The Dry (7 page)

“The truck still here?”

Raco shook his head. “Sent to Melbourne. It'll be cleaned up by now for sale or scrap, I reckon.”

Falk looked through the photos, hoping for a better view, but was disappointed. He read over the rest of the notes. Everything appeared fairly standard. Other than the hole in the front of his head, Luke Hadler was a healthy male. A couple of kilos over his ideal weight, slightly high cholesterol. No drugs or alcohol in his system.

Falk said, “What about the shotgun?”

“Definitely Luke's gun used on all three of them. Registered, licensed. His fingerprints were the only ones on it.”

“Where did he keep it normally?”

“Secured lockbox in the barn out the back,” Raco said. “The ammo—at least the Winchester stuff I've found—was locked away separately. He was pretty big on safety by the look of things.”

Falk nodded, only half listening. He was looking at the fingerprint report from the shotgun. Six crisp ovals embroidered with tight whorls and lines. Two less clear, slight slippage, but still confirmed as belonging to the left thumb and right little finger of Luke Hadler.

“The fingerprints are good,” Falk said.

Raco caught his tone. Looked up from his notes.

“Yeah, really solid. People didn't take too much convincing after seeing them.”

“Very solid,” Falk said, sliding the report over the table to Raco. “Maybe too solid? The guy's supposed to have just killed his family. He would've been sweating and shaking like an addict. I've seen worse than these taken under evidence conditions.”

“Shit.” Raco frowned at the prints. “Yeah, maybe.”

Falk turned the page.

“What did forensics find in the house?”

“They found everything. Seems like half the community had traipsed through there at one time or another. About twenty different fingerprints, not including partials, fibers everywhere. I'm not saying Karen didn't keep the place clean, but it was a farm with kids.”

“Witnesses?”

“The last person to see Luke alive was this mate of his, Jamie Sullivan. Has a farm to the east of town. Luke had been helping him shoot rabbits. Arrived in the afternoon about three, left about four thirty, Sullivan reckons. Other than that, around the Hadlers' house there's really only one neighbor who could have seen something. He was on his own property at the time.”

Raco reached for the report. Falk felt a heavy weight in his stomach.

“Neighbor's a strange bloke, though.” Raco went on. “Aggressive old bastard. No love lost for Luke, whatever that's worth. Not at all keen to assist the police with their inquiries.”

“Mal Deacon,” Falk said. He made a point of keeping his voice even.

Raco looked up in surprise. “That's right. You know him?”

“Yeah.”

Raco waited, but Falk said nothing more. The silence stretched on.

“Well, anyway,” Raco said. “He lives up there with his nephew—bloke called Grant Dow—who wasn't home at the time. Deacon reckons he didn't see anything. Might have heard the shots, but didn't think anything of it. Thought it was farm stuff.”

Falk just raised his eyebrows.

“Thing is, what he did or didn't see might not matter, anyway,” Raco said, taking out his tablet and tapping the screen. A low-res color image appeared. Everything was so still that it took Falk a minute to realize it was a video rather than a photograph.

Raco handed him the tablet.

“Security footage from the Hadlers' farm.”

 

 

“You're kidding.” Falk gaped at the screen.

“Nothing fancy. Barely a step up from a nanny cam really,” Raco said. “Luke installed it after a spate of equipment burglaries around here a year ago. A few of the farmers have them. Records for twenty-four hours, uploads the footage to the family computer, gets wiped after a week if no one actively saves it.”

The camera appeared to be positioned above the largest barn. It was directed toward the yard to capture anyone coming or going. One side of the house was in shot, and in the upper corner of the screen a slim slice of driveway was visible. Raco skipped through the recording until he found the spot he was looking for, and paused it.

“OK, this is the afternoon of the shootings. You can watch the whole day later if you want, but in a nutshell the family leaves the house in the morning separately. Luke drives off in his truck just after 5:00
A.M.
—headed out to his own fields as far as I've been able to tell. Then shortly after eight, Karen, Billy, and Charlotte leave for school. She worked there part-time in an admin role, and Charlotte was in the on-site day care.”

