The Hunter

Nealon doesn’t bite on that. “And,” he says, “you know what all that trace means, yeah? When we find the place where he was killed, or the car he was moved in, we should have no trouble showing a match.” His eyes skim leisurely across Cal’s back yard, pausing for a second with mild interest on the shed. “The problem’s pinning them down. Sure, you know yourself, I can’t just get a warrant to search every building and every car in the townland. I need a nice little bitta probable cause.”

“Damn,” Cal says. “Long time since I heard those two words. I don’t miss ’em one bit.”

Nealon laughs. He stretches out his legs and lets out something between a sigh and a groan. “Jaysus, this is great. I needed a break. This place is doing my head in.”

“They take some getting used to,” Cal says.

“I’m not talking about the people, man. I’m well used to bog monsters. I’m talking about the actual place. If this fella had got himself killed in a city, or even a half-decent town, I could’ve tracked his every move, and yours, and everyone else’s, off your phones. Sure, you’ve done it yourself. Easy as watching a game of Pac-Man, these days.” Nealon mimes with his fingers in the air. “Beep-beep-beep, here comes Blake, beep-beep-beep, here comes one of them ghost yokes to eat him all up; beep-beep-beep, here comes me with my handcuffs to take the ghost yoke away. In this place, but…” He casts his eyes up to heaven. “Christ al-bleedin’-mighty. There’s fuck-all reception. There’s fuck-all wi-fi. The GPS works grand until you get too close to the mountain, or in among trees, and then it loses the plot altogether. I know Blake was somewhere near his cottage till around midnight, and after that, fuck me. He’s halfway up this side of the mountain, a minute later he’s on the other side, then he’s back, then he’s halfway to Boyle…That goes on all fuckin’ night long.”

He shakes his head and consoles himself with a swig of his beer. “Once I get a decent line on a suspect,” he says, “I can try tracking him, but it’ll be no better. And that’s if the fella even brought his phone along. Nowadays, with all the CSI, they know more about forensics than I do.”

“One time I pulled in this guy that broke into a house,” Cal says. “Kid had watched way too many cop shows. Started giving me a hard time about whether I had his DNA, fibers, I don’t know what-all. I showed him his dumb ass on CCTV running away. He said that’s from the back, you can’t prove it was me. I said yeah, but see that bystander watching you run? You’re reflected in his cornea. We enhanced the image and matched it to the biometric data from your mug shot. Dumb shit folded like origami.”

That gets a great big laugh out of Nealon. “Jaysus, that’s beautiful. It’d be great if this one turned out to be that thick, but…” He’s stopped laughing. Instead he sighs. “If he was, I’d have a line on him by now. But we’ve talked to every man in this townland, and not one of ’em jumps out at me.”

Cal says, knowing he’s taking the bait, “You’re sticking to this townland?”

Nealon’s eyes flick to him for a second, intrigued and assessing. “Theresa Reddy’s story checks out,” he says. “As far as I can check it, anyway. Her da says he heard voices and heard her going out that night, but he thought she just snuck out meeting some pals, so he left her to it. The ma says she heard nothing, but she remembers Johnny sitting up in bed like he was listening to something, and then lying back down again. And my lads found another kid, round by Kilhone, who says she saw headlights going up the mountain and stopping halfway.”

“Well,” Cal says. “That should help narrow things down.”

“You could still be right about Johnny,” Nealon reassures him. “He could have pals that’d be willing to come help him move a body, if the shit hit the fan. And himself and the missus could be lying their arses off. Theresa didn’t check if her daddy was in his bed before she went out.”

“You get any tire tracks?” Cal asks. “Footprints?”

“Ah, yeah. Both, all round where the body was found. Only little bits of them here and there, but; not enough to get a match. Those bleedin’ sheep got rid of the rest. And with the weather the way it’s been, we can’t tell which tracks were fresh and which were there for days. Weeks, even.” He reaches down for his glass. “Dublin may not be this good-looking, but at least there I don’t have to worry about sheep trampling my evidence.”

He laughs, and Cal laughs along.

“So Theresa’s story holds,” Nealon says, “so far. And it’s great to have things narrowed down to Ardnakelty. But not one man in the place admits to being up that mountain.”

“I’d be more surprised if they did,” Cal says. “Guilty or innocent.”

Nealon snorts. “True enough. And sure, it’s early days. I’m only after doing the preliminary stuff. I haven’t gone at anyone hard; it’s all been the tippy-toes and the nice light touch.” He smiles at Cal. “Time to start rattling the cages.”