He sipped his beer, and studied a couple of photos standing on the mantelpiece of the real wood fire. A young, eight or nine at a guess, blond-haired boy clasping hands with a stunning ice blonde woman in a fur coat. Her natural beauty was quite breath-taking, but the way she looked at the camera, with only the ghost of a smile, suggested an ocean of discontent. The boy, had to be Beckett, alongside his mother.
The second photo was recognisably Beckett, early to mid-twenties, in a military uniform, wearing a green beret. The similarity between Beckett and his mother was now unambiguous. Harper got closer to the photo. The insignia on the beret said, ‘Intelligence Corps,’ the motto under the photo, ‘Knowledge gives Strength to the Arm.’ A lesson not to underestimate the now frayed around the edges man, who’d appeared quiet and unassuming, but had already fooled him once into thinking he was a mere taxi driver? Harper sank into the Italian leather sofa, and took another mouthful of beer. He felt uneasy. This was supposed to be his chance to shine.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You look like shit. And you smell worse.” Welsh Nik pushed his sunglasses onto his head, so he could get a better look at Beckett.
“I’ve had three hours of sleep, and spent half the night taxiing my new assistant around, so unless you’ve got anything helpful to say…”
Nik had been mercifully quiet up until that point. They’d headed out of the harbour just after dawn, and watched the sunrise wrap its arms around the island in silence. Beckett half thought Nik had gone back to sleep, and had wedged the steering wheel between his ankles.
They were in a medium-sized motor boat, one of the fastest in Welsh Nik’s fleet, heading up the coast. It was early, the sun fresh in the lavender blue sky. The air was cool, the sea still, as if the world was holding its breath. The only waves formed were from the progress of the La Perla. There was no one else around.
“This’ll do. Can you stop for a minute?”
“You dragged me out of bed, told me it was urgent business, and now you want to stop in the middle of the sea?”
“I can’t have you being seen with me, if I look like shit. I need to freshen up. If you’d just…” Beckett circled a finger at him. Nik clamped his sunglasses back over his eyes and turned around.
“If I help you to catch this bastard, will I get any credit? Something I can put on my website? As endorsed by etc, etc…”
Beckett peeled off his clothes, piece by piece, t-shirt, jumper, trousers, and boxer shorts. The air felt like velvet against his skin, his muscles started to unknot.
“Someone is dead, remember.”
“Yeah, which is why I’m not in my bed at half past six in a morning. But, business is business.”
Beckett shook his head at Nik’s back.
“Don’t sail off.”
He dove into the water. Fingers slicing into the stillness, head, arms, then body and legs enveloped by ice and freedom. It was so cold, his lungs tightened as the air in them contracted, but he pulled himself downwards with powerful strokes. His knee did not trouble him in the water. It felt, too, like the world couldn’t trouble him down there in the silence, with the dark below, and the distorted shimmer of light and life above. If he kept swimming down into the peaceful dark, who would he meet?
His lungs started to scream, and survival instinct took hold. He kicked hard with his legs, and burst through the surface, water cascading over his head as he took a deep breath. He climbed back on the boat, and grabbed the towel Nik had thrown for him.
“Feel better now?” Nik was laying on the seats behind the steering wheel, eyes shut, hands behind his head. “Can we carry on?”
Beckett put back on his clothes.
“Much better. Thank you.”
They sailed on, Beckett studying a map. He could feel Nik watching him.
“What’s he like then, this English policeman?”
“About twelve years old. I think he’ll be okay. Though, he did mistake me for a taxi driver.”
Nik threw his head back laughing hard. “Doesn’t say much for his powers of deduction. Though, you do look more like a taxi driver than a cop.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, he better not start throwing his weight around. The days of the British empire are long gone from here.”
“You love the Brits. You wouldn’t have a business without them.”
“Of course I love them. I laugh and talk to them, and take their money. They are my friends, when they are here. But, then, off they go again. That’s the way we like it. We don’t want them ordering us around.”
