He’d been a little quiet on the drive then, too, but his face had relaxed a notch as they’d crept along with the traffic.
“Hey,” he’d said then as he’d eased the car forward. “Looks like your mum made it.”
“Where?” Zara had raised her head from her phone as Charlie pointed to a silver family sedan parked to their left. A man—Rohan Gillespie, Falk had guessed rightly at the time—was beside the trunk, trying to wrestle a stroller into shape.
“Oh. Good.” Zara’s eyes were already drifting back to her screen.
Charlie had beeped the horn lightly, and Rohan had looked up from the stroller. Charlie touched the brakes, but another horn had blared from the line of cars behind, and a harried parking attendant had urged them onward with a jerking motion.
“Yeah, all right, mate, I’m moving,” Charlie had muttered and rolled forward. He’d glanced in the rearview mirror at his daughter, asmall frown forming behind his sunglasses. “Make sure you catch your mum inside, yeah?”
Rohan had been shielding his eyes from the low sun, squinting at their car. Seeming to recognize them suddenly, he’d lifted his hand as they’d trundled past, then put the stroller down and leaned around to call something through the sedan’s passenger door.
“Zara?” Charlie had said again. “You heard me? About Mum?”
“Yeah. I will.”
She’d sounded distracted, though, and in the mirror Falk had seen her eyes fixed on the back of her mother’s car as they pulled away. Someone had put stickers on the tinted rear window. A chalk-drawing stick family of three—mum, dad, and baby. Zara had blinked once, then dropped her gaze back to her phone. Her thumb moved fast across her screen.
Rohan Gillespie had later told police his family had arrived at the festival site at around 7:15 p.m. Zara had pinpointed that moment to 7:19 p.m., confirmed by the text she’d sent a friend as they’d driven by:Here now. Parking.
The last alleged sighting of Kim fell somewhere between 90 and 130 minutes later, Falk knew, depending on whether you put more weight on the statement from the kids’ face-paint artist or the overworked bartender. Or, as some people decided, neither.
Twelve months on and the parking lot was still as slow-moving as Falk remembered it, and Charlie had to park some distance away from the entrance. They each took a box of flyers from the trunk and made their way through the sea of cars. The same wide, bright banner Falk had seen the year before swayed gently overhead in the warm evening breeze:Marralee Valley Annual Food and Wine Festival. Est. 1951.Strings of lights created a canopy leading up to the entrance, which glowed a warm gold in the encroaching twilight. At the turnstiles, a pair of gray-haired officials in matching fleeces kept an eye on crowd numbers, opening the side gate every few seconds to let through a family with a stroller or wheelchair. Admission was still free, Falk noted, which he remembered thinking added to the community feel of theevent. Beyond the entrance he could see volunteers collecting gold coin donations for a charity.
“Where are we meeting everyone?” Charlie called to Zara as they joined the bottleneck for the turnstiles. “The main stage?”
“No, our stall.”
“Okay.” Charlie mouthedthank youas one of the officials spotted the boxes in their arms and beckoned them through the gate instead.
“I thought you might not do the stall this year?” Raco said to his brother once they were inside.
“Yeah, I could do without it, to be honest,” Charlie said. “But we’d committed to three years on that spot, and in the end, Shane agreed we may as well.”
“Is he coming tonight?” Raco asked.
“Should be there now, hopefully. Setting the casuals up.”
Charlie led the way through the crowds, and before long Falk saw the distinctive crimson branding up ahead. The Penvale Vineyard stall had a long table along its front, with several bottles already open for tastings. A friendly young woman who looked like she could be a uni student was pouring small measures for a family group, while another pointed out something printed on the bottle’s label.
Behind them in the dim back half of the stall, a large bloke was breaking down empty boxes, his shoulders and chest broad enough to stretch the fabric of his vineyard T-shirt. He’d been there last year, too, and although Falk hadn’t been formally introduced, he recognized the face.
“G’day, guys.” Charlie nodded to his staff and cleared a space at the end of the table for Zara to put down her flyers.
The stall looked to be more or less in the same spot as last year, Falk thought as he glanced around. He didn’t claim to know much about retail exposure sites, but this seemed well positioned for foot traffic. They were right at the top of the main drag between the entrance and the exit, meaning most people had to pass by on their way in or out.
Perfect for crowd-watching, too, as it had been last year. Falk had wondered for a while, at the time, if that might end up proving useful.It hadn’t, in the end, other than to suggest that on the balance of probabilities, Kim Gillespie hadn’t left the grounds by the main exit. Falk supposed that was useful information in its own way.
“Oh, great. Dad, that journalist came,” Zara said, and Charlie put his box on the table and looked to where she was pointing. “There. Talking to Rohan and Sergeant Dwyer.”
Falk placed his own box down and turned as well.
Rohan Gillespie was on the other side of the wide path, standing beside a tall, gray-haired police sergeant. They were both leaning in a little, straining to hear over the noise as a woman with a notebook asked something. Nearby, a photographer with ill-fitting jeans and an equipment bag near his feet waited patiently. The reporter finished her question and the police officer nodded in response, indicating back toward the entrance at something above the canvas roofs of the stalls. Falk looked up to where he was pointing and saw a CCTV camera fixed high on a pole. That was new. They’d had cameras on only the main exit last year.
Rohan’s eyes drifted down from the camera and back to the stall, with a flash of relief as he spotted the Racos there. He murmured something to the journalist, who was scribbling fast, then threaded his way across the busy path toward the stall.
“Hey. Good to see you, guys. Zara, that reporter’s very keen to chat to—” He stopped as his gaze landed on the boxes. The lids were unsealed, and after a beat, Rohan reached out and took an appeal flyer from the top of the pile. He held it in his hand and stared for a long moment at the picture of his wife and the words beneath.
