“I think they were friends. I think they may have confided in each other. But, they weren’t sleeping together.”
“You can say that so definitively?”
“Michale’s gay. I’d stake my life on it.”
“He’s married.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, Beckett knew how ridiculous and out of touch they sounded. “Obviously, not openly gay. So, why do you think he is?”
“Because it takes one to know one.”
Now, he felt really stupid and awkward.
“You never said,” he added quickly. “Not that it matters.”
“Why would you assume I was straight?” Harper seemed to be enjoying Beckett’s discomfort.
Beckett started the engine. “You’re sure about Michale?”
“You mean how accurate is my gaydar?”
Beckett glowered at him. “I’m sure it’s not fool proof.”
“I know what it means when a man looks at me, like Michale was looking at me. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice? Do you get the vibe when a woman gives you that ‘look’?”
“Sometimes.”
“To be fair, women are harder to read than men. I’m… 97% sure? Is that good enough?”
“Does Sophia know?”
“She’s pissed off at him, for some reason. Either she’s fed up of being the beard, or she thinks like you did; that Michale was shagging Danni.” Harper lifted a shoulder noncommittally.
“If Danni was cheating on Patrick, it wasn’t with Michale.”
“But, if you suspected it, and Sophia, too, then Patrick might have assumed the same. That’s motive. We need that alibi confirming. Or rather, not. Where now? The station? We’ve still got Warren locked up.” Harper clearly wanted to change the subject.
“A small detour first.”
Harper glanced at him, about to protest.
“We need to see if Troy wants to press charges, before we decide what we do with Warren.”
Harper shrugged. Not happy, but with no argument he could make.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Harper thought about protesting against the visit to Mitchell Troy’s, but figured Beckett would go with, or without, him. Better to be with him, and know exactly what was said, so he could report back accurately.
Beckett flicked on the radio, as they headed back up the impossible road away from the Bay. His mood was dark. Conversation not encouraged. Surely there had to be more going on here than Beckett disliking Troy? Whatever Beckett had been through and done, he was clearly an intelligent and perceptive man, not given to random vendettas and conspiracy theories. That didn’t seem to fit his profile at all.
The music on the radio was traditional Greek bouzouki songs. Harper wasn’t sure which was worse. The music itself, each song a slight variation of the one which came before, with a slow hypnotic beat and wailing voices, or the crackle, buzz and screech of the terrible reception. Nothing set Harper’s teeth on edge as much as a badly tuned radio.
“You got any other music?” he asked.
“There might be a CD in the glove compartment,” Beckett muttered at him. “I don’t really listen to music.”
“How can you not love music when your dad is Faulkner Lis?” Harper asked, clicking open the panel in front of his knees.
“Because we don’t have to be like our fathers.”
Harper thought of his dad. He’d be sitting in his front room, having walked to the news agents for his paper. Cup of stewed tea on the side table next to him, adding another circle of damp to the collage of Venn diagrams. BBC news would be flickering on the television, volume set to mute, so that he could shout at the news reports with anyone challenging his views. As the day progressed, he would flick channels to find his favourite knowledge-based quiz shows, where he would answer all the questions correctly. If the quiz show host declared a different answer, then he was wrong and a fool, and a letter of complaint would be fired off to the production company. He hoped Beckett was right.
Harper craned his neck, and put his hand into the glove compartment. His hand alighted on something smooth and square, which felt like a CD case. He pulled it out and something heavy came out with it, thudding to the floor.
The CD was one of the Tempest’s – their fourth album called, The Lion Whispered.
Harper eyed Beckett, who glanced at it.
“Faulkner thinks it’s hilarious to put his CDs in my car.”
“You never listen to them?”
“I think I used it to scrape ice off my windscreen back in London.”
Harper couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
“Do you mind if I…?” He waved the CD case at Beckett. Beckett shrugged, and the silver disk slid into the stereo. Within seconds, the sound of waves crashing over rocks and the distance beat of drums filled the car. Satisfied, Harper bent to retrieve the object that had fallen to the floor.
