Childhunt: The "Diana Rivers" Mysteries, #5

About the author:

Faith Mortimer: born in Manchester, England and educated in Singapore, Malaya and Hampshire, England. Qualified as a Registered nurse and later changed careers to oversee a number of travel and sport related companies.

Faith is married with a family. Once the children attended University, she decided to join them in reading for a Science degree. Faith obtained an Honours Science degree in 2005 and believes the dedication and stamina needed to sit for a degree while in full-time employment, gave her the confidence to finish writing her first novel.

She has now written and published 11 novels and a volume of short stories. All are available as eBooks from your favourite online book store.

For more information about Faith and her writing please follow on Facebook. www.facebook.com/FaithMortimer.Author

http://twitter.com/FaithMortimer

Website: www.faithmortimerauthor.com

Where Faith writes a regular blog about all manner of things!

CHILDHUNT

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by

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FAITH MORTIMER

Copyright © Faith Mortimer 2013

The right of Faith Mortimer to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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All Rights Reserved

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No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Published in 2013

by Topsails Charter, Southampton

Acknowledgements

Once again a Big Thank You to my editor Catherine and to my husband Chris for their invaluable assistance and patient support.

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Cover Image courtesy of Sheila Creighton – Original photograph entitled Long Ago Laughter

Sheila Creighton’s work can be seen on her Blog Page www.imageryoflight.com

Faith Mortimer

CHILDHUNT

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Chapter 1: Two weeks before Christmas

He had been living there for almost as long as she had. After the trial and her disgraceful release, he made sure she would never be out of his sight for long. He counted himself lucky: he had time on his side. It was a time to think and a time to plan. It was very near the sixth anniversary, and his strategy was soon to pay off. When it did, she would be exposed to the world for what she had done, what she was...and he would rejoice.

The house was perched on a promontory of sandstone and rock. It was an old house, built about two hundred years previously and ‘modernised’ by a goatherd-turned-builder, as were many houses on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus. The two-storey dwelling had three bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor, and downstairs, the area was just one open-plan room with a typical Cypriot kitchen set in one corner. The renovation work was poor. The windows were draughty and ill-fitting in the metre-thick walls. There was no heating except for a bottled-gas fire and a hearth filled with wood scavenged from around the neighbouring woods and fields. The furniture was the original that the owner had installed soon after the place had been finished. It had been cheaply constructed, with no concession to comfort. The surrounding garden was much the same, with piles of rubble and broken breeze blocks, dead plants, rubbish and discarded lengths of plastic piping littering the place. He hated the property, but it was ideally situated for his purposes.

The one redeeming feature about the place was the cellar, which he had found by accident. He rented the place because of its advantageous proximity to her house. At first, he only had a rough plan of his intentions. He was still uncertain how it would work. Once he discovered what lay beneath the floor of the outhouse-cum-garage, he knew he had struck gold. Months earlier, he had cleared some of the trash littering the floor of the building. It was then free from most debris and apart from a stack of logs, two old pitharia positioned to face the garage wall, and his car, it was almost empty. He discovered that when he walked over a certain part of the concrete floor, it sounded hollow beneath his footsteps. He swept away at the dust and gravel to reveal the rough outline of an old trapdoor. Years of accumulated rubbish had worked its way between the wooden frame and the entrance itself, and it took him a good hour to clear this before he could finally raise the door.

He discovered he was standing at the top of a flight of narrow shallow steps. Composed of dirt and stone slabs, they disappeared into a black hole, which was later revealed to be a room of about twelve feet by nine. Along one blackened and dank-smelling wall, there stood another two clay pots or pitharia like the ones above in the garage. He knew that in the past, they would have been used for storing water, oil or wine. Smiling, he paced the room, mentally planning where to put the furniture. One small bed would suffice. Now, everything would fall into place—and it was going to be so easy!

Dragging his thoughts back to the present, he stared out from an upstairs window and saw how the sky had changed in such a short time from a pale light blue to a stark greyness. The weather was often hot and sunny in December, but this winter had seen some changes. Narrowing his eyes, he turned and stared at the mountains in the distance and saw how the snow line had extended down into the valleys. According to the newspapers, he could expect his own land to be carpeted with a light dusting within twenty-four hours.

