. . .”
“Anything could help us,” Cassie told him. “Even the tiniest thing.”
“OK.” Damien nodded earnestly. “OK, on Monday I was waiting for the bus home, out by the gate? And I saw this guy come down the road and go into the estate. I don’t know why I even noticed him, I just— He sort of looked around before he went into the estate, like he was checking if anyone was watching him or something.”
“What time was this?” Cassie asked.
“We finish at half past five, so maybe twenty to six? That was the other weird thing. I mean, there’s nothing round here that you can get to without a car, except the shop and the pub, and the shop closes at five. So I wondered where he was coming from.”
“What did he look like?”
40
Tana French
“Sort of tall, like six foot. In his thirties, I guess? Heavy. I think he was bald. He had on a dark blue tracksuit.”
“Would you be able to work with a sketch artist to come up with a drawing of him?”
Damien blinked fast, looking alarmed. “Um . . . I didn’t see him all that well. I mean, he was coming from up the road, on the other side of the estate entrance. I wasn’t really looking—I don’t think I’d remember . . .”
“That’s all right,” Cassie said. “Don’t worry about it, Damien. If you feel like you might be able to give us some more details, let me know, OK?
Meanwhile, just take care of yourself.”
We got Damien’s address and phone number, gave him a card (I wanted to give him a lollipop, too, for being such a brave boy, but they’re not standard department issue) and shooed him back to the others, with orders to send in Melanie Jackson.
“Sweet kid,” I said noncommittally, testing.
“Yeah,” said Cassie dryly. “If I ever want a pet, I’ll keep him in mind.”
Mel was a lot more useful than Damien. She was tall and skinny and Scottish, with muscled brown arms and sandy hair in a messy ponytail, and she sat like a boy, feet planted firmly apart.
“Maybe you know this already, but she’s from the estate,” she said straightaway. “Or from somewhere round here, anyway.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“The local kids come around the site sometimes. There’s not much else for them to do during the summer. They mostly want to know if we’ve found buried treasure, or skeletons. I’ve seen her a few times.”
“When was the last time?”
“Maybe two, three weeks ago.”
“Was she with anyone?”
Mel shrugged. “Nobody that I remember. Just a bunch of other kids, I think.”
I liked Mel. She was shaken but refusing to show it; she was fidgeting with an elastic band, cat’s-cradling it into shapes between her callused fingers. She told basically the same story as Damien, but with a lot less coaxing and petting.
“At the end of the tea break, Mark told me to go mattock back around In the Woods 41
the ceremonial stone so we could see the base. Damien said he’d go, too—
we don’t usually work on our own, it’s boring. Partway up the slope we saw something blue and white on the stone. Damien said, ‘What’s that?’ and I said, ‘Somebody’s jacket, maybe.’ When we got a bit closer I realized it was a kid. Damien shook her arm and checked whether she was breathing, but you could tell she was dead. I never saw a dead body before, but—” She bit the inside of her cheek, shook her head. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it, when they say,
‘Oh, he looked like he was just sleeping?’ You could tell.”
We think about mortality so little, these days, except to flail hysterically at it with trendy forms of exercise and high-fiber cereals and nicotine patches. I thought of the stern Victorian determination to keep death in mind, the uncompromising tombstones: Remember, pilgrim, as you pass by, As you are now so once was I; As I am now so will you be. . . . Now death is uncool, old-fashioned. To my mind the defining characteristic of our era is spin, everything tailored to vanishing point by
“Anything could help us,” Cassie told him. “Even the tiniest thing.”
“OK.” Damien nodded earnestly. “OK, on Monday I was waiting for the bus home, out by the gate? And I saw this guy come down the road and go into the estate. I don’t know why I even noticed him, I just— He sort of looked around before he went into the estate, like he was checking if anyone was watching him or something.”
“What time was this?” Cassie asked.
“We finish at half past five, so maybe twenty to six? That was the other weird thing. I mean, there’s nothing round here that you can get to without a car, except the shop and the pub, and the shop closes at five. So I wondered where he was coming from.”
“What did he look like?”
40
Tana French
“Sort of tall, like six foot. In his thirties, I guess? Heavy. I think he was bald. He had on a dark blue tracksuit.”
“Would you be able to work with a sketch artist to come up with a drawing of him?”
Damien blinked fast, looking alarmed. “Um . . . I didn’t see him all that well. I mean, he was coming from up the road, on the other side of the estate entrance. I wasn’t really looking—I don’t think I’d remember . . .”
“That’s all right,” Cassie said. “Don’t worry about it, Damien. If you feel like you might be able to give us some more details, let me know, OK?
Meanwhile, just take care of yourself.”
We got Damien’s address and phone number, gave him a card (I wanted to give him a lollipop, too, for being such a brave boy, but they’re not standard department issue) and shooed him back to the others, with orders to send in Melanie Jackson.
“Sweet kid,” I said noncommittally, testing.
“Yeah,” said Cassie dryly. “If I ever want a pet, I’ll keep him in mind.”
Mel was a lot more useful than Damien. She was tall and skinny and Scottish, with muscled brown arms and sandy hair in a messy ponytail, and she sat like a boy, feet planted firmly apart.
“Maybe you know this already, but she’s from the estate,” she said straightaway. “Or from somewhere round here, anyway.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“The local kids come around the site sometimes. There’s not much else for them to do during the summer. They mostly want to know if we’ve found buried treasure, or skeletons. I’ve seen her a few times.”
“When was the last time?”
“Maybe two, three weeks ago.”
“Was she with anyone?”
Mel shrugged. “Nobody that I remember. Just a bunch of other kids, I think.”
I liked Mel. She was shaken but refusing to show it; she was fidgeting with an elastic band, cat’s-cradling it into shapes between her callused fingers. She told basically the same story as Damien, but with a lot less coaxing and petting.
“At the end of the tea break, Mark told me to go mattock back around In the Woods 41
the ceremonial stone so we could see the base. Damien said he’d go, too—
we don’t usually work on our own, it’s boring. Partway up the slope we saw something blue and white on the stone. Damien said, ‘What’s that?’ and I said, ‘Somebody’s jacket, maybe.’ When we got a bit closer I realized it was a kid. Damien shook her arm and checked whether she was breathing, but you could tell she was dead. I never saw a dead body before, but—” She bit the inside of her cheek, shook her head. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it, when they say,
‘Oh, he looked like he was just sleeping?’ You could tell.”
We think about mortality so little, these days, except to flail hysterically at it with trendy forms of exercise and high-fiber cereals and nicotine patches. I thought of the stern Victorian determination to keep death in mind, the uncompromising tombstones: Remember, pilgrim, as you pass by, As you are now so once was I; As I am now so will you be. . . . Now death is uncool, old-fashioned. To my mind the defining characteristic of our era is spin, everything tailored to vanishing point by
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