The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller

by Angela Corner

  She’d avoided breakfast, not wanting to talk to anyone. It was only when her phone spluttered into life, and she heard the Inspector on the other end, she had felt motivated to act. His voice was hypnotic and reassuring. Wouldn’t he be impressed, grateful even, if she, useless Little Bee, went out, and tracked down her friend? Jos would have to apologise, and Emmie would give her a hug and thank her for caring.

  Cars flew past in both directions, sharing snippets of conversations and blasts of music. The sun was beginning to throw out serious heat, and the puddles from last night’s storm had all but evaporated, making Bee’s progress less like a slalom course. Her confidence was growing, and she even twisted the throttle up another notch. Stamatis’ directions were working. The village of Massouri opened up to greet her, a Taverna on one side and a shop on the other, a splash of colours terraced in front – fruits and vegs, flowers, and pots of honey. The road narrowed and started to climb, as it wound between buildings, villas leaned in towards each other, whites, pinks, yellows, and blues, sagging chain link fences holding back empty spaces of weeds. New cars squeezed into spaces next to rusting ancestors, branches and leaves sprouting through windscreens.

  Rounding a bend, Bee came nose to nose with a tourist bus. She felt her heart thumping louder than the thunder cracks from the night before. She stopped, the bus stopped, engine growling, the driver’s mouth moving in what she interpreted as a curse. The bulk of the bus made the houses look elfin. How could it ever fit between the buildings? She shuffled the moped into the gateway of the nearest villa, tucking herself in as far as she could, closing her eyes and squeezing her shoulders together, as it passed. She could smell the stink of the exhaust, and her skin prickled with the heat from the engine. Then, it was gone, and in front of her was a salmon-painted, three storey villa, sitting on the edge of what, if you were generous, was a side road. ‘Turn right at the pink house,’ Stamatis had said. This had to be it. There was no signpost, but it climbed away from the village. Bee took a deep breath, and pointed the moped up the hill.

  At first, the road was kind to her. The houses disappeared, replaced by olive trees. To her left, between their twisted trunks and branches, she caught glimpses of the sea, falling away below her. She stopped at a clearing, so hot inside the helmet her head was throbbing, and sweat was blinding her eyes. She yanked the helmet off, skin drinking in the soothing touch of the breeze. She absorbed the view below—diamond sparkles of dancing waves, silver trails from jet skis, postage stamp white sails of boats, and the multi-coloured patchwork quilt of parasols on the beach. It made Bee think of the model village her parents liked to take her to when she was small. ‘Have a giant time in a miniature world,’ it used to say on the sign at the entrance.

  “Seasoned moped rider now,” she praised herself, as she hooked the helmet through her arm, certain her destination was close. Emmie wouldn’t believe her eyes when she saw Bee whizzing into view. On a moped, on her own, miles from the hotel. Bee felt her mouth curl into a grin.

  An hour later, she felt like crying. The road had twisted inland underneath the canopy of the olive groves and cypress trees. The branches entwined to shut out the sun, letting only a dust-encrusted, emerald light percolate through. It was like being underwater. Without the sun, her skin tingled with cold. She didn’t want to stop in this gloom-shrouded place, almost afraid she’d drown beneath the surface of the leaves. Is this where all the wild animals lived, the ones she’d been warned about? It was too dark beneath the trees to see any movement swimming towards her, but she could hear noises. Disembodied screeches and warning whistles. Just birds, she told herself, just birds, and kept going.

  Eventually, with panic creeping into her throat, she convinced herself she must have missed the turn off to Georgiou’s farm. It couldn’t be this far. She’d heard him tell Emmie he lived just outside of town. Without stopping, she traced a semi-circle in the road, sticking one leg out for balance, and started back the way she’d come.

  The trees seemed to have leaned even further over the road, their branches pressing down over head, as if any moment, they would swing down to crush her. Bee was cold, but sweat trickled down her back. Then, something green and dragon-like darted out from behind a tree and scurried in front of her tyre. She braked, and yanked the handle bar, twisting one way, and then, as she tried to recover, the other. Balance was gone. She saw a small, green lizard scuttle into the undergrowth, as the moped bucked, wobbled, and flipped over.

