The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(12)

She gave him a hesitant smile and blushed slightly because he’d said the word ‘loo’. It seemed incongruous coming from a man like him.

“Okay,” she nodded.

“Great,” Ryan said. “In that case, let’s start at the beginning. What prompted you to come to my house on Sunday?”

Sam found that, when it came down to it, her mouth was suddenly dry. She took a hasty sip of her drink, scalding her tongue in the process.

“I was mucking out Pegasus’ stall on Saturday afternoon,” she began. “He’s one of the horses in my family’s circus.”

“O’Neill’s?” Ryan asked, for the benefit of the tape.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, I turned on the radio to listen to some music and suddenly I felt a bit weird. My head started to hurt, and I felt sick, like I was going to throw up or something. I was going to turn the radio off again, but that’s when it happened.”

“When what happened?”

“I remembered,” she said, softly. “It was kind of like watching a movie. I could see my mum beside the sink in our caravan, except it was years ago. Anyway, she was listening to the radio and I think it was the same station.”

She paused, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Yes, it was the same station,” she repeated. “I remember the jingle.” “Which one?” Phillips asked, looking up from where he was taking a careful record of what she told them.

“The one from Tyne Radio,” she replied. “There’s a kind of jingle and then the presenter says, ‘This is Tyne Radio’.”

She hummed a couple of bars, and Phillips recognised the jingle straight away; they’d listened to it on the car radio as he and Denise had brought her to CID Headquarters that morning. It must have been awful for the girl to hear it, but she hadn’t breathed a word. He’d assumed she was pale because of something like car sickness, or the stress of having to make a statement at the police station, but instead, the radio had triggered the worst memory of her young life and he’d been to blame for it. The knowledge left him feeling guilty and oddly bereft.

He looked back down at the notepad on his lap.

“So, you remember your mum was beside the sink, listening to the radio,” Ryan continued, steering Samantha back to the story. “What else?”

She licked her lips.

“I was in my cot or maybe a play pen,” she said. “I’m pretty sure, because I remember the wooden slats. I could only see what was happening through them.”

Ryan nodded.

“You were in the kitchen?”

“It’s the same caravan we have now. There’s a little kitchen area, with a built-in table on one side and a sofa on the other,” she explained, and thought of how different it was to Ryan’s stone-built house, or Phillips’ comfortable semi. She looked between them but found only quiet patience reflected in both pairs of eyes.

“It’s open-plan,” she said. “From what I can remember, the play pen must have been right in front of the sofa. I can draw a picture, if you like.”

Ryan smiled.

“Thanks, maybe we can do that later. You were saying your mum was at the sink doing the dishes and listening to the radio. Do you remember what happened next?”

“The door opened,” she whispered, and her face paled as she forced herself to think of it. “I remember the monster came inside. It had white hands.”

Phillips looked up at that.

“When you say, ‘white hands’, do you mean the skin colour or that they were wearing gloves?”

Sam screwed up her face in a monumental effort to recall the image.

“I—I’m sorry, I’m not sure,” she said, miserably.

“It’s okay, pet,” he said. “Just tell us what you can.”

She took another sip of the hot chocolate.

“It’s all a bit blurry, but I know they were fighting. At first, it was just words—then I think it got worse. Something crashed, maybe one of the plates beside the sink. Then the words stopped. It was just the music and a kind of gurgling sound…”

“Do you need to stop?” Mrs Carter asked gently.

Her stomach was starting to heave, the memory churning like acid, but Samantha shook her head. It needed to be told.

“The—the white hands were around her neck. My mum was tugging at them and choking, then they both fell to the floor and I could see her legs thrashing around, kicking out to try…to try and get away. I couldn’t see her face and—and the radio kept playing, really loud—”

“Was it a man or a woman?” Ryan asked, very casually.

“Man,” she answered instantly, then frowned. “At least…I-I thought it was, but I can’t see the face. I’m sorry…”

She brushed away tears and Ryan handed her a box of tissues.

“No need to be sorry,” he murmured. “We don’t have to do this all in one go.”

“I want to tell you,” she insisted, and blew her nose loudly. “You don’t understand. All my life, people have told me my mum was bad and that she never loved us. They told me she left to be with somebody else and that she’s probably had other children, by now. And—and I believed them, until I remembered. I remembered it all.”