The Dry (27 page)

“Well, I hope the delay was worth landing Jamie with a busted face last night,” Raco said.

Leigh looked up, shocked.

“Oh, didn't you know?” Raco went on. “Yeah, he was involved in a pub fight. It's the only reason he told me what was going on. It was his head rather than his conscience that took a whack. You could've saved us all this trouble days ago. Shame on you both.”

The doctor put his hand over his eyes and stayed there for a long minute. Falk got up to get him a cup of water, and Leigh gulped it down gratefully. They waited.

“So you felt you couldn't tell us then. It's time to tell us now,” Falk said, not unkindly.

Leigh nodded.

“Jamie and I have been together about eighteen months. Romantically. But—obviously—we've kept it quiet,” he said. “It started when he began having to bring his grandmother in more often. She was getting worse, and he was struggling on his own. He needed support and someone to talk to, and it grew from there. I mean, I'd always suspected he might be gay, but around here…” Leigh broke off and shook his head. “Anyway, I'm sorry. None of that matters. The day the Hadlers were killed I was at the office until four o'clock and then had a break. Jamie sent me a text, and I told him to come over. It was a fairly usual arrangement. He arrived. We chatted for a while. Had a cold drink. Then we went to bed.”

Sullivan was in the tiny bathroom drying himself off from the shower when the flat's emergency phone rang. He heard Leigh pick up. The muffled conversation was brief and urgent. The doctor put his head around the bathroom door, his face clouded with worry.

“I've got to go. There's been a shooting accident.”

“Oh shit, really?”

“Yeah. Listen, Jamie, you should know, it's at Luke Hadler's place.”

“You're joking. I was just with him. Is he OK?”

“I don't know the details. I'll call you. Let yourself out. Love you.”

“You too.”

And he was gone.

Sullivan got dressed with shaking fingers and drove home. He'd seen a shooting accident once before. A friend of a friend of his father's. The acidic, copper stench of blood had slithered up to the back of his nostrils and lingered for what had felt like months. The memory of it was almost enough to conjure up the hot, sick scent again, and Jamie was blowing his nose when he arrived home to find two fire trucks outside. A firefighter in protective clothing met him as he ran to the door.

“It's all right, mate. Your gran's OK. I'm afraid your kitchen wall's another story.”

“After you went to Jamie's asking questions he called me, scared,” Leigh said. “He said he'd been caught off guard and had lied to you about where he was.”

Leigh looked them both in the eye. “There's no excuse for that. I know that, and he knows that. But I ask you, please don't judge too harshly. When you've been lying about something for so long it becomes second nature.”

“I'm not judging you for being gay, mate. I'm judging you for wasting our time when a family's lying dead,” Raco said.

The doctor nodded. “I know. If I could go back and do things differently, I would. Of course I would. I'm not ashamed of being gay,” he said. “And Jamie—he's getting there. But there are plenty of people in Kiewarra who would think twice about letting themselves or their kids be treated by a fag. Or want to sit next to one in the Fleece.” Leigh looked at Falk. “You've seen firsthand what happens when you stand out here. That's all we wanted to avoid.”

They sent the doctor on his way. Falk thought for a beat, then jogged out of the station after him.

“Hey, before you go. I want to ask you about Mal Deacon. How bad is his dementia?”

Leigh paused. “I can't discuss that with you.”

“One more thing for the list, eh?”

“I'm sorry. I would. But I really can't. He's a patient.”

“I'm not asking for specifics. General observations will do. What kind of things can he remember? Ten minutes ago but not ten years ago? Vice versa?”

Leigh hesitated, glancing back toward the station. “Very generally speaking,” he said, “patients in their seventies with symptoms similar to Mal's tend to suffer fairly rapid memory deterioration. The distant past may be clearer than more recent events, but often the memories blend and get muddled. They're not reliable, if that's what you're asking. Generally speaking, that is.”

“Will it kill him? Last question, I promise.”

