"Jos, don't you care Emmie is missing?"
"But, she's not missing.”
“She’s done this before?” Beckett cut in.
“A bunch of us were in Mallorca, and she disappeared for three days with a bull fighter called Rui. ‘Cept it turned out, he wasn’t a bull fighter. He collected the rubbish. A dustbin man. Emmie was well embarrassed when she came back.” Jos giggled, and flicked the hair off her face, drilling her eyes into Beckett’s. “You a Brit, then? What are you doing out here?”
She was dressed in a barely-there bikini, showing off a belly ring to match those in her nose, and an impressive tan, given her country of origin and the lack of sunshine they’d had that week. She stood in front of Beckett, hands on her hips, smiling, noticing he’d noticed her. She smiled, pupils dilating. Beckett was used to it. He might be old enough to have daughters their age, but on an island of teenage boys and skinny Greek waiters, he stood out, not just in height but in sheer presence. And most of the young women who came here on holiday had only one thing on their mind – sex. Being a thousand miles away from home, with the weather hot and steamy, did crazy things to Western Europeans. His mother had always been proud of his looks, taking after her side of the family, rather than his father’s hobbit like appearance, but girls like Jos wouldn’t look twice at older blokes like him in a bar in Camden. He shrugged it off, as he always did.
“Isn’t she supposed to be getting married in a couple of days?” He looked back at Little Bee.
“Yes. To Warren. Him and his friends are in Rakos – on his stag do. We were all going to meet up at the wedding.” Little Bee chewed at one of her finger nails.
“Yet, you think she’s ditched all that, and run off with this Georgios?”
“No. She wouldn’t do that.”
“Why would she want to marry him? He’s a dick.” Jos rolled her eyes, and plonked herself onto the nearest bed, leaning back on her elbows. “Specially compared to the locals. Bet you get this a lot. Girls coming here, tapping off with anything Greek, male, with a pulse. You know the type. Not fussy. Anything’s better than the blokes at home.”
“But, her bloke isn’t at home, is he? Why do you think he’s a dick?” Beckett looked at her, as she crossed one leg over the other, and flicked one of her sandals under the opposite bed.
“Not very bright. Prefers Sunday morning football to sex. That’s what Emmie always whinges about. What sort of bloke would prefer football to sex? Bet you’re not like that, Inspector.” She kicked off the other sandal, and eyed him like a cat stalking a mouse.
“Could she be with Warren? Perhaps she didn’t want to wait another couple of days before she saw him?” Beckett turned back to Little Bee.
“I didn’t want to worry him, so I texted one of his friends to see if they’d seen her. They haven’t. Definitely not. And she did want to marry Warren. I’m sure. They’ve been together since school. She’s been so excited about coming here. She couldn’t wait.”
“I’m sure I saw her last night,” Jos chipped in. “We were in Cassie’s Bar. I looked out, and I thought it was her across the street, in a crowd. It was so busy, by the time I’d got over there, she’d gone. She'll be back when she’s sobered up and sexed out. Full of herself and her Mama Mia fling."
"I can't believe you're not even worried about her." Bee turned to Beckett. "What are you going to do? Put out a missing person's alert?"
"Keep trying her mobile. And double check with her fiancé. If she's not back by tomorrow, phone me." He rummaged in his trouser pockets, and pulled out a business card.
"Is that all you’re going to do?" Bee took the card and studied the details.
"Have you got a recent photo?" Beckett avoided her gaze.
"Loads of them from this week." Jos flashed another of her smiles at him, “Not all suitable for official police business though.”
“I’ve got some on my phone.” Bee glowered at Jos. Beckett felt an ache starting in his left temple. Were young women this bitchy to each other when he was that age and plucking up courage to ask them out? He couldn’t remember. His mind drifted to the village festivities and the cold beer that would be in plentiful supply. Time to make a sharp exit.
"Can you text me a couple of good ones Bee? That number on there." He turned to go.
"Please..." Bee’s desperation made him stop. There was something about her that made him want to reassure her.
