The Dry (26 page)

“Falk! Quick!” The muffled voice was accompanied by another round of bangs. “Are you in there?”

He grabbed a towel and nearly skidded on the wet floor. He flung open the door to find a breathless McMurdo with his fist raised to knock again.

“Downstairs.” The barman was panting. “Hurry.” He was off, taking the stairs two at a time. Falk pulled on shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers without bothering to dry himself and slammed the door behind him.

The bar was in chaos. Chairs were overturned, and the floor glittered with broken glass. Someone was hunched in a corner, his hands over his nose slick with blood. McMurdo was on his knees trying to pry apart two men grappling on the floor. Around them, a semicircle of drinkers slowly wiped the smirks off their faces and stepped away as Falk took two strides into the center of the room.

The abrupt drop in volume distracted the two men on the floor, and McMurdo was able to get an arm in. He pulled them apart, and they lay sprawled in their respective corners, breathing heavily.

Jamie Sullivan's eye was already swelling up, distorted into a bulbous shape. His bottom lip had split, and he had scratch marks across his cheek.

Opposite him, Grant Dow grinned, then winced, feeling his jaw tenderly. He seemed to have come off best, and he knew it.

“Right. You and you.” Falk pointed to two of the least drunk onlookers. “Take Sullivan into the bathroom and help him wipe that blood off his face. Then bring him back here. Understand?”

They helped Sullivan up. Falk turned to Dow.

“You. Take a seat over there and wait and—no. Shut it. It's very much in your own interest that you keep that trap of yours closed for once. You hear?”

Falk turned to McMurdo. “Clean cloth, please, and large glasses of water all round. Plastic cups.”

Falk took the cloth to the man in the corner who was doubled over, clutching his nose.

“Sit up straight, mate,” Falk said. “That's the way. Here. Hold this.”

The man straightened and took his hands away. Falk blinked as Scott Whitlam's bloodied face appeared.

“Jesus, how'd you get mixed up in this?”

Whitlam tried to shrug and winced.

“Wrog place, wrog tibe,” he said, pressing the cloth to his nose.

Falk turned and looked pointedly at the onlookers.

“I suggest the rest of you make yourselves pretty bloody scarce,” he said.

Raco forced his way in as the room was emptying. He was wearing the same T-shirt he'd had on at dinner, but his curly hair was sticking up on one side, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“McMurdo rang. I was asleep. We need an ambulance? I've got Dr. Leigh on standby.”

Falk looked around. Sullivan was back from the bathroom and glanced up, a concerned expression on his face, at the mention of the doctor. The other two were hunched over in their chairs.

“No. I don't think so,” he said. “Unless you're worried about two of them being brain-dead. What's the story?” He turned to McMurdo.

The barman rolled his eyes. “Our friend Mr. Dow over there seems to believe the only reason he's in the frame for the Hadlers' deaths is because Jamie Sullivan doesn't have the balls to confess. He decided now was an opportunity to encourage him to do so.”

Falk strode over to Dow. “What happened here?”

“Misunderstanding.”

Falk leaned in close, so his mouth was right by Dow's ear. He could smell the booze several layers deep in his pores.

“If we're bothering you, Grant, all you need to do is give us a decent reason why she wrote down your name.”

Dow gave a bitter laugh. His breath stank.

“That's bloody rich, coming from you. You mean, like the decent reason you never gave for that note Ellie left? No.” He shook his head. “I could give you a thousand reasons, mate, and you still wouldn't go away. You won't be happy until you pin the Hadlers on me or my uncle.”

Falk pulled back. “Watch yourself. Keep talking like that and you'll be formally questioned and processed and find yourself in a whole heap of trouble, understand?” Falk held out his hand. “Keys.”

Grant looked up in disbelief. “No chance.”

“You can pick them up at the station tomorrow.”

“It's over five kilometers to my place,” Grant protested, cradling them in his palm.

“Tough. Enjoy your walk,” Falk said, plucking the keys from Grant's paw and pocketing them. “Now bugger off.”

He turned his attention to Sullivan and Whitlam, who were being inexpertly tended by McMurdo and Raco.

