Harper wondered how many of Henry’s under-graduates had been subjected to that withering look, being made to feel as intelligent as an amoeba. Henry was bitter. As a teenager, Harper hadn’t realised it. His dad was a nasty, vindictive bastard. End of story. After his first couple of years in the Force, Harper had seen enough, met enough, and heard enough people with stories to tell, that he understood his dad better.
His father had been the bright, young academic at Oxford, with his doctorate in Classics, and his beautiful wife. But, he liked to give his opinion to everyone, on everything, and he’d failed to get a permanent position. He’d got a Reader position at Liverpool University, the beautiful wife had two beautiful children, but he was passed over again and again for professorship. The beautiful wife died, and the professorship was only gained by a move to a former polytechnic in London. So, Harper could see the bitterness. As Detective Inspector Harper, he could understand the bitterness. As Lee Harper, the son, he found himself visiting less and trying less. He wasn’t even sure why he’d stopped in that evening. Only that he had an hour to kill. He should have gone to a bar, but smelling of alcohol and aftershave wasn’t the right image. His team had gone out on the piss with their old boss, finally let out on good behaviour by his wife after an ill-timed heart attack.
“It doesn’t work like that in the police, Dad. This isn’t academia.”
His father flicked a twisted hand at him, as if batting away a persistent fly. “It works the same everywhere. It’s why I convinced your little sister to start her own company.”
A lie. When Tanya had announced she was setting up a computer software company, Henry had tried to talk her down. Far too risky.
“Have you spoken to her lately? She’s up for an Innovation in Industry award. She said they’d given her the nod that she’s won, but, obviously, she has to pretend to be surprised at the ceremony. The awards are being presented by Prince Charles. Prince Charles.” Henry stressed each word, and glowed as he said them.
“I thought you hated the Royal family. I thought you wanted us to be a Republic.”
“When did I ever say that?”
Repeatedly, when they were growing up, Harper thought.
“Jealousy such an unattractive quality. You should be proud of your sister. Her company has got contracts coming out of their ears. She’s just been to China. Off to India next month. She was always such a bright child.”
His voice dripped with honeyed pride. Married, too, and a mother, to Meg, who’d found her land legs, and was in to everything. There were photos of the happy family splashed indiscriminately around this gloom ridden room. Nicotine-yellowed curtains were glued across the windows, keeping Henry Harper in his own private universe, orbiting his star daughter, her barrister husband, and his beautiful granddaughter.
There was simply no room for Harper. He knew it, was reminded of it at every visit, and after every visit, vowed never to return. Did that make him a masochist? At the very least, a fucking stupid idiot, he told himself, as he got into his car. He glanced at the faded green door, with the peeling paint, the withered front lawn, beaten down by North London pollution, the glow from behind those thick curtains, and wondered what it would feel like to never see them again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Little Bee wrestled the tears back behind her eyes. The aging, fat police officer at the reception desk, whose skin oozed grease and sweat, had rattled Greek words at her like a machine gun. Eventually, in cracked English, he’d told her Inspector Kyriakoulis was far too busy to see her, and that she should leave.
“He hasn’t got time to see little girls like you. You must leave.”
“Please, please, can you tell him I’m here? I’ll wait. I don’t mind. He phoned me. He wants to see me. It’s my friend, the one who is missing,” she pleaded, leaning over the desk, trying to block out the stale smell of sweat. She could feel the hot acid of angry tears advancing, and fought them back. She would not let him make her cry.
He stood up, his belly shaking, as he berated her with another tidal wave of Greek. It didn’t make any sense. The Inspector had left her a message. She’d used the last of her euros to pay for a taxi into town, to save him the journey and save time. It was Sunday evening. What could he be busy doing? Unless Emmie had been found. A chill grew from the pit of her stomach. What else could it be? Her face began to crumple, the tears erupting, and she couldn’t hold it back. A whimper escaped, and she turned stumbling over her own feet. A hand caught her elbow.
