The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(51)

“Maybe they didn’t need to do all of it, straight away. I’ve been thinking about what Samantha told us, Frank. She said her mother’s hand was there, on the floor, and then it seemed to disappear. She doesn’t remember her being taken out of the front door to the caravan.”

“There might be a side door,” Phillips started to say, and then shook his head. “No, there wasn’t one when we were looking around it, the other day. But she can’t have disappeared, just like that. Do you think they put her in a cupboard, or in one of the other rooms?”

“Had to be,” Ryan said. “In which case, only one of two people could have known about it.”

“Charlie or Duke,” Phillips realised.

“Yes. No way Charlie wouldn’t have looked around his own caravan and, no way, either, that Duke wouldn’t have seen it, considering he claimed to have looked around, too.”

“It’s a lot easier to dispose of a body when you’re not in a hurry,” Phillips said.

“Duke told us he was looking after Samantha, that night. It wouldn’t have stopped him helping his brother, while she was asleep.”

Phillips nodded, imagining the actions of two desperate men.

“There’s just one problem.”

“I know,” Ryan sighed. “There isn’t a scrap of evidence to prove any of this. Unless Faulkner comes back with a miracle, we’re pissing in the wind. Charlie, Duke, Marco, Leonie—even Sabina. Theoretically, it could have been any one of them—or more than one, acting together.”

“What about hypnosis?”

Ryan raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure Paul McKenna or Derren Brown can help us with this one—”

“No, man,” Phillips waved a hand in the air. “I was thinking for Samantha. Maybe it would help her to remember some more details, if she spoke to a child psychologist or something?”

“The problem would be convincing her to do it. She doesn’t like ‘quacks’, remember?”

Phillips’ lips twitched.

“Aye, I remember. What about if you had a word with her? Bring it up over dinner, so it doesn’t feel so much like she’s being cornered.”

“You’re a sneaky one, Frank.”

“Ah, stop it, you’re making me blush.”

Ryan grinned.

“What about Gregory?” he said, suddenly.

“Who?”

“The guy who helped us when Denise—ah, when we were searching for Keir Edwards.” Ryan didn’t want to rake over bad memories, for either of them. “Alexander Gregory gave us a profile to work with, but he’s a clinical psychologist, first and foremost. He’d know how to draw her out.”

“Would he agree to it?” Phillips asked. “Has he worked with kids?”

“I don’t know,” Ryan said. “And he might be busy or overseas. But there’s no harm in asking. I’ll sign it off with Social Services, first, and we can take it from there, if Samantha’s willing.”

Phillips nodded.

“That’s fair enough. And, if she doesn’t want to—”

“Then, it doesn’t happen,” Ryan said clearly. “I don’t want to hurt the kid, any more than you do, Frank. But we’re clutching at straws and she came to us for answers. I’m starting to think she might have had the answers all along, buried somewhere inside.

“Maybe she just needs to speak to someone who can help her to dig them out.”





CHAPTER 27


“Charlie?”

He turned to find Marco standing in the shadows, the sheen of his leotard just visible in the dim light. The early show had finished, and the arena had emptied again to allow them to turn it over in time for the next group, at seven-thirty.

“What is it? Got a problem with the harnessing?”

Marco shook his head.

“No. It’s nothing like that. I just—I wanted to say how sorry I was, about Esme. I never really said it because we all thought…But now that we know—”

“You know, what? Now you know she was murdered, you think I need molly-coddling? You think I need some ponce in a catsuit to lend me a shoulder to cry on?”

Marco sighed.

“We’ve known each other a long time,” he said, wearily. “I wanted to tell you, there are people who would listen, if you wanted to talk about it. That’s all.”

Charlie knew he meant well. He knew it was an olive branch, a gesture of goodwill, if not quite friendship. Never friendship; he neither needed it, nor invited it. But it was a form of kindness. A part of him knew that, and was grateful for it.

But the other part rejected it.

“Now, listen to me, you greaseball. The day I need your help is the day they put me six feet under. Until then, mind your own bloody business. Go and look after your wife, plan your perfect little family, alright? Leave me and mine alone.”

Marco’s eyes turned hard.

“At least I have some family left. There’s what’s left of yours,” he said, and Charlie followed his line of sight to where Duke was clowning around the arena with his pet monkey, which he’d trained to do all manner of ridiculous tricks.

He turned back, ready to plant a fist in the Italian’s face, but Marco had already gone.