The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(5)

“No record of her death, no record of divorce or re-marriage, either,” he said. “I’d need to get one of the analysts to dive into any bank records or vehicle registrations but it’s looking as though she’s dropped off the grid.”

They both turned as they heard the unmistakable sound of a child’s laughter wafting through the cracks in the door.

“Canny kid,” Phillips said gruffly, having forgiven her earlier transgressions. “There’s still a chance her mam could be alive and well with a new family somewhere. If she belonged to a travelling circus, maybe she just flew beneath the radar and that’s why the records are a bit patchy. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Anything’s possible.”

But Ryan was focused on other possibilities, and he swung back around to the computer. His fingers flew across the keyboard and then drummed the edge of the desk while he waited for the search results to appear.

When they did, his face became shuttered.

“Look at this, Frank.”

Phillips peered at the screen again, skim-reading the results of Ryan’s search of cold case murder files for the Newcastle area in or around June 2011.

He stopped when he reached one entry, in particular.

“Ah, God,” he breathed. “Do you think that’s her?”

Ryan thought of the child seated at his table next door and hardened his heart. If he allowed emotion to creep in, he would be unable to do the job that was required of him now.

“Unidentified female, Caucasian, age range eighteen to thirty,” he read aloud. “Discovered in a shallow grave in the woods near Bolam Lake by a hiker on 4th July 2011. Red hair, approximately five feet seven inches tall.”

Phillips read the remaining information in the summary for himself, which included a pathology report detailing a body having been found in an advanced state of decomposition. It had, however, been possible to identify a crushed trachea, indicative of death by violent strangulation.

“You said the girl saw this happen?” he said, softly.

Ryan sighed.

“Yeah,” he said heavily. “And there’s something else to consider, Frank. If she saw them, maybe somebody saw her, too.”

*

Charlie O’Neill narrowed his eyes against the glare of the mid-afternoon sun as he watched the circus come together. Every tent, caravan and stall had been erected in accordance with an agreed layout approved by the Local Council, and every nut and bolt had been checked, double-checked and would be triple-checked before the day was out. Tomorrow, there would be a grand opening and the scent of toffee apples and fried meat would thicken the air for the next ten days until they packed it all away again and moved on, clearing a path for the next travelling fairground that would come to entertain the town.

His town, he thought.

He’d been born in Newcastle, at a house his parents used to own, until they’d decided to emigrate to hotter climes. He couldn’t blame them; in fact, he’d welcomed the news. His father had been the ringmaster of O’Neill’s for over thirty years and had shown no signs of slowing down or stopping, until a stroke left him partially immobile and speech-impaired. No longer able to command the same respect as before, he’d been forced to stand aside for a younger and abler man. Some people would frown if they heard him say that, but it was just the way of the world. Strength was required of a leader, especially in their business. Weakness was a chink to be exploited, and, if he didn’t guard against it, the circus would soon carry a different name. That was the price of power, Charlie realised. While you had it, you were invincible. When you lost it, you were just another crippled old bastard people used to know.

Might as well enjoy it, while it lasted.

He tugged a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his jeans and stuck one in his mouth. All the talk of nicotine causing cancer held little sway with him: he’d smoked since he was nine years old and had no intention of stopping now. What would be the point? He’d only look like a health-crazed nonce from the city, and that would never do.

Talk of the city made him think of the people beyond the moor, and he felt an uncomfortable tug of recognition. The Town Moor was a large area of common land in the centre of Newcastle, bigger than Hyde Park or Hampstead Heath—maybe even bigger than Central Park in New York, although he’d never been. It was surrounded by middle-class suburbs and, over the rolling fields, he could see the city skyline rising above the line of trees which marked the perimeter where the moor met the road. He heard the thrum of traffic as people made their way home, having enjoyed the remaining hours of the weekend before returning to their humdrum, nine-to-five jobs on Monday.

Tossers.

For all that he’d been born within the bells of St Nicholas’ Cathedral, Charlie felt no particular loyalty to his home town, or to its people. So long as they came to the circus after work or at the weekend, so long as they spent their money on popcorn and candy floss, he didn’t care what they did with the rest of their time.

He took a long drag of his cigarette, then blew out the smoke in an elaborate swirl. He watched it melt into the summer air and wondered if he had done the right thing in coming back here. If things had been different, wild horses couldn’t have dragged him within ten miles of Newcastle. But he had other people to think of; a circus to support. He could no longer take decisions solely for his own benefit, however much he hated the sight of the place.