The Dry (23 page)

Raco picked up the office phone and dialed the ten digits. He looked at Falk as he held the receiver to his ear. Falk's cell phone trilled loudly in his hand. He couldn't hear the message as his answering machine clicked in, but he knew what it said. He'd listened to his own voice speak enough times overnight as he'd dialed the number from his room phone in disbelief.

“
You've reached Federal Agent Aaron Falk. Please leave a message,
” the recording said. Short and sweet.

Raco hung up and stared at him.

“Think.”

“I have.”

“Think harder. Grant Dow and Luke didn't get along; we know that. But if Karen was having problems with him, why didn't she call the station here?”

“Are you sure she didn't try?”

“No calls made to police or emergency services from any phone owned by any of the Hadlers in the week before their deaths,” Raco recited. “We pulled the phone records the day the bodies were found.”

He picked up the novel and turned it over in his hands, examining the cover. He thumbed through the pages yet again. There was nothing else caught between them.

“What's the book about?”

“It's a female detective investigating a string of student deaths at a college in the US,” said Falk, who had stayed up most of the night speed-reading to the end. “She thinks it's a disgruntled bloke from town targeting rich kids.”

“Sounds crap. Did he do it?”

“Oh, er, no. It's not what it seems. Turns out it was the mother of one of the girls in the sorority house.”

“The mother of—? Christ, give me strength.” Raco pinched the bridge of his nose. He shut the novel with a loud slap. “So what do we reckon? Is this bloody book supposed to mean something, or what?”

“I don't know. I don't think Karen got to the end, for whatever that's worth. And I checked with the library as soon as it opened. They say she borrowed a lot of this type of thing.”

Raco sat down, stared blankly at the receipt for a moment, then stood straight back up again.

“You're sure she never called you?”

“Hundred percent.”

“Right. Come on, then.” He grabbed his car keys from the desk. “You can't tell us, Karen can't tell us, Luke can't tell us. So let's haul in the only person left who might be able to explain why his bloody name's written on a piece of paper in a dead woman's bedroom.”

 

 

They left Dow to stew in the interview room for over an hour.

“I called Clyde,” Raco said, calmer now. “Told them some arsehole finance investigator from Melbourne had shown up to sort out the Hadlers' paperwork. Said you had a couple of questions about a document found at the property, did they want to come and babysit you while you asked them? They've declined, unsurprisingly. We're right to go ahead.”

“Oh. Nice work,” Falk said, surprised. It occurred to him that he hadn't even thought to call Clyde in this time. “So what do we know?”

“Dow's fingerprints weren't found anywhere at the farm.”

“That doesn't mean anything. That's what gloves are for. How's his alibi for the murders?”

Raco shook his head.

“Solid and hollow at the same time. He was digging a ditch in the middle of nowhere with two of his mates. We'll check, obviously, but they'll all swear blind he was there.”

“All right, let's see what he says.”

Dow was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, staring straight ahead. He barely glanced up as they entered the room.

“About time,” he said. “Some of us have got a living to make.”

“You want your lawyer here, Grant?” Raco said as he pulled his chair out. “You can.”

Dow frowned. His lawyer would probably come from the same theoretical firm as Sullivan's, Falk thought. Property and livestock fifty weeks of the year. Dow shook his head.

“Got nothing to hide. Get on with it.”

He was angry rather than nervous, Falk was interested to note. Falk laid out his folder on the table and paused for a moment.

“Describe your relationship with Karen Hadler.”

“Masturbatory.”

“Anything else? Bearing in mind she was found murdered.”

Dow shrugged, unfazed. “Nup.”

“But you found her attractive,” Falk said.

“You seen her? Before she carked it, of course.”

Falk and Raco said nothing, and Dow rolled his eyes.

“Look. She was all right, I suppose. For round here, anyway,” he said.

“When was the last time you spoke to her?”

Dow shrugged. “Can't remember.”

“What about the Monday before she died? Nineteenth of February. Or the following two days?”

