The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(20)

His brother put a hand on his shoulder in silent support, but Charlie shrugged it off with an angry jerk.

“I don’t know where she is now, and I don’t care,” he continued, thumbing another cigarette from the packet.

“Did you ever hear from your wife again? Do you know where she went?” Phillips asked.

“Yeah, I know,” Charlie sneered, and the flame from his lighter danced in his eyes. “She went off with some bloke. She took a bag of clothes with her and left a bit of paper telling me she’d found someone who’d treat her like a bloody princess.”

He blew out a stream of smoke and dared them to question it.

“Have you heard from your wife at all, since then? Did you make any efforts to contact her?” Ryan asked.

“Why would I want to chase after her?” Charlie roared. “Esme didn’t give a shit about us, so why would I want to sit down and talk to her about it? I’m well shot of her.”

“Did you keep the note she left you?” Ryan refused to be swayed by the outburst.

“I got rid of it, along with rest of her junk,” Charlie said, bitterly. “Look, you’re wasting your time over Esme. If she’s gone missing, it’s probably because she’s run off with the next mug and they’re living the life down on the Costa del Sol.”

Phillips had been listening carefully and came to the conclusion that Charlie O’Neill was an outstanding showman. To all the world, he was the injured party; a man abandoned by a wife who was flighty and unreliable. But, throughout their conversation, not once had he mentioned that his ten-year-old daughter had run away. For all he knew, Samantha might have been kidnapped—or much worse.

A wave of protective feeling washed over him for the little girl, and he looked at her father with renewed contempt.

“Didn’t you think to call the police, when your wife went missing?” Phillips asked, pointedly.

Charlie shook his head.

“I keep telling you, Esme didn’t go missing; she just had a better offer.”

Duke had been standing quietly by his brother’s side, but now he spoke up.

“They’re CID, Charlie,” he murmured. “They must think something’s happened to her.”

Ryan had been occupied checking a recent e-mail from the forensics team on his smart phone. A couple of lines from Tom Faulkner confirmed what they already suspected: the DNA belonging to the unidentified female was a match to Samantha’s. He couldn’t say it was good news—knowing that the little girl had lost her mother in the worst possible circumstances could never be a cause for celebration.

But it did mean he could re-open the murder investigation with renewed vigour.

“Well?” Charlie demanded. “Is he right?”

Ryan slid the phone into the back pocket of his jeans and, when he looked up, his eyes were flat and cold.

“I apologise if I was unclear,” he said. “As her next of kin, we have a duty to inform you that the body of Esmerelda O’Neill has recently been identified. It was discovered in July of 2011, but we were unable to make a positive identification at the time. I’m sorry for your loss,” he added, as a matter of good practice. Charlie O’Neill didn’t seem the type to shed many tears over the news, but you could never tell.

“We’ve re-opened the investigation into her murder, and we’d appreciate your co-operation. Both of you,” he added, with a nod for Duke, whose face quivered beneath the scrutiny.

“I can’t believe it,” he breathed. “I never thought—is she really dead?”

“Of course, she is. He said as much, didn’t he?” Charlie bit out.

Ryan and Phillips exchanged a glance, while Duke began to stammer an apology.

“S-sorry, Charlie. This must be awful for you—”

“How do you know it was her?” Charlie asked, cutting across his brother. “How come you’ve only just identified some woman as being Esme, if the body was found back in 2011?”

Phillips looked at the man with barely concealed dislike. Even if they believed his story that he had spent the last eight years thinking his wife had simply been unfaithful, the news that she had been murdered ought to have softened his hatred for the dead woman.

Instead, Charlie appeared completely unmoved.

“Sometimes, identification can be difficult if a victim is found without any personal possessions or if their DNA isn’t already on our database. Your wife had no criminal record, Mr O’Neill, so we had no profile to cross-check when her body was found. It might have helped if she’d been reported as a missing person,” Ryan said, without rancour.

“I already told you, I thought she’d run off with some bloke,” Charlie bit out, and then a thought struck him. “Hang about, if you didn’t have Esme’s DNA, how come you managed to identify her now? I haven’t seen any Crimewatch appeals with Esme’s picture, and I’ve never had a copper knocking on my door asking me to come and identify any bodies.”

Ryan told himself to tread carefully. He couldn’t lie, but Samantha was in protective custody and one misstep could put her in danger, if they weren’t careful.

“Unfortunately, by the time Esme’s body was discovered, it was in an advanced stage of decomposition and we were no longer able to identify her through photographic methods,” he replied. “Thankfully, we were able to trace a DNA connection.”