The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(7)

The dull sounds of the pub thudded up through the floor, the occasional muted voice ringing a distant bell. A small part of him was curious to see who was down there, but he felt no desire to join in. The noise was punctuated by the muffled smash of a dropped glass. There was a short pocket of silence followed by a chorus of derisive laughter. The huntsman moved a single leg.

Falk jumped as the room phone on the bedside table rang out, its tone shrill and plastic. He was startled but not surprised. He felt like he’d been waiting for it for hours.

“Hello?”

“Aaron Falk? I’ve a call for you.” The barman’s voice was deep with a trace of a Scottish accent. Falk pictured the imposing figure who had taken his credit card details in exchange for a room key without comment two hours earlier.

Falk had never seen him before, and he was certain he would have remembered a face like that. Late forties, with broad shoulders and a full orange beard, the barman was a backpacker who had stayed and stayed, Falk guessed. He’d shown no spark of recognition at Falk’s name, just an air of disbelief that anyone would use the pub for a purpose not directly linked to alcohol.

“Who’s calling?” Falk asked, although he could guess.

“You’ll have to ask him yourself,” the barman said. “You want a message service, you’ll have to stay in a nicer establishment, my friend. Putting him through now.” The line went silent for a long moment, then Falk heard breathing.

“Aaron? You there? It’s Gerry.” Luke’s father sounded exhausted.

“Gerry. We need to talk.”

“Yes. Come out to the house. Barb wants to speak to you, anyway.” Gerry gave him the address. There was a long pause, then a heavy sigh. “And listen, Aaron. She doesn’t know about the letter. Or any of this. Let’s keep it that way, yeah?”




Falk followed Gerry’s directions along gloomy country roads and twenty minutes later turned his car onto a short paved driveway. A porch light cast an orange glow over a neat weatherboard home. He pulled to a stop, and the screen door screeched open, revealing Barb Hadler’s squat silhouette. Her husband appeared behind her a moment later, his taller frame throwing a long shadow onto the drive. As Falk climbed the porch steps, he could see they were both still wearing their funeral clothes. Wrinkled now.

“Aaron. My God, it’s been so long. Thank you for coming. Come in,” Barb whispered, reaching out her free hand to him. She was clutching baby Charlotte close to her chest and rocking her with a vigorous rhythm. “Sorry about the baby. She’s very restless. Won’t go down.”

From what Falk could see, Charlotte was fast asleep.

“Barb.” Falk leaned in over the child to give the woman a hug. “It’s so good to see you.” She held him for a long moment, her plump arm around his back, and he felt something in him relax a fraction. He could smell the sweet floral notes of her hairspray. It was the same brand she’d used when she was still Mrs. Hadler to him. They moved apart, and he was able to look down at Charlotte properly for the first time. She looked red-faced and uncomfortable, pressed against her grandmother’s blouse. Her forehead was creased into a tiny frown that, Falk noticed with a jolt, reminded him uncannily of her father.

He stepped into the light of the hallway, and Barb looked him up and down, the whites of her eyes turning pink as he watched. She reached out and touched his cheek with the warm tips of her fingers.

“Just look at you. You’ve barely changed,” she said. Falk felt illogically guilty. He knew she was picturing a teenage version of her son next to him. Barb sniffed and wiped her face with a tissue, shredding little flecks of white onto her top. She ignored them and with a sad smile gestured for him to follow. She led him down a hallway lined with framed family snaps that they both studiously ignored. Gerry trailed in their wake.

“You’ve got a nice place here, Barb,” Falk said politely. She had always been scrupulously house-proud, but looking around now he could see the odd sign of clutter. Dirty mugs crowded a side table, the recycling bin was overflowing, and stacks of letters stood unopened. It all told a tale of grief and distraction.

“Thank you. We wanted something small and manageable after—” She hesitated for a beat. Swallowed. “After we sold the farm to Luke.”

They emerged onto a deck overlooking a tidy patch of garden. The wooden boards creaked beneath their feet as the night soaked some of the ferocity out of the day’s heat. All around were rosebushes that were neatly pruned, but very dead.

“I tried to keep them alive with recycled water,” Barb said, following Falk’s gaze. “Heat got them in the end.” She pointed Falk to a wicker chair. “We saw you on the news; did Gerry tell you? A couple of months ago. Those firms ripping off their investors. Stealing their nest eggs.”

“The Pemberley case,” Falk said. “That was a shocker.”

“They said you did well, Aaron. On TV and in the papers. Got those people’s money back.”

“Some of it. Some of it was long gone.”

“Well, they said you did a good job.” Barb patted his leg. “Your dad would’ve been proud.”

Falk paused. “Thanks.”

“We were sorry to hear he’d passed. Cancer is a real bastard.”

“Yes.” Bowel, six years ago. It hadn’t been an easy death.