The Dry Read online

  “How’s family life treating you?” he said finally, fishing.

  “It’s OK. Lachie can be a bit of a handful,” Gretchen said in an undertone. “And it’s just him and me. But he’s a good kid. And we get by. For now, anyway.”

  “Your parents still have their farm?”

  She shook her head. “God, no. They retired and sold up about eight years ago now. Moved to Sydney and bought a tiny unit three streets away from my sister and her kids.” She shrugged. “They say they like it. City life. Dad does Pilates apparently.”

  Falk couldn’t help smiling at the image of the plain-speaking Mr. Schoner focusing on his inner core and breathing exercises.

  “You weren’t tempted to follow?” he said.

  She gave a humorless laugh and gestured at the parched trees lining the road. “And leave all this? No. I’ve been here too long; it’s in the blood. You know what it’s like.” She bit the sentence short and glanced sideways. “Or maybe you don’t. Sorry.”

  Falk dismissed the remark with a wave of his hand. “What are you doing these days?”

  “Farming, of course. Trying to, anyway. I bought the Kellerman place a couple of years back. Sheep.”

  “Really?” He was impressed. That was a sought-after property. Or at least it had been when he was younger.

  “And you?” she said. “I heard you went into the police.”

  “Yeah. I did. Federal. Still there.” They walked on in silence for a way. The frenetic birdsong coming from the trees sounded the same as he remembered. Up ahead, groups of mourners stood out like smudges against the dusty road.

  “How are things round here?” he asked.

  “Awful.” The word was a full stop. Gretchen tapped a fingertip to her lips with the nervous energy of an ex-smoker. “God knows, it was bad enough before. Everyone’s scared about money and the drought. Then this happened with Luke and his family, and it’s so bad, Aaron. So bad. You can feel it. We’re all walking around like zombies. Not sure what to do, what to say. Watching each other. Trying to work out who’ll be next to snap.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. You can’t imagine.”

  “Were you and Luke still close?” Falk asked, curious.

  Gretchen hesitated. Her mouth set into an invisible line. “No. We hadn’t been for years. Not like it was when it was the four of us.”

  Falk thought about that photo. Luke, Gretchen, himself. And Ellie Deacon, with her long black hair. They’d all been so tight. Teenage tight, where you believe your friends are soul mates and the bonds will last forever.

  Luke lied. You lied.

  “You obviously stayed in touch with him,” Gretchen said.

  “On and off.” At least that was the truth. “We caught up occasionally for a beer when he was in Melbourne, that sort of thing.” Falk paused. “I hadn’t seen him for a few years, though. It gets busy, you know? He had his family, I’ve been working a lot.”

  “It’s all right, you don’t have to make excuses. We all feel guilty.”

  The community center was heaving. Falk hung back on the steps, and Gretchen tugged on his arm.

  “Come on, it’ll be OK. Most people probably won’t even remember you.”

  “There’ll be plenty who do. Especially after that photo at the funeral.”

  Gretchen made a face. “Yeah, I know. I got a shock too. But look, people have got plenty of things to worry about today other than you. Keep your head down. We’ll go out the back.”

  Without waiting for an answer she grasped Falk’s sleeve with one hand and her son with the other and led them in, easing her way through the crowd. The air was stifling. The center’s air conditioner was trying its best, but fighting a losing battle as mourners huddled in the indoor shade. They were mingling solemnly, balancing plastic cups and plates of chocolate ripple cake.

  Gretchen made her way to the french doors where collective claustrophobia had forced stragglers out into the patchy playground. They found a spot of shade by the fence line, and Lachie ran off to try his luck on the scalding metal slide.

  “You don’t have to stand with me if it’s going to sully your good name,” Falk said, tipping his hat a little farther forward to shield his face.

  “Oh, shut up. Besides, I do a good enough job of that myself.”

  Falk scanned the playground and spotted an elderly couple he thought might once have been friends of his father’s. They were chatting to a young police officer who, suited and booted in full dress uniform, was sweating under the afternoon sun. His forehead glistened as he nodded politely.

