The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller

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The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 23

by Angela Corner


  “You were crazy about her back then,” Julia fired at him, the bitterness not hidden.

  Gideon had the decency to flush red. “She asked for help. We helped. Got her on a boat, got her into Italy, with some friends of ours. New passport, new identity. New life.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Living happily in South America, last I heard. We don’t keep in touch.”

  “And you’re going to do the same for Emmie?”

  “Another of his pet projects,” Julia said. There was such a sadness in her eyes, Beckett wondered why she stayed.

  “I think Bee is hoping to persuade her to go back to England. You’ve met the fiancé. What do you think she should do?”

  “I need to speak to her.”

  “I’ll take you, come on.” Julia got up, before Gideon could suggest anything different.

  The path was narrow and winding, and studded with tree roots. Within a few minutes, they could no longer see Gideon who had gone back to digging his vegetable patch, stabbing the soil with his spade.

  “Jeanie was terrified of Mitchell. She was convinced he would have killed her, if she’d stayed. Maybe it was selfish to leave her kids, but she felt she had no choice.”

  “Did you think she was exaggerating?”

  “I think she was manipulative. She’d have said anything to get her own way. Gideon was in love with her. I think he thought she’d stay here with him.”

  “Where would that have left you?”

  “Gideon thought we could all be happy together. But, neither I, nor Jeanie, would have lived like that. She was using Gid as her ticket out. I hated her at first, but only until I met Mitchell, a couple of months later. He came to one of my exhibitions. We only said a few words to each other, but that was enough. I have a great instinct for people, Inspector. Everyone has an aura they can’t control. Most people don’t even know it’s there, but it is the essence of the real person. Not the persona they wear in everyday life. I can see auras, the colours, the moods, as clearly as I can see the flesh and bone. Mitchell Troy’s aura is poisonous. I think he would be capable of almost anything.”

  “Have you been to any of his parties?”

  “Me? No…” She laughed, but with contempt. “Those gatherings are for posh, rich folk. Why would I want to mix with that sort? If you want to know about Mitchell Troy’s dos, you should ask your father, he went to a few.”

  Before Beckett could say anything, they emerged into a clearing with a river, a twenty-foot sheer rock jutting upwards, and a waterfall tumbling down into a deep clean pool. Beckett remembered Faulkner encouraging him to jump from one of the large rocks by the side of the pool. Beckett had ignored him, climbed to the top of the waterfall, and jumped in from there.

  No one was jumping today. The two girls were swimming across the pool towards them. As they reached the boulders at the edge, Bee saw him, her eyes widening in fear. Emmie simply smiled. She was more striking then in her photos, and as she climbed out of the pool, Beckett had to look away. She was quite distracting. Did Gideon have his heart set on her, as he had with Jeanie Troy? How could Julia see that happening once again, and still want to help the girl?

  “Inspector Kyriakoulis, I presume?” Emmie smiled, a half crooked smile, and tilted her head upwards to get a better look at him. “Are you here to arrest me?”

  “I should. Both of you.” He looked at Bee, who was wrapping her towel around herself, and looked close to tears.

  “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I was desperate. No one would have been so worried, I imagine, if that other poor girl hadn’t been found murdered.”

  “I did try to persuade her to give you a call. Or, at least, to let me do it,” Bee whimpered.

  “But, I refused. I swore her to secrecy. It’s not her fault.”

  “You did lie to me.” Beckett felt unkind doing it, but he’d had enough of the secrets and the game playing.

  Little Bee’s chin started to tremble. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s really not fair to blame Bee.” Emmie’s smile was gone, and there was steel in her voice. “I take full responsibility. What are you going to do?”

  Beckett left them without an answer. He wasn’t sure himself, and it was fitting to let them sweat a bit. He headed back down the hill, his mind full of questions. Mitchell’s wife was not murdered. What other assumptions about Troy had he got wrong? He so faithfully relied on his instincts, and, in this case, he’d been spectacularly off the mark. But, Julia’s words weighed heavily. Troy was poison, and his own father had attended the infamous parties. Why had Faulkner not said anything? If Faulkner had been to the parties, perhaps he’d met Rosie? What was he hiding?

