Lake Vyrnwy Serial Killer: The Christine Hart Private Investigator Series, #2

By christine joanna hart and C. J. Hart

Christine Hart is an ex Private Investigator who lives by Lake Vyrnwy.  She runs 'Trauma Counselling' a woodland Retreat that heals anxiety and uses her strong sixth sense.  Girls are being killed in nearby Seelie Wood where UFO spotters beleive that there is an American military base holding captured extraterrestrials.  Tom Sagnier, movie director is filming a fictional book about an ancient 'Stargate.'  Christine begins to date Tom when they set about hunting his missing daughter.  Blinded by an infatuation with Tom's celebrity, millions, film star good looks and ownership of the stunning Lake Vyrnwy Hotel, Christine walks into a marriage with a Hollywood superstar who might be responsible for the girls found hanging in Seelie Wood. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pale Horse Press
• Release date: May 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223989424

Book preview

About the Author

Christine Hart grew up in care and worked as a

Private Detective, alongside and under, ex MI6, MI5 and ex-CID officers in London. She worked as a journalist on Fleet Street, by-lined in the Sunday Times.  Hart is a Sunday Times bestselling author with Hodder and Stoughton selling over 200k copies, translated into Punjabi. Hart is now a Certified Trauma Counsellor and lives with her son in West London, appearing on BBC, Channel 4, BBC Radio World Service and Amazon Prime.

Praise for C. J. Hart’s writing

Val Hennessy, Daily Mail. If only she’d had a better editor; we might have the best book ever written about a childhood.

Doug White, reviewer, News of The World – ‘Reminiscent of Silence of the Lambs – hard to put down.’ *****

Jim Dole; editor, Sunday World. ‘This is Lady

Chatterley's Lover, in the shadow of a gunman instead of a Game-Keeper.

Prohibition Magazine

‘An uplifting true story about courage and loneliness, a real page-turner.’ * * * * *

Lancashire Times. A salute to the struggle made by the author throughout her life. This is a perfect guide for anyone suffering from family problems.’ * * * *

Henry Mc Donald – Observer - Good story throughout, but more Mills and ‘BOOM!’ than Mills and Boon.

Christopher Berry-Dee, author of Talking with Serial Killers.

A super and rather unusual book. Well written with plenty of personal anecdotes. What appeals to me, as it will anyone with an interest in true crime, is Christine Hart's unique talent in `accessing all areas', specifically getting to interview Kenneth Alessio Bianchi, aka, `The Hillside Strangler'. She will have her critics, of course, and we all do, but Hart not only talks-the-talk, she walks the-walk, and spent years corresponding with Bianchi before, at great expense, she visited with him at the Washington State Penitentiary, Walla Walla. Having dealt with Bianchi, on a one-one-one basis myself, this serial killer, and master-manipulator is not someone to trifle with.

As the author of a score of books on serial homicide and a media consultant on the subject - two of my books are required reading by students at the FBI's Behavioural Science Unit, Quantico, VA - I would say that Hart’s research on serial killers is a must-read, most especially for any student with an interest in serial murder. *****

A man sees in the world what he carries in his heart. -Grigori Rasputin.

Published in the United Kingdom by Pale Horse Press.

Copyright; Christine J Hart, London, England, 2024.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic or electronic, or in the form of a phonographic recording nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or otherwise copied for public or private use, or misuse.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Chapter 1:The Khodom Ring.

On a windswept beach in Lyme Regis, the Jesuit priest recounted the tale of an old man, a ruby ring, and a whispered promise of wishes fulfilled. The wind carried the scent of salt and the cries of seabirds as Father Perls reluctantly accepted the heirloom from the Sheik, a tangible link to a bygone era. 

His Arabian tales held a particular fascination—the magical Djinn.

As Chris prepared to leave Villa delle Anime Risolte Orphanage at the tender age of six, Father Perls passed on the precious ring. The maroon cloth purse, with gold thread stitching, held not just a gem but a connection to her past.

It's beautiful, she exclaimed, her fingers too small for the dazzling jewellery.

