The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller

by Angela Corner

  “I thought the body had been washed up on the beach by chance, not dumped?” Wolf asked. His vowels were perfect, and carefully formed. Private school educated, Beckett guessed. Eton, probably. It wasn’t just the voice. It was the way he wore superiority around his shoulders, like a cloak.

  “That’s what it looked like at first glance. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “You’re not sure?” Wolf rolled the words around his mouth. “Interesting.”

  “And the missing girl? Any connection to Danni or her boyfriend?” Ticknall chipped in.

  “None that we’ve found so far. Danni and Patrick have been living on the Island for over a year. Emmie Archer has never been here before. She arrived last week, with her friends, to celebrate her wedding, which is due to happen next week. Her fiancé is staying in Rakos. They hadn’t planned to meet up again until the wedding.”

  “You’ve spoken to him, the fiancé?” Wolf asked.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “You didn’t think it a good idea to go and see him?” Wolf tilted his head, and pursed his lips.

  “Emmie’s friends thought it was most likely she’d got cold feet, and wasn’t ready to tell him the bad news. I had the local police check out his hotel, and monitor him and his friends. There was no sign of her there.”

  “So, he doesn’t know she’s missing yet?”

  “I’m sure he knows now.” Baptiste sneered.

  “I’ve already got an officer on the way to see him,” Petrakis said.

  “Who have you sent?” Beckett asked, the pain in his temple pulsed. He was losing control of the whole situation.

  “Sergeant Tomas. He’s going to invite him to come to the station tomorrow, so we can talk to him. The locals are going to keep him under surveillance, as they are doing with Danni Deacon’s boyfriend.”

  “You let him go?” Ticknall rubbed his temple, as if mirroring Beckett’s pain.

  “At the moment, he’s the grieving boyfriend. He came into the station of his own accord. We couldn’t hold him without arresting him, and we don’t have enough evidence to do that yet.” Petrakis shrugged.

  “Your resources sound like they are being stretched to their limits.” Wolf glanced at the heavy gold watch on his wrist. It radiated expense. “The question is, can you handle what is now turning into a major multi-faceted case, or do we have to take over?”

  “Take over?” Petrakis’ voice was sharp, worried.

  Wolf’s rapid presence now made more sense to Beckett. He was a fixer.

  “Just as you brought Inspector Kyriakoulis in when you needed to find the Fiend, we can do the same this time. Provide an experienced officer from the Met. It worked well last time.”

  “Beckett, Inspector Kyriakoulis was different. He might have been a British police officer, but he’s a half Greek. He has an affinity to the Island and the people, and they to him,” Petrakis added.

  “This crime, or crimes, happened on Greek soil, and we have jurisdiction.” Baptiste barked, and his left foot started drumming the carpet.

  “I’m surprised,” Wolf scoffed. “You seem to be the person in this room who has the least faith in Inspector Kyriakoulis being able to conduct this investigation. I thought you’d leap at the offer.”

  “To bring in another Greek officer, yes. To have your Metropolitan Police take over the case? That would be the same as saying the Hellenic Police Force have no one competent enough. That we are amateurs. No, I will not allow it.”

  “I have to agree with Baptiste.” Petrakis nodded. “Having foreign officers take over the case would not work. It would cause resentment amongst our officers, and hostility with the locals, both of which would get in the way of the investigation.”

  “I wasn’t sent here because I needed a little jolly in the sunshine.” Wolf picked up a framed photo from the desk. It was a press shot of Baptiste, shaking hands with the Greek Prime Minister. “As soon as we were told of the British victim, concerns were raised within the Government. And nothing I have witnessed so far reassures me.”

  “We will handle this ourselves,” Baptiste spat his words out.

  “I’ve heard the Chief’s opinion, and I’ve listened to yours, Mayor Sarantos. Perhaps I should ask the Inspector what he thinks.” Wolf directed his gaze at Beckett. “Your arrest and conviction record is impressive, both with the Greek Police and at the Met. You’ve provided many years of diligent service, and I’m sure I speak for everyone in this room, when I express gratitude for that work. However, you are clearly not at full fitness, and this is, I am sure, not the sort of case you thought you’d have to ever deal with again, when you took the job here. It will be physically and mentally stressful, and no one would think any less of you if you decided to… well… take a back seat. Let someone else take arms against a sea of troubles.”

