The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(42)

“Gerry asked me to come by,” Falk said when Barb’s sobs subsided a little. She sniffed.

“Yes, love. He said. He’s clearing out the big barn, I think.”

“Did he say what it was about?” Falk said, wondering when, if ever, Gerry would see fit to confide in his wife. Barb shook her head.

“No. Maybe he wants to give you something of Luke’s. I don’t know. It was his idea to do this clear-out in the first place. He says it’s time we faced it.”

The final sentence was almost lost as she picked up a pair of Luke’s socks and dissolved into fresh tears.

“I’ve been trying to think if there’s anything Charlotte might like. She’s pining so badly.” Barb’s voice was muffled behind a tissue. “Nothing we do seems to help her. We’ve left her with a sitter, but Gerry actually suggested bringing her with us. See if being around her old things calmed her. There’s no way I’m allowing that, I told him. There’s no way I’m bringing her back to this house after what happened here.”

Falk rubbed Barb’s back. He glanced around the bedroom while she cried. Apart from a layer of dust, it was neat and clean. Karen had tried to keep the clutter under control, but there were enough personal touches to make the room inviting.

Framed baby photos stood on top of a chest of drawers that looked of good quality but was probably second-or even thirdhand. Any money for decorating had clearly been channeled toward the children’s rooms. Through a gap in the wardrobe, Falk could see rows of clothes suspended on plastic hangers. On the left, women’s plain fitted tops hung next to blouses, work trousers, the odd summer dress. Luke’s jeans and T-shirts were crammed with less thought on the right.

Both sides of the bed appeared to have been slept in regularly. Karen’s bedside table had a toy robot, a tub of night cream, and a pair of reading glasses on top of a pile of books. A phone charger was plugged in on Luke’s side, next to a dirty coffee cup, hand painted, with the word Daddy spelled out in spidery letters. The pillowcases still had the shadows of dents in them. Whatever Luke Hadler had been doing in the days before he and his family died, Falk thought, it hadn’t been sleeping on the couch. This was definitely a room for two.

An image of Falk’s own bedroom flashed into his mind. He mostly slept in the middle of the bed these days. His bedspread was the same navy blue he’d had as a teenager. No one who had seen it in the past couple of years had gotten comfortable enough to suggest something more gender neutral. The cleaning service that came to his flat twice a month often struggled to find enough to do, he knew. He didn’t hoard, he didn’t keep much for sentimental reasons, and he’d made do with whatever furniture he’d been left with three years earlier, when his two-person flat had become home to just one.

“You’re a closed book,” she’d said one final time before she’d left. She’d said it a lot over the two years they’d been together. First intrigued, then concerned, finally accusing. Why couldn’t he let her in? Why wouldn’t he let her in? Did he not trust her? Or did he not love her enough? His response to that question hadn’t come fast enough, he’d realized too late. A fraction of a moment’s silence had been long enough for both of them to hear the death knell. Since then, Falk’s own bedside table traditionally held nothing more than books, an alarm clock, and, occasionally, an aging box of condoms.

Barb sniffed loudly, bringing him back into the room. Falk took the Father’s Day card from her lap and looked around in vain for somewhere suitable to put it.

“See. That’s exactly the problem,” Barb said, her red eyes watching him. “What on earth am I supposed to do with all their things? There’s so much, and there’s nowhere to put anything. I can’t fit it all in our house, but I can hardly give everything away like none of it matters—”

Her voice was high-pitched as she started snatching up odd items within reach and clutching them to her chest. Underpants from the bed, the toy robot, Karen’s glasses. She picked up the books from the bedside table and swore loudly. “Oh, for God’s sake, and these are bloody library books. How overdue are these going to be?” She turned to Falk, red-faced and angry.

“No one tells you this is how it’s going to be, do they? Oh yes, they’re all so sorry for your loss, all so keen to pop round and get the gossip when it happens, but no one mentions having to go through your dead son’s drawers and return his library books, do they? No one tells you how to cope with that.”

With a flash of guilt, Falk pictured the extra box of Karen’s and Billy’s belongings he’d left outside the bedroom door. He plucked the books from Barb’s hands, put them under his arm, and steered her firmly out of the bedroom.

“I can look after that for you. Let’s just…” He ushered her straight past Billy’s room and emerged with some relief into the bright kitchen. He guided Barb to a stool. “Let’s get you a cup of tea,” he finished, pulling open the nearest cupboards. He hadn’t the slightest idea what he might find there, but even crime scene kitchens usually had mugs.

Barb watched him for a minute, then blew her nose and climbed off the stool. She patted his arm.

“Let me. I know where everything is.”

In the end they had to settle for instant coffee, black. The fridge hadn’t been emptied in over two weeks.