‘It’s not about that! Dow’s name was in Karen’s handwriting!’
‘I know, but there’s no other evidence! They’ve got an alibi. Both of them now.’ Raco sighed down the phone. ‘Deacon’s phone call at the time of the Hadler shootings looks like it’s legit. Barnes is getting the phone records now, but the girl from the pharmacy has backed him up. She remembers it happening.’
‘Shit.’ Falk ran a hand over his head. ‘Why didn’t she mention it before?’
‘She was never asked.’
There was a pause.
‘Deacon didn’t do it,’ Raco said. ‘He didn’t kill the Hadlers. You need to open your eyes, and fast. You’re staring so hard at the past that it’s blinding you.’
Chapter Thirty-two
Falk felt the tension in his shoulders finally start to lift around the time Gretchen poured the third glass of red. A weight that had pressed on his chest for so long that he’d almost stopped noticing at last began to ease. He could feel muscles in his neck loosen. He took a mouthful of wine and enjoyed the sensation as his cluttered head gave way to a more pleasant type of fog.
The kitchen was now dark, the remains of dinner cleared from the table. A lamb stew. Her own, she’d said. Animal, not recipe. They’d washed the dishes together, her hands deep in suds, his wrapped around a tea towel. Working together in tandem, and revelling self-consciously in the domesticity.
Eventually they’d moved through to the living room where he’d sunk, satiated, into a deep old couch, glass in hand. He’d watched her move around the room slowly, turning on low lights on side tables, creating a deep golden glow. She hit an invisible switch and discreet jazz filled the room. Something mellow and indistinct. The maroon curtains were open, flapping in the night breeze. Outside the windows, the land was still.
Earlier Gretchen had picked him up from the pub in her car.
‘What happened to yours?’ she’d asked.
He’d told her about the damage. She’d insisted on seeing it and they’d walked to the carpark where she’d gingerly lifted the tarpaulin. The car had been hosed down, but the inside was still destroyed. She’d been sympathetic, laughed gently as she rubbed his shoulder. She made it seem not as bad.
As they’d driven along the back roads, Gretchen told him Lachie was sleeping at the babysitter’s overnight. No further explanation. In the moonlight her blonde hair gleamed.
Now she joined him on the couch. Same couch, at the other end. A distance he would have to breach. He always found that bit difficult. Reading the signs. Judging it just right. Too early and it caused offence; too late, the same. She smiled. Maybe he wouldn’t find it too difficult tonight, he thought.
‘You’re still managing to resist the call of Melbourne, then,’ she said. She took a sip. The wine was the same colour as her lips.
‘Some days it’s easier than others,’ Falk said. He smiled back. He could feel a warmth bloom in his chest, his belly. Lower.
‘Any sign of wrapping things up?’
‘Honestly, it’s hard to say,’ he said, vague. He didn’t want to talk about the case. She nodded and they lapsed into a comfortable silence. The blue notes of the jazz were swallowed up by the heat.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’
She twisted around, reaching up to the bookshelves behind the couch. The movement brought her close, exposing a flash of smooth torso. Gretchen flopped back, holding two photo albums. Big books with thick covers. She opened the first page of one, then discarded it, putting it off to the side. She opened the other. Scooted closer to Falk.
The distance breached. Already. He hadn’t even finished his glass.
‘I found this the other day,’ she said.
He glanced at it. He could feel her bare arm on his. It reminded him of the day he’d seen her again for the first time. Outside the funeral. No. He didn’t want to think about that now. Not about the Hadlers. Not about Luke.
Falk looked down as she opened the album. It had three or four photos to a sticky page, covered with a plastic sheet. The first few pictures showed Gretchen as a small child, the images bright with the hallmark red and yellow tones of a chemist’s developing room. She flipped through.
‘Where is – ah. Here. See,’ she said, tilting the page towards him and pointing. Falk leaned in. It was him. And her. A picture he’d never seen before. Thirty years ago, him barelegged in grey shorts, her wearing a too-large school dress. They were side by side amid a small group of uniformed kids. The others were all smiling, but both he and Gretchen were squinting suspiciously at the camera. Childhood blondes – hers lit with gold, his white. Posed under duress at the instruction of the person behind the camera, Falk guessed, judging by his mutinous expression.
‘First day of school, I think.’ Gretchen looked sideways and raised an eyebrow. ‘So. It would appear that, in fact, you and I were friends before anyone else.’
He laughed and leaned in a little as she ran a finger over the image from the past. She looked up at him, in the present, red lips parting in a smile over white teeth, and then they were kissing. His arm around her back pulled her in closer and her mouth was hot on his, his nose against her cheek, his other hand in her hair. Her chest was soft on his and he was keenly conscious of her denim skirt pressed against his thighs.
They broke away, an awkward laugh, a deep breath. Her eyes were almost navy in the low light. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, then she was moving in again, closer, kissing him, the scent of her shampoo and the taste of red wine in every breath.
He didn’t hear the mobile ring. Only when she stopped moving did he register anything outside of the two of them. He tried to ignore it, but she held a finger to his lips. He kissed it.