“That won’t happen. I’m in charge, and he’s just a kid. He’s good, but inexperienced.”
“That’s what they might have told you, but they will try and take control. That’s what they do. They can’t help it.” Nik frowned, as a thought came to him. “In fact, this British bobby must have left the UK almost before your lovely boss lady had agreed to him coming. They’ve taken control already.”
“Do you want to concentrate on driving the boat? I know you find it hard to do more than one thing at once. We don’t want to hit a hidden rock and sink. I might not be feeling generous enough to save you.”
Nik couldn’t swim; a surprising gap in the skillset of a boat yard owner. One of the phrases he trotted out for the tourists was, ‘That’s why I have boats. If I could swim, I wouldn’t need them,’ along with using it as a guarantee about how safe his boats were… so safe swimming skills would never be necessary.
“You’d never let me drown. Hell, you’d save Hitler.”
Beckett ghosted a smile, but went back to his map. He didn’t save everyone. In fact, as far as some people went, it was quite the opposite.
“Do you know what are we looking for?”
“The bay where we found the body. This one here.”
They rounded the headland. From this perspective, it looked even more difficult to access. He couldn’t see the golden crescent of the beach. It was too obscured by the shark’s teeth rocks.
“We can’t get in there in this.”
“You’d need a smaller boat?”
“A small rib would do it.”
“You wouldn’t want to travel far into one, with a body on board you were intending to dump, and the sun coming up.”
“No, not far at all.”
“So, they probably launched from another bay, either further along or back the way we came.”
“Any further, and the coast line is more exposed, more chance of getting seen loading a body into a boat.”
“Back the way we came then.”
Nik turned the boat around. Beckett looking at the map, and then he shoreline. They passed two more bays, but with no road access. Beckett shook his head, and they sailed on. They rounded another outcrop of rock, and there was a large shingle beach tucked up against a sheer cliff on one side, but a gently sloping cluster of trees on the other.
“This one. Can you land?”
***
Under instruction, Nik stayed by the boat.
There was a road on the map leading through the trees right down to the beach, but the local maps were notoriously unreliable. What looked like a road often turned out to be no more than a rabbit run, perhaps once passable by donkeys. But, rough and pockmarked as it was, this was definitely a road, with a semi-circle of dirt nudging up to the beach, perfect for parking and turning cars. And there were tyre marks—fat, heavily treaded ones, and another set, very different. Much thinner, too thin to be belong to a car. Motorbike perhaps or a trailer. A boat trailer.
Beckett crouched down to inspect them, before following the tracks, careful not to step in them, up from the beach. The smaller tyre marks trailed the bigger ones; definitely a trailer. He looked back to where Nik was laying in their boat, dead to the world. You could reverse a car and trailer right down to the water. The shingle wouldn’t leave any marks, of course, but there were plenty of indentations in the dirt of the road and turning space. They had to be recent. The rain from Saturda
y night would have obliterated any made before that.
He hobbled back down to Nik. The shingle was uneven beneath his feet. This time yesterday, he’d have been in curled up in a ball on the floor trying to walk across it. Now, it was bearable. Thank god for chemical intervention.
“This is the place they launched from. There’s lots of tyres marks on the track above the beach.”
Nik opened his eyes.
“Why not dump the body here? Why go to all the trouble of launching a boat, and sailing up the coast? Where’s the sense in that?”
“The other beach must have meant something to the killer. Perhaps to the killer and the victim. They took a big risk in putting the body where they did, and by phoning us to bring it to our attention.”
“I thought you said a passing fisherman phoned in?”
“You can’t see the beach when you sail past. You have to go right in, around the rocks. I bet you’d have to be almost on the beach, before you could see it.”
“Which means…?”
“The person who phoned in must have been involved.”
“They killed someone, and then, rung to tell you where to find the body? They don’t sound very smart. You’ll have caught them before this English Detective wakes up.”
“Maybe. All of this, Nik, the details, are strictly confidential of course.”
Nik held his hands up.
“Of course.”