  Beckett’s phone chirped to announce a voicemail. He was back in signal range. The number dialled, and Harper’s voice crackled.

  “It’s Harper. Erm… you’re not going to believe this. Or perhaps you will. We’ve got a partial match on the DNA from the condom. A 50% match to be exact. It came up on the UK database. Seems that Lily Troy was arrested, but never charged, for an assault on another girl at her expensive boarding school back in the UK last year. Which means the DNA in the condom must belong to Callum Troy. He’s the secret boyfriend. I’m heading over to the Troy’s now. Meet me there, if you get this message in time.”

  Beckett pulled into the side of the road. His hands were shaking, and he had to grip the wheel hard to steady them. He should have seen it. Lily Troy teasing her brother about Danni. His face flushing red. Mitchell mocking him. Did Mitchell know? Was Mitchell jealous? The son had got the girl not the father. Beckett shook his head. He was letting himself be blinded again. But, there was that feeling, right at the pit of his stomach. The creeping gnawing feeling, like a thousand beetles were hunting for a way out. It was a feeling of dread, of fear. He dialled Harper’s number, but it rang out, then jumped to voicemail. He wasn’t far from the Castle. He floored the accelerator, and got back on the phone. This time, uniformed back-up was a necessary precaution.

  At the Castle entrance, he jabbed the intercom. Five times, before it was answered.

  “Hello?” An Eastern European accent. The housekeeper.

  “Inspector Kyriakoulis, Island Police. Let me in. Now.”

  “The other policeman has gone. I told him Mr. Callum wasn’t here. That he’d gone to the Rock, fishing. I said I would tell Mr. Callum when he got back. He insisted he would wait for him at the jetty at Caspon, where Mr. Troy keeps his boats.”

  “How long?”

  “Ten minutes. Not long.”

  Beckett stuck the car into reverse, and roared back up the road. The Rock was a tiny, uninhabited wooded island, not far off the coast. It was famous for its colony of monk seals, and its sea caves. He got on the phone again. By the time he’d got to Caspon, Nik was manoeuvring his boat up against the jetty. One of the patrol cars was parked up.

  “I’m taking a boat trip out in half an hour. I can’t come with you.”

  “I just need a boat. Take my car, drive back to the yard. I’ll pick it up later.”

  “Perhaps I could cancel. Put them off until tomorrow.”

  “It’s no big adventure. I just need to go and talk to someone. Take your tourists out. Make your money. Give me the keys.”

  Nik dropped the keys into Beckett’s palm. “If I miss out on something good…”

  Beckett stepped into the boat. It was the fast speed boat they’d used to find the dumping ground beach.

  “Please be careful with her. She is very expensive.”

  “Cast me off.”

  He seemed to make no ground on the Rock for the longest time, but eventually, it drew closer. He could make out individual trees, and waterfalls crashing from high cliffs into the sea below. There was a landing jetty, but on the seaward side of the Island. He steered the boat beneath the formidable cliffs, their dark, sea level eyes hiding monsters. He rounded the headland, and there was the jetty, with one small power boat moored up, bobbing in the s
well.

  He tied his boat up next to it, dwarfing the smaller vessel, though neither were exactly ocean liners. One boat. If Harper had come to find Callum, where was his boat? Perhaps Harper was still on shore, or, perhaps, it was Callum who had never arrived. A movement out beyond the headland, in the shadow of the cliffs, caught his eye. Another boat, dangling its ropes behind it like an errant dog dragging its lead. Harper must not have tied up properly. Idiot.

  There was no sign of life. If Callum was there fishing, he would most likely be at the fresh water lake. It was famous for its trout. A path led up from the jetty into the woods, and eventually, after a half a mile to the lake. It was the only path from the jetty, and the one Harper must have followed.

  Beckett jogged, the path corkscrewed through the dense forest, climbing steeply at first, and then levelling off. The birds were silent, eerily so. Even the cicadas were hiding. A few metres from the lake, he heard voices, talking. He could hear muffled noise, but not detail. Then, a yell. Panicked. Beckett sprinted out into the clearing. The lake stretched like a mirror in front of him, the size of a football pitch, twisted into a dinted and damaged oval.

