. Number four. Have you spoken to Patrick? His girlfriend, Danni, is missing. Is that why you’re here? He’s worried sick…”

  Beckett held up his hand to stop him.

  “Perhaps we could go and sit down?”

  Linus tried to peer around Beckett into the apartment, but he swung the door shut.

  “My place?” Linus offered, taking the hint.

  “I think that would be best.”

  Linus’ apartment was a mirror image, apart from it looked like a whirlwind had ravaged it. There were books and papers everywhere. Piles of clothes. The smell of garlic and chicken sent Beckett stomach into spasms. A huge pile of washing up sat next to the sink. A white cat, with a black tip to his tail and a black nose, was curled up on
the back of the sofa. The TV was on, but the sound muted. Tom Cruise, in his shades and leather flying jacket, was walking towards a fighter jet.

  “Sorry. I… I’m not the world’s tidiest person.” Linus grabbed an armful of papers from one end of the sofa, and spilled them onto the floor. Beckett sat, and indicated for Linus to do the same. He perched on the edge of an armchair. The cat flicked its tail, and watched Beckett out of half-closed eyes. The room was dominated by an oversized desk, housing three huge computer monitors.

  “What do you do, Mr. Sang?”

  “Linus, please. I gamble. Online. Poker for fun. Stocks and shares for a living. I know… you wouldn’t think to look at me, would you?” Linus’ eyes shone. There was a fierce intelligence there Beckett had missed at first glance. He really wasn’t on form.

  “You make a living from that?”

  “Not bad.”

  “What’s that accent? New Zealand?”

  “Impressive. Most people don’t even notice. I lived in London for twenty years. Came out here for a holiday last summer, ended up staying. You have news about Danni? Bad news, I assume, as you are taking her laptop.”

  “I’m afraid she was found dead this morning.”

  “Oh. God. That’s terrible. How? Car accident? She was a terrible driver. I worried about her driving home late at night. I always felt better when I heard her come home.”

  “No. It looks like she was murdered.”

  “Murdered? Bloody hell.” He thought for a moment. “Are you sure?”

  “How well did you know Danni?”

  “As neighbours. We said hello. She looked after Ariadne, if I was away. Removed spiders from the bath for me. I’m phobic. She laughed at my jokes, which was kind, because I’m not at all funny.”

  “And Patrick?”

  “I didn’t have much to do with him. We nodded a hello at each other. That’s about it. He was just a neighbour. Danni’s boyfriend.”

  “Sounds as if you don’t like him.”

  Linus shrugged, but it was enough of an answer.

  “What was Danni and Patrick’s relationship like? Did they ever argue?”

  “God, yes. Loudly, oftentimes. She was beautiful and popular, had loads of friends. He was jealous. He’s very controlling. I think, anyway.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  “I could hear them, but I didn’t eavesdrop. What’s private is private.”

  “She didn’t confide in you? Living next door. When she was rescuing you from spiders.”

  “Only once or twice. She liked to go out, have fun. Patrick’s a dive instructor. He often has early starts, and he can’t drink when he’s diving the next day. His boss is very strict about that.”

  “Their arguments, did they ever turn physical?”

  “Did he hit her? No. I never saw a mark on her. Though, they can be clever about it, can’t they? Only bruise where it can’t be seen. Though, on Farou in the summer, that doesn’t leave much. Do you think he killed her?”

  “Do you?”

  “No. No, of course not.” But, there was carefully placed doubt in his eyes. “He couldn’t have done. He’s been away. Told me on Tuesday he was heading off on a yacht for a few days.”

  “And when did you last see Danni?”

  “Wednesday, late afternoon. She was heading off to work.”

  “Did you hear her come home?”

  “No… no, I don’t think so.”

  “You’re not sure. Only, you said before you always felt better when you heard her come home. You made it sound like you listened out for her.”

  “She sometimes stays at a friend’s, near the bar. Yeah, that’s right. I remember now. She said she wouldn’t be back Wednesday night, and she was staying at one of her friends. Her car wasn’t here Thursday morning.”

  “What car does she drive?”

  “A blue Toyota RAV-4. I couldn’t tell you the registration.”

  “And when she didn’t come home the next day?”

  “I assumed, with Patrick being away, she’d decided to stay at the friends. She often did, when he was away. I didn’t keep watch over her.” Realisation dawned on him, his mouth stretching open, and lips sticking to his teeth, “This is my fault, isn’t it? If I’d reported her missing sooner, maybe she wouldn’t be dead?”

  “The only person at fault is the person who killed her.” Beckett’s phone bleeped into life. He looked at the screen. It was Petrakis. The storm had arrived. Beckett wasn’t sure he was ready to fend it off. He wasn’t sure he could survive any of this.