"Call me tomorrow. I'm sure she'll be back by then. Try not to worry. Her phone is probably flat.”
“But, it rings out. If it was flat, wouldn’t it go straight to voicemail?” There was a tremble in Bee’s voice.
“For God’s sake. Listen to him. He’s the professional. He’s heard this story a thousand times. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get poshed up for tonight’s challenge. So unless you want to watch me in the shower…” Jos pulled a face at Bee.
“You’re such a cow, Jos.”
Beckett left them to what he was sure would descend into an argument. He’d been there too long already. It was an hour back to the station, and then another forty minutes to retrace his steps to home.
He told himself it was obvious the bride-to-be had gotten cold feet, and had found a nice warm bed, away from anyone who might talk her down the aisle. Her clueless fiancé was busy drinking himself into a coma all prepared to sober up in a couple of days and enjoy the happiest day of his life. Poor bastard.
As he walked back to the car, Beckett looked across the abandoned building site. Beyond it, and half hidden behind a row of Judas Trees, rose another building–the Sunshine Apartments. He’d forgotten they were so close to the hotel. Three of Spiros’ victims had stayed there. Those memories again. He turned away angry at himself. It was a coincidence. Emmie wasn’t missing. Nothing bad had happened here today. The Island had already had its monster. The Fiend of Farou, as dubbed by the British newspapers. A rapist and murderer. No one knew that better than Beckett. He’d caught him, ten years ago. The Island had been quiet ever since. That was why Beckett had come back. For the quiet.
CHAPTER TWO
Beckett braced his shoulder muscles, blanked his aching knee, swung the spade, and sliced into the earth at the base of the clump of nettles. Cowering behind was a flatbed trailer, tucked up against the side of the olive press barn. He’d walked past it a hundred times, without ever thinking about it, but somehow, it had registered in his memory. When the crisis erupted down at the village square – someone, no one could agree who, had forgotten to arrange a stage for the band – it had leapt into his thoughts as the obvious solution. Whilst the locals – a good proportion of them being his cousins of once, twice, or more removed – argued in the loud, very Greek way of a barrage of words and waving arms, he drove back up the hill to the farm.
Beckett drew back the spade and swung again. This time, the blade buried itself with a satisfying crunch under the ball of roots, and with a downwards wrench, the nettles were expelled from the ground. There was movement though, from the disturbed soil. He bent down to get closer and narrowed his eyes; it was hard to focus in a low light. What was that? Ants. Black ones. Running around in circles. Disorientated. A few scurried by his boots. Then, without warning, an eruption spewed out from the hole, like black lava. Thousands of ants spreading in all directions.
He recoiled backwards, tripped over a rock, and ended up on his arse. When he got up his hand felt wet. Blood dripped off it, the viscous liquid pooling, hesitating, and then, plummeting to the ground.
“Old fool,” he cursed himself.
There was no doubt life was better after a few glasses of Mythos beer. The mind stopped thinking, and the body stopped aching. The more you drank, the better it tasted. Beckett could feel the alcohol seeping through his body, his muscles sighing as they relaxed, and he smiled. What else mattered, other than drink, food and the company of friends?
It was 10pm, and the square was now thronging with people, locals mostly, plus a few of the more adventurous tourists
. The air fizzed with their voices. The white plastic chairs and tables, which had invaded the usually tranquil and empty space in front of the butter-coloured face of the Church of St Christopher, had been unoccupied when he’d left to get the trailer. Now, all were claimed. He’d found a lone chair, with a wobbly leg, and had wedged it up against the wall of the old school at the edge of the crowd. There was a low wall to rest his glass and line up the jugs of beer. A few more beers, and he might even feel like dancing.
Every tree and building around the square sparkled with lanterns. The wind was picking up, and the lights bobbed and swayed. The smoke from the two giant-sized barbeques drifted over, teasing noses and stomachs with the scent of sizzling meat. On the stage – the well-disguised, flatbed trailer he’d shed blood for - the band with their guitars, mandolins, clarinets, bouzoukis and drums stood, thundering the whole village in traditional music. Dancers linked arms and swayed like waves on a beach, all moving in the traditional way, whether they were dressed traditionally or not.
