Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(56)

Another shrug. “Dunno. Whenever it needs doing.” Joel took a water bottle from his backpack on the ground and poured a little on the cloth. “Otherwise, it stays like this for ages. It’s owned by some business group, so they don’t give a shit, they’d leave it like this all year.”

In memory of Dean Tozer. Loved and missed.

The plaque near Falk’s hand was now gleaming. The dirt and boot prints were mostly gone, but the graffitied pen markings remained stubbornly scrawled across the woodwork.

“You’ll need turps or something for these,” Falk said.

“I know. We’ve run out at home.” Joel sprayed some more cleaning fluid on the wood. “This was better than nothing for now.”

Falk nodded. It was growing dark. The kid still had a bit to do.

“You got a spare cloth?”

Joel looked up in surprise. “You don’t have to help. I can do it myself.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Falk leaned against the clean barrier and watched Joel for a minute. “My own dad died, a few years ago now. Cancer. Drawn out. Expected. So, no memorial like this. But he’s got a grave back in Victoria and I’ll tell you, if some drunk dickheads left it in this state, I would be unbelievably pissed off.” Falk nodded at the bag on the ground. “Seriously. Let me give you a hand, mate.”

Joel didn’t respond immediately, but Falk saw him run an eye over what was left to do. A beat passed, then he reached down and pulled another cloth from his bag.

“Thanks.” The word was almost lost in the soft rustle of the bushland.

“No worries.”

They worked silently side by side for a while, as the sky over the water turned a deeper purple. They were on the final stretch when Joel rolled his shoulders, loosening his neck.

“So what did Sergeant Dwyer have to say earlier?”

Falk frowned as he rubbed the corner of his cloth over a particularly tough gray mark that seemed baked on. “He thinks you and Zara are on the wrong track.”

A short laugh. “No surprise there. What does he reckon the right track is, then?”

“Well, yeah,” Falk said. “Be interesting to know.”

“He didn’t say?”

“Not to me.”

“Because he doesn’t know himself. Not what happened to Kim. Not who killed my dad. I mean, Jesus, how hard is it to find a car with that much damage?”

Falk said nothing, but stopped scrubbing for a minute and looked around, more closely this time, at the surroundings. The track, the bushland, the Drop, the barrier. Falk didn’t know anything especially useful about resolving traffic accidents. It was a world away from his day-to-day operations, but even applying basic investigation techniques he could appreciate that this scenario could be a tricky one. No witnesses, early morning, quiet roads in and out, hundreds if not thousands of agricultural sheds big enough to hide a damaged vehicle. Assuming it was a local vehicle at all, which felt like a pretty big assumption to make. Falk could hear the faint pulse of the festival music through the trees, and he pictured the size of the crowd. A lot of people, with a lot of vehicles. Jump on the highway, head home. A car could be across the border and into Victoria or New South Wales in a matter of hours. Falk looked at Joel, whose face was hard as he wrung out his cloth.

“Does Dwyer know what kind of car it was?”

“Blue Toyota. Or possibly Holden. And yes,” he said as Falk took a breath, “before you ask, I do know how common that type of vehicle is. Sergeant Dwyer’s made that point a few hundred times.”

“Right.” Falk nodded. To be fair, Dwyer wasn’t wrong about that. “But I was actually going to ask how he knows. CCTV somewhere or—?”

“Oh. No, there was nothing like that.” Joel examined the barrier in front of him. “From paint scratches left on the wood.”

“And they checked all the locally registered vehicles, I’m guessing?”

“Apparently.”

Falk was still thinking about that when Joel spoke again.

“Hey.” The boy’s tone was overly casual. “Was Zara okay when she got home? She was a bit down when she left this afternoon.”

Falk blinked, catching up with the change in subject. He pictured Zara at dinner. She had said very little, concentrating on her plate, seemingly miles away.

“She seemed no worse,” he said truthfully.

“That’s good.”

Falk looked over at Joel in the growing darkness. He took personal and professional pride in not jumping to conclusions, but at the same time some things were clear without having to ask. For example, it was as obvious as if it were written in the night sky above them that this kid had a serious thing for Zara and she did not feel the same way. Falk watched Joel for a moment, tipping clean water onto his cloth. He could remember that feeling, at that age. Pining after a girl. The acute, sharp pang of longing that was both pleasant and painful.

Gemma, can I grab your number?

I think … no.

The memory flared without warning and, almost amused, Falk pushed it straight back down.

“So what’s the situation with you and Zara? Are you two together, or—?” Falk knew the answer but was interested in Joel’s take. The kid was already shaking his head.

“No. We’re just friends.” He was quiet for a minute. “But we’re pretty good friends, I guess. Now, obviously, but even before this. Our parents were close, so we’ve known each other a long time. Zara was really good when my dad died. And then all this with her mum…” Joel shrugged, and an edge crept into his voice. “So we kind of look out for each other, I suppose. Which is why I wouldn’t make things harder for her by lying about not seeing Kim that night. For the record. Again.”