by Sarah Bailey
‘Crazy how?’ I asked.
‘Erratic. Moody. And his obsession with Ava was bizarre. Sterling said he took things too far with her and called him on it. I think things got pretty weird between them.’
‘They argued?’ said Fleet.
Brodie nodded. ‘Yeah. Sterling was pretty upset about it.’
‘When?’ I asked.
‘Last weekend. He didn’t say much about it but like I said, he was definitely upset.’
‘Upset or angry?’ Fleet pushed.
‘A bit of both, I guess.’
We spoke to Brodie for a few more minutes, trying to eke out anything else about Sterling that might be relevant, but Brodie just wanted to talk about their relationship.
As our case meeting loomed, Fleet’s restlessness began to make me anxious. I ushered Brodie out with the phone number of a grief counsellor and promises to keep him updated about the case.
Now I glance up as Isaacs slips into the room, looking at his watch while he pulls the door shut behind him. ‘Is this about the housemate who wanted to speak with you?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, before detailing what Brodie told us.
‘It’s almost like our own little twisted movie script,’ adds Fleet sarcastically when I’m done.
Isaacs taps his fingers on the table. ‘Jesus,’ he mutters, after a moment. ‘Nothing’s ever bloody straightforward, is it?’
‘Afraid not,’ says Fleet, winking discreetly at me.
‘We obviously need to touch base with these Beauford people and Wendy Ferla as soon as possible,’ I say.
There’s a sharp knock on the door, and I get a flash of deja vu as Chloe’s head appears like it did earlier this morning in the video room. ‘Hi,’ she says nervously, ‘something else has come up that I thought you should know about straight away.’
‘What now?’ exclaims Fleet melodramatically.
‘Ava James has just accused Riley Cartwright of sexual assault.’
Thursday, 16 August
9.55 am
As always when I work a case, I feel time shifting around me. It seems unfathomable that Wade was alive twenty-four hours ago. And even more bizarre to think that we watched his parents identify his pale, cold body this morning. The dead tend to exist in a world that ignores traditional time zones, and a part of them stays alive until we find their killer. There remains for each of them a soft pulse of hope that justice might still be possible one day, lurking in the smallest of clues.
In the station bathrooms, I study my reflection. I wish I was tall like Nan. I remember the first briefing I attended with her and the way her stature immediately put her in control, her straight posture and no-nonsense manner giving the impression that everything she says is correct. I wonder how much of that is the success of a detective, simply looking the part. My face is serious too, but there’s a blandness about my appearance—I’m easily forgettable. My pale green eyes are wide but dull as if the lights have been turned off inside. My dark hair is like a wild forest, swirling around my face and tumbling halfway down my back. Stuck between girl and woman, I appear slightly haunted, which I’m not sure is an ideal look for a senior detective.
I wonder what Ben is doing right now. He’s probably at school, sitting on the floor surrounded by all his friends, his tongue peeking out of his mouth as he takes in what the teacher is saying. Sometimes the longing to hold him, to look into his eyes, is so intense I feel trapped in my own body. A big case always makes me feel guilty, as if I’m somehow being disloyal to him. It always has and I suspect it always will. The price you pay, I can almost hear Scott saying, followed closely by a helpful reminder that I actually have a say in the way I run my life. So many of our arguments ended with Scott telling me that I was acting like the victims I so desperately try to save. ‘You don’t have to do this, Gem,’ he’d say earnestly. ‘You don’t have to be so torn all the time. Don’t you realise you can walk away whenever you want?’ I almost laughed at the insanity of his suggestion until I realised that he was completely serious.
I wash my hands and smooth some strands of hair behind my ears before heading toward the case room, taking slow, deliberate breaths. I always feel apprehensive before a briefing. I guess it’s normal to question your own ability but there’s nothing like the stares of keen-as-mustard eyeballs watching you, desperate to put their own mark on a case and one-up the boss, to make you self-conscious. The golden era of TV has made every young, ambitious uniform think that he can take on Jack the Ripper. Problem is, it’s made every young ambitious criminal think that he could be Jack the Ripper. At least it’s balanced, I suppose.
