“Well, that’s something.”
“Why didn’t you shoot him? You had the shot. He could have killed you. Patrick’s bleeding to death.”
“I needed the truth.”
“More than you needed to live?”
Two paramedics scrambled over. Beckett stepped back, Harper also on his feet, furious.
“Don’t you care about protocol? Don’t you care about doing things properly? You don’t wait for back-up, but when you go in, you don’t take the shot. I know you’re not afraid to fire your weapon. How many people have you killed?”
Beckett stared at the angry man in front of him, fury boiling out of every pore. He didn’t understand where such blistering anger was coming from. Harper hadn’t been under any threat.
“You’re so blinded by what you see as the truth, you forget everything else. You didn’t believe Linus killed Danni, and you were happy to die, if there was a chance of proving yourself right. You’re dangerous. You shouldn’t be a cop. Go be a vigilante, or a mercenary, where rules don’t matter.”
Harper turned and left. Beckett watched the paramedics working on Patrick, one pounding on his chest, trying to restart his heart. He went back to the edge of the roof. Linus’ body was being taped off, uniformed officers ushering a growing crowd backwards. Beckett remembered what it was like to fly through the air. Feel the breeze against your cheeks, as you plunged down. As the world skimmed past you, and the earth rose to slap you in the face. Harper was right. He was blinded. But, the truth had to be outed. And one thing he was 100% sure of – Linus had not killed Danni. He saw it in his eyes. He loved her. Really loved her. Love could be twisted and mangled, until all you could do was hurt the one you loved. It drove people to do unspeakable things. Shooting Patrick, shooting himself. Unspeakable. But, in Linus’ eyes, when he’d spoken about Danni, Beckett had seen love, sad, full of longing. He would have killed for her, but would never have hurt her.
***
The hospital corridor was bustling. People, porters pushing beds, and wheelchairs, some occupied, some not, doctors striding, nurses chatting or scurrying, shopping trollies full of patient notes being trundled along by crumpled looking clerks; Beckett didn’t register any of them. He sat, legs furled under the chair out of the way, or paced to the coffee machine and back again, without ever getting a drink. He had no idea where Harper was, or what he was doing. Didn’t really care. He needed to hear Patrick was going to be okay.
“Inspector?” A couple of hours later, the surgeon swung out through double doors.
“Yes?” Beckett got to his feet, studying the surgeon’s face for clues. Doctors were well-practised at hiding their feelings. Never play poker with a surgeon, Faulkner always said.
“He’s come through the surgery. He was lucky. The bullet missed everything major, and went straight out the back. It looked a lot worse than it was. I’ve stitched it all back together. He should be fine.”
“Is he awake? Can I speak to him?”
“I’d rather you waited. He’s very groggy.”
“I’ll sit with him. Wait until he’s a bit more alert.”
“He’s not in any danger, is he? I heard his shooter head-butted the ground so hard, his head ended up looking back the way he’d just fallen.”
“I need to speak to him, as soon as possible. That’s all.”
“Fine. Please yourself.”
Patrick was in a small, private room, which opened out onto a larger ward. He was hooked up to drips and pipes, but was breathing on his own, and his colour was much healthier than when Beckett had seen him on the roof. That’s what a transfusion of a few pints of shiny new blood does for you, Beckett thought. Every so often, a nurse would come in, check his vital signs, smile at Beckett, and leave. Beckett waited. Occasionally, he’d get up and lean over the bed, hoping to see Patrick’s eyes flick open, or some mumble escape from between his lips, which would give him reason to prompt him to wake up fully. But, Patrick slept on.
Beckett got out his mobile, and wondered if he should turn it on. There were no longer rules in hospitals preventing you from using mobiles, but he’d turned it off, because he didn’t want to be disturbed. He didn’t want to be called back to the station. He didn’t want to be involved in the dissection of Linus Sang as the potential murderer.
A coughing from the bed alerted him. Patrick was awake, eyes wide with pain or fear, or simply confusion.
