CHILDHUNT: A Mystery & Suspense Thriller in the Bestselling Diana Rivers Series (The Diana Rivers Mysteries Book 5)

by Faith Mortimer

“Have you been out today?” one young constable asked, while the other quietly poked his head around the door into the living room. He noted nothing out of the usual except candles guttering in the draft and flickering shadows.

  “I’ve only been up to the village to buy some fresh eggs and a couple of pasties from The Magic Teapot. I didn’t stay long.”

  “Who did you talk to?”

  “Geraldine. You can check if you like, I don’t mind.”

  “Mrs Geraldine? Yes, we know her. Did you see anyone else when you were out?”

  He pretended to think, acting forgetful and older than he was. He snapped his fingers as if he had suddenly remembered something important. “Now you come to mention it, I did see someone. It was during the morning, someone was out walking. He was near my neighbour’s house, the Frosts. I distinctly remember he stopped and watched the children playing in the garden. I believe he actually talked to them as I saw him wave to the little girl, and she waved back.”

  Both constables looked at each other and the silent one got out his notebook. “Do you remember what time this was?”

  He scratched his head. “No, not exactly. Only that it was early to mid-morning. Ten something, maybe. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific. As you get older one tends to forget the time, I’m afraid.” He almost jumped as he thought he had heard a noise, like a thin cry outside, and his look darted involuntarily towards his front door.

  The policeman with the notebook muttered something in Greek to his colleague, who nodded and turned back to Philip Bolton. “Mr Bolton, did you recognise the walker? Do you know who it was?”

  Philip swivelled his black eyes back to the police, licked his lips and summoned up a thin smile. “Why yes, I do. It was my neighbour, Roger.”

  *****

  Once the police had left the house, Philip slumped down in the nearest chair, trembling all over. He had done it! Not only had he put the police off, but he managed to turn the attention onto someone else. He cared little for the difficulty he might cause another human being. As long as he wasn’t a suspect.

  He had taken the trouble to ask the police whether they were going to search all night and was rewarded when they said his was the last place they were checking. The weather and power failure had put paid to further searches. As it was the second visit, they wouldn’t be bothering him again.

  Philip was sweating profusely, despite the cold. He remembered the cry earlier and, judging it now safe to venture outdoors, decided to check on his captives. He fetched a torch from a kitchen cupboard and after donning his boots, went outside. The snow was deep around his front porch, so using a broom, he half-heartedly swept a small path from the house to the garage. He thought it a good idea to walk to the wood pile just inside the garage and tread a trail through the snow. If anyone else did come nosing around he could quite legitimately say he had been out to bring in fresh wood for the fire. He selected a few sturdy logs and left them on the doorstep as proof before crossing once more over to his garage.

  *****

  Philip lit a couple of lamps in the cellar before moving towards his captives. He looked down at the small figure lying inertly on the bed. He pursed his lips and sighed, then removed the gaffer tape from around Hannah’s mouth. Next, he untied the ropes binding the two children together and ripped the sticky tape from Charlie. The boy squealed in pain and held his hand to his bleeding lips. With a terrified look in his eyes, he shrunk back against the stained mattress beneath him.

  “What’s the matter with my sister?” he eventually asked in a tremulous voice.

  Philip looked from the boy to the girl before speaking. “She’s asleep. She’ll be all right in a moment when she wakes up.” He realised he must have given the little girl too much sedative in her milk as she was completely unresponsive to the movement and noises surrounding her.

  “Can’t we go home now? I don’t like this game, and it’s dark down here. Both me and Hannah want to go home and see our…our daddy.” Charlie’s eyes filled with fresh tears when he remembered this man telling him that their mummy had gone to heaven, and puffing up his little chest with bravado, he said, “I don’t like it here. I don’t like you. You’re a nasty, bad man.”

  Philip turned his bulky body from the girl to look at the boy. With one quick move he raised his hand and hit him around the ear. “Keep quiet, or I’ll thump you harder, you little brat,” he snarled.

  Charlie yipped in pain and rolled away from Philip. Holding his throbbing ear, his eyes blazed with hatred at the man before him.

