“Nothing fancy. Barely a step up from a nanny cam really,” Raco said. “Luke installed it after a spate of equipment burglaries around here a year ago. A few of the farmers have them. Records for twenty-four hours, uploads the footage to the family computer, gets wiped after a week if no one actively saves it.”
The camera appeared to be positioned above the largest barn. It was directed toward the yard to capture anyone coming or going. One side of the house was in shot, and in the upper corner of the screen a slim slice of driveway was visible. Raco skipped through the recording until he found the spot he was looking for, and paused it.
“OK, this is the afternoon of the shootings. You can watch the whole day later if you want, but in a nutshell the family leaves the house in the morning separately. Luke drives off in his truck just after 5:00 A.M.—headed out to his own fields as far as I’ve been able to tell. Then shortly after eight, Karen, Billy, and Charlotte leave for school. She worked there part-time in an admin role, and Charlotte was in the on-site day care.”
Raco tapped the screen, starting the footage. He passed Falk a pair of earphones and plugged them into the tablet. The sound was poor and muffled, as wind buffeted the microphone.
“Nothing happens during the day,” Raco said. “Believe me, I’ve watched the entire thing in real time. No one comes and no one goes until 4:04 P.M., when Karen and the kids get home.”
In the corner of the screen, a blue hatchback trundled by and disappeared. It was on an angle, visible only from the hood down to the tires. Falk could just make out the front number plate.
“You can read that if you freeze it and blow it up,” Raco said. “It’s definitely Karen’s car.”
Above the electronic crackling, Falk heard the thud of a car door slamming, followed a moment later by a second one. Raco tapped the screen again. The image jumped.
“Then it’s all quiet for nearly an hour—again, I’ve checked—until … here. 5:01 P.M.”
Raco pressed play and let Falk watch. For a few long seconds all was still. Then a shape moved in the corner. The silver pickup truck was taller than the hatchback and only visible from the headlights down. The number plate was visible. Again, the vehicle was there and gone in less than a second.
“Luke’s,” Raco said.
The image on-screen was completely static, although the footage was still rolling. There was the thud of an invisible car door again, then nothing for an agonizing twenty seconds. Suddenly a dull boom crashed in Falk’s ears, and he flinched. Karen. He felt his heart thumping in his chest.
The scene was still again as the timer continued to tick over. Sixty seconds gone, then ninety. Falk realized he was holding his breath, willing there to be a different ending. He was both frustrated and grateful at that moment for the poor sound. Billy Hadler’s screams would be the haunting kind. When the second boom came it was almost a relief. Falk blinked once.
There was no movement. Then, three minutes and forty-seven seconds after the vehicle had first appeared, it rattled away through the corner of the screen. The back wheels, the bottom of the tray, and the number plate of Luke Hadler’s vehicle were all perfectly visible.
“No one else comes or goes until the courier thirty-five minutes later,” Raco said. Falk handed the tablet back to him. He could still hear the muffled booms ringing in his ears.
“You seriously think there’s doubt after seeing that?” Falk said.
“It’s Luke’s truck, but you can’t see who’s driving it,” Raco said. “Plus the other stuff. The ammunition. Killing Karen on the doorstep. The search in Billy’s room.”
Falk stared at him.
“I don’t get it. Why are you so convinced it wasn’t Luke? You didn’t even know him.”
Raco shrugged. “I found the kids,” he said. “I had to see what Billy Hadler looked like after some monster killed him, and I’ll never be able to unsee that. I want to make sure the right thing’s been done by him. I know it seems crazy, and look, odds are Luke probably did do it. I admit that. But if there’s a tiny chance that someone else has done this and got away with it—”
Raco shook his head and took a long drink.
“You know, I look at Luke Hadler and on the surface he had it all—great wife, two kids, decent enough farm, respect in his community. Why would a man like that turn around one day and destroy his family? It makes no sense. I just can’t understand how someone like him could do something like that.”
Falk rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin. It felt gritty. He needed a shave.
Luke lied. You lied.
“Raco,” he said. “There’s something about Luke you need to know.”
7
“Back when Luke and I were kids,” Falk said. “Well, not exactly kids. Older than that. Sixteen, actually—”
He broke off as he sensed a swell of movement at the other end of the bar. The place had filled up without Falk noticing, and when he looked up now more than one familiar face glanced away. Falk felt the ripple of disruption a moment before he saw it. Drinkers lowered their eyes and shuffled aside without complaint as a group moved through the crowd. At the head was a meaty bloke with sludge-brown hair topped by sunglasses. Falk felt a cold trickle seep through his guts. He may not have recognized Grant Dow at the Hadlers’ funeral, but there was no mistaking him now.
Ellie’s cousin. They had the same eyes, but Falk knew there was absolutely nothing of her in him. Dow stopped in front of their table, his flabby frame blocking their view. His T-shirt advertised a Balinese beer brand. His features were piggy small and cramped together in the middle of his face, while his beard straggled across a thick chin. He was wearing the same look of defiance he’d used to stare down the mourners at the wake. Dow raised his glass toward Falk in a mock salute and flashed a smile that went nowhere near his eyes.
“You’ve got balls turning up here,” he said. “I’ll give you that much. Don’t you reckon, Uncle Mal? Give him that much, eh?”
Dow turned. An older man hidden behind him took a shaky step forward, and Falk came face-to-face with Ellie’s father for the first time in twenty years. He felt something lodge in his chest and caught himself swallowing.
Mal Deacon had a curve to his spine now but was still a tall man, with ropy arms leading to large hands. His fingers were knotted and swollen with age and were almost white as he gripped the back of a chair for support. His forehead furrowed deep into a scowl, and his exposed scalp was angry pink between strands of gray hair.
Falk braced himself for an outburst, but instead a look of confusion flashed across Deacon’s face. He shook his head slightly, the loose chicken flesh on his neck rubbing against a dirty collar.
“Why are you back?” Deacon’s voice was slow and raspy. Deep grooves appeared on either side of his mouth as he spoke. Every single person in the pub was determinedly looking elsewhere, Falk noted. Only the barman was following the exchange with interest. He had put down his crossword.
“Eh?” Deacon slammed a gnarled hand against the back of the chair, and everyone jumped. “Why are you back? I thought you’d got the message clear enough. You brought the kid with you as well?”