We’re using the case room to the left of the main tearoom. It’s not perfect—every time someone makes a coffee the wall shakes—but it’s a decent size and it has one of the new, slick built-in case boards that you can magically attach photos and documents to, unlike the dinky cork pin boards we used in Smithson. It took me a while to get used to all the extra resources the city squad has. Not only is there an endless supply of decent biscuits on hand for staff, but there is also an abundance of stationery, and my computer can handle more than two files being open at once. Plus, there are more bums on seats. Something seriously bad had to happen in Smithson to warrant extra bodies being called in, so we were constantly justifying numbers and appealing for extra help.
Upon returning to the case room I find it empty. Checking my watch, I see it’s still about ten minutes until we’re scheduled to kick off. A shiver runs through me as my cold core adjusts to the heat of the room. I walk over to the case board, which is dotted with the basic info we have so far. Scanning it, I try to block out the noise of Wade’s sexuality and Cartwright’s alleged assault and take in the key facts of the attack, making sure I haven’t missed something glaringly obvious.
Shifting my weight back and forth, I’m satisfied that nothing stands out so far. An up-and-coming movie star, stabbed in the middle of a big film set. If the intention wasn’t to kill Wade, perhaps it was a scare that went too far? A dare? Could one of the props staff have planted a real weapon on set as a joke? Or maybe Fleet’s onto something and it was some kind of fame kill. I’ve read about online forums where kids taunt each other to do outrageous things and then document the outcomes. Something like this would certainly fit the bill: just the right mix of profile and risk. But if this was true, that the knife was somehow added to the prop inventory, then what were the chances of Wade being the one hurt? Surely he had to be the intended victim. Or perhaps a cast member became obsessed with him, their fixation fuelled by the intimacy of the shoot, and the chance to have the ultimate power over him was just too tempting.
I’ve worked enough cases to know that what can seem like a harmless crush can easily teeter dangerously into a loss of reality and physical violence. We humans never have been very good about removing the concept of ownership from our romantic relationships. Maybe someone wanted Wade all for herself. Or himself, I think, recalling Brodie’s tearful revelation. While I know to always expect surprises, his confession has thrown me a little—with the parade of glamorous women in Wade’s life, I guess I expected some old-fashioned adultery of the heterosexual kind. If Wade really was gay, I wonder how widespread this knowledge is. There might be a small group of individuals in the know. Does that have anything to do with this?
And now there’s the accusation that Ava James has made about Cartwright. I recall the lanky man in the hospital waiting room yesterday. Vacant and distant definitely, but there had been something else too: an underlying aggression that my body had immediately detected.
‘She could be lying,’ Fleet whispers in my ear as he suddenly appears behind me.
I steady myself just in time to prevent an obvious startle. ‘I was thinking about the film footage, actually.’
‘Sure you were.’ Fleet takes an obnoxious slurp of his coffee. ‘Seriously though, Ms James could be lying. And so could young Brodie. I mean come on, a secret gay relationship that he reveals now that Wade
’s dead? It’s very convenient. Maybe he just wants in on the police action. Maybe they both do. They love the drama, right?’
‘Brodie seemed pretty genuine to me,’ I reply. ‘And if he wanted attention he would go to the media, not us.’
‘Well, he probably did have feelings for Wade. Loved him or whatever. Doesn’t mean it was reciprocal.’
‘I guess.’
Fleet takes another slurp of coffee. ‘I saw that art-house movie Wade did last year,’ he says, looking off into the distance. ‘You know, with that hot-arse actress Jade Shaw, or whatever her name is. There were some pretty raunchy scenes. I just can’t see him giving it to a guy.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I say, exasperated. ‘That’s hardly relevant. The kid was an actor. His job was to make people believe. You know, some people can’t see you being a half-decent detective but you sort of pull it off.’
‘Likewise, little lady,’ he says, as I turn back to the board, determined not to let him ruffle me. I attach a few more photos of the crime scene.
