In the Woods by Tana French
Sam left around 11:30; Ballsbridge is only a few minutes’ walk from Sandymount. He gave me a quick, questioning look as he pulled on his coat.
“Which way are you walking?”
“You’ve probably missed the last DART,” Cassie told me easily. “You can crash on my sofa if you want.”
I could have said I planned to take a taxi home, but I decided she had probably called it right: Sam wasn’t Quigley, we wouldn’t come in the next day to a gleeful little flurry of smirks and single entendres. “I think I have, actually,” I said, checking my watch. “Would that be all right?”
If Sam was startled, he covered it well. “See ye in the morning, then,” he said cheerfully. “Sleep tight.”
“He fancies you,” I told Cassie, when he had left.
“God, you’re predictable,” she said, digging in the wardrobe for the spare duvet and the T-shirt I keep there.
“ ‘Oh, I want to hear what Cassie has to say, oh Cassie you’re sooo good at this—’ ”
“Ryan, if God had wanted me to have a horrible pubescent brother, he would have given me one. Also your Galway accent sucks.”
“Do you fancy him, too?”
“If I did, I would have done my famous trademark trick where I tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue.”
“You do not either. Show me.”
“I was joking. Go to bed.”
We pulled out the futon; Cassie turned on the bedside lamp and I switched off the overhead light, leaving the room small and warm and shadowy. She found the knee-length T-shirt she sleeps in and took it into the In the Woods 135
bathroom to change. I tucked my socks into my shoes and pushed them out of the way under the sofa, stripped to my boxers, pulled on my T-shirt and settled myself under the spare duvet. We had the routine down pat by this time. I could hear her splashing water on her face and singing to herself, something folk-songy I didn’t recognize, in a minor key. “To the Queen of Hearts is the Ace of Sorrow, he’s here today, he’s gone tomorrow. . . .” She had pitched it too low; the bottom note disappeared into a hum.
“Do you really feel that way about our job?” I asked, when she came out of the bathroom (small bare feet, smooth calves muscled like a boy’s). “The way Mark feels about archaeology?”
I had been saving the question till Sam left. Cassie gave me a quizzical little sideways grin. “I have never poured booze on the squad-room carpet. Cross my heart.”
I waited. She slid into bed and leaned up on one elbow, her cheek on her fist; the glow of the bedside lamp edged her with light, so that she looked translucent, a girl in a stained-glass window. I wasn’t sure she was going to answer, even without Sam there, but after a moment she said, “We’re dealing with truth, finding truth. That’s serious business.”
I thought about this. “Is that why you don’t like lying?” This is one of Cassie’s quirks, especially odd in a detective. She omits things, eludes questions with open mischief or so subtly you hardly notice her doing it, spins misleading phrases with a conjurer’s expertise; but I had never known her to lie outright, not even to a suspect.
She shrugged, one-shouldered. “I’m not very good with paradox.”
“I think I am, actually,” I said thoughtfully.
Cassie rolled over onto her back and laughed. “You should put that in a personal ad. Male, six foot, good with paradox—”
“—abnormally studly—”
“—seeks his very own Britney for—”
“Ewww!”
She cocked an eyebrow at me, innocently. “No?”
“Give me some credit. Britney is exclusively for those with cheap tastes. It would have to be Scarlett Johansson at least.”
We laughed, subsided. I sighed comfortably and arranged myself around the sofa’s familiar quirks; Cassie reached out one arm to turn off the lamp.
“Night. Sleep tight.”
“Sweet dreams.”
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Cassie sleeps as lightly and easily as a kitten; after a few seconds I heard her breathing slow and deepen, the tiny catch at the top of each breath that told me she had drifted off. I am the opposite: once I’m asleep it takes an extra-loud alarm clock or a kick in the shins to wake me, but it can be hours of tossing and fidgeting before I get there. But somehow I always found it easier to sleep at Cassie’s, in spite of the lumpy, too-short sofa and the grouchy creaks and ticks of an old house settling for the night. Even now, when I’m having trouble falling asleep, I try to imagine myself back on that sofa: the soft, worn flannel of the duvet cover against my cheek, a spicy tang of hot whiskey still warming the air, the tiny rustles of Cassie dreaming across the room.
