The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(5)
“Hey,” Falk said. “Is that Barberis’s replacement?”
Gretchen followed his gaze. “Yeah. You heard about Barberis?”
“Of course. Sad loss. Remember how he used to scare us all to death with horror stories about kids who mucked about with farm equipment?”
“Yeah. He’d had that heart attack coming for twenty years.”
“Still. It’s a real shame,” Falk said, meaning it. “So who’s the new guy?”
“Sergeant Raco, and if it looks like he’s stepped straight into the deep end, it’s because he has.”
“No good? Seems like he’s handling the crowd OK.”
“I don’t know really. He’d only been here about five minutes when all this happened.”
“Hell of a situation to land in in your first five minutes.”
Gretchen’s reply was cut short by a flurry of movement by the french doors. The crowd parted respectfully as Barb and Gerry Hadler emerged, blinking in the sunlight. Holding hands tightly, they made their way around the groups of mourners. A few words, a hug, a brave nod, move on.
“How long since you last spoke to them?” Gretchen whispered.
“Twenty years, until last week,” Falk said. He waited. Gerry was still on the other side of the playground when he spotted them. He pulled away from a rotund woman mid-hug, leaving her arms embracing fresh air.
Be at the funeral.
Falk was there, as instructed. Now he watched as Luke’s father approached.
Gretchen got in first, intercepting Gerry with a hug. His eyes met Falk’s over her shoulder, his pupils huge and shining. Falk wondered if some form of medication was helping him through the day. When Gerry was released, he held out his hand, enclosing Falk’s palm in a hot, tight grip.
“You made it, then,” he said neutrally as Gretchen hovered by their side.
“I did,” said Falk. “I got your letter.”
Gerry held his gaze.
“Right. Well, I thought it was important you be here. For Luke. And I wasn’t sure you were going to make it, mate.” The final sentence hung heavily in the air.
“Absolutely, Gerry.” Falk nodded. “Important to be here.”
Gerry’s doubts hadn’t been unfounded. Falk had been at his desk in Melbourne a week earlier, staring blankly at a newspaper photo of Luke when the phone rang. In a halting voice Falk hadn’t heard for two decades, Gerry had told him the funeral details. “We’ll see you there,” he’d said, without a question mark at the end. Falk had avoided Luke’s pixelated gaze as he mumbled something about work commitments. In truth, he’d still been undecided. Two days later, the letter arrived. Gerry must have posted it as soon as he’d hung up the phone.
You lied. Be at the funeral.
Falk hadn’t slept well that night.
They both now glanced awkwardly at Gretchen. She was frowning off into the middle distance where her son was clambering shakily over the monkey bars.
“You’re staying in town tonight,” Gerry said. No question mark that time either, Falk noted.
“Above the pub.”
A wail went up from the playground, and Gretchen made a noise of frustration.
“Shit. I could see that coming. Excuse me.” She jogged off. Gerry grabbed Falk’s elbow and angled him away from the mourners. His hand was shaking.
“We need to talk. Before she comes back.”
Falk wrenched his arm away in a tiny controlled movement, aware of the crowd behind them. Unsure who was there, who was watching.
“For God’s sake, Gerry, what is it you want?” He forced himself to stand in a way he hoped appeared relaxed. “If this is supposed to be some sort of blackmail, I can tell you right now that’s a nonstarter.”
“What? Jesus, Aaron. No. Nothing like that.” Gerry looked genuinely shocked. “If I wanted to stir up trouble I’d have done it years ago, wouldn’t I? I was happy to let it lie. Christ, I would love to let it lie. But I can’t now, can I? With this? Karen and Billy both dead, him not even seven years old yet.” Gerry’s voice broke. “Look, I’m sorry about the letter, but I needed you to be here. I have to know.”
“Know what?”
Gerry’s eyes looked almost black against the bright sunlight.
“If Luke had killed before.”
Falk was silent. He didn’t ask what Gerry meant.
“You know—” Gerry bit back his words as an officious woman wobbled up to inform him the chaplain needed to speak to him. Right away, if possible.
“Jesus, it’s bloody chaos,” Gerry snapped, and the woman cleared her throat and arranged her expression into one of martyred patience. He turned back to Falk. “I’d better go. I’ll be in touch.” He shook Falk’s hand, holding it a beat longer than necessary.
Falk nodded. He understood. Gerry looked hunched and small as he followed the woman away. Gretchen, having soothed her son, wandered back to Falk. They stood shoulder to shoulder as together they watched Gerry go.
“He seems dreadful,” she said in an undertone. “I heard he was screaming at Craig Hornby in the supermarket yesterday, accusing him of making light of the situation or something. Seems a bit unlikely; Craig’s been his friend for fifty years.”