Falk didn’t really need to think about it. “Even then. If he really felt it was the right thing to do, yeah.” He was preaching to the converted, he suspected. “As I think you already know, mate. Greg Raco’s moral compass points true north. He’s not the kind who keeps secrets easily. Not about something as serious as this. It’s not in his nature.”
“Perhaps not, but—” Dwyer’s phone buzzed again. He glanced down and exhaled something close to a sigh. “All right, look, I’d better keep moving. We’ll talk again.” He didn’t move immediately, though, instead squinting across the grounds at something Falk couldn’t identify. “For the record, I happen to agree with you about Greg Raco. Whether I can necessarily say the same for the rest of them, though…”
Dwyer lifted his shoulders in a light shrug. He raised a hand in farewell and, without waiting for a response, turned and headed off. Falk watched the officer walk away, growing smaller across the field. Then he stood there alone in the mild spring warmth for a long while, mulling over that very same question himself.
17
The vineyard was quiet as Falk pulled up and parked next to Raco’s car.
He walked through Charlie’s house, finding the kitchen empty now, and then stepped out onto the veranda. He could see no movement among the vines, but across the dirt driveway, the door to the vineyard’s office stood open. The slam of a desk drawer and a muffled swear word floated out into the still afternoon air. Falk looked around once more, then wandered down the steps and toward the noise.
“G’day.” Falk leaned against the open office door and looked inside.
“Oh. G’day.” Shane McAfee glanced up, then down again. He was behind a desktop computer, his bulky frame crammed into an office chair and his face flushed despite the air conditioner rattling full tilt in the corner. He was looking at the screen like he was staring into an abyss. “Thought you might be Charlie.”
“No.”
“Is he out there?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“Right.” Shane tapped a couple of strokes on the keyboard and swore again, under his breath this time. He ran a hand over his chin and wiped the sweat on his shorts, then sat back heavily. “Don’t suppose you know anything about spreadsheets?”
“A bit,” said Falk, who knew an exhaustive amount. “You need some help?”
“Charlie needs these latest invoices added to the winter quarter figures, but the accountant’s started us on this new system and—” Shane pointed to the screen as Falk edged past the filing cabinet to see. “Here. The column spacing’s blown out, but when I tried to fix it I lost a whole bloody section.”
“It won’t be lost.” Falk leaned in and immediately recognized the accountancy program. He’d recently spent a whole week using it to trace several million dollars in disguised income. He reached over and moved the mouse a few times. “It’s usually still in there somewhere. You just do this, and then this. And—yeah—there. That what you needed?”
“That’s the one. Yes.” Shane breathed out. “Thank God for that. Cheers, mate. I owe you one.”
“And look, you’re importing the hard way. It’s a lot easier if you go here and then drag that over—”
“To where?”
“There. Yep, that’s it.” Falk spent a couple of minutes showing him, then stood back and watched as Shane completed several rounds himself. The guy frowned as his weathered fingers coaxed the mouse across the desktop. The other hand was idly massaging his left knee joint.
“That’s so much bloody easier,” Shane said. “You do this for work or something? I thought Greg said you were police, too.”
“Financial division with the AFP,” Falk said. “So, yeah. I do this quite a lot.”
“You like it?”
“Working with spreadsheets?”
Shane smiled. “The job.”
“Yeah, I do,” Falk said truthfully. “It’s interesting.”
He could tell Shane was expecting him to say more, but both the conversation and the spreadsheet had triggered a well-worn sequence in Falk’s head. He could immediately feel the virtual heft of unanswered emails weighing down the phone in his pocket. He hadn’t thought about or communicated with work for at least twenty-four hours, which was something of a record lately. He was on leave, he reminded himself, but it was already too late. He was thinking about it now.
“It’s good that you like it,” Shane said, bringing Falk back into the room. “Lucky to find something you enjoy.”
He seemed to mean it, which was somewhat rare. Most people went out of their way to slide in a backhanded comment about the perceived dullness of Falk’s chosen field. Falk watched him for a minute, working away at the computer. “When did you retire from footy?”
“Earlier than I wanted to.” Shane gave a rueful smile. “Not long after I turned twenty-four. Only got to play one more full season after that grand final you were at.”
Falk nodded, because all of a sudden he was back there again. Sitting with his dad and watching this guy play what probably ended up being the peak game of his career. “Injured out?”
“Yeah, third quarter of the second game the year after. Against Collingwood, that one was. Tore my ACL.” Shane’s hand dropped to his knee again. “The physio and recovery techniques are better now, but back then—” He shook his head. “Game over. Never got back.”
“That’s a real shame.”
“Yeah. I thought so, too.” Shane shrugged. “Happens, though.”
“What did you do afterward?”
“God. Everything, at first. Went a bit nuts for a while. I was at a loose end, but I had a fair bit of money—or it felt like it at that age, anyway—and the bouncers at the VIP nightclubs all recognized me, so—” Shane stopped, pointing at the computer. “Sorry, do I copy these figures to here? Or here?”
“The first one. Yep, exactly.”
“Great, thanks.” He nodded. “Yeah, so it was all a bit of a blur for a while, but at least it was fun, and then…” Shane paused. He shot a glance up at Falk, the faintest trace of humor in his face. “Then, I don’t know if you remember, but this one photo kind of surfaced of me in a pretty compromising—”
And just like that, all at once, Falk did remember. That’s right, that had been Shane McAfee. The image had been everywhere for five minutes, and all these years later Falk could instantly conjure it in his mind. Not the frequent photos of Shane stumbling red-faced and sweating out of a nightclub and into the early hours with a string of different women on his arm, or the few of him in front of an unidentified white powder smeared across a grubby glass coffee table, but that single very unfortunate one, involving a bottle of his own urine and a dare at a dinner table at a Sydney black-tie function.
It took a significant mental leap to reconcile this large, softly spoken man with that guy—disgraced former footy star Shane McAfee—captured in notoriety in newsprint and online, and Falk scrambled for an appropriate response. Shane just shrugged and gave a small self-deprecating smile.