The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(84)

She’d been desperate for him to say that, and he hadn’t. Karen wiped her eyes with a shaky hand. What now? Part of her still couldn’t quite believe Scott had stolen that money, even though she now knew it to be true. She’d known it before, if she admitted it to herself. She’d gone through the account records herself. The errors that had cropped up were his, not hers. A trail of bread crumbs exposing his deceit. His theft. She tried the word out. It felt so wrong.

Karen believed suspicion was not the same as certainty, but her husband’s view of the world had always been more black and white.

“Babe, if you think the bastard’s nicked the money, then call the cops and report it. I’ll report it if you don’t want to,” Luke had said two nights ago.

Karen had been sitting up in bed, a new library book open across her lap. She wasn’t getting very far with it. She watched her husband take his clothes off and throw them in a heap on a chair. He stood there naked and arched his broad back as he yawned. He flashed her a sleepy smile, and she was struck by how lovely he looked in the half-light. They spoke in whispers so the sound didn’t carry to the kids’ rooms.

“No, Luke,” she’d said. “Don’t interfere. Please. I can do it myself, but I want to be sure. Then I’ll report it.”

Part of her knew she was being overcautious. But the school’s principal was part of the bedrock of the community. Karen could imagine how the parents would react. Tempers were so fraught, a part of her worried they might actually harm him. She couldn’t let loose an accusation of that scale without solid proof. Kiewarra was fragile enough as it was. This had to be done right. Then there was her job to consider. She’d lose that in a heartbeat if she were wrong.

“I should talk to Scott first,” Karen said as her husband climbed in next to her and put a warm hand on her thigh. “Give him a chance to explain.”

“Give him a chance to hide it, more like. Karen, babe, let the cops handle it.”

She was silent, mutinous. Luke sighed.

“All right. If you won’t report it, at least get some advice on getting whatever this proof is you think you need.” Luke rolled over and reached out for his cell phone. He scrolled through until he found a contact and passed the phone to Karen. “Call this guy. That friend of mine who’s a cop. He does something with money with the feds in Melbourne. He’s a good bloke. Really smart. Plus he kind of owes me one. You can trust him. He’ll help you.”

Karen Hadler didn’t say anything. She had told Luke she would sort it out, and she would. But it was late and easier not to argue. She found a pen among the clutter on her bedside table and picked up the first piece of paper to hand, the library receipt she was using for a bookmark. That would do. She turned it over and wrote a single word of reminder before copying down Aaron Falk’s number. Then, because her husband was still watching, she tucked it carefully into the book she was reading and placed it by the bed.

“So it won’t get lost,” she said, turning off the lamp and lying back against the pillow.

“Call him,” Luke said as he reached out and slipped his arms around his wife in the quiet night. “Aaron will know what to do.”





36


Ninety minutes later, Falk and Raco watched the school from the front seat of the station’s unmarked police car. They were parked up a hill on a side street, their vantage point offering a decent view of the main building and front playground.

The back door of the car opened, and Constable Barnes climbed inside. He’d jogged up the hill and was out of breath. He leaned through the gap between the front seats and held out his palm, proudly displaying two brand-new Remington shots.

Raco picked up the ammunition and inspected the make. He nodded. It was the same brand found in the bodies of Luke, Karen, and Billy Hadler. Forensics could probably match it more closely, but for now, that was good enough.

“It was locked away in the caretaker’s shed, like you said.” Barnes was almost bouncing in his seat.

“Any trouble getting in?” Falk asked.

Barnes tried and failed to look modest. “I went direct to the caretaker. Used the old ‘routine inspection’ line. Licenses, safety bullshit. He let me straight in. Too easy. I managed to find enough wrong that he’ll keep it to himself. Said I’d turn a blind eye if he got it sorted before my next visit. He’ll be telling no one.”

“Good work,” said Raco. “As long as he doesn’t tell Whitlam for a few hours we’ll be right. Backup from Clyde’s about forty minutes away.”

“I don’t see why we don’t just roll in there and lift the bastard,” Barnes grumbled from the backseat. “Clyde hasn’t done anything to deserve the credit.”

Raco looked over. “We’ll get credit where it’s due, mate, don’t worry,” he said. “They’re not going to get much glory for securing his house and grabbing his bank statements.”

“Wish they’d hurry up, then,” Barnes said.

“Yeah, me too,” Falk said.

All three turned back to stare at the building in the distance. A bell rang, and the school doors opened. A gaggle of children trickled out, forming groups, running around, reveling in their temporary freedom. Behind them, Falk could make out a figure leaning against the main doorway. Hat on, coffee mug in hand, a flash of red tie visible against his shirt. Scott Whitlam. Falk felt Barnes shift behind him.