Father Perls, eyes gleaming with unshed tears, spoke of her uniqueness, a gifted soul always welcome among the Jesuit clergy. The ruby ring, now a symbol of her lonely childhood, held the weight of tales, traditions, and an unseen world and one she had linked to her own Spirit Guide, Michael.

In the hush of the Welsh cottage, memories mingled with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the promise of a storm.

The past and present converged as Chris Hart, now an ex-private detective with a storied past career on Fleet Street, carried the echoes of Father Perls' stories into her investigations. The legacy of Father Perls intertwined with her journey, a silent guardian in the shadows of her past.

Chris turned and glanced at the alarm clock. The subtle red glow of liquid-crystal digits appeared to stare, even follow her movements. A flash of lightning pierced through a break in the crinkled beige curtains. A rumble of thunder followed. She instinctively went to the windows in the Welsh lake cottage shared with her son, Arthur. Then slowly opened his bedroom door to check on him.

AT THIS EARLY HOUR, with the feeling of nothing good, the phone rang, sounding angry, insistent in her mind. Her first impulse was to ignore it, but what she was sensing overcame that impulse. She knew when the phone rang so early that it wouldn't be good. 'It,' the damn thing sounded angry. Perhaps it was the time of day, a time of shadow and illusion. She knew not to answer, but did anyway.

The phone's voice cut through the stillness of the early morning, carrying an air of authority that sent shivers down her spine. Clutching the handset, she felt an uneasy premonition, as if the day ahead would be tainted with darkness. A sudden burst of light illuminated the room, casting an eerie pink glow. Startled, she pressed the phone closer to her ear.

Abruptly, a massive bird slammed against the bedroom window, causing her to involuntarily release the handset. Bird blood streaked down the glass, a gruesome tableau that confirmed her fears – a harbinger of doom. In that ominous moment, she knew with a chilling certainty that someone, somewhere, had met a grisly disaster.

Chapter 2: Missing Private Detective.

'A pologies,' she offered , trying to see if the bird had injured itself badly or was able to fly on.

'No problem. Are you Chrissie Hart, Private Detective?'

'Speaking.'

'This is constable Angus McDonald. Do you know an Aryan Khan, also a Private Detective who owns an agency in London called Company X?'

'Yes, I do; but I'm also an ex-Private Investigator, Ary is my ex-boss. I no longer practice!' She felt her fingers grip the receiver hard and suddenly noticed that the cottage was suddenly freezing.

'Is Ary ok?'

The constable continued to explain his flat in London had been broken into. There were signs of violence, a crime and, I'm afraid, a body, as yet unidentified. A note was left for her, and there were several other things that required a face-to-face interview. He requested that she travel and meet him at Ary's London flat.

She tried to control her fright and explained, being some four hours away in Wales, with a youngish son, that it would be difficult to get to London immediately.

'It's a matter of official police business to find out if this is Mr Khan, ma'am,' he insisted in a heavy Scot's brogue.

'He's one of my best friends, OK, I'll get there as fast as I can drive the distance.'

Confident her neighbour and friend, Suzy, would watch over Arthur for the day. With that call ended, she phoned her friend.

Suzy agreed to watch over Arthur.

Chris's thoughts turned to Aryan, and for some unknown reason to the fact he enjoyed risky relationships.

Aryan Khan had been missing for months.

The local constable knew her, her close friendship with Aryan, and his legendary skills as a Private Detective in his Detective Agency, Company X, in London's West End.

CHRIS STOOD BENEATH the invigorating spray of the shower, the scent of grapefruit and watermelon filling the humid air.

With practiced efficiency, she squeezed the last remnants of the refreshing body wash from its nearly empty container, a mundane ritual in the quiet solitude of her bathroom. 

Minutes later, wrapped in a towel with her sopping wet mousey hair clinging to her shoulders, she reached into a nondescript box and retrieved the ruby Djinn ring, sliding it onto her left middle finger with a sense of familiarity and purpose.

As she blow-dried her hair, a dance of hot air and water droplets, her mind delved into the facts surrounding Aryan's disappearance.

