He figures he got a decent balance between subordinate and civilian. He also figures Nealon is noting and analyzing that.

“Great,” Nealon says, giving him a colleague’s nod. “Fair play. And then you stayed on the scene till the uniforms got there?”

“Yeah. Stayed a few yards back, at my car.”

“Did you see anyone else while yous were up there?”

“Trey’s dad came past. Johnny Reddy.”

Nealon raises his eyebrows. “Ah, man, that’s some way to find out your friend’s dead. Was he all right?”

“He looked pretty shocked,” Cal says. Trey nods.

“He didn’t hang on with yous?”

“He headed off up the mountain.”

“We’ll be needing to talk to him,” Nealon says. “Did he say where he was off to?”

“He didn’t mention it,” Cal says.

“Ah, sure, in a place this size, we’ll run into him one way or t’other,” Nealon says comfortably. He drains the last of his tea and pushes his chair back from the table, glancing at the uniform to signal that they’re done. “Right; we might have a few more questions down the line, and you’ll need to come into the station in town and sign statements for me, but I’d say that’ll keep us going for now. Thanks for the tea, and for your time.” He hitches his suit trousers to a comfortable arc under his belly. “Would you walk out to the car with me, Mr. Hooper, just in case I think of anything else I meant to ask you?”

Cal doesn’t want a one-on-one with Nealon right now, before he’s had a chance to rearrange his thoughts. “Pleasure,” he says, getting up. Trey starts clearing the cups, prompt and deft as a waitress.

Outside, the heat has thickened. “Go on up to the car,” Nealon tells the uniform. “I’m gasping for a smoke.” The uniform strides off. His back looks self-conscious.

Nealon pulls out a packet of Marlboros and tilts it at Cal, who shakes his head. “Good man,” Nealon says. “I oughta quit, the missus is always on at me, but you know yourself.” He lights up and takes a deep, grateful drag. “D’you know that young one well?”

“Pretty well,” Cal says. “I’ve been here two years last spring; I do some carpentering, and she’s been helping me out most of that time, when school allows. Kid’s got a knack for it, figures she might go into it full-time when she finishes school.”

“Would you say she’s reliable?”

“I’ve always found her to be,” Cal says, considering this. “She’s a good kid. Steady-like, works hard, good head on her shoulders.”

He would love to say that Trey lies like a rug, but he doesn’t have that option. Regardless of what else Nealon does or doesn’t find, he now has one person who’s straight out admitted to being on the mountainside when and where Rushborough was dumped. If her story is made up, then from Nealon’s perspective—since he’s fortunate enough never to have heard of Brendan Reddy—she’s either shielding someone else, or shielding herself. Cal can’t tell whether Trey hasn’t thought through the implications of what she’s doing, or whether she understands them just fine and doesn’t give a shit.

“Would she be the type, let’s say, to imagine things?” Nealon asks. “Or make up a story for the drama, maybe? Or even do a bitta embroidering round the edges?”

Cal doesn’t have to put on the laugh. “Hell no. Kid’s got no time for that stuff. The most exciting story I’ve ever heard outa her is one time her math teacher threw a book at someone. That’s all the detail I got, too: ‘Mr. Whatsisname threw a book at this kid ’cause the kid was driving him mental, only he missed.’ Drama’s not her thing.”

“Well, that’s great,” Nealon says, smiling up at him. “That’s the witness you want, isn’t it? I’m blessed with her. Mostly in places like this, the back of beyond, they wouldn’t talk to the Guards if their lives depended on it.”

“The kid’s used to me,” Cal says. “That might have something to do with it.”

Nealon nods, apparently satisfied with this. “And tell us: will she stick to the story, wouldja say? Or will she get cold feet if it comes to going on the stand?”

“She’ll stick to it,” Cal says.

“Even if we land on one of her neighbors?”

“Yeah,” Cal says. “Even if.”

Nealon’s eyebrows jump. “Fair play to her.” He tilts his head to blow smoke up at the sky, away from Cal. “What about the accents? Is she right that you could tell this townland from the next one over?”

“So I’m told,” Cal says. “I can’t hear the difference, but my neighbor says the people across the river sound like a herd of donkeys, so he’s hearing something.”

“You’d still get that in places like this, I suppose,” Nealon says. “With the older people, anyway. Where I’m from, fuck me, half the kids talk like they’re straight off a plane from LA. At least that young one sounds Irish.” He nods backwards at the house and Trey. “Her da, what’s his name, Johnny? What’s the story on him?”

