Bee nodded, thinking of her adventure on the moped. Emmie had no idea what she’d done in the last few days.
Gideon drove her back into town. He was quiet for the first few miles, but Bee sensed he wanted to say something. As they turned onto the main road, he glanced at her, and gripped the steering wheel so his knuckles shone white.
“You’re obviously a good friend to Emmie. Don’t underestimate the control her fiancé has over her.”
“I don’t understand how she can say she loves him when he batters her.”
“You’ve never been in love.”
Bee’s thoughts conjured up the Detective Inspector, who had been with Kyriakoulis that morning. The way her heart seemed to stutter when she had looked at him. She was sure she could fall in love with someone like that, but no, in her life so far, she’d not been in love. Could it really make you lose all rational thought?
“Love will make you do all sorts of crazy things. It’s an addiction. As strong as any drug,” Gideon added, as if he was reading her mind, “Which is why Emmie has to stay away from Warren. Go cold turkey. Until she flushes her love for him from her system.”
“I won’t say anything, I promise.” Bee’s phone chirruped in his pocket. They were back in signal range again. Her scalp suddenly prickled. The photos she’d sent to Kyriakoulis, the messages which hadn’t gone. She got out her phone. The text message was from Mitchell Troy checking she was okay. She ignored it. A couple of swipes of her thumb, and she felt sick. The messages to Kyriakoulis now both said sent. She realised Gideon had been talking.
“I’m sorry?”
“Mitchell Troy. Piece of advice. Stay away from him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s not a good man.”
“He’s the only person who’s helped me look for Emmie.”
“He’s helped you? Why would he do that? What’s he asked for in return?”
“Do people need a reason to help?”
“People like Troy do. He always has an agenda. I can’t think what he wants from you.”
“I haven’t got anything to give him. He might have done things in the past, but I honestly think he’s just being nice.”
“Nice,” Gideon snorted. “Just be careful. Now you know Emmie is safe and well, you have no reason to have anything to do with him. In fact, it might be better if you went home.”
“My flight isn’t until Saturday.”
“Best try to stay out of his way, then.”
Gideon dropped her a couple of streets from the hotel. They arranged to meet at the same place at 11am the following day, with Emmie’s passport and wedding ring.
Walking back to the hotel, Bee felt unsettled by the missing person’s posters which now seemed to taunt her, as she passed them. Liar, liar. By the way Emmie had looked and talked about Gideon, and the way Julia had looked at them both. By Mitchell Troy.
“How are you doing, Bee, sweetheart?” Fran was sitting at one of the tables in the hotel’s garden, laptop open in front of her. The sound of laughing and squealing and splashing echoed over from the pool, “Any news?”
Bee shook her head.
“The other girls have left for the airport.”
“I was always staying until Saturday.”
“I know. Of course. I didn’t mean… if you wanted to stay longer… until there’s news.”
“Saturday is fine.”
“Okay. Good. If you need anything…”
“No, nothing, thank you. You look busy?”
“Last week’s accounts.” Fran rolled her eyes.
“Will they take you long?”
“The rest of the afternoon. Still, there’s worse places to sit and do admin.”
Bee smiled, and went inside. From the reception desk, she could see out into the garden and the edge of Fran’s table. If Fran got up and came towards her, she would see her. Bee’s palms were sweaty, and she could feel droplets meandering down her back. She lifted the flap, and went behind the reception next. The safe boxes for each room were stacked under the desk. Each room key opened the safe box, but a laminated A4 paper stuck to the wall behind the desk instructed you were supposed to get a member of staff to open them on your behalf. Bee got her room key and crouched down, eyes skimming the boxes for the number 12. She periscoped her head above the desk top. No sign of Fran. She must be still sitting at the table.