The neighbours had sounded the alarm when Aryan's loyal German Shepherd, Max, had barked relentlessly. Aryan, inseparable from his furry companion, would never have left without him.

Max's absence during the months Aryan's flat remained deserted was an unsettling mystery, a canine guardian gone silent.

The steam-clad bathroom transformed into a realm of contemplation as she pondered Aryan's tumultuous life.  

Mistresses, with their varied shapes and colours, had at times consumed him, their perfumes weaving a symphony of allure. Each encounter offered a fleeting escape from personal demons, leading him into a world of misconceptions and fantasies.

Chris, intimately familiar with the weight of her own baggage, recognized the false hope that filled their lives.

Her fingers, skilled and deliberate, combed through the tangled strands of her mouse blonde hair as she reflected on the risky path Aryan had chosen. She had always sensed that such a journey could eventually catch up with him, unravelling into an unfortunate or tragic end. Yet, the question lingered—was there truly an end to their friendship?  How can her very best friend have just disappeared or worse still been murdered?

The ambient sounds of the blow dryer mingled with the ambient hum of her thoughts; a symphony of mundane routines juxtaposed against the enigmatic disappearance of Aryan.

The air in the flat held an unspoken tension, laden with unanswered questions and the subtle fragrance of watermelon lingering from the shower.

Leaving steamy the bathroom, Chris moved through the flat like a silent investigator, her senses attuned to every detail. The weather outside painted the scene with a palette of grey clouds, mirroring the morbid dread and panic that gripped her thoughts.  

She reached for the towel, the soft fabric a fleeting connection to the everyday rituals that seemed inconsequential against the backdrop of Aryan's mysterious vanishing act.

As she stood by the window, the little Welsh village beyond was veiled in morning mist, the atmosphere mirroring the haze that enveloped her understanding of the situation.

Ferry View cottage, once a haven, now echoed with unanswered questions and a sense of absence. Chris, caught between the mundane and the enigmatic, went about tidying up the cottage with purpose, searching for clues that might bridge the gap between reality and the unknown.

The image of Aryan, a Pakistani, standing before his living room window, velvet curtains parted, seeking more than she was willing to give, resurfaced in Chris's mind. His charm, entwined with the rich tapestry of his cultural background, added an extra layer of complexity to the enigma surrounding him.

It surpassed the recent habit of his club-hopping and venturing down darker alleys in pursuit of fleeting connections and unfulfilling one-night stands. Perhaps, against all odds, he had finally found that one woman, lonely enough to seek the elusive perfect partner.

As her mind wrestled with these thoughts, Chris couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that something was drastically wrong. The constable's cryptic mention of something 'horrific' about the man found in Aryan's flat added an extra layer of unease.

Driving towards London, passing through Shadthames where she had once lived, memories and concerns swirled in the drone of the tyres on the road. 

Returning to the bustling streets of glamorous, exciting London after the serene landscapes of Wales created a palpable contrast. The city's energy surged around her, a stark departure from the calm of Lake Vyrnwy. The cacophony of traffic, the scent of exhaust fumes, and the hurried pace struck her senses, a stark reminder of the fast-paced life she had left behind and once relished.

Yet, Wales had offered her sanctuary from failure– a rented cottage owned by an old editor friend who rented her half of it when she’d hit hard times due to the phone hacking scandal which meant all investigators, even those innocent were persona non grata.

The retreat where she now worked was situated on beautiful Lake Vyrnwy, nestled in the heart of the Welsh mountains.  Trauma Retreat, was a desperate sanctuary, yet shrouded in mystery and ancient healing cures.

‘THE TRAUMA CENTRE RETREAT,’ the log cabin attached to the hotel was adorned with local stones and ancient Druid symbols.  The retreat’s cabin sat as a beacon of hope for the anxious and depressed against the rugged backdrop of heather covered mountains.

THE AIR, SCENTED WITH the freshness of pine and the hint of the nearby lake, welcomed those seeking respite from the chaos of the world. 