Leigh's expression was pained. He looked around. The street was virtually empty. He lowered his voice. “Not directly. But it complicates a lot of things healthwise. Basic personal care, nutrition, it all gets compromised. I'd suspect a patient at that stage would have a year or so, maybe a little more. Maybe less. It doesn't help if the patient's had a drink or three every day of his adult life either. Generally speaking, of course.”

He nodded once as an end to the conversation and turned. Falk let him go.

“They should both be charged. Him and Sullivan,” Raco said when he returned to the station.

“Yeah. They should.” They both knew it wouldn't happen.

Raco leaned right back in his chair and put both hands over his face. He gave an enormous sigh.

“Jesus. Where the hell to now?”

 

 

To kid himself that they weren't stuck in yet another dead end, Falk put in a call to Melbourne. An hour later he had a list of all the light-colored trucks registered in Kiewarra in the year Ellie Deacon had died. There were 109.

“Plus anyone from out of town could have been driving through,” Raco said gloomily.

Falk ran his eyes down the list. There were a lot of familiar names. Former neighbors. Parents of his old classmates. Mal Deacon was on there. Falk stared at that name for a long time. But so was everyone else. Gerry Hadler himself, Gretchen's parents, even Falk's dad. Gerry could have seen half the town at the crossroads that day. Falk closed the file, fed up.

“I'm going out for a bit.”

Raco grunted. Falk was glad he didn't ask where.

28

The cemetery was a short drive out of town, on a large plot shaded by towering gum trees. On the way, Falk passed the fire warning sign, the danger now elevated to extreme. Outside, the wind was up.

The burial itself had been a private one, so he hadn't been to the Hadlers' graves, but they were easy to find. Brand new, the polished headstones looked like indoor furniture accidentally left outside among their weather-beaten neighbors. The graves were ankle deep in a sea of cellophane, stuffed toys, and withered flowers. Even from several feet away, the pungent smell of floral decay was overpowering.

Karen's and Billy's graves were piled high, while the offerings under Luke's headstone were sparse. Falk wondered if it would be Gerry and Barb's responsibility to clear the graves when the gifts crossed the line from tribute to trash. Barb had had enough trouble in the farmhouse, let alone on her knees with a trash bag, wretchedly sifting through the withered bouquets and trying to decide what to keep and what to throw away. No way. Falk made a mental note to check.

He sat for a while on the dry ground by the graves, ignoring the dust that coated his suit trousers. He ran a hand over the engraving on Luke's headstone, trying to shake the unreal sensation that had nagged him since the funeral.
Luke Hadler is in that coffin,
he repeated in his head.
Luke Hadler is in this ground.

Where was Luke the afternoon Ellie died? The question resurfaced like a stain. Falk should have pressed him when he had the chance. But he'd truly believed Luke's deception had been for Falk's own benefit. If he'd known what was going to happen—

He cut the thought dead. It was a cry that had come from too many lips since he'd returned to Kiewarra.
If I'd known, I would have done things differently.
It was too late for that now. Some things had to be lived with.

Falk stood and turned his back on the Hadlers. He headed deeper into the cemetery until he found the row he was looking for. The headstones in this part of the lot had lost their shine years ago, but many were as familiar as old friends. He ran his hand over a few of them affectionately as he passed, before stopping in front of one particular sun-bleached stone. There were no flowers on this grave, and it occurred to him for the first time that he should have brought some. That's what a good son would do. Bring flowers for his mother.

Instead he stooped and with a tissue wiped her engraved name free from dust and dirt. He did the same with her date of death. He'd never needed a reminder of the anniversary. As far back as he could remember, he'd known that she'd died the day he was born. Complications and blood loss, his father had told him gruffly when he was old enough to ask, before looking at his son in a way that made Falk feel that he was almost, but not quite, worth it.

