“The uniform didn’t say much,” Cal says, yanking up another carrot. “The detective seems like he knows his job.”
“And you’d be the man to spot that. Wouldja look at that, Sunny Jim: after all this time, you’re finally coming in useful.” Mart licks the rolling paper in one neat sweep. “I’m looking forward to having the chats with them. I never talked to a detective before, and you say we’ve got ourselves a fine specimen. Is he a countryman?”
“Dublin. According to the kid.”
“Ah, fuck’s sake,” Mart says in disgust. “I won’t be able to enjoy myself talking to him, if I’ve to listen to that noise the whole time. I’d rather have a tooth drilled.” His lighter isn’t working; he gives it a pained look, shakes it, and tries again, with more success. “Didja get any idea of what way he’s thinking?”
“This early on, probably he’s not thinking anything. And if he was, he wouldn’t tell me.”
Mart’s eyebrow lifts. “Would he not? And you a colleague?”
“I’m not a colleague,” Cal says. “I’m just another guy who could’ve done it. And I sure as hell won’t be a colleague once he hears about us fooling around in that river.”
Mart shoots him an amused glance. “Musha, God love you. Are you after getting yourself all in a tither about that bitta nonsense?”
“Mart,” Cal says, sitting back on his haunches. “They’re gonna find out.”
“Did you mention it to him, didja?”
“It didn’t come up,” Cal says. Mart’s grin widens. “But someone will, sooner or later.”
“D’you reckon?”
“Come on, man. This whole county knows Rushborough was looking for gold. Half of them have to know about us salting the river. Someone’s gonna say something.”
Mart smiles at him. “D’you know something,” he says, “you’re after settling in so well around here, sometimes I do forget you’re a blow-in. Sure, it feels like you’ve always been here.” He lets out a thin ribbon of smoke between his teeth. The air is so still that it hangs in front of him, slowly dissipating. “No one’ll say nothing about that, Sunny Jim. Not to the Guards. And if someone did…” He shrugs. “This townland’s a terrible place for the rumors. Everyone passing on what their auntie’s cousin’s missus said, adding a wee bitta decoration here and there to make it interesting…Stories do get terrible twisted up, along the way. Someone musta got the wrong end of the stick.”
“What if they check the story out, look for online purchases of gold delivered to this area in the last couple of weeks? You’re gonna pop right up.”
“I don’t trust them banks up in the Big Smoke,” Mart explains. “Sure, what with the Brexit and all, they could collapse any day. Any man of sense’d feel safer with some of his savings where he can put his hand on them. I’d recommend the same financial strategy to you, sunshine. The gold standard: you can’t beat it.”
“They’re gonna go through Rushborough’s phone. And Johnny’s.”
“God, ’tis great having the inside scoop,” Mart says admiringly. “I knew there was a reason we kept you around. I’ll tell you why I’m not worried about what might be on them phones. It’s ’cause them two fine examples of manhood weren’t just a pair of messers chancing their arm, like myself and the lads. Them two are professionals. They went about this the right way. Thorough-like.”
“Johnny never went about anything thorough-like in his life,” Cal says.
“Maybe not,” Mart agrees. “But your man Rushborough’d keep him up to the mark, all right. Johnny wouldn’t put a toe outa line around that gazebo. There’s nothing on them phones.”
His voice has a flat, gentle finality. “OK,” Cal says. “Maybe the Guards’ll never prove anything about the gold. But they’re gonna hear about it. Maybe not what Rushborough and Johnny were trying to pull, but what you and the guys were.”
“And yourself,” Mart reminds him. “Credit where credit’s due.”
“Whatever. Point is, either way, that’s motive for someone. Rushborough found out about the river, he was going to go to the cops, someone got scared and shut his mouth. Or someone found out about Rushborough’s scam and didn’t appreciate it.”
“Is that what you reckon happened?” Mart inquires.
“I didn’t say that. I said Nealon, the detective, he’s gonna be looking at that possibility.”
“The man’s welcome to look all he likes,” Mart says, with a magnanimous wave of his smoke, “and good luck to him. I wouldn’t wanta be in his shoes, but. He can have all the motive in the world, but it’s no good to him without a man on the other end. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, someone lets slip something about gold. Paddy Joe says he heard it from Michael Mór, and Michael Mór says it was Michael Beag that told him, and Michael Beag says it mighta been Pateen Mike that said it but he was six pints in so he couldn’t swear to it, and Pateen Mike says he got it from Paddy Joe. I’ll tell you one thing for certain: there won’t be a soul saying he was at that river, or can name a single man that was. If the gold is anything at all, it’ll be just one of them mad rumors that do spring up in a backward wee community the likes of this one. Morning mist, Sunny Jim, if you’re feeling poetical. The minute you try to nail it down, it turns to nothing.”
He mimes it, catching air and holding up an empty hand.
“Someone might have a motive, all right, but who would it be? Here we go round the mulberry bush, bucko, all on a sunny morning.”
Cal goes back to his carrots. “Maybe,” he says.
“Don’t be worrying your head,” Mart says. “Not about that, anyhow.” He drops his cigarette butt and grinds it out with the end of his crook. “Tell me something, Sunny Jim,” he says. “Just to satisfy the aul’ curiosity. Was it you that done it?”
“Nope,” Cal says, working his hand fork around a stubborn carrot. “If I was gonna whack anyone, it woulda been Johnny.”
“Fair enough,” Mart acknowledges. “To be honest with you, I’m amazed no one’s done that long ago. You never know your luck, but; it could happen yet. Was it the child?”
“No,” Cal says. “Don’t even go there.”
“I’ll admit I can’t see any reason why she woulda bothered her arse,” Mart says agreeably, ignoring his tone, “but you’d never know with people. I’ll take your word for it.”
“I oughta be asking you the same thing,” Cal says. “You said you were aiming to do something about Rushborough and Johnny and their con. Did you?”
Mart shakes his head. “You oughta know me better than that by now, bucko,” he says. “ ’Twouldn’t be my style at all, at all. I’m a man of diplomacy, so I am. Communication. There’s seldom any need for anything extreme, if you’ve the knack of getting your message across.”
“You oughta be a politician,” Cal says. He was just making a point; he doesn’t in fact suspect Mart. He can see Mart killing someone, but not until all the more economical options had been exhausted.
“D’you know,” Mart says, pleased, “I’ve often thought that myself. If ’twasn’t for the farm, I’d love to head for Leinster House and pit my wits against that shower. I’d back myself against that eejit outa the Greens with the prissy aul’ Mother Superior head on him, any day. That fucker hasn’t a clue.”
He bends over in installments, favoring his worse hip, to make a careful selection from the bucket. “I’d love for it to be Johnny,” he says. “Wouldn’t that be nice and tidy altogether? We could be rid of the two of them rapscallions, all in one go. No question about it: if I’d my pick, I’d go for Johnny.”