  It was hopeless. The front tyre was mangled, burst and flapping loose from the rim. Bee hadn’t been travelling very fast, and, apart from a graze on her left elbow, was unscathed, but her hands shook, as if seismic waves were coursing through them. The pocket, where her phone had been, was empty, but she saw it straight away, propped up against the snatching roots of a tree. The screen was splintered into a schizophrenic pattern, and there was no response when she pressed the power button. Dead.

  “Can I help? Are you alright?” A voice behind her sent her spinning around.

  A man, keeping his distance, stood in the road. His eyes crinkled at her, one hand scratching his short, grey beard. He wore a sparkling white shirt, sleeves rolled up his arms, contrasting against his rich man’s tan. A heavy gold watch wrapped his wrist. Behind him, was his car. A gleaming crouching tiger. Bee recognised the Porsche badge. How did she not hear him drive up? Fear welled up in her stomach.

  “Hello?” He stepped nearer, and a sob burst from her mouth. Once the first was released, she couldn’t stop the sobs pouring out of her body.

  “Jesus. Do you want me to call someone?”

  “I…no… how did you… I don’t even know where I am.” The words came out in strangled gasps.

  “Did you hit your head? Were you knocked out?” He edged closer. She stood up, rough skin of the tree pressed up against her back.

  “No. I’m fine.” Her body screamed at her to run, but it would be hopeless. He was late fifties, but looked fit, like he ran five miles every morning before breakfast. She’d seen enough TV shows to know that being chased through woods ended up with the girl tripping over, crashing to the floor, and then fading to black, as the monster caught up with her.

  He was close enough now she could smell his aftershave.

  “Your bike looks knackered.” He set it upright, examining the front tyre, “Are you on your own?” He was very British, public school accent.

  “I’m on my way to my friend’s place. He lives just down the road.”

  “Out here? Are you sure?”

  She nodded. The man was staring at her. His eyes were the colour of the sea. The edges of his mouth curled upwards, like he was permanently amused by life. There was something familiar about him, like she’d seen him before somewhere, perhaps an advert in a glossy magazine for posh cars or expensive watches.

  “Who is your friend? I might know him. I own a lot of the land around here. In fact, I think you’ll find that’s my tree.”

  Bee stood upright.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I was trying to be funny. Lighten the mood. Failing miserably.”

  “Oh.”

  “Your friend’s name?”

  “Georgiou.”

  “Surname?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where’s his place?”

  “I, erm… I’ve never actually been. He works in the Budapest Club in Nikisiopi. His family have an olive farm…”

  The man grinned.

  “Georgiou, the creator of the best cocktails in the North of the Island? I know the family. But, their farm is miles away.” He looked back up the road, the direction his car was facing away from. “You were going the wrong way.”

  Bee felt herself flush, but her heart was slowing, the sense of danger ebbing. Now, she just felt stupid.

  “I’ll take you, if you like? It’s about fifteen minutes away.”

  “I can’t leave the bike. It’s not mine.” She felt the tears pressing on the back of her eyes again
.

  “We’ll put it in the back of the car. That okay?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m Mitchell, by the way. Mitchell Troy. Mitch, to my friends.” He stuck out his hand. He caught her in his gaze. It was impossible to look away.

  They peered into the back of his Porsche. It was a four seater, and the back seats were already folded forward out of the way. It still looked like a ‘square peg, round hole’ moment.

  “Someone at work has one of these,” she offered.

  “Nice cars. Designed for golf clubs, not stricken mopeds. Don’t worry. We’ll squeeze it in.”

  He lifted the bike, as if it weighed nothing, and with a bit of shunting, manoeuvred it as far into the boot as it would go. The tail gate wouldn’t shut, but he gave the moped an experimental jiggle.

  “It’s not going to shift anywhere. Come on. Jump in.”

  Bee hesitated.