It was a handgun, encased in a battered leather holster. A Glock 26.
“You might want to put that back,” Beckett said, his tone flat. “So I know where it is, should I need it.”
Harper stowed it back in the glove compartment, and sank into his seat. He hated guns. Even thinking about them gave him a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach.
He’d done the firearms training. Not because he’d wanted to, but because his superior officers had wanted him to, and he wanted promotion. The training officers down at the MPSTC at Gravesend had been impressed. They considered him an excellent shot, he topped his class, and the instructors had recommended him for further training. But, despite the ease with which he’d picked up the skill, the way the grip seemed to mould into his palm and the trigger mesh with his finger, and how effortlessly he found the target, as if his thoughts alone were carrying the bullet wherever he wanted it to go, he went away feeling sick.
Hitting paper and card targets, shaped in vague resemblances of human beings, was one thing. It didn’t matter how many bullets you put in them, the expressions on their faces never altered. The thought of a small, lead bullet tearing through skin, exploding blood vessels, splintering bone, thrashing and shredding flesh and muscle, horrified him. That he, with the neat metal tool, could inflict that damage, so easily, simply by squeezing a trigger with one finger. He did not want to be the person who squeezed that trigger. He did not want the responsibility. But, for the man behind the steering wheel, it seemed to be as casual a happening as paying for a loaf of bread. He kept his gun, that small piece of death, in his glove compartment. Like a box of tissues… or an unwanted CD.
Harper knew from what he’d been told of Beckett’s history using a weapon was something he’d had to do a lot. He’d killed people, put bullets in them. Dealt death. Hard to imagine such a quiet man, who seemed more attune to this little Island, shooting anyone. It was only in a few unguarded moments Harper had seen the killer behind the eyes—seeing Mitchell about to be flattened, tackling Warren. When listening to Beckett talk about Troy, to Troy, he saw flashes of it, but it went just as quickly.
It was impossible to imagine what it must feel like to kill someone. Did it get easier the more people you killed, to the point where you were prepared to hurl you and someone else off the top of a block of flats? Harper was pragmatic. There needed to be people like Beckett in the world, to protect others, people like him, who didn’t want to do the dirty work. The soldiers in war zones. Even the specialist officers in the Met. He didn’t want to be one of them, and wasn’t sure he trusted a man who had travelled so far along that path. At least the officers in the Met had a massive organisational and procedural structure behind them. And soldiers had their battalions and regiments and their superior officers.
Out here, on this little Island, far away from the limiting force of British regulations, in a place where he did not know the rules, he felt vulnerable. Now, he understood why being chosen for this job was not necessarily a vindication of his ability. Maybe it was more because he was expendable. They’d taken advantage of his ambition. Well, damn them. He
wasn’t going to let that happen. Beckett might think he was in a Western, bringing the man in the black hat to justice by whatever means it took or destroy what was left of his career trying. The only option left to Harper, as he saw it, was to keep the investigation legitimate, identify the killer, and get him charged as quickly as possible. What Beckett chose to do once Harper had left the Island was entirely up to him. He just had to keep control of him until then.
Mitchell Troy’s place was about ten miles from Beckett’s farm, further south down the Island. He owned about 500 acres in total, which included olive groves and a vineyard. The land extended from the forested hills in the north, down to a fertile valley, which ran down the middle of the Island. Over the years, Troy had purchased more and more land from the locals, spreading his domain wider and wider. The villa itself was nestled into the last of the hills, so it looked out over the flat expanse of the valley. With the land jutting up almost vertically up behind it, the two squat, square towers at both ends, and the battlements on the roof terrace, it looked more like a fortress than a Greek Villa.
The hulking iron gates at the bottom of the drive were guarded by bronze griffins, perched on massive gateposts, and an electronic keypad. Beckett didn’t recognise the disinterested voice, which crackled through the speaker, and then, without acknowledgment, disappeared. After a couple of seconds, the gates swung into motion, and let them through.
