“I live here,” Cal says. “That’s what I do now. Once you’ve packed up and gone, I still gotta live here.”

He never considered doing differently, but saying the words hits home in a way he wasn’t expecting. It’s not that he wants his cop life back; that’s gone and done with, and he doesn’t regret it. But somehow he seems to have spent the last while cutting himself off from everyone round him. If this goes on, he’ll wind up a hermit, holed up in this house with no one to talk to but Rip and the rooks.

“No problem,” Nealon says easily. He’s too experienced to keep pushing when he’ll get nowhere. “Had to give it a shot.” He settles back in the rocking chair, shifting it to turn his other cheek to the sun. “Jaysus, the heat. If I don’t watch myself, I’ll go home looking like a lobster. The missus won’t know me.”

“It’s some sun,” Cal agrees. He doesn’t believe in Nealon’s missus. “I was thinking about shaving off my beard, till everyone pointed out I’d be two-toned.”

“You would, all right.” Nealon examines Cal’s face, letting his eyes move leisurely over the bruises, which have faded to faint yellow-green shadows. “Why’d you fight Johnny Reddy?” he inquires.

Cal recognizes the shift as the conversation switches track. He’s felt it plenty of times before, but then he was always the one pulling the lever. Nealon’s making a point: Cal can be a cop, or he can be a suspect. Just like the guy said, he’s rattling cages.

“I didn’t fight anyone,” he says. “I’m a guest in this country. I mind my manners.”

“Johnny says different. So does his face.”

Cal has pulled this one too often to fall for it. “Well,” he says, lifting an eyebrow, “then you best ask him the reason.”

Nealon grins, unabashed. “Nah. Johnny says he fell down the mountain drunk.”

“Then he probably did.”

“I saw your knuckles, the other day. They’ve healed now.”

Cal glances down at his knuckles, bemused. “They might’ve been scraped up,” he agrees. “My hands mostly are. Goes with the job.”

“It would, yeah,” Nealon acknowledges. “How’s Johnny treat Theresa?”

“He treats her OK,” Cal says. He expected this, and he’s a long way from feeling any need to worry. He’s on guard, but he was that anyway. “He’s not gonna win any Father of the Year awards, but I’ve seen a lot worse.”

Nealon nods like he’s giving this some deep thought. “What about Blake?” he asks. “How’d he treat her?”

Cal shrugs. “Far as I know, he never said two words to her.”

“As far as you know.”

“If she had any hassle with him, she’d’ve told me.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You’d never know with teenagers. Blake seem like the type that might take an interest in teenage girls?”

“He didn’t run around wearing a badge that said pervert,” Cal says. “That’s as much as I can tell you. I hardly saw the guy.”

“You saw enough of him to spot he was dodgy,” Nealon points out.

“Yep. That wasn’t hard.”

“No? Anyone else spot it?”

“No one mentioned anything,” Cal says. “But I doubt I was the only one. When I moved here, I didn’t bring up what I used to do, but people made me for a cop inside a week. I’d bet good money that some of ’em, at least, made Blake.”

Nealon considers that. “They might’ve,” he agrees. “No one’s said a bad word about the man, but like we said, they’re slippery, down here—or careful, if you want to put it that way. Even if they made him, though, why would they want to kill him? They’d just stay outa the dodgy fucker’s way.”

Nealon could be testing, but Cal doesn’t think he is. Just like Mart predicted, no one has said a word about any gold. “Most likely,” he says. “That’s what I did.”

Nealon smiles at Cal. “GPS works grand down here on the flat,” he assures him, “away from the trees. If I have to check out your phone, you’ll have nothing to worry about, as long as you stayed home that night.”

“I was here,” Cal says. “All evening and all night, till Trey came round in the morning. But if I’d been out killing anyone, I’da left my phone at home.”

“You would, o’ course,” Nealon agrees. He arranges his legs more comfortably and takes a pleasurable swig of his beer. “I’ll tell you one interesting thing I’ve got from the phone tracking,” he says. “I managed to get a warrant for Johnny’s records, seeing as he was the closest known associate. My man Johnny says he was at home all day and all night, before Blake was found. The whole family says the same. Johnny’s phone says different, but. During the day, it did what phones do on the mountain, all right: bounced around from this side to that side to the bleedin’ Arctic Circle. But in the evening, he was racking up the Fitbit steps big-time. He headed down off the mountain, he passed by here—didja see him?”

“Nope,” Cal says. “We’re not on dropping-in terms.”

