He can see that she’s read it, but it takes a minute before she texts back.
They eat in more silence. By the time they move into the workshop, Cal has made the decision that he’s not going to tell the detectives anything about gold, at least not yet. He wants to keep himself clear of this tangle, leaving himself free to step into any role Trey needs him to play, once he figures out what that might be.
This should be doable. The Guards are bound to find out at least the surface layer or two of the gold story, but when it comes to details, they’re going to run into trouble. Cal has experience of the impressive thoroughness with which Ardnakelty, when it’s motivated, can generate confusion. The detectives will be lucky if they ever get a solid sense of what the fuck was going on, let alone who was involved. And Cal, as an outsider, has every right to be oblivious to local business. In the ordinary run of things, he would have heard some vague bullshit story about gold, mixed in with Mossie’s fairy hill and what-have-you, and paid it no particular heed. He misses the ordinary run of things.
It’s almost lunchtime, and they’re drilling dowel holes, when Banjo’s ears prick up, Rip lets out a furious cascade of howls, and both dogs head for the door. “Cops,” Trey says, her head going straight up like she’s been waiting for this. She gets up off the floor and takes a breath and a quick shake, like a boxer going into the ring.
Cal is hit by the sudden, urgent sense that he’s missed something. He wants to stop her, call her back, but it’s too late. All he can do is dust himself down and follow her.
Sure enough, when they reach the front door, there’s an obtrusively discreet unmarked car aligning itself tidily next to the Pajero. Two men are sitting up front.
“They’re just gonna want to hear how you found him,” Cal says, blocking the dogs’ exit with a foot. “For now. Talk clearly, take your time if you need to think back. If you don’t remember something or you’re not sure, just say so. That’s all. Nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not worried,” Trey says. “It’s grand.”
Cal doesn’t know whether, or how, to tell her that that’s not necessarily true. “This guy’s gonna be from Homicide,” he says, “or whatever they call it here. He’s not gonna be like that uniform from town who gives you shit when you play hooky too often.”
“Good,” Trey says, with feeling. “Your man’s a fuckin’ dildo.”
“Language,” Cal says, but he’s saying it automatically. His eyes are on the man getting out of the passenger door. The guy is around Cal’s age, squat and short-legged enough that he must have to get his suit pants taken up, with a bouncy, cheerful walk. He’s brought along one of the beefcake twins, presumably to take notes and leave his full attention free.
“I’ll be mannerly,” Trey assures him. “Just watch.” Cal doesn’t feel reassured.
The detective is called Nealon. He’s got scrubby graying hair and a lumpy, humorous face, and he looks like a guy who would run a prosperous mom-and-pop business, maybe a hardware store. Cal has no doubt that he knows how to use that look: the guy is no dummy. He makes nice with Rip and Banjo till they settle down, and then accepts a cup of tea so he can take a seat at the kitchen table and make small talk with Cal and Trey while they prepare it, giving himself a chance to place them. Cal sees his glance skim Trey’s outgrown jeans and non-haircut, and slaps down the urge to tell Nealon straight out that this is no neglected delinquent, this is a good kid on a good path, with respectable people at her back to make sure no one fucks with her.
Trey is doing a fine job of establishing her respectability all by herself. She’s being what Cal considers suspiciously polite: asking Nealon and the uniform whether they take milk, laying out cookies on a plate, giving full-sentence answers to the bullshit questions about school and weather. Cal would give a lot to know what she’s playing at.
He himself, he knows, is harder to place, and the bruises won’t help. Nealon asks where he’s from and how he likes Ireland, and he gives the practiced, pleasant answers that he gives everyone. He’s leaving his occupation unmentioned for a while, so he can see how this guy operates in its absence.
“Now,” Nealon says, once they’ve all got acquainted with their tea and cookies. “You’ve had some day already, yeah? And it’s not even lunchtime. I’ll try and make this quick enough.” He smiles at Trey, sitting across from him. The uniform has faded off to the sofa and taken out a notebook and pen. “D’you know who that fella was, that you found?”
“Mr. Rushborough,” Trey says readily. She’s even sitting up straight. “Cillian Rushborough. My dad knew him from London.”
“So he’s over here visiting your daddy?”
