“There we go. Sorted and ready for the detectives; they can come whenever they like, now. Aren’t you great, coming straight back to tell me?”
“Prob’ly,” Trey says. She knows he’ll be grand talking to the detectives. Her dad isn’t a fool; he’s well able to do a good job, as long as there’s someone with more focus to keep him moving along the right track. Trey has focus.
“One more thing,” Johnny says. “While we’re at it. D’you remember I went out for a walk, last night after the dinner? Just to clear the head?”
“Yeah.”
Johnny wags a finger at her. “No I didn’t. We don’t know what time Mr. Rushborough died, do we? For all we know, it coulda been while I was out and about, with no one to vouch for me but the birds. And we don’t want that detective fella taking any notions into his head, wasting his time and letting a murderer get away. So I was home all evening, clearing up after the dinner and watching the telly. Have you got that?”
“Yeah,” Trey says. She approves of this. Her dad being suspected would get in her way. “Didja say it to Mam and the little ones?”
“I did. That’s all done and dusted and ready for action. It’ll be no bother to you; the whole lot of ye are as sharp as a handful of brand-new shiny tacks, isn’t that right?”
“Alanna might get mixed up,” Trey says. “I’ll tell her not to go talking to the detective. Just act scared of him.”
Her dad winks at her. “Brilliant. She can hide away in her mammy’s skirts and not say a word. Much easier for the child than trying to remember this, that, and t’other. Oh, and come here till I tell you,” he says, snapping his fingers as he remembers. “I’ve your man Hooper’s camera for you; I put it inside, in your room. That’s where I went this morning, after I saw you. I knew you wouldn’t want Hooper mixed up in this, so I went and got that camera before the Guards could find it. You hang on to it for a few days and then give it back to him, nice and casual-like, tell him you finished your school yoke. Don’t be worrying; I deleted everything from the river.”
“Right,” Trey says. “Thanks.”
“So everything’s tickety-boo,” Johnny says merrily. “Not for poor Mr. Rushborough, o’ course, God rest his soul,” he adds as an afterthought, crossing himself. “But we’re right as rain. The detective’ll have his wee chats, he’ll hear nothing interesting, and away he’ll go to annoy some other poor feckers. And them lads that called round the other night won’t be bothering us any more. All sorted: we’ll live happy ever after.”
His plan to keep the family in luxury appears to have conveniently erased itself from his mind, overwritten by this new set of circumstances and their demands. Trey, who took it for granted that this would happen one way or another, is still impressed by the thoroughness of it. She’s shifted goals herself a few times in the past couple of weeks, but she still remembers the old ones existed.
The thought reminds her. “Do you still have to pay back that money?” she asks.
“Rushborough’s few bob?” Johnny laughs. “That’s gone. Dust in the wind. I’m free as a bird.”
“His mates won’t come looking?”
“Jesus, no. They’ll have enough on their plates. More than enough.” He gives her a big reassuring smile. “Don’t you worry your little head about that.”
Trey says, “So are you gonna leave?”
Johnny rears back reproachfully. “What are you on about?”
“Now that you don’t need to pay Rushborough back. And no one’s gonna put their money into the gold, with him gone.”
Johnny comes closer and crouches, hands on her shoulders, to be face-to-face with her. “Ah, sweetheart,” he says. “Would I leave you and your mammy to deal with the big bold detectives all by yourselves? God, no. I’m staying right here, as long as ye need me.”
Trey translates this without effort: if he does a runner now, it’ll look suspicious. She’s stuck with him until the detectives have done their work. This doesn’t bother her as much as it would have a few days ago. At least now, for once in his life, the fucker looks like coming in useful. “Right,” she says. “Grand.”
He’s looking at her like the conversation isn’t over. It occurs to Trey that he’s waiting for her to ask if he killed Rushborough. She reckons he might have—he was afraid for his life of that fella, but it didn’t take any guts to hit the man from behind—but she assumes he would lie if she asked, and it makes no difference to her either way. She just hopes that, if he did it, he had the brains not to leave anything for the detective to find. She looks back at him.
“Ah, sweetheart, you look wrecked,” Johnny says, tilting his head sympathetically. “You musta got an awful shock, finding him like that. D’you know what you need? You need a good sleep. Go inside and get your mammy to make you a nice bitta lunch and tuck you into bed.”
