“Any other suspects?” Petrakis snapped.
Beckett hesitated, and then went to speak. Petrakis held up a hand. “If the name ‘Mitchell Troy’ comes out of your mouth, I will snap off each of your fingers, and feed them to my dogs.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Beckett caught Harper smiling.
“Danni was at Troy’s, two days before she disappeared. We know Rosie was up there, too, the evening she disappeared. The bracelets they wore were almost identical, definitely made by the same person. That’s two connections we can’t ignore,” Beckett continued on.
“How can you possibly know the bracelets are the same after all this time?”
“I had the case files brought out from the archive.”
“You did what? Oh, never mind. We know who killed Rosie, and he is safely locked up in a secure hospital. And, yes, I checked. He’s still there.” The exasperation sprayed from Petrakis’ lips.
“The drug in Chrystos’ system was identical to that found in Danni’s. That’s connection three. Rosie had a tattoo, as did Danni. Connection four.”
“Don’t you think you’re grasping now?” Harper interrupted.
“You know, I never believed Chrystos killed Rosie.” Beckett ignored Harper, and focussed on Petrakis.
“He told you he got the bracelet off Rosie’s body.”
“But, he didn’t say he killed her.”
Petrakis started shaking her head, like a slow hand clap.
“If I’m right, then whoever did kill Rosie could still be on the island. They’ve killed once. Perhaps, they’ve done it again.”
“Mitchell Troy, you mean?”
“We need to speak to Chrystos. I need to ask him about Rosie.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After the altercation with Warren, Mitchell Troy had insisted on buying her a coffee, strong with lots of sugar, which Bee didn’t want, and didn’t enjoy. She forced herself to drink it, and thanked him over and over. How far in someone’s debt could you plunge? she had wondered. He seemed such a nice, genuine man, but the encounter with Inspector Kyriakoulis had thrown her. Kyriakoulis was a policeman, therefore had to be a good judge of character. It kind of went with the job. He and Mitchell had obviously come across each other before, and the shape of Kyriakoulis’ face had changed, as soon as he saw the older man. Bee was surrounded at work by people who she knew hated each other but smiled, shook hands, grasped arms, and asked all the right questions—partner, kids, this year’s holiday. Kyriakoulis had made no attempt to hide his revulsion, she could think of no other word for it, at seeing Mitchell. If Kyriakoulis, an inspector, hated someone so much, there had to be good reason, didn’t there?
Mitchell hadn’t mentioned it. He’d chatted away, as they’d drunk their coffee. Trying to get her mind off the confrontation with Warren and Emmie, still whereabouts unknown, he’d asked her about work. What it was like surrounded by the machinations of government, what her ambitions were, how often did she get to meet the PM? She’d told him a junior researcher spent most of their time photocopying. Machinations of any kind were reserved to remembering who had what drink. Her ambitions were to not get fired, and the closest she’d been to the PM was when she saw the back of his head across the other side of the office. Mitchell had laughed. She wanted to ask him about Kyriakoulis, but didn’t dare, and when he looked at his watch and said he had to go, she’d been relieved.
She decided to do a spin around town. Posters of a sunshine-filled Emmie were stuck on lamp posts and in windows. Occasionally, Bee would stop and ask people if they’d seen her, pointing out her photo to them. She’d got used to the stock response of a smile brimming with sympathy, and a shake of the head, usually accompanied with an ‘I hope she turns up soon,’ or an ‘I’m sure she’s fine.’ It was disheartening, and after a while, she stopped asking, and just wandered up and down the streets, into and out of the bars and cafes, wishing Emmie would appear in front of her, knowing it wasn’t going to happen.
Her aimless wandering found her on a side street. She’d gone into a taverna at the front, and exited at the side. Disorientated as to which direction she should turn, Bee stepped off the kerb and straight into the path of fossilised Land Rover. She stepped back to the safety of the pavement, as the car pulled up in front of her, and a wiry man shot out from the driver’s seat. He had a mane of silver hair and a grizzled face, which reminded her of the miniature schnauzer living next door to her parents. He didn’t appear to notice her, as he bounded across the pavement into the art gallery occupying the slot on the street next to the taverna.