She slotted the key into the lock on the third attempt, her hands trembling, refusing to comply with instructions, and swung the little door open. Inside, were two Tupperware boxes. One with her own passport and reserves of Euros, and the other also containing a passport, plus a small azure blue silk purse. Bee slid the box out and cracked out the lid. She’d never stolen anything in her life, not even a bar of chocolate or a lipstick. Once, when she was about thirteen, a group of girls who lived on her street had invited her shopping. She’d been horrified when they’d gone into Boots, and started slipping eye liners up their sleeves and mascara wands down their jumpers. She’d walked out, and left them. They hadn’t invited her again to anything. But, now, here she was, jamming Emmie’s passport down the front of her jeans, and the silk purse, with the wedding ring, inside into her pocket. Though, technically speaking, these possessions belonged to Emmie, and it was Emmie who she was taking them for. So not stealing. Not really.
She put the box back where is belonged, locked the safe door, and slipped out from behind the desk, as Fran appeared in the doorway. “Bee?”
“I can’t settle in my room,” Bee lied. “I’m going to go for a walk.”
Bee felt Fran’s eyes on her, as she walked past and out of the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Petrakis had looked at him, cold eyed, when Beckett told her he needed to speak to Chrystos. Harper stood near the doorway, ripples of doubt and worry hitting Beckett’s back in waves.
“Does it matter what I say?”
“My only other link to Danni in her last few days is Neil Ticknall. You prefer I bring him in?”
“You can’t question the Vice Consul, because some kid claimed he’s got loose hands.”
“Chrystos is the link. I know it.”
“I thought you were done with dragging up the past.” Petrakis looked sad.
“No one can escape history. However fast you run, it’s always there. Like a shadow.”
Petrakis looked over Beckett’s shoulder. “What do you think Harper?”
Harper hesitated. He looked conflicted. “I think it’s a distraction.” But there was no conviction in his voice. Petrakis heard it as loudly as Beckett did.
“I need you to speak to the Governor of the hospital. Okay the visit. For this evening.”
“I’ll authorise the expense of the flights. If you can even get a flight so soon.”
“I’ll get Faulkner to fly us. He loves an excuse to get in the air.”
“He’s on the Island?” Petrakis couldn’t help but smile. One of his father’s undeniable talents was he could make people happy. It worked in reverse, too, for those who were closest to him. His mother likened him to a magpie, attracted to people’s emotions, stealing them, and flitting away when something shinier appeared.
“I’m sure he’ll drop by, and say hello.” Beckett forced a smile. He had a suspicion Faulkner had bedded Petrakis at some point, and she still harboured desire for him. He was just as sure Faulkner had no intention of dropping by. Sometimes, you had to manipulate to get what you needed.
“I’ll get on the phone. You will tread carefully, won’t you? You know how sensitive this Island is to the past. If it gets out, that you went to speak to Chrystos…”
“If it leads us to Danni’s killer, does it matter?”
Petrakis dropped her gaze, and picked up the phone. “It would have been better if the boyfriend had done it,” she muttered, almost without thinking.
Leaving Petrakis to arrange the visit, Beckett phoned Faulkner.
“He has a private jet?” Harper stage whispered
, as Beckett waited for Faulkner to answer.
“On occasion, he can actually be useful.” Beckett hated asking Faulkner for anything. Harper staying at the villa had been a little, petty victory, because he was doing it behind Faulkner’s back, but that had been ruined when Faulkner had turned up, and was, of course, delighted.
“Son?” Faulkner’s voice chirped in Beckett’s ear.
“You busy later?”
“What you got in mind?”
“We need a lift to the mainland.”
“Sure. Yeah, of course. It’ll be a blast. Boys’ trip out. Be good to spend some time with you.”
Beckett could feel Faulkner grinning, pleased to be asked, overjoyed to be included. “It’s work. But, yeah. Fly out today, back tomorrow morning.”
“The investigation?” The tone of Faulkner’s voice had changed.
“I can’t discuss it.”
“Which airport?”
“Talyeri.”
There was silence. “That’s the closest airport to Sarabande.”
Sarabande was known for only one thing. The secure hospital where Chrystos Spiros had been sent. There had been nowhere for him on the Island.
