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?”
