The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(13)

Phillips swallowed a constriction in his throat and stared fixedly at the notepad on his lap.

“Ah, how about his height?” he asked, and if Ryan heard a catch to his friend’s voice, he said nothing.

Samantha ignored the tissues and wiped the sleeve of her jumper beneath her nose, trying to remember.

“Um—they seemed really big, but I don’t know if that’s because everybody seems big when you’re little,” she said, miserably.

Ryan shook his head, but it was by no means a negative gesture. In a few short words, she had summarised an entire criminological textbook on the problems of eyewitness evidence, especially coming so long after the event. It was well established that, in the eyes of a victim, an aggressor was often perceived to be twice or three times the size they turned out to be in reality.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Ryan began to wonder what height Charlie O’Neill came in at.

“What happened after your mother and…the monster, fell to the floor?” he asked.

Samantha finished her drink and set it back on the table.

“I saw her hand lying there, on the floor,” she said, and regretted the sickly-sweet liquid lining her stomach as she thought of it. “Her fingers were sort of curled up and she wasn’t moving. Then, her hand was just…gone. I don’t know where it went.”

Ryan glanced towards Phillips, who pulled an eloquent face. It was an odd recollection, by any standard.

“You mean you can’t remember what happened next?” he asked. “Did the monster take her out of the same door they came in?”

“No,” Samantha said slowly. “I can’t remember seeing anybody leave through the front door. My mum was there one minute and then just…gone.”

Ryan wondered whether to put it down to the long passage of time.

“Did she have anything in her hand, Sam?”

She tried to visualise it, but her mind was shutting down, no longer willing to cooperate while it waged a battle to protect a young soul that had been through too much already.

“I can’t remember.”

Ryan sensed there wasn’t much time left and turned to the question that was uppermost in his mind.

“Just one last question for today, Sam. Do you remember what your mum was wearing when all of this happened?”

She looked up at him and yawned, feeling exhausted all of a sudden.

“Um, yeah, she was wearing light blue jeans—really tight ones, all faded at the knees—and a pink top, a bit like the colour Frank was wearing, yesterday.”

Phillips looked up and winked at her, to bring a smile.

“She had good taste,” he said.

“Why do you want to know what she was wearing?” Sam asked, trying to see inside Ryan’s mind.

“Just one of the routine questions we need to ask,” he said breezily. “We’ll probably need to ask you some more questions tomorrow, if that’s alright?”

She nodded.

“Did I do okay?”

Ryan gave her one of his best smiles, the kind he reserved for special occasions.

“You’re a very brave person,” he said quietly, and the other two in the room nodded their agreement. “You’re doing the right thing, Sam, reporting this to the police.”

“Do you promise to find who did it?”

Rocky ground, Ryan thought. There were very few promises he could make, in his business.

“I can promise you I’ll do everything in my power,” he said, and meant it.

“We all will,” Phillips added. “It’s a scary thing, coming to a place like this, having to tell a hard story like that to an old codger and a handsome bloke like me.”

He paused, waiting for her to laugh, and, when she did, the whole room brightened.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“We’ve sent off that DNA sample you gave us,” Ryan said. “While we’re waiting to hear back, we’re going to go and speak to your dad and some of the other people at the circus.”

She became tense.

“Are you going to tell him where I am?” she asked, urgently.

Ryan shook his head.

“No, for the present, we have agreed to treat you as a protected witness,” he said, nodding towards the woman from Social Services. “We’re going to start investigating.”

“Where am I going to stay?”

“You’re going to spend some time with Mrs Carter,” Ryan said, and his tone brooked no argument. “She’s going to talk to you about some special support services we have for people who have experienced traumatic events—”

“I’m not speaking to any quacks.”

Phillips couldn’t help the roar of appreciative laughter that burst from his mouth.

“They’re highly trained people!” Mrs Carter protested. “Child psychologists, grief counsellors—”

Samantha looked unimpressed.

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” Ryan suggested, to avert any further argument.

*

A short while later, Mrs Carter took the girl for a late lunch at the infamous Pie Van, a mobile café known affectionately as ‘cholesterol on wheels’ to the police staff who were its main clientele. In the leftover silence, Ryan turned to his friend, who had been noticeably quiet during the interview.