She was from Dublin, she told us-"a Liberties girl, born and bred and buttered"-but she had moved to Knocknaree twenty-seven years ago, when her husband ("God rest him") retired from his job as a train driver. The estate had been her microcosm ever since, and I was pretty sure she could recite every coming and going and scandal in its history. She knew the Devlins, of course, and approved of them: "Ah, they're a lovely family altogether. She was always a great girl, Margaret Kelly, never a bit of worry to her mammy, only for"-she leaned sideways to Cassie and lowered her voice conspiratorially-"only for coming up pregnant that time. And do you know, love, the government and the Church do always be going on about what a shocking thing this teenage pregnancy is, but what I say is, every now and then it's no harm. That Devlin lad used to be a bit of a bowsie, so he did, but the moment he got that young one in the family way-sure, he wasn't the same fella at all. He got a job for himself, and a house, and they'd a lovely wedding. It was the making of him. It's only terrible what's after happening to that poor child, may she rest in peace."
She crossed herself and patted my arm. "And you're after coming all the way from England to find out who done it? Aren't you great? God bless you, young fella."
"The old heretic," I said, when we got outside. Mrs. Fitzgerald had cheered up my day immensely. "I hope I have that much zip when I'm eighty-eight."
We knocked off just before six and went to the local pub-Mooney's, next to the shop-to watch the news. We had only covered a small part of the estate, but we had a handle on the general atmosphere, and it had been a long day; the meeting with Cooper seemed to have happened at least forty-eight hours before. I had a dizzy urge to keep going until we got to my old road-see if Jamie's mother answered their door, what Peter's brothers and sisters looked like now, who was living in my old room-but I knew this would not be a good idea.
We had timed it well: as I carried our coffee over to the table, the barman turned up the volume on the TV and the news came on with a sweep of synthetic music. Katy was the lead story; the studio presenters looked suitably grave, their voices vibrating heartrendingly at the end of each sentence to indicate tragedy. The arty
"The young girl found dead yesterday on the controversial archaeological site at Knocknaree has been identified as Katharine Devlin, aged twelve," intoned the male presenter. Either the color on the TV set was off or he had used too much fake tan; his face was orange, the whites of his eyes spookily bright. The old guys at the bar stirred, tilting their faces slowly up to the screen, their glasses clicking down. "Katharine had been missing from her nearby home since early Tuesday morning. Police have confirmed that the death is suspicious, and have appealed to anyone with information to come forward." The tip-line number came up across the bottom of the screen, white lettering on a blue banner. "Orla Manahan is live at the scene."
Cut to a blonde with frozen hair and an overhanging nose, standing in front of the altar stone, which didn't appear to be doing anything that demanded live coverage. People had already started leaving tributes propped against it: flowers wrapped in colored cellophane, a pink teddy bear. In the background a stray piece of crime-scene tape, overlooked by Sophie's team, fluttered forlornly from a tree.
"This is the place where, just yesterday morning, little Katy Devlin's body was found. In spite of her youth, Katy was a well-known figure in the small, close-knit community of Knocknaree. She had just been awarded a place at the prestigious Royal Ballet School, where she was due to begin her studies in only a few weeks. Today, local residents were devastated at the tragic death of the little girl who was
A shaky handheld camera on an old woman with a flowery headscarf, outside Lowry's shop. "Ah, it's awful." A long pause while she looked down and shook her head, her mouth working; a guy on a bike went past behind her, gawking at the camera. "It's only terrible. We're all saying prayers for the family. How could anyone want to harm that gorgeous wee girl?" There was a low, angry murmur from the old men at the bar.
Back to the blonde. "But this may not be the first violent death Knocknaree has seen. Thousands of years ago, this stone"-she swept her arm out, like an estate agent displaying a fitted kitchen-"was a ceremonial altar where archaeologists say the Druids may have practiced human sacrifice. This afternoon, however, detectives said there was no evidence that Katy's death was the work of a religious cult."
