“What did you think of her?” Cassie asked.

Mark shrugged. “Good-looking girl. Talked a lot. She was working the membership table, signing people up, but I don’t think she was really into the campaign; more into flirting with the fellas. She never bothered showing up again.”

“You found her attractive,” I said, wandering over to the one-way glass and checking my shave in the reflection.

“Pretty enough. Not my type.”

“But you noticed that she wasn’t at any subsequent protests. Why were you looking for her?”

I could see him, in the glass, staring suspiciously at the back of my head. Finally he shoved the photo away and settled back in his chair, chin jutting.

“I wasn’t.”

“Did you make any attempt to get in contact with her again?”

“No.”

“How did you know she was Devlin’s daughter?”

“I don’t remember.”

I was starting to get a bad feeling about this. Mark was impatient and pissed off, and the shower of disconnected questions was making him wary, but he didn’t seem remotely nervous or scared or anything like that; his main feeling about the whole thing appeared to be irritation. Basically, he wasn’t acting like a guilty man.

“Listen,” Cassie said, tucking one foot up under her, “what’s the real story on the dig and the motorway?”

Mark laughed, a mirthless little snort. “It’s a lovely bedtime story. The government announced the plans in 2000. Everyone knew there was plenty of archaeology around Knocknaree, so they brought in a team to do a survey. The team came back, said the site was way more important than anyone had thought and only an idiot would build on it, the motorway would have to be moved. The government said that was very interesting, thanks very much, and they weren’t moving it an inch. It took massive rows before they’d even allow an excavation. Finally they were gracious enough to say OK, we could In the Woods 95

do a two-year dig—it’d take at least five years to do that site justice. Since then there’s been thousands of people fighting this every way we can—

petitions, demonstrations, lawsuits. The government doesn’t give a fuck.”

“But why?” Cassie asked. “Why don’t they just move the thing?”

He shrugged, his mouth twisting savagely. “Don’t ask me. We’ll find out all about it in some tribunal, when it’s ten or fifteen years too late.”

“What about Tuesday night?” I said. “Where were you?”

“The team house. Can I go now?”

“In a while,” I told him. “When was the last time you spent the night on the site?”

His shoulders stiffened, almost imperceptibly. “I’ve never spent the night on the site,” he said, after a moment.

“Don’t split hairs. The wood beside the site.”

“Who said I’ve ever slept there?”