“What the fuck— Am I under arrest?”

“No. Do you drink red wine?”

He shot me a brief, sarcastic glance. “Are you offering?”

“Why don’t you want to answer the question?”

“That is my answer. I drink whatever’s going. Why?” I nodded thought fully and wrote this down.

“What’s with the tape?” Cassie asked curiously, leaning across the table to point at the masking tape wrapped around his hands. In the Woods 93

“For blisters. Band-Aids don’t stay on, when you’re using a mattock in the rain.”

“Couldn’t you just wear gloves?”

“Some people do,” Mark said. His tone implied that these people lacked testosterone, in one way or another.

“Would you have any objection to letting us see what’s underneath?” I said.

He gave me a fishy look, but he unwound the tape, taking his time, and dropped it on the table. He held up his hands with a sardonic flourish. “See anything you like?”

Cassie leaned farther forward on her arms, took a good look, gestured to him to turn his hands over. I couldn’t see any scrapes or fingernail marks, only the remains of large blisters, half healed, at the base of each finger.

“Ow,” Cassie said. “How’d you get those?”

Mark shrugged dismissively. “Usually I have calluses, but I was out for a few weeks there, hurt my back—had to stick to cataloguing finds. My hands went soft. When I went back to work, this is what I got.”

“Must have driven you mental, not being able to work,” Cassie said.

“Aye, it did all right,” Mark said briefly. “Shite timing.”

I picked up the masking tape between finger and thumb and dropped it in the bin. “Where were you Monday night?” I asked, leaning against the wall behind Mark.

“In the team house. Like I told you yesterday.”

“Are you a member of Move the Motorway?” Cassie asked.

“Yeah, I am. Most of us are. Your man Devlin came round a while back, asking us if we wanted to join up. It’s not illegal yet, as far as I know.”

“So you know Jonathan Devlin?” I asked.

“That’s what I just said. We’re not bosom buddies, but yeah, I know the man.”

I leaned over his shoulder and flicked through the crime-scene photos, giving him glimpses but not leaving him time for a proper look. I found one of the more disturbing shots and flipped it across to him. “But you told us you didn’t know her.”

Mark held the photo between the tips of his fingers and gave it a long, impassive look. “I told you I’d seen her around the dig but I didn’t know her name, and I don’t. Should I?”

94

Tana French

“I think you should, yes,” I said. “She’s Devlin’s daughter.”

He spun to stare at me for a second, brows knitting; then he looked back at the photo. After a moment he shook his head. “Nah. I met a daughter of Devlin’s at a protest, back in spring, but she was older. Rosemary, Rosaleen, something.”