  Philip lurched to his feet. “Listen, kid. It’s too cold down here, and I’m going to move your sister somewhere warmer. You’ll stay here until I make up my mind when to come and get you. Don’t think about shouting or running away because no one will hear you, and you won’t be able to escape anyway. Besides, if you do anything stupid, and I don’t think you will, then…your sister will join your mummy. Do you understand me?”

  Fighting back his earlier bravado and tears, Charlie nodded. “Please don’t hurt my little sister. She’s only three,” he whispered.

  Philip smiled a ghastly smile and bent to stroke the hair back from Hannah’s face. “Hurt her? Of course not, I have special plans for Hannah.”

  Chapter 22

  Once all the police had finally left the vicinity of the Frost household, it seemed as if everyone relaxed a little. The inspector insisted that Debbie was under house confinement, and he made Adam responsible for ensuring she stayed where she was. As a special dispensation, she could remain at home for the night in the unlikely event her children showed up. Luckily, Adam’s rank and demeanour had made an impression on the pompous and inept Cypriot, and William was thankful that Roger had persuaded him to fly out to Cyprus.

  The watchful Diana noticed that ever since Clare had hypnotised Debbie, Roger had been restless, and she wondered why. He was pacing up and down the room, hands in his pockets, his head sunk down on his neck. Taking him to one side, Diana asked if there was something bothering him. Roger gave a huge sigh, exhaling noisily. “Sorry, am I that obvious?” he asked. “There’s something I can’t put my finger on—something I need to remember. I have to get away on my own and think. My memory isn’t what it used to be, especially since I had chemotherapy. I apologise. I’m feeling sorry for myself, and I have no right to in view of what’s happened here today.” He took a moody glance around the snug as he came to a swift decision. Sliding his coat from his shoulders, he shrugged himself into it and rewound his yellow Rupert Bear scarf around his neck.

  “I’m popping home but I’ll be back,” he said to her before heading towards the door. “I’ll only be gone for a short time while I check the house and feed my chickens. An hour at most.” Nobody heard his car engine start up or remarked on it, since they were all deep in their own thoughts. The past hours had been harrowing, and they were feeling jaded. They had kept going on soup, coffee and sandwiches with a liberal dose of adrenalin thrown in. They would all need some rest before too long, but Diana doubted whether anyone would actually sleep properly, especially William and Debbie.

  She thought it was a good time to get in touch with Geraldine and see what was happening with the expats and their promises of help. Picking up one of the candles, she followed Roger out of the room and entered the kitchen. Thank heaven their mobile phones still worked. Without them they would have been completely cut off.

  Geraldine must have been waiting for Di’s call, as she answered immediately. “We’ve had people going round in pairs, and we’ve spoken to everyone in the village. We’ve also knocked on every door and checked every empty house, derelict or otherwise. There’s no sign of the two little ones,” she said. “Right now, we’ve all come back to the pub for some hot soup and bread, as it’s bloody freezing out there. Can you believe it? I can’t for the life of me ever remember hearing of weather in Cyprus like this before. And to think we left England for this! And now we’ve got a sodding power failure.”

  “
I know, everything seems to be against us. Thanks, Geraldine, you’re marvellous. I’m sorry you’ve had a hard time.”

  “Don’t worry about us. What about those two little lambs and their poor suffering parents. Oh yes, I’ve heard all the rumours, and although I don’t know her well, I think I’m a fair judge of character, and that woman loves her kids. Debbie would never harm them nor her other ones. There’s something downright evil happening here. This village must be tainted if you ask me. It’s not known as the Assassins’ Village for nothing.”

  Diana agreed but hoped she was wrong. “As you know, there’s a group of hashers joining in the search tomorrow. I’ve asked them to meet here before first light. We plan on getting a head start on the local police force, who, although have done their best, aren’t really up to it. Our friend, Adam, will give instructions to them on how to conduct a proper search using a grid pattern or something like that. And they’ll be starting from the children’s last known position—in this instance, the garden where they were playing. The police have sent out various teams and conducted hasty searches but have found nothing yet. I’m going with them because I can’t do any more here, and I want to get out and do something positive. My friend, Clare, will stay with Debbie.”