“Seriously couldn't tell you.” Dow shifted, and his seat creaked under his bulk. “Listen, do I have to be here? Legally? I've got shitloads to do.”

“We'll cut to the chase, then,” Falk broke in. “Perhaps you could tell us why your name, Grant, was written by Karen Hadler on a receipt in the week she was murdered?” He slid a photocopy of the slip of paper across the table.

The only sound in the room was the hum of fluorescent lights as Dow stared at it for a long moment. Without warning he slammed his palm down on the table.

They both jumped.

“You are not pinning this on me.” Dow sent a fine mist of spittle across the tabletop.

“Pinning what on you, Grant?” Raco's voice was determinedly neutral.

“That bloody family. If Luke goes and shoots up his wife and kid, that's his business.” He pointed a thick finger at them both. “But that has got bugger all to do with me, you hear me?”

“Where were you the afternoon they were shot?” Falk asked.

Dow shook his head, his eyes never leaving Falk's. His shirt collar was ripe with sweat. “Mate, you can get stuffed. You did enough damage with Ellie. You're not going to take down me and my uncle as well. This is a witch hunt.”

Raco cleared his throat before Falk could answer.

“All right, Grant.” His voice was calm. “We're just trying to get some answers. So let's make it as easy as we can. You've told officers from Clyde you were ditch digging out along Eastway with your two workmates you've listed here. You stand by that?”

“Yeah. I was. All day.”

“And they'll back that up, will they?”

“They'd better. Seeing as it's the truth.” Dow managed to look them in the eyes as he said it. A fly droned in frantic circles around their heads as the silence stretched out.

“Tell me, Grant, what will you do with the farm when your uncle dies?” Falk said.

Dow looked confused at the change of subject. “Eh?”

“You're all set to inherit, I heard.”

“So what? I've earned it,” he snapped.

“For what, letting your uncle live in his own property while he's old and sick? That takes a big man.” Truthfully, Falk didn't see any reason why Dow shouldn't inherit, but the comment seemed to have hit a sore spot.

“Little bit more than that, smart-arse.” Dow opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. He closed it before speaking again. “Anyway, why not? I'm his family.”

“All that's left of it since Ellie died, eh?” Falk plowed on as Dow sucked in a breath in outrage. “So you'll sell the property when you can?”

“Too right I will. I'm not about to try to farm it, am I? I'm not a fool. Not when there's all those Chinese jumping out of their little yellow skins to buy land out here. Even shit land like ours.”

“And like the Hadlers'?”

Dow paused. “I suppose.”

“Baby Charlotte's probably even less keen to lug around bags of fertilizer than you. I hear it'll come up for sale sooner or later. Two properties side by side.” Falk shrugged. “That's a lot more attractive to overseas investors. Which is interesting in itself. But especially when the owner of one ended up shot in the head.”

For once Dow didn't open his mouth to reply, and Falk knew he'd come to the same conclusion.

“Let's get back to Karen.” Falk seized the advantage to change tack. “You ever try it on with her?”

“What?”

“Romantically? Sexually?”

Dow snorted. “Do me a favor. Right ice queen, that one. I wouldn't waste me breath.”

“You think she'd have knocked you back,” Falk said. “That must have been annoying.”

“I get plenty, thanks, mate. Don't you worry about me. The way you're panting round town after Gretchen, you've got enough on your plate worrying about yourself.”

Falk ignored the comment. “Did Karen dent your ego? You argue with her about something? Things get a bit messy?”

“What? No.” Dow's eyes flicked left and right.

“But you fell out with her husband. Frequently, from what we've heard,” Raco said.

“So what? That was always about nothing. Just Luke being a prick. It had bugger all to do with his missus.”

There was a pause. When Falk spoke again, his voice was quiet.

“Grant, we're going to check your movements that day, and maybe your mates are going to back you up. The point is that some alibis are a bit like that plasterboard you work with. They hold up initially, but put them under pressure and they crumble pretty damn swiftly.”

