The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(25)

“Maybe he needs a little more time,” she said, cupping her hands around her own glass. “He’s probably still dealing with the fallout of all that carnage. It’s a lot to take in.”

Yates nodded.

“You’re probably right,” she said. “But what do I do in the meantime? Every morning, I have to tell myself to stay professional, but nothing helps.”

“You’ve got it bad,” MacKenzie said, and rubbed a hand on the girl’s back.

Oh, to be young again.

“Need a top-up, ladies?”

They both sat up a bit straighter in their seats as the barman came to rest his improbably large forearms on the bar beside them.

“Haven’t seen you in here, much,” he said to Yates.

“I—ah, no. I’ve been busy.”

“Chasing criminals, eh?” he said, turning up the charm a notch. “It makes me sleep better at night, knowing there’s dedicated people like you keeping the streets safe.”

MacKenzie took a hasty sip of wine, to cover a laugh.

“Uh, thanks,” Yates managed.

“What’s your name, Chief Inspector?” he asked, and MacKenzie almost choked.

“Oh, no, no. I’m just a trainee detective,” Yates replied, and a slow flush spread across her face. “Um, Melanie. I’m Melanie.”

“Well, Melanie. I’m Dante.”

MacKenzie wondered if a person might expire from repressed laughter.

“Dante?” she couldn’t help but say, and he gave them both a sheepish smile.

“Well, actually, I’m called Dennis—after my grandad—but I’d never get a date if I told Melanie that, would I?”

Yates’ eyes widened.

Date?

“So, how about it, beautiful? Would you risk going out for dinner with a bloke called Dennis? You can still call me Dante, if you like that better.”

He looked at her with such longing, she felt it would be rude to refuse.

“I—okay,” she said.

“You’ve made my day,” he declared, and wrote his number on the back of one of the paper napkins sitting in a caddy nearby. “Give me a call whenever you’re ready to hear my tales of daring on the high seas, and the time I was almost mauled by a Great White Shark.”

“Really?”

“Nah, but I fell into a river, once. I’ll tell you all about it, over a curry.”

*

While Yates navigated the baffling world of romance and dating, Ryan and Phillips headed directly to Chief Constable Morrison’s office, which was on the executive level at Police Headquarters. As his long legs ate up the floor, Ryan made a series of calls to his colleagues in local police divisions to arrange for immediate assistance in conducting a search, while Phillips concentrated on keeping up with his friend, without rupturing his vital organs.

They arrived at Morrison’s door and Ryan rapped a knuckle against the wood.

“Come in!”

When they entered the room, they found Sandra Morrison had been appraised of the situation and had already anticipated their response.

She held up her hands, palms out, in a gesture of peace.

“Before you start, let me tell you I’ve just spoken with Social Services,” she said, to save time. “They’re very apologetic, but it’s quite common for newly fostered children to abscond. They’re usually picked up very quickly because they try to make their way home.”

“Samantha’s social worker told me she went missing within an hour of arriving at the new place,” Ryan said. “But it took the family several hours before they decided to tell us. Why?”

Morrison waved a hand towards the visitors’ chairs arranged in front of her desk, which both men ignored. She set her jaw and walked around to the front of her desk.

“I don’t know, Ryan. People are human, and they make mistakes,” she said. “Maybe the family thought she’d come back.”

“A mistake is one thing,” he said. “Negligence is another.”

“Placing blame isn’t going to help,” she said. “The priority is to track her down and bring her in.”

“What then?” Phillips asked. “Put her into another foster placement? She’ll only run again.”

“You don’t know that,” Morrison said, but had to admit it was a strong possibility. And, if anything happened to Samantha in the meantime, she didn’t like to think what the press would have to say about it.

“I know the DNA results came back on that DB,” she said. “I know we’ve got a murder investigation on our hands and that means there’s an even stronger possibility that what Samantha says she remembers is a version of the truth. But it’s still not a smoking gun and there’s a chance Esme O’Neill ran off, just like everybody says she did—”

“Ma’am, with respect—”

She overrode the interruption.

“Haven’t you considered the possibility that the woman left as her husband describes, to be with some unknown lover, and that person is responsible for her death? It may not have anything to do with O’Neill’s Circus.”

Ryan had considered the possibility—and rejected it.

“You didn’t see the girl’s face when she came to my door on Sunday. You didn’t hear her describe the scene. It was too vivid to be a figment of her imagination.”