In the Woods by Tana French

  “Oh, well done, you,” Cassie said, leaning across the table to high-five him. Sam, grinning, held up his other palm to me.

  “To be honest, I’m delighted with myself. It’s nowhere near enough to charge him with the murder, but we can probably bring some kind of harassment charge—and it’s definitely enough for us to hold him for questioning and see how far we get.”

  “Have you kept him in?” I asked.

  Sam shook his head. “I didn’t say a word to him after the lineup, just thanked him and said I’d be in touch. I want to let him worry about it for a while.”

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  “Oh, that’s underhanded, O’Neill,” I said gravely. “I wouldn’t have thought it of you.” Sam was fun to tease. He didn’t always fall for it, but when he did he got all earnest and stammery.

  He gave me a withering look. “And, as well, I want to see if there’s any chance I can tap his phone for a few days. If he’s our boy, I’d bet he didn’t do it himself. His alibi checks out, and anyway he’s not the type to mess up his fancy gear doing his own dirty work; he’d hire someone. The voice ID

  might get him panicky enough to ring his hit man, or at least say something stupid to someone.”

  “Go through his old phone records again, too,” I reminded him. “See who he was talking to last month.”

  “O’Gorman’s already on it,” Sam said smugly. “I’ll give Andrews a week or two, see if anything turns up, and then pull him in. And”—he looked suddenly bashful, caught between shame and mischief—“you know how Devlin said Andrews sounded locked on the phone? And how we wondered if he was a little tipsy yesterday? I think our boyo might have a bit of a drinking problem. I wonder what he’d be like if we went to see him at, say, eight or nine in the evening. He might be—you know . . . more likely to talk, less likely to call his lawyer. I know it’s bad to take advantage of the man’s failing, but . . .”

  “Rob’s right,” Cassie said, shaking her head. “You’ve got a cruel streak.”

  Sam’s eyes rounded in dismay for an instant; then the penny dropped.

  “Feck the pair of ye,” he said happily, and spun his chair round in a full circle, feet still in the air. We were all giddy that night, giddy as children given an unexpected day off school. Sam, to our collective disbelief, had managed to coax O’Kelly into convincing a judge to give him an order to tap Andrews’s phone for two weeks. Normally you can’t get a tap unless there are large amounts of explosives involved, but Operation Vestal was still front-page news almost every other day—“no new leads in katy’s murder (page 5: ‘Is Your Child Safe?’)”—and the high drama of it all gave us some extra leverage. Sam was jubilant: “I know the little bastard’s hiding something, lads, I’d put money on it. All it’ll take is a few too many pints one of these nights, and bang!

  we’ll have him.” He had brought a lovely buttery white wine to celebrate. I was light-headed with reprieve and hungrier than I’d been in weeks; I In the Woods 269

  cooked a huge Spanish omelet, tried to flip it high like a pancake and nearly sent it into the sink. Cassie flew around the flat, barefoot below summery cropped jeans, slicing a baguette and turning Michelle Shocked up loud and slagging my hand-eye coordination—“And someone actually gave this guy a personal firearm, it’s only a matter of time before he starts showing it off to impress some girl and shoots himself in the leg. . . .”

  After dinner we played Cranium, a slapdash, improvised three-person version—I am at a loss for words to adequately describe Sam, after four glasses of wine, trying to mime “carburetor.” (“C-3PO? Milking a cow? . . . That little man out of Swiss clocks!”) The long white curtains billowed and spun in the breeze through the open sash window and a sliver of moon hung in the dimming sky, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had had an evening like this, a happy, silly evening with no tiny gray shades plucking at the edges of every conversation.

  When Sam left, Cassie taught me how to swing dance. We had had inappropriate cappuccinos after dinner, to christen the new machine, and we were both hours away from being able to sleep, and scratchy old music was pouring out of the CD player; Cassie caught my hands and pulled me up from the sofa. “How the hell do you know how to swing dance?” I demanded.

  “My aunt and uncle thought kids should have Lessons. Lots of them. I can do charcoal drawings and play piano, too.”

  “All at once? I can play the triangle. And I have two left feet.”

