The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(48)

“It’s sending a message,” Lowerson replied, feeling his stomach jitter again. “If we’re right and there’s a connection between these victims, that would make three in as many days. It’s short, swift retribution from a ruling gang lord for some kind of crime—which is ironic, when you think about it.”

He turned back to Faulkner.

“Anything else you can tell us?”

Faulkner turned to face the body, his suit rustling as he went.

“Ordinarily, I’d try to draw conclusions from the position of the body but, to be honest, the usual principles go out of the window if it’s the case that he was already dead when he fell. In those circumstances, he was probably rolled off the edge of the building, which is why he landed sideways.”

From where they were standing, it was hard to tell.

“Thanks, Tom. Let us know if you find anything else.”

“I’m backed up with work at the moment, so I’ll get onto it as soon as I can but, if you see Ryan, let him know I’m looking at those old samples he sent through and I hope to have some results by tomorrow or the day after, at the latest.”

He paused, sniffing the air.

“Is that menthol chewing gum?”

*

When Charlie returned to the circus, he found Sabina waiting for him.

“For God’s sake, why aren’t you over in the tent?”

The stalls had been open for well over an hour, and she was losing business.

His business.

“I missed you,” she purred, and laid her head on the pillow of his bed. “How did it go at the police station?”

All he could think was that her head was resting on the same side where Esme had once lain, as he’d shown the police that very morning.

“Move your head away from there,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Are you deaf, as well as stupid?” he roared. “I said, move your head away from there!”

Close to tears, she scrambled off the bed and hurried to pick up her clothes, which she’d discarded on the floor. She’d hoped to give him a little ‘welcome home’ present and then talk about what happened down at the station, but it would have to wait.

There was no talking to him, when he was in a mood like this.

“Be careful, Charlie,” she said softly. “With a temper like that, people might start to think you killed her.”

His skin went hot, and then very cold.

“Or maybe, with you sniffing around here all the time, they’ll start to think it was you.”

She laughed a strange, tinkling laugh, then trailed a finger down his chest.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Hating her, hating himself, he turned to her. Hard, angry and without feeling, he drove out his demons there on the big sleigh bed.

*

With Yates at the wheel, she and Lowerson managed to make it back to Police Headquarters ahead of the five-thirty shift change, when many of their colleagues tended to spill from the building craving corned beef pasties. As they waited in line at the Pie Van, a familiar voice called out to them.

“Fancy meeting you here!”

Phillips and Ryan crossed the forecourt to join them in the queue.

“Long day?” Ryan asked. “I heard you caught another one, this afternoon.”

He might not be the SIO, but he was their Chief Inspector, and remained responsible for all murder investigations across his division.

“Yeah, it’s looking as though they might be connected,” Yates said, while Lowerson stepped up to order something that sounded suspiciously like quinoa. “And there’s a third one that we need to look into.”

“All gang-related?” Ryan asked, with a slight frown. “Even for us, that’s a high volume in just a couple of days. Have you set up the MIR?”

Lowerson turned, balancing a couple of eco-friendly cartons beneath his chin.

“About to do it now,” he said. “Except, all the conference rooms are taken.”

“Share ours,” Ryan offered, and thought it was also a neat way to keep an eye on things. It was Lowerson’s first case as SIO, and three bodies represented a lot of balls to juggle, even for an experienced murder detective.

They were about to turn away, when Yates remembered something.

“Oh, Faulkner had a message for you,” she said. “He’s received the samples from the cold case you’re working on, and he says he hopes to have a report back by tomorrow, or the day after.”

Ryan nodded.

“I’ve got a message for you, too,” Phillips said, as he stepped up to the counter. “Someone calling themselves Dennis—or Dante?”

Yates shot Lowerson a look, but he appeared to be engrossed in his phone.

“Ah—”

“Anyway, he rang the office earlier and said he’s sorry, but his phone is out of action. He left a new number and says you can reach him on that. I posted a note on your computer; in case it was important.”

“Thanks,” she said, feeling Lowerson’s eyes boring into the side of her head.

“Dante?” he asked, as they walked back towards the office a moment later. “Isn’t that the name of the barman, down at The Shipbuilder?”

“Yeah, he, um, asked me out on a date.”