‘Ready for us in here?’ says a voice behind me a minute later.
I turn to see three young male uniforms filling the doorway. Fleet has disappeared.
‘Of course, come take a seat. We’re going to be here a while.’
‘Fleet is taking a piss,’ the prematurely grey one says. ‘Said he’d only be a moment.’
‘Great,’ I mutter, walking out of the room to fetch a glass of water. As the cool liquid forges an icy path to my stomach, I watch another dozen officers file into the case room. Again, I feel insecure about my height—I’m pretty sure I’ll be the shortest person in the room.
I suspect the young policewomen are desperate for some advice from me but struggle to work me out. I’m a mystery: a senior detective despite my young age, presumed single, with terrible outfits, a frosty disposition and no personal life to speak of. I have no wisdom to share about work–life balance. Nothing useful to offer about navigating a marriage around the demands of the job. No revelations about managing the challenges of motherhood in this harsh environment. The only person here who knows about Ben is Isaacs, and we haven’t discussed him since my first interview, when I made it clear I didn’t want to talk about my personal life.
I put on some lip balm and head back to the case room. At least I’m more approachable than Nan, I think, as I watch her ball up a piece of paper and throw it aggressively into a rubbish bin.
Fleet rounds the corner, texting on his phone, and almost trips over me. ‘Sorry Woodstock, didn’t see you there,’ he sneers as he walks ahead of me toward the eager faces. ‘Come on,’ he calls over his shoulder.
Scowling, I start to pull the door shut just as Isaacs slips in. He nods at me and makes his way to the back of the room where he takes a seat away from the others. Clearly, we are being observed.
‘Right,’ Fleet barks, his voice like the crack of a whip to settle the room. ‘This is a big one, so empty your calendars.’ He walks over to the far wall and leans against it, looking at me expectantly. Everyone in the room follows his lead.
I clear my throat. I hate it when he does this.
‘That’s right,’ I begin, trying to block out Isaacs completely. ‘We have the stabbing and subsequent death of a young man in broad daylight, which would be bad enough but it’s further complicated by the high profile of the victim.’ I pause and look around the room evenly, a tactic I know projects confidence. ‘Our actions will be monitored and reported even more than normal, so it’s critical that we have our ducks in a row.’
A guy with sandy hair and a clammy complexion smirks, I assume at my cutesy phrase, and I give him a hard look.
Fleet snaps his gum loudly from the corner and I give him a look as well. I step around to the front of the case board. ‘No doubt this face is pretty familiar to most of you. Sterling Wade. A big-deal celebrity if you’re into that kind of thing. Twenty-three years old. Originally from Karadine, a small farming town in northern New South Wales. He’s the youngest child of Matthew and April Wade. Two older siblings. Wade moved to Melbourne when he was thirteen and lived with another family, the Beaufords, until he was nineteen, almost like a foster situation.’
Most of the uniforms have their eyes fixed on Wade’s picture. I can see them trying to reconcile his death with the face they’ve seen on TV and in magazines. It’s always strange when you are familiar with a victim. Working in Smithson it happened to me frequently, and occasionally I knew a victim personally. And, of course, sometimes I knew a perpetrator. I know firsthand how much that can mess with your head. As a detective you want to be able to keep things separate, put up walls. Strong personal connections can seep through the most solid of barriers, and that’s when you find yourself waking in a cold sweat and imagining your own loved ones twisted in pain or worse.
Sterling Wade is both familiar and remote. He feels like more than an acquaintance, perhaps almost a friend, yet we know virtually nothing meaningful about him. This creates an unusual vibe, a slight detachment from the pain and fear he must have experienced. Almost as if we are watching it on a screen. Like a storyline on The Street, his death could just as easily not be real. We’re so used to owning our celebrities, demanding pieces of them, expecting them to just be there, that we all feel a sharp pang when they behave unexpectedly, are taken from us, are gone. In a way, Wade’s death is simply something else for us to be a part of.
