The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(81)

“I’m stupid? God, look at you,” she said, louder now. “Always following him around when we were younger like a lapdog. And now, even now, you’re hanging round in a town you hate because of him. It’s pathetic. What kind of hold has he got over you? It’s like you’re obsessed.”

Falk could almost feel the eyes of his dead friend watching them from that album.

“Jesus, Gretchen, I’m here because three people were killed. All right? So I hope for your son’s sake that lying about your relationship with Luke is the worst thing you’ve done to that family.”

She pushed past him, knocking his wineglass off the table as she went. The stain seeped like blood into the carpet. She flung open the front door, and a gust of hot wind blew in a flurry of leaves.

“Get out.” Her eyes were like shadows. Her face was flushed an ugly red. On the doorstep she took a half breath as though she was about to say something more, then stopped. Her mouth twitched up in a cold little smile.

“Aaron. Wait. Before you do anything rash—I’ve got something to tell you.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “I know.”

“Know what?”

She leaned in so her lips were almost at his ear. He could smell the wine on her breath.

“I know your alibi for the day Ellie Deacon died was bullshit. Because I know where Luke was. And it wasn’t with you.”

“Wait, Gretchen—”

She gave him a shove.

“Looks like we’ve all got our secrets, Aaron.”

The door slammed.





34


It was a long walk back to town. Falk felt every step ricochet from the soles of his feet up to his pounding head. His thoughts swarmed like flies. He relived conversations he’d had with Gretchen, holding them up under this new stark light, examining them, seeking out the flaws. He phoned Raco. No answer. Perhaps he was still angry. Falk left a message, asked him to call.

It was near closing time when he finally reached the Fleece. Scott Whitlam was on the pub steps, fastening his bike helmet. His injured nose looked better than it had the other night. Whitlam took one look at Falk’s face and stopped.

“You all right, mate?”

“Rough night.”

“Looks like it.” Whitlam took his helmet off. “Come on, I’ll buy you a quick one.”

Falk wanted nothing more than to crawl up the staircase to bed, but didn’t have the energy to argue. He followed Whitlam inside. The bar was nearly empty, and McMurdo was wiping the counter. He paused when they walked in and reached for two beer glasses without asking. Whitlam put his helmet on the counter.

“I’ll get these. Put them on the tab, mate?” he said to McMurdo.

The barman frowned. “No tab.”

“Come on. For a regular?”

“Don’t make me say it again, my friend.”

“OK. Fine.” Whitlam pulled out his wallet and thumbed through it. “I might be a bit—I might have to put it on the card—”

“I’ll get it.” Falk cut across him and put a twenty on the counter, waving away Whitlam’s protestations. “It’s fine. Forget it. Cheers.”

Falk took a deep swallow. The sooner it was drunk, the sooner he could call it a night.

“What’s happened, then?” Whitlam asked.

“Nothing. I’m just sick to death of this place.”

It hurt me. Luke hurt me.

“Any progress?”

Falk thought for a wild moment about telling him. McMurdo had stopped cleaning and was listening from behind the bar. In the end, he shrugged.

“I’ll just be glad to get out of here.” Whatever happened, he was due back in Melbourne on Monday. Sooner, if Raco got his way.

Whitlam nodded. “Half your luck. Although—” He held up a hand and crossed his fingers. “I might be following your lead sooner than I thought.”

“You’re leaving Kiewarra?”

“Hopefully. I’ve got to do something soon for Sandra. She’s had it up to here. I’ve been looking at a new place, a school up north maybe. Bit of a change.”

“Weather’s hotter up north.”

“At least they get the rains,” Whitlam said. “It’s the lack of water here. Makes the whole town crazy.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Falk said, draining his glass. His head felt heavy. Wine, beer, emotion.

Whitlam took the hint and followed suit.

“All right, better run. It’s a school night, after all.” Whitlam offered his hand. “Hopefully I’ll see you before you leave, but if not, good luck.”

Falk shook it. “Thanks. You too. Up north.”

Whitlam left with a cheery wave, and Falk handed the empty glasses to McMurdo.

“Did I hear you say you’re heading out soon?”

“Probably,” Falk said.

“Well, I’ll be sorry to see you go, believe it or not,” McMurdo said. “You’re the only one who reliably pays. Which reminds me—” He opened the cash register and gave Falk back his twenty-dollar bill. “I put the drinks on your room tab. Thought it would be easier to claim them on expenses or whatever you cops do.”

Falk took the twenty, surprised.