  “I won’t bite. Promise. Everyone on the Island knows me. You’re perfectly safe.”

  Cocooned inside, she sunk into the seat, and brushed her hand on the cool, cream leather.

  “Okay?”

  Bee nodded. Mitchell started the car. Nothing happened. But, they were moving.

  “Running on electric.”

  “That’s why I didn’t hear you drive up.”

  “Sorry. Stealth mode. You’ve got to do your bit for the planet. So you met Georgiou in the nightclub?”

  “Not me. My friend, Emmie. I’m looking for her.”

  “So, you hired a moped, drove all the way out here, not really sure where you were going. Wouldn’t it have been easier to give her a ring?”

  “She’s not answering her phone.”

  “Signal is usually good up at Georgiou’s.”

  “She’s just not answering. She’s supposed to be getting married in a couple of days.”

  “Ah. But, she’s fallen for Georgiou?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  “You don’t like her husband-to-be?”

  “No, because if she isn’t with Georgiou, I don’t know where she is.”

  “You’re worried about her?”

  Bee nodded, watching the trees slip by.

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  “That’s what everyone thinks, including the police.”

  “Who did you speak to?”

  “Inspector Kyriakoulis. Do you know him?”

  “Of course. We all know each other on this Island.”

  “You’re not a tourist, then? You’re from England.”

  “Business over there. Home here.”

  “How hard can it be to find someone in such a small place? I don’t understand why she hasn’t called me.”

  “I’m sure she just wants a bit of space. Getting married is a big step. I’m guessing she’s not much older than you?”

  “She’s being going out with Warren since they were fifteen.”

  “Childhood sweethearts, like my parents. Didn’t spend more than a day apart, from the time they met at sixteen, to when they died.”

  “So it can work then?”

  Mitchell glanced at her. “Not often. So, Bee, what do you do when you’re not on holiday taking part in hen dos?”

  “Not very exciting. I work for the Department of Business. That’s where I met Emmie.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed. At the heart of Government.”

  “Not really. I’m a junior researcher. I mostly make the tea.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. You’re obviously bright and resourceful.”

  Bee’s cheeks felt hot. She turned her head, so he wouldn’t see her blushing.

  “See much of your boss? The Secretary of State?”

  “He doesn’t know I exist. Emmie’s done some work for him. She’s a senior researcher. She’s really good. They love her.”

  “I’m sure they love you, too.”

  Bee shook her head. She could feel Mitchell’s eyes on her.

  “Your modesty is quite disarming, Beatrice. Ah, here we are.”

  The car turned down a gravel track cut between the swamps of olive groves. There was no sign, no name, no number. Bee wondered how Stamatis had thought she would ever find it.

  An ancient woman, dressed in black, was sitting on the steps of a low slung, amber-coloured house. Her body was so twisted Bee wondered how she’d ever be able to stand up, and her face so etched with lines, it was impossible to tell if her eyes were open. Her gnarled hands were scrubbing away at a white sheet–the only sign she was alive.

  A couple of large, angry dogs came hurtling out from the shade of the trees.

  “Stay here. I’ll see if Georgiou’s around.”

  Bee wanted to warn him about the dogs, but he didn’t seem the sort of person who wanted, or needed, looking out for. At first, Jos found her constant need to look after people funny. After a couple of days, she’d said it was driving her mental.

  “Fine if you don’t want to live a little, but the rest of us do. You’re like a walking health and safety manual. It’s really fucking boring.”

  The dogs charged at Mitchell, but he didn’t seem to notice. Their body language changed as they scampered around his feet, tails wagging. He disappeared around the back of the house. Bee stared at the woman. Her hands, like twigs bound together with leather, scrubbing at the cloth, back and forth, back and forth, even though the cloth looked clean. Bee felt fear at the back of her throat, her imagination conjuring up images of witches, cauldrons, and spells.

  Then, Mitchell reappeared. The antelope like figure of Georgiou next to him, those magic hands which juggled cocktails waving like flags, as he talked to Mitchell.

