The engines spluttered and growled into life. Harper glanced into the cockpit. Faulkner was talking to air traffic control. The lights of the dashboard – if that’s what you called it in a plane – were like a fairy grotto. There seemed an impossible number of buttons and switches, dials and levers. All for one small plane, and for one person to operate.
“Do we have an interview strategy?” Harper looked back down the cabin, but Beckett had plugged earphones in, and had his eyes closed. Harper was on his own. He gripped the arms of his seat, and waited for the engines to roar, and the force of the acceleration to pin him back in his chair.
***
They’d picked up a hire car at the airport, and Beckett had dropped Faulkner off at the hotel they were to stay in that night. Beckett could sense Faulkner wanted to talk, to warn him off, but with Harper there, it was impossible. Instead, barely a word was spoken by any of them. Harper had alighted the plane, looking ashen-faced. Small planes were always bumpy, but it had been a rough flight. The sort of flight Faulkner enjoyed the most, but not today. Beckett was thankful for the silence. He felt as sick as Harper looked. He didn’t dare hold his hands out in front of him, because he knew they would tremble like a man in detox, and he didn’t want to betray himself to either his father, or Harper.
The hospital was an imposing marble-clad building, symmetrical, apart from the addition of a clock tower at one end. The orange tiles of the roof shone in the late afternoon sun, like a heavenly halo, but on closer inspection, many of the windows were shuttered or barred. The building’s smile hid the torment inside.
They got through the checks at the hospital without any hitches. Petrakis had pulled the necessary strings, and they were led down a long corridor by a silent man with a clanking bundle of keys – key cards and finger print recognition hadn’t yet caught up with a cash-starved Greek mental health system - passing through three double locked doors, and then through another locked door into a large sun-soaked room. They were told to wait, and the man left them to it.
There was a u-shaped cluster of sofas, a coffee table, and large posters on the walls – photos of soaring landscapes, delicate flowers, and flocks of birds soaring over oceans. It was supposed to be a friendly room, but again, there were teeth-like bars at the windows, the furniture was nailed to the floor, and the posters screwed to the walls.
Harper sat on one of the sofas. Beckett was beginning to wish he’d not brought him. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say to Chrystos. He wasn’t sure of anything now. He stood at the window, peering out through the bars. They were at the back of the building, and below, was an ornamental garden, hedges and flower beds regimentally laid out, terraces and sculptures, fountains and trees. A few people moved about, walking the grassy avenues or traversing the lawns. It was impossible to tell the difference between the patients and the nurses.
The door opening startled him. He turned around, feeling his heart thumping like a prog-rock concert in his chest. A uniformed man came in first, a nurse, broad, business-like. He stood to one side, and a second figure entered. Beckett forced himself to breathe. The beard was neatly trimmed and about five stone in weight had been accumulated, but there was no mistaking the crawling tattoos of gorgons on both forearms, those unblinking charcoal eyes, the bulbous nose, and the mouth, which curled and twisted like a meandering river.
The nurse shut the door behind Chrystos, and locked it. Chrystos shuffled forward, squinting.
“Chrystos. This is Detective Inspector Harper from the Metropolitan Police in London, and I’m Inspector Beckett Kyriakoulis. Do you remember me?”
Chrystos hesitated, then moved to have a closer look at Beckett, his eyes flickering, taking in the lines of Beckett’s face. Beckett wished he could smile, to put himself at ease as much as the man in front of him, but he felt frozen, his throat dry.
“I found you on the Island. Arrested you, and questioned you. Before you came here.” His voice struggled out of his mouth. He could sense Harper watching him.
Chrystos shook his head ponderously, as if it was a heavy weight.
“I don’t. I’m sorry.” He glanced at the nurse, then back at Beckett, “I don’t remember much from back then, but I’ve been told about you, so I do know who you are. I know you were the one who saved me.”
Chrystos held out a hand, and stepped forward. His mouth turned up at the corners, an attempt at a smile. “Thank you.”
