The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(38)

“You mean like the way somebody hurt my mum?” Samantha whispered.

“Yes.”

“Mac?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I’m a bit scared that the one who hurt my mum might come back and do the same thing to me.”

MacKenzie looked her in the eye.

“They’d have to get through me, first, and I don’t mind telling you, there isn’t much that can.”

Samantha grinned, then asked the question that ran around her mind on a constant loop, demanding to be answered.

“Do you think my dad killed my mum?”

“Do you?” MacKenzie asked.

“I think he could have,” the girl whispered. “Sometimes, when he gets angry, it’s like he’s somebody else. Like a monster.”

MacKenzie told herself to remain clear-headed but, God, it was hard.

“And what if we find out he’s the one?”

Samantha thought of a young woman with long red hair and a big, bright smile.

“Then he needs to go to jail, so he can’t hurt anyone else,” she said. “He needs to pay for it.”

MacKenzie straightened up again and, as they made their way across the sand towards the stairs leading back up to the promenade, Samantha slipped her hand into hers.





CHAPTER 21


Emi-Lee Rundle slammed her way out of the little salon where, until five minutes ago, she’d been employed as one of their beauticians. Her flip-flops slapped against the paving stones as she hurried back to her car, red-faced in a combination of humiliation and righteous anger.

So what, if she’d been borrowing a few quid from the till? she fumed.

It was only until pay day, to tide her over. There was a new bar opening that weekend and she needed something new to wear, on top of her usual spend on hairdressers, getting her lashes done, and having her hoo-ha waxed—well, you never knew, did you? It all took money, especially with the new circle she’d started hanging around with. Her old dresses looked cheap in comparison with the other girls’ silk and leather numbers, and she wanted to look just like them.

She wanted to be admired.

To be wanted.

And, most of all, she wanted to be accepted.

It would have been fine. She’d have paid the money back at the end of the month and nobody would have been any the wiser. Except, now, Zara had grassed her up. Bloody big gob.

Bitch.

She was only jealous. They all were, really, because they knew she was only biding her time working in the salon until she was discovered. It happened all the time; girls much less pretty than her would be down at McDonald’s, or at the cinema, and a model scout would spot them. That’s what happened to Kate Moss, when she was at the airport, and Emi-Lee knew she was meant for that kind of glamorous life too. She didn’t want to spend her days painting the ugly toenails of old women, filing their calloused feet while they told her boring stories about their grandchildren. She was meant for better things.

As for the rest of them, the salon was their lot in life.

She sniffed, worrying for a moment about how she’d pay her bills. The rent was due soon, and there would be the electric to pay…

There was a whooshing sound—as if something was approaching at speed—until the body landed with a sickening crunch on the pavement in front of her. It missed her by less than a metre, and there was no time to react before the hot splatter of blood and brains drenched her face and bare legs.

There was a second’s delay, and then she was screaming.

And the dead man’s eyes watched her, from where they’d fallen from his skull.

*

Phillips’ teeth crunched into a toffee apple as he and Ryan made their way to the next stop on their list.

“I still can’t believe you managed to wangle a toffee apple,” Ryan muttered. “The stalls aren’t even open yet.”

“I’ve gnt vu gnt ov da gb,” Phillips replied, between chews.

“What?”

He swallowed.

“I said, ‘I’ve got the gift of the gab’,” Phillips repeated, with some dignity. “Besides, you can’t come to the Town Moor and leave without having something sweet.”

Ryan would rather have a pulled pork sandwich, and began to wonder whether his sergeant could unleash his interpersonal skills on the bloke who ran the burger van.

As he was rolling the idea around his mind, they came to a large, impressive-looking caravan. It stood at the end of a row and a small fence separated it from the ticket office adjacent to the Big Top.

“Doesn’t look like he’s home,” Phillips remarked, gesturing towards the empty spot where a car should have been.

They stood in front of the caravan, shoulder to shoulder, arms folded.

“We can’t go inside without his permission, or a warrant,” Ryan said, needlessly.

“O’ course,” Phillips said.

There was a pause, then Ryan cleared his throat.

“Wouldn’t hurt to peep through the windows, though—would it?”

“No crime in peeping, unless your name’s Tom,” Phillips agreed, and they moved forward to look through the thick, Perspex windows of the O’Neill residence.

“Neat as a pin,” Ryan remarked.

“What the hell d’you think you’re playing at?”