The Dry (33 page)

“Was I?”

“I did have tunnel vision. But we both did. We've been backing the wrong horse the whole time.”

“Looks like you've got some trouble here.” Luke leaned out. He nodded at the object lying at the person's feet.

“Thanks. I think so. Have you got any tools on you?”

Luke killed the engine and climbed out. He crouched down to look more closely.

“What's gone wrong?”

They were the last words Luke Hadler spoke as a heavy weight smashed into the back of his skull. There was a wet thud and a sudden stunned silence as all around the birds in their trees were shocked mute.

Breathing raggedly as he towered over Luke Hadler's slumped form, Scott Whitlam looked down at what he had done.

Falk rummaged through the file and pulled out a photocopy of Karen Hadler's library receipt. The word
Grant??
stood out above Falk's own phone number. He pushed the page across Raco's desk and stabbed it with a finger.

“
Grant.
For God's sake. It's not a bloody name.”

Karen shut the door to the principal's office behind her, muffling the everyday sounds of the Wednesday afternoon bustle. She was wearing a red-and-white apple-print dress, and she looked worried. She chose the seat closest to Scott Whitlam's desk and sat straight-backed with her feet neatly crossed at the ankles.

“Scott,” she began. “I wasn't sure about coming to speak to you about this. But there is a problem. And I can't turn a blind eye to it.”

She leaned in, cautious, embarrassed even, and handed over a piece of paper. On the letterhead, the Crossley Educational Trust logo stood out against the white background. Karen peered up from under her blond fringe, her eyes looking for one thing. Reassurance.

Somewhere in the deepest fight-or-flight part of Scott Whitlam's brain, a hidden door cracked open and offered the briefest glimpse of just how far he was prepared to go to stop her.

“Grant,” Falk said, pointing at the diary. “Also known as a bursary, a fund, a windfall, a financial gift. Like the kind Kiewarra Primary applied for from the Crossley Educational Trust last year. And their claim was rejected. Except guess what?”

Raco blinked in disbelief. “You're kidding.”

“I'm not. I was on the phone this morning to the head of the trust, and Kiewarra Primary was successfully awarded a financial grant of $50,000 this year.”

In hindsight, Whitlam could pinpoint the singular moment when he blew it. He had picked up the page, branded with its telltale letterhead, and examined it. It was a form survey, sent automatically to successful grant recipients to gather feedback on the submissions process.

It wasn't much of a smoking gun, which meant there was probably more paperwork, he guessed. Other things that she'd kept back. Karen was giving him a chance to explain or confess. Whitlam could tell by the way she looked at him, with those blue eyes begging for a reasonable answer.

He should have said, “Yes, strange. I'll look into it. Perhaps we've been lucky after all.” Jesus, he should have thanked her. That's what he should have done. Instead he'd panicked. He didn't take enough time to read the letter before dismissing it.

It was never going to be an easy game for him to win, but it was at that moment that he lost. Snake eyes. All over, red rover.

“It'll be nothing,” Whitlam had said. Sealing his fate with those words. “A mistake. Ignore it.”

But the mistake was his. He could tell by the way her back stiffened and she cast her eyes down. Distancing herself. If she hadn't known for sure when she walked in, she knew it as she walked out.

Karen Hadler's good-bye as she left was as dry as the fields.

“Scott Whitlam,” Raco said. “Shit.
Shit.
Does that work?”

“Yeah. It works. He's got a gambling problem. I found out last night.” Falk told him what McMurdo had said. “That's what tipped me off. Something McMurdo said made me realize we'd been looking in the wrong direction the whole time.”

“So what are we talking? Stealing funds from the school for what? Bad debts?” Raco said.

“Could well be. Whitlam turns up last year from the city. No connection to the place. Sticks around even though he clearly hates it. He told me some story about a mugging gone wrong back in Melbourne, a stranger got stabbed. I wouldn't be surprised if there was more to that than he says.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Jesus. Poor Karen,” Raco said.