Harper had been quiet since he’d picked up the gun. He hadn’t seen a stop off at Troy’s as a priority, but hadn’t protested. Perhaps he saw it as another opportunity to report back to London on Beckett’s mishandling of the case. It would have been more tactical to drop him off at the station, let him loose in the incident room, let him talk to Warren even, freeing up Beckett to prod Troy all he wanted, without prying eyes. He’d never been great at playing games. ‘You do what you think is right, and sod the consequences,’ was how Faulkner had summed him up. He wasn’t sure if it had been a compliment, or a criticism. He’d been in hospital at the time, leg in traction mending, whilst his career was disintegrating around him.
Beckett glanced at Harper, wondering if he needed to brief him, or, at least, tell him to keep quiet. He was taking everything in, the long, winding drive between rows of grapevines, eyes widening when the house emerged like a charging behemoth from the trees above them, as the drive swung northwards.
“I thought your dad had the nicest place on the Island.”
“Faulkner’s is pretty average. This place is something else entirely.”
“He built this himself?”
“There used to be a little farmhouse where the fishing lake is now.”
“I guess he wanted a fortress, not a farmhouse.”
Garden terraces framed the house, vegetation gushing down lush and flowing with colour and opulence. It always made Beckett think of the hanging gardens of Babylon. Where the house was slab-fronted and brutal, the gardens were an abundance of natural beauty. It was an uncomfortable contrast.
Mitchell was already waiting for them, as they pulled up on the gravel area running around three sides of the house. There was a cluster of parked cars. Mitchell’s Porsche, a two-seater BMW sports car, a couple of bulky 4x4s, and a brand new Mini. None of them red.
Mitchell strode to meet them, smiling, arms outstretched. He couldn’t look more relaxed or more welcoming.
“Beckett. Good to see you again so soon, and DI Harper. Welcome to my humble abode.”
He said it with just the right amount of self-mockery, eyes twinkling. He exuded magnanimity. Beckett half-expected a gaggle of orphans to dash out from behind the house, and erupt into a joyous chorus from Annie, with Mitchell as Daddy Warbucks. He shook the image from his mind. One of the horrors from his early childhood, being dragged to the West End by Faulkner, and being left in the auditorium, whilst Faulkner disappeared with a fan – all blonde hair and scarlet lipstick.
“Is this a good time?” Beckett asked, returning the handshake and the smile, though he knew his eyes betrayed him, “We have Warren Nock in custody, and I need to know if you aim to press assault charges.”
“I thought we’d been through all this, Inspector? I’m not going to press charges. The man is clearly upset, and not without reason. If you need a statement to tidy up the paperwork, then I will gladly provide one. It seems trivial work for two senior officers, but as you are here, why don’t you come inside, have a drink, and we’ll get it over and done with. It won’t take long. You saw most of it yourselves.”
“That would be very helpful, Mr. Troy.” Harper nodded.
“Mitchell, please. Come on in.”
Mitchell led them through a side door, down a cool marble clad corridor, and out into a huge, glass-fronted living room that, with the glass panels slid out of the way, ran seamlessly outside into a terrace, with endless views down the valley.
A bank of sofas ran around one end of the room, encircling a massive wall-mounted television screen. CGI alien soldiers were silently blasting hideously deformed zombie like monsters at the behest of a lad, late teens, who was sprawled on the sofa, so hypnotised by the battle, he did not notice their presence.
“This is Callum, my son. I’m not sure you’ve ever met him, Beckett. He’ll have been in school back home when you were here chasing Spiros. He’s all grown up now… but not so, as you’d notice.” Mitchell picked up a cushion, and lobbed it at the boy. It connected perfectly with his head. He spun around, pulling down his headphones.
“Piss off….” His voice trailed away to nothing on seeing the two strangers.