  “I don’t care. I want to dance.”

  The flat was too small. “Come on,” Cassie said. “Take your shoes off,”

  and she grabbed the remote control and turned the music up to eleven and climbed out the window, down the fire escape to the roof of the extension below.

  I’m no dancer, but she taught me the basic moves again and again, her feet skipping nimbly away from my missteps, until suddenly they clicked into place and we were dancing, spinning and swaying to the sassy, expert syncopations, recklessly close to the edges of the flat roof. Cassie’s hands in mine were gymnast-strong and flexible. “You can too dance!” she called breathlessly, eyes shining, over the music.

  “What?” I shouted, and tripped over my feet. Laughter, unrolling like streamers over the dark gardens below.

  A window slammed up below us and a quavery Anglo-Irish voice screeched, “If you don’t turn that down at once, I shall call the police!”

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  “We are the police!” Cassie yelled back. I clapped a hand over her mouth and we shook with explosive, suppressed laughter until, after a confused silence, the window banged shut. Cassie ran back up the fire escape and hung off it by one hand, still giggling, while she aimed the remote control through the window, changed the CD to Chopin’s nocturnes, turned down the volume.

  We lay side by side on the extension roof, hands behind our heads, elbows just touching. My head was still spinning a little, not unpleasantly, from the dancing and the wine. The breeze was warm across my face, and even through the city lights I could see constellations: the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt. The pine tree at the bottom of the garden rustled like the sea, ceaselessly. For a moment I felt as if the universe had turned upside down and we were falling softly into an enormous black bowl of stars and nocturne, and I knew, beyond any doubt, that everything was going to be all right.

  16

  Isaved the wood for Saturday night, hugging the thought to myself like a child saving a huge Easter egg with some mysterious prize inside. Sam was down in Galway for the weekend, for a niece’s christening—he had the kind of extended family that holds full-scale gatherings almost on a weekly basis, someone was always getting christened or married or buried—

  and Cassie was going out with some of her girl friends, and Heather was going speed dating in some hotel somewhere. Nobody would even notice I had gone.

  I got to Knocknaree around seven and parked on the shoulder. I had brought a sleeping bag and a torch, a thermos of well-spiked coffee and a couple of sandwiches—packing them had made me feel faintly ridiculous, like one of those earnest hikers in technologically advanced fleeces, or a kid running away from home—but nothing to light a fire with. The people in the estate were still on edge and would have been on to the cops like a shot if they saw a mysterious light, which would have been embarrassing all round, and besides I am not the Boy Scout type; I would probably have burned down what was left of the wood.

  It was a still, clear evening, long slants of light turning the stone of the tower rose-gold and giving even the trenches and heaps of earth a sad, ragged magic. There was a lamb bleating, far off in the fields, and the air smelled rich and tranquil: hay, cows, some heady flower I couldn’t name. Sprays of birds were practicing their V-shapes over the crest of the hill. Outside the cottage, the sheepdog sat up and huffed a warning half-bark, stared at me for a moment, then decided I was no threat and settled down again. I followed the archaeologists’ bumpy trails, just wide enough for a wheel
barrow, across the site—I was wearing old runners this time, and ratty jeans and a thick sweater—to the wood.

  If you, like me, are essentially a city person, then the chances are that when you imagine a wood you picture a simple thing: matching green trees in even rows, a soft carpet of dead leaves or pine needles, orderly as a child’s 272

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  drawing. Possibly those earnestly efficient man-made woods are in fact like that; I wouldn’t know. Knocknaree wood was the real thing, and it was more intricate and more secretive than I had remembered. It had its own order, its own fierce battles and alliances. I was an intruder here, now, and I had a deep prickling sense that my presence had instantly been marked and that the wood was watching me, with an equivocal collective gaze, not yet accepting or rejecting; reserving judgment.