Beckett felt an arm clasp around his shoulders. Thakis kissed his head, and sank down onto the wall.
“I told you no one would notice the stage. It works perfectly.” Thakis grinned through his pirate-esque beard. If the beard did only one thing to enhance Thakis’ appearance, it was to make his teeth look Californian white, and his smile bigger than ever.
Beckett had arrived back in the village later than planned, and tumbled straight into chaos. The chairs and tables had been wrestled back from the residents of Abila, the next village down the mountain, and were being positioned around the square. Vlassis, a third cousin of sorts, was hanging like a spider monkey off a ladder, stringing up the lights, with Tomas, one of Beckett’s police sergeants, shouting instructions.
All that was fine, but then someone asked about the whereabouts of the stage. No stage, no band, no festival.
That was when Beckett had asked what they usually did, and when all he got back was blank stares, he’d headed up the hill to get the trailer.
“That won’t do, that won’t do at all. It won’t work.” Thakis had sunk his head into his hands in despair, as Beckett had left them.
Surrounded by bales of hay, some empty barrels and pots of flowers, with the band legged up, sound system plugged in, music belting, and the sun retreated behind the horizon, it looked like it had never been anything other than a stage.
“I’ve been told to get you to dance.” Thakis waved across at a cluster of women on the other side of the square. They waved back like a troop of synchronized swimmers. “There are at least five women there who would love to see you dance. Then, Granny Spiro might stop asking me why you haven’t chosen yourself a wife. Lots of beautiful women on Farou. And I am getting a headache from people asking me. No one wanted to marry me. I had to plead with Helena. They all want a piece of Beckett Kyriakoulis.”
Beckett knew his defences had been lowered by the beer. Sober, he had no desire to complicate his life, but amongst the women Thakis had pointed out was Dr. Elena Mariadas. He hadn’t known she was going to be there. She lived in town, and worked at the hospital. Still in her thirties, the Doctor was fourteen years his junior, with an irresistible smile and eyes as brown as conkers. She was the only female Head of Department at the hospital, and the youngest, too. She terrified most of the men on the Island, though they would never admit it. Beckett wasn’t scared, but he knew, however hard that smile and those eyes were to remove from his thoughts, he did not need a woman in his life.
“I need more beer.”
“Ah harr. Always more beer. And the more beer, the more attractive the women folk become.” Thakis sounded like a pirate now, as he grinned, clapping him on the shoulder, and noticing Beckett’s beer jug was almost empty, “You need another jug? I’ll bring three now. Then, you dance. And then you chose a wife.”
Thakis was still chuckling as he was swallowed up by the masses, swaying as he went.
Dancing, like marriage, however infirm you were, was expected on Farou, but more anaesthetic was needed. For the dancing. There wasn’t enough beer or even Ouzo on the Island for the other.
“Beckett, come sit with me.”
Beckett weaved his way from the bar, yet another jug in one hand, and glass in the other. The voice came from a table, under one of the cherry trees. The lanterns flickered, dancing in the wind, and casting the owner of the voice in light then dark. Beckett recognised him with a smile.
“Father.”
Demetri was the village priest. Dressed in his sweeping black robes and long black beard, his orthodoxy was challenged only by the Nike trainers poking out under the hem. In his late thirties, he’d returned to the Island as a newly ordained priest at the same time Beckett had returned to take up the job of Inspector.
“Unruly tourists?” Demetri nodded at the bandage on Beckett’s hand.
“Clumsy old policeman.” Beckett offered him a drink, but Demetri shook his head.
“How’s the job?”
“Looking like it’s getting busier.” Beckett fished an e-cig from his pocket. It was part of attempt number ten, or was it eleven, to give up smoking, “Do you mind?”
Demetri shook his head. “Summer is here. The Island is waking up. But, you didn’t think it would sleep forever?”
Beckett took a gulp of beer.