Beckett stared at the hand, the great paw of the man. The hand which had held woman down whilst he raped them, which had held the knife cutting into the face of the man…
Beckett tore his thoughts away from that day and from that place, and focussed on the face of the man in front of him. Just a man. Barely five foot eight. A stocky man, then. An overweight one, now. Stooped in the back and slumped in the shoulders, as if wanting to take up less space in the world. Beckett took the hand, and shook it. The palm was warm, the shake weak but enthusiastic.
Determined to be polite and do things properly, Chrystos nodded and shuffled towards Harper, shaking his hand, too.
“Would you like to sit?” Harper indicated the sofa.
Chrystos nodded, and took himself to the bottom of the U-shape. “Thank you.”
He sat back, upright hands on his pressed together knees. Harper looked up at Beckett. He was leaving this to him. Observing. Taking mental notes. For the investigation, or for his bosses?
Beckett sat opposite Harper, but turned his body to face Chrystos.
“In what way did I save you?”
“I’ve been told there were people who wanted to kill me. For the things I did. I was sick.” He glanced across at the nurse, “I’m still sick. But, you found me. You didn’t hurt me. You could have done. No one would have blamed you. But, you rescued me. And I came here, where they helped me get better. They taught me to paint. I paint all day now. I have an exhibition here. You could go and see it. Later. When we’ve finished. I wouldn’t be here, if it wasn’t for you. I wouldn’t be anywhere. That’s why I’m glad you’ve come. So, I can thank you.” Chrystos leaned forward, hands clasped together half pleading half praying.
He had meant what he said. He believed what he said. But, it sounded like therapy speak. He’d been taught to paint, and taught to accept the events which made up his ‘journey.’ But, down in the pit of his soul, did he understand it? Did he feel all the emotions of it? Beckett thought not. You couldn’t feel what Chrystos had done, and not be revolted by it. Chrystos seemed at peace with himself. Though, perhaps, that was the medication.
“You don’t need to thank me, Chrystos. I did my job.”
“But, you did it with…” Chrystos searched for the right word, “humanity.”
“I’m glad you’re coming to terms with what happened.”
“I did terrible things. Hurting all those women. My mind was confused. I thought they wanted me. I wish I could say I’m sorry to each one of them. I wrote each one a letter, with my therapist. But, we can’t send them. It would upset the women too much, she says.”
There was no mention of Panos. Beckett had no wish to mention his name, either. It wasn’t relevant. But, Beckett wondered if he’d penned a letter to him. And if he had, what would it say?
“It’s about the women, the reason we are here.” Harper filled the silence.
“Do they want their letters?” Chrystos asked, his voice lifting with hope.
“It’s about one particular woman.” Beckett took back control, “Rosie Payne.”
He let the name sit in the space between himself and Chrystos. Chrystos started chewing on a fingernail.
“Do you remember the name Rosie Payne, Chrystos?”
“I’m not very good with names.”
“Did you write a letter to her?”
“No.” The answer was quick and definite.
“But, you do remember her? I asked you about her at the time. When I found you, you were wearing her bracelet.” Beckett fished in his pocket, and pulled out the b
racelet. It was still in the evidence bag, but unmistakable. Chrystos turned his head away.
“Please have a look at it, Chrystos. Tell me if you remember it. I found it on your left wrist.” Beckett moved closer to Chrystos, and held the bag out to him. Chrystos swallowed. He seemed to shrink into himself like a deflating balloon, “Please look for me. You say I saved you. Now, you can save me.”
Chrystos looked at him, those dark eyes, like pits of tar. He took the bag, and studied the contents, turning it over and over in his hands.
“Do you recognise it?”
“Yes. It was Rosie’s.”
“And when I found you, you were wearing it?”
“Rosie was beautiful. I liked her. She was nice to me.”
“When was she nice to you, Chrystos?”