“You know the way though?”
“Of course I know the way. That’s what GPS is for.” Faulkner sounded annoyed. “You’re going to see the Fiend?”
“Don’t call him that, Faulkner. He’s not a monster. Or a mythical being. He’s a human being.”
“Do you need to go? Can’t your guy from the Met go? He’s seems bright. They wouldn’t have sent him, if they didn’t think he was capable. I don’t mind taking him. You stay here.”
“Thought you were looking forward to a boys’ trip out? Spending time together.” Beckett knew he was being unfair. He didn’t much care, though.
“Fine, okay. I’ll meet you at the airport, then? I’ll let you know the time when I’ve organised it.”
“Good.” Beckett rung off. Distracted, Beckett checked his phone – three text messages from Bee. He frowned, and opened the newest – ‘Please ignore previous messages. False alarm. Thanks.’
“Okay?” Harper asked.
“Fine.”
“What sort of plane has your dad got?” Harper was asking. He looked worried, mouth drawn in a tight line.
“Small Italian twin prop. Why?”
“How small?”
It suddenly dawned on Beckett Harper might not be relishing the prospect of a night flight on a small plane, piloted by a man who had well-publicized drug and alcohol issues.
“I think you can squeeze six or seven people on it, if that helps. It can get a bit bumpy.”
He saw Harper swallow, his skin pale.
“If you get motion sickness, I’d take a tablet. Faulkner loves that plane. If you’re going to throw up, he’s likely to insist on opening one of the doors and making you stick your head out into the clouds. There’s a pharmacy across the road.”
“Hilarious.” Harper glowered at him, but headed away down the hallway. Beckett opened Bee’s older text messages. The message ‘I’ve found Emmie’s scarf in this car. Don’t know where I am. The car is a Land Rover.’ And a photo of a Land Rover and a number plate. He didn’t need the registration number to know who the car belonged to. There was only one car like that on the Island.
He dialled Bee’s number. It rang out, and then dropped to voicemail. He hung up and redialled. Just as it was about to drop to voicemail again, the phone clicked, and Bee answered, her voice tentative, guilty, even.
“Hello?”
“What am I to make of these text messages and photos?”
“Who is this?” She was playing for time.
“You know who it is. You have caller ID.”
“Sorry, Inspector. You woke me up. I didn’t see the screen.”
“Well?”
“I thought I’d seen Emmie’s scarf, but as I said, I was mistaken.”
“In Gideon Coe’s car?”
“You’ve already checked it out?” She sounded scared.
“I recognise the car.”
“I walked past it in town, after I saw you. Saw a scarf on the passenger seat. Thought it was Emmie’s. But, it wasn’t.”
“How do you know it wasn’t Emmie’s? You must have been pretty sure to take those photos, which, incidentally, don’t look like they were taken in town.”
“Honestly. I’m sorry I sent them. The man came back. Explained the scarf belonged to his wife. She’d bought it years ago. I’m getting paranoid. I’ll leave the detective work to you from now on.”
“Gideon had no idea where Emmie was?”
“None at all. He didn’t even know anyone was missing.”
Beckett rang off. Bee was lying. He needed to get up to Gideon’s place, but it was impossible. They’d be in the air to the mainland in a couple of hours. Surely if Gideon had anything to do with Emmie’s disappearance, there could be nothing sinister involved? Gideon was a harmless old hippy—a long-time friend of Faulkner’s. His worst crimes were growing marijuana in the woods behind his cabin. There were always rumours about his weakness for women, despite having Julia, who he described as his soul partner. She didn’t seem to mind his indiscretions. But, Gideon was knocking on sixty. Emmie wouldn’t have been tempted, would she? He couldn’t believe Gideon would hurt anyone. Or Julia in a fit of jealous rage? No. It was ridiculous.
He cornered Tomas, who was tidying his desk, ready to leave for the evening.
“Do me a favour?”
“What boss?”
“On your way home, stop off at Gideon Coe’s place.”
“That’s not on my way home.”