  Two figures on the fishing jetty at the far end. They were hugging, it seemed. But, it felt wrong. Unnatural. One let go. The other teetered on the edge of the cracked and faded wooded slats. Harper. Beckett recognised the shape, the height. And then, Harper fell, backwards, into the lake. The splash like a whisper, the ripples rolling one over the other, distorting the reflection of the trees, and then sinking back, as if they’d never been there. The other figure ran, scampered across the jetty, and into the dark of the forest. Beckett’s muscles readied to chase, as he looked back at the lake, expecting Harper to bob to the surface, to splutter and rage. But, there was nothing.

  “Harper?” Beckett yelled. The lake was deep and cold. But, Harper could swim. The image of the hug and the parting. “Shit.” Beckett yelled, but to himself now. He knew no one was there to hear him.

  He kicked off his shoes, and dove into the water. Within a few strokes, he was at the point Harper had disappeared under the sharp cold surface. He plunged down, forcing his eyes to stay open against the clawing of the water. And there, he saw Harper, on the bottom of the lake. Motionless, apart from his hair, those curls, billowing around his head like anemones. And spewing out from his side and spreading through the water, like an oil slick, was black ink. Not ink. Beckett made sense of it. Blood.

  He grabbed Harper, and dragged him up and up. He seemed impossibly heavy for a slight man, as if the underwater world did not want to release him. It seemed to take a life time, but Beckett broke through the surface, took a huge breath of beautiful, pure fresh air, and kicked for the shore. He pulled Harper onto the grass. His skin was translucent. Lips the colour of putty. He looked like one of the marble statues of the Greek Gods. Beckett put his ear to Harper’s mouth. Felt nothing. He started chest compressions. Thirty. Then, he pinched Harper’s nose and blew life into his chest. He looked. Nothing. Two more breaths. Nothing. Thirty more chest compression. Another breath. And a cough, and water and a groan. Not conscious, but not dead. Not yet.

  Beckett saw the scarlet pool start to form at Harper’s side. He ripped Harper’s shirt, exposing the wound. A circular wound, only a few millimetres across, puncturing the skin, going in deep. He’d seen one just like it—on Danni Deacon’s body. He put his hands over the wound, iridescent crimson liquid oozed between his fingers. He turned his head away and pressed hard. In the distance, he could hear the sound of an outboard engine starting and fading. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket. Water rippled down the screen. He wiped it on his shirt, and squinted at the screen, through the fog. No signal. He would have to hope Nik would direct back up to the right place.

  It seemed like a lifetime. The cold crept up on him like a shadow, caressing his skin at first, before digging its claws in deep. His hands were numb, holding back the flow of blood. Harper seemed a distance away, still breathing, but in shallow tentative waves that seemed to drift further and further apart.

  Then, suddenly, noise and people. Uniforms and authoritative voices. A blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Being led away. Looking back to see people swarming and crouching over Harper’s body.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Back at his car, Beckett refused a trip to hospital. He did not want to know Harper’s fate, not yet. His only medical need was to get warm. He had a change of clothes in the boot, and a heater in the car. Air temperature was approaching 85 degrees. He wasn’t about to die of hypothermia, despite the concerns of the paramedics and Welsh Nik, who was now taking the whole thing very seriously.

  He didn’t expect anyone to be waiting for him at the Castle, but that was the direction he headed in. It was a place to start. Nik had wanted to come, drive him even, but Beckett had refused.

  He’d got within a mile or so, when he had to jerk in the steering wheel to avoid a car hurtling around a bend towards him. Too fast, too reckless. A red car, hatchback.

  “Shit.” Recognition rattled around Beckett’s head. He three-pointed the Evoque, and went after it. The red car was a Ford Focus. Being driven fast, but not as fast as the Evoque could go. Beckett soon caught up, and flashed his lights. The Focus didn’t slow. Beckett waited for a straight section of road, then gunned the accelerator, pulled alongside, and then executed a perfect hard stop, turning in front of the Focus, forcing the driver to slam on the brakes, and turn the nose of the car into the side of the road.