“Drink? Water?” Beckett offered a beaker. Patrick nodded, and Beckett helped him drink. Patrick sank his head back on his pillow, seemingly exhausted from that one effort.
“You know where you are?” Beckett asked. Patrick nodded, but his eyes stayed shut. “If you’re in pain, you can self-administer morphine. Press this button.”
Beckett folded Patrick’s fingers around the PCA pump. Patrick pressed hard, and within seconds, his breathing eased, and his fingers relaxed again.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Patrick’s eye lids snapped open. “That bastard Linus shot me. Then, he dragged me onto the roof, wanted us both to jump off together. Bit of bad planning. By the time we got up there, I couldn’t walk any further, and he’s too pathetically weak to drag me. He should have got me on the roof, and then shot me. Did he jump?”
“Yep.”
“Dead?”
“He blew his brains out as he went.”
“Good.” Patrick’s mouth curled into a smile. His thumb squeezed the PCA pump again.
“Why did he shoot you?”
“He thought I killed Danni. Twisted little shit, got that idea from you. Thanks for that.”
“We’d released you, without charge.”
“Not good enough for him.”
“Is that what he said, that he wanted to make you pay for killing Danni?”
“I told him I hadn’t done it.”
“But, he’d seen you with Sophia. She’s fine by the way.”
Patrick flushed. “Thank goodness. I thought he was going to kill us both. Fucking crazy. I always thought he was weird. Told Danni to stay away from him.”
“Another witness told us Linus was in love with Danni. That he was obsessed with her.”
“He was. Told me they were in love. Said whilst I was away that weekend, he slept with Danni. How did he put it? ‘That she’d given him her love.’ That it had been beautiful. That now his seed was in her, something amazing would blossom. Freak. As if she’d have slept with him…” Patrick’s voice trailed off, as he considered what he’d just said. “That’s it, isn’t it? He raped her. That’s the only way. He raped her, and killed her. Then blamed me for making him do it. Twisted fuck.”
“I spoke to Linus on the roof, before he shot himself. He said he loved Danni, and that he would never hurt her.”
“And you believed him? Is that why you’re a copper on an Island where the most serious crime is who smashed Granny Paxos’ flower pot? He shot me. Raped my girlfriend. Or tried to. And then, killed her. And now, the bastard will never stand trial, but he’s guilty. I know it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“He hid behind her. Can you believe it? I think the romance is well and truly dead. I think she wishes he was, too.” Harper had interviewed Sophia, with the aid of a constant stream of strong sweet coffee for her, and a massive sense of relief for him. “I bet he didn’t admit to that.”
Beckett shook his head. He’d barely spoken a word since he’d arrived back from the hospital. Harper told himself he must be in shock. Seeing someone blow their brains out in front of you, even if you’d seen many dreadful things before, couldn’t leave you unmoved. There was an unsettled feeling in Harper’s stomach though, but he did his best to ignore it. Petrakis was ebullient, and he tried to soak up that feeling instead.
“Pity we couldn’t arrest Linus Sang, but at least we have our answers now. It will be a relief for everyone, and no more victims.”
“No more victims?” Beckett whispered, his voice so low, Harper had to step closer
to his desk.
“You think Linus is connected to Emmie Archer’s disappearance?” Petrakis panicked, her joy wiped out.
“No. I’m certain the two cases are not connected. In fact, I think Emmie chose to disappear.”
“Thank goodness. We can get on with the rest of the summer.”
“I meant Linus Sang. You don’t think he’s a victim?”
“What?” Harper spat.
“You’re feeling sorry for him, Beckett?” Petrakis rolled her eyes. “Don’t waste your emotions. He raped Danni, and then killed her. All because she didn’t love him.”
“Is that really what happened?”
Harper prodded the sheaf of papers on Beckett’s desk. “Copies of the lab report. Linus’ sperm found inside Danni. His DNA found in her car. His fingerprints found in her car. He had motive and opportunity, and we have enough forensic evidence to put him with Danni and in her car. He would have confessed, if he hadn’t taken the coward’s way out.”
