The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(65)

She shoved her sunglasses back on her nose, in an effort to hide the glint of tears. He’d been no prince, but Dan Hepple had loved her, and he’d been her lifeline. Now, he was gone, and she was alone again.

“You said on the phone you were in fear of your life?” Yates prompted.

“I said too much,” she replied. “In fact, I don’t even know why I came here—”

“Because you’re scared,” Lowerson said. “And you need our help.”

“You can’t help me, now,” Rochelle said, resting her head briefly on the steering wheel as she tried to pull air into her panicked lungs. “Do you know who my boyfriend is?”

“Bob Singh,” Yates replied shortly, from her position on the back seat. “We know the rumours.”

“It’s not just rumours. He’s a dangerous man. Bobby found out about Dan and me, and that’s why he murdered him. I’ll be next, I know it. He’s toying with me, waiting for the right time.”

Lowerson opened his mouth to deny it, but the fact was, he didn’t know for certain that she wasn’t the reason.

“We could offer you police protection, if you come forward,” he said. “Go on the record about Bobby and we’ll protect you, Rochelle.”

She let out a watery laugh.

“Protect me? He has police in his pockets. How do you think you’ll be able to protect me?”

A terrible thought suddenly came to her mind.

“Are you one of them?” she asked, tremulously. “Are you one of Bobby’s?”

“No—”

“Please,” she begged, starting to cry. “Please, don’t hurt me, I—”

“Get a grip on yourself,” Yates said, shocking everyone in the car. “We’re not one of your boyfriend’s dirty coppers, alright? We’re the good guys.”

As a technique, it worked to snap Rochelle out of it.

“Right. Okay,” she mumbled. “Sorry, but you all look alike.”

“Thanks,” Lowerson chuckled, but decided then and there that he needed to know which of his fellow officers were on the take. It might take days, weeks or months to win this woman’s confidence, but he was prepared to do it, if it meant cleaning up shop.

Yates had come to a similar conclusion, herself.

“If you don’t want police protection, and you won’t leave of your own volition, what is it you want, Rochelle?”

The woman had recovered herself and was even re-applying lipstick in the rear-view mirror. Her hand stilled, as she caught Yates’ eye.

“I want to bring him down,” she said softly. “I want him to pay for everything he’s ever done.”

“We can definitely help you with that,” Lowerson said. “If you’ll help us, in return.”

She lowered the lipstick and then held out one of her perfectly manicured hands, which he took.

“It’s a deal,” she purred.





CHAPTER 36


Back at CID Headquarters, Ryan was replaying the footage they’d seized from the circus ticket office. The footage came from a single, high-level camera that had been fixed on the corner wall, so it would capture rolling images from two sides of the office: the front desk and the side wall, where a narrow door was cut out to give access to the ticket seller. Presumably, it was intended to capture images of anyone attempting to steal across the counter, or anyone who tried to force their way in through the staff door. As an unexpected bonus, the camera also managed to capture the frontage of Charlie O’Neill’s caravan, on the extreme edge of its wide-angle lens.

The camera had been fitted next to a security light, with a motion sensor to conserve its bulb. Ryan thought it was unfortunate the light wasn’t permanently illuminated, because that would have provided them with much clearer images. As it was, they were heavily reliant on the stretches of footage where somebody had happened to walk within range of the sensor, activating the light. Outside of those times, the footage was simply too dark and grainy, even after considerable help from the tech team.

“There he is,” Ryan said, as they watched Charlie pass beneath the camera at exactly 21:03.

He paused the screen to look at the ringmaster’s expression, as he’d glanced up at the light, searching the black and white image for the smallest clue, but there was nothing to read on Charlie O’Neill’s face. As he’d walked towards his own death, he looked just the same—as if it were any other night.

“He’s not running, he’s not stumbling, he’s not walking with his head bowed, and his shoulders slumped. I’d say he was walking with purpose.”

“Aye, but some would argue the purpose was that he planned to top himself,” Phillips pointed out.

Ryan clicked another button and the footage continued to roll.

They watched Charlie move off quickly towards the gate leading to his caravan and, a moment later, they watched him on the very edge of the screen, pausing by the doorway.

“What’s he doing?” Phillips asked.

“He’s looking up at something,” Ryan murmured, but the angle of his chin was too high for it to be anything other than the night sky. “Stargazing, apparently.”

“Didn’t seem the type,” Phillips said, reaching for the packet of custard creams he’d squirrelled out of the house that morning.