The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(18)

“I don’t have the clearance to look after you, neither does DS Phillips. There are protocols to follow, while we concentrate on finding out what happened to your mum.”

MacKenzie had a kind, persuasive manner that worked more than nine times out of ten with difficult members of the general public, but not today, apparently.

“I want to speak to Ryan,” Samantha demanded. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

Morrison wondered whether she ought to laugh or cry about the fact that the word of a single man would outweigh three equally well-qualified women in the eyes of this little girl, then she realised the men in her family circle had probably taught her to respect male authority.

Perhaps, during her time with them, she’d come to respect female authority, too.

“Ryan isn’t here,” she said firmly. “Even if he were, he would agree that this is the proper course of action. A foster home is the safest place for you at the moment, unless you want to go back to your father?”

That was an effective threat, as far as it went, but the girl had another weapon up her sleeve.

“If you force me to go to a foster home, I’ll run away,” she said, very softly. “I mean it. You won’t ever know where I’ve gone.”

MacKenzie heard total resolve in the girl’s voice and felt her heart begin to hammer against her chest.

“Ma’am, could I have a word in private?” she asked, turning to Morrison.

“No, I think we’ve spent more than enough time talking about this.”

“Ma’am, I believe the witness may be a flight risk,” MacKenzie tried again. “If she absconds from the foster home, she’ll be in danger.”

“The witness is a ten-year-old girl,” Morrison snapped. “The protocol is clear in situations like these. You know that, Denise.”

She looked past MacKenzie and gave a short nod towards Mrs Carter, who pasted a condescending look on her face.

“I know it can be hard to stay objective,” she crooned, patting MacKenzie’s arm in a manner that set her teeth on edge. “But, don’t worry, she’ll be very safe with us.”

She turned back to Samantha.

“Come on, missy. Let’s go.”





CHAPTER 11


Ryan and Phillips followed Duke O’Neill inside the Big Top, which was the centrepiece of O’Neill’s Circus. They walked along a wide inner corridor that followed the curve of the enormous red-and-white-striped tent. The PVC-coated tarpaulin of the tent provided the outer wall on one side, whilst the back of four large sections of tiered seating provided the other.

“How many exits are there?” Ryan asked, as they dipped inside.

“Apart from the main entrance, there are three side exits,” Duke explained. “We just came through Exit B. There’s one exit for each section of seating, so it helps with crowd management and keeps the Health and Safety Officer happy, otherwise everyone would try to push through the main entrance if there’s an emergency.”

He hesitated, as if unsure which way to go.

“Let’s go this way,” he decided.

The stacks of tiered seating had been set up to face the central arena in four sections marked ‘A’ to ‘D’. As they made their way along the corridor, they could see that the back of the steel scaffolding rose well above ten metres and disappeared up into the roof of the tent to maximise audience capacity. A series of lights shone at intervals along the corridor, guiding the way as their footsteps crunched softly over the grass floor. At that time of day, daylight still leaked through the edges of the tent’s outer wall but, after dark, they imagined it would be poorly lit.

“Must be able to fit a thousand people in here,” Ryan remarked, rapidly re-assessing any quaint notions he might have held about the scale of the operation—the space was more akin to a serious concert arena than a country fair.

Duke shrugged.

“Yeah, we can seat up to eighteen-hundred,” he said, and carried on striding along the corridor, his banana-yellow outfit serving as a beacon through the relative gloom. “It’s usually a sell-out show.”

Suddenly, an enormous explosion rocked the tent, the sound bouncing around the walls like a pinball.

“What the—?” Phillips jumped.

“It’s just part of the rehearsal,” Duke told him. “Come and see.”

When they reached the end of Section B, he turned right and led them along a smaller gangway separating that section of seating from the next. As they moved out of the shadows, the central arena came into view, bright spotlights illuminating it with powerful beams shining down from the uppermost scaffolding. Row upon row of empty seats provided the backdrop to a circular arena in the middle of the tent, around which a track had been etched out and covered with wood shavings and where, they assumed, horses would run. Overhead, sleek men and women dressed in old-style leotards swung through the air, their flight between the high swings timed to perfection so that they dodged a towering burst of flame that erupted from a giant flame-thrower positioned on the floor of the arena below. A wide net had been set up as a safety precaution, but Ryan and Phillips barely noticed it; their eyes drawn instead to the dance being played out above their heads.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

Duke stood beside them to watch the end of the acrobatic display. He’d seen it countless times, but it never grew old.