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cheek at her, with my middle finger.
    Mark took me across the site, along a narrow path between mysterious earthworks and clumps of stones. He walked like a martial artist or a poacher, a long, easy, balanced lope. “Medieval drainage ditch,” he said, pointing. A couple of crows shot up from an abandoned wheelbarrow full of dirt, decided we were harmless and went back to picking through the earth. “And that’s a Neolithic settlement. This site’s been inhabited more or less nonstop since the Stone Age. Still is. See the cottage, that’s eighteenth-century. It was one of the places where they planned the 1798 Rebellion.” He glanced over his shoulder at me, and I had an absurd impulse to explain my accent and inform him that I was not only Irish but from just around the corner, so there. “The guy who lives there now is descended from the guy who built it.”
    We had reached the stone tower in the middle of the site. Arrow slits showed through gaps in the ivy, and a section of broken wall sloped down from one side. It looked vaguely, frustratingly familiar, but I couldn’t tell In the Woods 25
    whether this was because I actually remembered it or because I knew I should.
    Mark pulled a packet of tobacco out of his combats and started rolling a cigarette. There was masking tape wrapped around both his hands, at the base of the fingers. “The Walsh clan built this keep in the fourteenth century, added a castle over the next couple of hundred years,” he said. “This was all their territory, from those hills over there”—he jerked his head at the horizon, high overlapping hills furred with dark trees—“to a bend in the river down beyond that gray farmhouse. They were rebels, raiders. In the seventeenth century they used to ride into Dublin, all the way to the British barracks in Rathmines, grab a few guns, whack the heads off any soldiers they saw, and then leg it. By the time the British got organized to go after them, they’d be halfway back here.”
    He was the right person to tell the story. I thought of rearing hooves, torchlight and dangerous laughter, the rising pulse of war drums. Over his shoulder I could see Cassie, up by the crime-scene tape, talking to Cooper and taking notes.
    “I hate to interrupt you,” I said, “but I’m afraid I won’t have time for the full tour. I just need a very basic overview of the site.”
    Mark licked the cigarette paper, sealed his rollie and found a lighter.
    “Fair enough,” he said, and started pointing. “Neolithic settlement, Bronze Age ceremonial stone, Iron Age roundhouse, Viking dwellings, fourteenthcentury keep, sixteenth-century castle, eighteenth-century cottage.” “Bronze Age ceremonial stone” was where Cassie and the techs were.
    “Is the site guarded at night?” I asked.
    He laughed. “Nah. We lock the finds shed, obviously, and the office, but anything really valuable goes back to head office right away. And we started locking the tools shed a month or two ago—some of our tools went missing, and we found out the farmers had been using our hoses to water their fields in dry weather. That’s it. What’s the point of guarding it? In a month it’ll all be gone anyway, except for this.” He slapped the wall of the tower; something scuttled in the ivy above our heads.
    “Why’s that?” I asked.
    He stared at me, giving it an impressive level of incredulous disgust. “In a month’s time,” he said, enunciating clearly for me, “the fucking government is going to bulldoze this whole site and build a fucking motorway over 26
    Tana French
    it. They graciously agreed to leave a fucking traffic island for the keep, so they can wank off about how much they’ve done to preserve our heritage.”
    I remembered the motorway now, from some news report: a bland politician being shocked at the archaeologists who wanted the taxpayer to pay millions to redesign the plans. I had probably changed the channel at that point. “We’ll try not to