A Terrible Beauty

Dail, too. We could have a very embarrassing political situation here, unless we clear this up quick.'

Patrick Goggin had a scrawny throat in which his Adam's apple rose and fell as he spoke, as if he were trying to regurgitate something unpleasant that he had eaten for breakfast. 'Do you yet have any idea at all who might have abducted those women? Even an informed guess will do. There's another summit meeting at Stormont next week and the last thing we need is Sinn Fein making an issue out of something that happened more than eighty years ago.'

Katie shook her head. 'I'm afraid we haven't made much progress. I'm working closely with Dr. Reidy, the state pathologist, and also with an expert in Celtic mythology, Dr. Gerard O'Brien. But, you know, these things take time.'

'Haven't you even got a theory about it? If the Crown forces really did order those women to be abducted and murdered, it's going to cause all manner of ructions. The Taoiseach is going to have to ask for an apology from the British government, and some form of compensation for their families, and the whole peace process is going to be knocked back months, or even years. Or evendecades,for the love of God.'

Katie said, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Goggin, but this is a very complex criminal investigation and I can't cut any corners for the sake of politics. I don't know who murdered those women and the chances are that I never will. As for the latest murder, we have a suspect in custody on the basis of very strong forensic evidence and that's all I can tell you.'

Patrick Goggin rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, as if he had a headache. 'I don't think you quite understand the position, Detective Superintendent. We have to know for certain who murdered those women in 1915, and if itwasa British soldier, acting on official orders, we have to find a way-well, let me put this the only way I can-we have to find a way of showing that itwasn't. A rogue officer, we can deal with that, politically. A psychopath who dressed up in British Army uniform, that would be even better. I'm sure that I can count on you to come up with some kind of evidence that will exonerate the British army of any direct culpability.'

Katie said, coldly, 'Evidence is evidence, sir. Facts are facts. If the British Army murdered these women deliberately, then I'm certainly not going to pretend that they didn't.'

Dermot lifted his hand and said, 'Katie-'

But Katie said, 'No, sir. I need to know what happened to those eleven women because it has a direct relevance to the Fiona Kelly murder case. They may have died eighty years ago, but they still deserve our respect, and our conscientious efforts to find out how they really died. They were women, sir. They were living, breathing women.'

'Holy Mother of Jesus,' said Patrick Goggin. 'Now we have feminist solidarity rearing its ugly head. An Garda Siochana is the guardian of the nation's interests, Detective Superintendent, not the front line of the PC brigade.'

'With all respect, sir-' Katie began, but Dermot, behind Patrick Goggin's back, shook his head and mouthed the word 'no.' She knew what he was telling her. It wasn't worth it. Politicians come and go, but police personnel stay on for years and years-hopefully to collect their pensions, and cook their favorite recipes in peace.

'Yes?' said Patrick Goggin. 'You were saying?'

'I was simply saying that we'll do everything we can to find out who abducted those women, sir, and how they died. And when we have?we'll let you know. Of course. And as soon as we possibly can.'

Patrick Goggin smiled. 'That's what I wanted to hear. That'sexactlywhat I wanted to hear.' He took out his wallet and produced a card. 'There,' he said. 'That's my private number. If you want to discuss this case any further, or any other Garda business?well'-and here he raised one eyebrow and gave her an extraordinary cherubic smile-'you will let me know, won't you?'

He shook Katie's hand and gave Dermot a mock garda salute. Then he left Katie's office and walked along the corridor with squeaking rubber shoes.

He hadn't reached the top of the stairs before Dermot burst into an explosion of laughter, and Katie shook her head in amazement.

'Hefanciesyou!' said Dermot. 'After all that, he only fecking fancies you!'

It was teeming with a fine, chilly rain when they arrived at Meagher's Farm at Knocknadeenly. Mr. and Mrs. Kelly climbed out of the back of the car and stood looking around at the drab farm buildings and the churned-up mud and the naked poplar trees as if they couldn't believe that anywhere so dreary could exist outside a movie set.

'Jesus,' said Mr. Kelly. 'What a place to die.'

'Actually, Fiona didn't die here,' said Katie, gently. She opened a large golf umbrella so that she and Mrs. Kelly could shelter under it. 'She was killed quite a few miles away, and her remains were brought here for a very special reason. We're fairly convinced that it was part of a pagan ritual.'

'Jesus,' Mr. Kelly repeated. He seemed overwhelmed.

Lucy Quinn had been waiting in the front passenger seat for a while, her eyes concealed behind her purple- lensed spectacles, but at last she decided to get out. She was wearing a black raincoat, a black cashmere scarf, and long black-leather boots. Her bright red lipstick was the only spot of color in the whole gray morning, like the little girl's coat inSchindler's List.

'I want to thank you for allowing me to bring Professor Quinn along,' Katie told the Kellys.

'Not at all,' said Mr. Kelly. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. 'Anybody who can help?you know.'

At that moment, John Meagher came out of the farmhouse, wearing a tweed cap and a tweed jacket with the collar turned up against the rain. He came up to Mr. and Mrs. Kelly and shook their hands in silence.

Katie said, 'John-this is Professor Lucy Quinn from UC Berkeley. She's something of an expert in ancient rituals.'

'You know what happened here?' John asked.

'Yes,' said Lucy. 'What can I say? It's a tragedy.'