It was Falk’s turn to look confused. “What?”
“That bloody son of yours. Don’t act dumb with me, dickhead. He back too? Your boy?”
Falk blinked. Deacon had mistaken him for his late father. He stared at the old man’s face. Deacon scowled back, but there was something sluggish about his anger.
Grant Dow stepped forward and put a hand on his uncle’s shoulder. For a moment he appeared to consider explaining the mistake, then shook his head in frustration and gently forced his uncle into a chair.
“Nice one, you prick, you’ve gone and upset him now,” Dow said to Falk. “I’ve gotta ask you, mate. You think this is the best place for you to be?”
Raco pulled his Victoria Police badge out of his jeans pocket and slapped it faceup on the table.
“I could ask you the same thing, Grant. This the best place for you right now, you reckon?”
Dow held up his palms and twisted his face into a picture of innocence.
“Yeah, all right, no need for that. Me and my uncle are just out for a social drink. He’s not well; you can see that yourselves. We’re not the ones looking for any trouble. This one, though”—he looked straight at Falk—“he tracks it behind him like dog shit.”
An almost imperceptible murmur rolled through the room. Falk had known the story would resurface sooner rather than later. He shifted as he felt every eye in the place glance toward him.
The hikers were hot and bored. The mosquitoes were out in force, and the track by the Kiewarra River was proving slower going than they’d expected. The three of them trudged along in single file, bickering when they could be bothered to raise their voices over the sound of rushing water.
The second in line swore as he ran chest first into the group leader’s backpack, spilling his open water bottle down his front. A former investment banker, he’d moved to the country for his health and had spent each day since trying to convince himself he didn’t hate every minute of it. The leader held up his hand and cut short the grumbling. He pointed to the murky river water. They turned and stared.
“What the hell is that?”
“All right, we’ll have none of that, thanks,” the barman called out from behind the counter. He’d got to his feet and was resting his fingertips on the countertop. Beneath his orange beard, he was unsmiling. “This is a public bar. Anyone can drink here—him, you—and you can take it or leave it.”
“What’s the third option?” Dow flashed his yellow teeth at his mates, who dutifully laughed.
“Third option is you’re barred. So your choice.”
“Yeah. Always making those promises, though, aren’t you?” Dow stared at the barman. Raco cleared his throat, but Dow ignored him. The barman’s words came back to Falk. Out here, those badges mean less than they should.
“The problem’s not with him being in the bar.” The room was almost silent as Mal Deacon spoke. “It’s him being back in Kiewarra at all.”
He raised a finger thick with arthritis and pointed it between Falk’s eyes. “Understand this and tell your boy. There’s nothing here for you except a lot of people who remember what your son did to my daughter.”
The investment banker vomited his ham sandwiches into the bush. He and the other two were soaking wet, but he barely noticed.
The girl’s body now lay on the trail, a pool of water seeping out around her. She was slim, but it had taken all three of them to drag her to the bank. Her skin was unnaturally white, and a slick of hair had fallen into her mouth. The sight of it disappearing between her pale lips made the investment banker gag again. Her earlobes were red raw around her piercings. The fish had taken the opportunity. The same markings were visible around her nostrils and painted fingernails.
She was fully clothed and looked young where the water had washed her makeup away. Her white T-shirt was almost transparent as it clung to her skin, displaying her lace bra beneath. Her flat boots were still tangled with traces of the weeds that had tethered her body to the spot. Both boots and every pocket of her jeans had been packed tight with stones.
“Bullshit. I had nothing to do with what happened to Ellie.” Falk couldn’t help himself and instantly regretted it. He bit down on his tongue. Don’t engage.
“Who says?” Grant Dow stood behind his uncle. His cold grin was long gone. “Who says you had nothing to do with it? Luke Hadler?” As he said the name it felt like air had been sucked out of the bar. “The thing about that is Luke’s not here to say much of anything anymore.”
The fittest of the trio had run for help. The investment banker sat on the ground near his own pool of vomit. He felt safer there, engulfed in the acid stink, than near that horrific white being. The group leader paced, his feet squelching.
They could guess who she was. Her photo had been in the paper for three days. Eleanor Deacon, age sixteen. Missing since Friday night, when she’d failed to return home. Her father had given her a night to cool whatever teenage impulse might have been keeping her away. When she didn’t come home on Saturday, he’d raised the alarm.
It had seemed like an age before emergency workers arrived at the river. The girl’s body was taken to the hospital. The investment banker was sent home. Within a month he’d moved back to the city.
The doctor examining Ellie Deacon’s body reported the cause of death as drowning. Her lungs were soggy with the river. She appeared to have been in the water for several days, he noted, most likely since Friday. He reported some bruising on her breastbone and shoulders, and abrasions on her hands and arms. Not inconsistent with damage caused by debris rushing past in the water. There were some old scars on her forearms, possibly evidence of self-harm. She was not, he noted as an afterthought, a virgin.
At the mention of Luke’s name there was a ripple around the room, and even Dow seemed to sense he’d gone too far.
“Luke was my friend. Ellie was my friend.” Falk’s voice sounded strange to his own ears. “I cared about them both. So back off.”
Deacon stood up, his chair squealing against the floorboards.
“Don’t you talk to me about caring for Ellie. To me, she was blood!” He was shouting, his hands shaking as he thrust a finger at Falk in accusation. Out of the corner of his eye, Falk saw Raco and the barman exchange looks.
“You reckon you and your boy had nothing to do with it,” Deacon said. “What about the note, you lying bastard?”
He said it with a flourish, like a conversational trump card. Falk felt the air go out of him. He felt exhausted. Deacon’s mouth was twisted. Next to him, his nephew was laughing. He could smell blood.
“Not so quick with an answer to that, are you?” Dow said.