  Wolf licked his lips, and his mouth curled into a self-satisfied smile. Did he really see Beckett as the mad Prince of Denmark, who might prefer suicide, or rather early retirement, than chase this case down to the end? But, maybe, he was right? This was only day one, and he was exhausted. His brain felt like it was being embalmed from the inside out. What if he wasn’t capable of running this case? What if he’d already screwed it up? What if he’d missed something crucial, and Emmie was dead because of it? If he was doubting himself how could he, with any conscience, carry on? They were offering him an out. Let someone else take the pain because there would be lots of it. What more did he have to prove in his career? This couldn’t be about his ego. It had to be about the girls, Danni and Emmie.

  In Beckett’s mind, he was suddenly back on the beach, but this time, the storm was crackling overhead, the sky swirling with impenetrable blackness, and explosions of lightning illuminated the thuggish clouds. Beyond the rocks, at the mouth of the bay, the sea was a roaring and foaming darkness, and the bay itself gurgled and wretched like a rabid dog. A floating body would be ground and splintered against the rocks, before it was ever pushed onto the beach. He glanced up to the path he himself would half scramble, half fall down, in a few hours’ time. Dark water and debris surged down into a waterfall of mud and branches. Impassable either way.

  Beckett turned his head back to the cauldron of the sea. How, then? Time fast forwarded to dawn. The storm had subsided. The sky was clearing, and a rose-coloured hue hinted at the horizon. The sea still bucked and swayed, but the violence had dissipated, and the rain was misting down in whispers, rather than torrents. Rounding one of the rocks at the headland of the bay was a small boat. It bobbed its way to the shore, where it ran onto the beach. He couldn’t see the detail of the boat or the person in it, but he saw them drag a body out of the boat, a blonde girl in a pink dress, lift her over their shoulder, and carry her to above the water line.

  They laid her out, on her front, went back to the boat, and sailed away, as their footprints dissolved to nothing in the wet sand. Beckett gazed down at Danni. Abandoned. Utterly alone. All that she might have become, gone. Her family. Her friends, their lives ripped in two, changed forever. Had she known death was coming? Had she been fearful? In those last moments, had she hoped she would be saved? But, no one came, and no one saved her.

  “No one is better placed to know the best approach here. Say the word, and responsibility can be absolved.” Wolf clasped his hands together, and waited.

  “Beckett?” Petrakis prompted. “What do you think?”

  Baptiste clicked his tongue against his teeth.

  He looked at them. They stared back at him.

  He stood up. He was a head taller than all of them. They seemed to shrink backwards, all apart from Wolf. Beckett directed his gaze at him.

  “Thank you for your concern. But, this is my case. I will find who killed Danni. And I will find out what has happened to Emmie.” He switched his gaze to Petrakis. “Things aren’t going to be pretty. The media attention will only get worse. Innocent people will be affected. But, only so we can catch the guilty. And we will. I just need to know I have your su
pport.”

  “You know you do. We all want the same thing. Don’t we, Baptiste?”

  “The Hellenic Police Force will prove itself to you, Mr Wolf.”

  “Words are worth nothing, Mayor Sarantos. Let me thank you for your candour, Inspector, but let me be clear on where we stand.” Wolf rubbed his hands together, as if they were cold. “The British Government is nervous, after certain recent cases, and wants to be seen to be proactive in looking after its citizens’ interests abroad. But, we, of course, respect your sovereignty. However, perhaps I can suggest a compromise? Would you at least let us send an officer over here? To work with Inspector Kyriakoulis. It would still be your case. He, or she, would have no jurisdiction, beyond what you choose to give them. An extra pair of very well-qualified hands, to use as you think fit. What do you say?”

  “It’s really not necessary…” Petrakis began.

