Raco sighed. He stubbed the cigarette out carefully, then doused the butt with a splash of beer.
“All right, mate,” he said. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now. Unless it needs to come out, in which case you sing like a canary and I knew nothing about any of it, right?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Meet me at the station at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll go and have a chat to Luke’s mate Jamie Sullivan. The last person who admits seeing him alive.” He looked at Falk. “If you’re still in town.”
With a wave, he headed off into the night.
Back in his room, Falk lay on his bed and pulled out his cell phone. He held it in his palm but didn’t dial. The huntsman had disappeared from above the lamp. He tried not to think about where it was now.
If you’re still in town, Raco had said. Falk was all too aware he had the choice. His car was parked right outside. He could pack his bag, pay the bearded bartender, and be on the road to Melbourne inside fifteen minutes.
Raco might roll his eyes, and Gerry would try to call. But what could they do? They wouldn’t be pleased, but he could live with that. Barb, though—Falk could picture her face with unwelcome clarity—Barb would be dismayed. And he wasn’t entirely sure he could live with that. Falk shifted uncomfortably at the thought. The room felt airless in the heat.
He had never known his own mother. She had died in a seeping, hemorrhagic pool of her own blood less than an hour after he was born. His dad had tried—tried hard, even—to fill the gap. But any sense Falk had growing up of maternal tenderness, every warm cake from the oven, every over-perfumed cuddle, had come from Barb Hadler. She may have been Luke’s mother, but she had always made time for him.
He, Ellie, and Luke had spent more time at the Hadlers’ house than at any of the others’. Falk’s own home was often silent and empty, his father trapped for hours by the demands of the land. Ellie would shake her head at suggestions they go to her house. Not today, she’d say. When he and Luke had insisted for variety, Falk always found himself regretting it. Ellie’s house was messy, with a whiff of empty bottles.
The Hadlers’ place was sunlit and busy, with good things coming from the kitchen and clear instructions about homework and bedtime and orders to turn off that damn TV and get some fresh air. The Hadlers’ farm had always been a haven—until two weeks ago, when it had become a crime scene of the worst kind.
Falk lay unmoving on the bed. Fifteen minutes had passed. He could be on the road by now. Instead, he was still there.
He sighed and rolled over, his fingers hovering over his phone as he considered who he needed to inform. He pictured his St. Kilda flat, the lights off, front door locked up tight. Big enough for two, but for the past three years home only to him. No one was waiting there anymore. No one fresh from the shower, with music playing and a bottle of red breathing on the kitchen counter. No one eager to answer the phone and interested to hear why he was staying a few extra days.
Most of the time, he was fine with that. But at that moment, lying in a pub room in Kiewarra, he wished he’d built a home a little more like Barb and Gerry Hadlers’ than one just like his father’s.
He was due back at work on Monday, but they knew he’d been at a funeral. He’d avoided saying whose. He could stay, he knew. He could take a few days. For Barb. For Ellie. For Luke, even. He’d built up more overtime and goodwill on the Pemberley case than he could use. His latest investigation was a slow burn at best.
Falk mulled it over, and another fifteen minutes passed. Finally, he picked up his phone and left a message for the financial division’s long-suffering secretary, informing her he’d be taking a week’s leave for personal reasons, effective immediately.
It was hard to say which of them was more surprised.
9
Jamie Sullivan had been at work for more than four hours by the time Falk and Raco tramped across his fields. He was on one knee, his bare hands deep in the dry dirt, checking the soil with scientific scrutiny.
“We’ll go into the house,” he said when Raco told him they had questions about Luke. “I need to check on my gran, anyways.”
Falk studied Sullivan as they followed him toward the low brick building. Late twenties, he had a dusting of straw-blond hair that was prematurely thinning at the crown. His torso and legs were wiry, but his arms were built like pistons, giving him the shape of an inverted triangle.
At the house, Sullivan led them into a cluttered hallway. Falk took off his hat and fought to keep the look of surprise off his face. Behind him, he heard Raco swear under his breath as his shin connected with a footstool lurking by the door. The hallway was chaotic. Every surface was crammed with ornaments and knickknacks gathering dust. Somewhere deep in the house, a television blared.
“It’s all Gran’s.” Sullivan answered the question that neither of them had asked out loud. “She likes them. And they keep her”—he considered—“present.”
He led them through to the kitchen where a birdlike woman was standing at the sink. Her blue-veined hands trembled under the weight of a filled kettle.
“All right there, Gran? Fancy a cuppa? Let me.” Sullivan hastily took the kettle from her.
The kitchen was clean but disorganized, and above the stove a large scorch mark stained the wall. The paint had blistered and was peeling away like an ugly gray wound. Mrs. Sullivan glanced at the three men and then back at the door.
“When’s your dad getting home?”
“He’s not, Gran,” Sullivan said. “He died, remember? Three years now.”
“Yes. I know.” It was impossible to tell whether she was surprised by the news or not. Sullivan looked at Falk and nodded toward a doorway.
“Could you take her through? I’ll be in in a minute.”
Falk could feel the bones through the loose skin of the old woman’s arm as she leaned on him. The living room felt claustrophobic after the brightness of the kitchen, and everywhere half-empty cups jostled with blank-eyed china figurines for precious space. Falk led the woman to a threadbare armchair near the window.
Mrs. Sullivan sat down shakily with an irritated sigh.
“You officers are here about Luke Hadler, are you? Don’t touch those,” she snapped as Raco went to move a pile of dog-eared newspapers from a chair. Her vowels carried a trace of an Irish lilt. “No need to look at me like that. I’m not completely daft yet. That fella Luke was round here, then went off and did away with his family, didn’t he? Why else would you be here? Unless our Jamie’s been up to something he shouldn’t.”
Her laugh sounded like a rusty gate.
“Not that we know of,” Falk said, exchanging a glance with Raco. “Did you know Luke well?”
“I didn’t know him at all. Other than he was friends with our Jamie. Came round from time to time. Gave him a hand on the farm.”