Beckett didn’t believe him for a second. As soon as Nik was back at base, he would be telling anyone he could collar about his dawn trip to the murder scene. He’d embellish his role, and divulge wild and wonderful theories. It was the way of the Island. Beckett hadn’t mentioned the arrival of the English Detective. Nik had already heard that from someone else, before Beckett had opened his mouth.
Keeping anything confidential would be almost impossible, but in this case, it might help. If the information about the phone call, and the boat and trailer, found its way back to the killer, it might unsettle them. And any strange behaviour made them easier to spot, for him, his officers, and family and friends. They might even hand themselves in. Or it could make them panic, and kill Emmie. It was a risk he had no choice but to take.
“You can head back now. I’m going to walk up the track to the road.”
“You’re done with me? My role as trusty and dependable sidekick is over?”
“Appreciated, as ever.”
“Be careful my friend. The murderer might be around. Returning to the scene of the crime.” Nik pulled a scared face, then grinned.
“Thanks for the concern.”
Beckett kept to the edge of the track. It was drier under the trees, but the imprint of a vehicle and trailer were still visible. Two sets, one up and one down. They’d have to do a search of the track, and into the trees on each side. Back in Athens or London, you’d have a hundred officers all briefed and primed within a couple of hours. He kept his eyes on the ground, but there was nothing. Time of death meant Danni had been killed a few hours before she was dumped on the beach. So, the body would either have been in the boat already, or in the car. If there was any evidence from the body, it would be by the shoreline. He’d seen nothing, but the search would concentrate there.
The track climbed gradually, and wound between the tortured trunks of olive trees. The sun wasn’t old enough in the sky to have generated much heat, and it was icy cool under the canopy. The shattered light, refracted by leaves, had a green hue. It was a different world to the brash yellow and blue of the beaches. There was no sound, no breath of wind. But, there were creatures out there. The Island teemed with wildlife, feathery, furry and scaly, with wings or legs, or without either. Thousands of pairs of eyes, perhaps watching up from the gloom. This was their place, not his… so why were they so silent?
Beckett thought he heard something ahead. The sound of a car engine, slowing down, stopping. A door slamming. He’d called Tomas from the beach, and organised a patrol car to meet him at the top. He didn’t want any tourists or locals deciding today was the day they wanted to visit the beach and destroy evidence.
He could see the black ribbon of tarmac through the trees, and as he rounded the last corner, he could see the car. A blood red hatchback parked across the entrance to the track. Not a patrol car.
Another two strides, and he could see someone hunched down in the gloom next to the trunk of an olive tree. What were they doing? Stopping for a pee?
“Hey there,” he called.
The person was on their feet, and back in the car. Beckett started running. The engine fired into life, and, with tyres spewing out muck and gravel, accelerated away. Beckett reached the tarmac, as the red car disappeared around the corner.
He turned back to the tree. There was a bouquet of flowers, yellows, pinks and blues, tied with a red silk ribbon. He crouched down, and skimmed the note – a hand-drawn love heart and one word, ‘Danni.’ There was something looped around the ribbon—a bracelet. Beckett pulled latex gloves from his pocket, snapped them on, and lifted the bracelet away from the bouquet. It was a leather friendship bracelet, with three silver beads, each one engraved with an intricate design. The light under the trees wasn’t bright enough to see the detail, but he didn’t need to. He’d seen a bracelet just like it once before. Found a bracelet just like it once before. His stomach clenched.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Harper stood on the terrace, gazing across the pool to where it merged with the ocean and with the horizon beyond. The ferociously blue sky, the deeper blue of the sea, and the aqua of the pool melded together beautifully. Green clad cliffs rose and fell to his left and right, rocks jutting out into the blue, with tantalising hints of gold. Tiny silent boats passed beneath, leaving their white trails behind. He’d never stood anywhere more beautiful or breath-taking. He felt an urge to phone someone, tell them where he was, take a photo with his phone, and text it. But, he didn’t know anyone who would care.
