“We’ve been having thunderstorms. Feels like we’re due another one,” the man said, as if reading his thoughts. “Here we are.”
The car in front of them bleeped as it unlocked. The Range Rover Evoque was pulled up onto the pavement opposite the entrance, not in the taxi rank. It was a hell of a nice car for a taxi, if more than a bit bruised, but then, most taxis looked like they’d been through a battle or two. A wing mirror missing, gouge on the rear wheel arch. Still, a step up from Mondeos, Mazdas, and black cabs, with their sticky seats, but other countries seemed to use classier cars for their taxis, Mercedes and the like. Harper opened the rear door, and climbed in praying the air conditioning was working. The driver hesitated for a moment then picked up his suitcase, and stowed it in the boot.
Harper drank in the air conditioning, and relaxed into the butter milk leather seat. Occasionally, he saw the driver glance at him through the rear-view mirror, but he tactfully stayed quiet. A good taxi driver was a bad conversationalist in Harper’s mind. Negotiating the roads out from the airport was smoothly done, and Harper had to force his eyelids apart. Flashes of imposing, amber-coloured stone buildings, neon lights, and people passed by. It was early morning, but many people were still out partying.
The lights and buzz of the town were soon left behind, but it became harder, rather than easier, to fall asleep. The speed of the car increased, the eager burr of the engine pulling them along, but the road began to twist and turn and rise. Below, to his right, was the black of the sea, as they hair-pinned up and along the coastline. The car rallied around the bends, bounced through craterous potholes, and ducked into impossible gaps when cars and buses came the other way. One turn of the steering wheel too far, one crumble off the cliff edge, one opposing driver with too much booze in him, and they would be plunging down the rocks into the black hole.
Harper was now wide awake, gripping the door handle. Every few miles, they’d pass through a cluster of houses where the road would narrow to barely a car width, round sharp-edged houses, or the road would descend to the shoreline, and pass through villages alive with bars and music and lights and people launching themselves into the traffic with no warning. The driver negotiated it all without stress.
“This is Rakos, where you are staying. Your hotel is at the far end. It’s one of the busier resorts, as you can see. Lots of kids come here, first holiday without their parents. Families, not so much.”
Harper could see why. The place was pulsating light and noise. Every building seemed to be a bar or a restaurant, a karaoke palace, or a night club. There were thousands of kids spilling in and out of each one. It was impossible to distinguish where the buildings ended, and the pavement began. Kids were throwing up in the road, pushing each other up against walls, kissing, groping, and laying on the ground wrapped around each other. Drinking, smoking, dancing, pushing, shoving. London night life could be intense, but this was something else. All inhibitions had been left at passport control.
The car stopped. The driver had wound his window down, and was staring outside. He was lost, perhaps understandably. The mass throng of partying kids obscured everything. But, then, Harper saw what the driver had seen. Tucked behind the crowd, at the entrance to a side street was a figure, wearing a black hoodie, with a silver lightning bolt skewered across the back. One-by-one, kids would approach him, hand him something, and take something in return. Impossible to see what, in the gloom, but Harper didn’t need to see it to know the man was dealing. It didn’t matter what country in the world you were in, the body language of the drug dealer and their customers was the same.
“You fit?” the driver said softly.
“What?”
But, the driver was already out of the car, and weaving through the crowd. Harper hesitated, then followed. The driver was tall and easy to tail amongst the partying crowd. He had a slight limp; Harper had noticed a walking stick in the front passenger seat, but he moved confidently, people subconsciously getting out of his way.
As they emerged from the crowd, the dealer sensed a presence, looked around, and flicked something in his hand. His customers melted away. Neon light glinted on metal. He had a knife.
“That’s not very friendly, is it?” the driver spoke. He sounded almost amused.
“Fuck you,” came the reply in a heavy Eastern European accent and the dealer was off, sprinting down the side road.
