The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(52)

Whitlam texted his wife from the car, and they drove in silence through the town.

“You’re not worried about me being seen at your house?” Falk said eventually. He thought back to the incident in the park. “The school mums won’t be impressed.”

“Stuff ’em,” Whitlam said, his eyes on the road. “Maybe it’ll teach them something. ‘Judge not lest ye be judged by a gang of small-minded nut jobs’ or however it goes. So. Who do you think’s been sending out your fan mail?”

“Mal Deacon probably. Or his nephew Grant.”

Whitlam frowned. “I think Grant’s more likely. Apparently Deacon isn’t all there these days. Mentally, I mean. I don’t really know; I don’t get involved with those two. Don’t need the hassle.”

“You might be right.” Falk stared gloomily out of the window. He thought of his car, the silver words scratched into the paintwork. “But neither of them are above getting their hands dirty.”

Whitlam looked at him, weighing up Falk’s response. Then he shrugged. He’d turned off the main street and was navigating the warren that was the closest thing Kiewarra had to a suburban estate. The houses seemed tight and manicured after the sprawling farmhouses, and some of the lawns were actually green. No easier way to advertise you used fake turf, Falk thought. Whitlam pulled up on a paved courtyard outside a smart family home.

“Nice place,” Falk said. Whitlam made a face.

“Suburbia in the countryside. Worst of both worlds. Half the neighboring places are empty, which is a pain. Security risk, you know? We get a lot of kids messing around. But everyone in farming lives on their land, and there’s not much in town to attract anyone else.” He shrugged. “Still, it’s only rented. So we’ll see.”

He led Falk through into a cool, shining kitchen, where his wife was making coffee with a rich, deep aroma on a complicated machine. Sandra Whitlam was a slender, pale-skinned woman with large green eyes that gave the impression that she was permanently startled. Whitlam introduced them, and she shook Falk’s hand with a vague air of suspicion but pointed him toward a comfortable kitchen chair.

“Beer, mate?” Whitlam called to him as he opened the fridge.

Sandra, who was in the process of placing three china cups on the counter, paused.

“Didn’t you just come from the pub?” Her voice was light, but she didn’t turn to look at her husband as she spoke.

“Yeah, well, we didn’t quite get inside in the end,” Whitlam said with a wink at Falk. Sandra pressed her lips into a thin line.

“Coffee’s fine, thanks, Sandra,” Falk said. “Smells good.”

She gave him a tight smile, and Whitlam shrugged and closed the fridge. She poured them each a cup and padded around the kitchen in silence, placing various cheese-and-cracker combinations on a plate. Falk sipped his coffee and glanced down at a framed family photo propped up near his elbow. It showed the couple with a small sandy-haired girl.

“Your daughter?” he said to fill the quiet.

“Danielle.” Whitlam picked up the frame. “She’ll be around here somewhere.” He glanced at his wife, who had paused mid-action at the sink when she’d heard the little girl’s name.

“She’s watching TV in the back room,” Sandra said.

“She OK?”

Sandra just shrugged, and Whitlam turned back to Falk.

“Danielle’s quite confused, to be honest,” he said. “I told you she was friends with Billy Hadler. But she doesn’t really understand what’s happened.”

“Thank goodness,” Sandra said, folding the tea towel in her hands into a tight, angry square. “I hope she never has to understand something as horrific as that. Every time I think about it, it makes me feel sick. What that bastard did to his own wife and child. Hell’s too good for him.”

She reached over to the counter and cut a thin slice of cheese, forcing the knife hard through the block until it struck the board below with a sharp knock.

Whitlam cleared his throat lightly. “Aaron used to live here in town. He was friends with Luke Hadler when they were younger.”

“Well. Maybe he was different back then.” Sandra was unabashed. She raised her eyebrows at Falk. “So you grew up here in Kiewarra? That must have felt like a long few years.”

“It had its moments. You’re not enjoying it, then?”

Sandra gave a tight laugh. “It hasn’t exactly been the fresh start we were expecting,” she said, her voice clipped. “For Danielle. Or any of us.”

“No. Well, I’m not the best person to defend this place to you,” Falk said. “But you know what happened to the Hadlers was a once-in-a-lifetime incident. If that.”

“That may be so,” Sandra said, “but it’s the attitude around here that I can’t understand. I hear some people almost sympathizing with Luke Hadler. Saying how hard he must have been finding things, and I want to shake them. I mean, how stupid can you be? Never mind what Luke was going through. Who cares? Can you imagine what Billy’s and Karen’s last moments were like? But there’s this—I don’t know—parochial pity for him. And”—she pointed a manicured finger at Falk—“I don’t care if he took his own life as well. Killing your wife and child is the ultimate domestic abuse. Nothing more, nothing less.”