The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(8)

“It’s lovely,” she said huskily. “Are you sure you don’t mind me sleeping here? I don’t want to mess it up.”

Phillips almost reached out to ruffle the girl’s hair, before stopping himself again.

“Don’t be daft, make yourself at home,” he said. “Towels are in the cupboard, here, and there’s a bathroom just next door you can have to yourself. You might fancy a bubble bath, before bed.”

She turned to look at him.

“Thank you for having me to stay,” she said. “I know you didn’t want to, but I’m grateful all the same.”

Phillips cleared his throat.

“W’hey, it’s not that I didn’t want to, lass—it’s just that you’ve got your own family, haven’t you? Your dad must be getting worried, by now.”

She gave him a small, tight smile.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Aw, now, I’m sure that’s not—”

“You don’t know him,” she interjected. “He’s a hard man, Mr Phillips.”

“Frank.”

“What?”

“You can call me Frank,” Phillips said. “None of that ‘Mr Phillips’ stuff. Makes me think of my granda’.”

“Oh. Was he not very nice?”

Phillips sighed.

“He was a man of his time,” was all he said, choosing not to discuss the less attractive aspects of his grandfather’s character.

“My dad’s a bit like that,” she said knowingly, and sank onto the edge of the bed, clutching her cap. “He doesn’t hug or play games. He’s too busy for any of that. But I get to look after the horses.”

“You like horses, eh?”

“I love them,” she said, before her face fell again. “I’m going to miss Pegasus. He’s big and gentle and he’s my favourite. My dad’s always said I can keep him, when he gets too old to perform.”

“You’ll see him again soon,” Phillips said, and hoped it was true.

But she shook her head.

“Not until I know who killed my mum,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I don’t trust any of them, now.”

Phillips sighed. A hasty call to the Chief Constable had bought them some time, until the morning, but Sandra Morrison had been less than impressed by the whole situation and had already put a call through to her counterpart in Social Services. The girl wouldn’t be happy when she found out, but their hands were tied.

“We’ll go down to the station tomorrow and put it all in writing, in a proper statement. For now, try to get a good night’s sleep,” he said.

MacKenzie took that as her cue to step in.

“Here we are,” she said brightly, and laid out some soft cotton pyjamas. “They’ll be a bit big for you, I’m afraid, but if you put these on after your bath, I’ll wash your clothes and dry them in time for tomorrow morning.”

Sam held the pyjamas close to her chest.

“Thank you.”

*

As the last checks were made on the Big Top and the sun finally slipped off the edge of the world, Charlie O’Neill opened the door to his caravan and stepped inside. He found it spotless, as always, which was how he preferred things to be kept. Cleaning was women’s work and he’d impressed that ethos upon his daughter, as soon as she’d been old enough to lift a mop.

“Sam?” he bellowed.

He pulled a can of beer out of the small fridge and took a grateful swig. He wasn’t a big drinker and never had been. That was another kind of weakness and he preferred to have his wits about him. All the same, a bit of Dutch courage never hurt anyone.

“Sam?” he repeated, wandering through to the tiny second bedroom with its cabin-sized bed. Theirs was one of the largest caravans, as befitted his status, but nobody would ever describe it as spacious.

He found the room deserted and the bed neatly made.

He stepped inside and cast sharp eyes around the four walls. He was about to take another swig of beer, when his eyes fell on the empty space beside the door where her backpack should have been.

“Shit,” he muttered.

If he went out looking for her now, he’d be late for his meeting. On the other hand, if he didn’t, what kind of father did that make him?

The only kind he knew how to be, he thought, and drained the last of his beer.

*

Five miles northwest of the circus, Sam lay snugly beneath the covers in MacKenzie and Phillips’ spare bedroom. When Denise stuck her head around the door, she found the girl curled up tight in the foetal position, only the top of her head visible beneath a mountain of covers and cushions.

“Poor little mite,” she murmured, and shut the door softly behind her.

“It’ll be a hard day for her, tomorrow,” Phillips said, when she joined him downstairs. “We need to know all the ins and outs about what she remembers, and Social Services will want to move her somewhere else, too.”

MacKenzie tucked her feet up onto the sofa beside him.

“I worry for her, Frank,” she said. “If she’s telling the truth and the DNA results come back with a positive match tomorrow, we’ve got a murder investigation on our hands. It’s most likely to be someone the victim knew, which makes it likely that Sam knew her mother’s killer.”