The Land Rover was rainbow-coloured. None of the four doors were the same colour, the bonnet was faded crimson, and the body a sickly green. It was unique, and a memory triggered in Bee like an electric shock. She’d seen the Land Rover before, in town, prior to Emmie going missing. In fact, Emmie had pointed it out, saying she’d love one just like it.
There was something on the back of the passenger seat. A silk scarf, white with red trim. Bee stepped closer, her heart thumping. On the scarf were delicately drawn flowers, blues and reds, purples and golds, and the strong green tentacles of stems, branches and leaves, entwining each other. Bee opened the door, and reached in to uncurl the bottom edge of the scarf. Her hands were trembling as she revealed the word ‘Valentino.’ It was Emmie’s scarf. Bee had been with her when she’d bought it six months previously at Liberty’s. Emmie loved that scarf. She took it everywhere, wore it everywhere. It was too much of coincidence there were two identical scarfs on this small island. Surely?
Bee glanced into the back of the car. There were no seats just boxes, blankets, a chainsaw, and a tarpaulin. Nowhere to sit, but plenty of places to hide. She scurried to the rear door. It resisted, then opened. She scrambled in, shut the door, and buried herself under the tarpaulin. The smell pierced her nose. Musty, yet sweet. It felt damp, and her scalp felt itchy. She wriggled into the foetus position and waited.
A couple of minutes later, she heard the driver’s door open, and the man grunt as he got back in. He was humming, but not a tune she recognised. The sound of her heart beating was so loud she was sure it would give her away, but the Land Rover shuddered and spluttered into life, and with a crunch of gears and a jolt, they were moving.
The Land Rover’s suspension was so unforgiving, and the roads so potholed and subsided, that Bee’s spine cracked and groaned. Her left shoulder was pressed up against a hard piece of metal. At every recoil, it dug further in. The smell from the tarpaulin was making her eyes water, and she so desperately needed to cough.
The man’s humming turned to singing as he swung the car around a sharp bend. A passable version of Nessum Dorma echoed throughout the car, but she still didn’t dare make a sound. Her mobile phone. The thought of its presence in her pocket made her go cold. If it rang now, she would be in trouble. It was in her front trouser pocket, stuck between her leg, and the floor of the car. She tried to move an arm to get her hand in her pocket, but it was impossible. She was wedged in. To get it, she’d have to sit up.
If I think about it ringing, it will ring. Bee forced herself to think of other things. Count to fifty in French – but she could only get to ten. Name ten different breeds of dog. Remember all her classmates from primary school. She’d got to the last one, Graham Swinburne, when the car turned a corner, slowed right down, and started bouncing and swaying even more violently than before. It felt more like being in the bottom of a boat than a car. But, then, the brakes squeaked, and they stopped. Bee heard the driver’s door open, and the man jump out. The sound of his footsteps got fainter and fainter, until there was only the sound of birds and cicadas left. She sat up, pushing the weight of the tarpaulin off her, and opened the rear door.
Bee was in a clearing between olive trees. The drive they’d come up was behind her, and disappeared back into the gloom. Peering out from behind the shelter of the car, she could see a large log cabin, with a veranda which reminded her of the Deep South of the US, c
omplete with swinging wooden bench and hammock. There were a couple of crumbling stone buildings, which looked like they’d been shaken into place rather than built, a raised vegetable patch, bursting with foliage, and a large wire enclosure, containing twenty or so chickens, who were too busy scratching at the ground to notice an intruder.
There was no sign of the man. No sign of anyone. Thinking of all the police shows she’d watched on television, Bee knew the importance of evidence was crucial. She took out her phone, and snapped a photo of Emmie’s scarf draped over the back of the passenger seat. She huddled against the side of the Land Rover, she typed a text, ‘I’ve found Emmie’s scarf in this car. Don’t know where I am. The car is a Land Rover.’ She sent it to Kyriakoulis’ number, then took another photo of the registration plate, and sent that, too
“What do you think you’re doing?” a Cornish voice called out.
