The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(27)

“Hey, what are you still doing here? I thought you’d left.” She was frowning and smiling at the same time. She reached out as she spoke and touched his elbow. He felt a pang of guilt. He should have let her know.

“We were having a word with Scott Whitlam,” he said. “The principal.”

“Yeah, I know who Scott is. I’m on the school board. I mean, what are you doing in Kiewarra?”

Falk looked past her. A gaggle of mums had their heads turned toward them, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He took Gretchen’s arm and turned slightly so their backs were to the group.

“It’s a bit complicated. The Hadlers asked me to look into what happened with Luke.”

“You’re kidding. Why? Has something come up?”

Falk had a powerful urge to blurt out the whole story. About Ellie, the alibi, the lies. The guilt. Gretchen was part of the original foursome. She was a balancing force. The light to Ellie’s dark, the calm to Luke’s craziness. She would understand. Over her shoulder, the mums were still watching.

“It’s about the money,” Falk said with a sigh. He gave her a watered-down version of Barb Hadler’s concerns. Bad debts gone wrong.

“Jesus.” She blinked, still for a moment as she processed the information. “You think there’s anything in it?”

Falk just shrugged. The conversation with Whitlam had thrown some new light on the suggestion. “We’ll see. But do me a favor and keep it to yourself for now.”

Gretchen frowned. “It might be too late for that. Word’s gone round that some cops were at Jamie Sullivan’s earlier.”

“Christ, how’d that get out already?” Falk asked, knowing the answer. Small town, fast gossip. Gretchen ignored the question.

“Just tread lightly.” She reached out and brushed away a fly that had settled on Falk’s shoulder. “People are wound up pretty tight at the moment. It wouldn’t take much to set them off.”

Falk nodded. “Thanks. Understood.”

“Anyway—” Gretchen paused as a swarm of small boys careered by in a chaotic game of football, the weight of the memorial service already lifting from their small shoulders as the weekend came into sight. She shaded her eyes and waved at the group. Falk tried to pick her son from the pack, but couldn’t. When he looked back Gretchen was watching him.

“How long do you think you’ll be around for?”

“A week.” Falk hesitated. “No more than that.”

“Good.” Her mouth turned up at the corners, and it could have been twenty years ago.

When she walked away a few minutes later, Falk was clutching a scrap of paper with her cell phone number and an arrangement to meet the following night on it, both scrawled in Gretchen’s distinctive handwriting.




“You gone and made yourself a new friend, mate?” Raco said lightly as Falk climbed into the car.

“Old friend, thanks,” Falk said, but he couldn’t help smiling.

“So what do you want to do?” Raco said, more serious now. He nodded at the cardboard box in the backseat. “You want to call Clyde and tie yourself up to the arse in red tape convincing them they might’ve stuffed up, or do you want to go to the station and check out what’s in the box?”

Falk looked at him for a moment, imagining that phone call. “Yeah, all right. Station. Box.”

“Good decision.”

“Just drive.”




The police station was a low redbrick building at the far end of Kiewarra’s main street. The shops on either side had closed for good, their windows empty. Across the road was a similar story. Only the convenience store and liquor shop seemed to be enjoying any real trade.

“Christ, it’s dead around here,” Falk said.

“That’s the thing about money problems. They’re contagious. Farmers have no cash to spend in shops, the shops go under, and then you’ve got yourself more people with no money to spend in shops. Apparently they’ve been falling like dominoes.”

Raco pulled on the station door. It was locked. He swore and dug out his keys. On the door was a notice with station hours: Monday to Friday, 9:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. Out of hours, victims of crime had to try their luck with Clyde, according to the sign. Falk looked at his watch. 4:51 P.M. A cell phone number for emergencies had been written in pen underneath. Falk bet it was Raco’s.

“Knocking off early?” Raco called when they got inside, the annoyance evident in his tone.

The receptionist, in her sixties but with the improbable coal-colored hair of a young Elizabeth Taylor, raised her chin defiantly.

“I was in early,” she said, stiffening slightly in her position behind the counter. Handbag over her shoulder like a soldier’s weapon. Raco introduced her as Deborah. She didn’t shake hands.

In the office space behind her, Constable Evan Barnes looked up guiltily, clutching his car keys.

“Afternoon, boss,” Barnes said. “’Bout that time, isn’t it?” His voice was overly casual, and he made a big show of checking his watch. “Oh. Yeah. Still a couple of minutes to go yet.”

A big man with a fresh-faced complexion and curly hair that stuck out in unfortunate tufts, he sat back down at his desk and started shuffling paper. Raco rolled his eyes.