He hated it there. He hated the people, whom he considered stupid and backward, bound to a religion steeped in archaic doctrine and hypocritical hogwash. The food was lousy, repetitive, unimaginative, and expensive. The house he rented—for what he considered an exorbitant amount from the goatherd—added to his hatred, but it suited his purposes. It was near to her.

Moving away from the window, he shuffled further into the room. He had gained weight over the years, and the excess pounds made him breathless and slow. But it had been necessary for his disguise. His hair was longer than he liked, worn tied back in a greasy ponytail: grey strands streaked with black. He paced the room before coming to a decision and clattered down the stairs. He went into the living room and stopped once he reached the dining table, a cheap affair made of mismatched pine, and picked up a pair of binoculars. The field glasses were most probably the most expensive item in the whole house, and he was proud of the 50-mm lenses, which he could switch from a ten-time magnification to fifteen. So what if they had cost him over a thousand pounds? That was small fry compared to what he hoped to achieve. He swung the binoculars around his neck and squinted through the eye pieces.

Outside, it was getting darker every minute, but Debbie’s house was easy to see through the expensive lenses. He turned his body so he could get a better angle and within seconds was looking right into her kitchen. He could see her quite clearly. Debbie was at the table. She was standing, and from her body movement, he knew she was talking to someone. He couldn’t see anyone else and knew she had to be talking to the children, who were most probably sitting down. The children. He felt his mouth go dry and his hands shook.

Debbie looked very young as she stood there. It was hard to believe she was thirty-four. She was wearing her blonde hair in a short style, but he knew Debbie’s real hair colour was a deep chestnut and that she used to keep it long—long, always fragrant and curly. She didn’t look her age. She had a captivating quality about her: young, fresh and soft.

He swallowed as he felt his mouth go even drier, but under his armpits he was wet and hot and stinking. He let the binoculars drop onto the strap around his neck, and he smiled. Not long to go...she would be exposed. When the police got to her, they would ask the same questions the others had asked six years ago...

Debbie, what have you done with your children?

Chapter 2  Earlier that month

Adam finished his call and placed his mobile back into his jacket pocket. He looked thoughtful as he replayed back in his mind what he had just learnt.

‘...I told you I’d keep an eye on her and see what I could find out, and I’m almost one-hundred-per-cent certain she’s Yvonne Brookes. Only now she goes under the name of Debbie—Debbie Frost, that is—as she’s remarried. And hear this...my neighbour has not only remarried, but she also has two more children.’

Adam chewed on his cheek as he considered Roger’s words. He had no right or reason to take an interest in the young woman: except for personal interest. When she was first on trial, she walked free from court because false evidence had been planted. He still felt terrible about that.

Adam had been the team leader on the case at the time, and his group found itself up against a brick wall. Everything they investigated came up with only circumstantial evidence, and unless something unexpected cropped up accidentally, they couldn’t prove Yvonne Brookes was guilty of murdering her two children. Adam found himself wavering over whether the young and quiet mother was guilty. When they first arrived at the crime scene, Adam witnessed her apparent terror and agony, and yet at the same time, she seemed strangely detached and remote.  Later, and during the time when the police questioned her, she seemed half out of it, and he found it difficult imagining this shy and uncertain woman as a child killer. Adam was sure he was missing something vital concerning Yvonne Brookes.

Her husband, Claude Brookes, had been highly supportive and protective during their ordeal. Whenever Yvonne was brought in for questioning, he was ready to accompany her and ensure she did or said nothing to implicate herself. He took weeks off work; he was a university lecturer and spent the time at home helping Yvonne cope with her grief. Adam remembered the tall, slim well-dressed man. He was softly-spoken and kept his distress in check behind an air of self-assurance. He told Adam he loved his wife very much and doubted she would have harmed a hair on their children’s heads, let alone strangle and bury them in a shallow grave in a wood eight miles away from where they lived. The case dragged on. Weeks passed, and the police were no nearer to solving the shocking crime. They couldn’t arrest anyone without concrete evidence.

That was until an overzealous and ambitious detective decided to play God. Yvonne was a member of a sports club. Since the birth of her daughter, she had put on a little weight and was no longer the slim, tiny size eight when she first started dating Claude. As a surprise birthday present, Claude gave her a year’s membership to the exclusive Dragon Country and Sports club, and consequently, Yvonne signed up and worked out most mornings when the children were at school. The detective decided he needed to look inside Yvonne’s locker and see whether he could find any incriminating evidence. Acting alone, he soon had her sports gear bagged and sent off for forensics. Her gym shoes were found to have mud sticking to the soles. The mud matched that near the scene of the sad little grave.