Bee spun around. The man was rushing across the clearing, silver hair billowing out behind him like a steam train.
“You won’t get any signal up here.”
Bee glanced at her phone. He was right. Neither text message had been sent. Her back was pressed up against the car, the metal cold against her skin. The messages would sit on her phone, until she made it back down the mountain to semi-civilisation.
“Who are you?” The man stopped about five metres in front of her. She hadn’t noticed before, but he was dressed in a sapphire blue kaftan and a pair of leather sandals, which looked like they’d been chewed by a large dog. He wore a leather cord necklace, above which bobbed a pronounced Adam’s apple around sagging skin and silver mottled stubble. Both forearms were painted with tattoos of ships, dragons, and Celtic patterns.
“I’m here on holiday. I was out walking. I got lost.” Even to herself, Bee’s voice sounded shaky and unconvincing.
The man tilted his head to one side. He didn’t believe her. “Really? Why would you be walking out here?”
“I told you. I got lost.”
He stepped closer. She could smell him now, the faint trace of sweat, and feel his breath brush her face.
“Lost, eh? I think you’d better come out the back.”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you. I’ll retrace my steps.”
“You can’t walk back to town from here. It’s not safe.” He put a hand on her arm, his fingers clenching like a vice. Bee wrenched free, backing away towards the trees.
“Don’t touch me. I know you’ve got my friend. What have you done with her? Where is she? Emmie! Emmie!” she yelled, imagining Emmie wherever the dead go, listening to her, unable to help.
“Bee, for Christ’s sake.”
Bee spun towards the house. From around the back, walked Emmie. She looked exactly as Bee remembered her, like a young, silver birch tree, pale skin, silver blonde hair, pale green eyes, except she was wearing a faded pink, gold, and blue cotton shirt, tied in a knot at her navel, and frayed edge denim shorts. Bee had never seen her look so… scruffy.
“There’s no need to get so hysterical.” Emmie’s face cracked into a huge smile, and she grabbed Bee in a hug.
Out the back, sitting on wooden chairs in a heavily scented garden, Bee was introduced to Gideon Coe, the man, who far from being a terrifying ogre, laughed and joked, and poured her a large glass of homemade lemonade, and his partner, Julia de Montagnac. Julia was similar age to Gideon, black hair streaked with waterfalls of grey. She was still beautiful, with high slanting cheekbones and huge summer sky eyes. She wore flowers in her hair, and long chains of glass beads around her neck. Her feet were bare, the skin as brown as a walnut. It made Bee think this woman rarely, if ever, wore shoes.
“Gideon is a poet and a playwright. A famous one. He was Poet Laureate once back home, and Julia is a sculptor. She makes the most amazing things in her shed,” Emmie enthused.
“Oh, no, not really. Just bowls and pots and things,” Julia replied. Her voice was heavily accented. French, Bee decided.
“That’s why I was in town. Dropping off a specially ordered piece for the art gallery.” Gideon leaned forward towards Bee, elbows on his knees. “How did you manage to follow me?”
“I climbed in the back of your car, and hid under a sheet.”
Gideon roared with laughter, sitting so far back in his chair Bee thought he’d topple over.
“Proper job,” he roared. “Proper job.”
“You’re mental.” Emmie was shaking her head. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I saw your scarf in the car. I thought you’d been abducted. I thought you were dead.”
“Why would you think that? I left you a note.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. I put it in your suitcase. I didn’t want anyone else to find it.”
Bee shook her head, picturing her case, certain she hadn’t had the need or the thought of opening it since Emmie had disappeared.
“I was going to text you, once we got here, but there’s no signal.”
“I reported you missing to the police. Everyone has been out hunting for you. There are posters up. And it’s all over the internet. You missing, and the dead girl on the beach.”
“None of us has been into town since last week, and we haven’t had internet since the storm on Saturday night.” Gideon’s smile had gone. He looked serious. His mouth a straight line, underlining his oversized nose, “What dead girl?”
“British girl, but worked here. She was murdered, and her body dumped on a beach.”
“Oh, poor, poor girl.” Julia put a hand to her mouth.
“God, Bee. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Why are you here?”
