CHILDHUNT: A Mystery & Suspense Thriller in the Bestselling Diana Rivers Series (The Diana Rivers Mysteries Book 5) (7 page)

He threw them onto the backseat and covered them with a blanket placed there for the purpose. In less than a minute he was through the olive and fruit-tree orchard, off the dirt lane and onto the main road. He would be home in less than six minutes, the car parked away in the garage, and the children ensconced in the cellar.

He forced himself to drive at a sedate speed; he didn’t want to attract attention. Within a minute, it began to sleet, and he used the wipers to clear the windscreen. The sky was darkening, and he needed to turn his sidelights on. As he slowed round a bend, he saw a walker in the distance coming towards him. He cursed, but by the time he drew level, the walker had turned off the road onto another dirt track. He turned his head and briefly glanced at the pedestrian, recognising him at once. Damn! But with a bit of luck his neighbour hadn’t noticed him as they passed. He hoped Roger wasn’t aware he had come from the direction of the Frost property. He began to sweat again. Hopefully, he hadn’t been recognised; most people weren’t that observant, and with luck, Roger was more intent on wrapping his scarf more snuggly around his ears than noticing him. He might have to do something about him later, but at that moment, he needed to get back home as soon as possible.

Feeling more confident, he looked in the back of his car at the blanket bundled on the seat. There was no movement and no sound. Perfect.

Chapter 9

Debbie coiled the electric cable back into the vacuum cleaner slot after finishing downstairs.
That’s one job out of the way
, she thought, shutting the cupboard door behind her. She glanced at her watch. The children had been outside for over twenty minutes, and she really should have called them back indoors. She had lots to do that day. It wasn’t worth putting the final load of washing on, though, as it was bound to rain within the hour. The clouds were, if anything, looking even darker and more menacing. The earlier sporadically appearing sun had disappeared for good now, and it looked like they were in for a terrific storm.

Winter in Cyprus had definitely arrived. Summer and autumn had been glorious, so they couldn’t complain. Besides, Debbie welcomed the seasonal changes, as it reminded her of home. She still thought of England as her home, despite all the heartache she suffered there. She wondered if they would ever return. She knew William wanted the best education for Charlie and Hannah and had already said he was prepared to put them through private school if they could afford it. The schools in Cyprus were okay, but she knew his preference, and although he never said so, he loved England.

Debbie thought back to an England she once loved: to when she was a child and the happy loving Christmases she and her parents enjoyed together. She closed her eyes, recalling the woody smell of the Douglas fir tree her father brought home from the market two weeks before the joyous day; how she loved to help her mother make the Christmas plum pudding and cake, stirring all the spices and other ingredients together and wondering how the silver coins got inside the pudding. She spent hours covering the tree with all the aged and much-loved red, green and gold decorations. Then there was a glittering array of twinkling lights, scented candles, bowls of pot pourri, and cranberries. It had been such fun: glorious, fabulous and happy days.

She suddenly jerked to attention and, remembering her own children, turned towards the kitchen. She stopped. She was being foolish; surely the children were fine. It had only been half an hour, and she really needed to stop worrying. She didn’t want to make them feel insecure with her over-protection. Children often sensed something was wrong. But…she couldn’t hear them in the garden. Debbie felt her heart leap in her chest as she moved towards the back door.

“Charlie? Hannah? Where are you?” Hearing nothing, she rushed outside and ran round the corner of the house. There was no sign of them. Where were they? If anything happened…

“Boo!” cried Hannah and giggled. “That wath a good joke, wathn’t it?” Both children appeared from inside the play-house, hands over their mouths and laughing with glee.

Debbie pressed her fingers to her lips to stop them trembling. “Yes, sweetheart, it was.” She fought her impulse to shepherd them indoors. She had to overcome her nerves, or she would go round the bend. “Five more minutes, then it’s time for school work.”

Both children made faces and then skipped away. Debbie smiled at their innocence and walked back indoors.

Passing the den, she noticed she had left her computer on. She had bookmarked some children’s books she thought Charlie and Hannah would like and wanted to read the descriptions of them in greater depth before she bought them. Both she and William were pleased they showed a love of books, even at their tender young age.

She hadn’t looked at her emails that day…it wouldn’t take a second to download them, and then she would get the children in. She made a cup of instant coffee and took it back with her to the den. She clicked on ‘send/receive’ and waited. Only two emails: one title seemed strange, and she focused on the headline…‘A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year for Debbie—or is it Yvonne Brookes?’
 
The text was short and straight to the point. Clearly apportioning blame to her, it mentioned Sally and Stuart, finishing with the line ‘Will your present two children end the same way, strangled with their scarves and lying in a grave?’ And then there were photographs, three of them. There was one of her, one of Charlie and Hannah on the beach…and one of Sally and Stuart.

Debbie felt her face draw tight as the blood left it. She gave a strangled gasp and shivered, as she remembered that photo so distinctly. It had been a windy day in the park, and Sally had whined about the cold when Claude made them pose for it. He said if she didn’t behave she wouldn’t get an ice cream later.  Sally looked as if she was about to cry, and she leant against her mother’s legs for reassurance, looking up at her with her trusting tiny smile. Stuart’s hand sought hers, as if he too might not get their weekend treat…Debbie felt giddy and sick. No! It couldn’t be! Who had found out where she lived? Who had discovered her true identity? She moaned as if in pain and shuddered. She reached for the mouse to delete the offending email and sent her coffee cup flying. As if in a trance, she looked at the hot liquid pooling on the desktop and splattered across the screen and keyboard. She had to get rid of it. Who else had received this email? She knew William had a huge mailing list. What if they all received this email? It wouldn’t take long for a few people to put two and two together, and it would be all over the island and throughout the community within hours. They would all know. Who knew she had cut her hair and bleached it? Who knew she lived here with William and Hannah and Charlie?