At first, the team was jubilant with the result. They had solved a particularly horrendous murder involving two innocent children. But at the trial, they didn’t reckon on the thoroughness of Yvonne’s barrister. She proved Yvonne hadn’t been to the gym on the day her children were murdered. Nor did she wear the shoes the detective claimed were covered in the same mud as that in the wood. The shoes, Yvonne said, were old ones bought in error; she never used them as they were too large for her and therefore unsuitable for gym work. She meant to throw them out but never got round to it. When the shoes were inspected, it seemed she was telling the truth; they were a full size bigger than those she normally wore.

Adam was incensed. Not only was she acquitted, but a member of his team—and one he had hand-picked—threw the whole trial into a fiasco by planting false evidence. The detective was thrown out of the force in disgrace, and Adam was left feeling disgruntled and troubled by an unsolved crime. Later, Yvonne Brookes walked free.

Adam pursed his lips as he went over Roger’s telephone conversation in his head. Roger was a retired barrister's clerk and had been responsible for running the administration and business activities in barristers’ chambers. He and Adam had been friends for a long time, and although retired, Roger kept up to date with certain unsolved cases, which he was either interested in or had passed through the chambers he ran. It was an exercise he practised purely for his own interest, but occasionally, he shared certain facts with Adam.

As an ex-clerk, Roger was familiar with court procedures and etiquette, and he also developed an expertise in the type of law undertaken by his chambers. It was a demanding but rewarding role requiring a combination of commercial acumen, legal knowledge and strong interpersonal skills. Roger took on a high level of responsibility, including the coordination of workload, marketing and financial management within the practice. As a result, he was very knowledgeable.

I was going to ask whether you might like to come out and see for yourself. You said you wouldn’t be satisfied until justice was done and the case solved one way or another, Roger had said.

Yes, but that doesn’t mean spy on the woman, Adam protested. What possible reason would I have?

"No. I don’t mean that at all. But you said you wondered what had become of her. Now here she is, married and with two more children in tow. Would it surprise you to learn that she never goes anywhere? Never sees anyone?"

Not really. If she was innocent as she said all along, then she may still be suffering from shock. Mixing with people who were against her wouldn’t help her mental state, and remember...almost everyone in the country thought she was guilty at first. Even if it hadn’t been for that bastard copper and his damning false evidence, we might still have found her guilty. But— he stopped.

But what?

You know I was never entirely convinced she did it. He paused, remembering the thin, tired-looking woman and how withdrawn and detached she had been. Why so removed? Why had she come across as aloof and unemotional? Her manner had been almost like that of a sleep-walker. Was she guilty after all? I wonder if she would speak to me if I showed up. I feel there were some questions we never asked. You say she’s remarried? I didn’t know that. There’s far too much paperwork to contend with nowadays and too little time to dwell on old cases, let alone take an active interest. Do you know what happened to her husband? I presume they divorced.

No, and that’s the tragedy of it. Not long after she was released and before she disappeared, her husband took himself off sailing. He owned a small sailing yacht which he kept on the south coast of England. Anyway, that day there was some rough weather, and a force-eight gale blew up in the English Channel. Brookes spoke to the coastguard before he left England saying he was heading for Cherbourg, but he never got there. Apparently, it’s thought his boat was swamped by large waves, and he went overboard, poor fellow. They found the boat in the middle of the channel, pretty beaten up and unusable, with no one on board. Not long after that, Yvonne took herself off and hasn’t been seen or heard of until now.

Adam was shocked. She must have been distraught with grief. First her kids murdered and then her husband drowned. He—I believe his name was Claude—he was so loyal to her after the kids’ deaths. He told me he never believed she could harm them. Poor girl...I wonder what really happened. I don’t know how you do it, Roger. You’re so up to date. You must have a special antenna for such things.

Roger gave a short laugh. Maybe, but it’s more like I have plenty of time to sift through information. Don’t forget, I only have a handful of old cases which I’m interested in, and Yvonne’s happens to be one of them.

I keep forgetting you’re going to write a book about them one day.

