The Dry: A Novel

He’d left it too long to slay the beast, and over time it had shriveled and wasted until it was no longer a fair fight.

The guy had probably been waiting twenty years to feel superior to someone and wasn’t about to waste his chance

He’d been one of those kids who was slow on the uptake and quick to anger

A miserable lifetime of bad deeds catching up with the drunken bastard, if you ask me.”

“You’re a closed book,” she’d said one final time before she’d left. She’d said it a lot over the two years they’d been together. First intrigued, then concerned, finally accusing.

That dress must be all for you, you dickhead.
He grinned the whole way back to the pub.

Her face was the purple-red of a woman whose drinking was crossing the line from social to serious.

The waist Luke had thrown his arm around was a little thicker now, and the baby-blond hair might have been helped by a bottle, but the blue eyes and high cheekbones were pure Gretchen. Her formal trousers and top were a shade tighter than traditional funeral attire, and she moved a little uneasily in the outfit. Falk wondered if it was borrowed or just seldom worn.

“Not really. Only Luke, the—” For a dizzy moment Falk couldn’t think of a word to describe the man in the largest coffin. He mentally grasped about but could find only clichéd tabloid descriptions. “The father,” he landed on finally. “We were friends when we were younger.” “Yeah. I know who Luke Hadler is.” “I think everyone does now.” “You still live round this way, do you?” The farmer shifted his large body slightly and fixed Falk properly in his gaze for the first time. “No. Not for a long time.” “Right. Feels like I’ve seen you, though.” The farmer frowned, trying to place him. “Hey, you’re not one of them bloody TV journos, are you?”

If Luke had a dollar, he’d spend two to make sure it was gone.”
Was that true? Falk wondered. He’d never known Luke to be too keen to put his hand in his pocket.