A couple of people clattered into the house, shushing each other and giggling, and went into the flat downstairs; peaks of conversation and laughter filtered up, faint and muffled, through the floor. I matched the rhythm of my breathing to Cassie’s and felt my mind sliding pleasurably down into dreamy, nonsensical tangents—Sam was explaining how to build a boat, and Cassie was sitting on a window ledge between two stone gargoyles and laughing. The sea is several streets away and there was no way I could have heard it, but I imagined I did all the same.
9
In my memory, we spent a million nights in Cassie’s flat, the three of us. The investigation only lasted a month or so, and I’m sure there must have been days when one or another of us was off doing something else; but over time those evenings have colored the whole season for me, like a brilliant dye flowering slowly through water. The weather dipped in and out of an early, bitter autumn; wind whined through the eaves, and raindrops seeped in the warped sash windows and trickled down the panes. Cassie would light a fire and we would all spread out our notes on the floor and bat theories back and forth, then take turns getting dinner—mainly pasta variations from Cassie, steak sandwiches from me, surprisingly exotic experiments from Sam: lavish tacos, some Thai thing with spicy peanut sauce. We would have wine with dinner, move on to whiskey in various forms afterwards; when we started to get tipsy, we would pack the case file away and kick off our shoes and put on music and talk. Cassie, like me, is an only child, and we were both enthralled by Sam’s stories about his childhood—four brothers and three sisters piled into an old white farmhouse in Galway, playing mile-wide games of Cowboys and Indians and sneaking out at night to explore the haunted mill, with a big quiet father and a mother dealing out oven-warm bread and raps with a wooden spoon and counting heads at mealtimes to make sure nobody had fallen into the stream. Cassie’s parents died in a car crash when she was five, and she was brought up by a gentle, older aunt and uncle, in a ramshackle house in Wicklow, miles from anything. She talks about reading unsuitable books from their library—The Golden Bough, Ovid’s Metamorphoses; Madame Bovary, which she hated but finished anyway—curled up in a window seat on the landing, eating apples from the garden, with soft rain going past the panes. Once, she says, she wriggled under an ancient and hideous wardrobe and found a china saucer, a George VI penny and two letters from a World War I soldier whose name nobody recognized, with bits blacked out by censors. I don’t remember much from before I was twelve, and after that my 138
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memories are mainly arranged in rows—rows of gray-white dormitory beds, rows of echoing, bleach-smelling cold showers, rows of boys in archaic uniforms droning Protestant hymns about duty and constancy. To both of us, Sam’s childhood was something out of a storybook; we pictured it in pencil drawings, apple-cheeked children with a laughing sheepdog jumping around them. “Tell us about when you were little,” Cassie would say, snuggling into the futon and pulling her sleeves down over her hands to hold her hot whiskey.
In many ways, though, Sam was the odd man out in these conversations, and a part of me was pleased at this. Cassie and I had spent two years building our routine, our rhythm, our subtle private codes and indicators; Sam was, after all, there by our favor, and it seemed only fair that he should play a supporting
Around five o’clock, edgy from waiting and unaccountably worried that something might have happened to her, I rang her mobile. She didn’t answer. She was with her family, I told myself, she was helping with the funeral arrangements or looking after Jessica or crying in her room; but that unease stayed with me, tiny and sharp as a pebble in my shoe. On the Sunday we went to Katy’s funeral, Cassie and Sam and I. The thing about murderers being irresistibly drawn to the graveside is mostly legend, but still, the off-chance was worth it, and anyway O’Kelly had told us to go on the grounds that it was good PR. The church had been built in the 1970s, when concrete was an artistic statement and when Knocknaree was supposed to become a major metropolis any day now; it was huge and chill and ugly, gauche semi-abstract Stations of the Cross, echoes creeping dismally up to the angled concrete ceiling. We stood at the back, in our best unobtrusive dark clothes, and watched as the church filled up: farmers holding flat caps, old women in headscarves, trendy teenagers trying to look blasé. The little white coffin, gold-trimmed and terrible, in front of the altar. Rosalind stumbling up the aisle, shoulders heaving, supported by Margaret on one side and Auntie Vera on the other; behind them Jonathan, glassy-eyed, guided Jessica towards the front pew.
