“Is she working, too?”
“Waitressing. Which she should have been doing this weekend, except she didn’t turn up for her shifts.”
“Where is that?”
“Taverna Nemesis, Nikisiopi.”
“Nikisiopi?” The same village where Emmie had been staying. Taverna Nemesis wasn’t in the village itself; rather, it nestled in a sheltered bay, just around the headland from the main village. Still, it was a connection.
“Yeah. Most people have heard of it.”
“Okay, no problem. And where have you been?”
“My friend needed help crewing his yacht. Tuesday morning, we sailed to Patras. I jumped off there; he carried on. I got the ferry back, arrived early this morning.”
“You went home, and no Danni?”
“Sometimes, she works late, and stays at one of her girlfriends’ places. When I woke up, I noticed there were some messages on the answer phone. They were from work, asking where she was. She’d done her shift on Wednesday night. Thursday was her day off, but when she didn’t turn up on Friday, they were worried. No one has seen her since she left work on Wednesday, and she’s not answering her phone. I called the hospitals. Nothing. So, here I am. Please fill in whatever forms you need to, and let me back out there to look for her. We are wasting time! I don’t know where her car is. She could have run off the road. She could be out there injured.” The muscles in his jaw were twitching. Any moment, and he’d be on his feet, and out the door.
“Okay, Patrick. I will help you, but you need to calm down. You told Sergeant Tomas that Danni had a distinctive tattoo?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” He blinked at Beckett.
“I have to tell you a body of a young woman was found this morning who matches the description you gave to Sergeant Tomas.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“We have yet to identify her.” Beckett held out a colour print out of the photo of the dead girl’s tattoo. It was zoomed in, the rest of the body not visible. Just the tattoo, as vivid as he remembered.
“Is this Danni’s tattoo?”
“Where did you get this?” Patrick recoiled away from the photograph.
“Is it Danni’s?”
“Yes.” His voice broken into a whisper.
“I’m very sorry, Patrick. This, along with the rest of your description, means we have reason to believe the body found this morning is Danni’s.”
“Body? She’s dead?”
“I’m afraid she’s been murdered.”
“Murdered? I don’t understand. Who would murder Danni? I mean, she’s beautiful and gentle, and everyone loves her. You must have got it wrong. It can’t be Danni.” Patrick leapt to his feet, sending his chair skidding backwards. For a moment Beckett thought Patrick was going to attack him as anger coursed through the younger man’s body.
“Sit down, Patrick.” Beckett ordered. The anger suddenly evaporated from Patrick’s body and he sank back down into his chair, shoulders slumped. Defeated.
“I have another photo.” Beckett held up a face shot. She looked peaceful, hair swept back like a golden halo. She could have been asleep, if it wasn’t for the metal glint of the autopsy table beneath her head. Patrick stared at the photo, and his face crumpled. There was no doubt. He sank his head to his knees, staccato sobs bursting from his lungs.
Danni Deacon. Beckett was back on the beach, staring down at the body. She’d looked so lonely, laying in the sand. Did it make things different, now she had a name? A life? Parents, boyfriend, a job, and friends? It gave him a place to start. But, all those connections she had to the living world changed nothing. None of them had helped her.
He saw Tomas at the door, peeking in through the blinds, and Beckett nodded. The swing of the door snapped Patrick from his grief. He wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his hand, shaking his head at Beckett’s offer of a box of tissues.
“Where is she? Can I see her? I need to see her.”
“You will. Soon. I promise. But, you understand, in these circumstances, the nature of her death, I have to ask you certain questions.”
“You should be out there, finding who did this to her.”
“You were her boyfriend. The person who knew her better than anyone.”
Patrick’s face changed, hardened. “Oh, I get it. The boyfriend did it. That’s what you think. That’s why he’s in here now.” He cocked his head towards Tomas, who was leaning against the wall.
“I’m not saying that, Patrick. But, you’ve been around. You’ve seen the TV shows. I have to start with you. And, if you want me to find out who killed Danni you’ll cooperate, won’t you?” Beckett leaned towards him, elbows on his knees, eyes searching out Patrick’s eyes, which flickered and wavered.
“Yes. Yes, of course. Whatever you need.”
“We’ll need to take a DNA swab. Standard procedure. That’ll be okay, won’t it?”
“I guess.”
“So, Tuesday morning, you boarded your friend’s yacht? What time, exactly?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Around 11. We were definitely on the water by midday.”
“And when was the last time you saw Danni?”
“That morning. She’d worked until the early hours at the restaurant. Got home about 3am, I guess. We woke mid-morning, and had breakfast at home. That’s where I left her.”
“You live in Nikisiopi?”
Patrick nodded.
“Did she say what she was planning to do the rest of the day?”
“Not really. We don’t… didn’t,” his voice broke, “police each other’s lives. She’d go shopping. Or meet friends at the beach or their places, swim, sunbathe.”
“We’ll need a list of those friends, and where they live. And the name and contact details of your yacht owning friend.”
“Sure, but he was heading east. It might be hard to get in touch with him.”
“We will still try. So, you arrived in Patras. When?”
