“Definitely, I think.” She glanced back in the direction of Gemma’s house so meaningfully that she nearly cricked her neck. “Because you can just tell, can’t you?”
Her smile was infectious, and Falk couldn’t stop his own. “Tell what?”
“When there’s love in the air.”
25
Young Henry had brought out the sun for his christening day, and Falk woke early to the light filtering through the blinds. Outside, the vineyard was still quiet, and he lay for a while in the cool linen sheets, staring at the guesthouse ceiling and thinking about the night before.
He had liked Gemma’s place, a lot. Liked just being there, sitting around the wide kitchen table, eating lasagna from mismatched plates. But it had been the small things as well. The basil had apparently come from the row of herbs she was growing with mixed success in pots along the windowsill; and as he’d been leaving, Falk had realized the large framed painting in the entrance hall that he’d assumed to be modern art, with its bold blue strokes creating no discernible image, was in fact a piece of childhood artwork by Joel.
The house had felt … familiar. The word came to Falk instantly, and he rejected it just as quickly. He had never lived somewhere like that, with herbs in window pots and a child’s painting hung like it was art. Welcoming was perhaps what he was reaching for, he decided, while at the same time picturing his own flat, lying empty back in St. Kilda.
His place was absolutely fine, no argument to be had there. Good location. A decent long-term investment. Falk kept it clean, and it was fully functional in the sense that it met all his needs. He frowned now up at the guesthouse ceiling. He could obviously grow herbs in his kitchen if he wanted to. Pick his own basil leaves and make lasagna. There was nothing stopping him. Although lasagna was a bit of a hassle for one. Lots of leftovers.
Falk’s thoughts skipped to Joel, hanging out of the veranda door, asking to finish off the food. He’d been much more relaxed at home. Different from earlier, down by the reservoir with his phone and that deeply unsettling video of broken barriers and angry tire marks and early grief.
Falk closed his eyes and listened. His subconscious had been picking away at something overnight, he suspected, because his internal alarm had started up again. The soft, insistent warning was a little faster, if anything. He pushed back the bedsheets and got up.
He showered and dressed, then switched on his laptop, transferring Joel’s video to the larger screen. Falk watched it play out—taking in the silent aftermath, Gemma rigid with shock, Dwyer scrutinizing the scene—then went back to the start and ran it again. He was still at it an hour later when there was a knock on the door.
“G’day.” Raco put his head in. “Thought I’d check if you needed anything before we head over to the church later.”
“If you want somewhere to hide from your extended family, mate,” Falk said, his eyes still on the screen, “you don’t have to lie about it to me.”
“Thank God.” Raco flopped into the armchair with a sigh. “I can’t stay long or Rita’ll divorce me. I just need a breather before the rest descend.”
Ben Raco, the eldest of the three brothers, was escorting their mother down from Brisbane, Falk knew, along with Ben’s pregnant wife and their three children. They’d flown into Adelaide last night and were driving over this morning.
“When are they arriving?”
Raco rubbed his eyes. “Any minute. I mean, I love them, but all together they can be a bit much sometimes.” He sat back, then almost immediately leaned forward again. “What on earth are you watching?”
“Dean Tozer’s hit-and-run scene.”
“Seriously? Where did you get this?” Raco hauled himself up and came over, moving in for a closer look as Falk told him. They watched the video run through one loop in its entirety, then Raco frowned. “And you think something’s off?”
“Yeah, but I can’t work out what. It’s really annoying. Might be nothing; it’s been bloody years since I looked at one of these.”
Raco’s eyes darted over the screen as Falk set it playing again, then he reached out and paused the image. “Where’s the glass?”
Falk stopped. “What glass?” He looked at what he was seeing. Made himself think. “From the headlights?”
“Yeah.” Raco moved the scene back a few seconds, then let it run again. He pointed to the splintered wood of the barrier. “You can see from the force—this break here—this has to be a front-corner collision. No sideswipe. They changed the crossroads out near the Maxwell place earlier this year, and we’ve had a heap of single-vehicle smashes lately. Pain in the arse. But yeah, no way you’re getting out of that with your headlight intact. Should be a whole load of shattered glass all over the ground here.”
“Shit. Yes.” Falk could see it now.
They were both still for a moment, examining the screen. Falk went back to the start and moved through the video again, freezing it every few seconds. The ground was blurry in every scene.
“It’s hard to tell,” Falk said finally. “How small are these fragments likely to be?”
“It depends,” Raco said. “But there’d be a lot of them. It was a sunny morning, we should be seeing some reflection at least.”
“So, it’s been cleared up?” Falk said.
“Looks that way to me. You can tell a lot from the type of glass. Make, model, approximate year sometimes.” Raco’s face was hard. “Bloody cold, though. I don’t know what the reservoir level was that year, but depending on the drop, Dean could’ve still been alive in that water. And instead of calling for help, the driver sets about clearing the area?” He shook his head. “It never stops amazing me, you know? What people’ll do.”
“Desperation makes people do all sorts, I suppose,” Falk said.
“So true. This feels a bit weird, though.” Raco frowned at the screen. “If it was someone trying to avoid a breath test on the highway. To have enough in your system to cause this accident, but then the presence of mind to clean up afterward?”
“Might not have been a great cleanup job,” Falk said. “There could be glass we can’t see, and I’m guessing these are the paint marks.” He zoomed in on a shadowy patch against the broken white wood. The detail was lost over the distance.
“Probably not much they could do about the paint,” Raco said.
“No.” Falk thought of the graffiti marks around the memorial plaque. They were much fainter thanks to his cleaning efforts with Zara and Joel, but hadn’t been erased entirely. He ran his eyes over the reservoir track, deserted in the paused image. “Time would have to be a factor as well. I wouldn’t want to be hanging around there too long afterward.”
“No way.” Raco shook his head. “You never know who’s going to come—”
He stopped short at the sound of a car pulling up on the driveway. They both listened to the creak and slam of four doors followed by a babble of excited voices rising steadily to fever pitch. Raco sighed, then smiled despite himself. “Sounds like my cue.”