Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(29)

“Who, Dwyer? Shit, sorry—” Raco shuffled his feet off an irritated woman’s picnic blanket. “Er, camping, Dwyer was. Out in the Flinders Ranges. Personal leave.”

“Busy time of year to be taking leave, isn’t it?”

“Definitely.” Raco nodded. “I know Dad was never allowed, back when he was running things. But Rob Dwyer’s daughter died last year, a couple of months before the festival, so I guess, under the circumstances…” Raco shrugged. “I feel for the bloke, but it was bloody unlucky timing. It took a few days to actually get hold of him after Kim disappeared, do you remember?”

“Yeah, vaguely.”

“Okay, so that’s why. He and his wife had gone off on their own to the middle of nowhere. Turned their phones off, trying to get their heads straight.”

Falk watched the officer address the crowd. His head seemed screwed on pretty straight now. His appeal was calm and clear, and he came across as wholly focused. Whatever he’d missed in those few days, he appeared determined to make up for now.

“What happened to his daughter?” Falk asked.

“Drank too much at a party and suffocated on her own vomit.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Yeah. A couple of her housemates over in Adelaide found her in the morning. She was only about twenty-two, I think, so—”

Raco fell silent abruptly as, up on stage, Sergeant Dwyer turned to introduce Zara. The officer drew the crowd’s attention one last time to the photo and phone number on the screen, before passing the microphone to the girl.

“Has Zara told you what she’s going to say?” Falk asked.

“No.” Raco glanced toward his brother. Charlie didn’t react as his daughter crossed the stage. “Reckon I can guess, though.”

Zara made eye contact with someone in the wings, and the image behind her dissolved. A video clip began playing instead. There was no sound, and it had clearly been shot on a phone. A younger, smiling Kim Gillespie silently sang—Happy birthday to you—as she held out a homemade cake. Sun filtered through the windows, and the candles on the cake flickered. Kim’s gaze moved slightly off-center as she locked eyes with the person filming, with the air of a private joke passing between her and whoever was behind the camera. Falk glanced over. From the expression on Charlie’s face, there was no question at all it had been him.

“This is my mum, Kim.” Zara was nervous, but her unchecked emotion only drew more eyes to the stage. “And I know some of you will have heard what happened here last year, but the facts—”

It was a more polished version of the speech she’d delivered at the vineyard stall, and Falk heard Raco sigh. A slideshow continued behind her, with photos and videos spanning several years. Purely from an appeal perspective it was better to use only recent photos, the cop part of Falk couldn’t help but think, but at the same time he could see why Zara had chosen them. They helped drive home that Kim Gillespie had been a real person, as urgent and vital as anyone watching, and Falk felt something shift in the mood of the crowd. Kim had walked among them—recently, here—living and breathing and probably also smelling the popcorn in the air and trying to avoid trampling on picnic blankets.

“My mum would never do this to her family—”

On-screen, Kim was laughing now, understated but bridal in a simple cream gown. Zara, then fourteen years old and in flattering bridesmaid pink, was at her side, eating cake and trying to pretend she wasn’t thoroughly enjoying herself. Rohan was wearing the traditional smart suit and had the happy, slightly stunned smile favored by grooms everywhere as he held Kim’s hand.

Another scene from the wedding followed, of Kim with her arms around an older couple who were clearly her parents. They lived in Canada, Falk remembered now, but had rushed over last year after it had happened. He ran his eyes quickly over the crowd of supporters. No return trip for the anniversary, he guessed. Some experiences were not ones anyone wanted to relive.

“Someone here tonight knows something—”

Zara was gathering momentum as the image behind her faded and resolved. Kim at the vineyard this time, laughing with Rita, their heads close. Falk felt Raco breathe out sharply.

“Where did she get that?” Raco muttered even as the picture changed again.

Kim at the finish line of a ten-kilometer charity fun run. Flushed but pleased, she raised a celebratory cup of water to her fellow runner, who herself appeared to have barely broken a sweat, her blond hair pulled high in a ponytail.

Falk turned in time to see Naomi Kerr caught completely off guard to find herself up on the screen. Maybe Zara hadn’t felt she needed permission to use photos of her own mother, but she clearly hadn’t sought it from Naomi. The woman stared glassy-eyed at the picture until it disappeared.

“I want to finish with a message for my mum,” Zara said as behind her now Kim was holding a baby. It was Zoe, judging by Kim’s age. The baby in her arms looked brand-new; Kim herself looked exhausted. An unconvincing smile was plastered across her face.

“If you hear this and if you can come home, Mum, please come home.” Zara paused. “And if you can’t, I want you to know we’re all working to find you. Okay? That’s it, I guess. Thank you.”

The awkward smattering of applause morphed into a rumbling murmur as she lowered the microphone and passed it to Rohan. Falk wasn’t surprised. People were always interested in the husband.