The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(39)

Both men turned at the sound of O’Neill’s belligerent voice, to find Charlie and his brother standing behind them with angry faces, their feet planted as if they expected trouble.

“I’ve heard you’ve been harassing my employees,” he continued, jabbing a broad finger in the air short of Ryan’s face. “There are laws against that. You should know.”

“We’ve harassed nobody,” Ryan replied, very calmly. “We’ve asked routine questions of all the people on-site, today.”

“Oh, aye—and you wait until I’m not here, to do it,” O’Neill sneered. “Bloody cowards.”

Ryan took a single step forward.

“Care to test that theory?”

“And have you strap me with some bullshit about assaulting an officer? I’m not that stupid.”

“Good, because I don’t need the extra paperwork,” Ryan shot back. “We’re here because we want to find out what happened to your wife; the mother of your daughter. You can either be obstructive, or you can try to help us and eliminate yourself from our enquiries. Which’ll it be?”

“I’ve got nowt to hide,” O’Neill said.

“In that case, would you be willing to let us see inside your caravan?” Phillips asked.

Duke tensed and shot his brother a quick look, which Ryan caught.

“Help yourself.” O’Neill decided to brazen it out, elbowing them aside to slot his key into the lock. “But wipe your feet, first.”

*

The atmosphere was uncomfortable as the four men stepped inside Charlie O’Neill’s caravan. For one thing, it was exactly as Samantha had described; from its white, PVC-leather bench and sofa, to the little kitchen to the right of the front door, where her mother had once stood listening to the radio. There was a fluffy, faux-fur rug in the centre of the living area, with a glass coffee table on top, and a mounted television on one of the walls overlooking the sofa.

There was an area of floor space where a play pen or a cot might have stood, which overlooked the kitchen area and the door beside it.

Now, it housed a large, artificial fern.

“Do you want to look inside my drawers, now?” O’Neill jeered. “Whatever turns you on, mate.”

He led the way along a narrow corridor, off which there was a small bathroom and a broom cupboard, until he reached the door at the end. He threw it open with a sarcastic bow.

“After you.”

Ryan said nothing but stepped around O’Neill into the largest of the bedrooms. Its main feature was a giant sleigh bed with a matching white PVC-leather headboard and a faux-fur throw, similar to the one gracing the floor of the living space.

Phillips thought he might have seen one of the characters wearing it on Game of Thrones.

“Was this the room you shared with Esme?” Ryan asked.

“Husbands usually share a bed with their wives, don’t they?”

“Did you?” Ryan persisted. He hadn’t forgotten that the body had been found without a wedding ring.

“You’re a cheeky bugger, I’ll give you that,” O’Neill said, swiping the back of his hand across the stubble on his chin. “Alright, as it happened, I was using the spare room when she—when she died.”

He looked away, seeming to cast his mind back.

“The baby hadn’t been sleeping well,” he said. “Esme thought I’d get more rest if I used the spare room.”

“Where did you keep the baby’s cot?”

If O’Neill was confused by the line of questioning, he said nothing.

“We kept her cot in the main bedroom here, by Esme’s side of the bed,” he said quietly, and jutted his chin towards the spot. “There was a play pen in the lounge, too.”

“What kind?” Phillips chipped in.

“Eh? It was one of those white plastic ones with the bars, for when kids are toddling about. Why d’you ask?”

“Where’s Samantha’s room?” Ryan asked, ignoring the question.

At the mention of her name, O’Neill’s face hardened.

“It’s through here,” he said, darkly.

It turned out that the space Ryan had thought was a cupboard was, in fact, a little girl’s bedroom. It was plain, with white walls and a simple cabin bed, and just as neat as the rest of the caravan. A bit sparse on things, he thought suddenly. There was little in the way of trinkets or the kind of mementos that kids usually collected from their trips or days away.

That was probably because she didn’t have any.

There was a bear sitting on the window-ledge, and Phillips reached out to touch it. He didn’t know what he intended to do; maybe take it home and give it to Samantha, in case she’d forgotten it.

“Get your hands off my property,” O’Neill snapped, and snatched the toy away before hurling it across the room, where it landed in the corner. “And you can tell her from me, that if she wants any of her things, she’ll have to come home and get them.”

“If you want to see her, you can always apply for a court order,” Ryan told him, although he suspected the man already knew his rights. “You could see her, if you really wanted to.”

O’Neill turned away, unable to look him in the eye, because the truth of it was…maybe he didn’t want to see her. He didn’t want to see the girl who looked just like her mother, who looked at him as if she expected better of him.