The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(21)

Most of the time, he was fine with that. But at that moment, lying in a pub room in Kiewarra, he wished he’d built a home a little more like Barb and Gerry Hadlers’ than one just like his father’s.

He was due back at work on Monday, but they knew he’d been at a funeral. He’d avoided saying whose. He could stay, he knew. He could take a few days. For Barb. For Ellie. For Luke, even. He’d built up more overtime and goodwill on the Pemberley case than he could use. His latest investigation was a slow burn at best.

Falk mulled it over, and another fifteen minutes passed. Finally, he picked up his phone and left a message for the financial division’s long-suffering secretary, informing her he’d be taking a week’s leave for personal reasons, effective immediately.

It was hard to say which of them was more surprised.





9


Jamie Sullivan had been at work for more than four hours by the time Falk and Raco tramped across his fields. He was on one knee, his bare hands deep in the dry dirt, checking the soil with scientific scrutiny.

“We’ll go into the house,” he said when Raco told him they had questions about Luke. “I need to check on my gran, anyways.”

Falk studied Sullivan as they followed him toward the low brick building. Late twenties, he had a dusting of straw-blond hair that was prematurely thinning at the crown. His torso and legs were wiry, but his arms were built like pistons, giving him the shape of an inverted triangle.

At the house, Sullivan led them into a cluttered hallway. Falk took off his hat and fought to keep the look of surprise off his face. Behind him, he heard Raco swear under his breath as his shin connected with a footstool lurking by the door. The hallway was chaotic. Every surface was crammed with ornaments and knickknacks gathering dust. Somewhere deep in the house, a television blared.

“It’s all Gran’s.” Sullivan answered the question that neither of them had asked out loud. “She likes them. And they keep her”—he considered—“present.”

He led them through to the kitchen where a birdlike woman was standing at the sink. Her blue-veined hands trembled under the weight of a filled kettle.

“All right there, Gran? Fancy a cuppa? Let me.” Sullivan hastily took the kettle from her.

The kitchen was clean but disorganized, and above the stove a large scorch mark stained the wall. The paint had blistered and was peeling away like an ugly gray wound. Mrs. Sullivan glanced at the three men and then back at the door.

“When’s your dad getting home?”

“He’s not, Gran,” Sullivan said. “He died, remember? Three years now.”

“Yes. I know.” It was impossible to tell whether she was surprised by the news or not. Sullivan looked at Falk and nodded toward a doorway.

“Could you take her through? I’ll be in in a minute.”

Falk could feel the bones through the loose skin of the old woman’s arm as she leaned on him. The living room felt claustrophobic after the brightness of the kitchen, and everywhere half-empty cups jostled with blank-eyed china figurines for precious space. Falk led the woman to a threadbare armchair near the window.

Mrs. Sullivan sat down shakily with an irritated sigh.

“You officers are here about Luke Hadler, are you? Don’t touch those,” she snapped as Raco went to move a pile of dog-eared newspapers from a chair. Her vowels carried a trace of an Irish lilt. “No need to look at me like that. I’m not completely daft yet. That fella Luke was round here, then went off and did away with his family, didn’t he? Why else would you be here? Unless our Jamie’s been up to something he shouldn’t.”

Her laugh sounded like a rusty gate.

“Not that we know of,” Falk said, exchanging a glance with Raco. “Did you know Luke well?”

“I didn’t know him at all. Other than he was friends with our Jamie. Came round from time to time. Gave him a hand on the farm.”

Sullivan came through carrying a tea tray. Ignoring his gran’s protests, he cleared a space on the sideboard and waved at Falk and Raco to sit down on the battered couch.

“Sorry about the mess,” Sullivan said, handing around cups. “It gets a bit tricky—” He glanced toward his gran and turned his focus instead to the teapot. He had shadows under his eyes that made him look older, Falk noticed. But he had a confidence about him, the way he took stock of the situation and managed the room. Falk could imagine him away from all of this, wearing a suit in a city office somewhere. Making six figures and blowing half of it on expensive wines.

Sullivan finished passing out the drinks and pulled up a cheap wooden chair. “So what do you want to know?”

“We’re tidying up one or two loose ends,” Raco said.

“For the Hadlers,” Falk added.

“Right. No worries. If it’s for Barb and Gerry,” Sullivan said. “But look, the first thing I want to say, and what I told the Clyde cops, is that if I’d known—if there’d been any suggestion that Luke was about to go off and do what he did—I’d never have let him leave. I want to say that straight off.”

He looked down and fiddled with his mug.

“Of course, mate. No one’s saying you could have stopped what happened,” Raco said. “But if you could run through it one more time, that would be helpful. So we can hear for ourselves. Just in case.”