The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(3)

“I remembered what happened,” she replied, in the kind of tone that implied it was obvious. “Yesterday, I remembered while I was mucking out Pegasus’ stable. I saw what happened.”

“You…saw your mother being killed?” Anna murmured, and reached across the table to touch the girl’s fingers in sympathy.

Sam nodded, and blinked furiously against unexpected tears. The woman’s hands were tender, as her mother’s had been, and she smelled nice.

Ryan gave her a moment, then spoke carefully.

“This would have been back in 2011,” he said. “Do you know what time of year? Anything else that might help me to understand?”

Sam looked at him from beneath the rim of her preposterous hat with such aching sadness that Ryan felt his gut twist.

“It happened the last time we were in Newcastle,” she said. “We haven’t been back since, but…I think we always used to come in June.”

“We?” Anna asked, taking the words out of Ryan’s mouth.

“O’Neill’s Circus,” Sam said. “My great-grandfather started it. I think we used to come to Newcastle every year, but this is the first time we’ve been back since…since she died.”

She’d almost said, ‘since she left’, but that wasn’t true. Not now.

“I remember how it happened,” she continued, in as firm a voice as she could muster. “She was strangled. I was there but, when I try to think of who, I can only see a shadow—”

She broke off suddenly and set the apple core on the table, bearing down against the memories which threatened to crowd into her mind again.

“Will you help?” she asked, compelling him to listen. “Please?”

Ryan gave a short nod.

“It’s my job,” he said simply, and was rewarded with a smile that would have lit up the darkest sky.





CHAPTER 2


“Make way for the Yorkshire Pudding King!”

Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips’ humble declaration greeted Anna on the doorstep a short while later. In deference to the milder weather, his stocky body was showcased in a pair of khaki cargo shorts that looked as though they’d survived both world wars, and a blinding pink shirt embroidered with a pattern of tiny green palm trees. He’d rounded off the ensemble with a liberal sprinkling of Old Spice.

Rendered momentarily speechless, Anna had no time to warn him of the unexpected addition to their lunch party before he stepped inside, wiping his comfortable Hush Puppies on the hallway mat.

His wife followed, with the long-suffering air of one who had seen it all before.

“Anyone would think you’d never eaten a roast dinner,” Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie grumbled, leaning in to bestow a quick peck on Anna’s cheek as she shrugged out of her summer jacket. “I had to strong-arm him away from the bacon, this morning.”

Anna gave herself a mental shake.

“Ah, there’s something I should mention—”

But Frank was already making his way towards the kitchen and, a few seconds later, they heard his booming voice carry along the hallway.

“Who’s this?”

*

Sam’s eyes widened as another man entered the kitchen. He was older than Ryan; short and tough-looking with a boxer’s physique—not that he looked particularly dangerous at that moment, dressed in a flamingo-pink shirt and shorts that revealed pale, hairy legs that clearly weren’t accustomed to regular sunshine.

“Frank, meet Samantha O’Neill,” Ryan said, watching her with the ghost of a smile. “Sam, this is my sergeant and good friend, Frank Phillips.”

“I don’t want to speak to anybody else,” she scowled. “I only want to talk to you.”

Phillips was affronted.

“Story of my life, that is,” he grumbled. “All the lasses love a pretty boy.”

Sam drank the rest of her hot chocolate, to hide a smile.

“Well, hello!”

MacKenzie set her handbag on the kitchen countertop and made a discreet assessment of the girl, who stared at her with wide eyes.

“This here’s Samantha,” Frank said, moving across to sniff at the meat roasting in the oven before looking out bowls and a whisk to get started on the Yorkshire pudding batter. That was their little tradition, he thought—he would make his legendary puddings, if Anna made the gravy to pour on top of them.

While Phillips set about washing his hands, the girl glanced between them in a mixture of hope and confusion.

Ryan kept his voice light.

“Would you like me to call your dad?” he offered.

She shook her head, firmly. Until she knew which of them was responsible for her mother’s death, nobody at the circus could be trusted.

Including her father.

“Is there anyone else?” Ryan asked. “A grandparent, or an aunt or uncle?”

Sam’s lip wobbled, only slightly.

“No,” she whispered. “There’s nobody else I want you to call.”

There was an infinitesimal pause, then Ryan nodded.

“In that case, why don’t you stay for lunch while we figure out what to do next?”

*

Phillips polished off the food on his plate and paused briefly, twiddling his fork before reaching across to claim the last slice of beef. Unfortunately, he was beaten to it by the lightning-swift jab of another fork belonging to the young interloper sitting beside him.