  Mark’s clearing had fresh ash in the fire-spot and a few new rollie butts scattered on the bare earth around it; he had been here again, since Katy died. I hoped devoutly that he wouldn’t pick tonight to reconnect with his heritage. I took the sandwiches and the thermos and the torch out of my pockets, spread out my sleeping bag on the compact patch of flattened grass where Mark had spread his. Then I walked through the wood, slowly, taking my time. It was like stumbling into the wreck of some great ancient city. The trees swooped higher than cathedral pillars; they wrestled for space, propped up great fallen trunks, leaned with the slope of the hill: oak, beech, ash, others I couldn’t name. Long spears of light filtered, dim and sacred, through the arches of green. Swathes of ivy blurred the massive trunks, trailed in waterfalls from the branches, turned stumps into standing stones. My steps were padded by deep, springy layers of fallen leaves; when I stopped and turned over a chunk with the toe of my shoe, I smelled rich rot and saw dark wet earth, acorn caps, the pale frantic wriggle of a worm. Birds darted and called in the branches, and small warning scurries exploded as I passed. Great drifts of undergrowth, and here and there a worn fragment of stone wall; muscular roots, green with moss and thicker than my arm. The low banks of the river, tangled with brambles (sliding down, on our hands and our backsides, Ow! my leg! ) and overhung with elderberry clusters and willow. The river was like a sheet of old gold, creased and stippled with black. Slim yellow leaves floated on its surface, balancing as lightly as if it were a solid thing.

  My mind sideslipped and spun. Every step set recognition thrumming in the air around me, like Morse code beating along a frequency just too high to catch. We had run here, scrambling sure-footed down the hillside along the web of faint trails; we had eaten streaky little crab apples from the twisted tree, and when I looked up into the whirl of leaves I almost expected to see us there, clinging to branches like young jungle cats and staring back. In the Woods 273

  At the fringe of one of these tiny clearings (long grass, sun-dapples, clouds of ragwort and Queen Anne’s lace) we had watched as Jonathan and his friends held Sandra down. Somewhere, maybe in the exact spot where I was standing, the wood had shivered and cracked open, and Peter and Jamie had slipped away.

  I didn’t exactly have a plan for that night, in the strictest sense of the word. Go to the wood, have a look around, spend the night there; hope something happened. Up until that moment, this lack of forethought hadn’t seemed like an impediment. After all, every time I had tried to plan anything recently, it had gone spectacularly, galactically wrong; I clearly needed a change of tactics, and what could be more drastic than going into this with nothing and simply waiting to see what the wood gave me? And I suppose it appealed, too, to my sense of the picturesque. I suppose I’ve always had a yearning, in spite of the fact that I am temperamentally unsuited to the role in every possible way, to be a hero out of myth, golden and reckless, galloping bareback to meet my fate on a wild horse no other man could ride. Now that I was actually there, though, this whole thing no longer seemed quite so much like a free-spirited leap of faith. It just felt vaguely hippieish—

  I had even considered getting stoned, in the hope that it would relax me enough to give my subconscious a sporting chance, but hash always makes me fall asleep—and more than vaguely dumb. I realized, suddenly, that the tree I was leaning against could be the very tree beside which I had been found, could still have pale scars where my fingernails had gouged into the trunk; realized, too, that it was beginning to get dark. I almost left then. I actually went back to the clearing, shook the dead leaves off my sleeping bag, and started rolling it up. If I’m honest, the only thing that kept me there was the thought of Mark. He had spent the night here, not just once but regularly, and it didn’t even seem to have occurred to him that this might be a frightening thing to do, and I couldn’t stand the idea of letting him have one up on me, whether he knew about it or not. He might have had a fire, but I had a torch and a Smith & Wesson, although I felt slightly silly for even thinking of this. I was only a few hundred yards from civilization, or at any rate the estate. I stood still for a moment, the sleeping bag in my hands; then I unrolled it, wriggled into it up to my waist, and leaned back against a tree.

  I poured myself a cup of whiskeyed coffee; the sharp, adult taste was oddly reassuring. The shards of sky dimmed overhead, from turquoise to 274

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  glowing indigo; birds landed on branches and settled for the night, with businesslike, decisive exclamations and bickerings. Bats shrilled across the dig, and among the bushes there was a quick pounce, a burst of scuffling, silence. Far away, on the estate, a child called something high and rhythmic: Ally ally in free . . .