  ***

  It felt like an ambush, with smiles hiding knives. Beckett was sitting on a large leather sofa in Mayor Baptiste Sarantos’ wood-panelled office. Oil paintings of previous incumbents stared down, disapproving and judging. Beckett needed to stay alert, but the sofa was like sinking sand, and every move he made he was dragged further down. Mayor Sarantos was sitting opposite him. He was the youngest ever Mayor of Farou. Italian suit and a film star smile. The consummate politician. Next to him, was the British Vice Consul Neil Ticknall. People described him as a weak man. Beckett had met him at a couple of official engagements, but could barely remember him, beyond his fragile handshake. Right now, he was sweating panic, and seemed to be studying the patterns in the carpet.

  Chief Petrakis was standing off to one side. She’d glared at Beckett when he’d come in, and he could feel the waves of fury rippling off her. The final occupant of the room stood out of Beckett’s direct line of vision. Beckett had never seen him before. He’d been introduced as Sebastian Wolf, a representative of the British Government. He was a short, grey man, with threadbare hair, eyebrows that arched like a pair of seagull’s wings, and a lazy eye, which made his whole face look lopsided. But both eyes burned with the same intelligence, and had a darkness lurking behind them which made Beckett wary. He’d yet to speak beyond a mumbled greeting but Beckett could feel him watching. To get here in time for this meeting, he must have come by private jet, and set off almost before they’d ID’d the body. And if he had set off before the body had been identified, how did they know she was British? His brain tried to calculate timelines, but the numbers swirled around, out of reach. He sensed he was missing some chunk of information, but he had no idea what.

  “So, we have this going viral.” There was a laptop on the coffee table between Beckett and the Mayor. Baptiste spun the laptop around, so Beckett could see the screen. It was the Farou Times website. There was a photo of the Island – olive green mountains, shimmering blue sea – and superimposed on top, a photo of Emmie Archer. The banner headline read ‘Fear Returns to Paradise.’

  “I thought we agreed not to speak to the press?” Petrakis eyeballed him.

  “I didn’t...” Beckett began.

  “You were seen with Anastas in a restaurant, not three hours ago,” Petrakis cut in.

  “I left, before I told her anything. We had nothing at that point. My priority was ID’ing the dead girl, and finding Emmie.”

  “So, you would have talked to her, if the boyfriend hadn’t turned up?” Petrakis spat at him.

  “We needed her help.”

  “And you think headlines like this are helpful, Kyriakoulis?” The Mayor closed the lid of the laptop. “Are you so out of your depth you have to rely on journalists to do your job for you?”

  “Hang on a minute,” Petrakis interrupted. “There might have been an error of judgment here, but no one can say Beckett is out of his depth.”

  “You’re always going to defend him. He was your choice for the job.”

  “Because he was, by far, the best candidate.”

  “That was debatable, then. Now? This case has been mishandled from the start.”

  “Mishandled?” Beckett leaned forward. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  “We have a murder, a missing girl, and the world’s media going into full hysterics. Can I remind you it’s only been a handful of years since we had headlines screaming panic about the F
iend of Farou?”

  “You don’t have to remind me. I caught him.”

  “When no one else on the Island could… yes, we all know that.”

  “I think a little calm is called for.” Sebastian Wolf peeled himself from the wall. His eyebrows arched even closer to his receding hair line. “I’m sure we are all appreciative of the work you did back then, Inspector. No one is questioning your abilities, are they, Mayor Sarantos?”

  “But, perhaps, it is time for a fresh pair of eyes.” Baptiste shrugged.

  “I’m Chief of Police, Baptiste. I decide who polices on this Island.” Petrakis’ eyes flashed with anger.

  Despite the smiles and cheek kisses at official events, Beckett knew they detested each other. The undercurrent was ever present. Gossip around the station favoured an affair which ended badly, though the stories varied wildly as to who put the affair out of its misery.

  “Do we like the boyfriend for the murder?” Neil Ticknall asked, distilling the tension, his voice chirping like a cicada. The phrasing grated with Beckett. He’d clearly been watching too many US cop shows.

  “He’s got to be the main suspect, at this point. His alibi is shaky. We’ll be checking it out first thing in the morning.” Petrakis perched herself on the edge of the Mayor’s desk, knocking over his Mayor Sarantos’ name plaque. A muscle in Baptiste’s jaw twitched. An image flashed into Beckett’s head – Petrakis on the desk as she was now, legs wrapped around Baptiste, as he nuzzled her neck, one hand pushing up her skirt. “Beckett, what did you make of him? Is he capable?”

  The image, thankfully, evaporated. He needed to concentrate.

  “We’re all capable. I’m not sure. There’s something about him. About his relationship with Danni. But, why stab her and dump her body on a beach? He knows the Island. He dives all round here. He’d know where to hide a body, if he needed to.”