  Beckett was out of his car, and at the driver’s door of the red car, before the driver had time to open it. Beckett yanked it open. Callum Troy was staring out at him, face crumpled with distress. Beckett was way beyond feeling sympathy. He grabbed hold of the lad, and dragged him out on the verge.

  “I have to find Lily,” Callum whimpered. “Please.”

  “Before she hurts anyone else?” Beckett growled.

  Callum looked at him wide-eyed. “What has she done?”

  “You tell me Callum?”

  “Nothing.” But, he could look anywhere, except at Beckett.

  “Did she kill Danni?”

  Silence.

  “We know you were sleeping with her. We’ve got forensic proof. We know from her friends she’d been seeing someone, other than her boyfriend, Patrick. And we know she had sex with Linus Sang, not long before she was killed. Perhaps it wasn’t Lily. Perhaps you killed her? Jealous that she’d slept with Linus.”

  “No,” he roared back, face dissolving into tears. “I loved Danni. I would never hurt her. She was brilliant. I couldn’t believe she was even interested in me.”

  “And Linus Sang?”

  “She said she felt sorry for him. But, he drugged her, and then took advantage. She blamed herself. She felt so bad, she came to tell me.”

  “You were angry. Betrayed.”

  “Lily was raging at her. Told her I’d suspected she was only using me to get back at Dad.”

  “What d’you mean get back at Dad? Mitchell?”

  “It’s what he does. He sees someone, takes a liking to them. Buys them things. Piles on the charm, until they can’t say no. Patrick and Danni started coming to Dad’s parties.”

  “The ones in the woods?”

  Callum nodded. “‘Just a bit of grown-up fun,’ he’d call them. ‘Not your sort of thing, Cal. Far too sensitive.’”

  “And Patrick and Danni came to some?”

  “When they first came to Farou, Lily told me. That’s where Dad saw her. He started bringing her to the house. They couldn’t go out in public, because of Patrick. Then, one day, he freaked out. I was next door. He lost it. Was yelling about a bracelet she was wearing. It was her favourite. She always wore it when we were together. He didn’t see her again after that. But, I missed her. I started hanging around at Nemesis. We got friendly. And then more…”

  “Mitchell had a relationship with Danni,” Beckett said more to himself than Callum.

  “I loved her. But, I go
t jealous. Lily winding me up, threatening to tell Dad, but then saying he’d never believe me. And reckoning Danni was shagging around. After all, how could I hope to keep her happy? I took Danni’s tablet. She didn’t know. Thought she’d lost it. Or Patrick had sold it. I wanted to see who she was emailing. She’d saved all his emails. And photos of them together. I thought she still wanted him, but she wasn’t emailing him or any other men. I was so happy, but then, when she came and told me about Linus…”

  “What happened? Who killed her?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t in the room.”

  “Just Lily and Danni?”

  “When I came back, Dad was there… and Danni was on the floor, bleeding. I don’t know what happened.” Callum’s face disappeared into itself, and he stumbled back against the car.

  Beckett stared at him, no idea whether to believe him or not. Lily or Mitchell? Or Callum himself? “Who dumped the body?”

  “Me and Dad. No one ever goes there. He thought it would be months before she was found. But, I didn’t want her left alone there.”

  “So, you phoned it in. And you left the flowers and the bracelet at the roadside?”

  “The bracelet must have fallen off back at the house. Lily reckoned Dad hated it, because of Mum. She used to make bracelets like it. When we were little. I don’t remember, but Lily has one, too. She won’t wear it. But, she still has it… somewhere.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” A voice made them both spin around. Mitchell Troy, his car parked a few feet away. Callum recoiled. “Get in my car,” Mitchell spat at his son.

  Beckett stood between them. “I’m about to arrest him. And you.”

  Mitchell’s face split in a roar of laughter. “You really think so?” He looked past Beckett to Callum. “I said get in my car, and wait there.”

 

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