“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.
