Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(117)

“Come through, mate,” Dwyer had said, pressing the buzzer to allow access. Falk had started to follow, then paused. A collection tin for the family charity that Dwyer and his wife supported stood on the reception desk, and Falk fished around in his pockets before dropping some coins in.

“Thanks,” Dwyer said, but Falk shook his head.

“No need to thank me.”

Falk settled into the visitor’s chair as Dwyer sat down at his desk. The light shone bright through the window behind him, and Falk looked beyond to the main street outside. He could see Kim’s and Dean’s former offices over the road, unremarkable among all the other shops and cars and people. All the commonplace, everyday sights that came together to make up this town that now felt to him like so much more than the sum of the parts. The Marralee Valley had come to feel like home. Falk took a breath. Time to get this over with. It wasn’t going to get any easier.

“I think I know who was driving the car that killed Dean Tozer.”

Dwyer looked at Falk in the silent office. Backlit by the glare, his features were indistinct. He shifted, and his desk chair creaked. “Okay.”

“But if I’m right,” Falk said, “then you know, too.”

Dwyer didn’t say anything to that.

Falk waited. “So am I right?” he said finally. “You do know?”

Dwyer’s head moved, a tiny involuntary shake. “You’re going to have to give me a bit more than that.”

“Yeah. Okay, then.” Falk nodded. He reached into his pocket and took out Joel’s small, battered jar. The lid was slightly loose from having been opened and closed so many times over the past six years, the sides scratched from handling. Falk leaned over the desk, holding out the container so Dwyer could see the shards of broken wood inside. “Do you know what these are?”

The officer put his glasses on and leaned in to look, quiet and still for a moment, then sat back. He knew, Falk felt sure. Or could guess.

“Where’d you get them?” When Dwyer took his glasses off again, his expression had altered a fraction. There was something in his face Falk couldn’t read.

“Joel’s kept them in a jar in his room for the past six and a half years. Chipped the wood off the barrier before it was cleared up.”

No reply.

“It’s got some of the paint from the accident on it. See that, right here?” Falk opened the jar and shook a few of the larger pieces into his palm, then laid them out carefully on the desk. “Blue paint from a blue car.”

“That’s right,” Dwyer said.

“Unusual shade, though. Don’t you reckon? Industrial. Lot of gray in it as well. Not all that common, when you think about car colors.” Falk looked up. “But it was strange because as soon as I saw it, I felt like I’d seen it before. Couldn’t remember where, though. I decided the festival parking lot, probably. Because there are a lot of cars at the festival.”

He waited.

“There are,” Dwyer said finally.

Falk stayed quiet. The seconds ticked on. He’d really hoped Dwyer would meet him halfway on this, but the officer remained still, his face closed but his eyes alert. Fine. Falk looked down at Joel’s collection lined up on the desk. They could do it this way.

“But here’s the thing,” Falk said, his voice soft. “I have remembered where I saw it. And I don’t think this paint is even from a car. You know what I think it is?”

He reached out and sorted through the fragments of wood until he found the largest piece. He stood and held it up to the light, then walked a couple of paces across Dwyer’s office.

At the wall, he stopped. It was still painted the same dull shade of formal office blue as it had been last year. The same as the reception area. The same shade Falk had found so oppressive both times he’d previously been at the station. Falk took Joel’s sliver of broken barrier between his fingers and held it against the wall. He looked back at Dwyer. He didn’t need to say it. It was obvious. The paint on the wall and the paint on the wood chip. The colors matched.

Dwyer didn’t react. He didn’t even blink.

“If I sent Joel’s sample off to be analyzed, is it going to come back as car paint?” Falk said. He tapped the wall with his knuckle. “Or is it going to come back as this? Because according to your bloke on reception out there, around six and a half years ago, this station was being refurbished. So here’s what I reckon: some of the paint used for this wall was splashed around Dean Tozer’s accident scene to cover up the real color of the car that hit him.”

“Righto. And you think that was me who killed Dean, do you?” Dwyer made a noise that sounded like a laugh, but didn’t even come close. “No. Not me, mate. I was here at the station bright and bloody early that morning. Organizing the breath tests on the highway.”

“No. Actually, I don’t think it was you.” Falk walked back across the office and paused at the desk. He sat down again, then leaned in and nodded at the framed family photo. “But I think it was your daughter.”

There was a deep, heavy silence. Dwyer breathed in, his chest rising and then falling. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he gently swung his chair around, angling it away from Falk and toward the window. The daylight fell bright and harsh on Dwyer’s face as he gazed out toward the loose parade of locals strolling through the town that he himself watched over. The sound of Saturday-afternoon laughter and conversation was muffled through the glass. Even to Falk, they somehow seemed a long way away.