The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(65)

“Right. You and you.” Falk pointed to two of the least drunk onlookers. “Take Sullivan into the bathroom and help him wipe that blood off his face. Then bring him back here. Understand?”

They helped Sullivan up. Falk turned to Dow.

“You. Take a seat over there and wait and—no. Shut it. It’s very much in your own interest that you keep that trap of yours closed for once. You hear?”

Falk turned to McMurdo. “Clean cloth, please, and large glasses of water all round. Plastic cups.”

Falk took the cloth to the man in the corner who was doubled over, clutching his nose.

“Sit up straight, mate,” Falk said. “That’s the way. Here. Hold this.”

The man straightened and took his hands away. Falk blinked as Scott Whitlam’s bloodied face appeared.

“Jesus, how’d you get mixed up in this?”

Whitlam tried to shrug and winced.

“Wrog place, wrog tibe,” he said, pressing the cloth to his nose.

Falk turned and looked pointedly at the onlookers.

“I suggest the rest of you make yourselves pretty bloody scarce,” he said.

Raco forced his way in as the room was emptying. He was wearing the same T-shirt he’d had on at dinner, but his curly hair was sticking up on one side, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“McMurdo rang. I was asleep. We need an ambulance? I’ve got Dr. Leigh on standby.”

Falk looked around. Sullivan was back from the bathroom and glanced up, a concerned expression on his face, at the mention of the doctor. The other two were hunched over in their chairs.

“No. I don’t think so,” he said. “Unless you’re worried about two of them being brain-dead. What’s the story?” He turned to McMurdo.

The barman rolled his eyes. “Our friend Mr. Dow over there seems to believe the only reason he’s in the frame for the Hadlers’ deaths is because Jamie Sullivan doesn’t have the balls to confess. He decided now was an opportunity to encourage him to do so.”

Falk strode over to Dow. “What happened here?”

“Misunderstanding.”

Falk leaned in close, so his mouth was right by Dow’s ear. He could smell the booze several layers deep in his pores.

“If we’re bothering you, Grant, all you need to do is give us a decent reason why she wrote down your name.”

Dow gave a bitter laugh. His breath stank.

“That’s bloody rich, coming from you. You mean, like the decent reason you never gave for that note Ellie left? No.” He shook his head. “I could give you a thousand reasons, mate, and you still wouldn’t go away. You won’t be happy until you pin the Hadlers on me or my uncle.”

Falk pulled back. “Watch yourself. Keep talking like that and you’ll be formally questioned and processed and find yourself in a whole heap of trouble, understand?” Falk held out his hand. “Keys.”

Grant looked up in disbelief. “No chance.”

“You can pick them up at the station tomorrow.”

“It’s over five kilometers to my place,” Grant protested, cradling them in his palm.

“Tough. Enjoy your walk,” Falk said, plucking the keys from Grant’s paw and pocketing them. “Now bugger off.”

He turned his attention to Sullivan and Whitlam, who were being inexpertly tended by McMurdo and Raco.

“You want to tell us what happened, Jamie?” Falk asked.

Sullivan stared at the floor out of his one good eye.

“Like he said. Misunderstanding.”

“I don’t mean tonight.”

There was no reply. Falk let the silence stretch out.

“This is only going to get worse the further you let yourself sink.”

Nothing.

“Right,” Falk said. He was clammy, wet from the shower, and had had enough. “Be at the station at ten tomorrow. We need to talk to you, anyway. And fair warning, mate, I would have a good hard think overnight about where you were that day.”

Sullivan’s features crumpled. He looked like he was about to cry. Falk exchanged a look with Raco.

“I’ll drive you home, Jamie,” Raco said. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

Sullivan let himself be helped out of the bar. He didn’t look at anyone. Finally, Falk turned to Whitlam, who looked embarrassed behind his cloth in the corner.

“I think the bleeding’s stopped,” Whitlam said, gingerly testing his nose.

“Let’s see.” Falk peered at it and tried to recall his first-aid training. “Well, as long as it’s not school photo day anytime soon, you’ll probably survive.”

“Cheers.”

“We don’t need to get you down to the station tomorrow as well, do we?”

“Not me, guv.” Whitlam held up his hands. “I’m an innocent bystander. I was coming out of the toilets and they barreled into me. Didn’t even see it coming. I lost my balance and whacked my face on a chair.”

“All right,” Falk said, helping Whitlam up. The man was a little unsteady. “I’m not sure you should drive, though.”

“I’m on my bike.”

“Motor?”

“Jesus. I’m a primary school principal. Pedal.”

“Right. Come on.”