“You go after him. I’ll get the car,” the driver shouted over his shoulder, as he ran in the opposite direction.
“What?” Harper found himself saying, again. He watched the driver being swallowed back into the crowd, and then, the other way to the dealer disappearing into the darkness. “Bollocks to this.”
He started sprinting, after the dealer. He was about fifty metres ahead and running hard. The back alleys and streets were a labyrinth, illuminated only by the flashes and reflections of light from the main streets and bars. The dealer twisted and turned, up alleyways, down roads, doubling back on himself. Harper wasn’t gaining ground, but he wasn’t losing any either. He was disorientated, his lungs starting to burn. He could hear the throb of music, and something else… cars on a road up ahead. What the hell was he doing pursuing an armed man, on his own, in a place he didn’t know? He had no radio to call for back up, and even if he’d had one, who would he call? It was insane.
The man suddenly darted right. Harper followed, and the beach and sea came into view ahead. The man kept running, out of the end of the street, heading for the beach it seemed, but he had a road to cross first. Harper sensed the car before he saw it, and then the man, unable to stop, half jumped, half catapulted over the bonnet, and disappeared over the other side with a sickening thud.
“Shit…shit…” he yelled. He’d chased someone to their death in the first hour he’d been on the Island. His career was over.
Harper stumbled out into the open. The car was familiar. He stared at it. It was the Evoque – the car which had promised him death earlier, had now ploughed down the man he had been chasing. He rounded the front of the car. The driver was standing over the groaning body of the drug dealer. There was no blood, and nothing looked horribly broken. A small crowd was growing, as people spilled out of tavernas and night clubs, to see what was causing the commotion.
“Jesus Christ. Have you called someone?”
“Like who?”
“Ambulance? Police?”
“No need.” As the driver spoke, the sound of sirens wailed into earshot, and within moments, police cars screamed up from two directions.
“Great. Now I get arrested.”
The driver looked at him with his half smile, which was starting to get irritating.
“Why will you be arrested?”
“We both will. I chased the man, and you ran him over.”
“I told you to chase him, and he ran into me, I didn’t run over him. Technically, there’s a difference.”
Four policemen, all four armed, all four looking less than friendly, advanced on them, weapons raised.
“He was driving.” Harper half put his hands up. “I’m a British police detective.”
“I suppose we’d better get him to hospital. The knife is over by the kerb. It needs bagging.”
“Boss.”
Harper did a double take. Why was the taxi driver giving instructions to the uniforms? Why were they doing as he told them? He turned to the driver, his heart sinking like a concrete block in his chest, as realisation dawned.
“Welcome to the Island of Farou, Detective Inspector Harper. Chief Inspector Kyriakoulis. Beckett.” He stuck out his hand. His grip was strong, and he stared deep into Harper’s eyes as he shook. Harper felt his whole soul being assessed in those few seconds, and it made him uncomfortable, “Apologies for the slight diversion. Hotel?”
***
“You can’t stay here.”
Even with such late notice, there had to have been better rooms available than the one Beckett and Harper were standing in now. To descr
ibe it as a lean-to shed was to be generous. Positioned at the back of what was already the cheapest and shabbiest hotel in the town, there was a bed which looked like it had been reclaimed from the dump, the mattress a kaleidoscope of stains. There was a walk-in cupboard missing a door, which, on closer inspection, was not somewhere to put clothes, rather it housed a cracked toilet and a shower head thrusting from the wall like a rotten tree branch. The rancid smell of drains cloaked the room, and stuck in the back of the throat.
The room had been selected specifically to demonstrate how grateful the local police were for the British police officer’s presence. Beckett felt ashamed, even more so taking in Harper’s reaction. Revulsion had flickered over his face, but then had been pushed away, the man determined not to show his emotions. Beckett figured Harper was well-practised at hiding his feelings.
“It’s fine,” Harper said, his voice tight. He’d stayed silent in the short drive from the beach to the hotel. He’d run a hand through his hair, and smoothed his shirt, but had otherwise done nothing.