“Nothing serious?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“The museum is reopening next week. You should come. I’ll give you a tour. The history of the Island is fascinating.”
“Which do you prefer, tour guide or priest?”
“The two are not so different. Ah… I shouldn’t really stay for this…”
Beckett realised the music had gone silent, and the square had cleared of dancers, but people lined the edge, waiting for something. He glanced at Demetri, but he showed no inclination to leave.
A lone drum started to beat. Then, another, and another joined in, all following the same revolving rhythm.
“Look, the boubarei.” Demetri pointed. The doors of the Church opened, and figures began to appear. Men dressed in white, animal skins cloaked over their backs, hats some adorned with feathers and beaks. Each one had what sounded like a cowbell attached to their belt, and held a stave, waving it aloft, as they danced in time with the drum beat down the church steps. Beckett squinted. All the men seemed to have black faces and hands.
“The goat men. Paganism erupting from the Church of our Lord.” Demetri sounded more intrigued than disapproving. “You had trips to the Island when you were a boy. Did your father not bring you to the festival?”
Beckett remembered now, of course. The goat men. Their strange dancing. The metallic clanking of their bells. Their faces blackened with ashes and grease. He remembered his stomach tightening, the same feeling you got when you jumped into cold water on a hot day. He remembered tears dancing at the corners of his eyes, and looking around for his father, to take his hand, but his father had gone, and when Beckett did see him, he was in the midst of the goat men, having his face smeared with ash, taking hold of one of the clarinets and playing their music.
“Unites us with our primitive past and with nature. They dance around the village, scaring the evil spirits away. Harmless fun.”
“Harmless?”
“For those who treat it as such. For those who don’t, whatever they chose to believe can be dangerous. Like Chrystos Spiros.”
Beckett looked away. What the hell was it with everyone today? Why was Spiros suddenly back haunting him?
“Chrystos was a frightened soul. He’d met the Devil, and survived. But, once you’ve taken his hand, and looked him in the eye, your mind is damaged. Don’t dwell on the past, my friend. You didn’t come back here for that.”
“Do you believe the Devil is real?”
“Don’t you?” There was surprise in Demetri’s voice, as if Beckett had said he didn’t believe in breathing, or the ground beneath their feet. Then, Demetri grinned. “Come on. Some sembla
nce of sanity has returned.”
Demetri was right. The band had taken back control of the music. The goat men had shed their animal skins, and in the camouflage of the evening, had merged in with the crowd. From a distance, you could not distinguish them.
Demetri raised a glass of Retsina, and handed one to Beckett.
“Yamas.” Demetri downed his. “Let’s go dance.”
“Yamas.” Beckett threw his head back, and tasted the raw bite of the wine, as it rolled over his tongue, and burned its way down his throat.
“By the way,” Demetri dropped into his ear, as they squeezed through the crowd to get to the square. “Those e-cigs. Wolves in sheep’s clothing.”
Demetri’s words were swept away by the music. Beckett linked arms, and joined in the dance. Smiling faces, laughing, shouting. Children and great grandparents, friends, cousins, strangers. Events were starting to dislocate. He danced faster, laughed louder, as did everyone else.
Beckett found himself clasping Dr. Elena, with no idea if he’d grabbed her, or she’d grabbed him. He twirled her under his arm, caught her around her waist, and pulled her close, bending so he could feel her warmth against his cheek. Her eyes on his eyes, firing electricity at him. For a moment, Beckett wished he was sober so his brain could think, interpret, but it was too late for that. The storm was on them, thunder booming around the mountains, lightning cracking above, illuminating faces.
Beckett hung onto Elena, and he felt her hands on his back, each finger a lightning strike, as they whirled on. The band played louder and faster; people around them holding each other, clinging together, moving as one, as if they were a single, continuous living being. The rain finally came, cascading in from the heavens, drenching and soaking all. Even then, no one stopped. Beckett’s last clear memory was looking down at Elena, her short, sun-streaked hair dripping diamonds with every lightning bolt. He thought she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, currents of lust coursing through his veins.
The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 2