“My darling, whatever is the matter?” A woman was looking at her, eyebrows knotted together, gripping her elbow, as if fearing she might fall over. Little Bee hadn’t realised anyone else was in reception. She must have come in, whilst she’d been arguing with the officer. Little Bee stared at her, vision warped by her tears, but she could smell Chanel No 5, the scent her mother wore. “My darling, are you alright?”
“No… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do…” Bee’s words tumbled out.
“Come on now. You will get nowhere with Constable Paxos. He’s an oaf.” The woman glared at the officer. “Let’s get a coffee. I’m sure I can help. I’m Kandace Anastas.”
CHAPTER NINE
“This is as high profile as it gets, DI Harper.” Assistant Commissioner Edelman bobbed his head. “The situation is frankly a disaster waiting to happen. The Vice Consul and Chief of Police out there have filled us in with the details, and they’ve managed to keep it from the press so far, but we need to contain the situation quickly, so when it does hit the media, we are already on it. Even better that we have someone charged and locked up. We have to be seen to be proactive.”
Missing holiday makers, murdered waitresses. On the same Island where, eleven years previously, another British girl had gone missing. The victim was never found but it was presumed she had been killed by the Fiend, who, a year or so later, had gone on a rape spree. ‘Return of the Fiend of Farou,’ ‘Terror Island,’ ‘Paradise Lost’—it was the sort of story journalists dreamed about. Harper had little time for journalists. They seemed to think they had an automatic right to know everything, and share it with the world. Most of the ones he’d had to deal with on his cases had been young, generally attractive, women. They were easy to control. You dropped your voice a couple of octaves, gazed into their eyes, and smiled. You promised them they could have it all, and they went away hearts thumping a little bit faster, and a little bit louder.
“Of course, sir.” Harper loved the AC’s office. It was at the top front of the building. Behind Harper’s back were the whites, greys, and blacks of London’s skyline, cut in half by the river, and shaped by spires and domes, by shards and impossible curves.
“We need someone to go out there, and sort the mess out. It needs sorting quickly and quietly, and we believe you are the perfect officer for the job.”
“Me, sir?”
“That false modesty is quite disarming, Detective Inspector.” The man standing at the window spoke for the first time since they’d been introduced. He was Sebastian Wolf from the Home Office. Harper didn’t trust him. He didn’t quite meet your gaze when you looked at him, and when he had shaken his hand, it was ice cold. He was obviously high up and influential, otherwise he wouldn’t be in the Assistant Commissioner’s office, “But, not necessary in this room. You couldn’t come more highly recommended. Time is marching on, and we need boots on the ground over there. We need to know if you’ll accept the assignment.
“It’s bread and butter to you, DI Harper. You’ve run several major cases. The only difference with this one is it’s on foreign soil. You won’t have the backup team you have here, though you will have full access to all forensic analysis and databases.” The AC clasped his hands together.
“The challenging part will be working with the local police, but I’m sure you can handle them,” Wolf added.
“Who will I be working with?”
“Interesting chap. I don’t think your paths ever crossed, but he used to be on
e of us. Inspector Beckett Kyriakoulis.” The AC glanced at a thick file on his desk, pinned under his elbows.
“The name rings a bell.”
“Highly intelligent, and years of exceptional service behind him, but he took the job on Farou as a kind of semi-retirement. Went back to run the family olive farm. Not to be saddled with cases like these.” The AC pushed the file to one side. “That’s why we need you out there, as soon as possible.”
“But, where have I heard that name before?”
“He ran the Fiend case out there a few years ago.” The AC was starting to sound uncomfortable. The connection now made sense, but that wasn’t where he’d remembered the name from.
“Wait… Beckett Kyriakoulis… wasn’t he involved in the death of a suspect here?” It was coming back to Harper now. He’d been a raw detective constable at the time, out trying to make sense of the sewers of Lewisham. An armed siege, the death of a suspect, and near death of an officer was fodder for the station gossips.