  “Good for you. Tell you what, I’ll come and spend some time with your friend and keep her company, give her and Debbie some moral support. I’ll make sure I have plenty of coffee, sandwiches and pasties for the searchers, too. By the way, your mother-in-law’s been on the telephone threatening to get involved. I’ve managed to put her off up till now. She doesn’t change does she, ha-ha!”

  “You’re a honey. Don’t worry, Gwen is Steve’s problem. I’ll get him to either ring her or go home for a visit and put her mind at ease. I really want to go out there now. Time’s going fast, but we all hope there’s still a chance of finding them alive. We’ll all grab a few hours’ sleep and then start a fresh search.”

  *****

  Roger decided to leave his car at the Frosts’ house for two reasons: one, because he wasn’t sure he could drive it in all the new snow, and two, he wanted the chance of a walk to clear his head. He set off in the direction of his house, and as he did he happened to glance up towards the village. Between him and Agios Mamas, the house belonging to old Costas loomed up in the gloom. He could just discern the outline of the building, and he saw a couple of dim quivering lights on both the ground and first floors. A frisson of annoyance went through him as he studied the house. Philip Bolton had never made any attempt to get to know any of the locals, and the people were known for their friendliness. But that wasn’t what really annoyed Roger. The man had even had the gall to tell the police that he had spoken to the two Frost children that morning! Before the police inspector left for the evening, he had taken Roger aside, despite having already interviewed him that day. On hearing his words, Roger was clearly shaken and hotly denied seeing the children let alone talking to them. It had taken some time before the Cypriot calmed down and only then when William had intervened and told him that it was Roger who was first on the scene to help him with Debbie.

  Gazing up at the house, Roger privately thought there was something essentially unhealthy about a man who lived as Philip Bolton appeared to. He—Roger paused in his chaotic thoughts. Was that what was bothering him? He had seen Bolton earlier that day when he set out both on his walk and again on his return. The first time Bolton had been standing in an upstairs window; later, he drove past in his car. Roger stopped on the snowy dirt track and, as if drawn by an invisible thread, slowly began to walk towards the wavering lights. That morning, Bolton had appeared to be taking photographs or using binoculars. Either way, he had his sights on the Frost house. Why? Was he a stalker, a voyeur? And then what had happened later, when Roger returned from his aborted walk? Roger wished he was younger and fitter. His illness seemed to have added ten years to his sixty-five, and he was no longer as spry and with it as he would have liked. He plunged his hands deep into his coat pockets as he thought back. He recalled the car drawing level with him just as Roger had turned onto his own track; it didn’t slow down, but Roger remembered catching a glimpse of the driver. He was one-hundred-per-cent certain it had been Philip Bolton. Moreover, Roger remembered he had come from the direction of the Frost house. Roger felt different emotions race through him as he realised the implications. Bloody hell! What if Philip Bolton had been spying on the children that morning? A cold feeling stole over Roger. Had he snatched the children and taken them away? And just who was Philip Bolton, anyway?

  Without thinking, his house and chickens forgotten, Roger quickened his footsteps and was soon heading directly for Philip’s property. He had no plan, except to take a look around the place and see what he could find.

  It was completely dark, and although the snowfall had eased off, Roger had difficulty keeping to the track. There was a wall along part of the road, but it was mostly just a jumble of tumbledown stone covered with overgrown grape vines. During the summer, when the temperatures were in the high thirties and forties, it was a different place entirely, and Roger couldn’t believe he was in the same country. Gradually, the track rose up the hill. After slipping and nearly tripping over, despite following the beam from his thin penlight, Roger had to stop and take a rest. Gasping for air, he could see his foggy breath before him; with dogged determination, once again he began the trudge up the hill. His mobile gave a sudden beep informing him it was out of juice. Roger cursed. His memory was terrible. He kept forgetting to charge the damn thing. Thinking he should conserve what charge there was, he switched the phone off and replaced it deep within his coat pocket. He hoped and prayed there would be enough charge for at least one emergency call if need be.