‘There’s video of the incident, one of the recordings from the film set,’ I continue. ‘You will all watch it straight after this. Unfortunately, because everyone is in costume it’s not obvious who attacked Wade, but the tech guys are reviewing the files to see if anything can be picked up. At minimum, we want to narrow down the physicality of our attacker.’
A young constable at the front raises his hand. ‘Are we sure it wasn’t an accident?’
‘It’s possible,’ I admit, ‘but a knife was found at the scene. It’s much heavier than the prop weapons, so a cast member should have realised it wasn’t a prop pretty quickly. And no one has admitted to stabbing Wade. But even if the person responsible wasn’t aware they held a real weapon, someone planted it on the set.’
I explain that we are pulling in CCTV from the entire top end of the city, along with all the other security information from the production company.
‘Now, as you might have guessed, Sterling Wade was incredibly popular,’ Fleet says, pushing his body smoothly off the wall and walking over to where I’m standing. He looks at our audience and juts out a hip. I catch one of the cops rolling her eyes and I have to stop myself smiling.
‘We need to cast the net a lot wider than normal,’ Fleet continues. ‘Wade has three hundred thousand Twitter followers, the same number of Facebook fans and almost double that on Instagram. That’s a lot of people knowing how pretty his breakfast looked last Sunday. We’ve got the tech guys started on his accounts but there’s a fair bit to trawl through.’ Fleet pauses and scans the room. ‘I’d like you two’—he points at a young dark-haired girl and an Asian guy—‘to work through everything they spit out and follow up anything that you think seems suss. We’re going to get in touch with his agent about any communication she received from Sterling’s fans directly. We’ll throw everything to you for log and review.’ Fleet stops pacing to sit on the corner of the front table, swinging his legs like a child. ‘I want to know every single thing Wade did in the weeks before this happened.’ He shoots a look at two young men with matching thick eyebrows. ‘Can you guys map out his movements?’ They nod, faces serious.
‘And then we need to start working through the witness statements,’ I say, walking in front of Fleet, and eyeballing two stocky guys with shaved heads. ‘We’re going to need to work with the film company and get the names of every cast member who was present yesterday. We’ve put in the request already but you’ll need to follow it up. The uniforms on the scene last night could only account for about a hundred and twenty people of over four hundred cast and crew. I want
the full list compiled today, then crosschecked against anyone who made a statement yesterday. Make sense?’
They nod. ‘Good.’ I point to two other young men. One of them, Amir Pavlich, worked on the Jacoby case with me a few weeks back and I’m impressed with his measured thinking. ‘Can you two work together with these guys to arrange processing the list? Background checks and a crime-scene map as well as statements. I want this to happen as soon as we can manage it.’
‘Yes,’ they reply.
‘But how are we going to manage processing that number of people?’ wonders Chloe.
I nod slowly, thinking her brave to ask that question in front of everyone. ‘It’s not going to be easy,’ I say. ‘Let’s speak to the film company and see if we can use one of their spaces. If it’s big enough we can set up a rotation system and simply move through as many people as possible. It won’t be as daunting then.’
‘Thank you,’ she replies, as she writes in her notebook and bites her lip.
I continue. ‘We want everything we can get from these guys—how they got involved in the movie, if they’ve noticed anything unusual about Wade’s behaviour, or anything odd at all. We need to know if they saw the attack and where they were when it happened. We also want to know what they did afterwards and whether they’ve spoken to anyone else from the cast since. Document everything you get.’
‘Jesus,’ says another guy. ‘There’s going to be a shitload of information.’
‘Yes. There will.’ I stretch my hands out behind my back and tip my head to each side. ‘There’ve already been over two hundred calls to the hotline since nine last night. Clearly this isn’t a normal case.’
A few eyes widen at the number and pens are pressed to notepads.
Fleet clears his throat noisily. ‘Even though we’re pretty sure there was only one attacker, it’s possible they had a partner in crime. Maybe they passed the knife on to someone else and it was dropped accidentally. Maybe the attacker stuck around at the scene for an alibi.’ Fleet scratches his groin unapologetically. ‘We need to work our way through all the CCTV footage we can get our hands on.’