CHILDHUNT: A Mystery & Suspense Thriller in the Bestselling Diana Rivers Series (The Diana Rivers Mysteries Book 5) (17 page)

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 walls. 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?

Chapter 23

Philip Bolton wasted no time taking Hannah from the cellar and into the house. He picked her slight figure up into his arms and hoisted her over shoulder. The boy stared at him from under his fringe but made no attempt to hinder him as he walked towards the concrete steps. Before Philip placed his foot onto the first step, he turned and spoke to the boy.

“Wait here until I return. If you promise to behave, I’ll leave you a light. But don’t play with it. Leave the lamp where it is. I’ll come back for you later. Do you understand?”

Without a word, Charlie nodded. His face was a picture of misery, and Philip’s lip curled in delight at his distress. Serve the little snot right. Once he had his fun with Hannah, he would sort him out. Perhaps he would dispose of him earlier than he originally planned. It was the girl he was particularly interested in. But the boy did have tender white flesh…and it had been a while.

He turned away and stomped up the stairs, ignoring the fresh sobs coming from below. He lifted the trapdoor, grimacing when he misjudged the gap, and it fell to the floor with a thud. He placed his lamp on the floor and climbed from the hole. Taking a quick look round the
garage, he was satisfied everything looked as it did before. Without wasting any time, he replaced the trapdoor over the gap, picked up his lamp and shoved a few hessian sacks back in place. He grunted as he shifted the girl’s weight from his shoulder into his arms and left the garage. It was still snowing, and the wind had picked up again.
What a soulless place this island is,
he thought. After he had achieved his objective, he would be glad to leave.

He tried the light switch in the hall, but there was still nothing. The storm had obliterated any natural light hours ago, and it was dark. The storm must have pulled down some of the electric wires, and the wind wailed against the house. It didn’t matter. Philip didn’t need much light for what he was about to do. In fact, he thought candle and lamplight would set the scene better.

He laid Hannah down on the settee in the living room and threw a couple of logs onto the glowing fire. The room instantly brightened from the flickering flames. The girl stirred, and he rushed to her side. He wanted to take her upstairs and play with her. Maybe give her that bath he had been promising himself. It had been some time since the last one. He had bought a bottle of bubble bath in Limassol and a nice squidgy toy for the tub. He would wash her and then bundle her up in the new soft towel he had bought just for the occasion. She would smell so good: all baby and soapy and so sweet.

First, though, she might like him to read her a fairy tale. He had picked up a nice copy of Hansel and Gretel, one of his favourites;
very apt
, he thought.

“Hello, baby girl. Come to Daddy. Shall I read you a nice story?” he cooed, while leaning over her. Her eyelids fluttered before she opened her big beautiful eyes. Instantly, they clouded with terror, and she opened her mouth to scream.

*****

While Roger was studying the coin, he became aware of a soft murmuring. He paused and realised it seemed to be coming from below where he was standing. Surprised, he guessed there was a room, a cellar, beneath the floor of the outhouse, and there must have been a flight of steps or a ladder leading down to it. But where did it start? Was there a trapdoor somewhere? He had noticed nothing so far. Instantly, he was on his guard. Why the devil would someone be down in a freezing cellar in the middle of a snowstorm? And who were they talking to? As he strained to listen, he realised the person below was moving, and it sounded as if they were climbing up steps. Moving as softly as he could, Roger immediately crept to the far side of the car away from the doorway and hid behind it. The palms of his hands were unbelievably wet with perspiration, and he felt afraid. He didn’t have to wait long before there was a sudden crash. Roger guessed he was right. The noise sounded like it came from something crashing onto the floor. It could well have been a trapdoor as it was opened and thrown back. Roger watched the wall and saw by the grotesque shadow thrown upon it that whoever had climbed up into the outhouse was carrying a bundle over his shoulder. As soon as the trapdoor was back in place and the shadow began to move towards the doorway, Roger risked a peek from the side of the car. He almost cried out in shock. He saw a figure carrying a lamp, and in the soft light, he recognised Philip and the unmistakeable little bundle he held across his arms. Hannah.

But what should he do? Philip Bolton, although overweight, looked a lot stronger and fitter than Roger. Damn his illness! If he tackled him, he was likely to come off worse and poor Hannah could be injured. Roger was assuming she was alive…and what about the boy? Hannah’s brother, Charlie. Was that whom he had heard Bolton talking to down in the cellar?

