The Hunter

“They could, yeah,” Nealon agrees. “I’m not ruling it out. All I’m saying is, if they followed him over here from London and then found their way all round that mountain in the dead of night, fair play to them.”

“There’s that,” Cal says. “Anything on his phone?” He’s had this conversation so many times that it comes to him with the effortlessness of muscle memory. Whether he likes it or not, it feels good to be doing something that comes easily and well. This is why Nealon is telling him too much: to shape him back into a cop, or remind him that he was one all along. Nealon, just like the guys in the pub, is aiming to put Cal to use.

Nealon shrugs. “Not a lot. It’s a burner, only a few weeks old—I’d say Blake started fresh every coupla months. And he didn’t use texts, or WhatsApp; he was too cute to put anything in writing. Plenty of calls back and forth with the London lads, and plenty with Johnny Reddy, including a couple of long ones the day before he died—according to Johnny, they were having a chitchat about what sights to go see.” The wry twitch of his mouth says he’s not convinced. “And two missed calls from Johnny the morning you found him. When he was already dead.”

“Johnny’s no dummy,” Cal says. “If he killed someone, he’d have the sense to leave missed calls on their phone.”

Nealon cocks an eyebrow at him. “Your money’s still on Johnny?”

“I don’t have money in this game,” Cal says. “All I’m saying is, for me, those calls wouldn’t rule Johnny out.”

“Ah, God, no. He’s in the mix, all right. So are a lot of people, but.”

Cal has no intention of asking. His best guess, if he had to make one, is that Trey was accidentally sort of right: one or more of the guys killed Blake and dumped him on the mountain road for Johnny to find, assuming that Johnny would dispose of him in the nearest convenient bog or ravine and then take off running. Only, before he could do that, Trey came along.

They sit watching Rip streak zigzags across the back field, leaping and snapping for the swallows. Nealon sways the rocking chair in easy, unhurried arcs.

“He ever catch one?” he asks.

“He’s caught a few rats,” Cal says. “He’d give a lot to catch a rook, with all the shit they give him, but I don’t think much of his chances.”

“You never know, man,” Nealon says, wagging a finger. “Don’t write him off. He’s got the persistence, anyhow. I’m a big believer in the aul’ persistence.”

The swallows, unworried by Rip’s persistence, loop blithely above his head like he’s been put there for their enjoyment. Cal would bet Nealon wants a smoke with his beer, but he hasn’t asked permission; he’s being the perfect guest, not presuming on Cal’s hospitality. Cal doesn’t offer. He isn’t aiming to be the perfect host.

“We got the postmortem results back,” Nealon says. “Your man Blake died somewhere between midnight and two in the morning, give or take. He took a fierce belt from a hammer, or something like it, to the back of his head. That would’ve probably done the job on its own, over an hour or two, only it didn’t get the chance. Someone stabbed him three times in the chest. Got the heart, boom, finished him off inside a minute.”

“That woulda taken some strength,” Cal says.

Nealon shrugs. “A bit, yeah. A little kid couldn’t’ve done it. But Blake was out cold, remember. Our fella had plenty of time to pick his spot, lean on the knife to get it through the muscle. You wouldn’t need to be a great big bodybuilder.” He takes another swig of beer and grins. “Imagine that: a bad bastard like Blake, getting taken out by some scrawny little bollox from the arse-end of nowhere. You’d be scarlet for him.”

“I bet he never saw that coming,” Cal agrees. He thinks of Blake in the pub, the arrogant sweep of his eyes around the alcove, faintly amused by the halfwit peasants who believed they had the reins. It strikes him that he’s hardly thought about Blake once since he walked away from the body. Alive, the guy spread through the whole townland like poison through water. Now it feels like he barely even existed; all that’s left of him is hassle.

“So that does fuck-all to narrow things down,” Nealon says. “One thing that’s going to help, but: the man was a bleedin’ mess. Covered in trace evidence: dirt, fibers, bits of plants, bits of insect, cobwebs, rust flakes, coal dust. Some of it was stuck to the blood, so it got there after he was kilt. And not all of it came from the place where you found him.”

“I figured he was moved,” Cal says. And, when Nealon raises an inquiring eyebrow: “It didn’t look like there was enough blood.”

“Once a cop,” Nealon says, giving him a nod. “You were bang on.”

“Well,” Cal says, “that fits with what the kid saw.”