  Roger had never visited Costas’ house, and apart from what he remembered during his daytime walks, he knew nothing about the layout of the place. Cautiously he kept to the shelter of the gates and the adjoining wall, noting faint car tracks through the snow and guessing them to be left from the last police patrol vehicle. The grounds were a gentle mound of white humps and bumps, possibly bushes, the odd tree or two, piles of discarded junk and what looked like a barbeque area with a table and chairs. Near this site someone had attempted to build an ornate wall in a circular pattern. Roger gave it a cursory glance as he passed by it, and judging by its shape, he guessed it to be a well.

  The dark and silent garden looked forlorn and eerie. Roger moved up until he was level with the buildings. The house was more square than oblong and in the thin light looked almost desolate. Downstairs, the dimly lit window had curtains pulled across it, and when Roger peered into other darkened windows it seemed like the drapes had been pulled across these too. Upstairs, there remained just the one feeble light. He tentatively tested the window. Although the catch appeared to be on, the window moved against his touch. The frame was flimsy and ill-fitting. Roger thought a well-aimed kick from a boot could easily break the latch if he needed to get inside. It was something worth remembering. Moving on, he came to the half-glazed back door. Roger tried the door handle, and this was also locked, only it seemed a lot sturdier than the windows. Unless he could use the front door, he would have to gain entry via a window.

  Roger shivered. Maybe he was seeing too much into this, and he was mistaken. After all, what concrete evidence had he to go on apart from an ill-feeling that something wasn’t right? He walked round the building and found nothing of any interest or any trace of the children—not that he truly expected to. The police had already been here and would no doubt have checked the house and grounds. There was another building, separate from the main house. It was single storey, and Roger thought it might be a simple outhouse or a barn of some sort. Thinking it worth another look, Roger cautiously edged along the side of the house and to the building. He was careful to keep to tracks already made in the snow. There was a door halfway along the nearest wall, and he opened it a crack. Inside, he couldn’t see a thing and risked flashing his torch over the floor and w
alls. Directly in front of him he saw a car and recognised it as Philip’s. So he was right: the outbuilding was used as a garage. Treading softly, Roger moved towards it and stretching out a hand ran it over the car’s bonnet. It was as cold as the frigid air around him, and it was obvious it hadn’t been used since his return earlier that day. Flashing his light on the walls, Roger walked the length of the garage, barely noticing the plastic and hessian bags lying on the floor beneath his feet and ahead of the vehicle. Apart from a few metal cans, a couple of pitharia, a pile of logs and an axe there was nothing else to see. Or was there…?

  Playing his torch along the ground, Roger retraced his footsteps back to the door. Sure enough, he noticed a beaten path through the snow leading into the garage. Bolton obviously liked to keep his logs dry in there. There were small lumps of snow on the ground and around the cut logs. Bending down, Roger could clearly see large dirty footprints on the concrete around the woodpile and…one or two scuff marks leading to the front of the car. Roger followed the scuff marks and stooped down to get a better look. Disappointed, he stood back up and cast his torchlight around the walls and dirty floor once again. The footprints were those of a large person—almost certainly Philip Bolton’s, and Roger could see nothing small or resembling a child’s footprint.

  He walked round the car, casting his light before him and caught a glint of something shining and poking out beneath one of the plastic bags. He nudged the item with his boot and saw that it was a coin. He was about to leave it when something made him stop and pick it up. Turning the coin over in his hand, he saw that it was a British coin: a two-pound coin. There was nothing unusual in that, was his first thought and made to slip it into his pocket, but he suddenly paused. Flipping the coin over Roger saw that there was something remarkable about it. The coin wasn’t made of the usual bi-metals. This coin was made of mono-metal: one metal only. Roger had once been a keen coin collector and still dabbled a little. He was pretty sure, as he looked at this coin, that it was never legal tender like the bi-metal ones produced in 1994, nor was it released as part of a presentation set. It was therefore very rare. How on earth had it turned up here in Cyprus?