“You want to tell us what happened, Jamie?” Falk asked.

Sullivan stared at the floor out of his one good eye.

“Like he said. Misunderstanding.”

“I don't mean tonight.”

There was no reply. Falk let the silence stretch out.

“This is only going to get worse the further you let yourself sink.”

Nothing.

“Right,” Falk said. He was clammy, wet from the shower, and had had enough. “Be at the station at ten tomorrow. We need to talk to you, anyway. And fair warning, mate, I would have a good hard think overnight about where you were that day.”

Sullivan's features crumpled. He looked like he was about to cry. Falk exchanged a look with Raco.

“I'll drive you home, Jamie,” Raco said. “Come on, let's get you up.”

Sullivan let himself be helped out of the bar. He didn't look at anyone. Finally, Falk turned to Whitlam, who looked embarrassed behind his cloth in the corner.

“I think the bleeding's stopped,” Whitlam said, gingerly testing his nose.

“Let's see.” Falk peered at it and tried to recall his first-aid training. “Well, as long as it's not school photo day anytime soon, you'll probably survive.”

“Cheers.”

“We don't need to get you down to the station tomorrow as well, do we?”

“Not me, guv.” Whitlam held up his hands. “I'm an innocent bystander. I was coming out of the toilets and they barreled into me. Didn't even see it coming. I lost my balance and whacked my face on a chair.”

“All right,” Falk said, helping Whitlam up. The man was a little unsteady. “I'm not sure you should drive, though.”

“I'm on my bike.”

“Motor?”

“Jesus. I'm a primary school principal. Pedal.”

“Right. Come on.”

 

 

It was tight, but they squeezed the bike in the trunk of Falk's car with some twisting of the handlebars. They drove mostly in silence through the deserted streets.

“Any luck with the CCTV?” Whitlam said finally, coughing as he tried to breathe through his nose.

“We're still working through it,” Falk said. “Thanks for your help with that.”

“No worries.” Whitlam's swollen face was a distorted reflection as he stared out of the window at the emptiness. “Jesus, I hope this is all over soon. This place is like a nightmare.”

“Things will get better,” Falk lied automatically.

“Will they?” Whitlam said. He was slumped back down in his seat, touching his nose gingerly. “I'm not sure. I remember when I used to worry about normal things. Footy scores and reality TV. Seems unbelievable. Now it's the school, and the funding gaps, always trying to find the money. Little kids turning up dead, for God's sake.”

Whitlam stared out of the window until they pulled up outside his house. A welcoming light glowed over the porch. Relief passed across his busted features. Home.

Falk, exhausted and uncomfortable in his sticky clothes, was hit with a fierce longing for his own flat.

“Thanks for this. You want to come in for a drink?” Whitlam asked as they got out of the car, but Falk shook his head.

“I'll take a rain check, thanks. It's been enough for one day.”

Falk opened the trunk and jostled the bike, twisting the handlebars until it came free.

“Sorry if it's made a mess,” Whitlam said, peering at the upholstery in the dark.

“Don't worry about it. You'll be OK from here? With the nose. And everything else?”

Whitlam swung his bike around. He attempted a smile. “Yeah, I'll live. Sorry for being morose. It's the over-the-counter painkillers talking.”

“It won't always be like this. You're just unlucky to be caught up in it.”

“That's the thing, though, isn't it? No one can control the ripple effect of something like this.” Whitlam's voice sounded heavy. Falk wasn't sure if it was just the nose. “It's almost funny. I'm standing here feeling sorry for myself, but then I think about poor Billy. Talk about being caught in the wake. I tell you, whatever went on in that house—with Luke, the drought, the farm—whatever the reason, that little boy should never have been touched by it.”

At the top of the driveway, the front door opened, and Sandra stood framed in the glow. She waved. Whitlam said good-bye, and Falk watched as he wheeled his bike up the path. He still looked a little shaky. As Falk clambered back into the car, his phone beeped once. It was a text from Raco. Falk read the words and thumped the steering wheel in delight.

Want to know why Jamie Sullivan was in the alley? Call me ASAP.

27

The man was already waiting patiently outside the station when Falk and Raco arrived early the next morning.