Candles guttered in an unceasing draught; the air smelled of damp and incense and dying flowers. I was light-headed—I had forgotten to eat breakfast—and the whole scene had the glass-covered quality of memory. It took me awhile to realize that this was, in fact, for good reason: I had attended Mass here every Sunday for twelve years, had quite possibly sat through a memorial service for Peter and Jamie in one of the cheap wooden pews. Cassie blew into her hands, surreptitiously, to warm them. The priest was very young and solemn, trying painfully hard to rise to the occasion with his frail seminary arsenal of clichés. A choir of pale little girls in school uniforms—Katy’s schoolmates; I recognized some of the faces—huddled shoulder to shoulder, sharing hymn sheets. The hymns had been chosen to offer comfort, but the voices were thin and uncertain and a few girls kept breaking down. “Be not afraid, I go before you always; come, follow me. . . .”
Simone Cameron caught my eye on her way back from Communion and gave me a tiny stiff nod; her golden eyes were bloodshot, monstrous. The family filed out of their pew one by one and laid mementoes on the coffin: a book from Margaret, a stuffed toy shaped like a ginger cat from Jessica, 140
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from Jonathan the pencil drawing that had hung above Katy’s bed. Last of all Rosalind knelt down and placed a pair of small pink ballet shoes, bound together by their ribbons, on the lid. She stroked the shoes gently and then bent her head onto the coffin and sobbed, her warm brown ringlets tumbling over the white and gold. A faint, inhuman wail rose from somewhere in the front pew.
Outside, the sky was gray-white and wind was whipping leaves off the trees in the churchyard. Reporters were leaning over the railings, cameras firing in swift bursts. We found a discreet corner and scanned the area and the crowd, but unsurprisingly no one rang any alarm bells. “Some turnout,”
Sam said quietly. He was the only one of us who had gone up for Communion. “Let’s get film off some of these lads tomorrow, check if anyone’s here who shouldn’t be.”
“He’s not here,” Cassie said. She dug her hands into her jacket pockets.
“Not unless he has to be. This guy won’t even be reading the newspapers. He’ll change the subject if anyone starts talking about the case.”
Rosalind, moving slowly down the church steps with a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, raised her head and saw us. She shook off the supporting arms and ran across the grass, long black dress fluttering in the wind. “Detective Ryan . . .” She caught my hand in both of hers and raised a tear-stained face to me. “I can’t bear it. You have to catch the man who did this to my sister.”
“Rosalind!” Jonathan called hoarsely, somewhere, but she didn’t look away. Her hands were long-fingered and soft and very cold. “We’ll do everything we can,” I said. “Will you come in and talk to me tomorrow?”
“I’ll try. I’m sorry about Friday, but I couldn’t . . .” She glanced quickly over her shoulder. “I couldn’t get away. Please find him, Detective Ryan—
please. . . .”
I felt, more than heard, the spatter of the cameras. One of the photos—
Rosalind’s anguished, upturned profile, an unflattering shot of me with my mouth open—made it onto the front page of a tabloid the next morning, with please give my sister justice below it in letters an inch high, and Quigley gave me grief about it all week.
