“Or the killer could have physically overpowered him,” Raco said. “Might have taken a bit of effort, but some people could do it. You saw Sullivan’s arms. Like walnuts packed into a sock.”
Falk nodded and thought back to the report on Luke’s body. He was a decent-sized bloke. A healthy male, other than the gunshot wound. No defensive marks on his hands. No sign of ligature marks or other restraints. He pictured Luke’s corpse lying flat on its back in the truck’s cargo tray. The blood pooled around him and the four unexplained streaks on the side of the metal tray.
“‘Bloody women,’” Falk said out loud. “What do you think he meant by that?”
“I dunno,” Raco said, glancing at his watch. “But we’re set to meet someone who might later this afternoon. I thought it could be worth seeing what Karen Hadler kept in her desk drawer.”
11
The wattle sapling looked a little less sickly once it was in the ground, but not much. Uniformed schoolchildren looked on in bewilderment as mulch was shoveled around its base. Teachers and parents stood in loose groups, some crying openly.
A handful of the wattle’s fuzzy yellow buds gave up the fight immediately and fluttered to the ground. They settled near a plaque with the fresh engraving:
In memory of Billy Hadler and Karen Hadler.
Much loved and missed by our school family.
The sapling didn’t stand a chance, Falk thought. He could feel the heat through the soles of his shoes.
Back on the grounds of his old primary school, Falk was again struck by the feeling that he could be thirty years in the past. The asphalt playground was a miniature version of the one he remembered, and the water fountains seemed absurdly low. But it was instantly familiar, sparking half-remembered flashes of faces and events he’d long forgotten.
Luke had been a good ally to have back then. He was one of those kids with an easy smile and a sharp wit who could navigate the jungle law of the playground effortlessly. Charismatic would have been the word, if they’d known it at that age. He was generous with his time, his jokes, his belongings. His parents. Everyone was welcome at the Hadler household. He was loyal almost to a fault. When Falk had once taken a stray football in the face, he’d had to drag Luke off the kid who’d kicked it. Falk, tall and awkward then, was always aware he was lucky to have Luke on his side.
Falk shifted uncomfortably as the ceremony came to a close.
“Scott Whitlam, principal,” Raco said, nodding as a fit-looking man in a tie politely extracted himself from a crowd of parents.
Whitlam came over, one hand extended. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said after Raco introduced Falk. “Everyone wants to talk at a time like this.”
Whitlam was in his early forties and moved with the easy energy of a retired athlete. He had a broad chest and a wide smile. Half an inch of clean brown hair was visible under the bottom of his hat.
“It was a nice service,” Falk said, and Whitlam glanced back at the sapling.
“It’s what we needed.” He lowered his voice. “Tree hasn’t got a hope in hell, though. God knows what we’re supposed to tell the kids when it dies. Anyway.” He nodded toward the blond-brick building. “We’ve gathered together anything belonging to Karen and Billy, like you asked. There’s not a lot, I’m afraid, but it’s in the office.”
They followed him across the grounds. A bell rang somewhere in the distance. End of the school day. Up close, the buildings and play equipment made a depressing sight. Paint had chipped from every surface and the exposed metal was red with rust. There were cracks in the plastic slide, and only one end of the basketball court had a hoop. The signs of a community in poverty were everywhere.
“Funding,” Whitlam said when he saw them looking around. “There’s never enough.”
Around the back of the school building a few sad sheep stood in brown paddocks. Beyond, the land rose sharply to a chain of hills covered with bushland.
The principal stopped to fish a handful of leaves out of the sheep’s water trough.
“Do you still teach farm skills these days?” Falk remembered checking a similar water trough once upon a time.
“Some. We try to keep it light, though. Have some fun. The kids get enough of the gritty realities at home,” Whitlam said.
“You teach it?”
“God, no, I’m a humble city slicker. We moved up from Melbourne eighteen months ago, and I’ve just about learned to tell one end of a cow from the other. My wife fancied a change of scenery from the city.” He paused. “We got one, all right.”
He pushed open a heavy door to a hallway that smelled like sandwiches. Along the walls, kids’ paintings and drawings were pinned up.
“Jesus, some of these are depressing,” Raco murmured.
Falk could see what he meant. There were stick-figure families in which every face had a crayon mouth turned downward. A painting of a cow with angel wings. “Toffee My Cow in Heaven,” the shaky caption read. In every attempt at landscape, the fields were colored brown.
“You should see the ones we didn’t put up,” Whitlam said, stopping at the office door. “The drought. It’s going to kill this town.”
He took an enormous bunch of keys from his pocket and let them into his office. Pointing them to a couple of chairs that had seen better days, he disappeared into a store cupboard. He emerged a moment later carrying a sealed cardboard box.
“Everything’s in here. Bits and pieces from Karen’s desk, some of Billy’s schoolwork. Mostly paintings and worksheets, I’m afraid.”
“Thanks.” Raco took it from him.
“They’re missed.” Whitlam leaned against his desk. “Both of them. We’re all still reeling.”
“How closely did you work with Karen?” Falk asked.
“Reasonably so. We’ve only got a small staff. She was excellent. She looked after the finances and accounts. Good at it too. Too smart for this job really, but I think it suited her with child care and things.”
The window was open a crack, and the sounds from the playground drifted through. “Look, can I ask why you’re here?” Whitlam said. “I thought this was resolved.”
“It involved three members of the same family,” Raco said. “Unfortunately, something like that’s never clear-cut.”
“Right. Of course.” Whitlam sounded unconvinced. “The thing is, I’ve got an obligation to make sure students and staff are safe, so if—”
“We’re not suggesting there’s anything to worry about, Scott,” Raco said. “If there’s something you need to know, we’ll make sure you know it.”
“All right, message received,” Whitlam said. “What can I do to help you?”
“Tell us about Karen.”
The knock was quiet but firm. Whitlam looked up from his desk as the door opened. A blond head poked around.
“Scott, have you got a minute?”
Karen Hadler stepped into his office. She wasn’t smiling.
“She stopped by to speak to me, the day before she and Billy were killed,” Whitlam said. “She was worried, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?” Raco asked.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound facetious. But you saw those kids’ pictures on the wall. I meant everyone’s scared. The adults are no different.”