“Strictly confidential, of course, DI Harper, but Inspector Kyriakoulis suffered a breakdown, and that’s why he left the Met and went to work on a peaceful little holiday island.” Wolf pulled a chair up next to Harper and sat down, close enough to make Harper want to shuffle back a couple of inches. “Before he joined the Met, he served in the Army. Did tours in Croatia and Bosnia. Army Intelligence. Bit before your time, I know, but you’ll be aware of the atrocities that went on out there.”
Wolf leaned in even closer. Harper could feel his peppermint breath on his cheek and the hint of an expensive cologne – he could have sworn it was Tom Ford London. He’d only smelt it once before, but it was never forgotten.
“You don’t see what he’s seen, and do the things he’s done, without being affected. It does something to your mind. Skews it, twists it, damages it beyond repair, until eventually, it breaks completely. And once it’s been broken, the mind is left weakened, brittle, less able to cope with stress, without breaking again.”
“You think he’s unstable?” If the gossip was true, Kyriakoulis had gone onto the roof of an apartment block, where a gunman was threatening to shoot a woman and a young child. The boyfriend was already bleeding out on the floor. Kyriakoulis had sprinted across the roof, tackled the gunman, and sent them both plunging over the edge, in an act of either insane bravery or fantastic recklessness, depending on whose opinion you asked.
“No, nothing like that. We’re just worried he won’t be as focussed as he needs to be.”
“So why don’t the Greek Police replace him themselves?”
“It’s a possibility, but he’s a local hero. He has much support out there. They’d only replace him, if he messed up. We can’t let him mess up. We don’t have that luxury. And we don’t really want them replacing him with an unknown quantity.”
“And how is he going to feel with a Met Officer working his patch?”
“Grateful, if he’s got any sense left.”
“And it’s exactly what he did on the Fiend case.” Edelman nodded, “They requested help, and we sent him. So, he knows the score.”
Wolf pushed his chair back and got up. “I’m flying out there,” he glanced at his heavy gold watch, a Rolex, Harper noted, “well, now actually. They must be gunning the engines, as we speak. I will oil the wheels, and explain to them the situation is non-negotiable. If you accept, you’ll follow me over on the next available flight out there, ready to start doing your thing tomorrow.”
“And if they say ‘no’?”
“I hope they understand the term non-negotiable better than you do, Detective Inspector. Let me put it like this. We, the Government, the Prime Minister, want the killer of Danni Deacon and the abductor of Emmie Archer to be found quickly. There’s already a prime suspect in Deacon’s boyfriend. We can rely on you to stay focussed, look at the evidence and not be tempted off on any flights of fancy. I’m sure you’ll have this wrapped up in less than a week. And when you return to your duties here, you may find yourself waking up each morning, looking in the mirror, and finding the youngest DCI in the history of the Met looking back at you.”
“What do you say, DI Harper?” the AC asked.
This was the case he’d been waiting for. He had been personally selected by the Assistant Commissioner, and given the nod by the Prime Minister. He was being flown in to sort out a crisis, and would be returning the hero. The case did not sound complicated. All he had to do was find a connection between the missing girl and the dead girl, not hard on a small island, and bingo. His brain was already whirring through the processes and procedures he would need to put in place, the questions which would need asking. He was so good at this job; it came as naturally as breathing. Harper felt himself smiling, as the adrenaline started buzzing through his body. He pushed his dad’s nagging suspicious tones out of the way.
“When do I leave?”
CHAPTER TEN
“This is a beautiful house.” Little Bee’s gaze swept the room.
It was like an interior from one of the glossy lifestyle magazines she flicked through at the hairdressers. Homes for millionaires. From the outside, it had appeared to be one of a terrace of slender but unremarkable houses, in varying shades of butter yellow. Inside, it was all polished oak floors, grand vaulted ceilings, and soft furnishings so opulent the reds, purples and golds seemed to ooze out of them. The interior and exterior of Kandace Anastas’ house matched perfectly. Bee had never met anyone quite so glamourous. She wondered if she was a famous Greek actress, but didn’t like to ask, in case she should have recognised her. She was being so kind, and Bee didn’t want to risk offending her.