“We're idiots,” Falk said. “We discounted her far too quickly. Her and Billy. We thought they were collateral damage. Luke was always the main player, he always attracted the attention. Ever since we were kids. He was the perfect cover. How could anything ever be about his boring wife when it could be about Luke?”

“Christ.” Raco closed his eyes, running through the case as they knew it. Shaking his head as pieces dropped into place. “Karen wasn't being stalked by Grant Dow. She wasn't afraid of her husband.”

“If anything, Luke was probably worried about what she thought she'd discovered at the school.”

“You think she told him?”

“I think she must have,” Falk said. “Why else would she have my phone number?”

Karen went straight from Whitlam's office to the girls' toilets. She locked herself in a stall and put her forehead against the door before she let the angry tears come. Right up until that meeting there had been a glimmer of hope. She'd wanted Whitlam to look at the letter and laugh. “I see exactly what's happened,” he'd say before explaining it in a way that made perfect sense.

She'd been desperate for him to say that, and he hadn't. Karen wiped her eyes with a shaky hand. What now? Part of her still couldn't quite believe Scott had stolen that money, even though she now knew it to be true. She'd known it before, if she admitted it to herself. She'd gone through the account records herself. The errors that had cropped up were his, not hers. A trail of bread crumbs exposing his deceit. His theft. She tried the word out. It felt so wrong.

Karen believed suspicion was not the same as certainty, but her husband's view of the world had always been more black and white.

“Babe, if you think the bastard's nicked the money, then call the cops and report it. I'll report it if you don't want to,” Luke had said two nights ago.

Karen had been sitting up in bed, a new library book open across her lap. She wasn't getting very far with it. She watched her husband take his clothes off and throw them in a heap on a chair. He stood there naked and arched his broad back as he yawned. He flashed her a sleepy smile, and she was struck by how lovely he looked in the half-light. They spoke in whispers so the sound didn't carry to the kids' rooms.

“No, Luke,” she'd said. “Don't interfere. Please. I can do it myself, but I want to be sure. Then I'll report it.”

Part of her knew she was being overcautious. But the school's principal was part of the bedrock of the community. Karen could imagine how the parents would react. Tempers were so fraught, a part of her worried they might actually harm him. She couldn't let loose an accusation of that scale without solid proof. Kiewarra was fragile enough as it was. This had to be done right. Then there was her job to consider. She'd lose that in a heartbeat if she were wrong.

“I should talk to Scott first,” Karen said as her husband climbed in next to her and put a warm hand on her thigh. “Give him a chance to explain.”

“Give him a chance to hide it, more like. Karen, babe, let the cops handle it.”

She was silent, mutinous. Luke sighed.

“All right. If you won't report it, at least get some advice on getting whatever this proof is you think you need.” Luke rolled over and reached out for his cell phone. He scrolled through until he found a contact and passed the phone to Karen. “Call this guy. That friend of mine who's a cop. He does something with money with the feds in Melbourne. He's a good bloke. Really smart. Plus he kind of owes me one. You can trust him. He'll help you.”

Karen Hadler didn't say anything. She had told Luke she would sort it out, and she would. But it was late and easier not to argue. She found a pen among the clutter on her bedside table and picked up the first piece of paper to hand, the library receipt she was using for a bookmark. That would do. She turned it over and wrote a single word of reminder before copying down Aaron Falk's number. Then, because her husband was still watching, she tucked it carefully into the book she was reading and placed it by the bed.

“So it won't get lost,” she said, turning off the lamp and lying back against the pillow.

“Call him,” Luke said as he reached out and slipped his arms around his wife in the quiet night. “Aaron will know what to do.”

36

Ninety minutes later, Falk and Raco watched the school from the front seat of the station's unmarked police car. They were parked up a hill on a side street, their vantage point offering a decent view of the main building and front playground.

