Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(17)

“Long time to stay focused, especially if you’re not watching for anything special.”

“Yeah,” Raco said. “And look, in Joel’s defense, the fact is he’s eighteen years old—was only seventeen then. And we’ve all done it, haven’t we? Stared at your phone for five minutes, and when you next look up, twenty have gone.”

Falk looked at the exit and found himself picturing Zara, her face tight and drawn as she’d addressed the volunteers earlier at her dad’s stall. He remembered the way Joel had been watching her, his small frown, her reference to his police statement, their brief hug afterward.

“Are they together?”

“Zara and Joel? No,” Raco said. “Personally, I reckon it’s a factor, though. They were friends as kids, but it’s pretty obvious he likes Zara more than that now. So no, they’re not together. And Joel would deny this, but whether he admits it to himself or not, on some level that boy is highly motivated to tell Zara what she wants to hear. Highly.”

“So is he lying?”

“It’s possible. I think more likely mistaken, though,” Raco said. “I can believe he believes what he’s saying. Charlie’s known him since he was a kid, and he agrees. He’s not the type to make something like this up for the sake of it. He’s Gemma Tozer’s stepson. The festival director?”

Raco nodded back across the wide expanse of grass to the caravan in the distance. The door was still open, and the warm glow spilling out from the windows looked brighter in the growing dark. The lanterns in the tree rocked gently as the branches caught the evening breeze.

“I’m not sure if you saw her here last year, but you guys met once in Melbourne a while back, that time when I was—” Raco yawned widely, his palm over his mouth. “God, bloody baby brain. What was I there for again? A court case or something.”

“You were stuck late on that one-day course.”

“That’s right.” Raco turned and lifted the rope guarding the exit. “Yeah. Anyway. So you remember. Well, that’s her.”

“Yeah.” Falk looked back as he ducked under the rope and stepped onto the reservoir track. The light in the caravan windows dimmed a fraction, then glowed bright again. Movement within. Someone was definitely there this time. “I remember.”





6


It had been sixteen months earlier, Falk could have told Raco if he’d wanted to. Back on one of those dark Melbourne evenings that was still technically autumn but felt a whole lot like winter. The rain had come and gone in sharp bursts all day, leaving the pavements slick and shining with reflections of the city at night.

Rita had been five months pregnant up in Kiewarra. Baby Henry was still to be born, still to have his first christening celebration arranged, let alone canceled. Falk had yet to ever hear of Kim Gillespie, had not yet set foot in the Marralee Valley. He’d recently got a call from Raco, though, who was going to be in Melbourne briefly for a one-day professional development course. They’d arranged to meet for drinks afterward.

The day had rolled around and it was late afternoon in the AFP offices when Falk’s phone had buzzed from the top of a thick stack of battered files threatening to take over his desk. Falk welcomed the interruption as an excuse to stand up and get away from them. Grabbing his phone, he moved over to the window. It had started raining again, and he watched a tram come to a stop down below, waiting as passengers shook umbrellas and brushed off their jackets before stepping on. They were all dressed differently—jeans, uniforms, one pair of scrubs—but from the body language Falk guessed at least a few had already finished work for the day. He’d felt a faint pang of envy, then turned his phone over in his hand and opened Raco’s message.

A friend from SA’s here for a conference, the text read. She might swing by tonight to say hello.

Raco had followed it almost immediately with another message: That okay?

Honestly, it wasn’t ideal. Falk leaned against the glass and watched the tram close its doors and pull away. He’d been looking forward to catching up with Raco, but—he glanced back at his desk; the files hadn’t gone anywhere, unfortunately—he wasn’t sure he had the energy to make small talk with a stranger. He swiped his thumb over his phone and wondered if he could simply say that. He probably could, to Raco. On the other hand, it wasn’t Raco’s fault he had friends other than Falk.

Falk had stood there for as long as it took for another tram to pull up, then texted back: No worries. He’d watched until the tram moved away, then made himself turn from the window and walk back to his desk.

So that was how Falk had come to find himself crammed into a busy bar that overlooked the Yarra River a few hours later, waiting for Raco. They’d arranged to meet at Southbank, which had been convenient but possibly a mistake, on reflection. The Friday night post-work rush was even busier thanks to footy fans stopping for a quick drink on their walk to the ground. To the east, Falk could see the MCG blazing with light ahead of the night’s game.

He’d fought his way into the bar and carved out a spot near the door to wait, closer than he liked to a table where three women were sharing a bottle of wine. One of them flicked her eyes up, mildly irritated by his presence in a way that reminded him abstractly of his most recent relationship. He shifted his angle against the wall. He could still feel the woman’s eyes on him and fixed his own gaze through the window to the river outside.