Raco tapped the screen, starting the footage. He passed Falk a pair of earphones and plugged them into the tablet. The sound was poor and muffled, as wind buffeted the microphone.

“Nothing happens during the day,” Raco said. “Believe me, I've watched the entire thing in real time. No one comes and no one goes until 4:04
P.M.
, when Karen and the kids get home.”

In the corner of the screen, a blue hatchback trundled by and disappeared. It was on an angle, visible only from the hood down to the tires. Falk could just make out the front number plate.

“You can read that if you freeze it and blow it up,” Raco said. “It's definitely Karen's car.”

Above the electronic crackling, Falk heard the thud of a car door slamming, followed a moment later by a second one. Raco tapped the screen again. The image jumped.

“Then it's all quiet for nearly an hour—again, I've checked—until … here. 5:01
P.M
.”

Raco pressed play and let Falk watch. For a few long seconds all was still. Then a shape moved in the corner. The silver pickup truck was taller than the hatchback and only visible from the headlights down. The number plate was visible. Again, the vehicle was there and gone in less than a second.

“Luke's,” Raco said.

The image on-screen was completely static, although the footage was still rolling. There was the thud of an invisible car door again, then nothing for an agonizing twenty seconds. Suddenly a dull boom crashed in Falk's ears, and he flinched. Karen. He felt his heart thumping in his chest.

The scene was still again as the timer continued to tick over. Sixty seconds gone, then ninety. Falk realized he was holding his breath, willing there to be a different ending. He was both frustrated and grateful at that moment for the poor sound. Billy Hadler's screams would be the haunting kind. When the second boom came it was almost a relief. Falk blinked once.

There was no movement. Then, three minutes and forty-seven seconds after the vehicle had first appeared, it rattled away through the corner of the screen. The back wheels, the bottom of the tray, and the number plate of Luke Hadler's vehicle were all perfectly visible.

“No one else comes or goes until the courier thirty-five minutes later,” Raco said. Falk handed the tablet back to him. He could still hear the muffled booms ringing in his ears.

“You seriously think there's doubt after seeing that?” Falk said.

“It's Luke's truck, but you can't see who's driving it,” Raco said. “Plus the other stuff. The ammunition. Killing Karen on the doorstep. The search in Billy's room.”

Falk stared at him.

“I don't get it. Why are you so convinced it wasn't Luke? You didn't even know him.”

Raco shrugged. “I found the kids,” he said. “I had to see what Billy Hadler looked like after some monster killed him, and I'll never be able to unsee that. I want to make sure the right thing's been done by him. I know it seems crazy, and look, odds are Luke probably did do it. I admit that. But if there's a tiny chance that someone else has done this and got away with it—”

Raco shook his head and took a long drink.

“You know, I look at Luke Hadler and on the surface he had it all—great wife, two kids, decent enough farm, respect in his community. Why would a man like that turn around one day and destroy his family? It makes no sense. I just can't understand how someone like him could do something like that.”

Falk rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin. It felt gritty. He needed a shave.

Luke lied. You lied.

“Raco,” he said. “There's something about Luke you need to know.”

7

“Back when Luke and I were kids,” Falk said. “Well, not exactly kids. Older than that. Sixteen, actually—”

He broke off as he sensed a swell of movement at the other end of the bar. The place had filled up without Falk noticing, and when he looked up now more than one familiar face glanced away. Falk felt the ripple of disruption a moment before he saw it. Drinkers lowered their eyes and shuffled aside without complaint as a group moved through the crowd. At the head was a meaty bloke with sludge-brown hair topped by sunglasses. Falk felt a cold trickle seep through his guts. He may not have recognized Grant Dow at the Hadlers' funeral, but there was no mistaking him now.

Ellie's cousin. They had the same eyes, but Falk knew there was absolutely nothing of her in him. Dow stopped in front of their table, his flabby frame blocking their view. His T-shirt advertised a Balinese beer brand. His features were piggy small and cramped together in the middle of his face, while his beard straggled across a thick chin. He was wearing the same look of defiance he'd used to stare down the mourners at the wake. Dow raised his glass toward Falk in a mock salute and flashed a smile that went nowhere near his eyes.

