“These are all Chrystos’.”
Beckett stared at the first painting. It was done in oils to mimic a 17th century Baroque style—Greek Gods leering down from the sky over a wooded glade. In the wooded glade were people, humans in animal masks, dancing. There were five paintings in total. All following a similar theme. Greek gods, humans in masks and furs. Dancing, drinking, smoking, eating, bodies coupled together having sex.
Beckett looked at Harper, and then at the nurse. “These are considered good therapy for him?”
“Art therapy is about expressing feelings, and communicating those feelings where the patient doesn’t feel able to communicate them verbally. It doesn’t mean what you see in the paintings actually happened. It represents feelings the patient has, but has been unable to express. The aim is once emotions are expressed the patient can then understand them, and understand where their behaviour might have been unacceptable.”
“So painting these will stop Chrystos from raping women?” Harper said, voice dripping with scepticism.
“Combined with medication, one day, he will hopefully get to the point where he is not considered a danger.”
“But, he won’t be released?” Harper asked.
“If the doctors consider him to be no longer a danger, then, yes, potentially, one day.”
Neither man spoke until they were outside the hospital gates. Beckett pulled into a lay-by. Dusk was folding in on itself, and a wind whisked up dirt and litter, and sent it dancing in and out of the hire car’s headlights.
Beckett seemed to be in another place, hands resting on the wheel.
“You know we can’t trust anything he says.” Harper broke the silence.
Beckett didn’t move. No indication he’d even heard him.
“He said himself he didn’t remember much from back then.”
“You don’t think his recollection of finding Rosie seemed very clear and precise?” Beckett looked at him.
The expression on his face was one Harper hadn’t seen before. Fear? Doubt? Harper stared out of the passenger window, torn. Eventually, he turned back to Beckett. “Even if he’s right. Even if Mitchell was having an affair with Rosie, there’s no evidence he had anything to do with her death. The most probable sequence of events is still Chrystos killed her, and then hid her body. Buried her in the woods. He’d know where to do it so no one would ever find the grave. Now, he’s just covering up, or maybe he’s invented this memory to absolve himself. He believes it, and that’s why he’s so convincing. If there is a chance he might be released one day, then pinning the murder of Rosie on someone else would help his case.”
Beckett seemed to consider that for a moment. “I don’t think he’s that clever. Or that devious.”
But, Harper could sense doubt in his voice. Or was it the thought of Chrystos being released, and returning to the Island? “We still have nothing to help us with the Danni Deacon case.”
“All roads lead back to Troy.”
“Why are you so obsessed with him?”
Beckett looked at him about to speak, then changed his mind. “We’d better get back to the hotel, before Faulkner goes on the rampage.”
Faulkner was holding court in the hotel lounge bar when they arrived. They heard him, as soon as they stepped through the sliding front doors. Harper saw Beckett physically wince at the loud baritone of his father echoing past the empty reception desk.
The hotel was a throwback to the seventies. Or perhaps, it had never left. It looked like something from one of those sitcoms, which spewed up on one of the random channels Harper occasionally flicked onto, and past. Low ceilings, red, orange and black décor, with multicolour spots, swirls, and chevrons everywhere. It all looked dingy and grimy, but it was impossible to tell if that was because of the colour scheme itself, or because the hotel was in need of a pressure wash. Harper fancied it was the latter. This was not a tourist area. The only guests were there for business, and there weren’t many of those. He didn’t see how the hotel could ever make money.
“We’d better go and collect him,” Beckett said, heading in the direction of Faulkner’s voice. Harper followed, but it was too late. As they walked into the lounge bar, Faulkner was settling himself at the faded grand piano in the corner of the room. A couple of hotel staff had pulled chairs up close, together with a smattering of men in shabby and ill-fitting business suits.
“Bollocks,” Beckett whispered, and Faulkner started playing. Waterloo by Abba. He sang at the top of his voice, and whipped his tiny audience up into a chorus.
Harper glanced across at Beckett. “Is he always like this?”