“I’ve only met him a few times,” Cal says. “He’s been in London since before I got here, just came back a couple of weeks ago. You’d get more outa the locals who knew him before.”

“Ah, yeah, I’ll be asking them. I’d value a professional opinion, but. He’s the only known associate the dead man had around here; I have to take an interest. What kind of fella is he?”

Nealon has decided that, for now anyway, Cal gets to be the local beat cop who helps out the investigation with his down-home on-the-ground knowledge. Cal is happy to play along with that. “Friendly enough guy,” he says, shrugging. “Sorta what you’d call a waster, though. Lotta talk, lotta smiles, no job.”

“I know the type well,” Nealon says, with feeling. “I’ll make sure I’ve a comfortable chair when I talk to him; that kind’d go on about himself till the cows come home. What about your man Rushborough? Was he the same?”

“I only met him a couple of times, too. He didn’t give me that good-for-nothing vibe; I heard he was some kinda rich businessman, but I don’t know if that’s true. Mostly he just seemed pretty jazzed about being here. He had a ton of stories from his gramma, he wanted to go see the places she talked about, he got all excited ’cause one guy turned out to be a third cousin.”

“I know that type, too,” Nealon says, grinning. “Mostly they’re Yanks like yourself; we wouldn’t get many Brits going all romantic about the Emerald Isle, but sure, there’s always exceptions. Were your people from round here as well, were they?”

“Nope,” Cal says. “No connection. Just liked the looks of Ireland and found a place I could afford.”

“How’re the locals treating you? They wouldn’t have a reputation for being what you’d call welcoming.”

“Huh,” Cal says. “They’ve been pretty neighborly to me. Not saying we’re bosom buddies or anything, but we’ve always got along fine.”

“That’s great to hear. We wouldn’t want them wrecking our good name altogether; as if murdering a tourist wasn’t bad enough.” Nealon has smoked his cigarette right down to the butt. He looks at the remains wistfully, and puts it out on the bottom of his shoe. “If this was your case,” he says. “Is there anyone in particular you’d have your eye on?”

Cal takes his time on that one. The uniform is sitting up very straight in the driver’s seat with his hands ready on the wheel, resolutely ignoring the rooks, who, delighted to have a fresh target, are jeering down at him and dropping acorns on the car.

“I’d be taking a look at Johnny Reddy,” he says. He doesn’t have much choice: Johnny is the right answer, and if this is a test, Cal needs to pass it.

“Yeah? Were there problems between himself and Rushborough?”

“Not that I saw. But, like you said, he’s the only known associate Rushborough had around here. I don’t know what kinda history they might’ve had over in London. I mean…” Cal shrugs. “I guess Rushborough could’ve pissed off someone else that bad in less’n a week here. Hooked up with someone’s girl, maybe, though he didn’t seem like the type. Like I told you, I was never Homicide; I’ve got no experience here. But I’d start with Johnny.”

“Ah, yeah, him o’ course,” Nealon says, waving his cigarette butt in dismissal, like he knows Cal can do better than that. “But apart from him. Anyone that’s a bit odd, we’ll say, anyone you wouldn’t want to meet on a dark road? The local mentaler, to make no bones about it. I know the young one said she heard four or five men, but even a mentaler might have friends, family, people that’d help him out when the shite hit the fan.”

“We don’t really have one to speak of,” Cal says. “Plenty of guys are a little bit odd around the edges, just from living alone too long, but I don’t think any of ’em are odd enough to whack a random tourist just ’cause they don’t like his looks.”

“An English tourist, but,” Nealon says, like the thought just struck him. “There’s always people that’d have strong feelings about the Brits, specially up here near the border. Anyone like that around the townland?”

Cal thinks that over. “Nope,” he says. “Everyone sings the occasional pub song that might not be too friendly about the English, I guess. I sing ’em myself, now that I’ve picked up some of the words.”

“Don’t we all, sure,” Nealon says, chuckling. “No, I’m talking about someone that’d be a lot more hard-core than that. Someone that’s giving out yards whenever the North comes on the news in the pub, or ranting on about what oughta be done to the royals, that kind of thing.”

Cal shakes his head. “Nah.”

