He turned at a faded sign pointing to the ambitiously named Deacon Estates and rumbled along a gravel driveway. A few ragged sheep raised their heads hopefully as he drove past.
The property was high on a hill and offered a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside. On Falk’s right he could clearly see the Hadlers’ home some distance below in the shallow valley. The rotary washing line was a cobweb on a stick and a couple of garden benches looked like dolls’ furniture. Twenty years ago he had loved that view, on the occasions he’d visited Ellie here. Now he couldn’t stand to look at it.
Falk pulled up outside a dilapidated barn as Deacon was attempting to lock his car. The man’s hands were shaking, and he dropped the keys in the dust. Falk folded his arms and watched Deacon bend slowly to retrieve them. Deacon’s dog trotted over to his master’s feet and growled in Falk’s direction. The old man glanced up. The aggression in his face had for once been replaced with something else. He just looked exhausted and confused.
“I just left the police station,” Deacon said, but he didn’t sound sure.
“Yeah. You did.”
“So what do you want, then?” Deacon stood straight, as best he could. “You going to take a pop at an old man while no one’s around? You’re a coward.”
“I’m not going to waste a career-ending punch on you,” Falk said.
“What, then?”
It was a good question. Falk looked at Deacon. For two decades, the man had loomed larger than life. He’d been the bogeyman, the specter at the feast, the monster under the bed. Standing in front of him now, Falk could still taste his own anger in the back of his throat, but it was diluted with something else. Not pity, definitely not pity.
Instead, Falk realized he felt cheated. He’d left it too long to slay the beast, and over time it had shriveled and wasted until it was no longer a fair fight. Falk took a step forward, and for a second Deacon’s eyes registered fear. A stripe of shame flashed through him. Falk stopped in his tracks. What was he doing here?
He looked Deacon in the eye. “I had nothing to do with your daughter’s death.”
“Bullshit. Your name was on that note. Your alibi was a fairy tale—” The words again had the hollow ring of learned repetition. Falk cut him off.
“How do you know, Deacon? Tell me. Why have you always been so sure Luke and I weren’t together the day she died? Because I tell you, from here it seems like you know a lot more about that day than you’ve let on.”
There was no smell of dinner in the air when Mal Deacon let himself into the farmhouse, and he felt a hot flash of irritation. In the living room his nephew was lying on the old brown couch with his eyes closed and a beer can balanced on his gut. The cricket was blaring from the radio. The Aussies were chasing the South African side.
Deacon kicked Grant’s boots off the couch, and his nephew prized open one eye.
“No bloody tea on yet?” Deacon said.
“Ellie’s not back from school.”
“You couldn’t have started something, you lazy bastard? I’ve been out there up to my eyes with those ewes all day.”
Grant shrugged. “Ellie’s job.”
Deacon grunted, but he was right. It was. He snapped a beer from the six-pack by Grant’s side and went through to the rear of the house.
His daughter’s bedroom was clinically neat. It stood silent and almost aloof from the chaos of the rest of the house. Deacon stood in the doorway and took a swig from the can. His eyes roamed over the room like beetles, but he was hesitant to step inside. Poised at the threshold of the pristine room, he felt the uneasy sensation of misalignment. A loose thread. A crack in the pavement. It looked perfect, but it wasn’t right.
His eyes flicked to the white bedpost, and he frowned. There was a tiny circular dent in the wood, and the paint there had cracked and flaked. The pink carpet below the post had been scrubbed in a small and imperfect circle and was now one, or at most two, shades darker than the rest. Barely noticeable, but there.
Deacon felt a cold spot form in his stomach, like a tiny ball bearing. He stared at the silent room and the dent and the spot as the alcohol carried the first threads of anger through his veins. His daughter was supposed to be there, and she wasn’t. He clutched the beer in his palm and waited for its cool, solid weight to calm him.
Later, he would tell the police that was the moment he knew something was seriously wrong.
Falk watched Ellie’s father closely.
“You might be able to claim your hands are clean when it comes to the Hadlers,” Falk said, “but you know something about what happened to your daughter.”
“You watch your mouth.” Deacon’s voice was quiet and tight, like a coiled spring.
“Is that why you were always so keen to pin Ellie’s death on me? If there’s no suspect to hand, people start looking for one. Who knows what they’d start to uncover if they looked too closely at you. Neglect? Abuse?”
The old man lunged at Falk with surprising force, taking him by surprise and knocking him flat to the ground. Deacon’s grubby hand mashed against his face. The dog circled, barking frantically.
“I will gut you!” Deacon was shouting now. “I hear you breathe one word like that, and I will gut you like an animal. I loved her. You hear me? I loved that girl.”
Luke Hadler’s heart was in his throat. He paused with one hand on the radio as the South Africans nearly took a wicket. Batsman restored and panic over, he switched it off.
He sprayed body mist liberally over his bare chest and flung open his wardrobe. Automatically he reached for the gray shirt she’d admired once. Luke checked his reflection in the mirror and flashed his teeth as he buttoned it. He liked what he saw, but he knew from experience that meant bugger all. It took a mind reader to know what was going through those girls’ heads half the time.
Today, for example. The image of Ellie pressing her hot, mean mouth on Aaron in the classroom popped into his head, and his reflection frowned. Was that the first time it had happened? Somehow he felt sure it wasn’t. Luke felt an intense flash of something like jealousy and gave his head a sharp shake. What did he care? He didn’t give a stuff. But Jesus, Ellie Deacon could be a little bitch sometimes. Ignoring him and then running off to Aaron. Not that it bothered him, but Christ, you only had to look at that picture to know there was something seriously wrong.
Deacon’s long fingers gouged painfully against the flesh of Falk’s cheek, and Falk grabbed his wrist, wrenching him off. He flipped Deacon onto his back and stood up, stepping away. It was over in a matter of seconds, but both men were panting, the adrenaline kicking into overdrive. Deacon stared up at him, the corners of his mouth white with spit.