“That’s very sweet of you. It was a rotting shell when we bought it. Luckily, my husband is an architect.” The husband, who was at least twenty years the junior, had taken Bee’s hand to greet her, and then made himself scarce, “I thought we’d be more comfortable here than in a restaurant. People have a habit of staring when someone is upset. Please sit. I will make the coffee.”
Bee perched on the edge of a hulking crimson sofa. The cushions were so huge, like great red clouds. She was afraid if she sat back, she’d sink so far in that she’d never get out.
The room she assumed was a kitchen was through a double width doorway. She could hear cupboard doors and cups being clanked, and Kandace’s voice, talking in Greek. She must be on the phone. Her tone was insistent, and even though Bee couldn’t understand a word, she seemed to be asking questions of whoever was at the other end of the call.
Her own phone started chirping. She still wasn’t used to the different ring tone, or how to pick up the call. It kept ringing and ringing.
“Stupid, useless phone,” she muttered at it. It clicked as the call connected. Voice activated hands free.
“Beatrice. It’s Inspector Kyriakoulis. Were you just at the station?” The call echoed out on speaker phone. Bee searched the screen, but couldn’t see how to turn the speakers off.
“Yes. I got told you were too busy to see me. I got your message. I thought I was helping.”
“Things are a bit… hectic. I’m sorry. The officer on reception said you went off with Kandace Anastas. Are you still with her?”
She lowered her voice. “I’m at her house. Do you know her?”
“She runs the newspaper. Can you come back to the station now? Or I’ll come and get you. I need to talk to you urgently.”
“Urgently? It took me over an hour to get here in a taxi. And then, you were too busy. Kandace is being nice to me.”
“Of course she’s being nice. She’s a journalist.” His tone was so condescending; she could feel him sneering down the phone.
“She might be able to help me find Emmie. Unless… what’s going on? Have you found her?”
“I don’t really want to do this on the phone.”
“You’ve found her. Is she hurt? Tell me please.”
“No, we haven’t. But… there was a body of a girl found this morning. It’s not Emmie, Bee. It’s defini
tely not Emmie.”
“Are you sure?” Bee felt like the world was spinning around her.
“Yes. 100%. The body… the girl… has been identified. But, that’s why I wanted to tell you in person; to reassure you. We’ve no reason to think there is any connection to Emmie.”
“How did she die?”
Silence.
“How did she die?” Bee heard herself shouting.
“She was murdered,” Kandace interrupted. Bee looked up. She’d no idea how long the journalist had been standing in the room. “A contact at the hospital confirmed it.”
“Bee. Is this on speaker phone? Please come to the station now, and we can talk.” Kyriakoulis sounded calm, but Bee could hear the insistence, the desperation, in his voice. Her thoughts raced. A murdered girl. Emmie was still missing. Perhaps Emmie was dead, too, or would be soon. Or, if there was no connection, then that was bad, too. All the police’s efforts would be concentrated on finding the murderer. They’d forget about Emmie.
Kandace put a hand on Bee’s shoulder, and sat next to her.
“I can help you. The police have done nothing so far to find Emmie. We need a public appeal. Someone may have seen her. We need everyone on the Island looking for her. The police won’t want that. Trust me. They’ll want to keep it quiet.”
“Bee. Listen to me. I can help. I will help. Please let me,” Kyriakoulis pleaded. “Kandace, you promised you’d wait.”
“I didn’t know the circumstances, then. If your intention was to protect Beatrice, then that need is over. She knows the facts. If your intention was to protect the reputation of the police force, then I’m sorry. You might have a murder victim. We have a missing girl, and we need to find her.”
“Bee. Please come back to the station.”
The phone felt hot in her hand. Kandace’s arm squeezed her shoulders, face was etched with understanding.
Bee hit the end call button. The room went silent for a moment, but the phone started chirping again. Kyriakoulis’ name appeared. Bee’s finger squeezed the power button. The chirping stopped, and the screen went black.
The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 7