As a kid he'd taken to cycling out to the cemetery alone, at first standing solemnly for hours in penance at his mother's grave. Eventually, he realized nobody cared whether he stood there or not, and their relationship had thawed into something of a one-way friendship. He tried hard to feel some form of filial love, but even then it had seemed like an artificial emotion. He simply couldn't ignite it for a woman he'd never known. It made him feel guilty that deep down he felt more for Barb Hadler.

But he'd liked visiting his mother, and she was a hell of a listener. He'd started bringing a snack, books, and homework and would loll about in the grass by the headstone and chatter in free-flowing monologue about his day and his life.

Before fully realizing it, Falk found himself doing that very thing now, stretching out his limbs and lying back in the stubby grass alongside the grave. The shade from the trees took the edge off the heat. He stared at the sky, and in a voice barely above a murmur, he told her all about the Hadlers and his homecoming. About seeing Gretchen again. About the heavy feeling in his chest when he'd seen Mandy in the park and Ian in the shop. He spoke about his fears that he might never find out the truth about Luke.

After he had run out of words, he closed his eyes and lay still beside his mother, cocooned by the warmth of the ground at his back and the air all around him.

When Falk woke the sun had moved in the sky. With a yawn he stood up and stretched his stiff joints. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there. He shook himself off and set out through the cemetery toward the main gates. Halfway, he stopped. There was one more grave he needed to visit.

It took him far longer to find this one. He had only seen it once, at the funeral, before he'd left Kiewarra for good. Eventually, he stumbled across it almost by accident: a small stone huddled anonymously among a crowd of more ornate memorials. It was overgrown with yellow grass. A single bunch of dead stalks wrapped in tattered cellophane lay under the headstone. Falk took his tissue and reached out to wipe the grime from the engraved name. Eleanor Deacon.

“Don't touch, you mongrel.”

The voice came from behind, and Falk jumped. He turned and saw Mal Deacon sitting deep in the shadows at the feet of a huge carved angel in the row behind. He had a beer bottle in his hand and his fleshy brown dog asleep at his feet. It woke and yawned, exposing a tongue the color of raw meat as Deacon hauled himself to his feet. He left the bottle at the foot of the angel.

“Get your hands off her before I cut 'em off.”

“No need, Deacon. I'm leaving.” Falk stepped away.

Deacon squinted at him. “You're the kid, aren't you?”

“Eh?”

“You're the Falk kid. Not the dad.”

Falk looked at the old man's face. The jaw was set with aggression, and the eyes seemed more lucid than they had the last time.

“Yeah. I'm the kid.” Falk felt a pang of sadness as he spoke. He started walking.

“Right. Pissing off for good this time, I hope.” Deacon moved after him, shaky on his feet. He pulled his dog's leash tight after him, and the animal yelped.

“Not yet. Mind your pet.” Falk didn't break stride. He could hear Deacon trying to follow. The footsteps were uneven and slow over the rough ground.

“Can't leave her in peace even now, eh? You might be the kid, but you're just like your dad. Disgusting.”

Falk turned.

There were two distinct voices coming from the yard. One loud, one calmer. Twelve-year-old Aaron dumped his schoolbag on the kitchen table and went to the window. His father was standing with his arms crossed and a fed-up look on his face as Mal Deacon prodded a finger at him.

“Six of 'em missing,” Deacon was saying. “Coupla ewes, four lambs. Few of those same ones you were looking over the other week.”

Erik Falk sighed. “And I'm telling you they're not here, mate. You want to waste your time walking over to check, you be my guest.”

“So it's a coincidence, is it?”

“More a sign of your shoddy fence line, I reckon. If I'd wanted your sheep, I would have bought them. Weren't up to scratch, to my eye.”

“Nothing wrong with 'em. More like why buy 'em when you could nick 'em from me? Isn't that right?” Deacon said, his voice rising. “Wouldn't be the first time you've helped yourself to something of mine.”

Erik Falk stared at him for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief.

“Time for you to leave, Mal.” He went to turn, but Deacon grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.

“She called from Sydney to say she's not coming back, you know. You happy now? Make you feel like a big man, does it? That you talked her into buggering off?”