  It came to me gradually—without surprise, really, as if it were something I had known for a long time—that, if I managed to remember anything useful, I was going to take it to O’Kelly. Not right away, maybe not for a few weeks, I would need a little time to tie up loose ends and set my affairs in order, so to speak; because when I did it, it would be the end of my career.

  Only that afternoon the thought would have been like a baseball bat to the stomach. But somehow that night it seemed almost seductive, it shimmered tantalizingly in the air before me, and I turned it over with a luxurious giddiness. Being a Murder detective, the only thing on which I had ever set my heart, the thing around which I had built my wardrobe, my walk, my vocabulary, my life waking and sleeping: the thought of tossing it all away with one flick of the wrist and watching it soar into space like a bright balloon was intoxicating. I could set up as a private investigator, I thought, have a battered little office in some dingy Georgian building, my name in gold on a frosted-glass door, come to work when I chose and skate expertly around the edges of the law and harass an apoplectic O’Kelly for inside information. I wondered, dreamily, if Cassie might come with me. I could get a fedora and a trench coat and a wisecracking sense of humor; she could sit poised at hotel bars with a slinky red dress and a camera in her lipstick, to snare cheating businessmen. . . . I almost laughed out loud. I realized that I was falling asleep. This had not been part of my plan, such as it was, and I struggled to stay awake, but all those sleepless nights were hitting me at once, hard as a shot in the arm. I thought of the thermos of coffee, but it seemed like way too much work to reach out for it. The sleeping bag had warmed against my body and I had adjusted myself around all the little lumps and crevices in the ground and the tree; I was deliciously, narcotically comfortable. I felt the thermos cup fall from my fingers, but I couldn’t open my eyes. I don’t know how long I slept. I was sitting up and biting back a shout before I was even fully awake. Someone had said, clear and sharp and right next to my ear, “What’s that?”

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  I sat there for a long time, feeling slow waves of blood surging in my neck. The lights in the estate had gone out. The wood was silent, barely a whisper of wind through the branches overhead; somewhere a twig cracked. Peter, whirling around on the castle wall and shooting out a hand to freeze me and Jamie on either side: “What’s that?”

  We had been outside all day, since the dew was still drying off the grass. It was boiling; every b
reath was warm as bathwater and the sky was the color of the inside of a candle flame. We had bottles of red lemonade in the grass under a tree, for when we got thirsty, but they had gone warm and flat and the ants had found them. Someone was mowing a lawn, down the street; someone else had a kitchen window open and the radio turned up loud and was singing along to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” Two little girls were taking turns on a pink tricycle on the sidewalk, and Peter’s prissy sister Tara was playing teachers in her friend Audrey’s garden, the two of them yakking at a bunch of dolls lined up in rows. The Carmichaels had bought a sprinkler; we’d never seen one before and we eyed it every time they put it out, but Mrs. Carmichael was a bitch, Peter said if you went in her garden she would smash your head in with a poker. We had mostly been riding our bikes. Peter had got an Evil Knievel for his birthday—if you wound it up, you could make it jump piles of old Warlord annuals—and he was going to be a daredevil when he grew up, so we were practicing. We built a ramp in the road, out of bricks and a piece of plywood that Peter’s dad had in the garden shed—“We’ll keep making it higher,” Peter said, “one brick more every day”—but it wobbled like crazy, and I could never keep myself from slamming on the brakes in the second before I took off. Jamie tried the ramp a few times and then hung around at the edge of the street, scraping a sticker off her handlebar and kicking her pedal to make it spin. She had been late coming out that morning, and she’d been quiet all day. She always was, but this was different: her silence was like a thick private cloud all round her, and it was making me and Peter fidgety. Peter flew off the ramp yelling and zigzagged wildly, just missing the two little girls on the tricycle. “You big ding-dongs, you’ll have us all killed,”

  Tara snapped over her dollies. She was wearing a long flowery skirt that puddled on the grass, and a weird big hat with a ribbon around it.

  “You’re not my boss,” Peter shouted back. He swerved onto Audrey’s lawn and swooped past Tara, grabbing the hat off her head as he went. Tara and Audrey shrieked in practiced unison.