“It’s not fine. It’s a shit hole. I apologise.”
“You seem to do that a lot.” Harper regarded Beckett, his gaze measured.
“Do what?”
“Apologise.”
“Not something you make a habit of doing?”
“I don’t make many mistakes.”
“Like failing to recognise the difference between a taxi driver and a senior detective?”
Beckett expected Harper to flush, or at least blink. He did neither.
“You could have introduced yourself. Appearances can be deceptive.” Harper stared at him, conker brown eyes hard. “But, if it helps, I apologise.”
Beckett matched his gaze for a few moments. Most people were easy to read. Most people gave things away about themselves, without opening their mouths. The young man in front of Beckett was not like that. It was like looking at a blank space; if it wasn’t for the fact he was distractingly handsome and dressed in carefully chosen extremely stylish, and no doubt expensive, clothes, you’d could forget he was there altogether.
“Come on.” Beckett smiled. “You can stay at my dad’s place. It’s only a couple of miles, up the coast. He’s away so the place is empty.”
“Is that appropriate?”
“It’s just a place to stay.” Yelling erupted outside the shed, the sound of a dozen or so lads returning from their night out off their heads, throwing bottles, and singing tunelessly. “You’re going to need to get some sleep, if you’re to be of any help to me.”
Back in the car, Harper fell silent again. When Beckett had been given his name, he’d done what anyone would do. He’d made some phone calls to the friends he had left at the Met and hit Google. The Met contacts had nothing surprising to add to what Beckett had already learned. Harper was bright, ambitious, but wasn’t a team player. Officers that worked for him, or with him, did not like him, trust him, or feel like they knew him, even after a long investigation. He didn’t adjourn to the pub with his teams. He didn’t join in with the practical jokes or bacon buttie rounds. They followed him, because he knew what he was doing, and got results.
Harper had an almost supernatural ability to remember details, and could recite from memory every police manual, procedure, and relevant piece of legislation. He didn’t just do things by the book. He was the book. No one had ever seen him get physical. He did not get his hands dirty. He was the complete embodiment of a modern detective, so popular with those in charge, those so far removed from the real world, they thought all investigating should be done from behind a computer. The consensus was the bosses loved him, and the rank and file did not.
The description of a man devoid of social niceties was an interesting contrast to the press release from the parents of Jodie Cox. Plus, in the statement made by Harper shown on the BBC website, Beckett had seen emotion. Heard it, too. Perhaps it was reserved only for victims, but it was there, buried behind the protective layers of a computer screen and a television camera.
And he’d certainly got his hands dirty in the short time Beckett had known him. When Beckett had asked him to go after the drug dealer, he’d expected him to refuse, and had been surprised when he gave chase. He was even more surprised to find the man hurtling over his bonnet, with Harper close behind.
“Has the boyfriend’s alibi been confirmed yet?”
Harper’s voice was so soft, Beckett had to strain to hear him.
“We’ll be working on that today.”
“The semen found in the dead girl?”
“Danni Deacon.”
Harper gave a nod.
“If it’s a match for the boyfriend, we will have it confirmed today.”
There was silence for a moment. Beckett concentrated on negotiating the tight bend, and spotting the turn off to his father’s villa. It was easy to drive past.
“Murder weapon?”
“Not yet identified.”
“Location of the murder?”
“No.”
“Whereabouts of the victim leading up to the murder?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ve interviewed the boyfriend, and searched their apartment?”
“Forensics will be in there today.”
“And the boyfriend?”
“It’s not him.”
“When you know so little how can you say that?”
“It was genuine shock when I told him she was dead. He wasn’t faking.”
“The evidence will decide that.”
Beckett pulled into a driveway, and wound his window down.
