Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(12)

Falk placed his own box down and turned as well.

Rohan Gillespie was on the other side of the wide path, standing beside a tall, gray-haired police sergeant. They were both leaning in a little, straining to hear over the noise as a woman with a notebook asked something. Nearby, a photographer with ill-fitting jeans and an equipment bag near his feet waited patiently. The reporter finished her question and the police officer nodded in response, indicating back toward the entrance at something above the canvas roofs of the stalls. Falk looked up to where he was pointing and saw a CCTV camera fixed high on a pole. That was new. They’d had cameras on only the main exit last year.

Rohan’s eyes drifted down from the camera and back to the stall, with a flash of relief as he spotted the Racos there. He murmured something to the journalist, who was scribbling fast, then threaded his way across the busy path toward the stall.

“Hey. Good to see you, guys. Zara, that reporter’s very keen to chat to—” He stopped as his gaze landed on the boxes. The lids were unsealed, and after a beat, Rohan reached out and took an appeal flyer from the top of the pile. He held it in his hand and stared for a long moment at the picture of his wife and the words beneath.

“Thanks again for doing these, Zara.” His voice was tight, and he gave a tiny nod. “They’re…”

He searched for a word but didn’t find it.

“Where’s Zoe?” Charlie asked.

“Oh. With my parents,” Rohan said, still distracted by the picture. A frown flickered across his face. “Bit of a nightmare drop-off. They’re all—” He stopped again. Shook his head. “Anyway, doesn’t matter. I had to be here.”

“You’re always welcome to leave her with us,” Raco said. “We’ve got all the baby stuff, so it’s no extra hassle.”

“Thanks, mate,” Rohan said, but his eyes had fallen back down to his wife.

Raco seemed about to say something else, but stopped as the police sergeant began to weave his way toward them, the reporter and photographer in his wake.

“G’day, all,” the officer said as he reached the stall. “Good to see you, mate. Welcome home.” He shook Raco’s hand, then turned to Zara. “And how are you?”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Yeah? Then you’re doing better than most would be.” The officer gave her a small smile and picked up a flyer, pulling a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He was probably in his late fifties, Falk guessed, but his wiry, outdoorsy build suggested he enjoyed the cholesterol and blood pressure readings of someone ten years younger. The name tag on his pocket read: Sergeant R. Dwyer.

“These have come up well, Zara. Good job.” Dwyer peered over his glasses at her. “Listen, that journo wants a word before you move off, but the volunteers are here and ready, so if you and Rohan are right to go, I reckon we get this started?”

Rohan’s face automatically firmed into a look of attentive determination. Falk regularly saw that same expression in high-level professional meetings, where it felt crucial that the right decisions were made. It was usually bullshit. Bravado masking fear and self-doubt. He had a version of that expression himself.

Zara was counting the few dozen volunteers milling around the edges of the stall, talking among themselves. It was a mixed bag, old and young, and one or two families. Falk vaguely recognized a handful of them as friends of the Raco family. They probably all were, in some way or another, and from the tense, eager way they waited for instruction, he could see that the events of last year still cast a shadow.

Falk hadn’t been there to witness the aftermath himself; once the shoe was found and the history of antidepressant prescriptions began to seep out, Kim’s death had taken the shape of a very intimate family tragedy. He had suddenly felt in the way. No one had said as much, not at all, but he could tell his bed in the guesthouse would be more useful freed up for the relatives now arriving by the day. Falk had checked in with Raco and, separately, Rita—both already turning inward to their family pain—and less than seventy-two hours after he’d arrived, they’d waved him off with mutual understanding on both sides.

“All right,” Dwyer said now, raising his voice over the crowd noise. “If you’re here for the appeal, please step in a little there, so we don’t block the path. Yep, perfect.”

He gestured for the flyers to be passed around as the crowd formed a loose circle.

“Right. Thanks, all, for coming out,” Dwyer started. “I recognize a lot of faces, and I know a lot of you knew Kim well. But there’ll be plenty of people here tonight at this festival who didn’t know her as well, or at all. And it’s them—anyone who was here at the opening last year and might have seen her—those are the people we want to talk to.

“We’ve got leaflets here—yeah, thanks, grab a handful each—and our aim tonight is to get people to have another think about that night. What they might have seen or noticed. Maybe it didn’t seem important at the time, but I’d rather know about it and make that call myself. I’ll be around all evening, or can be contacted through the station.

“All right.” He clapped his hands. “We’ll be on the main stage a little later for an appeal and a short tribute from Kim’s family, so please encourage people to be there. It’s scheduled for—” He looked to Zara and Rohan for confirmation. “Eight thirty? Yep, eight thirty.” He kept his eyes on the family. “Anything either of you would like to add?”