‘Trauma Therapy & Shamanism,’ was an eclectic new way of healing depression, anxiety and bad relationships.  It attracted unfulfilled, successful career women, stressed out couples and hopeful singletons seeking to improve their chances of winning at life after getting rid of the weight of negative energy and finding what was in store for them spiritually. 

Chris found the ‘gift’ had helped her become a top-rated Private Investigator, back in the day, but it had never really suited her.  She wanted to truly help others and her gift had grown until she was ‘Astral’ Journeying and taking her patients with her.  It was new to mix Shamanism and Journeying with talk therapy and it was exciting.  Chris was grateful that the owner of the lakeside hotel had given her a space to try it.

THE LOCAL, INFAMOUS 1000-year-old ancient oak, its branches stretching wide and gnarled, whispering tales of centuries past.  This much-photographed tree, rumoured to possess a portal to times gone by, was an integral part of the retreat's mystical allure. All myth, of course, but it bought in all the tourists from London, the summer-folk, jaded by the capitalism of the Capital and she took them on flights into the Astral realms and healed their pains and Past-Life and current trauma. 

The frequently visited old oak tree, its bark, weathered and etched with the secrets of generations, seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. And, in the backdrop, the whispers of the tranquil retreat beckoned to a Buddha lined part of the gorgeous, Lake Vyrnwy Hotel where Prince William and other rich and famous often dropped in via helipad to enjoy the fresh fish and the olde world sophisticated ambiance of Lake Vyrnwy Hotel.

THE LAKE HOTEL’S RETREAT, with its stone-laid paths and enigmatic symbols, held the promise of peace.

She envisioned the retreat's stone circle, a place of convergence, where the energy hummed with a resonance that transcended the temporal. 

The winds whispered secrets of those who had walked through the portal, experiencing moments long past.  Long ago legends spoke of time travellers, their footsteps echoing through the ages, leaving imprints on the retreat's sacred grounds. 

The tranquil lake, embraced by majestic mountains, cradled the healing retreat in its scenic embrace. The stone circle, bathed in dappled sunlight, always exuded the sense of a magnificent story waiting to unfold.

DRUID AND RUNE SYMBOLS etched into the stones seemed to dance with unseen forces, creating an intricate tapestry of mysticism. The retreat, with its fusion of natural beauty and supernatural intrigue, felt like a bridge between worlds and she loved working there, waking each morning to careen up the long drive to the Swiss hunting lodge. Getting in early and preparing the healing room for her clients; smoky with incense and infused with oregano and frankincense pungent essential oils.  

Clientele adored, the golden Buddha room thick with mystique like a Marrakech palace, adorned with scarlet rugs, purple and orange velvet cushions. 

This country-side hippy dippy retreat was a new life, another life, detached from the thrilling excitement of being a top Private Investigator in London, or even being a Fleet Street investigative reporter.  Chris valued it and was grateful to it - but whenever she drove down to London she deeply yearned for the excitement, intrigues and thrilling crime investigations of the past.

AS THE MILES PASSED, resentment and nostalgia intermingled, highlighting the dichotomy of her feelings towards London—bad memories and a journey into the heart of uncertainty of her dangerous past.

Four hours later, she arrived near Aryan's two million pounds warehouse conversion in SE1, a location laced with lowlands architecture; the OXO building and The Shard.

The day broke with a cool demeanour, a steel-grey sky casting moody streaks of blue and vanilla. Parking her car in a vast lot, she felt a sudden chill in the air, prompting her to raise the collar of her funky green faux fur jacket.

The entrance to Aryan's residence awaited, and her mind buzzed with 'what ifs,' discounting suicide based on her gut feeling.

As she approached the door, the living room window with its velvet curtains drew her attention. The hallway, wide open and uninviting, led to his sole door.

Without bothering to knock, Chris entered. The living room, once painted in deep ochre, now bore the marks of an official intrusion.

A police constable rose from a nearby table as she entered, the place having been systematically combed for evidence. The thick navy curtains were drawn shut, and the atmosphere carried the weight of untold secrets.

