The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(2)

He was giving serious thought to the prospect of depleting them again by joining his wife in the shower, when the front door bell rang.

“Foiled again,” he muttered, and trotted downstairs, telling himself he’d quickly dispatch whichever political campaigner or religious missionary was presently darkening his door.

But, when he yanked the door open, the rebuff died on his lips.

A girl of no more than eleven or twelve stood on the porch step, a backpack hanging over one shoulder. A tanned, freckled face was framed by a crop of reddish-brown hair that had been stuffed beneath an ancient baseball cap, and her jeans were caked in mud and God only knew what else. Ryan had no time to finish his assessment before the girl tipped up her cap and fixed him with a direct, green-eyed stare.

“Are you the bloke from the news?” she demanded.

Ryan raised a single black eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest.

“That depends,” he said. “Who’s asking?”

She shuffled her feet, which were clad in scuffed trainers that might once have been white.

“Look, I need to know if this is the right place,” she said, unconsciously mirroring his stance. “You look like him.”

Ryan’s lips twitched.

“Like who? Because, unless it’s James Bond, I’m not sure I’ll be flattered.”

She flashed a smile, which was gone just as quickly.

“Detective Chief Inspector Ryan,” she said. “I saw him—I saw you—on the news a while ago. You’re supposed to be the best.”

“At what?”

“Catching killers.”

There was a short, humming silence as Ryan took a closer look at the girl’s face and saw what he’d missed the first time around. Beneath the bravado and oversized hat, there was something else.

There was fear.

“Where are your parents?” he asked, peering towards the driveway to see how she’d made it this far. “Come to think of it, how did you find out where I live?”

She smiled again.

“You can find out most things, if you ask the right people,” she said, and ducked beneath his arm to scuttle inside the house, bringing a strong aroma of horses with her.

*

“Hey!”

Ryan let the front door slam shut and hurried after the girl, just as Anna came downstairs and caught a flash of movement headed in the direction of the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Monkey on the loose,” Ryan threw over his shoulder.

Anna let out a muffled laugh and followed him into the kitchen, coming to a surprised halt as she was met with a girl of around ten, who had wasted no time in helping herself to a chair at their large breakfast table and was eyeing the bowl of fruit in the middle with hungry eyes.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“Good question,” Ryan growled.

“I’m Samantha,” the girl said, watching them closely. “You can call me Sam, if you like.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Anna said, and offered her the bowl of fruit. “Have we met before?”

Sam’s shoulders tensed as the woman drew near, then relaxed again. There was a kind look in her eyes.

“No, you don’t know me,” she mumbled, reaching for an apple. “I came—I needed to see him. It’s important.”

She flicked a glance across to where Ryan remained standing a safe distance away, tall, raven-haired and, to her eyes, everything a hero was supposed to look like.

“You still haven’t told me how you found this address,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter how,” she shot back, between loud bites. “I need your help. My mum’s been murdered, and I want you to find out who did it.”

Anna and Ryan exchanged an eloquent look.

“You’re telling me your mother was murdered? When did this happen?”

All suspicion forgotten, Ryan took a seat while Anna melted away to put the kettle on. Moments like these called for coffee and, in the girl’s case, strong hot chocolate.

Sam began to fiddle with the cuff of her sweatshirt, picking at the fraying edge.

“Eight years ago,” she said.

Ryan did the maths.

“You would have been…two, or three?”

“Two,” she nodded.

He ran a hand over his jaw and sighed. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe her, exactly, but it was hardly a compelling case so far.

“Okay. Tell me your mum’s name, and why you think she was murdered.”

Sam wrapped her fingers around the enormous mug of hot chocolate Anna set in front of her.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, and took a fortifying sip before continuing. “She was called Esme. Esme O’Neill. But her real name was Esmerelda.”

Ryan didn’t so much as flinch, although he’d never investigated a victim with so whimsical a name before.

“Esmerelda O’Neill,” he repeated. “Go on.”

“My daddy and everyone told me she ran off,” she explained. “They said she’d left me when I was a baby and I’d always thought…Everyone said she was bad, but now I know it wasn’t her fault. I know she never left me.”

“How do you know?” Ryan prodded.