“As long as it has a table and a few chairs, that’ll be fine,” I said.

“Finds shed,” said Mark, and jerked his head towards a Portakabin.

“What’s up with Damien?” Cassie asked Hunt.

He blinked helplessly, mouth open in a caricature of surprise. “What . . . Damien who?”

“Damien on your team. Earlier you said that Mark and Damien usually do the tours, but Damien wouldn’t be able to show Detective Ryan around. Why’s that?”

“Damien’s one of the ones who found the body,” said Mark, while Hunt was catching up. “Gave them a shock.”

“Damien what?” said Cassie, writing.

“Donnelly,” Hunt said happily, on sure ground at last. “Damien Donnelly.”

“And he was with someone when he found the body?”

“Mel Jackson,” Mark said. “Melanie.”

“Let’s go talk to them,” I said.

The archaeologists were still sitting around the table in their makeshift In the Woods 35

canteen. There were fifteen or twenty of them; their faces turned towards the door, intent and synchronized as baby birds’, when we came in. They were all young, early twenties, and they were made younger by their grungystudent clothes and by a windblown, outdoorsy innocence that, although I was pretty sure it was illusory, made me think of kibbutzniks and Waltons. The girls wore no makeup and their hair was in plaits or ponytails, tightened to be practical rather than cutesy; the guys had stubble and peeling sunburns. One of them, with a guileless teacher’s-nightmare face and a woolly cap, had got bored and started melting stuff onto a broken CD with a lighter flame. The result (bent teaspoon, coins, smoke-packet cellophane, a couple of crisps) was surprisingly pleasing, like one of the less humorless manifestations of modern urban art. There was a food-stained microwave in one corner, and a small inappropriate part of me wanted to suggest that he put the CD in it, to see what would happen.

Cassie and I started to speak at the same time, but I kept going. Officially she was the primary detective, because she was the one who’d said,

“We’ll have it”; but we have never worked that way, and the rest of the squad had grown used to seeing m & r scribbled under “Primary” on the case board, and I had a sudden, stubborn urge to make it clear that I was just as capable of leading this investigation as she was.

“Good morning,” I said. Most of them muttered something. Sculptor Boy said loudly and cheerfully, “Good afternoon!”—which, technically, it was—and I wondered which of the girls he was trying to impress. “I’m Detective Ryan, and this is Detective Maddox. As you know, the body of a young girl was found on this site earlier today.”

One of the guys let his breath out in a little burst and caught it again. He was in a corner, sandwiched protectively between two of the girls, clutching a big steaming mug in both hands; he had short brown curls and a sweet, frank, freckled boy-band face. I was pretty sure this was Damien Donnelly. The others seemed subdued (except for Sculptor Boy) but not traumatized, but he was white under the freckles and holding the mug way too hard.