The heat was starting to build. He could feel it stealing into his skin. He was tired. A few hours on one of the sun loungers beckoned like a drug, but Beckett was due soon. He’d found an iron in one of the kitchen cupboards, and easing all the creases out of his clothes felt like a priority over more sleep.
Back inside, Harper started the search for an ironing board. He remembered what he thought might be a walk-in cupboard in the corridor leading to the locked room – perfect place for an ironing board. He dropped a hand to open the door, but his attention snapped to the keypad of the locked room. The red ‘locked’ light, which had sparkled on the keypad, was now shining green.
He approached the door. Hesitated. Listened. The house was silent. He was sure he was alone. He put his hand on the door, and pushed. It gave to his pressure, and swung open. Noise exploded back at him, so loud, so intense, it stunned him for a moment. Then, it dawned on him. He had walked into a recording studio. He was in the control room, the mixing desk arcing out in front of him. Beyond, was a huge glass window. The noise, a searing, majestic, squealing electric guitar, was blasting through the open door from the studio room. A man, short, stocky, with a mass of curly, silver hair, was firing the fingers of one hand up and down the neck of the guitar, plunging at the strings with the other hand, creating a magical thunderous incredible sound. He was completely immersed in the music he was creating. Harper drank in the sound with awe. The range of sounds one man could conjure from a simple guitar and a set of amps always astounded him.
The noise built to a crescendo, and the man spun around, as if the music was surging up from the floor through his body and out through his hands. He was the music. He grinned and nodded at Harper, and continued playing, clearly loving having an audience. Harper felt like he’d slipped into a parallel universe. He recognised the man. The crooked nose, the mouth, which seemed to take up half the face, the ever-present dimples, and the blue eyes, which always seemed to be laughing. Harper had watched the face age in fast forward. Album covers, videos of concerts from the last few decades, i
nterviews on TV. There was no mistaking him. This was Faulkner Lis, lead singer and guitarist with one of the biggest prog rock bands of all time, Tempest. A rock god was playing right in front of him.
Harper’s mind ran through the rock posters on the walls, the luxury of the villa, the slight reticence of Beckett when asked what his father did for a living. Why the hell had no one thought to tell him? Beckett Kyriakoulis’ father was Faulkner Lis. How could he not have known? In the back of his head, where all the music trivia was stored, a little voice popped up, reminding him that Faulkner Lis’ real name was Constantinos Kyriakoulis. He was born in Farou, moved to London in his teens, started the band, and changed his name, in tribute to his favourite writer, William Faulkner.
“You must be Harper.” Faulkner put the guitar to one side, and offered his hand. Harper shook it, trying to organise his thoughts into something sensible. “Beckett sent me a text to say you were staying. Think I probably forget to text him back to warn him I was on my way.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll pack my things; I’ve used some milk, but…”
“Shut the fuck up,” Faulkner cut him off, clapping him on the shoulder, and grinning. “You’re more than welcome to stay. Hate being here on my own. And you’re obviously a music fan, unlike my son. Do you play?”
“No. A bit. Not really. Not like… that…”
“It’s just practise. We’ll have a jam sometime. If Beckett lets you out to play. How… erm… is he? This, erm… dead girl… the case… it’s not… he’s, erm… Look, d’you fancy a coffee?”
As Beckett drove to his dad’s place, winding the car up the cliff road, he could not get the image of the bracelet out of his head. The last time he’d seen it, or rather its twin, he’d been sitting in the Chief’s office, with Rosie Payne’s parents, explaining to them the bracelet had belonged to their daughter, and had been found in the possession of the man suspected of killing her. Beckett hadn’t told them Chrystos Spiros had been wearing the bracelet. That he collected jewellery from each of the women he’d raped, and was wearing every piece when Beckett had found him. He also didn’t mention how when he had crept into the clearing in the forest where Chrystos had been hiding, the Fiend had been eating the flesh from around the cheek bones of Panos Myron, a local man who’d chosen to conduct his own manhunt, and ended up in one of the bear traps Chrystos had set up around his camp.
The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 11