“Pretty much.”
“Whoo hoo… my son’s arrived. Ladies and gents, my number one son,” Faulkner yelled between verse and chorus, before carrying on, easing from Waterloo into Summer Night City.
“Abba?”
Beckett shrugged and half smiled. “Drink?”
“I don’t really…”
“Tonight, you won’t be able to say no.”
Beckett was right. Faulkner wasn’t going to let any of them off. He bought round after round for all the guests and staff, regaling them with outrageous stories. Eventually, all the other guests and staff crawled off to bed, and there was just the three of them left. Harper’s head was swimming. Thoughts seem to take an age to form, and then make sense. It was like being switched to slo-mo. It wasn’t that he hadn’t ever got drunk before. He had. He knew what it was like, and he hated the feeling of being out of control.
He didn’t know how, but he found himself sitting on one side of Faulkner and Beckett on the other. Faulkner had his arms around their shoulders.
“Now, I can sense there is tension between you two. That you don’t see eye to eye. I think, tonight, right here and right now, we should clear things up, smooth the waves. What d’you say?”
Harper looked across at Beckett. He didn’t seem drunk at all.
“I don’t have a problem with him,” Beckett said in a tone conveying the opposite.
“You resent me being here.”
“I wanted you here.”
“So, what’s the problem? That I don’t just agree with everything you say.”
“You’re doing as you’ve been told.”
“I haven’t been told anything.”
“Sure you have. Steer him away from that old case. Steer him away from Mitchell Troy.”
“You’re insane. You’re obsessed with him. He might be the big crime lord you say, or he might just be a businessman. I have no idea. We need to follow the evidence, not be blinded by your hatred of someone. It’s affecting your judgment, and based on what? What concrete evidence have you ever seen on Mitchell Troy?”
“I saw him. When I was serving in Bosnia. With one of the Serb Generals. He was selling them arms and munitions. Arms used to kill civilians. Women and children. He knew what the weapons would be used for. We had to stand by whilst it happened. He sold the weapons, and we watched them being used.”
“You saw Mitchell Troy?”
“He was using a different name then, but yes.”
“He knows you saw him?”
“No. I was a young soldier. One of many. I doubt he even noticed me. Just a uniform. I had no idea who he was, until I came to the Island, and saw him. There’s no record of Mitchell Troy ever having been in Bosnia. I have no evidence, apart from my own word.”
“Sounds familiar. Definitely the same man? Memory can play tricks. In times of trauma, we can substitute one face for another. Transference, the men in white coats call it.”
“Really? Thanks, Sigmund. It was him.”
But, Harper could hear uncertainty in his voice. “You’re not sure, are you? All those years ago. You’ve changed. He would have changed. Perhaps it was someone who looked like him. We’ve all got twins out there.”
Beckett said nothing.
“Can you be 100% certain it was the same man?”
“In my heart, yes, my gut, yes.”
“But, in your head?”
Beckett’s silence gave the answer.
“And you don’t agree that your feelings, suspicions, whatever you want to call it, about him are clouding your judgment and affecting this case?” Harper wasn’t about to let the conversation drop.
“There are connections.”
“To Rosie, perhaps. But, to Danni? She worked at a party at his house. Along with many others.”
“She’s the only one who ended up dead.”
“There were over hundred guests. She didn’t disappear at the party. You may not like Mitchell Troy. He might be guilty of crimes, but there is really nothing to put him front and centre in this case.”
Beckett was reading a message on his phone. He read then looked up. “They’ve found Danni’s car. The RAV-4. In a ravine, off a track on the coast road. They’re going to lift it out in the morning, after forensics have looked at it in situ.”
“At last.” Harper felt like cheering. “There’s got to be something we can use in the car.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The next morning at half eight, Beckett and Harper were standing at the top of a wooded slope, where, about 70 feet down, a blue Toyota RAV-4 was resting, skew-whiff against the trunk of a large cypress tree. The path it had taken through the undergrowth to arrive at its resting spot was clear, bushes squashed and branches broken. If the cypress tree hadn’t got in the way, it would have ended up 200 feet down in the gully at the bottom of the ravine.
