In the Woods полностью

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?"

"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."

"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 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?"

"Look, Mark," Cassie told him, suddenly and bluntly, "you were in the wood either Monday night or Tuesday night. We can prove it with forensic evidence if we have to, but that's going to waste a lot of our time, and believe me, we'll make sure it wastes plenty of yours. I don't think you killed that girl, but we need to know when you were in the wood, what you were doing there and whether you saw or heard anything useful. So we can spend the rest of the day trying to drag it out of you, or you can just get it over with and go back to work. Your call."

"What forensic evidence?" Mark demanded skeptically.

Cassie gave him a little mischievous smile and pulled the rollie, neatly encased in a Ziploc bag, out of her pocket. She waved it at him. "DNA. You left your butts at your campsite."

"Jesus," Mark said, staring at it. He looked like he was deciding whether or not to be furious.

"Just doing my job," she said cheerfully, pocketing the bag.

"Jesus," he said again. He bit his lip, but he couldn't hide the grudging smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "And I walked straight into it. You're some woman, all the same."

"So they tell me. About sleeping in the wood…"

Silence. Finally Mark stirred, glanced up at the clock on the wall, sighed. "Yeah. I've spent the odd night there."

I moved back around the table, sat down and opened my notebook. "Monday or Tuesday? Or both?"

"Monday, only."

"What time did you get there?"

"About half past ten. I lit a fire and went to sleep when it burned down, around two o'clock."

"Do you do that on every site?" Cassie asked. "Or just Knocknaree?"

"Just Knocknaree."

"Why?"