by Sarah Bailey
Kit rubs her back with renewed purpose. ‘It will be okay, Lizzie,’ he soothes.
She nods slightly and sniffs, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, turning back to us, ‘I know you’re trying to ask me questions.’
‘You’re doing great, Lizzie,’ I reassure her.
She breathes deeply. ‘Okay. So, it was a big week but Sterling seemed fine. He was feeling the pressure but he was enjoying the shoot. The rehearsals had gone well and the press was really good. It felt like the start of a new phase.’ She briskly brushes fresh tears away.
‘And what about you? Were you enjoying the shoot?’ Fleet asks.
Lizzie spaces out. She gapes at Fleet without speaking. For a minute, I think she’s clammed up but then she says quietly, ‘Yes. It was exciting. I liked my character and I was so excited for Sterling. Everything was going well.’
‘Did you get along with everyone? What about Ava James?’
Lizzie’s lip curls momentarily but then the blank look is back and I think maybe she’s just trying to quell the crying. ‘Like I said, we all got along. The performances were really coming together. Riley was happy. Everyone was getting along, it was perfect until…this.’ Her chin wobbles again and her skin flushes a blotchy red.
‘We really are sorry, Lizzie,’ I say, ‘this must be so difficult.’
‘Yeah. It is. I feel like I don’t have a future.’ She sobs.
‘Did Sterling ever cheat on you?’ asks Fleet.
Lizzie’s head snaps up, her face slick with tears. ‘No!’
‘Did you ever cheat on him?’ presses Fleet.
‘No,’ she says, looking to me for help.
Kit sits up straighter and I fully expect him to tell Fleet where to go, but his mouth remains in a thin line.
‘He wasn’t jealous,’ says Lizzie firmly. ‘He just didn’t let emotions like that in.’
‘He ever get into fights?’
‘No. Honestly, he was a really chilled-out guy. He stood up for what he believed in but he didn’t have a temper. We trusted each other.’
‘So you can’t think of anything that makes sense of what happened?’ continues Fleet.
Lizzie looks bewildered. ‘Only what I told you about him being followed a few weeks ago. I mean, he did have a few intense fans. Mainly when he first joined The Street but I think it was pretty normal stuff. People obsessing over him on Facebook and Twitter. Sometimes people would send him emails, or letters to his agent or the TV studio. I don’t even know if he read them. It could get pretty full on, especially if he had a movie coming out. Some people were really creepy but Sterling was never worried so I wasn’t either. Do you think that some stranger might have done this? Someone who contacted him online?’ She sits up urgently, her eyes wide. ‘Maybe that’s who attacked him. Could they have snuck onto the set somehow?’
‘We don’t know yet, Lizzie,’ I say.
She nods vigorously again but it soon drifts into nothing.
‘It sounds like you and Sterling were pretty serious,’ I venture. ‘Living together, planning a big move, working together.’
‘We were very serious.’ She looks down at her left hand as the gemstone in her ring catches the gentle sunlight and flickers vividly. Her eyes swim again. ‘We were engaged, actually. He proposed last week. We just hadn’t told anyone yet.’ She shoots an apologetic glance at her brother. ‘Not even family.’
‘It’s a beautiful ring,’ I say to fill the silence that would normally be full of congratulations. Even I can tell it is expensive: the gemstone is large and set in a popular vintage style that I’ve noticed in the windows of designer stores near my apartment.
‘Thank you.’ Her mouth fumbles a brief smile. Her eyes glaze over as she looks at it. ‘I love it. It’s so me, the antique style. Sterling surprised me with a romantic meal at home last Wednesday. We were going to announce it once the shoot was over.’
I give her a sympathetic look, then turn to Kit. ‘When did you last see Sterling?’ I ask.
‘Me?’ His brow furrows slightly. ‘I think it was the weekend before last. I came over on the Sunday morning and we all went out for coffee. I saw Lizzie for dinner this past Sunday but Sterling didn’t come.’
‘He was busy rehearsing,’ she whispers.
‘And where were you late Wednesday afternoon?’ I ask.
‘At the airport. I was just about to get on a plane for a work trip when Lizzie called me. I went straight back to the car park and drove to the hospital.’ He glances at his sister. ‘I couldn’t believe what she was telling me. I still can’t.’ He speaks softly. In many ways, he reminds me of Brodie—they have a similar gentle vibe, and I wonder if this makes Lizzie more inclined to overlook any doubts she might have had about Sterling’s relationship with his friend.