“I got that, yeah.” Nealon’s eyes flick to Cal’s bruises one more time. “Johnny spent a good while over at Mrs. Lena Dunne’s place. That’s your fiancée, isn’t that right?”

“Yep,” Cal says. “Unless she smartens up.”

Nealon laughs. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ve met her other options. Did she see Johnny that evening?”

“She didn’t mention it,” Cal says. “Ask her.”

“I will,” Nealon assures him. “Give me a chance, man; I’ll get to her.”

“From what you say,” Cal points out, “Blake didn’t die in the evening.”

“Ah, no. And Johnny never went near his place, anyway. But once someone lies to me, I’m interested. And…” He points his glass at Cal. “You mentioned Johnny passing by, while you were hanging on with the body for the uniforms to show up. Guess where he went after he left yous.”

Cal shakes his head.

“He says he went for a walk, to clear his head from the terrible shock. Musha, God love him.” Nealon raises his eyes to heaven. “Where he went was down to Blake’s Airbnb. He spent about fifteen minutes there, and then his phone started doing the mountainy dance again, so it looks like he legged it home. He’s got no key to Blake’s that we know of, but there’s a spare under a rock by the door, right where anyone would look for it. So that’s another lie.” He gives Cal a meaningful look.

“Doesn’t mean he’s your guy,” Cal says, not biting. He’s not dumb enough to push Johnny on Nealon, even if he wanted to. “Blake coulda had something Johnny didn’t want you getting your hands on. Another phone, maybe.”

Nealon cocks his head at Cal, curious. “I thought Johnny had your vote.”

“I don’t have a vote,” Cal says.

“Well,” Nealon says, rocking peacefully, “even if he’s not my fella, I reckon he knows something. Maybe he saw someone while he was out wandering, or maybe Blake mentioned he was meeting someone, or had words with someone. Johnny’s being smooth with me—saw nothing, heard nothing—but he’s keeping something back, all right. I’ll get him talking. He should be easy enough to shake up; he has to know he’s in my sights.”

Cal nods agreeably. Nealon has moved on. If Cal’s not interested in being a mole, and not fazed by being a suspect, he can still come in useful. Nealon is handing him the scraps of bait that he wants scattered around the townland, to get those cages rattling. He wants it out there that he’ll be able to match Rushborough to a crime scene or a dump vehicle, that he’s tracking phones, that Johnny knows something, and that he’s going to spill it.

“Johnny likes talking,” he says. “Good luck.”

“I’ll take that. Well,” Nealon says, slapping his leg, “I’m not getting paid to sit here enjoying myself. Time to go ruffle some feathers.” He drains his glass and stands up. “I’ll need you and the young one to come into the station and sign your statements. At your own convenience, o’ course.”

“Sure,” Cal says. “I’ll find out when she’s free over the next coupla days, get her in there.”

“Make sure she knows,” Nealon says. “Once it’s in writing, it’s a different ball game. No going back.”

“She’s no dummy,” Cal says.

“I got that, yeah.” Nealon tugs his shirt straight over his belly. “If she was lying,” he says. “To shield her da, say. Or whoever else. What would you do about it?”

“Jeez, man,” Cal says, grinning at him like it’s a big joke. “Do I need to get a lawyer down here?”

“That depends,” Nealon says, just like Cal has said it a thousand times, grinning right back. “Is there a reason you’d need one?”

“I’m American, man,” Cal says, holding the grin. “It’s our national motto. When in doubt, lawyer up.”

“Thanks for the beer,” Nealon says. He swings his jacket over his arm and stands looking at Cal. “I’d bet a few bob that you were a good detective,” he says. “I’d’ve liked to have had the pleasure of working with you.”

“Likewise,” Cal says.

“We might still get the chance, one way or another. You never know your luck.” Nealon squints out into the field at Rip, who’s zigzagged himself dizzy and is staggering in circles, still jumping for the swallows. “Look at that,” he says. “Persistence. He’ll get one yet.”

—

“Tell me, Sunny Jim,” Mart says the next day, when he shows up at Cal’s door with a lettuce to repay Cal for the carrots—Mart has never shown any inclination to repay Cal for anything before. “What did the sheriff want with you?”

“He wanted to stir shit,” Cal says. He’s had it with dancing around things. The level of subtlety around here is pretty near bringing him out in hives, and if he’s a foreigner, he has every right to act foreign. “And he wanted me to help him. I’m not planning to oblige.”