  “Hey,” Falk said. “Is that Barberis’s replacement?”

  Gretchen followed his gaze. “Yeah. You heard about Barberis?”

  “Of course. Sad loss. Remember how he used to scare us all to death with horror stories about kids who mucked about with farm equipment?”

  “Yeah. He’d had that heart attack coming for twenty years.”

  “Still. It’s a real shame,” Falk said, meaning it. “So who’s the new guy?”

  “Sergeant Raco, and if it looks like he’s stepped straight into the deep end, it’s because he has.”

  “No good? Seems like he’s handling the crowd OK.”

  “I don’t know really. He’d only been here about five minutes when all this happened.”

  “Hell of a situation to land in in your first five minutes.”

  Gretchen’s reply was cut short by a flurry of movement by the french doors. The crowd parted respectfully as Barb and Gerry Hadler emerged, blinking in the sunlight. Holding hands tightly, they made their way around the groups of mourners. A few words, a hug, a brave nod, move on.

  “How long since you last spoke to them?” Gretchen whispered.

  “Twenty years, until last week,” Falk said. He waited. Gerry was still on the other side of the playground when he spotted them. He pulled away from a rotund woman mid-hug, leaving her arms embracing fresh air.

  Be at the funeral.

  Falk was there, as instructed. Now he watched as Luke’s father approached.

  Gretchen got in first, intercepting Gerry with a hug. His eyes met Falk’s over her shoulder, his pupils huge and shining. Falk wondered if some form of medication was helping him through the day. When Gerry was released, he held out his hand, enclosing Falk’s palm in a hot, tight grip.

  “You made it, then,” he said neutrally as Gretchen hovered by their side.

  “I did,” said Falk. “I got your letter.”

  Gerry held his gaze.

  “Right. Well, I thought it was important you be here. For Luke. And I wasn’t sure you were going to make it, mate.” The final sentence hung heavily in the air.

  “Absolutely, Gerry.” Falk nodded. “Important to be here.”

  Gerry’s doubts hadn’t been unfounded. Falk had been at his desk in Melbourne a week earlier, staring blankly at a newspaper photo of Luke when the phone rang. In a halting voice Falk hadn’t heard for two decades, Gerry had told him the funeral details. “We’ll see you there,” he’d said, without a question mark at the end. Falk had avoided Luke’s pixelated gaze as he mumbled something about work commitments. In truth, he’d still been undecided. Two days later, the letter arrived. Gerry must have posted it as soon as he’d hung up the phone.

  You lied. Be at the funeral.

  Falk hadn’t slept well that night.

  They both now glanced awkwardly at Gretchen. She was frowning off into the middle distance where her son was clambering shakily over the monkey bars.

  “You’re staying in town tonight,” Gerry said. No question mark that time either, Falk noted.

  “Above the pub.”

  A wail went up from the playground, and Gretchen made a noise of frustration.

  “Shit. I could see that coming. Excuse me.” She jogged off. Gerry grabbed Falk’s elbow and angled him away from the mourners. His hand was shaking.

  “We need to talk. Before she comes back.”

  Falk wrenched his arm awa
y in a tiny controlled movement, aware of the crowd behind them. Unsure who was there, who was watching.

  “For God’s sake, Gerry, what is it you want?” He forced himself to stand in a way he hoped appeared relaxed. “If this is supposed to be some sort of blackmail, I can tell you right now that’s a nonstarter.”

  “What? Jesus, Aaron. No. Nothing like that.” Gerry looked genuinely shocked. “If I wanted to stir up trouble I’d have done it years ago, wouldn’t I? I was happy to let it lie. Christ, I would love to let it lie. But I can’t now, can I? With this? Karen and Billy both dead, him not even seven years old yet.” Gerry’s voice broke. “Look, I’m sorry about the letter, but I needed you to be here. I have to know.”

  “Know what?”

  Gerry’s eyes looked almost black against the bright sunlight.

  “If Luke had killed before.”

  Falk was silent. He didn’t ask what Gerry meant.

