In the Woods

The terrible thing about the sitting room was how normal it was, how straight out of some satire on suburbia. Lace curtains, a flowery four-piece suite with those little covers on the arms and headrests, a collection of ornate teapots on top of a sideboard, everything polished and dusted to an immaculate shine: it seemed-victims' homes and even crime scenes almost always do-far too banal for this level of tragedy. The woman sitting in an armchair matched the room: heavy in a solid shapeless way, with a helmet of permed hair and big, drooping blue eyes. There were deep lines from her nose to her mouth.

"Margaret," Devlin said. "They're detectives." His voice was taut as a guitar string, but he didn't go to her; he stayed by the sofa, fists clenched in the pockets of his cardigan. "What is it?" he demanded.

"Mr. and Mrs. Devlin," Cassie said, "there's no easy way to say this. The body of a little girl has been found on the archaeological site beside this estate. I'm afraid we think she's your daughter Katharine. I'm so sorry."

Margaret Devlin let out her breath as if she'd been hit in the stomach. Tears began to fall down her cheeks, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Are you sure?" Devlin snapped. His eyes were huge. "How can you be sure?"

"Mr. Devlin," Cassie said gently, "I've seen the little girl. She looks exactly like your daughter Jessica. We'll be asking you to come see the body tomorrow, to confirm her identity, but there's no doubt in my mind. I'm sorry."

Devlin swung towards the window, away again, pressed a wrist against his mouth, lost and wild-eyed. "Oh, God," said Margaret. "Oh, God, Jonathan-"

"What happened to her?" Devlin cut in harshly. "How did she-how-"

"I'm afraid it looks as if she was murdered," Cassie said.

Margaret was heaving herself up out of the chair, in slow, underwater movements. "Where is she?" The tears were still pouring down her face, but her voice was eerily calm, almost brisk.

"She's with our doctors," Cassie said gently. If Katy had died differently, we might have taken them to her. But as it was, her skull smashed open, her face covered in blood…At the post-mortem, the morgue guys would wash off at least that gratuitous layer of horror.

Margaret looked around, dazed, patting mechanically at the pockets of her skirt. "Jonathan. I can't find my keys."

"Mrs. Devlin," Cassie said, putting a hand on her arm. "I'm afraid we can't take you to Katy yet. The doctors need to examine her. We'll let you know as soon as you can see her."

Margaret twitched away from her and moved in slow motion towards the door, dragging a clumsy hand across her face to smear the tears away. "Katy. Where is she?" Cassie shot a glance of appeal over her shoulder at Jonathan, but he was leaning both palms against the windowpane and staring out, unseeing, breathing too fast and too hard.

"Please, Mrs. Devlin," I said urgently, trying to unobtrusively get between her and the door. "I promise we'll take you to Katy as soon as we can, but at the moment you can't see her. It's simply not possible."

She stared at me, red-eyed, her mouth hanging open. "My baby," she gasped. Then her shoulders slumped and she started to weep, in deep, hoarse, unrestrained sobs. Her head fell back and she let Cassie take her gently by the shoulders and ease her back into her chair.

"How did she die?" Jonathan demanded, still staring fixedly out the window. The words were blurred, as if his lips were numb. "What way?"

"We won't know that until the doctors have finished examining her," I said. "We'll keep you informed of every development."

I heard light footsteps running down the stairs; the door flew open, and a girl stood in the doorway. Behind her Jessica was still in the hall, sucking a lock of hair and staring in at us.

"What is it?" said the girl breathlessly. "Oh, God…is it Katy?"

Nobody answered. Margaret pressed a fist to her mouth, turning her sobs into terrible choking sounds. The girl looked from face to face, her lips parted. She was tall and slim, with chestnut curls tumbling down her back, and it was hard to tell how old she was-eighteen or twenty, maybe, but she was made up far more expertly than any teenager I'd ever known, and she was wearing tailored black trousers and high-heeled shoes and a white shirt that looked expensive, with a purple silk scarf flung round her neck. She had a kind of vital, electric presence that filled the room. In that house, she was utterly, startlingly incongruous.

"Please," she said, appealing to me. Her voice was high and clear and carrying, with a newsreader accent that didn't match Jonathan and Margaret's soft, small-town working-class. "What's happened?"

"Rosalind," Jonathan said. His voice came out rough, and he cleared his throat. "They found Katy. She's dead. Someone killed her."