“Thanks again for doing these, Zara.” His voice was tight, and he gave a tiny nod. “They’re…”
He searched for a word but didn’t find it.
“Where’s Zoe?” Charlie asked.
“Oh. With my parents,” Rohan said, still distracted by the picture. A frown flickered across his face. “Bit of a nightmare drop-off. They’re all—” He stopped again. Shook his head. “Anyway, doesn’t matter. I had to be here.”
“You’re always welcome to leave her with us,” Raco said. “We’ve got all the baby stuff, so it’s no extra hassle.”
“Thanks, mate,” Rohan said, but his eyes had fallen back down to his wife.
Raco seemed about to say something else, but stopped as the police sergeant began to weave his way toward them, the reporter and photographer in his wake.
“G’day, all,” the officer said as he reached the stall. “Good to see you, mate. Welcome home.” He shook Raco’s hand, then turned to Zara. “And how are you?”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Yeah? Then you’re doing better than most would be.” The officer gave her a small smile and picked up a flyer, pulling a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He was probably in his late fifties, Falk guessed, but his wiry, outdoorsy build suggested he enjoyed the cholesterol and blood pressure readings of someone ten years younger. The name tag on his pocket read:Sergeant R. Dwyer.
“These have come up well, Zara. Good job.” Dwyer peered over his glasses at her. “Listen, that journo wants a word before you move off, but the volunteers are here and ready, so if you and Rohan are right to go, I reckon we get this started?”
Rohan’s face automatically firmed into a look of attentive determination. Falk regularly saw that same expression in high-level professional meetings, where it felt crucial that the right decisions were made. It was usually bullshit. Bravado masking fear and self-doubt. He had a version of that expression himself.
Zara was counting the few dozen volunteers milling around the edges of the stall, talking among themselves. It was a mixed bag, old and young, and one or two families. Falk vaguely recognized a handful of them as friends of the Raco family. They probably all were, in some way or another, and from the tense, eager way they waited for instruction, he could see that the events of last year still cast a shadow.
Falk hadn’t been there to witness the aftermath himself; once the shoe was found and the history of antidepressant prescriptions beganto seep out, Kim’s death had taken the shape of a very intimate family tragedy. He had suddenly felt in the way. No one had said as much, not at all, but he could tell his bed in the guesthouse would be more useful freed up for the relatives now arriving by the day. Falk had checked in with Raco and, separately, Rita—both already turning inward to their family pain—and less than seventy-two hours after he’d arrived, they’d waved him off with mutual understanding on both sides.
“All right,” Dwyer said now, raising his voice over the crowd noise. “If you’re here for the appeal, please step in a little there, so we don’t block the path. Yep, perfect.”
He gestured for the flyers to be passed around as the crowd formed a loose circle.
“Right. Thanks, all, for coming out,” Dwyer started. “I recognize a lot of faces, and I know a lot of you knew Kim well. But there’ll be plenty of people here tonight at this festival who didn’t know her as well, or at all. And it’s them—anyone who was here at the opening last year and might have seen her—those are the people we want to talk to.
“We’ve got leaflets here—yeah, thanks, grab a handful each—and our aim tonight is to get people to have another think about that night. What they might have seen or noticed. Maybe it didn’t seem important at the time, but I’d rather know about it and make that call myself. I’ll be around all evening, or can be contacted through the station.
“All right.” He clapped his hands. “We’ll be on the main stage a little later for an appeal and a short tribute from Kim’s family, so please encourage people to be there. It’s scheduled for—” He looked to Zara and Rohan for confirmation. “Eight thirty? Yep, eight thirty.” He kept his eyes on the family. “Anything either of you would like to add?”
Rohan glanced at Zara, who blinked. She wavered a moment, and when she shook her head, he cleared his throat. “Look, we’d like to thank everyone for being here. We—”
“Actually,” Zara cut him off. “Sorry. Sorry, Rohan. I think I do want to say something.”
“Yeah? Okay. Of course.”
Zara still seemed uncertain as all eyes turned to her, but took a breath.
“I know most of you were here last year and know what happened. So you’ll probably have heard that my mum had postnatal depression. And that’s true. You’ve probably also heard how she abandoned my sister in her stroller, and went down to the reservoir drop and—” Zara stumbled over the words and stopped. She took a second to gather herself. “That bit is not true.”
Falk saw a few among the crowd shift their weight and throw a glance to the person next to them. No one seemed quite sure how to best react to that, and the atmosphere took on an awkward undercurrent. Raco and Charlie exchanged a look, a silent communication passing between them. They both slid their eyes back to Zara, who had also sensed the ripple in the crowd.
Rohan had felt it, too, Falk could tell. The man had been listening to Zara with his head bowed, staring at a spot on the ground, but now he glanced up. The professional face had faded, and he simply looked disappointed. He ran his gaze lightly over the gathered group, sending several pairs of eyes skittering away, then took a small but distinct half step toward Zara. It barely closed any distance, but the instant effect was one of solidarity. He gave Zara a little nod of encouragement, and she looked relieved. Charlie, Falk noticed, looked like he wished he’d done the same, but the moment had passed. It was too late now, and he knew it.
“Yes. So,” Zara recovered her train of thought and her momentum, “what I’m saying is, my mum would never have left Zoe. Or me. She loved us, and she would hate to see what we’ve all been through this past year.”
A subtle movement at the back of the crowd caught Falk’s eye, and he tilted his head to see better. A lone teenage boy was standing a little apart from the group, his arms folded across his chest as he watched Zara speak. He had a flyer in one hand and was listening with a hint of a frown on his face.
Falk felt a faint stirring of recognition. He didn’t know the kid, though. He didn’t really know anyone here other than the Racos. The boy had close-cropped hair and looked about eighteen. He was all angles, with the lean coat-hanger look of a growing body trying to keep up with itself.
“I know what everyone believes happened.” A note of urgency had crept into Zara’s voice. “And actually, I can understand why. But my mum did not go down to the reservoir. Someone—a witness—who was working nearby all night has told police that she never went through the reservoir exit.”