“It looks like whoever drove it here got out, let off the handbrake, and pushed it over the edge,” Tomas reported.
“I bet they were disappointed when it got jammed on the tree.” Harper remained firmly away from the edge.
“Not a lot they could do about it.” Beckett put a supporting hand on the trunk of an olive tree, and leaned over. A chain had been attached to the tow point of the car, and the winch truck was waiting for the okay to start the extraction.
“This track is hardly ever used,” Tomas continued. “It was a man out walking who spotted the car and called it in. There were tyre tracks, but forensics reckon not clear enough to get an imprint and tell if they belong to the Toyota, or if there were other cars here, too.”
“Whoever dumped the car had to get back to where they came from, somehow. There’s a lay-by at the top. Forensics will need to do a search there, a 100 yards in either direction. Where does this track lead to?” Beckett was playing the scene in his head. That scenario would require a second person.
“Nowhere. It peters out after another mile, then it’s only passable by foot. Takes you up onto the mountain.”
“So, they didn’t go that way. It’s a bloody long walk back to the nearest habitation.”
“About six miles. The yellow bus does go past though.”
“So, they might have caught the bus back? Nearest bus stop?”
“About a mile down the road.” Tomas was bouncing on his heels, convinced they had the killer in their grasp. “Do you want me to talk to the bus company? See who they remember picking up from that bus stop Saturday night?”
“Saturday onwards. The car might have been dumped later,” Harper added.
“Risky, though. Driving around the Island in a dead woman’s car.” Beckett didn’t buy it. He didn’t buy the killer taking the bus. “And we know she was killed sometime Saturday evening, and her body dumped by boat early Sunday morning. There’s no tow bar on this car.”
“So?” Harper frowned.
“The boat was taken to the beach in a trailer pulled by a car. No tow car, no trailer.”
“Another car was used to dump the body?”
“And to give a lift home after dumping Danni’s car.”
“Suggesting there were two people involved.” Harper looked at Tomas. “Have we confirmed Sophia and Patrick’s story yet? Were they definitely on the mainland?”
“She has credit card receipts.” Tomas looked apologetic.
“Let’s get this car out, and see what it tells us.” Beckett waved at the truck driver, and stood out of the way.
Fifteen minutes later, the car was on the track, with the forensic team swarming all over it.
The boot was cracked open, and after a couple of minutes, one of the white suited forensic officers signalled Beckett and Harper over.
“There’s traces of blood here. And hair. Long blonde.”
Beckett nodded. “Go on.”
“Lots of fingerprints in and around the boot, and in the car itself. We found a mobile phone in the glove compartment. And this was under the driver’s seat,” He held up an evidence bag containing a used condom. “We’ll do a more thorough exam back at base. But, I’ll get everything we’ve got now processed as quickly as possible. Get you some DNA proof of who was in this car.”
Beckett nodded thanks. “Can I look at the phone?”
The technician called a colleague over, and Beckett took hold of the bag with the phone. It was a chunky, cheap, and a basic model. Beckett pressed the on-button, and the screen lit up. There was no password required. He stared at it, trying to figure out how to access the memory.
“Let me. One of my sister’s kids has one like this. Kept losing her iPhone. Got given one of these as a punishment.”
Harper took the phone, and with a couple of button presses, the call log appeared on screen. There was a series of incoming and outgoing calls. The last one dated the Wednesday morning, the last day anyone saw Danni alive. There was only one name – Neil. Harper flicked to the Address Book. Again, only one entry – Neil.
“Neil Ticknall.” Beckett pictured the man groping Danni at the Troy’s party Tuesday night. Not just Lily Troy stirring things.
“Shall I phone the number?” Harper asked.
“If he sees Danni calling, he’s not going to answer. What’s the number?” Beckett pulled out his own phone. “No bloody signal. Come on.”
