by Tana French
“There’s nothing here that says either abuse or Munchausen by proxy,”
Cassie said at last. Sam had found the tape recorder; in the background, Andrews was giving a real estate agent a long, injured rant about something or other.
If he hadn’t been there, I think I would have ignored her. “And there’s nothing that rules them out, either,” I said, hearing the edge in my voice.
“How would you rule abuse out, definitively? All we can do is say there’s no evidence of it, which there isn’t. And I think this does rule out Munchausen. Like I said before, Margaret doesn’t fit the profile anyway, and with this . . . The whole point of Munchausen is that it leads to medical treatment. Nobody’s been Munchausening these two.”
“So this was pointless,” I said. I shoved the records away, too hard; half the pages fluttered off the edge of the table, onto the floor. “Surprise, surprise. This case is fucked. It’s been fucked right from the start. We might as well throw it into the basement right now and move on to something that has a snowball’s chance in hell, because this is a waste of everyone’s time.”
Andrews’s phone calls had come to an end and the tape recorder hissed, faintly but persistently, until Sam clicked it off. Cassie leaned over sideways and started collecting the spilled fax pages. Nobody said anything for a very long time.
I wonder what Sam thought. He never said a word, but he must have known something was wrong, he couldn’t have missed it: all of a sudden the long happy studenty evenings à trois stopped, and the atmosphere in the incident room was like something out of Sartre. It’s possible that Cassie told him the whole story at some point or other, cried on his shoulder, but I doubt it: she had too much pride, always. I think probably she kept inviting him round for dinner and explained that I had trouble with child-murders—which was, after all, true—and wanted to spend my evenings unwinding; explained it so casually and convincingly that, even if Sam didn’t believe her, he knew not to ask questions.
I imagine other people noticed, too. Detectives do tend to be fairly obser-In the Woods 293
vant, and the fact that the Wonder Twins weren’t speaking would have been headline news. It must have been all around the squad within twenty-four hours, accompanied by an array of lurid explanations—somewhere among them, I’m sure, the truth.
Or maybe not. Through everything, this much of the old alliance remained: the shared, animal instinct to keep its dying private. In some ways this is the most heartbreaking thing of all: always, always, right up until the end, the old connection was there when it was needed. We could spend excruciating hours not saying a word to each other unless it was unavoidable, and then in toneless voices, with averted eyes; but the instant O’Kelly threatened to take Sweeney and O’Gorman away we snapped to life, me methodically going through a long list of reasons why we still needed floaters, while Cassie assured me that the superintendent knew what he was doing and shrugged her shoulders and hoped the media wouldn’t find out. It took all the energy I had. As the door closed and we were left alone again (or alone with Sam, who didn’t count) the practiced sparkle would evaporate and I would turn expressionlessly away from her white, uncomprehending face, giving her my shoulder with the priggish aloofness of an offended cat. I genuinely felt, you see, although I’m unclear on the process by which my mind arrived at this conclusion, that I had been wronged in some subtle but unpardonable way. If she had hurt me, I could have forgiven her without even having to think about it; but I couldn’t forgive her for being hurt. The blood results from the stains on my shoes and the drop on the altar stone were due back any day. Through the submarine haze in which I was navigating, this was one of the few things that remained clear in my mind. Just about every other lead had crashed and burned; this was all I had left, and I held on to it with grim desperation. I was sure, with a certainty far beyond logic, that all we needed was a DNA match; that if we got it everything else would fall into place with the soft precision of snowflakes, the case—both cases—spreading out before me, perfect and dazzling. I was aware, vaguely, that if this happened we would need Adam Ryan’s DNA for comparison, and that Detective Rob would very probably vanish forever in a puff of scandal-flavored smoke. At the time, though, this didn’t always seem like such a bad idea. On the contrary: there were moments when I looked forward to it with a kind of dull relief. It seemed—since I 294
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knew I had neither the guts nor the energy to extricate myself from this hideous mess—my only, or at least my simplest, way out. Sophie, who believes in multitasking, phoned me from her car. “The DNA guys called,” she said. “Bad news.”