That’s one plan, and Diana keeps giving me encouragement. She says there are plenty of ex-solicitors and barristers who write books on crime, but she doesn’t know of any barristers’ clerks who have. Perhaps she’s right, and I have a bestseller in me, but I’m not sure if I can be bothered. I’m enjoying the freedom of not being tied to a desk anymore, and writing a book means I would be. Diana can be a bit of a bully, though.

Adam laughed. It was no twist of fate Roger and Diana lived so close to each other in Cyprus. Roger took early retirement when he fell ill, and after completing the invasive chemotherapy treatment for his cancer, he decided it was time to retire from the chambers and go and live somewhere quieter and warm. When Adam visited the crusty old clerk as he convalesced at home, Roger asked him what he thought about Cyprus as a place to live. Adam knew his ex-fiancée lived there, and it didn’t take him long to find out exactly where she lived on the island. She was a well-known writer, after all. Roger flew to the Mediterranean island and spent a month exploring. Being an island with many resident ex-pats, it wasn’t long before he was invited to a barbeque party, where he and Diana met. Roger explained who he was and how they had a mutual friend in Adam. After getting over her surprise, Diana introduced Roger to her own circle of friends and suggested he could do worse than considering Agios Mamas as a place to live. The rest was history.

Adam came out of his reverie and once again got out his phone.  Never one to spend a long time dwelling over something, he made a quick decision. The Yvonne Brookes case had played on his mind for some time after it was turned over. He still regretted the unsolved crime. She had suffered, and it was indirectly his fault. He would pay a visit, and he knew exactly how to make it look like a coincidence. He and Clare, an old theatre friend of Diana’s, were seeing each other on a regular basis. Clare had an open invitation to visit Diana and Steve, and Adam thought it was about time she should take them up on the offer. But because he was certain the invitation wouldn’t extend to him, they intended to find alternative accommodation in the area. Roger told him there were plenty of places to choose from when he first arrived there, and with the present economic situation, there were sure to be many empty holiday homes.

Chapter 3  A week before Christmas

Diana pressed ‘send and receive’ on her laptop email button and waited for new mail to appear. She saw there were only twenty-eight messages that morning and hummed while she waited for them to download. The internet was even slower than usual that day. She suppressed a sigh and glanced outside at the gathering clouds, giving an involuntary shiver. The weather forecast said it would snow, and it looked like it was right for once. Weather was an inaccurate science after all. Diana didn’t mind cold, snowy conditions; in fact, she loved nothing better than a good walk in the countryside whatever the weather. But, being Cyprus with its out-dated technology and lackadaisical infrastructure, she knew that if and when it snowed, hailed or simply came down in torrents, everything ground to a halt. She even remembered one power cut due to a snake which had slithered into the power plant. Whatever the reason, the island inhabitants would often lose electricity for half a day, which was very inconvenient. Steve, Diana’s husband, said she was impatient and needed to relax a bit more, but she remembered how he would create merry hell whenever a lack of power hit them.

She quickly processed the emails, skimming the unimportant or boring ones and deleting half. Some were nice chatty notes from her readers, and she smiled as she read one particular long letter from a devoted fan. Although Diana had been writing for over ten years, she still found it amazing and gratifying knowing her work pleased many people. She hoped she would never take anything for granted and always found the time to respond to fan mail.

As she read through the remainder she saw the last one was from a good friend in England. She opened it to find what Clare had to say and gave a hoot of laughter as she read through her message. Steve wouldn’t believe her when she told him. Diana read the email again and sat back as she thought what it meant to her. When they last saw Clare, it had been during the summer months. She and Steve had been staying on the outskirts of Cheltenham in Gloucestershire in England. They, together with many old friends, were guests at Havershall House with hosts Duncan and Isabelle Macpherson. It had been a visit that proved to be one of the most frightening and upsetting times in their lives. Two people were murdered, another died after an accident, and Diana was subjected to a period of particular terror. Her friend, Clare, was also a guest during that dreadful interval, although she hadn’t suffered nearly as much as Diana.

Diana looked at Clare’s words again. ‘...so I thought it would be great fun for the two of us to come out for Christmas and stay in Cyprus for a while.’

It would be fun, wouldn’t it? Diana mulled it over. She needed to get this straight in her head before she mentioned Clare’s email to Steve. She had to be calm and matter-of-fact about it all. It transpired that Clare and Diana’s ex-fiancé, Adam Lovell, were now an item. Did Diana care? Did she?

‘...I know you invited