“When I was working. Tidying up. Gardening. Cleaning the pool.”
“Where was that?”
“At the big house. The castle.”
“Mitchell Troy’s house?”
“I grew up there. Before the castle was built.”
“It was your family farm.”
“I was glad to be able to work there again. It reminded me of when I was young.”
“And you saw Rosie there?”
“She was there, often.”
“With Mrs. Troy? Jeanie? You remember her?”
“I remember Mrs. Troy. She was very pretty, but always sad. I didn’t see her a lot. She never came outside. I wasn’t allowed inside.”
“But, Rosie came to visit her?”
Chrystos shook his head. “She came to visit Mr Troy.”
“You’re sure about that Chrystos?”
He nodded and smiled. “He was very fond of her. I think he was lonely. But, not after Rosie started visiting.”
Beckett steadied his breathing, kept his pulse rate even. “I’m going to ask you something that you might find very difficult, Chrystos. About Rosie.”
“Okay.” Chrystos’ voice was small, and he pushed his hands underneath his thighs. The bracelet was balanced on his knees.
“How did you get Rosie’s bracelet?”
“I don’t remember.” Chrystos’ left foot started to jiggle.
“Did she give it to you? You said she was nice to you.”
He shook his head, eyes fixed on the bracelet, his foot jiggled more violently, so much so he had to put a hand on the bracelet to stop it sliding to the floor.
“If she didn’t give it to you, you must have taken it from her. Did you take it from her, Chrystos?” Beckett kept his voice kind, as if he was asking an old lady where she’d left her glasses.
Chrystos gave a nod, then looked into Beckett’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Why did you take it?”
“Because she was kind to me, and I wanted something of hers to remember her.”
“Was she dead when you took the bracelet?”
“Yes,” Chrystos whispered. “Do we have to talk about this?”
“Chrystos, did you kill Rosie Payne?”
“No.” His answer came out like a plaintive howl. “I wouldn’t hurt her. I always said I didn’t hurt her.”
“But, you hurt those other women,” Harper cut in.
“I didn’t know I was hurting them. I thought I was loving them.”
“Did you love Rosie, too?”
“I wouldn’t. I didn’t. She belonged to Mr. Troy. I couldn’t love her. Not like that. She wasn’t mine to love.” Chrystos leapt to his feet. “She wasn’t mine to love.”
Beckett swept Harper with a ‘back off’ look, and put a hand on Chrystos’ shoulder.
“It’s okay. I understand. Please sit down.”
Chrystos sank back to the sofa, head in his hands.
“Was she alive when you took the bracelet?”
“She looked so beautiful. It was dark, but the moon was bright. It made her skin look silver. I thought she was sleeping. But, her eyes were open. People don’t sleep with their eyes open, do they?”
“No, they don’t.”
“I tried to wake her up, but she’d gone. There was nothing I could do. I saw the bracelet. I thought if I wore it, I’d be close to her. She wouldn’t feel so lonely. So, I took it. I know now that was wrong. But, I couldn’t have helped her, could I?”
“You could have called someone, told someone.”
“I was scared.”
“Where was Rosie when you found her, Chrystos?”
“I’m not sure. My head doesn’t remember things in order from that time.”
“Describe it to me. The place.”
“She was by a tree. Sheltered, I thought at least. The trees always protect you.”
“Anything else?”
“There was a road. I heard a car go past. Saw its lights.”
“Which road?”
“The road down from the mountain.”
“What were you doing out there, Chrystos?” Beckett cajoled.
“Nothing.”
“In the woods, at night.”
“I could never sleep. I liked to walk. I used to explore those woods when I was young. I knew every tree.”
“You weren’t at the Castle that night?”
Chrystos hesitated. “I heard the music. There was a party. There were always parties. At the Castle. And in the woods.”
“You didn’t go closer. To watch?”
“Not at the Castle. They didn’t like me being there.”
“But, you mentioned parties in the woods? You know those woods better than anyone. You could watch and never be seen.”
