The Hunter

“Nah. I mean, sorta, but not really. Lena came up to ours, to say she’d bring me in here to sign the statement yoke, ’cause my mam couldn’t do it, with the little ones. So I told her what I said to you just now, ’cause it was wrecking my head, and I figured she’d know what to do. I was thinking maybe I’d just tell you I made the whole thing up. Not say about my dad going out, like. Only…” Trey glances over at Lena again. “Lena said I oughta tell you the whole thing. She said if I left something out, you’d know, and then you wouldn’t believe a word outa my mouth.”

“Missus Dunne’s a wise lady,” Nealon says. “You did the right thing, telling me. Your daddy could’ve seen something while he was out there—maybe something that he doesn’t think was important, or else maybe his mate getting killed sent it right out of his head. But it could be something I need to know about.”

“I know he said he never went out,” Trey says. Her face is tightening again. “But my dad, he doesn’t…he’s scared of the Guards. I was as well, till I got to know Cal—Mr. Hooper. My dad was just worried, same as I was, if he told you he was out—”

“Listen to me, young one,” Nealon says. “Just shush a moment and listen. I’ll tell you something for nothing: you’ve done no harm to anyone except whoever killed that poor fella. And like you said, your da had no reason to do that.”

It’s the soothing, rock-solid voice that Lena uses with spooked horses. Nealon is ready and itching to arrest Johnny, and leave Trey to live with the knowledge that she put her dad in prison. Lena is fiercely, protectively glad that Cal is out of this job.

“Yeah,” Trey says eagerly. “I mean, no, he didn’t. He liked your man Rushborough, he never said a bad word about him, and if there was any trouble he’da said it to me—I’m the oldest one that’s still at home, see, so he trusts me, he talks to me—”

“Ah, here,” Nealon says, grinning and holding up a hand, “don’t start that again, for Jaysus’ sake. You’ll give the whole three of us the head-staggers. I’ll tell you what”—he glances up at the clock on the wall—“it’s headed for dinnertime, and I don’t know about yous two, but I’m starving. I can always come back to you for more details if I need them, but we’ll leave it here for today, will we?”

Lena knows what he’s at: he wants this signed and solid, before Trey has second thoughts. “Yeah,” Trey says, catching a sudden shaky breath. “That’d be good.”

“Listen to me, now,” Nealon says, suddenly serious. He taps the desk to get Trey’s attention. “I’m going to ask that nice fella out front to type up your statement, and then you’ll need to sign it. Like I said before, the minute you sign that, things change. That’s no joke; it’ll be a legal document that’s part of a murder investigation. If there’s anything going in there that’s not true, now’s the time to clear it up, or you could land yourself in serious trouble. D’you hear me?”

He sounds like a stern daddy, and Trey responds like a good kid, nodding hard and looking him in the eye. “I know. I get it. I swear.”

“No more surprises?”

“Nah. Promise.”

Her voice is steady, final. For a second Lena hears the deep note of that grief again, running underneath it.

Nealon only hears the certainty. “That’s great,” he says. “Well done.” He pushes his chair back from the desk. “Let’s get this typed up, and you can have a read of it, make sure your man doesn’t get anything wrong. How’s that? D’you want another Coke while you wait?”

“Yeah,” Trey says. “Yes please. And sorry.”

“You’re all right,” Nealon says. “Better late than never, wha’? Interview terminated at five-thirteen p.m.” He taps the recorder off and stands up, lifting his eyebrows at Lena. “I’m dying for a smoke—don’t you be following my example, young one, it’s a filthy aul’ habit. Missus Dunne, d’you fancy a breath of fresh air?”

“Might as well,” Lena says, taking the hint. She glances at Trey as she gets up, to make sure she’s all right being left, but Trey isn’t looking at her.

—

The Garda station is a small boxy building, painted a neat white and popped in among a cheerful line of macaron-colored houses. A bunch of little kids are hauling scooters up the slope of the road and freewheeling back down, yelling; a few mammies in a front garden are keeping an eye on them and laughing about something and wiping babies’ noses and stopping toddlers from eating dirt, all at once.

Nealon tilts his smoke packet at Lena, and grins when she shakes her head. “I reckoned,” he says, “if you smoked, you might not want the young one knowing. Thought fresh air was a safer offer.”

“I wouldn’t try hiding that from her,” Lena says. “She doesn’t miss much.”

“I got that, all right.” Nealon tips his head back to examine Lena—she’s taller than he is. “Helena Dunne,” he says. “Let’s see: Noreen Duggan’s your sister, and Cal Hooper’s your fella. Have I got that right?”

“That’s me,” Lena says. She leans back against the wall to shorten herself. “For their sins.”