Harper meant his last comment to bite. Beckett had done his own plunge off a roof. Not the same, but not that different, either. It hit home. Beckett stared up at him, his blue eyes faded to a winter sky grey, purple-black half-moons underneath, and his chin coated with mottled grey and brown stubble.
“I’m not disputing Linus had sex with Danni. He believed it was with her consent, but we’ll never know the truth. But, he said he didn’t kill her.”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Petrakis sounded as frustrated as Harper felt.
“They had sex, consensual or not. She was upset afterwards, traumatised or guilty,” Beckett seemed to be talking more to himself now, working a scenario out in his head, “Where would she go? To her lover. She tells him what happened… he’s apoplectic, and he kills her.”
“You’re making up fantasy stories,” Petrakis snorted. “Linus’ DNA is in the car. The car her dead body was transported in.”
“They were friends. Neighbours. He didn’t have his own car. Is it too much of a stretch to think she might have given him lifts? Even lent him the car. Patrick should be able to confirm that. I’ll go back to the hospital now, and ask him. We know Danni was seeing someone else. Whose semen is in the condom?”
“We’ve input the DNA results into the various databases. Nothing local. We may never get a match. But, whoever it was, it wasn’t as recent as with Linus. He was the last person to have sex with her, before she was killed. Is this because you didn’t spot him before? You interviewed him, and didn’t see it?”
“We know whoever killed Danni had help dumping the body. Who helped Linus? He doesn’t have any friends. He couldn’t have walked all that way on his own. He doesn’t have a car with a tow bar, or a boat.”
“This island is full of cars and boats, he borrowed or stole one. And, maybe, he did walk home. Or hitched a lift. We can work on all those things.”
“He’s a small man, small and weak. Danni was bigger than him. He could never have moved her body on his own.”
“Why does this feel like history repeating itself?” Harper turned away from the desk. If he hadn’t, he would have picked up something – the stapler, hole punch, souvenir snow globe, and thrown it Beckett’s head.
“Meaning?” Beckett voice was level; he could have been commenting on the weather, but Harper heard something else. Doubt, fear, the sound of a man starting to unravel.
“I want you to put a report together, collate the evidence around Linus Sang. Tie up loose ends, but by the end of the day, I want to solid case with Linus as main suspect.” Petrakis stalked out of the office.
Harper sank into the chair opposite Beckett. “Why are you so bloody minded?” He sighed, exhausted himself, trying to reach out, persuade Beckett to let it go. “Is it so hard to believe Linus would lie to you on that roof? Perhaps he couldn’t admit to himself he’d killed Danni. In his sick and twisted way, he loved her.”
“Like Chrystos?” Beckett murmured.
Harper shrugged, not wanting to rub it in. “Linus blacked out the part where he stuck her with the blade. Most murders are as simple as that. You know it as well, better than I do. Forensics are all over his apartment. They’ll find Danni’s blood, and they might even find a murder weapon. Will you be convinced then?”
“Of course.”
Harper breathed out and leaned back in the chair. “I know you want to get Troy for something. But, this isn’t it.”
Without warning, Beckett stood up. “You’re right. You’ll let me know what forensics turn up in Linus’ apartment?”
“Where are you going?”
“I need to clear my head. You can handle things here, can’t you?”
“Of course. What do you want to do about Ticknall and Michale?”
“We’ve got their statements. Send them home.”
“Fine. No problem.”
Harper watched Beckett leave. He seemed to be limping. But, it was over. He wondered what would happen to Beckett now. Back to snoozing in roadside bars, pretending to catch speeders. Back to his life of semi-retirement. He doubted someone like Beckett would ever slip off the cloak of obsession. He’d fixate on Troy, or rather, whomever the man he saw in Bosnia was, until his memory failed him. He’d believe the guilty were innocent, and the innocent guilty for the rest of his days.
Harper had a sudden, intense sense that no man, especially a man like Beckett, could live like that for long. He’d taken one plunge from a building. How long until the next? It worried him. A good man wasted, but what could he do? This time next week, he might be back home. In the slate-grey grim of London. For the first time, he allowed himself to think of home. Of his bosses being pleased. Of his promotion. Perhaps he’d move stations. Maybe he’d even look at positions in different forces. Be a big fish in a smaller pond for a while. Somewhere more rural. Perhaps with a coastal beat.
