“Yeah?”

90

Tana French

“We’d like a word with you,” I said.

“We’re working. Can it not wait till lunch?”

“No. Bring your things; we’re going back to headquarters.”

His jaw tightened and for a moment I thought he was going to argue, but then he tossed down the mattock, wiped his face with his T-shirt and headed off up the hill. “Bye,” I said to the archaeologists, as we followed him. Not even Sean answered.

In the car Mark pulled out his tobacco packet. “No smoking,” I said.

“What the fuck?” he demanded. “You both smoke. I saw you yesterday.”

“Department cars count as workplaces. It’s illegal to smoke in them.” I wasn’t even making this up; it takes a committee to come up with something that ludicrous.

“Ah, what the hell, Ryan, let him have a cigarette,” Cassie said. She added in a nicely judged undertone, “It’ll save us having to take him out for a smoke break for a few hours.” I caught Mark’s startled glance in the rearview mirror. “Can I have a rollie?” she asked him, twisting round to lean between the seats.

“How long is this going to take?” he said.

“That depends,” I told him.

“On what? I don’t even know what this is about.”

“We’ll get to that. Settle down and have your smoke before I change my mind.”

“How’s the dig going?” Cassie asked sociably.

One corner of Mark’s mouth twisted sourly. “How do you think? We’ve got four weeks to do a year’s work. We’ve been using bulldozers.”

“And that’s not a good thing?” I said.

He glared at me. “Do we look like the fucking Time Team?”

The Time Team is a bunch of TV archaeologists with manic haircuts and an obsession with digging up entire medieval monasteries in three days. I wasn’t sure how to answer this one, given that as far as I was concerned Mark and his buddies did in fact look exactly like the fucking Time Team. Cassie turned on the radio; Mark lit up and blew a noisy, disgusted stream of smoke out of the window. It was obviously going to be a long day.

. . .

In the Woods 91