The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(68)

“As does yours,” Gregory said, returning the compliment. “Ryan spoke very highly of you, the last time we met.”

Phillips blustered a bit, caught off guard.

“Aye, well. This ‘un needs all the help he can get.”

Gregory laughed appreciatively, then spread his hands.

“So, tell me how I can help.”

*

Dark storm clouds were gathering overhead, casting long daytime shadows across the Tyne Valley as Lowerson and Yates made the short journey from Corbridge to the nearby town of Prudhoe. Their most recent victim, whose body had fallen from the upper level of a multi-storey car park, had since been identified as Evan Parker, a twenty-three-year-old handyman by day and drugs-pusher, by night. His last known address was one he shared with his mother, which killed two birds with one stone.

“Do you want to inform the mother, or do you want me to do it?” Lowerson asked, as Yates drove towards their next destination with a certain enviable panache.

“Why don’t we both do it?” she replied, in cool tones.

“Right. Sure.”

Lowerson drummed his fingers against his knees, then asked the burning question all men wanted to know.

“Is there anything the matter?”

Yates flexed her hands on the wheel, and, for a moment, he wondered if she was imagining the smooth leather was his neck.

“Why would there be anything the matter?” she said, overtaking a lorry with a swift jerk that sent him crashing against the car door.

“Ouch,” Lowerson muttered.

“Sorry,” she said, cheerfully.

“Did I say something?” he asked. “Look, I’d rather know—”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”

“It sounds important, if you’re upset.”

“Upset?” she squeaked, in protest. “I’m not upset, I’m just disappointed.”

Oh, God, he thought. That was much, much worse.

“For starters, I don’t know why I’m even surprised that you’d go for someone like Rochelle,” she said, throwing caution gaily to the wind. “She’s got that sad, vulnerable look about her—and she smells nice…”

“She does?”

“Of course, she does! She can afford to wear Chanel!”

“Ah—”

“How d’you think it felt, having to watch you with that—that woman for all those months?” she stormed on, referring to his ill-fated relationship with their former boss. “And then, waiting for you to come back to life again, hoping you might see me…but instead, you turn into a salivating mess for the same kind of woman!”

“Stop the car for a minute, Mel.”

“Well, I’m—I’m not bothering anymore,” she said, and to her mortification, her lip began to wobble. “I’m not going to waste my time waiting for you to see what’s been sitting there, right under your nose, because I’ve got my own life to live.”

“Will you just stop the car for a minute?”

By that time, they were already in Prudhoe, so she pulled into a residential side street and turned off the engine.

“Sorry,” she said, straight away. “Just ignore me, I shouldn’t have said anything. This case is obviously getting to me—”

“Did you mean all that, about hoping I might see you?” he asked, shifting in his seat to look at her.

She lifted her chin and thought about denying it all, then decided she’d come too far to back down, now.

“Well, of course, I bloody did! What kind of rock have you been hiding under, all this time? It’s been hell, trying to stay professional around you, and now I’ll probably have to request a transfer because I’ve jeopardised our working relationship…”

“Or, we could just do this.”

Before she had time to think up a token protest, his lips were on hers, searching, demanding, full of passion. His fingers speared through her hair while hers ran over his face, his chest, plucking at the shirt he wore. Eventually, he drew back, his face hovering inches away from her own.

“But what about Dante-Dennis?”

“Who?” she muttered, then tugged him back.





CHAPTER 38


At Gregory’s suggestion, the three men made their way to Phillips’ house to conduct the session with Samantha, so she would feel safe and secure in surroundings that were familiar to her but held no negative associations. It was agreed that they might use the living room, with Samantha lying comfortably on the sofa while Gregory took a chair across the room and either MacKenzie or Phillips would sit in with them, but remain silent throughout.

All of that rested upon Samantha conducting her own assessment, a fact Gregory understood and admired. His interview took place around the kitchen table, where the little girl sipped a cup of milk when she wasn’t reeling off a series of quick-fire questions.

“Have you seen a lot of mad people, then?”

Gregory grinned.

“All the time,” he answered. “Especially in my bathroom mirror.”

She giggled.

“That’s funny,” she said. “Who’s the craziest person you’ve ever met?”

There were several that sprung to mind, but there were some things that shouldn’t be spoken of with a child, and some he was prevented from discussing because of his professional obligations as to confidentiality.