In the first two weeks of Operation Vestal we did everything you can think of, everything. Between us and the floaters and the local uniforms, we In the Woods 141
talked to everyone who lived within a four-mile radius of Knocknaree and anyone who had ever known Katy. There was one diagnosed schizophrenic on the estate, but he had never hurt anyone in his life, even when he was off his meds, which he hadn’t been in three years. We checked out every Mass card the Devlins got and tracked down every person who’d contributed towards Katy’s fees, and set up surveillance to see who brought flowers to lay on the altar stone.
We interviewed Katy’s best friends—Christina Murphy, Elisabeth McGinnis, Marianne Casey: red-eyed, shaky, brave little girls, with no useful information to offer, but I found them disconcerting nevertheless. I have no time for people who sigh about how quickly children grow up nowadays (my grandparents, after all, were working full-time by sixteen, which I think trumps any number of body piercings in the adulthood stakes), but all the same: Katy’s friends had a poised, savvy awareness of the outside world that jarred with the happy animal oblivion I remembered enjoying at that age.
“We wondered if Jessica had a learning disability, maybe,” Christina said, sounding about thirty, “but we didn’t want to ask. Did . . . I mean, was it a pedophile that killed Katy?”
The answer to this appeared to be no. In spite of Cassie’s feeling that this hadn’t really been a sex crime, we checked out every convicted sex offender in south Dublin, as well as plenty whom we’ve never been able to convict, and we spent hours with the guys who have the thankless job of tracking and trapping pedophiles online. The guy we mostly talked to was called Carl. He was young and skinny, with a lined white face, and he told us that after eight months on this job he was already thinking of quitting: he had two kids under seven, he said, and he couldn’t look at them the same way
Sophie’s gang went over the Devlins’ house with a fine-tooth comb—
ostensibly collecting fibers and so on, for elimination purposes, but they 142
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reported back that they had found no bloodstains and nothing matching Cooper’s description of the rape weapon. I pulled financial records: the Devlins lived modestly (one family holiday, to Crete, four years earlier on a credit-union loan; Katy’s ballet lessons and Rosalind’s violin; a ’99 Toyota) and had almost no savings, but they weren’t in any debt, their mortgage was almost paid off, they had never even fallen into arrears on their phone bill. There was no dodgy activity on their bank account and no insurance policy on Katy’s life; there was nothing.
The tip line got a record number of calls, an incredible percentage of which were utterly useless: the people whose neighbors looked funny and refused to join the Residents’ Association, the people who had seen sinister men hanging around halfway across the country, the usual assorted whackjobs who had had visions of the murder, the other set of whackjobs explaining at length how this was God’s judgment on our sinful society. Cassie and I spent a full morning on one guy who rang up to tell us that God had punished Katy for her immodesty in exhibiting herself, dressed only in a leotard, to thousands of Irish Times readers. We had high hopes of him, actually—he refused to talk to Cassie, on the grounds that women shouldn’t be working and that her jeans were also immodest (the objective standard for female modesty, he informed me vehemently, was Our Lady of Fatima). But his alibi was impeccable: he had spent the Monday night in the minuscule red-light district off Baggot Street, drunk as a skunk, shrieking fire and brimstone at the hookers and writing down their clients’ plate numbers and getting forcibly removed by the pimps and starting all over again, until the cops had finally thrown him in a cell to sleep it off at around four in the morning. Apparently this happened every few weeks or so; everyone concerned knew the drill and was happy to confirm it, with the odd pungent remark about the guy’s probable sexual proclivities. Those were strange weeks, strange disjointed weeks. Even after all this time, I find it difficult to describe them to you. They were so full of little things, things that at the time seemed insignificant and disconnected as the jumble of objects in some bizarre parlor game: faces and phrases and sitting rooms and phone calls, all running together into a single strobe-light blur. It was only much later, in the stale cold light of hindsight, that the little things rose up and rearranged themselves and clicked neatly into place to form the pattern we should have seen all along.