“Ah, well. It was worth asking.” Nealon watches the rooks, who have worked their way up to jumping up and down on the roof of his car. Cal finds himself kind of flattered: the rooks may give him shit, but they won’t permit anyone else to take liberties. The uniform bangs on the roof, and they scatter. “Anything else I oughta know? Did your man Rushborough spend a lot of time with anyone in particular? Any problems over family history, maybe? An old feud, or a piece of land that went where it shouldn’t have?”

“Nope,” Cal says. “Not that I know of.” He has never outright obstructed an investigation before. There were times when no one put much effort into establishing who did what to some high-carat asshole who clearly deserved it, but that was by unspoken agreement; this is the first time he’s deliberately blocked another detective’s way. That sense of double vision has faded. He wonders how long it’ll take Nealon to spot that.

“Everything in the garden was rosy,” Nealon says. “If anything comes to you, let me know. Anything at all, even if it seems like it’d have no bearing—sure, you know yourself. Here’s my card. What happened there?” he inquires pleasantly and out of nowhere, pointing to his forehead.

“Slipped in the shower,” Cal says, tucking the card away in his pocket. He reckons there’s a solid chance that Johnny will explain his own face by painting Cal as a rabid psycho who probably murders innocent tourists for kicks, but he also reckons Nealon has been a cop too long to take some waster’s word about another cop, even when the waster’s story happens to have a grain of truth mixed in.

Nealon, field-stripping his cigarette onto the dirt, nods like he believes this, which maybe he does. “That’s when you need the good neighbors, man,” he says. “When there’s trouble; when things get that bit dicey. You could’ve knocked yourself out cold and laid there for days, wasting away, unless you had neighbors that’d look out for you. They’re a great thing to have.”

“One of the bonuses of being a carpenter,” Cal says. “Sooner or later, someone’s gonna come looking for their chair or what-have-you.”

“I’d better let you get back to your carpentry, so,” Nealon says, tucking his cigarette filter back in the packet, “before they come looking.” He holds out his hand. Cal has no choice but to shake, and sees Nealon’s glance flick to his battered knuckles. “We’ll keep you updated. Thanks again.”

He nods to Cal and stumps off towards the car. One of the rooks lands on the hood, looks the uniform in the eye, and takes a shit.

—

Trey has washed out the cups and gone back to the workshop, where she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor amid the carefully laid out pieces of chair, mixing stain colors and testing them on a leftover piece of the oak sleeper. “That went grand,” she says, glancing up at Cal.

“Yeah,” Cal says. “Told you.”

“Did he ask you anything else?”

“Just whether you were reliable. I said yeah.”

Trey goes back to her stain mixes. “Thanks,” she says gruffly.

Sometimes when Trey has Cal stymied, he asks Alyssa, who works with at-risk youths, for advice. She’s pointed him in the right direction plenty of times. This time he can’t even imagine where he would start.

“Where’s the guy from?” he asks. “I couldn’t place the accent.”

“Dublin. They think they’re great.”

“Are they?”

“Dunno. Never knew anyone from Dublin. He didn’t seem that great.”

“Don’t make that mistake,” Cal says. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Trey shrugs, carefully brushing wood stain onto the sleeper.

Cal says, “Kid.” He has no idea what should come next. What he wants to do is slam the door so hard she jumps out of her skin, rip the paintbrush out of her hand, and roar in her face till he gets it into her damn head what she’s done to the safe place he busted his ass to build for her.

Trey lifts her head and looks at him. Cal reads her unblinking stare and the set of her chin, and knows he’ll get nowhere. He doesn’t want to hear her lie to him, not about this.

“I done a load of these,” she says. “Look.”

She’s gone all out: nine or ten perfect stripes of subtly different shades. Cal takes a breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Good work. This one and this one here, they look like pretty close matches. We’ll take another look once they dry. You want some lunch?”

“I oughta go home,” Trey says. She presses the lid back onto the wood-stain tin. “My mam’ll be worrying. She’ll know about Rushborough by now.”

“You can phone her.”

“Nah.”

She’s turned unreachable again. Her ease with Cal up on the mountainside was just a brief respite she allowed herself, before she bent her back to the task she’s chosen. That, or else it was her making sure she could stay with him until she’d told her story to Nealon unhindered. He can’t be sure, any more, what she’s capable of. When he thought she had none of the artifice other teenagers develop, he was wrong again. She’s just been saving it, and tailoring it, for when it matters.

“OK,” he says. He wants to lock the doors, board up the windows, barricade the two of them in here until he can make the kid grow a working brain or at least until all this is done and gone. “We’ll clean up here, and I’ll drive you.”