The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(82)

“Oh, right. Thanks. I thought you said no tabs.”

“I only said that to Whitlam. You’re all right, though.”

Falk frowned. “But not Whitlam? You must know him well enough.”

McMurdo gave a short laugh. “Oh yeah. I know him well enough. That’s why I also know where he keeps his money.” He nodded to the slot machines flashing in the back room.

“Whitlam’s a fan of the slots?” Falk asked.

McMurdo nodded. “And the rest. Horses, dogs. Always got one eye on the racing channel, the other on those apps on his phone.”

“You’re kidding.” Falk was taken aback, but at the same time not surprised. He thought about the sports books in Whitlam’s house. He’d come across a lot of gamblers in his career. There was no single type. The only thing they had in common was delusion and misery.

“He’s subtle about it, but you see all sorts of things from behind a bar,” McMurdo said. “Especially when it comes to being able to pay for drinks. And I don’t think he actually likes the slots much.”

“No?”

“Nah, I get a sense they’re small fry for him. Still, doesn’t stop him feeding his weight in gold coins into them every time he’s here. That’s what he was doing when he accidentally got clobbered the other night. When Jamie and Grant had their punch-up.”

“Is that right?”

“Anyway, I shouldn’t be telling tales out of school,” McMurdo said. “There’s nothing illegal about pissing your cash away. Thank God. Otherwise I’d be out of business.”

“So would a lot of people.” Falk managed a smile.

“These gambling types are fair old suckers, though. Always looking for strategies and loopholes. End of the day, it only works if you back the right horse.”




Falk’s room had never felt so much like a cell. He brushed his teeth without turning on the light and collapsed into bed. Despite the chaos in his head, he felt overwhelmed by exhaustion. Sleep was close.

Out in the street a tin can rolled along, its metallic clatter rattling in the quiet. Through his drowsiness, it reminded Falk of the artificial clang of the slot machines. He closed his eyes. McMurdo was right about gambling. Like this case. Sometimes all the strategies in the world couldn’t help.

It only works if you back the right horse.

A cog turned deep in Falk’s brain. Lazily, because it was an ingrained one. Crusted over and tough to shift. It reluctantly clunked one move over then stopped, settled.

Falk opened his eyes slowly. It was too dark to see anything, but he stared into the inky blackness, thinking.

He pictured Kiewarra laid out in three dimensions. He imagined himself climbing, up to the lookout maybe, the scene below growing smaller the higher he went. When he reached the top he looked down. Over the town, the drought, the Hadlers. Noticing, for the first time, how things looked from a very different perspective.

Falk thought about that, with his eyes open, staring at the nothingness for long minutes. Testing the cog in its new position. Finally, he sat up, fully awake now. He pulled on a T-shirt and slipped his feet into his sneakers. He grabbed his flashlight and an old newspaper and crept downstairs and into the parking lot.

His car was right where he’d left it. The stench of shit made his eyes water, but he barely noticed it. He peeled back the tarpaulin and, using the newspaper as a makeshift glove, popped open the trunk. It was kept separate from the body of the car by the backseats and had been protected from the shit storm.

Falk clicked on the flashlight and shone it into the empty trunk. He stood there for a long time. Then he pulled out his cell phone and took a photo.

Back in his room, sleep took a long time to come. When morning broke, he woke and dressed early, then waited impatiently. The moment the clock ticked over to nine o’clock, Falk picked up the phone and made a single call.

Luke Hadler’s palms were sweating on the steering wheel. The air conditioner was on overdrive but had barely made a dent since he’d left Jamie Sullivan’s place. His throat was dry, and he wished he had a bottle of water to hand. He made himself focus on the road ahead. He was nearly home. Just get there.

He had turned onto the final stretch when he saw the figure up ahead. Standing by the road all alone. Waving.





35


Falk clattered into the station, panting. He had hung up the phone and run all the way from the pub.

“It was a smoke screen.”

Raco looked up from his desk. His eyes were bloodshot, and he still had sleep in the corner of one.

“What was?”

“The whole thing, mate. It was never about Luke.”

“Great,” Luke muttered as he drove closer, his heart sinking as he was able to make out who was waving. For a moment, he wondered if he could keep going, but it was a scorching day. It had to have topped a hundred degrees earlier, he reckoned.

He hesitated a moment longer, then touched the brake and brought the truck to a stop. He wound down the window and leaned out.

Falk opened the Hadlers’ file with shaking fingers, both excited and frustrated with himself.

“We’ve been tying ourselves in knots trying to find connections to Luke—what was he hiding, who wanted him dead? And what have we ended up with? Nothing. Well, nothing substantial. Lots of minor motives, but not enough. And you were right.”