“Most people around here are against it. A few are more interested in how much the value of their houses would go up, with it going right past the estate, but most of us . . . That should be a Heritage Site. It’s unique and it’s ours, the government has no right to destroy it without even asking us. There’s a campaign here in Knocknaree, Move the Motorway. I’m the chairman; I set it up. We picket government buildings, write letters to politicians—for all the good it does.”

“Not much response?” I said. Talking about his cause was steadying him. And it intrigued me: he had seemed at first like a downtrodden little man, not the type to lead a crusade, but there was clearly more to him than met the eye.

“I thought it was just bureaucracy, they never want to make changes. But the phone calls made me wonder. . . . The first one was late at night; the guy said something like, ‘You thick bastard, you have no idea what you’re messing with.’ I thought he had a wrong number, I hung up on him and went back to bed. It was only after the second one that I remembered and connected it up.”

“When was this first call?” I said. Cassie was writing. Jonathan looked at Margaret; she shook her head, dabbing her eyes.

“Sometime in April—late April, maybe. The second one was on the third of June, around half past one in the morning—I wrote it down. Katy—there’s no phone in our bedroom, it’s in the hall, and she’s a light sleeper—she got there first. She says when she answered he said, ‘Are you Devlin’s daughter?’

and she said, ‘I’m Katy,’ and he said, ‘Katy, tell your father to back off the bloody motorway, because I know where you live.’ Then I took the phone off her, and he said something like, ‘Nice little girl you’ve got there, Devlin.’

I told him never to ring my house again, and hung up.”

“Can you remember anything about his voice?” I asked. “Accent, age, anything? Did it sound familiar at all?”

In the Woods 51

Jonathan swallowed. He was concentrating ferociously, clinging to the subject like a lifeline. “It didn’t ring any bells. Not young. On the high side. A country accent, but not one I could pin down—not Cork or the North, nothing distinctive like that. He sounded . . . I thought maybe he was drunk.”

“Were there any other calls?”

“One more, a few weeks ago. The thirteenth of July, two in the morning. I took it. The same guy said, ‘Don’t you—’ ” He glanced at Jessica. Rosalind had an arm round her, rocking her soothingly and murmuring in her ear.

“ ‘Don’t you effing well listen, Devlin? I warned you to leave the effing motorway alone. You’ll regret this. I know where your family lives.’ ”

“Did you report this to the police?” I asked.

“No,” he said brusquely. I waited for a reason, but he didn’t offer one.