Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(3)

“Festival opens tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Good time to do it.”

“I hope so.” Rohan clicked the seat buckles and patted his daughter’s leg. He turned back to Falk. “I thought you looked familiar when you pulled up. Greg Raco’s mate? You were on the witness list?”

“Yeah.”

Rohan tilted his head, trying to remember. “Remind me. Near the entrance?”

“The ferris wheel.”

Rohan nodded as he thought back. “Yeah. That’s right.”

Falk was surprised the man remembered him after a year, but only a little. Falk had been a visitor in town, one of hundreds, but still worth following up. Rohan had probably flagged Falk’s presence to officers himself—There was another bloke there, tall, fortysomething, short hair, gray-blond maybe. Friend of the Racos but on his own, kind of hanging around—dredging up whatever information he could hours after the fact.

“You’re police, too, aren’t you?” Rohan tucked the sippy cup in next to Zoe before shutting the car door. “That how you know Greg?”

“Yeah, but we don’t work together. I’m AFP, financial division. He’s with the state police, back in Victoria.”

“Right.” There was a muffled wail of complaint from inside the car, and Rohan sighed. “Anyway. Better keep this one moving. Good to see you. You’re staying at the Racos’ place?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll probably see you at the appeal. They’ll all be there.”

“Probably. I hope it goes well.”

“Thank you.” The reply was reflexive, and Falk recognized the apprehension. It was exhausting to keep hope alive. How well could a missing person’s appeal really go after twelve whole months? There were no good answers left out there.

Falk watched Rohan reverse and disappear down the track, then walked over to the barrier. He leaned both hands on the railing and let himself relax for a minute, soaking up the sight in front of him. Light wisps of cloud moved across the sky, throwing delicate patterns of shadow below. From that height, the town looked small, its surroundings vivid and lush. Long rows of grapevines stretched out, their man-made perfection drawing the eye. Far in the distance, he could make out the aggressively imperfect crack where part of the giant Murray River carved its way through the land.

Rohan had the look of a man who did not sleep well, Falk thought as he let his gaze settle. That wasn’t surprising, given the circumstances, plus the demands of parenting a one-year-old. But still, Falk wondered what specifically was keeping the guy awake at night, in those hours when he could be snatching some precious rest.

A few things, probably. The statement from that young bloke who’d been manning the first-aid station, for one. What the kid reckoned he had or, more crucially, hadn’t seen. A couple of the alleged sightings, almost certainly. The drunk woman at the bar, maybe. The crying heard from the toilets. Confirmed or not, those were the kinds of things that played on your mind.

Falk took one last look at the view, then dragged his eyes away and walked back across the clearing. He climbed into his car and checked the directions for the last leg of the journey.

Most likely, Falk guessed as he started the engine and reversed carefully, Rohan Gillespie spent those dark early hours trawling through the choices he himself had made that night. That short stretch of time in which his movements remained uncorroborated, definitely. How long had the gap been? Falk tried to remember. Not huge. Eight minutes? Seven? Either way, long enough to cause headaches for the spouse of a missing woman.

The decision Rohan had taken to leave the festival. That moment when he’d waved goodbye to his wife and child and turned alone in the direction of town, heading into the night. The hours leading up to that moment. The days and months leading up to that night. Those things that you didn’t even notice at the time. Little decisions that ultimately added up to something so much bigger.

Falk edged his car along the narrow trail, emerging from the trees and back onto the road. He turned the wheels west and pressed down on the accelerator.

Those were the decisions that lingered, he thought, glancing over as he flashed past a temporary billboard, its colors bright against the green bushland. The Marralee Valley Annual Food and Wine Festival, it told him, just thirty minutes ahead.

The little things you could have done differently, that was the stuff that haunted you.





2


The déjà vu that had been hovering all journey really kicked into full gear as Falk pulled up the long dirt driveway and came to a stop outside the bluestone cottage.

The town of Marralee had looked much as he’d remembered, and he’d kept an eye out for the local landmarks Raco had pointed out a year earlier. That pub the Raco brothers and their various mates had drunk in when they were old enough; the park bench they’d drunk on when they weren’t. A row of shops, much more gentrified these days, apparently, with painted heritage awnings and handmade soaps and organic vegetables on display. The tree-lined road that led to the school. The cricket pitch. The turnoff to the festival grounds.

Even driving at a tour-guide pace via the scenic route, it had only taken Falk and Raco a handful of minutes last year to travel right through the town and out the other side. The main street had not long disappeared behind them, and the land opened up again when Raco had pointed to the dirt driveway with a painted sign on the fence.