The back door of the car opened, and Constable Barnes climbed inside. He'd jogged up the hill and was out of breath. He leaned through the gap between the front seats and held out his palm, proudly displaying two brand-new Remington shots.

Raco picked up the ammunition and inspected the make. He nodded. It was the same brand found in the bodies of Luke, Karen, and Billy Hadler. Forensics could probably match it more closely, but for now, that was good enough.

“It was locked away in the caretaker's shed, like you said.” Barnes was almost bouncing in his seat.

“Any trouble getting in?” Falk asked.

Barnes tried and failed to look modest. “I went direct to the caretaker. Used the old ‘routine inspection' line. Licenses, safety bullshit. He let me straight in. Too easy. I managed to find enough wrong that he'll keep it to himself. Said I'd turn a blind eye if he got it sorted before my next visit. He'll be telling no one.”

“Good work,” said Raco. “As long as he doesn't tell Whitlam for a few hours we'll be right. Backup from Clyde's about forty minutes away.”

“I don't see why we don't just roll in there and lift the bastard,” Barnes grumbled from the backseat. “Clyde hasn't done anything to deserve the credit.”

Raco looked over. “We'll get credit where it's due, mate, don't worry,” he said. “They're not going to get much glory for securing his house and grabbing his bank statements.”

“Wish they'd hurry up, then,” Barnes said.

“Yeah, me too,” Falk said.

All three turned back to stare at the building in the distance. A bell rang, and the school doors opened. A gaggle of children trickled out, forming groups, running around, reveling in their temporary freedom. Behind them, Falk could make out a figure leaning against the main doorway. Hat on, coffee mug in hand, a flash of red tie visible against his shirt. Scott Whitlam. Falk felt Barnes shift behind him.

“Fifty grand. It's a grubby amount to kill three people over,” Barnes said.

“It'll be less about the money than you'd think,” Falk said. “Gamblers like him are always chasing something else. I've seen it get pretty desperate pretty fast. They think every roll of the dice is a second chance. The question is, what was Whitlam chasing?”

“Doesn't matter what it was. It can't justify this,” Barnes said.

“No, but that's money for you,” Falk said. “It can get bloody disgusting.”

 

 

Whitlam stood in the school doorway cradling his mug between his hands. The wind was up again. He felt the dust stick to the sweat on his skin. The kids shrieked and ran in the playground in front of him, and he wondered if he could start to breathe again. A couple of days and Falk would be gone, maybe sooner with any luck. He would breathe then, he decided. Not before.

A few more months. Keep his head down, keep his luck up, and he could disappear to that job up north. Part of him couldn't believe he'd made it to this point. He'd nearly had a heart attack when Raco had mentioned they had security footage from the Hadlers' farm. He'd had no idea the farmhouse had a camera, and he'd sat in a cold sweat between the two cops as he contemplated how near he'd come to being discovered.

He had to get away from here. He would have to convince Sandra to give him one last chance. One more fresh start, and this time he would stop gambling. He promised. He had said the words to her last night, and through his tears he'd felt that for the first time he really meant them. She had watched in silence. She'd heard those words before. Right before they'd moved to Kiewarra, and at least twice before that. But this time he had to make her believe it. More than that, he told himself, he had to do it. He had to stop. Because this time there was so much more at risk than he could bear to lose.

Just the thought of it made his guts churn. Sandra was so worried, and yet she had no idea of the real weight of the axe dangling over them. She thought having a bank account constantly in the red was the worst of her problems. The secret shame of having to buy the weekly groceries on credit cards. Having to keep up appearances behind a veneer of rented houses and payment-plan coffee machines. She thought the problems ran day to day, but not much further. She didn't know about the trail of debts that stretched from here to Melbourne. Or the horrors waiting for her and their daughter at the end of that trail if he didn't pay.

Whitlam almost smiled, a wild, loopy grin at the idea of telling her the truth. The promise of the nail gun alone would be enough to send her racing up north.