“Rather than gut instinct?” There’s no room for instinct in modern policing. He’d heard that repeated a hundred times back in London, and from his hospital bed, when being told his future with the Met was in a terminal state. Beckett contemplated the security keypad, scrambling through his memory for the code. He hit a few keys, and the eight-foot-high wood panel gates parted like the Red Sea. “Perhaps you’re right, DI Harper. And Patrick Gruenanger is not telling us everything. No question there was something off about their relationship, but if the evidence we find points to him as the killer, then we’re missing something.”
Beckett had given Harper a perfunctory tour of the villa, then had left him to it. Harper was relieved. The villa was mind blowing, and he was struggling to remain indifferent. The gates had parted to reveal a sunken driveway, and rainforest style vegetation banked up on either side, but kept in check by marble retaining walls, embedded with LED lights, which flicked on as they approached. The villa itself was illuminated by the time the car pulled up outside. It was like a modern art installation, carved out of a glacier. Pure white, two storeys, rectangles balanced on rectangles, creating terraces and shade. Even in the pre-dawn darkness, it was impressive.
Harper could have described the interior before the heavy mahogany front door swung open. Creams and whites, clean lines, immaculate maple wood floors. Banks of sofas whispering money, marble clad bathrooms, and with a flick of a switch, a huge terrace, ending with an infinity pool. Beyond the terrace, were the shadows of the cliffs and the dark body of the sea.
“Your dad’s place?” Harper had thought of his own father’s threadbare terraced house.
Beckett was peering into the huge American fridge.
“Not much in here, apart from beer.”
“He doesn’t spend much time here?”
“Not much.” Beckett was opening other cupboard doors. “There’s food in the freezer and some tins. Frozen milk.” Beckett waved a carton at him, and put it onto the worktop.
“What does he do? For a living.”
Beckett had stopped, and looked at him. That half smile returned. “He’s retired.”
“Did alright for himself, then?”
“You could say that.”
“You don’t live here?”
“No. I’ve got a place up in the hills.”
“The olive farm?”
Beckett’s smile widened. He was obvio
usly wondering what else Harper had been told.
“That’s right.”
“There’s me thinking this was up in the hills.”
“Make yourself at home. I’ll be back to pick you up in,” he glanced at the guitar-shaped clock on the far wall, “five hours? 9am, okay?”
As soon as Beckett had gone, Harper poured himself a glass of beer and did a full recce of the place. He had never enjoyed beer particularly, but his brain was buzzing, and he hoped it might slow things down and allow him to sleep.
The villa was not as massive as it could have been. He counted only five bedrooms, in addition to the one Beckett had suggested he use. Each had luxury, hotel standard ensuites, and they all opened onto private terraces, three on the second floor overlooking the gardens, and three to the sea.
The main body of the house was an open plan living, dining and kitchen area, which all faced towards the glass wall and the terrace. The only other room was down a corridor. There was a door at the end, and a security keypad. Whatever was behind the door was kept locked away. Out on the terrace, Harper could see the room, whatever it housed, had large windows shrouded in heavy blinds. A house like this the room was probably home to an art collection, a couple of Monets and a Van Gogh.
The walls of the large living area were adorned, not with old Masters, but a vast collection of rock tour posters—Pink Floyd, Genesis, Jimi Hendrix, Tempest, The Beatles, Rolling Stones. Harper squinted at them – they all appeared to be autographed. There were also a couple of guitars hanging amongst the posters, again signed, one by Jimi Hendrix, if he interpreted the squiggle correctly. Along with the grand piano nestled in one corner of the room, it was plain Beckett’s father was a music fan.
Harper opened a cupboard under the plasma screen recessed into the wall, and found himself smiling. There was a Bang and Olufsen music system, and a mind boggling collection of CDs and vinyl. A quick flick through proved rewarding. An eclectic taste, but one which reflected Harper’s own. He selected one of his all-time favourites, Blood on the Tracks by Bob Dylan. The music rained down from every corner of the room from invisible speakers.
The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 10