“Hey,” I said, shooting upright and swiveling my chair around so that my back was to the others. “What’s up?” I tried to keep my voice casual, but O’Gorman stopped whistling and I heard the rustle of Cassie putting down a page.
“Those blood samples are useless—both of them, the shoes and the one Helen found.” She smacked her horn. “Jesus Christ, idiot, pick a lane, any lane! . . . The lab tried everything, but they’re way too degraded for DNA. Sorry about that, but I did warn you.”
“Yeah,” I said, after a moment. “It’s been that kind of case. Thanks, Sophie.”
I hung up and stared at the phone. Cassie, across the table, asked tentatively, “What did she say?” but I didn’t answer. That evening, on my walk home from the DART, I rang Rosalind. It went against all my loudest instincts to do this to her—I had wanted, very badly, to leave her alone until she was ready to talk, let her choose her own time for this rather than forcing her back against the wall; but she was all I had left. She came in on the Thursday morning, and I went down to meet her in Reception, just as I had that first time, all those weeks ago. A part of me had been afraid she would change her mind at the last minute and not show up, and my heart lifted when I saw her, sitting in a big chair with her cheek leaning pensively on her hand and a rose-colored scarf trailing. It was good to see someone young and pretty; I hadn’t realized, until that moment, how exhausted and gray and jaded we were all starting to look. That scarf seemed like the first note of color I had seen in days.
“Rosalind,” I said, and saw her face light up.
“Detective Ryan!”
“It’s just occurred to me,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
She gave me a conspiratorial sideways look. “My teacher likes me. I won’t get in trouble.” I knew I ought to lecture her about the evils of truancy, or something, but I couldn’t help it: I laughed. In the Woods 295
The door opened and Cassie came in from outside, tucking her cigarettes into her jeans pocket. She met my eyes for a second, glanced at Rosalind; then she brushed past us, up the stairs.
Rosalind bit her lip and looked up at me, her face troubled. “Your partner’s annoyed that I’m here, isn’t she?”
“Well, that’s not really her problem,” I said. “Sorry about that.”
“Oh, it’s all right.” Rosalind managed a small smile. “She’s never liked me very much, has she?”
“Detective Maddox doesn’t dislike you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Detective Ryan, really. I’m used to it. A lot of girls don’t like me. My mother says”—she ducked her head, embarrassed—“my mother says it’s because they’re jealous, but I don’t see how that could be true.”
“I do,” I said, smiling down at her. “But I don’t think that’s the case with Detective Maddox. That had nothing to do with you. OK?”
“Did you have a fight?” she asked timidly, after a moment.
“Sort of,” I said. “It’s a long story.”
I held the door open for her, and we crossed the cobbles towards the gardens. Rosalind’s brow was furrowed thoughtfully. “I wish she didn’t dislike me so much. I really admire her, you know. It can’t be easy being a woman detective.”
“It’s not easy being a detective, period,” I said. I did not want to talk about Cassie. “We manage.”
“Yes, but
it’s different for women,” she told me, a little reproachfully.
“How’s that?” She was so young and earnest; I knew she would be offended if I laughed.
“Well, for example . . . Detective Maddox must be at least thirty, isn’t she? She must want to get married soon, and have children, and things like that. Women can’t afford to wait like men can, you know. And being a detective must make it hard to have a serious relationship, doesn’t it? It must be a lot of pressure for her.”
A vicious twist of unease caught at my stomach. “I don’t think Detective Maddox is the broody type,” I said.
Rosalind looked troubled, little white teeth catching at her bottom lip.
“You’re probably right,” she said, carefully. “But you know, Detective Ryan . . . sometimes, when you’re close to someone, you miss things. Other people can see them, but you can’t.”
