"That fits with what we have," I said. "Get to the good stuff."
Sophie snorted. "That was the good stuff. The footprints are a dead end: half of them match the archaeologists, and the ones that don't are too blurry to be any use. Practically all the fibers are consistent with stuff we pulled from the home; a handful of unidentified ones, but nothing distinctive. One hair on the T-shirt matching the idiot who found her, two that match the mother-one on the combats, one on a sock, and she probably does the washing, so no big deal there."
"Any DNA? Or fingerprints or anything?"
"Ha," Sophie said. She was eating something crunchy, probably crisps-Sophie lives mainly on junk food. "A few bloody partials, but they came off a rubber glove-surprise, surprise. So no epithelials, either. And no semen and no saliva, and no blood that doesn't match the kid."
"Great," I said, my heart slowly sinking. I had fallen for the con all over again, I had got my hopes up, and I felt suckered and stupid.
"Except for that old spot Helen found. They got a blood type off it: it's A positive. Your victim's O neg."
She paused for another mouthful of crisps, while my stomach did something complicated. "What?" she demanded, when I said nothing. "That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? Same as the blood from the old case. OK, so it's tentative, but at least it's a link."
"Yeah," I said. I could feel Cassie listening; I turned my shoulder to her. "That's great. Thanks, Sophie."
"We've sent the swabs and those shoes off for DNA testing," Sophie said, "but I wouldn't hold your breath if I were you. I bet it's all degraded to fuck. Who stores blood evidence in a basement?"
Cassie, by unspoken agreement, was following up on the old case while I concentrated on the Devlins. McCabe had died several years before, a heart attack, but she went to see Kiernan. He was retired and living in Laytown, a little commuter village up along the coast. He was well into his seventies, with a ruddy, good-humored face and the comfortably sloppy build of a rugby player gone to seed, but he brought Cassie for a long walk on the wide empty beach, seagulls and curlews screaming, while he told her what he remembered about the Knocknaree case. He seemed happy, Cassie said that evening, as she lit the fire and I spread mustard on ciabatta rolls and Sam poured the wine. He had taken up woodworking, there was sawdust on his soft worn trousers; his wife had wrapped a scarf around his neck and kissed his cheek as he went out.
He remembered the case, though, every detail. In all Ireland's brief disorganized history as a nation, fewer than half a dozen children have gone missing and stayed that way, and Kiernan had never been able to forget that two of these had been given into his hands and he had failed them. The search, he told Cassie (a little defensively, she said, as though this was a conversation he had had many times in his mind), had been massive: dogs, helicopters, divers; policemen and volunteers had combed miles of wood and hill and field in every direction, starting at dawn every morning for weeks and going on into the late summer twilights; they had followed leads to Belfast and Kerry and even Birmingham; and all the time a nagging whisper had insisted, in Kiernan's ear, that they were looking in the wrong directions, that the answer was right in front of them all along.
"What's his theory?" Sam asked.
I flipped the last steak onto its roll and handed round the plates. "Later," Cassie said, to Sam. "Enjoy your sandwich first. How often does Ryan do something that's worth appreciating?"
"You are speaking to two talented men here," I told her. "We can eat and listen, at the same time." It would have been nice to hear this story in private first, obviously, but by the time Cassie had got back from Laytown it had been too late for that. The thought had already killed my appetite; the thing itself wasn't going to make much difference. Besides, we always talked about the case over dinner, and today was not going to be any different if I could help it. Sam appears blithely unaware of subtext and emotional cross-currents, but I sometimes wonder if anyone can be quite as oblivious as all that.
"I'm impressed," Cassie said. "OK"-her eyes went to me for a second; I looked away-"Kiernan's theory was that the kids never left Knocknaree. I don't know if you guys remember this, but there was a third kid…" She leaned sideways to check her notebook, open on the arm of the sofa. "Adam Ryan. He was with the other two that afternoon, and they found him in the wood, a couple of hours into the search. No injuries, but there was blood in his shoes and he was pretty shaken up; he couldn't remember anything. So Kiernan figured that, whatever happened, it must have been either in the wood or very nearby, otherwise how had Adam got back there? He thought someone-someone local-had been watching them for a while. The guy approached them in the wood, maybe lured them back to his house, and attacked them. Probably he hadn't planned to kill them; maybe he tried to molest them and something went wrong. At some point during the attack, Adam escaped and ran back into the wood-which probably means they were either in the wood itself, in one of the estate houses that back onto it, or in one of the farmhouses nearby; otherwise he'd have gone home, right? Kiernan thinks the guy panicked and killed the other two children, possibly stashed the bodies in his house until he saw his chance, and then either dumped them in the river or buried them, in his garden or, more likely-there were no reports of unexplained digging in the area over the next few weeks-in the wood."
I took a bite of my sandwich. The taste, pungent and bloody, almost made me retch. I forced it down, unchewed, with a swallow of wine.
"Where's young Adam these days?" Sam inquired.
Cassie shrugged. "I doubt he'd be able to tell us anything. Kiernan and McCabe kept going back to him for years, but he never remembered any more. In the end they gave up, figured the memory was gone for good. The family moved out of the area; Knocknaree gossip says they emigrated to Canada." All of which was true, as far as it went. This was both more difficult and more ridiculous than I had expected. We were like spies, communicating over Sam's head in careful, stilted code.
"They must have been going mental," Sam said. "An eyewitness right there…" He shook his head and took a big bite of sandwich.
"Yeah, Kiernan said it was frustrating, all right," Cassie said, "but the kid was doing his best. He even participated in a reconstruction, with two local kids. They were hoping it would help him remember what he and his mates had done that afternoon, but he froze up as soon as he got into the wood." My stomach flipped. I had no memory of this at all. I put down my sandwich; suddenly and intensely, I wanted a cigarette.
"Poor little bastard," Sam said peacefully.
"Was this what McCabe thought, too?" I asked.
"No." Cassie licked mustard off her thumb. "McCabe thought it was a tourist killer-some guy who was only here for a few days, probably over from England, maybe for work. See, they couldn't find a single good suspect. They did almost a thousand questionnaires, hundreds of interviews, ruled out all the known perverts and weirdos in south Dublin, accounted for every local man's movements down to the minute… You know what it's like: you almost always come up with a suspect, even if you don't have enough to charge him. They had nobody. Every time they got a lead, they ran bang into a dead end."
"That sounds familiar," I said grimly.
"Kiernan thinks it was because someone gave the guy a fake alibi so he never really made it onto their radar, but McCabe figured it was because he wasn't there to find. His theory was that the kids were playing by the river and followed it to where it comes out on the other side of the wood-it's a long walk, but they'd done it before. There's a little back road that goes right past that stretch of the river. McCabe thought someone was driving by, saw the kids and tried to drag them or lure them into his car. Adam fought, got away and ran back into the wood, and the guy drove off with the other two. McCabe talked to Interpol and the British police, but they didn't come up with anything useful."