“Thursday morning. Marco, my friend, stayed until Saturday, before he headed off. Kythira was going to be his next stop, then onto Santorini, I think. But, he changes his mind. He could be anywhere.”
“And you got the ferry back?”
“The overnight ferry. Left Patras at 8pm Saturday.”
“You have your ticket stub?”
“I don’t know.”
“Credit card receipt?”
“I paid cash. Look, I’m not lying.”
“We have to check these things. Standard procedure. You didn’t talk to Danni on the phone, by email, or Facebook after Tuesday morning?”
“No. As I said, we don’t police each other like that. We’re not some old married couple.”
“What was your relationship like?” Happy?”
“Yes, of course. I loved her.”
“She loved you back?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Plans to get married?”
“We never talked about that. But, maybe, one day.”
“Did you ever argue?”
“Show me a couple who never argue. They don’t exist. But, we were happy. Yes, very happy. We live in paradise. We do jobs we both enjoy. We aren’t rich, but we have enough not to worry.”
“I’m sorry, Patrick. I know this is upsetting. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt her? At work, friends, anyone?”
“No. Everyone loved her. She’d do anything for anyone. Help anyone who needed it. She didn’t fall out with people. She was just…”
“An ordinary girl?”
“Not to me, but… yes… there was nothing in her life that made her stick out.”
“Apart from that tattoo? When did she get that done?”
“End of last summer.”
“His and hers?”
“What? No… I was away when she had it done. On a diving course.”
“Did she tell you she was having it done?”
“No. She’d always wanted one. I’d said I’d pay f
or one, for her birthday.”
“Must have cost you a bit.”
“She wouldn’t take any money. Told me to buy her a dress to go with it instead.”
“And that didn’t piss you off?”
“No...”
“Okay. We’ll leave it there. You’ve been really helpful. I am very sorry about Danni. Tomas will take you to the hospital, so that you can see her. We have to ask you to do a formal identification.”
“I want to see her.” His voice faltered. “What will she look like?”
Beckett put a hand on Patrick’s arm. “The cause of death won’t be visible to you. She will still look like Danni.”
Except, that was a lie. Seeing someone you knew as being so full of life laying on a slab, an empty shell of death-mottled skin, was always dreadful. You recognised the features, the shape of the nose, the angle of the jaw, the curve of the ears, but the thing which made them human; the essence of the person you loved was long gone.
“How did she die? Where was she found? Our apartment?”
“I’m limited in what I can tell you right now. I can tell you she was found this morning, on a beach on the North-East coast. She’d been stabbed.”
Patrick stared at him. No reaction.
“Can you arrange to stay with friends for a while? We can’t let you go back to your apartment tonight.”
“Why?”
“Danni might not have been found there, but her killer could have been there. We need to get in a forensic team.”
“I understand, of course. I can stay with friends.”
“And, finally, for now, Danni’s parents, family? They’ll need to be told. Are you in contact with them?”
“They hate me. Can you tell them?”
“Why do they hate you, Patrick?”
“Because I’m not a nice, middle class, English boy. Because I’m Serbian. We are all war criminals.” His voice was laden with bitterness. “Even though I was a tiny kid during the war. They think it runs in the genes.”
“People find it hard to forget. Tomas will take you to the hospital now.”
Beckett nodded at Tomas to take Patrick out. “One last thing. Do you know a British girl called Emmie Archer? She’s been staying in Nikisiopi this last week.”
Patrick’s brain scrambled to make sense of the change in subject.
“She might have been to the dive school, or you might have met her out at night? Or someone Danni met?” Beckett held up his phone, the photo of Emmie smiling out at them.
“No… no…” Patrick glanced at the screen, but Beckett could see his thoughts were now only of what lay ahead at the hospital. He should have asked the question sooner. Idiot. He was out of practice. He needed to sharpen up, and do it fast.
Beckett watched Patrick leave his office, an automaton in Tomas’ wake. He made a convincing representation of a shocked and grieving boyfriend, but, as her boyfriend, he had to be the main suspect until his alibi could be verified. He was left feeling unsettled. There had been information not offered, and half-truths told, Beckett was sure of that much. But, it didn’t make him a killer, however much he fit the profile, however economical he was with the truth, and how much Chief Petrakis wanted it so.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a press scrum outside the Old Bailey. Voices shouting, elbowing for room against the barricades. Uniformed officers stood, shoulders set square, ready for trouble, but the atmosphere was triumphant, not resentful.
The BBC camera focussed in on the group, as the door opened to release them. A silver-haired woman in an expensive suit strode out first, eyes searching for the camera. In her wake, a grey couple, who seemed shrunken and stooped into their Sunday best, grasping each other’s hand, like hostages just released from captivity. Camera flashes fired and snapped at them, instructions, requests shouted. They recoiled even further into themselves.