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That twist tightened. A part of me badly wanted to push her, to find out what exactly it was that she had seen in Cassie and I had missed; but the past week had brought it home to me, with considerable force, that there are some things in this life we are better off not knowing. “Detective Maddox’s personal life isn’t my problem,” I said. “Rosalind . . .”
But she had darted off, down one of the carefully wild little pathways that ring the grass, calling back over her shoulder: “Oh, Detective Ryan—look!
Isn’t it lovely?”
Her hair danced in the sun coming through the leaves, and in spite of everything I smiled. I followed her down the pathway—we were going to need privacy anyway, for this conversation—and caught up with her at a secluded little bench overhung by branches, birds twittering in the bushes all around. “Yes,” I said, “it’s lovely. Would you like to talk here?”
She settled herself on the bench and gazed up at the trees with a happy little sigh. “Our secret garden.”
It was idyllic, and I hated the thought of wrecking it. For a moment I let myself toy with the thought of ditching the whole purpose of this meeting, having a chat about how she was doing and what a beautiful day it was and then sending her home; of being, for a few minutes, just a guy sitting in the sunshine talking to a pretty girl.
“Rosalind,” I said, “I need to ask you about something. This is going to be very difficult, and I wish I knew some way to make it easier on you, but I don’t. I wouldn’t be asking you if I had any other choice. I need you to help me. Will you try?”
Something crossed her face, a flash of some vivid emotion, but it was gone before I could pinpoint it. She clasped her hands around the rails of the bench on either side, bracing herself. “I’ll do my best.”
“Your father and mother,” I said, keeping my voice very gentle and even.
“Has either of them ever hurt you or your sisters?”
Rosalind gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth and she stared at me over it, eyes round and startled, until she realized what she had done, snatched her hand away and clasped it tightly around the rail again. “No,” she said, in a strained, compressed little voice. “Of course not.”
“I know you must be frightened. I can protect you. I promise.”
“No.” She shook her head, biting her lip, and I knew she was on the verge of tears. “No.”
I leaned closer and put my hand over hers. She smelled of some flowery, In the Woods 297
musky scent decades too old for her. “Rosalind, if something’s wrong, we need to know. You’re in danger.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Jessica’s in danger, too. I know you take care of her, but you can’t keep doing that on your own forever. Please, let me help you.”
“You don’t understand,” she whispered. Her hand was trembling under mine. “I can’t, Detective Ryan. I just can’t.”
She almost broke my heart. This fragile, indomitable slip of a girl: in a situation that would have crippled people twice her age, she was holding it together by the skin of her teeth, walking a slim tightrope twisted out of nothing but tenacity and pride and denial. That was all she had, and I, of all people, was trying to pull it out from under her.
“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly horribly ashamed of myself. “There may come a time when you’re ready to talk about this, and when that happens, I’ll be right here. But until then . . . I shouldn’t have tried to push you. I’m sorry.”
“You’re so kind to me,” she murmured. “I can’t believe you’ve been so kind.”
“I just wish I could help you,” I said. “I wish I knew how.”
“I . . . I don’t trust people easily, Detective Ryan. But if I trust anyone, it’ll be you.”
We sat there in silence. Rosalind’s hand was soft under mine, and she didn’t move it away.
Then she turned her hand, slowly, and interlaced her fingers in mine. She was smiling at me, an intimate little smile with a dare lurking in the corners.
I caught my breath. It went through me like an electric current, how badly I wanted to lean forward and cup my hand around the back of her head and kiss her. Images tumbled in my mind—crisp hotel sheets and her curls falling free, buttons under my fingers, Cassie’s drawn face—and I wanted this girl who was like no girl I had ever known, wanted her not in spite of her moods and her secret bruises and her sad attempts at artifice but because of them, because of them all. I could see myself reflected, tiny and dazzled and moving closer, in her eyes.
She was eighteen years old and she might still end up being my main witness; she was more vulnerable than she would ever be again in her life; and she idolized me. She did not need to find out the hard way that I had developed 298
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a tendency to wreck everything I touched. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek and disengaged my hand from hers.
