In the Woods

"What-I didn't-what? You think someone paid me to, to…Jesus! No!"

His mouth was open in pure, shocked indignation. "Well, if it wasn't for money," I inquired, "then why was it?"

"I told you, I don't know! I don't remember!"

For an extremely unpleasant instant, it occurred to me to wonder whether he might, in fact, have lost a segment of his memory; and, if so, why and where. I dismissed the thought. We hear this one all the time, and I had seen the look on his face when he skipped the trowel: that had been deliberate. "You know, I'm doing my best to help you here," I said, "but there's no way for me to do that when you're not being honest with me."

"I'm being

honest! I don't feel good-"

"No, Damien, you're not," I said. "And here's how I know. Do you remember those photos I showed you? Remember the one of Katy with her face hanging off? That was taken at the post-mortem, Damien. And the post-mortem told us exactly what you did to that little girl."

"I already told you-"

I leaned across the table, fast, into his face. "And then, Damien, this morning, we found the trowel in the tools shed. How bloody stupid do you think we are? Here's the part you skipped: after you killed Katy, you undid her combats and you pulled down her underwear and you shoved the handle of that trowel inside her."

Damien's hands went to the sides of his head. "No-don't-"

"And you're trying to tell me that just happened? Raping a little kid with a trowel doesn't just happen,

not without a damn good reason, and you need to stop fucking around and tell me what that reason was. Unless you're just one sick little pervert. Is that it, Damien? Are you?"

I had pushed him too hard. With dreary inevitability, Damien-who, after all, had had a long day-started to cry again.

We were there for a long time. Damien, his face in his hands, sobbed hoarsely and convulsively. I leaned against the wall, wondering what the hell to do with him and occasionally, when he stopped for breath, taking another desultory shot at the motive. He never answered; I'm not sure he heard me. The room was too hot and I could still smell the pizza, rich and nauseating. I couldn't focus. All I could think about was Cassie, Cassie and Rosalind: whether Rosalind had agreed to come in; whether she was holding up all right; whether Cassie was going to knock on the door, any moment, and want to put her face to face with Damien.

Finally I gave up. It was half past eight and this was pointless: Damien had had enough, the best detective in the world couldn't have got anything coherent out of him at this point, and I knew I should have spotted this long before. "Come on," I said to him. "Get some dinner and some rest. We'll try this again tomorrow."

He looked up at me. His nose was red and his eyes were swollen half shut. "I can go…go home?"

You've just been arrested for murder, genius, what do you think… I didn't have the energy for sarcasm. "We'll be holding you overnight," I said. "I'll get someone to take you over." When I brought out the handcuffs, he stared at them as if they were some medieval implement of torture.

The door of the observation room was open, and as we passed I saw O'Kelly standing in front of the glass, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. My heart gave a great thump. Cassie had to be in the main interview room: Cassie and Rosalind. For a moment I thought of going in there, but I rejected that idea instantly: I did not want Rosalind to associate me in any way with this whole debacle. I handed Damien-still dazed and white-faced, catching his breath in long shudders like a child who's been crying too hard-over to the uniforms, and went home.

22

The land line rang at about quarter to midnight. I dived for it; Heather has Rules about phone calls after her bedtime.

"Hello?"

"Sorry to ring so late, but I've been trying to reach you all evening," Cassie said.

I had switched my mobile to silent, but I had seen the missed calls. "I really can't talk now," I said.

"Rob, for fuck's sake, this is important

-"

"I'm sorry, I have to go," I said. "I'll be in work at some point tomorrow, or you can leave me a note." I heard the quick, painful catch of breath, but I put the phone down anyway.

"Who was that?" demanded Heather, appearing in the door of her room wearing a nightie with a collar and looking sleepy and cross.

"For me," I said.

"Cassie?"

I went into the kitchen, found an ice tray and started popping cubes into a glass. "Ohhh," said Heather knowingly, behind me. "You finally slept with her, didn't you?"

I threw the ice tray back into the freezer. Heather does leave me alone if I ask her to, but it's never worth it: the resultant sulks and flounces and lectures about her unique sensitivity last much longer than the original irritation would have.