The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(54)

“Oh,” Sam said, knowingly. “I know all about that. We have a magician at the circus called Mike, who does illusions and things, and he sometimes makes people think they’re chickens. Or, at least, it looks like he’s done it but, really, they’re actors my dad’s paid to come along and cluck.”

Phillips laughed, long and loud.

“We’re not talking about any Mike the Magician, here,” he said.

“And we don’t want you to start clucking, either,” MacKenzie put in, to bring a smile.

“Alex just knows how to make you feel very relaxed, and he knows exactly the right questions to ask to help your mind to remember all the things it might not want to.”

Samantha looked up at him.

“You promise he won’t put me in an asylum?”

“Not unless you start clucking,” Phillips replied.

“Fair enough,” she said, and held out a hand for the next plate. “I’ll try it, if you think it might help my mum.”

*

Back at Police Headquarters, Lowerson finally logged off his computer and leaned back in his chair, stretching out his arms.

“Long day, eh?”

He looked across at Yates, who was sipping a cup of coffee that had gone cold.

“Yeah, I just keep worrying about how Rochelle sounded on the phone,” he said. “I wish we knew something about her.”

Yates leaned forward to clear the screensaver on her computer.

“I think her name is Rochelle White,” she said. “She runs Rochelle Interiors, an interior design company whose annual turnover was over six million last year, according to the accounts submitted to Companies House.”

Lowerson frowned.

“Firstly, great work,” he said, and meant it. “But are you sure it’s the same Rochelle?”

“I don’t know for sure, but it seems likely,” Yates replied. “She’s the girlfriend of Bobby Singh, a property developer and, according to our colleagues in the Fraud Team, a man who isn’t above a bit of money laundering. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn he has his fingers in all kinds of pies, including drugs—especially now that Jimmy Moffa is out of the picture. There’s been a turf war going on, ever since he died.”

Jimmy ‘The Manc’ Moffa was a notorious local gangster who’d taken the city by brute force some years earlier and who had come to a gruesome end at the hands of an even more brutal character than himself.

“Anyway, when a search popped up showing Rochelle at some gala dinner with Bobby, it rang some alarm bells. I also think her accounts look a bit skewed; nobody makes that much from interior decorating, unless you’re working for a Russian oligarch who’s making over his mansion in Kensington.”

Lowerson tended to agree.

“So, Hepple hired an interior designer, after all?” he said.

“By the looks of those photos, he didn’t have to,” she replied. “But, either way, Rochelle’s right about one thing. If her boyfriend finds out she was playing away from home, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Let’s just hope we get to her first.”





CHAPTER 29


Charlie raised his hands up to the sky as a crowd of eighteen-hundred strong cheered.

It had been a particularly good night, and the takings had been healthier than usual. It wasn’t like the old days, when the circus was the main event in town. Now, there was more competition, and they needed to work harder to impress. Even if they sold out every night, as they often did, overheads were rising, and it was becoming more difficult for the circus to survive. They’d evolved, over the years, adding more spectacular displays, pushing their own limits until they could stand alongside the best in the world.

And still, it wasn’t quite enough.

He needed to diversify, or die.

With that in mind, he walked swiftly from the arena, stopping only to throw a careless word of congratulations to those he credited with having done a good job.

“Charlie!”

He turned to see Sabina waiting for him.

“Not now,” he barked, walking quickly to beat the crowds.

He left the Big Top through the main exit, which happened to be closest to the ticket office and, beyond it, his caravan. As he passed the ticket office and skirted around the edge, a security light flickered into life and he looked up at it, automatically. It was hardly going to stop anybody who was serious about breaking and entering, but the CCTV would give him a good starting point when he took a couple of the boys and went to find whatever unfortunate soul had picked the wrong mark to steal from.

He smiled a bit at the thought, peeling off his gloves and hat as he crossed the grass. A fence had been laid out to keep the punters from wandering into the caravan park and he let himself through a small gate separating the two areas. It was like switching between personas, he thought: one, where he was Charles O’Neill, fourth ringmaster of his family’s circus; and the other, where he was Charlie, widower, father, and small-time criminal.

Soon to enter the big leagues, he thought, if he could only get the police off his back. One of the major prerequisites of his new side-line was discretion, and having half of CID darken his door each day was very bad for business.

He paused outside his caravan to look up at the sky, which was resplendent with stars. He surprised himself by standing there for a moment longer, wishing he knew what their names were, wishing he had the wherewithal or the time to learn. He wondered whether this is what the Big Man had always wanted for him; whether this was the life he was always meant to lead.