  “You know—” Gerry bit back his words as an officious woman wobbled up to inform him the chaplain needed to speak to him. Right away, if possible.

  “Jesus, it’s bloody chaos,” Gerry snapped, and the woman cleared her throat and arranged her expression into one of martyred patience. He turned back to Falk. “I’d better go. I’ll be in touch.” He shook Falk’s hand, holding it a beat longer than necessary.

  Falk nodded. He understood. Gerry looked hunched and small as he followed the woman away. Gretchen, having soothed her son, wandered back to Falk. They stood shoulder to shoulder as together they watched Gerry go.

  “He seems dreadful,” she said in an undertone. “I heard he was screaming at Craig Hornby in the supermarket yesterday, accusing him of making light of the situation or something. Seems a bit unlikely; Craig’s been his friend for fifty years.”

  Falk couldn’t imagine anyone, least of all stoic Craig Hornby, making light of those three awful coffins.

  “Was there really no warning at all from Luke?” He couldn’t help himself.

  “Like what?” A fly landed on Gretchen’s lip, and she brushed it away impatiently. “Him waving a gun around in the main street threatening to do in his family?”

  “God, Gretch, I’m only asking. I meant depression or something.”

  “Sorry. It’s this heat. It makes everything worse.” She paused. “Look, there’s barely anyone in Kiewarra who’s not at the end of their tether. But honestly, Luke didn’t seem to be struggling any more than anyone else. At least not in a way anyone’s admitting seeing.”

  Gretchen’s thousand-yard stare was grim.

  “It’s hard to know, though,” she said after a pause. “Everyone’s so angry. But they’re not just angry at Luke exactly. The people paying him out the most don’t seem to hate him for what he’s done. It’s weird. It’s almost like they’re jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the fact that he did what they can’t bring themselves to do, I think. Because now he’s out of it, isn’t he? While the rest of us are stuck here to rot, he’s got no more worrying about crops or missed payments or the next rainfall.”

  “Desperate solution,” Falk said. “To take your family with you. How’s Karen’s family coping?”

  “She didn’t really have any, from what I heard. You ever meet her?”

  Falk shook his head.

  “Only child,” Gretchen said. “Parents passed away when she was a teenager. She moved here to live with an aunt who died a few years ago. I think Karen was pretty much a Hadler for all intents and purposes.”

  “Were you friends with her?”

  “Not really. I—”

  The clink of a fork against a wineglass rang out from the french doors. The crowd slowly fell silent and turned to where Gerry and Barb Hadler stood hand in hand. They looked very alone, surrounded by all those people.

  It was only the two of them now, Falk realized. They’d also had a daughter once, briefly. She was stillborn when Luke was three. If they’d tried for more children after that they hadn’t succeeded. Instead they’d channeled all their energy into their sturdy surviving son.

  Barb cleared her throat, her eyes darting back and forth over the crowd.

  “We wanted to thank you all for coming. Luke was a good man.”

  The words were too fast and too loud, and she pressed her lips together as if to stop more escaping. The pause stretched out until it was awkward, then a little longer. Gerry stared mutely at a patch of ground in front of him. Barb prized open her lips and took a gulp of air.

  “And Karen and Billy were beautiful. What’s happened has been”—she swallowed—“so terrible. But I hope eventually you can remember Luke properly. From before. He was a friend to many of you. A good neighbor, a hard worker. And he loved that family of his.”

  “Yeah, ’til he butchered them.”

  The words that floated from the back of the crowd were soft, but Falk wasn’t the only one to whip his head around. The glares pinpointed the speaker as a large man wearing his midforties badly. Fleshy biceps that were more fat than muscle strained against his T-shirt as he folded his arms. His face was ruddy, with a scruffy beard and the defiant look of a bully. He stared down each person who turned to chastise him, until one by one they looked away. Barb and Gerry appeared not to have heard. Small mercies, Falk thought.

  “Who’s the loudmouth?” he whispered, and Gretchen looked at him in surprise. “You don’t recognize him? It’s Grant Dow.”