She had nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. Perhaps it would have been better if she were dead, then William wouldn’t suffer any more agonies over her. He could bring up the children in England, if that was what he truly wanted. William…he needed to forget her and look to the children. The children! She had to make sure they were okay. Whoever knew her identity knew about Hannah and Charlie as the picture taken on the beach indicated. Debbie had to get the children in…Sally and Stuart. No! She was wrong, she had to focus. Charlie and Hannah were her children now.

She screamed as she stumbled from the room and ran through to the kitchen door, pulling it open. “Charlie! Hannah! Come here. Quickly, come in now!’ she shrieked. She waited for only a second before rushing outside. She didn’t feel the biting cold wind or the flurries of sleet driving against her face. She darted round to the rear garden as she had done earlier that morning. She saw neither child on the slide or swing, and the play-house looked empty. Would they have left the garden and gone off to play in the olive grove? Surely not! They
knew
they had to stay inside the garden area.

“Charlie! Hannah! Charlie! Hannah! Where are you? Please don’t hide. Don’t do this to me. Come here at once!” She backed away from the swing; it was swaying in the breeze, and she bumped into the play-house. She bent down and peered inside. “Charlie? Hannah? Are you there?” Something caught her eye. She noticed the remains of Hannah’s gingerbread man squashed down in the squishy soil.

“Hannah,” she sobbed. “Where are you?”

She thought she heard a noise in the drive, towards the trees. She staggered down the lane, calling their names over and over again but heard nothing except a crowd of rooks as they moved noisily away. The children! Where were they? She left the lane and tore into the orchard.
The trees stretched in rows all around her, bent, boughs drooping like an army of twisted ghouls. The ground was soft beneath her feet, and in desperation, she darted from tree to tree looking for a clue. Anything. She couldn’t see her children or their footprints in the soil. She looked down at the base of a tree trunk, where the soil was loose and crumbly, and plunged her hands beneath the surface. There was nothing. She dug deeper, her hands desperate as she tore into the earth. She clambered to her feet, tears running down her face, and lifted her hands before her. Her nails were torn and blackened from filth, blood mingling with the dirt. Where were they buried?

She fell down and screamed as she saw his face. Whose face was it? As the sleet fell faster, a mist seemed to settle over her, and she lost consciousness.

Later, William found her lying on the ground. She was shivering with cold and shock. Her hair and clothes were wet through from the snow and plastered to her body. As William uttered a cry and ran to lift her up, he saw that her eyes were blank and vacant.

Chapter 10

Roger sat beside his wood-burning stove while finishing his tea. So much for his plans that day. He should have paid more heed to the weather forecast: snow was expected to fall on the Troodos Mountains that day. He laid down his mug and wandered over to the window. It was still falling, and by the looks of the sky, they could expect a lot more. He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled deeply. As he had some unexpected free time, he thought it would be a good idea to get some more wood in and feed the chickens at the same time.

He fetched a warm jacket and pulled his boots on. Opening the back door a crack, he was surprised at how cold it had become since he had been home. Although it usually snowed sometime during the Cyprus winters, most fell on the highest mountains. Agios Mamas usually escaped the severest weather, but Roger had a sneaky feeling that year might be different.
Maybe there is something to global warming after all
, he thought, but he couldn’t remember why warming might have anything to do with more wet and cold other than changing weather patterns. Roger walked round to his wood store and moved the tarpaulin he kept over the logs he needed for his wood-burner. He transferred them one by one into a basket; hauling the wood around made his back ache, and for a moment of relief, he stood up and stretched his spine. Soon there was a full basket to add to the one already indoors. As he rested and recovered his breath, his gaze fell upon the valley before him. He could see lots of lights shining dimly through the murk in the direction of Agios Mamas and one from the bird fancier’s house. The Frost family home, however, was in darkness.
Debbie must have gone out
, he thought. Perhaps she had taken the kids shopping, although it wasn’t her usual day for the supermarket. His back feeling better, Roger hoisted the basket of wood in his arms and staggered with it indoors.

He refreshed the fire and went through to the kitchen. While humming an old tune to himself, he put away his breakfast things and swept up some wood shavings which had fallen from the basket. Since he was living a bachelor life and well aware nobody was there to do it for him, he always ensured he kept a tidy home. In fact, if there had been any other woman after his long-departed wife, she would have been hard-pressed to live up to his expectations. He was, he knew, fussy.

Roger sighed, wishing his wife, Christine, could have spent longer in this world with him. They were childhood sweethearts and married as soon as Christine reached her majority. The following ten years were perfect as far as Roger was concerned: just he and Christine living their dream. Neither was worried about having children too soon, and when the time was ripe to begin planning their family, Christine was cruelly snatched from him. At the time, Roger couldn’t believe how a common cold could turn so quickly into a life-threatening situation. Christine never stood a chance when the viral pneumonia hit her and died in less than a week. Roger was devastated and after a short time mourning, threw himself into his work, body and soul.

Glancing round his cosy little house, he knew Christine would have been pleased. Sometimes he fancied he felt her presence. It would be something small, like when he heard their favourite piece of classical music or picked up a book and knew she had read it years before, when her head was full of dreams. She would have been proud of him. Proud with how he coped once she had gone and how he conducted his life. He always tried to be upstanding, honest and kind. If only they had shared a few more years together. Roger felt an ache in his throat as he made another hot drink. For some reason he felt depressed and had done so since before setting out on his aborted trek. Perhaps it was hearing Debbie Frost’s children playing in the garden or the thought of a cold winter and the hardship it would cause many people. Whatever it was, he was twitchy and uneasy, as if sensing there was something malignant in the air. It reminded him of when he was working on a particularly nasty case back in chambers. He shivered.