“I’m so glad the extortionately expensive private education has been worthwhile.” Mitchell rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, whatever.” Callum pouted. He was baby-faced, with arching eyebrows and a dimpled chin, marred by a sullen expression.
“You’d think with all that money they would have taught you how to write the bloody computer games, so you could earn your keep,” Mitchell looked back at Beckett and Harper. Beckett watched the colour flush into Callum’s cheeks, and a nerve twitch behind his left eyebrow.
“Maybe I should ship him off to join the army. See if he’s as good at killing living, breathing alien nations. But, I already know the answer. He’s too bloody useless to be any good in the real world.”
Callum jumped to his feet, and stomped out onto the terrace to where a girl was swimming lengths of a pool. Beckett could just see her head bobbing up and down.
“I was sitting outside about to eat lunch. Shall we…?”
Mitchell directed them onto the terrace, where a large canopied table housed a tray filled with jugs of what looked like freshly squeezed orange juice. An outsized barbeque housed sizzling meat – kebabs on long skewers, steaks, chicken pieces – and there was already a pile of meat set out on plates on the table and a huge bowl of Greek salad. Becket wondered if Troy was doing the cooking, or if a member of staff would pop out from a concealed door to turn the steaks at regular intervals.
“Please help yourself, if you’re hungry. As you can see, there’s plenty to go round.”
Beckett shook his head.
“Should we come back another time?” Harper pushed his chair back a little. Callum had taken up residence on a sun lounger. The girl swam up to him, he leaned forward to say something to her, and she looked around at them.
“Now is good. But, DI Harper, you have to eat. It’s basic human physiology.” Mitchell speared a chicken leg, with a long silver skewer, and passed it on a plate to Harper. “Surely you’re a little bit tempted, Beckett? A man cannot live off nicotine and Mythos beer alone. Unless you’ve turned vegetarian. Understandable, after finding Spiros the way you did, I suppose.”
Beckett shook his head ignoring the dig.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Daddy?” The girl eased out of the pool, and drifted over to them.
Beckett knew, because of the party Danni had been working, that both children had just turned eighteen, but whereas Callum still looked l
ike a child, all puppy fat and scowls, the girl was anything but childlike. Her body curved like a pear, her breasts threatening to spill out over the top of her bikini. There was no shortage of confidence, her white micro bikini hid little. She was pretty, but her mouth had a turn to it that made her look permanently displeased, and her eyes were a sullen green. She way she looked at Harper was the way Harper was looking at the array of meats fanned out before him.
“Of course, my darling. These are Detective Inspector Harper, from the Metropolitan Police, and Inspector Kyriakoulis. They’re here about that missing girl’s fiancé.”
“The one who decked you this morning?” Callum had wandered over, picking up a kebab with his stubby fingers.
“This is my daughter, Lily.”
Beckett nodded at her. Despite their differences, now they were standing together, he could see the resemblance to her brother. They both had the round, baby like faces, which were almost handsome and almost beautiful.
“We’re also investigating the murder of Danni Deacon.”
“That girl on the beach?” Lily stared down at him, meeting his gaze.
“That’s right. Did you know her? Any of you?” Beckett looked at each Troy in turn. Each one shrugged, and shook their heads. Harper’s focus was now on the conversation, not the food. “I am correct in thinking you had a party here last Tuesday evening?”
“That’s right. It was the kids’ eighteenth,” Mitchell answered. He was still relaxed, one arm swinging over the back of his chair.
“Michale Bakas did the catering?”
“That’s right. He’s the best chef on the Island.”
“Danni Deacon was one of his waitresses. She was working here, at your party, on Tuesday night.” Beckett waited. Mitchell sat up in his chair, and pushed it away from the table. The kids blinked, not sure what to say.
“That’s awful.” Mitchell ran a hand through his hair. “Poor girl. I had no idea. There were four or five waitresses serving that night. It sounds horribly snotty, but I don’t really notice them when we have events. We have so many guests, and my focus is always on them.”
The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 14