Harper wondered if his dad would read the news coverage. Would he finally crack a smile, and acknowledge that he’d done well? At least he’d be able to look his sister in the eye, and feel like he was on an equal footing. Then, his smile faded. He could be promoted to Chief Constable, and he’d never be equal. Not in her eyes, and not in his father’s. Some things were too fantastical to ever come true.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Faulkner was waiting for Beckett, swinging in the hammock chair on the veranda.
“You look like hell,” Faulkner said. For a split-second, Beckett had an image of his father as a young child swinging on that same chair, dreaming up songs in his head. “I heard what happened.”
Beckett eased himself onto the veranda step. His knee was starting to twinge, the effect of the injection wearing off.
“Maybe it’s time for you to think about retiring? You’ve seen more death than any one person should. Your body is fucked.”
“And my head is, too?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Beckett shrugged. Harper had been right about one thing. It did feel like history repeating itself. Rosie and Danni. Official story murdered by men who were obsessed with them. Unobtainable women. Spurned men. Simple. Age old. The rest of their stories just flotsam and jetsam. But, he knew that wasn’t right. He knew he’d failed Rosie, and Chrystos, though no one could say he didn’t deserve to be locked away. He didn’t want to fail Danni. He didn’t want there to be another dead girl in another ten years’ time for another detective to search for, find dead, or to never find, because the real killer was sitting, smiling, and waiting.
“Harper thinks you’re obsessed with Mitchell Troy. That you saw him out in Bosnia selling arms to the Serbs, and that’s where all this started.”
“You think I’m crazy, too? You think I’ve seen more than my fair share of death. What about Troy? Death follows him round like a shadow. Rosie Payne, his wife, now, Danni. I can connect them all to him. This is a small Island. You think it can all be coincidence?”
Faulkner looked away, but he brought the hammock chair to a halt. “I think you need to let it go.�
�
“Why?”
“He didn’t kill his wife.”
“You believe the suicide story?”
“No. I don’t believe she’s dead.”
“What?”
Faulkner sighed. “Go and see Gideon Coe.”
And, suddenly, the conversation with Bee popped back into his thoughts. And the missing passport. And going to see Gideon Coe seemed like what he should have done days ago.
***
Beckett found Gideon digging at his vegetable patch around the back of the house. The Land Rover had been parked out front. Beckett had taken a quick look. No scarf. No Emmie. But, he hadn’t expected her to be sitting in the car, waiting for him.
Gideon nodded at Beckett. “Beer?”
Beckett nodded. They sat in the shade of two ancient tortured olive trees.
“I expected you before now,” Gideon said, licking his lips after a glug of beer.
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“Where is she?”
“Her and Bee have gone up to the waterfall. You remember it? Your dad took you there a few times when you were small.”
“I wasn’t talking about Emmie Archer. I know she’s here. I know she’s safe. And I’ve got a fair idea why she’s here.”
“Her fiancé – ex-fiancé – is an abuser. She believed the only way to get him out of her life was to disappear. It was the only way she’d ever feel safe again.”
“What about Jeanie Troy?”
The hand clasping the bottle of lager stopped halfway to Gideon’s mouth.
“What happened to her?”
“She committed suicide.” But, Gideon knew the game was up.
“You helped her stage it?”
“She was desperate to get away. Just like Emmie. I helped her.”
“We helped her.” Julia came out of the stone shack housing her studio. “She was so scared of Mitchell Troy, she was prepared to leave her kids behind.”
“Prepared to let them think their mother had killed herself,” Beckett added, thinking how terrified a mother must be to do that.
“I always thought she was a little… selfish.” Gideon shrugged. “Highly strung. I asked her what would happen to the children, and she said Mitchell would look after them. Not such an ogre, then. Not if you are blood, she replied. I’m not sure she was ever cut out to be a mother.”
The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 22