  “I haven’t seen her since Wednesday night. You were all in the Club. You know yourself it was busy. I didn’t get chance to talk to her.”

  Out of the car, Bee felt vulnerable. The old woman had scuttled crab-like off the step, and gone inside, but Bee could feel her eyes on her from one of the dark windows. The dogs weren’t so subtle. Lying in a row, heads resting on their giant paws, watching her, looking hungry. But, however creepy the place, she wished Emmie was there.

  “You’re certain you haven’t seen her?” Mitchell cut in.

  Georgiou regarded him for a few moments, a flash of something – irritation perhaps – crossing his face. “Sorry. I have no idea where she could be.”

  “If you do hear from her, can you let Bee know?”

  “Sure.”

  “And the police,” Bee added.

  Georgiou’s eyes darkened. “The police?”

  “I’ve reported her as a missing person. They’re looking for her now.”

  “Okay. If I see her. Look, I really have to get on. I’m due at the Club in a few hours, and I have jobs around the farm to do first.”

  As they drove away, Bee watched Georgiou’s reflection in the wing mirror. He stood, a dog on either side of him, all three staring at the car.

  “They’re a good family. If he knew where she was, he’d tell you.”

  “But, if she’s not here, where is she?”

  “I know it’s hard, but try not to worry. She might have turned up by now. Do you want to ring Kyriakoulis?”

  “I broke my phone.”

  “You’re not having a good day, are you? I think I’ve got his number.”

  He pressed a button on the steering wheel.

  “Call Beckett Kyriakoulis.”

  “Calling Beckett Kyriakoulis,” a polite, digital woman replied.

  A dial tone pulsed out over the car speakers. There was a click, and another polite, digital woman answered. “You have reached the voicemail of Beckett Kyriakoulis. Please leave a message.”

  “Beckett. This is Mitchell Troy. I’m with Beatrice. She reported her friend, Emmie, missing yesterday. We’ve been up to Georgiou Nicoli’s place, where Beatrice thought she might be. She isn’t there. Beatrice wanted you to know. If you’ve got any news, please phone Beatrice as a matter of urgency. Thank you.”

  Mitche
ll killed the call.

  “Kyriakoulis is a competent police officer. He’ll find her. But, if you do need any help, give me a shout. I’m good friends with his boss. And his boss’ boss.”

  Mitchell insisted on dropping Bee at the hotel, and taking the moped back to Stamatis himself. As much as Bee tried to argue, Mitchell cut her off.

  “He shouldn’t have rented you such a death trap. These older bikes are much harder to drive than the new ones. No wonder you had a spill.”

  Less than an hour later, Bee had just climbed out of the shower, when Fran knocked at her door. “This has just arrived for you.” She passed her a box–a brand new Samsung Galaxy S7.

  “Who?” Bee blinked at her.

  “A lad who works in one of the phone shops in Farou Town. Said he’d been told to deliver it here. Who’s buying you mobile phones, Bee?”

  Bee shrugged and shut her door. Sitting on the bed, she prised the SIM card from her shattered phone, and transferred it. The new phone woke up, and smiled at her. She tapped in the number from the business card Mitchell Troy had pressed into her hand when he dropped her at the hotel, and typed, Thanks. I’ll pay you back. For everything. Beatrice.

  Within a few seconds, the phone pinged back with the message. No need. Happy to help. Keep in touch. M.

  Bee lay on her bed, phone clasped to her chest, and drifted into a fitful sleep, full of lurking monsters and dark alleyways with no escape.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “So, we’ve got an unidentified girl, who drowned in the storm last night, washed up on a beach, and a missing British tourist? And they are definitely not one and the same person?” Hydna Petrakis, Chief of Police and Beckett’s boss, leaned her elbows on her desk, and pierced his eyes with hers. She wasn’t happy.

  “We don’t know the cause of death, yet. Not until we’ve got the results of the post mortem. But, definitely not the same person.”

  “She was found on the beach. Most likely an accidental drowning, then? Too much to drink, fell off a boat, swept away by sea, and then, onto the beach.”