The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(35)

“You’ve found him,” the man said, rising from his chair.

He was tall, probably on a par with Ryan at a couple of inches over six feet, and spoke with a continental accent heavily imbued with a hotchpotch of regional dialects taken from his travels all around the UK.

“Who’re you?”

They produced their warrant cards.

“We’re from CID,” Ryan added. “You may have already heard; we’re investigating the murder of Esme O’Neill.”

They looked amongst themselves.

So, it was true.

“I still can’t believe that,” the first woman said, sticking a cigarette between her bold red lips. “Got a light?”

They might have been police, but the taller one was a knock-out and she wasn’t about to let a good opportunity go to waste.

“Sorry, we don’t smoke,” Ryan said, before Phillips could fall off the wagon.

She shrugged, and feigned surprise when she pulled a lighter out of her bra.

“It’s awful,” the other woman whispered, brushing a short, honey-blonde bob away from her face. “I thought Esme had cheated on Charlie, and we all thought the worst of her. I never imagined she’d been killed. I feel terrible—”

Her face started to crumple, and Marco hurried back to crouch in front of her chair and take her hands.

“Shh, don’t get yourself all upset,” he said. “Stress isn’t good for the baby.”

On closer inspection, they realised she was carrying a basketball-sized parcel beneath the loose green top she wore.

“I know, I’ll be careful,” she said, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “It just makes me sad to think about it.”

“We were hoping you might be able to tell us when Mr O’Neill is due back,” Ryan interjected, and the three looked amongst themselves again.

“He’s bound to be back before the show starts,” Marco said, evasively. “We can take a message, if you want.”

“That’s okay,” Ryan said, and decided to use the cosy little setting to his advantage. “Mind if we sit and chat to you about Esme, for a minute?”

He settled himself on the bottom step of one of the doors to the motorhome, facing the others. Phillips leaned comfortably against the side, and was tempted to stroke its smooth paint finish, but stopped himself just in time.

“Lovely vehicle, you’ve got here,” he said, falling into an easy, personable rhythm that helped to draw people out. “Circus business must be good.”

Again, they paused before laughing awkwardly.

“Uh, yeah, it is. People keep coming to see us, anyway,” the first woman said.

“Do you mind introducing yourselves?” Ryan asked. “And maybe you could tell us a bit about how you knew Esme?”

The first woman looked uncomfortable.

“I’m Sabina,” she said. “My stage name is ‘Psychic Sabina’. You might have heard of me?”

They smiled politely.

“Oh, yes, now you mention it, I think your name does ring a bell,” Phillips replied.

It was not a lie, since they’d seen her name written on one of the tents.

“I’ll read your palm, sometime, if you like,” she said, and Phillips was about to protest when he realised the offer had been aimed at his good-looking friend.

Typical.

“Ah, that’s kind,” Ryan managed. “But I already had a palm-reading, just the other day.”

“Oh?” Her dark brown brows drew together as she imagined professional competition, and he wondered how widespread the world of palmistry and tarot reading could be. “Someone I’d have heard of?”

“I doubt it,” he said. “My wife doesn’t tend to do it for a living.”

Anna didn’t read palms at all, and would probably laugh at the very idea, but it was a neat way to forestall any further offers.

He turned to the other woman in the party, who was sitting with her hands linked beneath her bump. She looked exhausted but happy, a look that seemed universal to most mothers he’d come across.

“I’m Leonie,” she told him. “Marco’s wife.”

“Much more than that,” he chipped in, reaching across to pat her belly. “Until this little bundle took over, you were my flying partner.”

Phillips realised they meant acrobatics.

“Like a husband and wife duo?” he asked, and Leonie nodded.

“I met Marcus at another circus when I was sixteen and then we joined O’Neill’s together. We just hit it off, didn’t we?”

“It’s sickening,” Sabina said. “The two of them mooch about like a couple of sex-starved teenagers.”

“You don’t see what it’s like behind closed doors,” Leonie joked. “He’s always leaving the toilet seat up, never makes the bed…”

“And she’s always nagging,” Marco said, kissing the back of her hand.

“How long did you all know Esme O’Neill?”

“I knew her before she married Charlie,” Sabina replied, taking a deep drag of her cigarette. “He totally changed when he met her, by the way. He used to be strong—like he is now. But when he first met Esme…it was like seeing a lion having its balls cut off.”