In the early stages of an investigation, unless you have an obvious suspect, all you can do is find out as much about the victim’s life as possible 62

Tana French

and hope something sets off alarm bells; and I was pretty sure Cassie was right, we needed to know more about the Devlin family. And Simone Cameron wanted to talk. We see this a lot, people desperate to keep talking because when they stop we will leave and they will be left alone with what has happened. We listen and nod and sympathize, and file away everything they say.

“I taught all three of the sisters, at one time or another,” Simone said.

“Jessica seemed quite competent when she was younger, and she worked hard, but as she grew she became cripplingly self-conscious, to the point where any individual exercises seemed to be a painful ordeal for her. I told her parents I thought it would be better if she didn’t have to go through this any more.”

“And Rosalind?” Cassie asked.

“Rosalind had some talent, but she lacked application and wanted instant results. After a few months she switched to, I believe, violin lessons. She said it was by her parents’ choice, but I thought it was because she was bored. We see this quite often with young children: when they aren’t immediately proficient, and when they realize how much hard work is involved, they become frustrated and leave. Frankly, neither of them would ever have been Royal Ballet School material in any case.”

“But Katy . . .” Cassie said, leaning forward.

Simone looked at her for a long time. “Katy was . . . sérieuse.”

That was what gave her voice some of its distinctive quality: somewhere, far back, there was a touch of French shaping the intonations. “Serious,” I said.

“More than that,” said Cassie. Her mother was half French, and as a child she spent summers with her grandparents in Provence; she says she’s forgotten most of her spoken French at this point, but she still understands it. “A professional.”

Simone inclined her head. “Yes. She loved even the hard work—not only for the results it brought, but for its own sake. A real talent for dance is not common; the temperament to make a career of it is much rarer. To find both at once . . .” She looked away again. “Sometimes, on evenings when only one studio was being used, she would ask if she could come in and practice in the other.”

Outside, the light was beginning to dim towards evening; the skateboard kids’ calls floated up, faint and crystalline through the glass. I thought of In the Woods 63

Katy Devlin alone in the studio, watching the mirror with detached absorption as she moved in slow spins and dips; the lift of a pointed foot; streetlamps throwing saffron rectangles across the floor, Satie’s Gnossiennes on the crackly record player. Simone seemed pretty sérieuse herself, and I wondered how on earth she had ended up here: above a shop in Stillorgan, with the smell of grease wafting up from the chip shop next door, teaching ballet to little girls whose mothers thought it would give them good posture or wanted framed pictures of them in tutus. I realized, suddenly, what Katy Devlin must have meant to her.