The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(78)

“None?” Raco said. “You think I came down in the last shower, mate? You got a complaint against you. You think I can’t guess exactly where you are? I’m just some thick country cop who hasn’t got a clue?”

“What?” Falk said. “No. Raco, mate, of course not.” He was shaken up by his own lack of control. It felt wrong, like he was wearing a costume.

“You bugger off the minute the interview’s over—I know you listened in, by the way—and I can hear in your voice you’ve been up to something with Deacon. In a police car. So it’s not fine, is it? I’m still in charge round here last I checked, and if you’ve been harassing someone who’s already complained, for God’s sake, then we’ve one serious problem, mate.”

There was a long silence. Falk could imagine Raco pacing around the station, with Deborah and Barnes listening in. Falk took a few deep breaths. His heart was still pounding, but common sense was starting to return.

“We haven’t got a problem,” Falk said. “I’m sorry. I snapped for a minute. If there’s any fallout, I’ll cop it, not you. Promise.”

The line was silent for so long Falk wasn’t sure if Raco was still there.

“Listen, mate.” Raco’s voice was lower. “I think all this might be getting too much for you. With your background here.”

Falk shook his head even though there was no one to see it. “No. I told you. It was a moment of madness. No harm done.” No further harm, anyway.

“Look, you’ve done everything that could have been asked of you. More,” Raco was saying. “We’ve gotten further than I ever would have alone. I absolutely know that, mate. But maybe it’s time we called it a day. Call in Clyde. I blame myself for that. I should have done it ages ago. This isn’t your responsibility. It never was.”

“Raco, mate—”

“And you’re obsessed with Deacon and Dow. You’re obsessed with pointing the finger at them. It’s as if you need to get them for the Hadlers to make up for whatever happened to Ellie—”

“It’s not about that! Dow’s name was in Karen’s handwriting!”

“I know, but there’s no other evidence! They’ve got an alibi. Both of them now.” Raco sighed down the phone. “Deacon’s phone call at the time of the Hadler shootings looks like it’s legit. Barnes is getting the phone records now, but the girl from the pharmacy has backed him up. She remembers it happening.”

“Shit.” Falk ran a hand over his head. “Why didn’t she mention it before?”

“She was never asked.”

There was a pause.

“Deacon didn’t do it,” Raco said. “He didn’t kill the Hadlers. You need to open your eyes, and fast. You’re staring so hard at the past that it’s blinding you.”





32


Falk felt the tension in his shoulders finally start to lift around the time Gretchen poured the third glass of red. A weight that had pressed on his chest for so long that he’d almost stopped noticing at last began to ease. He could feel muscles in his neck loosen. He took a mouthful of wine and enjoyed the sensation as his cluttered head gave way to a more pleasant type of fog.

The kitchen was now dark, the remains of dinner cleared from the table. A lamb stew. Her own, she’d said. Animal, not recipe. They’d washed the dishes together, her hands deep in suds, his wrapped around a tea towel. Working together in tandem, and reveling self-consciously in the domesticity.

Eventually, they’d moved through to the living room where he’d sunk, satiated, into a deep old couch, glass in hand. He’d watched her move around the room slowly, turning on low lights on side tables, creating a deep golden glow. She hit an invisible switch, and discreet jazz filled the room. Something mellow and indistinct. The maroon curtains were open, flapping in the night breeze. Outside the windows the land was still.

Earlier, Gretchen had picked him up from the pub in her car.

“What happened to yours?” she’d asked.

He’d told her about the damage. She’d insisted on seeing it, and they’d walked to the parking lot where she’d gingerly lifted the tarpaulin. The car had been hosed down, but the inside was still destroyed. She’d been sympathetic, laughed gently as she rubbed his shoulder. She made it seem not as bad.

As they’d driven along the back roads, Gretchen told him Lachie was sleeping at the babysitter’s overnight. No further explanation. In the moonlight her blond hair gleamed.

Now she joined him on the couch. Same couch, at the other end. A distance he would have to breach. He always found that bit difficult. Reading the signs. Judging it just right. Too early and it caused offense; too late, the same. She smiled. Maybe he wouldn’t find it too difficult tonight, he thought.

“You’re still managing to resist the call of Melbourne, then,” she said. She took a sip. The wine was the same color as her lips.

“Some days it’s easier than others,” Falk said. He smiled back. He could feel a warmth bloom in his chest, his belly. Lower.

“Any sign of wrapping things up?”

“Honestly, it’s hard to say,” he said, vague. He didn’t want to talk about the case. She nodded, and they lapsed into a comfortable silence. The blue notes of the jazz were swallowed up by the heat.