Dow looked down for a moment. When he raised his head his attitude had shifted. He smiled. A calculating, full-bodied grin that hit his eyes.

“What, like your alibi, you mean? For why my cousin wrote your bloody name before she died?”

The silence stretched taut as three pairs of eyes looked at the photocopied receipt on the table. Falk had been far more shaken when his own name was discovered among Ellie's possessions than Dow seemed about this. He was wondering what to make of that when Dow barked a laugh.

“Good thing my yarn is built of solid brick, isn't it? You test it, mate. Be my guest. Don't get me wrong, I had no time for the Hadlers. And yeah, I'll be selling my uncle's farm the first chance I get. But I didn't kill them, I wasn't at that farm, and if you want to put me there, you're going to have to stitch me up. And you know what?” He banged the table with his fist. The sound was like a shot. “I'm not sure you've got the balls.”

“If you were there, Grant, we'll prove it.”

He smirked. “See you bloody try.”

24

“You're lucky we still have the footage. It usually gets deleted after a month.”

Scott Whitlam scrolled through the files on his computer until he found what he was looking for. The principal leaned back so Falk and Raco could see the screen. They were in his office, the sounds of the Monday afternoon school bustle drifting through the door.

“OK, here we are. This is the view from the camera at the main entrance,” Whitlam said. He clicked the mouse, and CCTV footage started to play on-screen. The camera appeared to be mounted above the large school doors, trained down on the steps to capture any approaching visitor. “Sorry, it's not great quality.”

“No worries. It's better than what we got from the Hadlers' place,” Raco said.

“Cameras are only as much use as what they capture, anyway,” Falk said. “What else have you got here?”

Whitlam clicked again, and the view changed. “The other camera's over the staff parking lot.” Again taken from a high vantage point, this footage showed a fuzzy row of cars.

“Those are the only two cameras in the school?” Raco asked.

“Yeah, I'm afraid so.” Whitlam rubbed his thumb and index finger together in the universal symbol for money. “We'd have more if we could afford more.”

“Can we find Karen on her last day?” Falk said, although it wasn't primarily Karen they were looking for. It was Grant Dow. True to their word, Falk and Raco had spent several hours grilling Dow's mates over his alibi. They had backed him up to the hilt. It was nothing less than Falk expected, but it still pissed him off.

Whitlam enlarged the parking lot image so it filled the screen. “Karen usually drove in, so she'd probably be on this camera.”

He found the right recording and jumped through the timeline to the end of the school day. They watched the silent footage as pupils walked by in twos and threes, giggling and gossiping, set free for another day. A slim bald man walked into the frame. He went to one of the cars and opened the trunk. He rummaged for a moment before retrieving a bulky bag. He heaved it over his shoulder and walked back off screen in the direction he'd come.

“The caretaker,” Whitlam said.

“What's in the bag?”

Whitlam shook his head. “I know he has his own set of tools. I'd say it was that, at a guess.”

“He worked here long?” Falk asked.

“About five years, I think. For what it's worth, he seems like a good guy.”

Falk didn't reply. They watched for another ten minutes until the trickle of pupils had all but dried up and the parking lot was quiet. Just as Falk was losing hope, Karen appeared.

Falk's breath caught in his throat. She had been beautiful in life, this dead woman. He watched as she strode across the screen, her pale hair blowing back off her face. The low-quality recording made it impossible to read her expression. She wasn't tall but had the posture of a dancer as she walked briskly through the parking lot, pushing Charlotte in a stroller from the direction of the day care.

Three steps behind her, Billy came into view. Falk felt a chill at the sight of the stocky dark-haired child who looked so much like his father. Next to him, Raco shifted his weight and cleared his throat. Raco had seen firsthand what horror was waiting for the boy.

Billy was pottering, fully engrossed in some toy clutched in his hand. Karen turned and silently called to him over her shoulder, and he ran to catch up. She bundled both children into her car, fastening them in, shutting the door. She moved fast, efficiently. Was she rushing? Falk wasn't sure.