Roger stayed hidden while he pondered about what he should do first. With the snow, it would have taken him twenty minutes or so to get back to William and Debbie’s house, where there were plenty of people to help him. But he also realised that time was of the essence. There was no legitimate reason why the children should be there, and he had no doubt they had been abducted. He considered his mobile and was on the point of removing it from his pocket when he thought he heard a noise from the cellar. He strained to listen and recognised it was someone sobbing: a child crying. It had to be Charlie. Resolve flooded through him, and he made a snap decision.

He would rescue the little boy first; he would get him safely out of the cellar and tell him that his parents and everybody else were looking for him. He knew he could do that at least and then try and make that call. He reckoned on Charlie remembering him, and if he could gain his confidence, he could put him somewhere safe while he made a plan to help Hannah.

Telephone! There had to be one in Bolton’s house. And then his heart sank as he remembered the power failure. The main lines were out, and he had no way of knowing whether Bolton had a mobile, even if he could find it. Once he got Charlie out from the cellar, Roger thought he could hide him in the car. The vehicle was unlocked, and there was an old blanket or coat on the back seat. He would tuck him up while he found a way of getting into the house for Hannah. He needed something to divert Bolton’s attention from the girl, and with a sixth sense, he knew there wasn’t much time. He shivered when he thought of the tiny little mite in that man’s arms. Whatever Bolton’s plans for the children were, Roger knew they wouldn’t be nice. Child abductors were monsters. But what the hell could he do to stop him?

He was pretty sure that the downstairs floor of the house would comprise one big room, like thousands of other Cypriot houses on the island. Getting in by one window or door would therefore be of little use. Bolton would see him before he could do anything.

Okay, keep calm,
he thought as he reconsidered his options…which were few. There was no point in panicking. Okay, so he was an elderly man, but he could still rescue Charlie, wrap him up warm and hide him down by the gates. Then he would make a racket outside to attract Bolton, and when he emerged from the house, he would thump him with one of the logs lying in the garage. He reckoned if he hit him hard enough, he could knock him out.

First, he had to get the boy’s attention. Roger eased himself out from behind the car. His limbs felt cramped and stiff from where he had stooped down, and he rubbed his thighs to get his circulation going. Where Bolton had left the garage door open, reflection from the snow outside shed a thin pale light over the floor. Roger considered closing the door and using his torch, but decided he would lift the trapdoor first and just shine his torchlight down into the space below. He didn’t want to freak the boy out by moving hastily. If he took it slowly, he reckoned he would have a better chance of gaining his trust.

The wooden trapdoor was covered by a couple of sacks Bolton had hastily kicked into place before taking Hannah off with him. Roger moved them to one side and felt for a ring on the door with which to lift it. The metal was cold, but as he pulled, he found it lifted easily. Before him, Roger saw a flight of crude concrete steps leading down into a cellar. Bolton must have left a light on below because, when Roger lifted the door, he noticed shadows moving across the floor in the draught. He could hear nothing but silence.

“Charlie? Are you there? Charlie, don’t be afraid, it’s Roger.”

He waited and then tried again. “Charlie, you know me, it’s Uncle Roger. I bring eggs and a newspaper to your house on a Saturday. I’ve come to help you.”

He paused again and waited for an answer. “Charlie, I’ve come to take you home. Your mummy and daddy are very worried about you. They’ve been looking for you all day. We all have.”

He strained to hear and thought he heard a thump on the ground. Holding his breath, he waited, and sure enough he saw a faint shadow taking uncertain steps towards the stairs. The shadow changed, and Roger was rewarded by the sight of a tear-stained and bedraggled small boy peering up at him.

Roger smiled and held a hand down to him. “It’s all right, little fellow. I promise I won’t hurt you. I’ve come to take you home to Mummy.” He could just make out the boy’s features from the weak light coming from below. He felt for his torch and switched it on, making sure his face was visible to Charlie. “See, you know me now, don’t you?”

The boy nodded and gave a shudder, then whispered, “Mummy?”

“Yes, she’s very worried.”

“But…but the man said she’d gone to heaven,” his voice sobbed. “He told me I had to be good or…or—” He stopped and looked terrified at what he had said.