The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(40)

Dow looked him up and down, his expression thunderous. He’d closed his right fist. Seemed to be deciding whether it was worth it. He glanced over his shoulder. The barman was still watching them, his hands braced on the countertop. He gave Dow a stern look and nodded toward the door. There’d be no more drinks for them tonight.

Dow loosened his fist and took a casual step away. Like it was hardly worth his effort.

“You’re as full of lies and bullshit as ever,” he said to Falk. “Well. You’ll need to be. Might give you a fighting chance here.”

He jerked his head, and his mates followed him out of the pub. The general noise level, which had dimmed during the exchange, gradually swelled to normal.

Falk sat back down. Gretchen was watching him, mouth open a fraction. He grinned, but as he put his notebook away he kept his hand in his pocket until he was sure it had stopped shaking.

Gretchen shook her head in disbelief. “Jesus. Some welcome back. Well done.” She gave him a wink. “I told you you were the only one with any sense.” She went up and got the next round.

Later, when the pub was closing, Falk walked her to her car. The street was quiet. Under the streetlights Gretchen’s hair glowed like a halo. They stood there, a foot apart, looking at each other, every move awkward and overthought until eventually she laughed and put both hands on his shoulders. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, catching the very corner of his mouth. He slipped his arms around her, and they held each other close for a moment, heat on heat in the warm night air.

Finally, with a small sigh, she pulled herself away, got into her car, and with a smile and a wave was gone. Falk stood alone under the swath of stars thinking, of all things, about Grant Dow. The man talked a lot of shit, that was certain. But he’d said one thing that Falk had caught and kept, and now took out and examined in his mind, turning it over like a find.

That dress must be all for you, you dickhead.

He grinned the whole way back to the pub.




Falk had one foot on the staircase leading to his room when the barman’s voice called out.

“In here a minute, mate. If you don’t mind.”

Falk sighed, hand on the banister. He looked longingly up the stairs. A badly framed portrait of the Queen gazed down unsympathetically from the landing. He turned and trudged back through to the bar. The place was empty now. There was the acid lemon scent of cleaning fluid as the barman ran a cloth over the countertop.

“Drink?”

“I thought you were closed.” Falk pulled up a stool and sat down.

“I am. This one’s on the house.” The barman set a beer in front of Falk then poured one for himself. “Call it a thank-you.”

“For what?”

“I’ve seen Grant Dow have a go at a lot of people, and more often than not it ends with me cleaning up someone’s blood. Because that’s not the case tonight, I can kick back and have a cold one with you.” He held out a hand. “David McMurdo.”

“Cheers.” Falk took a swallow of beer, surprised by how easily it went down. He’d had more to drink that week than he normally had in a month. “Sorry about all that. I know I said there’d be no trouble.”

“My friend, if all the trouble round here was handled like that, I’d be a happy man,” McMurdo said, stroking his beard. “Unfortunately it’s weighted a wee bit too much toward the hands-on kind in this place.”

“How long have you been in town?”

“Coming up to ten years. A lot of them still see me as fresh off the boat, though. Born and bred here, or forever an outsider, seems to be the Kiewarra way.”

“Born and bred isn’t a free pass either,” Falk said with a grim smile. “How’d you end up all the way out here, anyway?”

McMurdo paused. Rolled his tongue over his teeth. “What reason do you give for leaving Kiewarra?”

“Career opportunities,” Falk said drily.

“Well. Think I’ll say the same and leave it at that.” McMurdo gestured around the empty bar with a wink. “Still. Seems to have served you well. Your pal Luke could’ve used some pointers from you on dealing with Dow, to be honest. Too late now, of course.”

“They had run-ins?”

“Like clockwork,” McMurdo said. “Used to make my heart sink when one would be here and the other would walk in. They were like—I don’t know, a pair of magnets. Siamese twins. Jealous ex-lovers. Something. Neither of them could ever leave the other one alone.”

“What did they fall out about?”

McMurdo rolled his eyes. “What wasn’t it about? You name it. The weather, the cricket, the bloody color of their socks. Always picking at each other. Any excuse.”

“What are we talking? Fistfights?”

“Occasionally,” McMurdo said. “It got vicious a few times, but not so much recently. Last few years it was more scuffles, heated arguments. Don’t get me wrong, there was no love lost. But I think they both enjoyed it in a way. Have a shouting match. Blow off some steam.”

“I’ve never understood that.”

“Me neither. I’d rather have a nice drink myself. But it must work for some blokes.” He wiped the counter like a man who knew the health inspectors weren’t watching. “To be fair to Dow, it can’t be easy looking after that uncle of his.”