“I met Gideon in town last week. To be honest, Bee, I was crying. We got talking.”
“Why were you crying?”
“Because I was about to get married to someone I love and I hate. Someone I know would never let me go, even if I had the strength to tell him. I felt trapped. Pretending to be excited and blissfully happy with you girls. It got too much.”
“I saw her sitting at the little fountain, near where you saw the Land Rover.”
“Gideon is a sucker for a pretty girl in need of help,” Julia added. “His rescue instinct kicks in.”
“I poured my heart out to him, and he offered me a way out. Hide up here, until after the wedding, until Warren flew back home. Until I felt ready to leave. Which might be never.” Emmie exchanged looks with Gideon.
“My story is not so different,” Julia said.
“Did Warren hit you?” Bee asked in a small voice.
“He was good at it. Only places which can’t easily be seen. I have photos. Quite a collection.”
Emmie passed Bee her phone. Bee scrolled through shot after shot of bruised ribs, blackened hips, purple patches on lower backs.
“It wasn’t just the physical stuff. He’d lock me in the flat sometimes. Call me a slut. A piece of dog shit he wished he could wipe off his shoes.”
“So, why not just dump him?” Bee handed the phone back. Her thoughts were spinning around in her head.
“Because I love him. And he’s always so sorry afterwards. He cries and cries. I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true. I feel sorry for him. It’s not really his fault. His dad beat him when he was little. He doesn’t know any other way.”
“We have to let everyone know you’re alive and okay.”
“I can’t.”
“The police will protect you from Warren. The Inspector who has been looking for you won’t let Warren hurt you. He’s already overpowered him once. Right in front of me. As easy as anything. Put him on the ground.”
“Warren attacked you?” Emmie’s mouth dropped open in horror.
“Not me. This other man who’s been helping. Mitchell Troy.”
“Troy has been helping you?” Gideon stared at her. The expression on his face mirroring Kyriakoulis’ when he saw her with Troy.
“If Warren thinks I’m dead or disappeared, then I’m better off staying that w
ay.”
“What? You can’t. We have to let the police know.”
“And they will tell Warren. They can’t protect me forever. And I won’t put Gideon and Julia at risk. Warren will blame them. You’ve seen what he’s capable of doing.”
“We’ll be fine, Em. Don’t worry about us.” Julia put a hand on her arm.
“But, you can stay as long as you need to,” Gideon added.
Emmie got on her knees in front of Bee, and clasped both her hands. “Warren will go home. He’ll forget about me, eventually. And then, I’ll be free. You’ve got to promise me, Bee, not to tell anyone. Keep this absolutely secret. Please, Bee. As my best friend. Can I trust you?”
Bee had no idea she was Emmie’s best friend, but looking down into her eyes, she could see the fear and the desperation. No one had ever pleaded with her before. No one had ever so completely relied on her before. It was a strange feeling, a warm glow in her stomach. Warren was a thug, no question, and she owed no loyalty to anyone else. From the beginning, the police had been more interested in the dead girl than the missing one.
“Yes, absolutely. I won’t tell anyone. At least I know you’re safe.”
Emmie threw her arms around her, nearly knocking her off her chair. “Thanks, Bee. I will never forget you did this for me.”
“Now that’s settled, perhaps Bee would like to join us for some food, before Gideon takes her back to town?” Julia got to her feet.
They ate salad, huge tomatoes from the garden, cured meat, and tangy soft cheese. Gideon got out his guitar, and sang.
As they were listening, Emmie sat with her arm around Bee’s shoulders.
“This does mean the world to me, Bee.”
“It’s okay. It’s only I’ve been so worried.”
“I’m sorry. I should have left the note somewhere easier to find. You’ll find it when you get back to the hotel. There’s something else you could do for me when you get back there.”
“What’s that?”
“In the hotel safe, is my passport and my mother’s wedding ring. I’d really like them with me, especially the ring. Could you get them from the safe, and bring them here? I know it’s a lot to ask, but you’re the only person who can do it. We’ll arrange for Gid to meet you somewhere. This place is a bit out of the way, and I know you don’t drive.”
The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 17
