Falk leaned over him, ignoring the dog as it bared its teeth. He stood over an ill man lying on the ground. Later he would hate himself for it. At that moment he didn’t care.
Aaron’s arms were aching under the box of plants by the time he got home, but the grin was still fixed on his face. His good mood was tempered only by a pang of mild regret. Maybe he should have followed Ellie out of the classroom. That’s what Luke would have done, he thought. Kept the conversation flowing, convinced her she did want that Coke after all.
He frowned and dumped the box on the porch. Ellie had definitely smiled at Luke as she left the room. They were barely speaking these days, but she still managed a smile for him?
Aaron had braced himself for a smirk and a cheeky comment from his friend after Ellie left, but Luke had merely raised his eyebrows.
“Careful with that one,” was all he’d said.
Aaron had suggested they head to the main street, hang around for a while, but Luke had shaken his head. “Sorry, mate, got somewhere to be.”
Ellie had said she was busy too. Doing what? Aaron wondered. If she was working, she would have said, wouldn’t she? He forced himself not to wonder too hard what both his friends were doing without him.
Instead, for something to do, he fetched his fishing poles. He’d head to the river. Upstream, where the fish had been biting. Or, he thought suddenly, he could go to the rock tree, just in case Ellie was there. He debated. If she’d wanted to see him, she would have said. But she was so difficult to read. Maybe if they spent a bit more time together one-on-one, she’d realize he would be good for her. If he couldn’t even make her see that, something was seriously wrong.
“You think I killed your daughter that day?” Falk said, looking down at Deacon. “You think I held her body underwater until she drowned, then lied to everyone, to my own dad, all these years?”
“I don’t know what happened that day.”
“I think you do.”
“I loved her.”
“Since when,” Falk said, “has that ever stopped anybody from hurting someone?”
“Give me a bloody clue, then. On a scale of one to jail, how much shit have you stirred up?”
Raco was shouting down the phone. Falk realized he’d never really heard him angry before.
“None. Look, it’s fine. Leave it,” Falk said. He was sitting in the police car a kilometer down the road from Deacon’s place. He’d had eight missed calls on his phone from Raco.
“None?” Raco said. “You think I came down in the last shower, mate? You got a complaint against you. You think I can’t guess exactly where you are? I’m just some thick country cop who hasn’t got a clue?”
“What?” Falk said. “No. Raco, mate, of course not.” He was shaken up by his own lack of control. It felt wrong, like he was wearing a costume.
“You bugger off the minute the interview’s over—I know you listened in, by the way—and I can hear in your voice you’ve been up to something with Deacon. In a police car. So it’s not fine, is it? I’m still in charge round here last I checked, and if you’ve been harassing someone who’s already complained, for God’s sake, then we’ve one serious problem, mate.”
There was a long silence. Falk could imagine Raco pacing around the station, with Deborah and Barnes listening in. Falk took a few deep breaths. His heart was still pounding, but common sense was starting to return.
“We haven’t got a problem,” Falk said. “I’m sorry. I snapped for a minute. If there’s any fallout, I’ll cop it, not you. Promise.”
The line was silent for so long Falk wasn’t sure if Raco was still there.
“Listen, mate.” Raco’s voice was lower. “I think all this might be getting too much for you. With your background here.”
Falk shook his head even though there was no one to see it. “No. I told you. It was a moment of madness. No harm done.” No further harm, anyway.
“Look, you’ve done everything that could have been asked of you. More,” Raco was saying. “We’ve gotten further than I ever would have alone. I absolutely know that, mate. But maybe it’s time we called it a day. Call in Clyde. I blame myself for that. I should have done it ages ago. This isn’t your responsibility. It never was.”
“Raco, mate—”
“And you’re obsessed with Deacon and Dow. You’re obsessed with pointing the finger at them. It’s as if you need to get them for the Hadlers to make up for whatever happened to Ellie—”
“It’s not about that! Dow’s name was in Karen’s handwriting!”
“I know, but there’s no other evidence! They’ve got an alibi. Both of them now.” Raco sighed down the phone. “Deacon’s phone call at the time of the Hadler shootings looks like it’s legit. Barnes is getting the phone records now, but the girl from the pharmacy has backed him up. She remembers it happening.”
“Shit.” Falk ran a hand over his head. “Why didn’t she mention it before?”
“She was never asked.”
There was a pause.
“Deacon didn’t do it,” Raco said. “He didn’t kill the Hadlers. You need to open your eyes, and fast. You’re staring so hard at the past that it’s blinding you.”
32
Falk felt the tension in his shoulders finally start to lift around the time Gretchen poured the third glass of red. A weight that had pressed on his chest for so long that he’d almost stopped noticing at last began to ease. He could feel muscles in his neck loosen. He took a mouthful of wine and enjoyed the sensation as his cluttered head gave way to a more pleasant type of fog.
The kitchen was now dark, the remains of dinner cleared from the table. A lamb stew. Her own, she’d said. Animal, not recipe. They’d washed the dishes together, her hands deep in suds, his wrapped around a tea towel. Working together in tandem, and reveling self-consciously in the domesticity.
Eventually, they’d moved through to the living room where he’d sunk, satiated, into a deep old couch, glass in hand. He’d watched her move around the room slowly, turning on low lights on side tables, creating a deep golden glow. She hit an invisible switch, and discreet jazz filled the room. Something mellow and indistinct. The maroon curtains were open, flapping in the night breeze. Outside the windows the land was still.
Earlier, Gretchen had picked him up from the pub in her car.
“What happened to yours?” she’d asked.
He’d told her about the damage. She’d insisted on seeing it, and they’d walked to the parking lot where she’d gingerly lifted the tarpaulin. The car had been hosed down, but the inside was still destroyed. She’d been sympathetic, laughed gently as she rubbed his shoulder. She made it seem not as bad.
As they’d driven along the back roads, Gretchen told him Lachie was sleeping at the babysitter’s overnight. No further explanation. In the moonlight her blond hair gleamed.