The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(21)

Charlie looked at Ryan with sharp eyes. His general disposition was to believe he could take anyone, be they man, woman or beast. At first glance, this one had ‘toff’ written all over him, from his expensive brown suede boots to his fancy haircut. He was athletic but not a fighter—not like the shorter one, who looked as though he’d gone a round or two. All the same, appearances could be deceptive. There was a look behind Ryan’s glacier-blue eyes, like a volcano that was dormant but liable to erupt at any moment.

There was something else, too, and it struck Charlie like a thunderbolt.

He knew where Samantha was.

“Where’s my daughter?” he snarled, balling his hands into fists. “Where the hell is she?”

Ryan’s face didn’t alter. O’Neill was no fool; it was only a matter of time before he put two and two together and came up with the right answer. There was only one person whose DNA they could possibly have used to make the match.

“She’s safe,” he replied, simply.

Charlie found himself caught between an inclination to strike out and a fatalistic sense that there was nothing he could do to change a course of events that was already in motion. Behind them, circus staff were starting to gather, their chatter rising to a low hum that buzzed in his ears like flies.

“Where did you find her?” he asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“She found us.”

“Why?” Duke asked, plaintively. “Why would she go to you? Why wouldn’t she want to stay here?”

“You tell us,” Phillips replied, and the other man fell silent.

Charlie’s eyes swept over the figures standing around the arena chatting, smoking, and casting curious glances towards the four men beneath the spotlight. He’d chosen an exposed position because he wanted his crew to know he was fearless when it came to dealings with the police, but now he wished they weren’t crowding around like vultures, ready to pick at the scraps.

He flicked the stub of his cigarette away.

“I want my daughter back,” he said, in an ominous tone. “I want her home within the hour or I’m making a complaint to your Chief Constable—or whatever useless jobsworth is taking up a chair down at the station.”

Phillips felt his hackles rise.

“Samantha’s under the care of Social Services and the police, now,” he said.

He’d protect her with his own hands, if he had to.

“What for?” Charlie burst out, drawing interested looks from the gathering crowd. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“Her interests are being properly represented by a guardian, while the investigation into her mother’s murder is ongoing,” Ryan said, declining to comment further.

He would not discuss the details of an active investigation, especially not with the man who was his prime suspect.

“She doesn’t need a guardian,” Charlie stormed. “She’s got her father.”

“And an uncle,” Duke added, with a rare show of bravery.

“Who didn’t even report her missing,” Phillips pointed out, taking the wind out of their sails.

“Now look, you little pr—” Charlie began, then checked himself. It was a sensitive moment in all their lives, and he couldn’t afford to piss off the police. It was bad enough that word would get about that they’d visited him, today.

He wasn’t looking forward to having that particular conversation, later.

“What’s that, son?” Phillips said softly, cupping a hand to his ear. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

Duke put a restraining hand on his brother’s arm.

“C’mon, Charlie. We need to get ready for the show. There’s nothing you can do now, anyway—”

O’Neill threw off his brother’s hand and pointed a finger in Phillips’ face.

“I want her back by the end of the day. If Samantha isn’t in her own bed by tonight, I’ll kick up such a stink, you’ll wish you’d never met her.”

“I’ll never wish that,” Phillips murmured, after the man had stalked away.

*

Once the police left, the whispers started.

Esme was murdered.

Did you hear?

Esme was murdered.

News spread across the moor like wildfire, and those who had known her were caught between denial and shame. How they’d crowed about her, over the years. How the other women had cursed her name, after claiming to be her friend.

Those women were ashamed to think of it now; sickened to recall how little effort they’d made to help Samantha, a little girl who kept to the shadows and was easily forgotten. They’d been happy to ignore her, since she looked so like her mother.

The mother who’d been murdered.

But why wouldn’t Sam come home? they wondered. Why had she gone to the police?

The circus crew lived by an unspoken code while they travelled the length and breadth of the country and beyond, bringing laughter and entertainment to the masses. Problems and disputes were solved within the community. Not everybody who sold candy floss or juggled apples was of travelling stock, but all members of the circus, whether young or old, knew it and abided by it.

Especially if their father was the ringmaster.

Sam had broken this cardinal rule and had placed her faith in outsiders. Worse still, the police.