The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(11)

The body lay in a bloodied heap atop a mountain of rubbish, its arms and legs twisted like a rag doll and its face barely recognisable—but it wasn’t that which caused Fred’s arms to buckle and his grip to loosen, sending him crashing to the floor.

It was the maggots.

He’d never liked maggots.

*

While Fred Marsons vomited into the water at St Peter’s Wharf, Samantha O’Neill stared mutinously at the unsuspecting woman from Social Services, who’d been dispatched from Head Office to assess her needs. Having tried and failed to achieve that goal for much of the morning, she’d appealed to Ryan for help.

“What’s the problem?” he demanded, wearing the look of a man who had better things to do with his time than spend it running through the corridors of CID on a fool’s errand.

“I told you before,” Samantha hissed. “I only want to speak to you. And maybe Frank or Denise,” she tagged on, thinking of the police couple who had shown her kindness without seeming to need much in return. “But definitely not her.”

The look she shot towards the woman was so venomous and mistrustful, Ryan could have laughed.

But he didn’t.

“First of all, we don’t say ‘her’ or ‘she’. This is Mrs Carter and she’s here to help. Listen to me, Sam. If you want me to take your report seriously, we have to play by the rules. That includes making sure you have somebody here to take care of your interests. You need an appropriate adult to act as a guardian when we take a statement from you and, since you don’t want me to call your father or anyone else you know, Mrs Carter has kindly agreed to help us out.”

Samantha remained unconvinced.

This was how it started, she thought. Nice-looking men or women came along and said they ‘just wanted to chat’ and, the next thing you knew, they’d whisk you away to some hell-hole in suburbia to live with a foster family who already had children with names like ‘Poppy’ or ‘Henry’.

She shuddered at the thought.

“I don’t care what her name is,” she insisted. “I don’t trust anyone from the Council.”

“Why don’t you just have a seat over here,” Mrs Carter said, a bit desperately. “We can have a nice chat.”

Samantha sent Ryan a smug look, as if to say she had just been vindicated.

“Why can’t Frank be the thing you said—the responsible adult?” she asked, and Ryan’s eyes danced with mirth as he thought of the many responses that came to mind when answering that question, none of which he could say.

“He can’t be the appropriate adult because he’ll be taking your statement,” he said. “DS Phillips and I will be acting in our formal roles. The law says you need somebody with you to make sure your rights are being respected and that we’re acting in line with our duties and responsibilities when we take down what you tell us. That person needs to be someone who isn’t with the police.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped, and she glanced again at the mousy-looking woman who appeared to have come to the station dressed entirely in beige.

“Fine,” she conceded and, when she noticed Ryan’s meaningful look, even found her manners. “Thank you for agreeing to be the appropriate adult, Mrs Carter.”

He smiled.

“Let’s get this show on the road, then.”





CHAPTER 8


Samantha found herself seated in an uncomfortable foamy armchair inside the ‘Family Room’, which strongly resembled the waiting area of any GP or dental surgery in the land. Usually, it was the province of grieving families, and Ryan had taken no small amount of pleasure in clearing away the stacks of leaflets littering its low coffee table touting bereavement and funeral services, alongside ‘healing yoga’ and acupuncture. Stretching and whale music were all very well and good, but they wouldn’t bring a victim’s family the peace that only justice could deliver.

With that in mind, he looked across at the child who was relying on him to find justice for her mother and found himself wondering whether it would be a stretch too far, this time.

Not if he could help it.

“Here you go,” he murmured, and handed her a mug of hot chocolate. It was a Vending Machine Special, but something was better than nothing.

“Your wife made a better one,” she told him, with her usual forthrightness.

“She makes most things better,” Ryan agreed. “Are you ready to start?”

She nodded, and he seated himself in one of the chairs beside Phillips. The woman from Social Services was already making extensive notes from her position next to Samantha and was using a pen emblazoned with the slogan ‘I am PAWfect’ alongside a picture of a fluffy white cat, which he tried his best to ignore.

Ryan recited the date, time and names of those present for the camera, which had been set up on a tripod in the corner to record the interview.

“Now, before we begin, I need to make sure you understand that it’s very important you tell us the whole truth, Sam. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Yeah, you mean I’m not supposed to lie.”

Ryan nodded.

“I won’t,” she told him. “I’m just going to tell you what I remember.”

“Alright then,” he said. “We can also stop at any time. If you need to take a break, use the loo or have a drink of water, just say so, it’s no problem. Okay?”