Chrystos started chewing his fingernails.
“You did watch, didn’t you? I bet there were lots of girls there.”
Chrystos flicked his eyes up to meet Beckett’s gaze.
“What happened at those parties, Chrystos?”
“I don’t remember.” He shook his head, but he blinked and swallowed.
“Try, Chrystos. Was there music? Singing? Who did you see there?”
“I didn’t. I don’t remember”
“Did you see Rosie at one of these parties?”
“She was a good girl. Not like the others.”
“What do you mean ‘the others’?”
“Not good girls. That’s what I mean. I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean not good girls? Because they were drunk? Taking drugs?”
“Good girls like one man. They don’t share themselves.”
“Share?”
“Faithful. Good girls are faithful.”
“So, there were girls at these parties being ‘unfaithful’?” Beckett stressed the word.
“I didn’t see. I don’t remember.”
“Would it have upset you to see Rosie at one of these parties, Chrystos?” Harper jumped in, “Amongst all these unfaithful girls?”
“She wouldn’t. Mr. Troy protected her. He loved her.”
“What was he protecting her from, Chrystos? Please. I helped you. I need you to help me.” Beckett took back control from Harper. “What went on at these parties? I know you watched, Chrystos. You’re not in trouble for watching. I just need to know what went on.”
Chrystos hesitated, closed his eyes, then opened them, and stared at Beckett, eyes darker than ever.
“Music, singing, chanting, shouting to the gods. Fires, drums. Drinking, smoking, wild women, wild men, laughing, people loving each other. Not hurting each other.” His eyes opened wide, and he put a hand on Beckett’s knee. “Not really hurting. Sometimes people would pretend things. Pretend to hit each other. Pretend to hang from trees. At least, I think so. I don’t remember those bits so well.”
“And did you see Rosie at one of those parties?”
“Not her face. Everyone wore masks, you see. But, I saw her tattoo. It was beautiful, not like mine. I knew it was her from the tattoo.”
“Did it upset you to see her at that sort of party?”
“I was worried for her sometimes, but I knew Mr. Troy would protect her. He loved her.”
“You saw Mr. Troy, Mitchell Troy, at one of these parties in the woods?”
“I saw someone loving her. The man with the silver goat mask. The man they all followed. It must have been him. She belonged to him. She wasn’t shared, not like some of the others.”
Beckett could hear his heart thumping. He put one fist in another. Anything else would have betrayed his trembling hands. “The night you found Rosie… was that a party at the Castle or in the woods?”
“At the Castle. Then, I heard them in the woods later.” Chrystos nodded. “I was checking my rabbit traps. That’s when I found Rosie.”
“You didn’t hear anything? See anyone else? Someone who might have hurt Rosie?”
“No. There was only me.”
“Could you see any blood on her, any injuries?” Harper’s voice sounded strained.
Chrystos shook his head. “She was beautiful. Perfect.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I went home. I had rabbits I’d trapped. I took them home for my mother to cook.” He paused, but then his eyes brightened. “But, I felt bad. I didn’t like to think of Rosie out there on her own. So, I went back to find her. I was going to bring her home for my mother to look after.”
“What happened, Chrystos?” Beckett asked.
“She’d gone.”
“Gone?” Harper’s voice rose.
“Maybe she wasn’t dead after all? Maybe the gods came for her? I knew I’d gone back to the right place, but she wasn’t there. Someone had taken her away.”
“He’s on medication to keep him calm,” a nurse told them, once Chrystos had been lead away to his room. “He was a very disturbed man when he arrived here. Art therapy has helped a huge amount, but he still needs his medication. Do you want to see what he’s painted? It’s good. So good, the Governor let him have a permanent exhibition in the art room corridor.”
Beckett nodded. “Please, if you don’t mind.”
The nurse led them through locked doors that clunked behind them, and down two floors to a wide, white-painted corridor with double doors at the end.
The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 19