Her memory of Aryan, of average height and slightly grey at the temples, remained eternally classy even in the chaos surrounding his demise. Deep set grey-gold eyes, obscured without corrective lenses, held the echoes of a potential love partner who could soar you to the skies.

The police vehicle outside hinted that the crime scene had been meticulously examined, and a body removed.

WITH A PAUSE, CHRIS contemplated the room's disarray, questions lingering painfully in the air.

Had the neighbours heard more than Max's incessant barking? Was there an argument or signs of a struggle that went unnoticed?  Was the body even Aryan’s?  As she navigated through the shades of ochre and the remnants of a life disrupted, the true nature of Aryan's fate remained veiled in shadows, waiting for her to uncover the hidden truths.

SHE SCRATCHED HER HEAD and realised she was being mad and had spent far too long in Wales.

She felt suddenly sick!  Was Ary really dead?  He was always so full of life! 

The place had been tossed in that official sort of way; nearby surfaces dusted with powder used to locate prints.

Chrissie put on her best smile as he held out a hand of greeting.

'Hi.'

'Hi there and so sorry to get you all this way under such circumstances.'

'It's alright. Aryan would've done the same for me.'

'I take it you were good friends with Mr Khan?'

'Yes, you could even say best friends. He used to be my boss - although we haven't seen each other in months.'

'The reasons why I asked you to come is this! He held out what looked like a piece of waste left after the melting of ores and the separation of metal.

'That looks like an egg, but it's only half of it.'

'Pardon?'

'Aryan was a Faberge egg collector.'

'He was a what?'

She coughed. 'Aryan had been adopted and spent years across the pond.... the west side of Los Angeles, in California. He was eccentric, as Californians often are; adored Faberge eggs; he collected them from all over the world.'

‘I see, well, a lot of people love Faberge eggs! My wife collects similar, but they're all fake, of course, on my meagre salary.' The constable put away the phone, walked over to the door, pointed first to a post-it note that had her name and number, then to three dots just above the door handle. One dot, with another above, and yet a third to the right.

'Do you know anything about these?'

She moved closer and stared for a bit, trying to make sense.

'No idea.'

'And this?' the constable held out a clear evidence bag, and inside was a silver Angel charm bracelet; hers, with her initials inside.

She was, for a moment, speechless. The last place she had seen that bracelet was about a week ago, at home, in her ballerina pink velvet jewellery box. It meant so much to her.

'No idea how it got here. Where was it found?'

'In his left pocket. I thought you hadn't seen him in months?'

There was an awkward moment, but before it grew into greater suspicion than what likely already existed, she spoke up.

'The last time I saw my angel bracelet was in my jewellery box on my dresser a week ago.'

'So, you're unable to explain how this got here, or the dots on the backside of the door just centimetres from a

note with your name and phone number.'

She frowned. 'No, not at all.'

There was a pause as they both walked to leave. She turned.

'Did anyone hear any noise of arguing or indicating a struggle?'

He paused, clearly deciding how much to share with her.

'No, and there were no defensive marks on the body we found in this room.'

'How did he die?'

'Sorry. Official business.'

'Do you need me to identify his body?'

'His adoptive father's flying into London to do just that.'

'You mentioned horror, though a dead body has a horror all its own.'

'He was decapitated, Ma'am; his head missing.'

'Christ.' She felt her legs buckle beneath her and the police officer moved a chair and guided her into it, then went to fetch a glass of water. As she sipped the ice-cold water, she tried to stop her vision swaying, the feeling of losing her grip on reality.

Perhaps, she thought, the 'gift' would one day provide answers. Answers to explain brief lapses in judgement taking advice from those who were unqualified, even misleading. Answers that were elusive.

One thing that left a question to be asked was when neighbours called police after hearing his dog barking incessantly. Did they also mention hearing any other noises, like an argument or sounds of a struggle?

'Oh. One more thing, if you wouldn't mind. Where was the broken egg found?' The constable followed her out, reached and locked the door behind, pulled up his collar against the chill. Reaching his vehicle, he turned.

