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 trainers 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 centre 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 aggro, understand?’ Falk held out his hand. ‘Keys.’
