The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(62)

Ryan was in the process of reviewing the CCTV from the ticket office camera, when Phillips walked into the room.

He didn’t beat around the bush.

“How’d she take it?” he asked, handing his friend a coffee.

“As well as could be expected,” Phillips replied, taking a grateful swig of milky coffee, sweetened to his taste. “Thanks.”

Ryan saw the shadows beneath Phillips’ eyes and something else, too.

“The Social Worker, whatsherface—”

“Mrs Carter,” Ryan supplied.

“Aye, that one. She rang this morning, asking for an update and wanting to come around for tea and biscuits. What am I s’posed to tell her? The kid’s had the worst week of her life, and people keep proddin’ and pokin’ at her when she just wants to be like any other ten-year-old.”

“Gregory’s on his way,” Ryan felt honour-bound to say. “He’s catching the first flight out of Paris and hopes to be here by lunchtime, but if Samantha isn’t up to it, we’ll call it off.”

“We’ll let her decide,” Phillips agreed.

“You and Denise are helping her through it,” Ryan said quietly. “It isn’t an easy thing, but you’re making it look easy.”

Phillips was taken aback.

“W’hey, it’s nothing…just giving her a bed to sleep in and a bit of grub—”

“You know it’s a lot more than that.”

Phillips sighed.

“Aye, I know. To tell you the truth, son, it’s getting harder every day to imagine what the house’ll be like without her in it.”

“Quieter, probably.”

Phillips managed a small laugh.

“Aye, trouble is, I’m starting to wonder if it’ll be too quiet,” he said, and set his coffee down again. “After we broke the news to her about her dad, she asked whether she could stay with us.”

Ryan gave him a searching look.

“And? What did you tell her?”

“What could I tell her? She’s still got an uncle and, now he’ll be running the circus, he’s got the means to look after her. He’s not going to set the world alight, but he’s not violent, as far as we know. It’ll be up to Social Services to decide.”

“We’re still investigating Duke O’Neill,” Ryan reminded him, and nodded towards the whiteboard, where a row of photographs had been added to signify Persons of Interest. “Let’s not strike him off the list, just yet.”

Phillips ran a hand over his chin, then let it fall away.

“Howay, let’s get on with doing what we do best,” he said. “Somebody out there’s laughing at us, and I want to know who.”

Ryan nodded and came to his feet, but had a final word to say before they turned to business.

“You’d be good at it, Frank.”

“Good at what?”

“Being a father. Just in case you were wondering.”





CHAPTER 34


It was shaping up to be another blazing hot summer’s day, but Ryan wanted no distractions in the room and so he let down the cheap window blinds with a rattle of clinking metal.

“Sorry, folks,” he said. “Hopefully, the sun will still be shining by the time we wrap this thing up.”

Lowerson and Yates had left to keep their ten o’clock appointment with Rochelle, so Ryan moved to the front of the room to get the briefing underway.

“Thanks to all of you for coming in,” he began. “For those who aren’t up to speed, we’re investigating the suspicious death of a thirty-four-year-old male by the name of Charles O’Neill, who was the owner-manager of O’Neill’s Circus. He was discovered shot dead in his caravan, late last night, on the Town Moor.”

He rapped a knuckle on the timeline he’d drawn out, beneath a picture of Charlie taken from his driving licence.

“These dates and timings are in your packs but, for the sake of simplicity, I’ve drawn a visual aid, here,” Ryan continued. “The key timescale is sometime between nine and nine-thirty p.m., which is when Charlie died. Before then, he was in full view of the arena, where he was the ringmaster at the late show. After then, his body was discovered by two of his employees, Marco and Leonie D’Angelo.”

He watched their faces, and raised a hand to greet Tom Faulkner, as he slipped into the room with a mouthed apology.

“At the moment, it appears to have been a suicide,” Ryan said. “The body was found with a gunshot wound, apparently self-inflicted, and there were no signs of a struggle. The caravan door was locked from the inside and the windows are small, with the main pane fixed permanently closed. There are no other obvious exits—”

He paused, as Faulkner raised a hand.

“Did you find something when you were going over the place?” Ryan asked.

Faulkner felt several pairs of eyes swivel in his direction.

“Ah, right. Well, yes, I was going to say we spent some time at the deceased’s caravan, and we came across a kind of trap door.”

Ryan frowned, wondering how they’d missed it.

“Where was it?”

“Beneath a faux-fur rug and a glass coffee table, which was quite chunky,” Faulkner replied. “It gives access to the underside of the caravan.”