“Rosalind,” I said.
Her face had shuttered over. “I should go,” she said coldly.
“I don’t want to hurt you. That’s the last thing you need.”
“Well, you have.” She slung her bag over her shoulder, not looking at me. Her mouth was set in a tight line.
“Rosalind, please, wait—” I reached out for her hand, but she whipped it away.
“I thought you cared about me. Obviously, I was wrong. You just let me think so because you wanted to see if I knew anything about Katy. You wanted what you could get from me, just like everyone else.”
“That’s not true,” I began; but she was gone, clicking down the path with angry little steps, and I knew there was no point in going after her. The birds in the bushes scattered, with a harsh tattoo of wings, as she passed.
My head was spinning. I gave her a few minutes to calm down and then rang her mobile, but she didn’t answer. I left a babbling, apologetic message on her voicemail; then I hung up and slumped back on the bench.
“Shit,” I said aloud, to the empty bushes.
I think it’s important to reiterate that, no matter what I may have claimed at the time, for most of Operation Vestal I was not in anything resembling a normal frame of mind. This may not be an excuse, but it is a fact. When I went into that wood, for example, I went into it on very little sleep and even less food and a considerable amount of accumulated tension and vodka, and I feel I should point out that it’s entirely possible that the subsequent events were either a dream or some kind of weird hallucination. I have no way of knowing, and I can’t think of an answer, either way, that would be particularly comforting. Since that night I had, at least, started sleeping again—sleeping, actually, with a level of dedication so intense it made me nervous. By the time I staggered in from work every evening I was practically sleepwalking. I would fall into bed as if drawn by a powerful magnet and find myself in the same position, still in my clothes, when the alarm clock dragged me awake twelve or thirteen hours later. Once I forgot to set my alarm and woke at two In the Woods 299
o’clock in the afternoon, to the seventh phone call from a very snotty Bernadette.
; The memories and the more bizarre side effects had stopped, too; clicked off as sharply and as definitively as a lightbulb burning out. You’d think this would be a relief, and at the time it was: as far as I was concerned, absolutely anything to do with Knocknaree was the worst possible kind of news, and I was a lot better off without it. I should have pretty much figured this out awhile back, I felt, and I could not believe that I had been stupid enough to ignore everything I knew and prance gaily back into that wood. I had never been so angry with myself in my life. It was only much later, when the case was over and the dust had settled on the debris, when I prodded cautiously at the edges of my memory and came up empty; it was only then that I began to think this might be not a deliverance but a vast missed chance, an irrevocable and devastating loss. 18
Sam and I were the first ones in the incident room on Friday morning. I had taken to coming in as early as I could, going through the phone tips to see if I could find an excuse to spend the day elsewhere. It was raining hard; Cassie, somewhere, was presumably swearing and trying to kick-start the Vespa.
“Daily bulletin,” Sam said, waving a couple of tapes at me. “He was feeling chatty last night, six calls, so please God . . .”
We had been tapping Andrews’s phones for a week now, with results pathetic enough that O’Kelly was beginning to emit ominous, volcanic grumbling noises. During the day Andrews made large numbers of snappy, testosterone-flavored calls on his mobile; in the evenings he ordered overpriced “gourmet” food—“takeaway with notions,” Sam called it, disapprovingly. Once he rang one of those sex chat lines you see advertised on late-night TV; he liked to be spanked, apparently, and “Redden my arse, Celestine” had instantly become a squad catchphrase.
I took off my coat and sat down. “Play it, Sam,” I said. My sense of humor, along with everything else, had deteriorated over the past weeks. Sam gave me a look and threw one of the tapes into our obsolete little tape recorder.
At 8:17 p.m., according to the computer printout, Andrews had ordered lasagna with smoked salmon, pesto and sun-dried tomato sauce. “Jesus Christ,” I said, appalled.