“You've got balls turning up here,” he said. “I'll give you that much. Don't you reckon, Uncle Mal? Give him that much, eh?”

Dow turned. An older man hidden behind him took a shaky step forward, and Falk came face-to-face with Ellie's father for the first time in twenty years. He felt something lodge in his chest and caught himself swallowing.

Mal Deacon had a curve to his spine now but was still a tall man, with ropy arms leading to large hands. His fingers were knotted and swollen with age and were almost white as he gripped the back of a chair for support. His forehead furrowed deep into a scowl, and his exposed scalp was angry pink between strands of gray hair.

Falk braced himself for an outburst, but instead a look of confusion flashed across Deacon's face. He shook his head slightly, the loose chicken flesh on his neck rubbing against a dirty collar.

“Why are you back?” Deacon's voice was slow and raspy. Deep grooves appeared on either side of his mouth as he spoke. Every single person in the pub was determinedly looking elsewhere, Falk noted. Only the barman was following the exchange with interest. He had put down his crossword.

“Eh?” Deacon slammed a gnarled hand against the back of the chair, and everyone jumped. “Why are you back? I thought you'd got the message clear enough. You brought the kid with you as well?”

It was Falk's turn to look confused. “What?”

“That bloody son of yours. Don't act dumb with me, dickhead. He back too? Your boy?”

Falk blinked. Deacon had mistaken him for his late father. He stared at the old man's face. Deacon scowled back, but there was something sluggish about his anger.

Grant Dow stepped forward and put a hand on his uncle's shoulder. For a moment he appeared to consider explaining the mistake, then shook his head in frustration and gently forced his uncle into a chair.

“Nice one, you prick, you've gone and upset him now,” Dow said to Falk. “I've gotta ask you, mate. You think this is the best place for you to be?”

Raco pulled his Victoria Police badge out of his jeans pocket and slapped it faceup on the table.

“I could ask you the same thing, Grant. This the best place for you right now, you reckon?”

Dow held up his palms and twisted his face into a picture of innocence.

“Yeah, all right, no need for that. Me and my uncle are just out for a social drink. He's not well; you can see that yourselves. We're not the ones looking for any trouble. This one, though”—he looked straight at Falk—“he tracks it behind him like dog shit.”

An almost imperceptible murmur rolled through the room. Falk had known the story would resurface sooner rather than later. He shifted as he felt every eye in the place glance toward him.

The hikers were hot and bored. The mosquitoes were out in force, and the track by the Kiewarra River was proving slower going than they'd expected. The three of them trudged along in single file, bickering when they could be bothered to raise their voices over the sound of rushing water.

The second in line swore as he ran chest first into the group leader's backpack, spilling his open water bottle down his front. A former investment banker, he'd moved to the country for his health and had spent each day since trying to convince himself he didn't hate every minute of it. The leader held up his hand and cut short the grumbling. He pointed to the murky river water. They turned and stared.

“What the hell is that?”

“All right, we'll have none of that, thanks,” the barman called out from behind the counter. He'd got to his feet and was resting his fingertips on the countertop. Beneath his orange beard, he was unsmiling. “This is a public bar. Anyone can drink here—him, you—and you can take it or leave it.”

“What's the third option?” Dow flashed his yellow teeth at his mates, who dutifully laughed.

“Third option is you're barred. So your choice.”

“Yeah. Always making those promises, though, aren't you?” Dow stared at the barman. Raco cleared his throat, but Dow ignored him. The barman's words came back to Falk.
Out here, those badges mean less than they should.

“The problem's not with him being in the bar.” The room was almost silent as Mal Deacon spoke. “It's him being back in Kiewarra at all.”

He raised a finger thick with arthritis and pointed it between Falk's eyes. “Understand this and tell your boy. There's nothing here for you except a lot of people who remember what your son did to my daughter.”