“Depends which way you go home. You can book it as overtime.” Petrakis would slay him at the end of all this. “Have a chat with him. Have a look around, if he’ll let you.”
“What am I looking for? His marijuana plantation?” Tomas disapproved of the drug use, and perhaps more that Beckett chose to overlook it.
“See if he has any houseguests. Show him the photo of Emmie Archer. See if he recognises her.”
“You think he has something to do with her disappearance?” As much as he disapproved of Gideon Coe, Tomas couldn’t believe he would be involved in abduction, or worse.
“I just want you to drop in. Low key. Then, let me know what you think.”
“Sure. Okay.” Tomas nodded, pleased to be trusted to have an opinion. “Is it true you’re going to interview Chrystos?”
Beckett couldn’t help but smile. There really were no secrets in this building. It suited his purposes, this time. He wanted the news out there. He wanted Mitchell Troy to know he was going to talk to Chrystos. Prod the sleeping bear enough times, and he’ll swipe a claw at you.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The mood on the plane was tense. A different Faulkner to the one Harper had met. Serious. Only the briefest of smiles and greetings, before showing them onto the plane, and doing his pre-flight checks.
Harper hated flying, always had. He had no idea why, but the thought of being inside that thin, metal tube, propelled through the sky, with engines made from thousands of components, knowing only one had to break for disaster to ensue, made his nerves jangle. He could cope with big passenger jets. There were enough people around to get some comfort, but he’d never been on a plane as small as this one.
It was impossible to tell if Faulkner was so serious and monosyllabic because he was pensive about the flight, or for some other reason. Certainly relations between him and Beckett were strained, as they barely looked at each other. The tension made Harper feel sick.
From the outside, the plane looked like something from a Bond movie, all sleek lines and narrow windows. The nose of the plane had two fins, or mini wings, sticking out, which made it look like a hammerhead shark. Harper had never seen a plane like it. He had no idea why this plane needed the extra pair of mini wings, if that’s what they were. An idea popped into his head he couldn’t shift. They were the plane version of bic
ycle stabilisers. Perhaps Faulkner needed them to help him fly. Harper pulled his seatbelt even tighter.
Beckett had taken a seat further down the cabin, though the interior was so small, it seemed pointless. If Beckett wanted to isolate himself, this wasn’t the environment to do it in. He was deep in thought, but Harper needed a distraction to keep his thoughts away from nose dives into the sea.
“Tell me about Chrystos. What to expect.”
Beckett looked at him in surprise, almost as if he’d forgotten he was there.
“Why was he sent to a psychiatric hospital rather than prison? What’s his illness?”
“He’s schizophrenic, coupled with dissocial personality disorder.”
“How successful has his treatment been?”
“He’s on anti-psychotics for the schizophrenia. His drug and alcohol use contributed massively to his behaviour. Obviously, he’s clean now.”
“Will he remember anything about that time?”
“Let’s hope so,” Beckett replied before looking away. His tone was uncomfortable.
Harper imagined Beckett was reliving that time. Not a time he wanted to travel back to, but circumstances had forced him. Harper had been sure it was a mistake, a red herring. As his bosses had told him, there was no connection to past cases. Chrystos had killed Rosie, raped those women. Of that, there was no doubt. Except, Beckett’s doubts were infectious. Harper was sure his bosses would be furious he’d not closed the case down yet, and, even worse, was travelling to the past with Beckett. He hadn’t told them, but they would know by now, he was sure.
Harper would argue this trip was necessary to allay Beckett’s doubts, to refocus his mind. There were enough connections to warrant a visit. No one could argue any different, but seeing Chrystos would remind Beckett of the monster he was. Harper nodded to himself. Yes, this visit would clear the fog from Beckett’s head. Chrystos had clearly horrified Beckett. Seeing one human eat the flesh of another? Harper couldn’t even imagine what scar that image would leave. But, it was an image which had faded over time, until the hospitalised Chrystos had become more patient than monster.
The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 18
