Force of Nature (Aaron Falk #2)(73)

‘Red’s perfect, thanks. Here, I’ll open it,’ Carmen said, reaching out for the bottle and two glasses. ‘You’ve got a nice place here. Very neat. I have to have about two weeks’ notice to have people round. Although your taste is a little on the monastic side, if I may say so.’

‘You wouldn’t be the first.’ He poked his head into another cupboard and emerged with two large pots. Mince from the freezer went into the microwave to defrost as Carmen poured the wine into two glasses.

‘I’ve never had the patience with all that “let it breathe” rubbish,’ she said, clinking her glass against his. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

He was conscious of her eyes on him as he put oil, onions and garlic in a pan then, as they sizzled, opened a tin of tomatoes. She had a half-smile on her face.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Nothing.’ She looked at him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip. ‘Just with your whole bachelor pad set-up, I was expecting sauce from a jar.’

‘Don’t get too excited. You haven’t tasted it yet.’

‘No. Smells good, though. I didn’t know you could cook.’

He smiled. ‘That’s probably a bit generous. I can make this and a few other things. It’s like playing the piano, though, isn’t it? You only need to know about five decent pieces you can drag out in company and people think you’re good at it.’

‘So this is your signature dish, as they say on the cooking shows?’

‘One of them. I’ve got exactly four more.’

‘Still, five dishes is four more than some men can make, let me tell you.’ She smiled back and hopped off her stool. ‘Can I turn on the news for a minute?’

Carmen picked up the remote without waiting for an answer. The sound was low but Falk could see the screen out of the corner of his eye. They didn’t have to wait long for an update. The ticker scrolled along the bottom of the screen.

GRAVE FEARS FOR MISSING MELBOURNE HIKER.

A series of photos appeared: Alice Russell, alone, then again in the group shot taken at the start of the trail. Martin Kovac, old images of his four victims, an aerial shot of the Giralang Ranges, a rolling tangle of green and brown stretching to the horizon.

‘Any mention of the son?’ Falk called from the kitchen, and Carmen shook her head.

‘Not yet. It all sounds pretty speculative.’

She turned off the TV and moved over to examine his bookshelves. ‘Good collection.’

‘Feel free to borrow any,’ he said. He read widely, mostly fiction, spanning from the award-studded literary to the shamelessly commercial. He stirred the pan, the aromas filling the room as Carmen examined the shelves. She was brushing her fingers along the spines, pausing once or twice to turn her head and read the titles. Halfway along, she stopped, edging something thin out from between two novels.

‘Is this your dad?’

Falk froze at the stove, knowing without looking what she was talking about. He gave one of the bubbling pots a vigorous stir, before finally turning around. Carmen was holding up a photograph. She had a second one in her hand.

‘Yeah, that’s him.’ Falk wiped his hands on a tea towel and reached across the counter for the picture she was holding. It was unframed and he held it by the edges.

‘What was his name?’

‘Erik.’

Falk hadn’t looked at the picture properly since it had been printed by a nurse and presented to him in a card after the funeral. It showed him next to a frail-looking man in a wheelchair. His dad’s face was drawn and pale. Both men were smiling, but woodenly, as though responding to an instruction from the person behind the camera.

Carmen was looking at the other photo she’d found. She held it up. ‘This one’s really nice. When was this taken?’

‘I’m not sure. A while ago, obviously.’

Falk had a little trouble swallowing as he looked at the second image. The photo quality was less crisp and the camerawork a little shaky, but the smiles it captured were not forced this time. He would be about three years old, he guessed, and sitting on his dad’s shoulders, his hands gripping the sides of Erik’s face, and his chin resting on his dad’s hair.

They were walking along what Falk recognised as the trail that had skirted their large back paddock, and his dad was pointing at something in the distance. Falk had tried a number of times without success to remember what had caught their eye. Whatever it had been, it had made them both laugh. Whether it was the weather, or a stuff-up in the photo development process, the scene was awash with a golden light, giving it the appearance of an endless summer.

Falk had not seen the photo for years, until he’d brought his father’s backpack home from the hospice and emptied out the contents. He hadn’t known his dad had even had it, let alone how long he’d kept it with him. Among all the things in his life Falk wished had gone differently, he wished his dad had shown him this photo while he was still alive.

Not knowing quite how he felt about any of it – the belongings, the funeral, his father’s death – Falk had tucked the backpack with Erik’s maps inside in the bottom of the wardrobe and slid the photos between two of his favourite books until he decided what to do with them. They had all remained there ever since.

‘You look just like him,’ Carmen was saying, her head down, nose close to the image. ‘I mean, obviously not so much in this one in the hospital.’