“Dr. Leigh.” Raco introduced Falk. “Thanks for coming.”

“That's fine. It'll have to be quick, though, if you don't mind. I've got a full schedule today. And I'm on call later.”

Raco said nothing, just smiled politely, and unlocked the station door. Falk looked at the doctor curiously. He hadn't met the town's GP before but recognized the name from the Hadlers' murder report. First medical attendee on the scene. He was in his midforties and had a full head of hair and the healthy glow of someone who practiced what he preached.

“I brought the notes on the Hadlers.” Dr. Leigh put a folder on the interview room table. “That's what this is about, isn't it? Any progress?”

He sat down in one of the offered seats and crossed his legs, relaxed. He had an iron-rod spine and excellent posture.

“Some.” Raco's smile didn't quite reach his eyes this time. “Dr. Leigh, could you please tell us where you were on the afternoon of the twenty-second of February?”

Jamie Sullivan stood alone in his field and watched Luke Hadler's truck disappear in the distance. As it vanished, he took out his cell phone and sent a single text. He waited. Within two minutes the phone buzzed with a response. Sullivan gave a tiny nod and headed to his own four-wheel drive.

Surprise darted across the doctor's face, and he gave a confused smile.

“You know where I was that afternoon. I was with you at the Hadler murder scene.”

“And the two hours before that?”

A pause.

“I was at the office.”

“With patients?”

“Earlier, yes. Then I rested in the flat above the office for a couple of hours.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean? It's quite common when I'm on a split shift. Being on call early and late is exhausting. As you know well yourself, no doubt.”

Raco gave no reaction to the attempt at common ground.

“Can anybody confirm this?”

Sullivan drove the short distance to town. He passed no one on the country roads and only a handful of vehicles as he got nearer the center. Before he hit the main street he took a sharp right, turning onto a small alley behind the row of shops. He was being overcautious, he knew. No one would think twice about seeing his car parked in town. But the sense of secrecy was stitched through him like a scar, and it was impossible now to override. On a wall overhead, a CCTV camera outside the pharmacy blinked as he drove past.

Dr. Leigh leaned in, frowning. His long fingers picked at the corner of the Hadler folder, unsure whether to open it. “Seriously, what the hell is this about?”

“If you could answer,” Raco said. “Were you alone in the office flat that afternoon?”

Leigh looked from Raco to Falk and back again. “Should I call my lawyer? Does she need to be here?” There was a challenge in his voice.

“That,” Raco said, “could be prudent.”

Dr. Leigh pulled back from the table as though he'd been burned.

Sullivan parked his car in the garage that was always waiting empty and unlocked for him. He got out and pulled the roller door down to hide his vehicle from view, wincing at the scream of metal on metal as it closed. He waited a moment. Nothing reacted. The alley was empty.

Sullivan went to the anonymous door next to the office's supplies entrance and rang the bell. He glanced left and right. A moment later the door opened. Dr. Leigh smiled at him. They waited until they were inside and the door was firmly shut before they kissed.

Leigh closed his eyes and rubbed his index finger along the bridge of his nose. His excellent posture had bent a fraction.

“All right. I take it from all this you've been told the situation,” he said. “Yes, then. I wasn't in the flat alone that afternoon. I was with Jamie Sullivan.”

Raco made a noise that was half-frustration, half-satisfaction, and sat back in his chair. He shook his head in disbelief.

“About time. Do you know how many hours we've spent—
wasted
—chasing Sullivan's story?”

“I know. I do. I'm sorry.” The doctor sounded like he meant it.

“You're sorry? Three people died, mate. You were there with me. You saw the bodies. That poor kid. Six years old and his head shot off. How could you let us chase our tails? Who knows what damage you've done?”

The doctor swayed a little in the chair like he'd been hit by a physical force.

“You're right,” Leigh said. He bit his thumbnail and looked close to tears. “Don't you think I wanted to say something straight away? As soon as I found out you'd been at Jamie's place asking questions? Of course, he should have told you then.
I
should have told you then. But we panicked, I suppose. We didn't speak up immediately, and then more time passed, and by then I—we—didn't know how.”