‘Everyone. They’re all around town.’
The Fleece was busy, but Falk could hear McMurdo’s Celtic twang rising over the cacophony. He stopped in the doorway behind Whitlam.
‘I’m not entering into a debate with you, my friend,’ McMurdo was saying from behind the bar. ‘Look around. This is a pub. This is not a democracy.’
He was clutching a handful of screwed-up fliers in his large fist. They were the same as the one burning a hole in Falk’s pocket and he had to fight the urge to take it out and look at it again. It was a crude reproduction, probably photocopied five hundred times at the town’s tiny library.
Across the top in bold capitals were the words:RIP Ellie Deacon, age 16.Below was a photo of Falk’s father aged in his early forties. Next to it was a hastily taken snap of Falk himself that appeared to have been shot as he left the pub. He was caught in a sideways glance, his face frozen in a momentary grimace. Underneath the photos in smaller type were the words:These men were questioned about the drowning of Ellie Deacon. More information needed. Protect our town! Keep Kiewarra safe!
Earlier in the carpark, Gretchen had given him a hug.
‘Bunch of absolute dickheads,’ she’d whispered in his ear. ‘But watch yourself, anyway.’ She’d scooped up a protesting Lachie and left. Whitlam had ferried Falk towards the pub, waving away his protests.
‘They’re like sharks in here, mate,’ Whitlam had said. ‘They’ll pounce at the first sign of blood. Your best move is to sit in there with me and have a cold beer. As is our God-given right as men born under the Southern Cross.’
Both now stopped in the entrance. A large purple-faced man, who Falk remembered had once turned his back on Erik Falk in the street, was arguing across the bar with McMurdo. The man stabbed a finger emphatically at the fliers and said something Falk didn’t catch, and the barman shook his head.
‘I don’t know what to suggest, my friend,’ McMurdo said. ‘You want to protest about something, you get yourself a pen and paper and write to your MP. But the place to do it is not in here.’ He moved to shove the fliers in the bin and as he did, he caught Falk’s eye across the room. He gave a tiny shake of his head.
‘Let’s go,’ Falk said to Whitlam and backed away from the entrance. ‘Thanks anyway, but it’s not a good idea.’
‘Think you might be right. Unfortunately. Christ, it’s likeDeliveranceround here sometimes,’ Whitlam said. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Hole up in my room, I suppose. Go through some papers. Hope it blows over.’
‘Stuff that. Come and have a drink at mine.’
‘No. Thanks, though. It’s better if I lie low.’
‘Nope, that doesn’t sound better at all. Come on. But we’ll take my car, eh?’ Whitlam fished out his keys with a grin. ‘It would do my wife good to meet you. It might help reassure her a bit.’ His smile dimmed a fraction, then brightened. ‘And anyway, I’ve got something to show you.’
Whitlam texted his wife from the car, and they drove in silence through the town.
‘You’re not worried about me being seen at your house?’ Falk said eventually. He thought back to the incident in the park. ‘The school mums won’t be impressed.’
‘Stuff ’em,’ Whitlam said, his eyes on the road. ‘Maybe it’ll teach them something. “Judge not lest ye be judged by a gang of small-minded nut jobs” or however it goes. So. Who do you think’s been sending out your fan mail?’
‘Mal Deacon probably. Or his nephew Grant.’
Whitlam frowned. ‘I think Grant’s more likely. Apparently Deacon isn’t all there these days. Mentally, I mean. I don’t really know, I don’t get involved with those two. Don’t need the hassle.’
‘You might be right.’ Falk stared gloomily out of the window. He thought of his car, the silver words scratched into the paintwork. ‘But neither of them are above getting their hands dirty.’
Whitlam looked at him, weighing up Falk’s response. Then he shrugged. He’d turned off the main street and was navigating the warren that was the closest thing Kiewarra had to a suburban estate. The houses seemed tight and manicured after the sprawling farmhouses, and some of the lawns were actually green. No easier way to advertise you used fake turf, Falk thought. Whitlam pulled up on a paved courtyard outside a smart family home.
‘Nice place,’ Falk said. Whitlam made a face.
‘Suburbia in the countryside. Worst of both worlds. Half the neighbouring places are empty, which is a pain. Security risk, you know? We get a lot of kids messing around. But everyone in farming lives on their land, and there’s not much in town to attract anyone else.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, it’s only rented. So we’ll see.’
He led Falk through into a cool shining kitchen where his wife was making coffee with a rich, deep aroma on a complicated machine. Sandra Whitlam was a slender, pale-skinnedwoman with large green eyes that gave the impression thatshe was permanently startled. Whitlam introduced them and sheshook Falk’s hand with a vague air of suspicion, but pointed him towards a comfortable kitchen chair.
‘Beer, mate?’ Whitlam called to him as he opened the fridge.
Sandra, who was in the process of placing three china cups on the counter, paused.
‘Didn’t you just come from the pub?’ Her voice was light, but she didn’t turn to look at her husband as she spoke.
‘Yeah, well, we didn’t quite get inside in the end,’ Whitlam said with a wink at Falk. Sandra pressed her lips into a thin line.
