“How did Mr. and Mrs. Devlin feel about Katy going to ballet school?”

Cassie asked.

“They were very supportive,” Simone said, without hesitation. “I was relieved, and also surprised; not every parent is willing to send a child that age away to school, and most, with good reason, are opposed to their children becoming professional dancers. Mr. Devlin, in particular, was very much in favor of Katy going. He was close to her, I think. I admired this, that he wanted what was best for her even if it meant letting her go away.”

“And her mother?” Cassie said. “Was she close to her?”

Simone gave a little one-shouldered shrug. “Less, I think. Mrs. Devlin is . . . rather vague. She always seemed bewildered by all of her daughters. I think perhaps she isn’t very intelligent.”

“Have you noticed anyone strange hanging around in the past few months?” I asked. “Anyone who worried you?” Ballet schools and swimming clubs and scout troops are pedophile magnets. If someone had been looking for a victim, this was the obvious place where he might have spotted Katy.

“I understand what you mean, but no. We look for this. About ten years ago a man used to sit on a wall up the hill and look into the studio through binoculars. We complained to the police, but they did nothing until he tried to convince one little girl to get into his car. Since then we’re very watchful.”

“Did anyone take an interest in Katy to a level that you felt was unusual?”

She thought, shook her head. “No one. Everyone admired her dancing, many people supported the fund-raiser we held to help with her fees, but no one person more than others.”

“Was there any jealousy of her talent?”

Simone laughed, a quick hard breath through her nose. “These are not stage parents we have here. They want their daughters to learn a little ballet, 64

Tana French

enough to be pretty; they don’t want them to make a career of it. I’m sure a few of the other little girls were envious, yes. But enough to kill her? No.”

She looked, suddenly, exhausted; her elegant pose hadn’t changed, but her eyes were glazed with fatigue. “Thank you for your time,” I said. “We’ll contact you if we need to ask you any more questions.”

“Did she suffer?” Simone asked abruptly. She wasn’t looking at us. She was the first person to ask. I started to give the standard non-answer involving the post-mortem results, but Cassie said, “There’s no evidence of that. We can’t be sure of anything yet, but it seems to have been quick.”

Simone turned her head with an effort and met Cassie’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

She didn’t get up to see us out, and I realized it was because she wasn’t sure she could do it. As I closed the door I caught a last glimpse of her through the round window, still sitting straight-backed and motionless with her hands folded in her lap: a queen in a fairy tale, left alone in her tower to mourn her lost, witch-stolen princess.