The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(39)

“I know it wasn’t easy for you to come back here, but it really is good to see you,” she said. “You were always the only one of us who had any sense. I wish—”

She paused. Shrugged. One tanned shoulder lifted against the strap of her dress. “I wish you’d been able to stay. Maybe then everything would have been different.”

They looked at each other until Falk felt heat creep up his chest and neck. He cleared his throat and was still thinking of a response when a figure stepped in front of him.





17


Grant Dow placed a half-empty beer glass firmly on the table between them with a bang. He was wearing the same shorts and Balinese beer T-shirt as the day before. Falk groaned.

“I thought you were barred,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as he could.

“I generally find that’s more of a suggestion round here.”

Falk looked past Dow to where the barman was watching with a resigned look. Falk raised his eyebrows, but the barman just shrugged. What can you do? Across the table, Gretchen caught Falk’s eye. She gave a tiny shake of her head. When she spoke, her voice was light.

“What do you want, Grant?”

“I’ll tell you what you want, Gretch. You want to be more careful who you choose for your boyfriends.” Dow had some of Mal Deacon’s arrogance, Falk noticed, but while his uncle’s mean streak was reptile cold, Dow was definitely hot-blooded. Up close, his face was a flushed mess of broken veins and high blood pressure. “Girls who hang around this bloke tend to end up dead.”

Behind him, his mates sniggered, their reaction a fraction late. Falk wasn’t sure if they were the same gang Dow had been with the previous night. They looked wholly interchangeable. The barman had stopped serving as he watched the exchange.

“Thanks, Grant. But I’m a big girl. I can make my own decisions,” Gretchen said. “So if you’ve said your piece, why don’t you get on with your night and leave us to get on with ours.”

Dow’s laugh exposed a mouthful of neglected teeth. His beery breath wafted toward Falk.

“I’ll bet you will, Gretch,” he said, giving her a wink. “You’re looking particularly fancy tonight, if I may say so. We don’t normally see you all frocked up round here.” He looked at Falk. “That dress must be all for you, you dickhead. Hope you appreciate it.”

Gretchen’s cheeks colored, and she avoided Falk’s eye. Falk stood up and took a single step closer to Dow. He was gambling that Dow’s desire to avoid the hassle of arrest would outweigh the temptation to throw a punch. He hoped he was right. Falk knew he was a man of some skills, but pub fighting was not among them.

“What is it you want, Grant?” Falk said calmly.

“As it happens,” Dow said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. So I’ve come to give you a chance to make amends.”

“For what?”

“You know what.”

They looked at each other. Grant Dow had always been older, bigger, stronger. Constantly hovering on the cusp of anger, he sent people scurrying to the other side of the street as he approached. Now older, fatter, and with the faint whiff of chronic ill health on the horizon, the bitterness seemed to seep from his pores.

“Is that all?” Falk said.

“No, that’s not bloody all. Take my advice. Take my uncle’s advice. For what it’s worth these days. Leave.” Dow’s voice was low. “That sack of shit Hadler’s not worth the trouble you’re going to find yourself in, mark my words.”

Dow glanced over his shoulder at his cronies. Out of the pub window was nothing but night. Falk knew beyond the main street, the town was all but deserted. Out here, those badges don’t mean as much as they should. Maybe so, but they still meant something.

“I’ll be leaving when we’ve got some clarity about the Hadlers’ deaths,” Falk said. “Not before.”

“This has bugger all to do with you.”

“A family shot dead in a small town like this? I’d say that has something to do with everyone. And you seem to have some strong thoughts on the matter, so maybe we start with you. Make this thing official. What do you reckon?”

Falk reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook and pencil. He wrote Hadler Inquiry across the top of the page. Directly underneath he wrote Dow’s name in large capitals so the man could see it.

“All right. Calm down, dickhead.” He was rattled, as Falk knew he would be. There was something about seeing a name on paper that said “on the record.”

“Confirm your address?”

“I’m not giving you my address.”

“No problem.” Falk didn’t miss a beat. “Luckily, I know it.” He wrote down the details of Deacon’s farmhouse. He looked past Dow to his group of followers. They had taken a step away from the exchange. “I’ll take your mates’ names as well. If they’re so keen to weigh in?”

Grant looked around. His gang had lost their vacuous expressions and were glaring at him.

“You trying to stitch me up?” Dow said. “Trying to find yourself a scapegoat?”

“Grant,” Falk said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re the one who came over to our table.”