'Placed in his back passage.'

At midday, her brain was fully awake and sorting through the facts. It would be a different drive back up to Wales.

As Chris drove past old St. John's Church, then just beyond the churning vapours of a pre-war power plant popped into her thoughts; a time when her 'gift' failed. The time seemed right, the advice to sell felt spot on, the advisor trusted, the unfortunate decision made, and the failure came quickly.

Her lovely idyllic South Kensington flat painted in dove greys and mouse browns with roof to ground windows, was long gone; like the vapours from that power plant, drifting skyward.

Passing the landscape became more to her liking, calming. The warm thought came to mind, how an old colleague called Hugh came along and arranged for a roof over the head for her and her teenage son, Arthur, in the sleepy, windswept Welsh village.

At first, the old fashioned, stone-built village up at

Lake Vyrnwy felt like the end of the world, a place where the pace seemed sluggish, a mundane community where nothing happened apart from re-enactments of battles around nearby Powys Castle, pockets of paganism, mysticism, several other isms lingered, and the staid, Roman-influenced English lived a totally different reality.

Now, passing pleasant farmsteads, serene ponds reflecting the mottled sky, abandoned, rusting farm equipment, the abrupt realisation of Déjà vu overcame the moment. Her psychic 'gift' had failed again. This time, the loss was a good friend.

'Ary, Ary, what happened? You daft bastard. What were you investigating that caused you to get yourself beheaded?'

She briefly closed her eyes from the unwanted thoughts of horror; her friend with his head parted from the rest of his body, causing her to anxiously drift into another lane, veering into the path of an oncoming green Volvo.

The other driver, mouth open, repeatedly leaned on his horn. She turned the wheel sharply, pulled back into her lane, applied the brakes.

Pulling to the side of the road, a large cat suddenly jumped against her closed window. 'Shit!' she yelled, startled. 'Bloody hell.' Its teeth were bared, claws out, eyes that appeared to glow.

Stepping out, she looked around and there was no sign of the large tabby. She assumed it ran into the nearby field. Taking a deep breath, eyes closed, realising she had balled her hands into fists, arms stiff at her side, everything relaxed.

Looking down, the gleam of something shiny caught her eyes. It lay just behind her front driver's side wheel. Bending down, it was soon apparent it was a marble size piece of stone.

With the piece of slag in hand, she examined, then sniffed it. Looking around, spotting a large stack in the distance spewing slate-coloured smoke.

'O' Ary, what a way to go,' she muttered under her breath, '... sucking on stone.

Back in the car, she continued the drive home, checking her rear-view mirror now and then for the three more hours it took her to reach back home.

Reaching Lake Vyrnwy, she parked up. The wind whipped her mousey blonde hair as she purchased a large cappuccino at the cosy nearby 'Milky, Milky Comfort and Rest Café.'

She drove on up to Powys Castle, got out and stood and sipped a sugary coffee from the large paper cup, hoping the escape into the past would heal her tortured mind. Life was becoming overwhelming; the dark outweighing the light.

CHRIS REVELLED IN THE brisk embrace of winter as she admired the vibrant display of winter yellow flowers and pink dog roses. The sweet fragrance of heather wafted through the air, triggering memories of her arrival in this quaint Welsh village, a time intertwined with personal struggles, bankruptcy, heartbreak and loneliness.

Seelie-Oak, with its tight-knit community, had been a sanctuary during her darkest days. A stranger at first, battered by life's relentless blows, she found solace among the countryside locals who kindly welcomed her with open arms.

The scars of a broken relationship with Phillip King, her charismatic yet unfaithful lawyer partner, were still fresh. His betrayal, entangled with the allure of a young legal assistant, had shattered the perfect life they once shared.

The memories of their glamorous existence in London, a truly glittering power couple adorned in Gucci and Prada, lingered in her mind. Fleet Street, Rebecca Brooks, and Rupert Murdoch had been her professional pals in the playground, a world now overshadowed by the heartache of lost love, broken promises and undeservedly soiled reputations.

As Chris meandered