  “You’re kidding.” Falk felt the hairs on his neck prickle, and he turned his face away. He remembered a twenty-five-year-old with lean muscles like barbed wire. This bloke looked like he’d had a tough two decades since. “He looks so different.”

  “Still a prize dickhead. Don’t worry. I don’t think he’s seen you. You’d know about it if he had.”

  Falk nodded, but kept his face turned. Barb started crying, which the crowd took as a sign the speech had ended, and people gravitated instinctively toward her or away, depending on their sentiment. Falk and Gretchen stayed put. Gretchen’s son ran up and buried his face in his mother’s trousers. She hoisted him with some difficulty onto her hip, and he rested his head on her shoulder, yawning.

  “Time to get this one home, I think,” she said. “When are you off back to Melbourne?”

  Falk checked his watch. Fifteen hours.

  “Tomorrow,” he said out loud.

  Gretchen nodded, looking up at him. Then she leaned forward and wrapped her spare arm around his back and pulled him close. Falk could feel the heat of the sun on his back and the warmth of her body in front.

  “It’s good to see you again, Aaron.” Her blue eyes looked over his face as though trying to memorize it, and she smiled a little sadly. “Maybe see you in another twenty years.”

  He watched her walk away until he couldn’t see her anymore.

  3

  Falk sat on the edge of the bed, listlessly watching a medium-size huntsman spider perched on the wall. The early evening temperature had dropped only fractionally as the sun disappeared. He’d changed into shorts after a shower, and his damp legs prickled uncomfortably against the cheap cotton bedsheet. A stern sign hanging from an egg timer next to the showerhead had ordered him to keep ablutions to three minutes. He’d started to feel guilty after two.

  The dull sounds of the pub thudded up through the floor, the occasional muted voice ringing a distant bell. A small part of him was curious to see who was down there, but he felt no desire to join in. The noise was punctuated by the muffled smash of a dropped glass. There was a short pocket of silence followed by a chorus of derisive laughter. The huntsman moved a single leg.

  Falk jumped as the room phone on the bedside table rang out, its tone shrill and plastic. He was startled but not surprised. He felt like he’d been waiting for it for hours.

  “Hello?”

  “Aaron Falk? I’ve a call for you.” The barman’s voice was deep with a trace of a Scottish accent. Falk pictured the imposing figure who had taken his credit card details in e
xchange for a room key without comment two hours earlier.

  Falk had never seen him before, and he was certain he would have remembered a face like that. Late forties, with broad shoulders and a full orange beard, the barman was a backpacker who had stayed and stayed, Falk guessed. He’d shown no spark of recognition at Falk’s name, just an air of disbelief that anyone would use the pub for a purpose not directly linked to alcohol.

  “Who’s calling?” Falk asked, although he could guess.

  “You’ll have to ask him yourself,” the barman said. “You want a message service, you’ll have to stay in a nicer establishment, my friend. Putting him through now.” The line went silent for a long moment, then Falk heard breathing.

  “Aaron? You there? It’s Gerry.” Luke’s father sounded exhausted.

  “Gerry. We need to talk.”

  “Yes. Come out to the house. Barb wants to speak to you, anyway.” Gerry gave him the address. There was a long pause, then a heavy sigh. “And listen, Aaron. She doesn’t know about the letter. Or any of this. Let’s keep it that way, yeah?”

  Falk followed Gerry’s directions along gloomy country roads and twenty minutes later turned his car onto a short paved driveway. A porch light cast an orange glow over a neat weatherboard home. He pulled to a stop, and the screen door screeched open, revealing Barb Hadler’s squat silhouette. Her husband appeared behind her a moment later, his taller frame throwing a long shadow onto the drive. As Falk climbed the porch steps, he could see they were both still wearing their funeral clothes. Wrinkled now.

  “Aaron. My God, it’s been so long. Thank you for coming. Come in,” Barb whispered, reaching out her free hand to him. She was clutching baby Charlotte close to her chest and rocking her with a vigorous rhythm. “Sorry about the baby. She’s very restless. Won’t go down.”