  “It would look like we were not confident of solving this ourselves. It would make us look weak.” Baptiste nodded. “If we were to bring in anyone else, it would be from within the Hellenic Force, not from outside.”

  “I’m afraid we really must insist. This comes from the Prime Minister himself. He has discussed this with me, and….”

  “Actually, another officer on the team would be helpful,” Beckett cut him short. “My officers are keen and dedicated, but lacking experience. Someone who has worked major cases would be an asset I could use on my team.”

  “Excellent. Well said.” That curl of a smile crept over Wolf’s face, but Beckett could feel Petrakis and the Mayor’s disapproval simmering from across the room. “I’ll get the necessary in motion.”

  “Beckett might be able to suggest some possible names?” Petrakis offered.

  “I worked with some good officers when I was in London...” Beckett nodded, starting to sift through names and faces in his head.

  “Oh no. You don’t get to choose. We’ve already handpicked the best person for the job. He’ll be flying out tonight, and be with you early tomorrow morning. Don’t worry. You won’t be disappointed.” Wolf smirked, satisfied. “Trust me.”

  That phrase always reminded Beckett of his dad, who’d once said to him the last person you should ever trust was the person who said ‘trust me.’ There weren’t many things his dad said to him that he paid any attention to, but this was one which had always stuck in his head.

  Petrakis waited until the door had shut behind Wolf and Vice Consul Ticknall, before turning on Beckett.

  “On one hand, you stand up and shout about your confidence in yourself, and on the other, you bow down to them, and admit you cannot cope on your own.” Santos shook his head. “They will try to make us look stupid. Like your predecessor and my predecessor did, when you caught the Fiend. Their man will report back every little detail, every little mistake.”

  “And then, take all the credit when the case is solved. We will be made to look like peasants,” Petrakis joined in.

  “You didn’t seem to have a problem with me standing down altogether.”

  “An honourable discharge and replacement with a bright and successful product of the Hellenic Police Force’s training scheme. What is not to like in that? But, this? For them to try and take over. This Island is not part of the United Kingdom, however many of their rich and famous politicians, businessmen, and celebrities have holiday homes here. This is Greece, and I am a proud Greek. Can you say the same, Inspector Kyriakoulis? Which one of your passports means the most to you? The British one, or the Greek one?” Santos paced the floor underneath the portraits of serious faced mayors of the past.

  “Right now, all I care about is finding Emmie Archer, and arresting whoever killed Danni. And I will do whatever I have to do to make that happen. Is that acceptable to you both?”

  Petrakis nodded. Beckett looked at Baptiste.

  “They don’t fly someone as senior as Wolf over here in a private jet, unless they are going to impose certain things on us. If we’d said no to all offers of help, that jet would be heading off to Athens. You’d be overruled, and we’d all be side-lined.”

  “How did you know he came on a private jet?”

  “He couldn’t have got here that quickly on a scheduled flight. This case is shaking some big trees in Westminster. If we want to keep control, this is the only way to do it.”

  Baptiste held his gaze for a few long moments before looking away. “Just do your job. And whoever they send over, put him in charge of making the coffee, and mopping the floors.”

  Outside the City Hall, Petrakis hesitated at her car door. The night air was heavy with humidity and the heady scent of cestrum flowers.

  “You really are up to this, Beckett?” The anger gone, instead, Beckett sensed desperation. “I never told you this, but you were my choice for the job, not Baptiste’s. He’d got someone else in mind, probably the same person he’d bring in now to replace you on this case. He took some convincing. He wasn’t sure any connections to Chrystos was a good thing… and with how things worked out in London for you… Don’t prove him right and me wrong. Please. Agreeing so quickly to the Met sending someone in makes me worry you doubt yourself.”

  “You backed me for the job. Nothing has changed since then. Trust me.”

  There was that phrase again. He said it without thinking, but as it left his mouth, he thought again of his Dad.