Back by the gathered cars at the roadside, Beckett dialled the number as Harper read it out. He put it on speaker phone. It rang and rang, and then jumped to a standard voicemail telling them to leave a message. Beckett hung up.
“Phones are so impersonal. I think a face-to-face meeting is so much better.” Beckett looked at Harper. “Agree?”
“Let’s go and have a chat.”
The British High Commission was nothing more than a faded wooden door, inset in a pock-marked, four storey terrace. On one side were the offices of a law firm, and on the other, an insurance brokers. Only the brass plaque on the door gave any indication behind the door was a representative of the British nation. Unlike the aging door Beckett thought needed sanding down and re-varnishing, the plaque was polished, and reflected the sun with diamond bolts of light.
Beckett buzzed on the intercom.
“Hello?” The disembodied voice floated back.
“Inspector Kyriakoulis to see Neil Ticknall.”
There was a pause and a crackle. “Can I ask what it is regarding?”
“That depends if you expect an answer,” Beckett replied. He was tired of this. Tired of people.
There was silence, and then the door clicked.
The girl was waiting in front of the reception desk.
“He really can’t see you now, he’s very busy. He asks if you can wait.”
“Not today. It’s okay. I know where his office is.”
Beckett side-stepped the girl, and headed up the stairs – old, tight turned, marble clad.
He burst through the door onto the third floor, as Neil Ticknall came out of his office. His secretary blinked, stood up, and opened her mouth.
“Do you want me to call the police?” she stammered to her boss.
“Oh… please do.” Beckett smiled at her.
“Inspector… this really isn’t acceptable.” Ticknall’s eyebrows were reaching for his hairline, and his tongue wet his lips. Like a chameleon, he’d turned the colour of the marble floors.
“Nice office, if I remember. View of the harbour.” Beckett went
past him, and into the Vice Consul’s domain. Neatly arranged bookshelves, a carpet so thick you’d lose your toes, large desk, in-tray piled with documents, and beyond the roofs, streets and then the harbour. The sea shimmered with a thousand million sparks. The masts of boats jutted up like skinny white fingers. A hulking, black-windowed yacht was heading out to sea.
“What is this about?” Ticknall followed him in, shutting the door.
Beckett allowed himself a half smile, as the muffled sound of a mobile phone started buzzing from Ticknall’s suit jacket pocket.
“That seems to be your phone. You’d better answer it. Might be important.”
Ticknall looked at him as if he were insane, but pulled his phone out, and looked at the screen. He blinked and swallowed.
“Please. Don’t mind me.”
Ticknall raised the phone to his ear, as if he was encased in glue. “Hello?” His voice grated.
Behind him, the office door opened. Harper came in, carrying Danni’s mobile, still wrapped in the evidence bag. Beckett caught a glimpse of the secretary, on the phone, looking panicked.
“Hello?” Ticknall said again, but Harper killed the call. Ticknall spun around, and backed up. His head swivelled from one man to the other. “What the hell is this?”
“That’s what you’re going to tell us, I hope. Bit odd, you see. We recovered Danni Deacon’s car this morning.” Beckett saw the nerve behind Ticknall’s left eye twitch. “And in the car, we found a mobile phone. That mobile phone, in fact.”
Harper lifted the evidence bag and waggled it, like a meal worm to a fish, almost as if he expected Ticknall to reach over and grab it.
“On that phone, there is only one saved number. The only calls made, and received, on that phone are to, and from, this one number. This one number is saved under the name ‘Neil.’ And when Detective Inspector Harper phoned that number just now, it was your phone that rang. How would you like to explain that, Mr. Vice Consul?”
Ticknall rubbed his hands over his face, and through his hair. His gaze skittered around the room, as if he was looking for inspiration.
“Perhaps you need some help?” Beckett moved in closer. “You were having an affair with Danni Deacon.”
The Hidden Island: an edge of your seat crime thriller Page 20