“He’ll do grand without you,” Mart informs him. “He’s stirring plenty of shite all by himself, not a bother on him. D’you know what he’s after doing? He spent three hours this morning badgering poor Bobby Feeney. That’s dirty, so ’tis. Dirty warfare. ’Tis one thing going after the likes of me, that can enjoy a bitta give-and-take; ’tis another leaving a great soft eejit like Bobby practically in tears, thinking he’s about to be arrested for murder and no one to look after the mammy.”

“The guy’s doing his job,” Cal says. “He’s gonna go after the weakest link.”

“Weakest link, me arse. There’s nothing wrong with Bobby, once you let him go about his business and don’t be wrecking his head. We’d take the almighty piss outa him ourselves, but that doesn’t mean the likes of this fella has the right to swan in from the Big Smoke and upset him. Senan’s bulling, so he is.”

“Senan better get used to it,” Cal says. “Nealon’s gonna keep right on hassling whoever he wants.”

“ ’Tisn’t only Senan,” Mart says. His eyes are level on Cal’s. “There’s a loada people around here that aren’t happy campers at all, at all.”

“Then they all better get used to it,” Cal says. He understands what he’s being told. Mart said no one would hold this business against Trey, but that was before there was a dead body and a detective to be reckoned with. Cal knows, better than Mart does, how inexorably and tectonically a murder investigation shifts everything in its path. “You can thank whoever went and killed Rushborough.”

“Foolish fuckin’ thing to do,” Mart says with deep disapprobation. “I can see why someone would want to bang that shitemonger over the head, mind you; I’m not faulting anyone for that. I wanted to myself. But ’twas fucking foolish to do it.”

His indignation has cooled; he stands mulling it over. “This wee caper’s after letting me down something fierce,” he informs Cal. “I was expecting a nice bitta crack to while away the summer, and now look at the state of us.”

“You said it was gonna be interesting times,” Cal reminds him.

“I didn’t bargain for this fuckin’ level of interesting. ’Tis like ordering a nice curry and getting one of them ghost pepper yokes that’d blow the head clean off you.” Mart ruminates, squinting over at the rooks, who are huddled in their oak tree bitching raucously about the heat. “And apparently the man still isn’t stirring enough shite for his own liking,” he says, “if he’s trying to get you on board. What does that mean, now, Sunny Jim? Would it mean his investigation’s going nowhere? Or would it mean he’s on a trail, and he’s looking for something to back him up?”

“I got no fucking idea what it means,” Cal says. “Mostly I’ve only got half an idea what any of you guys mean, and I’m too worn out from getting that far to have any brainpower left over for this guy.”

Mart giggles like he thinks Cal’s kidding. “Tell me this much, anyhow,” he says. “The sheriff doesn’t seem like the kind that gives up easy. If he gets nowhere, I wouldn’t bank on him scuttling back to Dublin with his tail between his legs. Am I right or am I right?”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Cal says. “Not till he gets what he’s after.”

“Well,” Mart says, smiling at Cal, “we’ll have to give the poor man a hand, so. We can’t have him cluttering up the place forever, upsetting the weak links left and right.”

“I’m not giving anybody a hand with anything,” Cal says. “I’m out.”

“We’d all like to be that, Sunny Jim,” Mart says. “Enjoy the lettuce. I do mix up a bitta mustard and vinegar and shake it all about, but that’s not to everyone’s taste.”

—

Johnny runs out of smokes and sends Trey down to Noreen’s for more. This time she doesn’t argue. Maeve exaggerates, and she’d say anything she thinks their dad wants to hear. Trey wants to test the feel of the village for herself.

From outside the shop she can already hear Long John Sharkey’s voice, raised and belligerent: “…in my own fuckin’ house…” When she pushes the door open, he’s at the counter with Noreen and Mrs. Cunniffe, hunched close. At the ding of the bell, all three of them turn.

Trey nods at their blank faces. “Hiya,” she says.

Long John straightens up off the counter and moves forward, blocking her way. “There’s nothing here for you,” he says.

Long John isn’t long—he got the name because he has a stiff knee where a cow kicked him—but he’s built like a bull, with the same bad, pop-eyed stare. People are intimidated by him, and he knows it. Trey used to be. Now she takes the look on him as a good sign.

“Need milk,” she says.

“Then get it somewhere else.”

Trey doesn’t move.

“I’ll decide who comes in my shop,” Noreen snaps.

Long John doesn’t take his eyes off Trey. “Your fuckin’ father needs a few fuckin’ skelps,” he says.

“She didn’t pick her father,” Noreen tells him tartly. “Go on home, before that butter melts on you.”

Long John snorts, but after a moment he shoulders past Trey and bangs out the door, setting the bell jangling.