  “Okay. I do. Now, go home, and get some sleep. You look like shit.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Harper was not in the best of moods. The Easyjet flight from Luton had been crowded with comedy t-shirts, flip flops, and too much makeup. Most of the passengers had checked in their bags, then gone straight to the bar. By the time the plane was accelerating along the runway, the alcohol fumes were already being recycled by the air conditioning, and the squealing from the women and the hollering from the men had practically burst his ear drums. He’d never understood the desire people had to get totally and utterly wasted, especially on holiday. Why travel thousands of miles to get so drunk, you have no idea where you are? And getting yourself to the point you had no control and no memory of what you were doing…

  He couldn’t get the image of Sebastian Wolf sitting in a private jet, sipping an expensive single malt, out of his head. Wouldn’t it have made sense for him to travel on the same plane, rather than this airborne cattle truck?

  As they came into land, the lights of the Island sparkling below, the bleach blonde stick, with the baby blue eyes sitting next to him, who’d tried her best the whole flight to attract his attention, grabbed his hand.

  “Really sorry. I hate landing. Especially here. Do you mind?” She squeezed. The scent of Calvin Klein Eternity wafted up from her cleavage. Harper forced himself to smile, and turned his head to look out of the window. He wished he hadn’t. They were about to ditch into the sea.

  “Jesus.” He found himself squeezing back, as the plane dipped, swayed, and then, bounced its tyres onto the runway.

  “See what I mean.” The girl untangled her fingers. “You’d think they’d build the runway in the middle of the Island, not in the sea.”

  It was a stampede to leave the plane. Elbows and shoulders pushing to be the first out, and even then, they seemed to have been abandoned in the middle of the tarmac, and had to wait for a bus. The wall of heat hit Harper as soon as he’d taken his turn out of the plane door. The air was heavy, clogged with moisture, and unfamiliar perfumes so permeated the air, he could taste them as much as smell them.

  It took nearly an hour for the carousel in baggage reclaim to creak into life, and start spewing out their suitcases. Some people had fallen asleep, but others seem to have discovered more alcohol, smuggled in from the plane presumably. Two blokes, with identical hairstyles, shaved at the sides, long angular fringe on top, started throwing punches at each other. The girls with them commenced screaming. If this was the UK, Harper supposed he’d have had to wade in, but his jurisdiction here was specific to the murder, and he kept his gaze on the car
ousel. His head was thumping, and he could feel trickles of sweat meandering down his back.

  With relief, Harper grabbed his case, and shuffled, along with the other passengers, down a shabby corridor, with exposed pipework like varicose veins weaving above them, through double doors into the freedom of the Arrivals Lounge. It was chaos. Throngs of people waiting behind barricades, shouting, holding up signs for hotels, travel companies. Holiday reps yelled instructions, trying to herd their respective clients towards the correct shuttle buses, and taxi drivers waving names or just touting for business. After three hours on a cramped tin can, being swept from the cool clear London air to this pungent sponge of a place, the cacophony of noise, the heat, and the carnage felt like a slap round the face. He stood, shell-shocked, with his suitcase, in his suit trousers and casual shirt, feeling like an alien amongst some shorts and sun-hatted species.

  Amongst the din, he heard a shout. An arm was waving at him. He stepped forward, and saw a man, amongst the other taxi drivers, holding a piece of paper with ‘Harper’ written on it, in big, bold letters. The man was a head taller than those around him, and blond, where the other taxi drivers were coffee-coloured and dark-eyed. Harper wondered if they’d specifically selected a driver who stood out from the rest. Made him easier to spot certainly.

  “I’m Harper, Detective Inspector Lee Harper. I assume you’ve been sent to collect me? Do you speak English?”

  The man in front of him nodded, and his mouth twitched with a half-smile. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones. Harper wondered if they ever got fed up of late night airport runs, dropping off the hung over, and collecting the drunk.

  “Not perfectly, but yes. Please follow me. I’m right outside. Good flight?”

  “Now I know what a battery chicken feels like.”

  The man glanced at him, but said nothing.

  “Have we got far to go?”

  “Your hotel is about a forty-minute drive.”

  The glass doors slid open, and the humidity and fragrant aroma hit Harper once more. How did people work in this sort of heat? In fact, how did they sleep? It was nearly 3am.