THE GREEK ISLAND KILLER an enthralling murder mystery with a twist (DETECTIVE INSPECTOR JACK DAWES MYSTERY Book 1) by FRANCES LLOYD

Author:FRANCES LLOYD [LLOYD, FRANCES]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JOFFE BOOKS murder mystery and crime
Published: 2019-10-13T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

The endless ranks of dense olive trees meant that walks on the inland hillsides of Katastrophos were scenic but monotonous, unless, of course, you were a botanist. The trees were ancient and each family had its own grove; the result being a golden oil that Corrie believed would probably snaffle a clutch of international medals if it ever became public. She intended to take some home for Coriander’s Cuisine. It was a gloriously sunny day so she persuaded Jack the All-Seeing that a blink was not out of the question and he could accompany her to St Sophia to buy some oil and possibly some of the island pottery and woodcarving to take home. As they made their way down the stony path that led from the front of the hotel to the road, Jack paused, staring up at the peeling façade and the three hideous Gorgons glaring down from the roof.

Although he considered himself a tough copper, Jack was not insensitive to myth embodied in sculpture. As he met Medusa’s gaze, he began to feel the sinister, ethereal nature of the island. The insane grin, the goggling eyes, the hissing ringlets of snakelike hair, the spatulate tongue stuck out as far as it would go between sharp protruding fangs. No wonder she turned blokes to stone. He looked hurriedly away, and went to catch up with Corrie who had stopped to admire the hibiscus, although not with quite the same intimate intensity as the professor.

‘Blast!’ Jack felt in his pockets. ‘I’ve left my wallet in our room. Wait here a minute and I’ll nip back and get it.’ He turned back towards the front entrance, leaving Corrie rehearsing some choice remarks about security and the poor example set by policemen who don’t look after their valuables, in return for the lecture he’d given her when she’d inadvertently microwaved her credit cards.

She was watching Jack loping easily across the hotel forecourt when out of the corner of her eye, on the very periphery of her vision, she thought she saw Medusa move. She looked away, then looked back. No, it was just shimmering in the sun — an optical illusion, like tarmac in a heat wave. Her sunglasses must have distorted her distance vision. She took them off, polished them, then squinted again. This time there was no doubt about it. The heavy stone sculpture, central and most terrifying sister of the ghastly trio of Gorgons, was rocking silently on her plinth. Only a sprinkling of dust heralded her imminent descent. Oblivious, Jack was almost beneath her when she started to topple.

It was useless to yell. He would simply have stopped right where he was and turned to see why she was shouting. It had to be a split-second, knee-jerk decision and Corrie made it. She had seen plenty of flying tackles at police rugby matches but never dreamed she would need to attempt one herself. She flung down her handbag — an unnecessary preliminary for most half-backs —

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