“I’d like to make a statement on behalf of Jodie Cox’s parents, in light of this afternoon’s very welcome verdict of guilty to murder,” the silver-haired woman pronounced, silencing the crowd. She paused; anticipation crackled. “Jodie was the shining light of our family. She had her troubles, but she would help anyone. She was our angel. Her murder, on 24 August last year, has left our family shattered and broken. Today, finally, justice has been done for Jodie, and Michael Digby’s other victims. It will never bring Jodie back, but the knowledge the monster who ended her life so young is behind bars, is some comfort. The streets of Bethnal Green are safer once again. We would like to thank the Metropolitan Police, the Major Incident Team, and, in particular, Detective Inspector Harper. Without his diligence, hard work, and determination to get to the truth Jodie would never have received justice. He never judged Jodie, or the other girls, and he never gave up on them. The Metropolitan Police has come under much criticism over the years, but if more officers were as compassionate and dedicated as Detective Inspector Harper, there would never be cause to complain. Thank you. We won’t be taking questions. The family now requests to be left in peace.”
***
In his dad’s front room, Detective Inspector Lee Harper stared at his dad watching him on the TV. It was the opening story on the six o’clock news—BBC not ITV in this house, of course. His father’s face was still, as he listened to the solicitor’s statement. His skin was pale, almost translucent, like the grease proof paper his mum had used when baking her special cakes. Harper would sit on a stool, in the kitchen of their cavernous Victorian house in Heswall, his legs dangling, watching her work. He didn’t care about baking. He didn’t even care about licking the bowl, but it was better than frowning at his homework.
The picture on the screen flicked, and then cut to a close up of Harper, also outside the Old Bailey. It was strange seeing himself on camera. His accent, the burr of a near Liverpool upbringing, a posh plastic scouser, his mates in the city called him, sounded broader than he recognised, and what was going on with his hair? The curls headed north, like an exclamation mark, but the money spent on the suit was worth it. Too many officers appeared on camera looking like they’d crawled out of an Oxfam donation bag. At least they had some seniority on their side to make up for it. Lee wanted to look good, but he also needed to look good, to look serious. Successful. Prime time news coverage.
The picture snapped off. His dad put the remote back on the table and picked up his copy of the Times.
“What did you do that for?”
“I thought it had finished.” He was perusing sports pages, pretending to read. Henry Harper hated sport. Harper reached for the remote. Henry moved it out of reach. “It will have finished now. I prefer to read my news, not have it talked down to me.”
No doubt the papers would have lurid headlines about the case tomorrow. His dad would probably put those pages straight in the wood burner.
“We think Digby killed at least another four girls. We’re hoping he might confess now. We’ll work on him, for sure.”
“Prostitutes, though.” Henry Harper flicked through the paper, and found the page he had been pretending to look for.
“They still deserve justice.”
“I thought police resources were over-stretched. They’re always complaining about it.” Henry folded the paper into half and then a quarter, and put it on his knee, crossword face up. It was already half completed. Harper could see his father’s arthritic scrawl. “18 across, ‘be conscious of the sea, perhaps, aboard ship,’ eleven letters.”
“I did good here, Dad.”
Henry tapped his pen against his lips, eyes narrowed.
“Aren’t you interested?”
“Shearwaters… of course. Hear waters. SS being the ship prefix. Do you know what SS stands for?”
“No.” It was wrong to want to take your own father by the shoulders, and shake him until he listened. Until he looked at you. Until he acknowledged you.
“Screw steamer. A ship driven by propellers or screws.” Henry chiselled the letters into the tiny squares. “Not very cleve
r, really.”
“I’m on my way into Scotland Yard now. My presence has been requested by the Assistant Chief Constable.”
“Are you sure? He’ll be on the golf course by now. Or,” Henry chuckled, like a wheezy old car, “he’ll be strapped to the headboard in some sleazy hotel, being spanked by one of those prostitutes you’re so fond of defending. God knows why you have sympathy for them.”
“You can listen to the voicemail, if you like.” He sounded like a child, trying to wriggle out of some misdemeanour.
Henry wafted a hand at him, gaze fixed to the crossword.
“They’ve got something big they want me for. I can’t tell you what, because it’s not in the papers and won’t be, not for a while, but it’s ultra-sensitive. They need someone they can trust. That’s what they said, Dad.”
“Have you asked yourself why they want you?” Henry put the paper down, and looked at him. “If it’s so high profile, they must have hundreds of senior officers, with years more experience than you, that they could send. You only graduated out of their little college a couple of years ago.” It had been six years, not that he’d expect Henry to know. He hadn’t bothered to come to the ceremony. ‘Not like a real graduation,’ he’d said.
“Because of my work record. Because of the Digby case. You heard what the parents said about me. This could mean I’m up for promotion. To Detective Chief Inspector. It’s almost unprecedented for someone under thirty.”
“Almost unprecedented. Besides, they’ll tell you anything to get their own way.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re supposed to be street-wise, dealing with the underbelly of society. How can you be so naive about the world?”
“Do you ever actually listen to the drivel that comes out of your mouth?”
“People above you in the hierarchy. Your boss, his boss, and his boss after that, all the way to the top. Those grateful parents criticised the entire Metropolitan Police. They didn’t praise the police force, they only praised and thanked you. You think your bosses will have enjoyed that? You think your bosses like you making them look stupid?” Henry slowly shook his head, and raised his eyebrows.
The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 6
