The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(41)

“Mel, wait a minute.”

She paused in the doorway, sighed, then turned around again.

“Well?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Everything you said was right, and I’m sorry. I think—I think you unsettle me, and I’m already nervous in case I’m not doing things right. That’s not an excuse, it’s just an explanation. The point is, none of that is your fault but I’ve been taking it out on you. You have my word; it’ll never happen again.”

She was silent for a long moment, thinking it was hard to stay mad at him when he was looking at her with those sweet, puppy-brown eyes.

“Good,” she said. “I don’t want to have to set MacKenzie on you.”

She took a wicked pleasure from watching naked fear flash across his face, then she took a deep breath before saying one final thing.

“You know, I’m not Jennifer Lucas. Just remember that.”

She left him to think it over.

*

Just before the clock struck two, Ryan and Phillips entered Interview Room C, one of the smaller rooms of the interview suite at Police Headquarters. They hadn't left Charlie O’Neill to stew for long, being of the correct opinion that it would prove to be counter-productive to their cause. However, his brother was a very different matter, so they’d left Duke waiting in another interview room with a cup of tea and one of the constables on duty. It served the dual purpose of preventing the brothers from conferring over the details of their statements, as well as placing Duke under a slightly elevated level of stress as he waited impatiently for his turn.

As Ryan had often found, people said very revealing things when they were under pressure.

He smiled genially as they entered the room, where Charlie was seated at a small metal table beside a man they assumed to be his solicitor, although they didn’t recognise him. In their line of work, they came to know the names and faces of criminal solicitors and barristers in the region, both for the prosecution and defence, as well as a fair number from further afield.

Ryan checked the name that had been scrawled on his notepad: George Kingley, of Kingley and Co., Solicitors, and then recited the date, time and names of those present for the recording.

“Mr O’Neill, Mr Kingley—are you happy to begin?”

“My client is willing to cooperate fully in providing a statement,” Kingley said, in a nasal voice that grated on Phillips’ nerves. “But, first, he would like to discuss the plans for bringing his daughter home—”

“As Mr O’Neill is already aware, there are no plans for Samantha O’Neill to return to the family home until after the investigation is concluded,” Ryan said. “Samantha herself has refused and has raised credible allegations surrounding the danger if she were to remain at the circus. She has been taken into the care of Social Services—”

“Who only went and bloody lost her!” O’Neill burst out.

“—who are keeping a close eye on her welfare and whereabouts, after she ran away from home,” Ryan finished, while Phillips took a sudden, keen interest in his notepad.

“My client affirms that his daughter has a habit of absconding from the family caravan,” Kingley said. “Therefore, this behaviour should not be given undue weight—”

“And is she often in the habit of making a police report, each time she runs away?” Ryan cut in.

There was no reasonable answer to that, so he continued.

“Social Services have kept Mr O’Neill abreast of all his rights in relation to his daughter, as have we,” Ryan continued, linking his hands together atop the small folder he’d brought into the room. “Mr O’Neill is entitled to apply to a judge for a court order, if he wishes to maintain contact with Samantha.”

“Bugger that,” Charlie muttered. “She’ll come crawling back, soon enough.”

Phillips opened his mouth to defend her, but a mild look from Ryan stopped him. It would not help Samantha for anybody to work out where she might be staying.

“Moving on, I’d like to focus on the events leading up to and surrounding Friday 3rd June 2011.”

“As you can imagine, my client’s recollection is patchy, considering the passage of time.”

“Duly noted,” Ryan said, and leaned forward to create a sense of confidence. “Now, Mr O’Neill, perhaps you could tell us how you came to meet Esme?”

It was like prising open a locked box, Charlie thought. An old chest he’d nailed shut and shoved in the attic, so he could forget about it—but now he was being forced to look inside again, at memories he’d rather not have.

“She joined the circus when she was sixteen, as a stable hand,” he said, in a tight voice. “I hardly noticed her, at first. She was always scruffy, never took any time with herself…”

He shrugged, unapologetically. As the son of the circus owner, he’d had his pick of the girls and still did. He hadn’t needed to go slumming amongst the horses.

“But then, she started learning how to do the tricks—”

“Tricks?” Phillips asked.

“Aye, like handstands on the back of the horse, flips, all kinds as they’re running around the ring.”

Phillips nodded, imagining.

“She was stunning,” Charlie admitted, swallowing hard. “Really something.”