The Secret Place by Tana French Page A

all the world: just last time those flowers bloomed, Chris Harper had come here looking for something. He must have smelled this, clearest thing in the dark around him. Last thing left, when everything else had dissolved away.
    I asked, ‘Where was he?’
    Conway said, ‘There.’ Pointed.
    Maybe thirty feet off the path, up the slope, across short grass and past bushes clipped into neat balls: a grove of those same tall maybe-cypress trees, dense, dark, circled round a clearing. The grass in the middle had been left to grow long and wild. Haze of seed-heads, floating over it.
    Conway took us around the side of the flowerbed and up. The slope pulled in my thighs. The air in the clearing was cooler. Deep.
    I said, ‘How dark was it?’
    ‘Not. Cooper – you know Cooper, yeah? the pathologist? – Cooper said he died around one in the morning, give or take an hour or two either way. It was a clear night, half-moon, and the moon would’ve been highest a little after one. Visibility was about as good as it gets, for the middle of the night.’
    Things moved in my head. Chris straightening with his hands full of blue, squinting to make out the quick shape in the moonlight glade, his girl, or . . . ? And side by side with that, slipsliding in and out, the opposite. Someone stock-still in a shadow with their feet among flowers, her feet? his feet?, watching Chris’s face turn from side to side in the white among the cypress trees, watching him wait, waiting for him to stop watching.
    Meanwhile, Conway was waiting and watching me. She reminded me of Holly. Neither of them would’ve liked that, but the narrowed slant to the eye, like a test, like a game of Snakes and Ladders: go careful: right move and you’ll be let in one more little step, wrong move and you’re back to square one.
    I said, ‘What angle did the hoe hit him at?’
    Right question. Conway took me by the arm, moved me a couple of yards nearer the middle of the clearing. Her hand was strong; not I’m-detaining-you cop, not I-fancy-you girl, just strong; well able to fix a car, or punch someone who needed punching. She turned me facing down to the flowers and the path, my back to the trees.
    ‘He was about here.’
    Something buzzed, a bumblebee or a faraway lawnmower, I couldn’t tell; the acoustics were all swirl and ricochet. Seed-heads waved around my shins.
    ‘Someone came up behind him, or got him to turn away. Someone standing about here.’
    Close behind me. I twisted my head around. She lifted the imaginary hoe over her left shoulder, two-handed. Brought it down, her whole body behind it. Somewhere behind the chirpy spring-sounds, the swish and thud shivered the air. Even though she was holding nothing, I flinched.
    The corner of Conway’s mouth went up. She held up her empty hands.
    I said, ‘And he went down.’
    ‘Got him here.’ She put the edge of her hand against the back of my skull, high up and to the left of the centre line, slanting up from left to right. ‘Chris was a couple of inches shorter than you: five foot ten. The killer wouldn’t’ve had to be tall. Over five foot, under six, was all Cooper could say from the angle of the wound. Probably right-handed.’
    Her feet rustling, as she moved back from me. ‘The grass,’ I said. ‘Was it like this back then?’
    Right question again, good boy. ‘Nah. They let it grow afterwards – some kind of memorial thing or the place spooks the groundskeepers, I don’t know. No one sees this part, so I guess it doesn’t ruin the school’s image . Back then, though, the grass was like the rest: short. If you had soft shoes, you could sneak across it without getting heard, no problem.’
    And without leaving shoeprints, or at least none that the Bureau could use. The paths were pebbled: no prints there, either.
    ‘Where’d you find the hoe?’
    ‘Back in the shed, where it belonged. We spotted it because it matched what Cooper said about the weapon. The Bureau took about five