The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(15)

He could have made an effort to smile more often.

He caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror and saw a man in his early thirties with an old man’s eyes. On the surface, he looked just the same, but inside…inside was hollowed out, nothing but a shell of the person he used to be.

Maybe she was right.

It was time to come back to life.

*

On the other side of town, Ryan and Phillips made their way through the affluent streets of Jesmond, with its sprawling Victorian villas and leafy parks, towards a large area of pastoral land known as the ‘Town Moor’. It comprised over a thousand acres of common land with suburbs on all sides: Spital Tongues and the city centre in the south, Gosforth in the north, Kenton Bar in the west, and Jesmond to the east. A border of trees lined the edge of each field before it met the road, but it was mostly open land to allow the Freemen of Newcastle to graze their cattle if they wished.

“I remember coming to The Hoppings when I was a nipper,” Phillips remarked, as the circus came into view.

Ryan knew it was a famous funfair and a local institution in these parts, but he had never been.

“The Hoppings arrives at the end of June, doesn’t it’?” he said, and indicated to turn, following signs for ‘CIRCUS PARKING’.

Phillips nodded.

“Aye, the fair comes during the last week in June. The circus is separate, and it used to come at the beginning of the month,” he said. “I wonder why it stopped.”

Ryan navigated his car across tufts of bumpy grass and thought back to what Samantha had told them.

“If we’re right and, more importantly, if Sam is right, her mother died eight years ago when the circus was visiting Newcastle,” he said. “She also told us the circus hadn’t been back since then, so maybe therein lies the answer.”

Phillips made a rumbling sound of agreement.

“Maybe somebody didn’t want to come back, for fear of raking up trouble with the law.”

“Or maybe they didn’t want to jog a little girl’s memory,” Ryan murmured, peering through the windscreen at a sea of tarpaulin tents decorated in cheerful shades of yellow, blue and red. From the outside, the circus looked jovial, its colourful flags beckoning people to come and leave their cares behind. But it was the inside that concerned him, the grey underbelly nobody could see.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and find out what made the circus roll back into town after all these years.”

*

They had arrived before the circus opened to the public, which they quickly understood to be a blessing in disguise, given the scale of things on the ground. Temporary structures of all kinds had been organised in a simple formation, with the main arena—the Big Top—in the centre, with ten smaller tents surrounding it offering old-fashioned curiosities including a hall of mirrors and a tarot tent run by somebody called ‘Psychic Sabina’, whose name was painted in large lettering on the front.

Two boys were vigorously polishing the brasswork of a vintage carousel to a golden shine, and a Ferris wheel was juddering into life. Food and drink stands were dotted here and there and, as they made their way from the designated parking area, Ryan and Phillips could see a line of twenty or so caravans and motorhomes set back from the rest, which they judged to be the living quarters of those who worked for and travelled with the circus.

“Posh caravans,” Phillips said with a low whistle. “Y’ know, I was thinking about getting one and taking Denise for a tour around the Highlands and Islands, next summer. Arran’s meant to be beautiful.”

He pointed out a particularly swanky-looking number in jet-black, with a racing-green stripe. Having grown up loving his caravan holidays as a child, Phillips knew a good one when he saw it.

“Why don’t you just stay at a B&B?” Ryan suggested, never having stayed in a caravan in his life. “Wouldn’t it be cheaper and less hassle?”

Phillips gave him a pitying look.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “It’s all part of the experience.”

“And trying to reverse a caravan along a narrow country lane is part of the experience, is it?”

“All part of the fun,” Phillips assured him, and nearly broke out in a sweat just thinking about it. He’d ask Denise to do the tricky manoeuvres, he decided. She was a far superior driver, but would it take some convincing for her to forego a spa hotel in favour of an apartment on wheels.

That was a challenge for another day.

“We’re not open yet!”

The topic of caravanning was interrupted by a loud shout, and they both turned in reflex. A man of around Ryan’s age loped across the grass towards them dressed entirely in yellow and white, bearing a strong resemblance to a giraffe running over the plains of Africa.

“Sorry,” he said, as he drew near. “We’re not open yet. The first show isn’t until four-thirty, but the gates open at three-thirty if you want to get seated or have a go on the coconut shy.”

Ryan checked his watch, which told him it was a little after two.

“Thanks,” he said. “Actually, we’re here to speak to Charles O’Neill. Do you know where we can find him?”

Duke gave them both a searching look. They looked like they could handle themselves, especially the older one, but the taller one had ‘police’ written all over him.