I also wonder whether Sterling told Brodie about his engagement to Lizzie despite their agreement to keep it under wraps. In my experience, secrecy is often sworn but there aren’t many things, good or bad, that actually stay sacred.
‘Lizzie, we’ll leave you alone soon,’ I say, ‘but do you mind if we quickly take a look around? Sometimes it helps us to see where someone lived.’
‘Of course,’ she says to me, as her eyes flit doubtfully to Fleet. She pulls a throw rug across her lap and curls into the end of the couch. ‘Some other police officers came last night to get Sterling’s computer. I think they got his phone and laptop from the lockers on the film set.’
‘You will get it all back,’ I assure her. ‘We just need some time to go through everything in case something that might help the investigation turns up.’
Fleet and I enter the main bedroom, and I pull the door shut. It’s a large space, with an unmade king-size bed low to the ground against the stark white wall; layers of bed linen lie across its bottom half. The windows run floor to ceiling just like in the main room. I walk over and gaze down into the central courtyard.
‘That tree must look incredible in summer,’ I comment.
Fleet fingers the spines of books on a large shelf. It’s crammed with as many photo frames as books. ‘I was just thinking that same thing—stunning,’ he says sarcastically.
I give him a withering look as I stand next to him, taking in the beautiful smiling faces in the photographs. Lizzie and Sterling are in most of them, alongside faces I recognise from TV shows. Sterling looks happy. His perfect features are always arranged in a smile and his skin is tanned, unlike the light grey I recall from the autopsy table.
From the other room, I hear the muted sounds of Lizzie answering her phone and immediately crying around a tumble of words as she speaks to a well-wisher.
‘The more we hear about this kid, the more perfect he seems,’ says Fleet.
‘I know. Perfect looks, money, fame and generosity. Even a social conscience.’ I point to a certificate from the Royal Children’s Hospital thanking Wade for contributing to their fundraising efforts.
‘And engaged as well—he wasn’t messing around,’ muses Fleet.
‘Maybe he just wasn’t a party boy.’
‘Seems like a waste.’ Fleet chews on a fingernail. ‘Imagine the women he could pull looking like that.’
‘I guess he was in love,’ I reply. ‘Though I wonder what the engagement meant in terms of Brodie. Do you think he knows about it?’
‘Maybe. We don’t know for sure he’s telling the truth. Or even if she is.’
‘So maybe Brodie found out about the engagement and flipped.’
‘You think he could have attacked Wade?’ asks Fleet, seeming to perk up at the idea.
I tap my foot as I look around. ‘I really don’t know but his alibi is pretty sketchy. Feeling betrayed is a good reason to lash out.’ I pick up a throw rug folded across an armchair; it is the softest material I’ve ever touched in my life.
‘Maybe,’ says Fleet. ‘Or maybe Brodie just got sick of sharing.’
I think about other crimes of passion I’ve worked on. Mostly jealous
men, almost every one discovering that a woman he loved had a mind of her own.
‘We might be able to see if their correspondence took a nasty turn,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe Wade was trying to pull away.’
‘Brodie does seem very sensitive,’ says Fleet. He picks up a pile of books from a bedside table and drops them back into place one by one, his face screwed up in distaste. ‘Poetry,’ he drawls. ‘I can’t believe people read this stuff.’
We head back into the lounge room just as Lizzie ends her call. I hear the rumble of a kettle boiling—Kit is back in the kitchen. Two mugs sit on the bench in front of him with teabag tails hanging out.
‘We’re just going to take a quick look in Brodie’s room while we’re here,’ I tell her.
Lizzie, puffy faced, looks up with a furrowed brow but nods.
‘Do you want a hot drink?’ asks Kit and we shake our heads.
Brodie’s room is dark compared to the master bedroom. The bed is neatly made but the doona looks worn and the lone built-in shelf is a spray of everyday mess. Rubber bands, lolly wrappers, coins. Several empty cigarette packets litter the bedside table. A large photo of Sterling and Brodie sitting on a Ferris wheel takes pride of place.
‘Not very stylish for a gay guy,’ comments Fleet as he looks around. ‘I reckon I could give him a run for his money.’
I don’t say anything. Something about the photo has saddened me; perhaps it’s all Brodie has left of Sterling.
‘He’s only been here a little while,’ I say. ‘And Lizzie did say he was going through a tough time.’
‘Maybe they screwed in Wade’s room,’ whispers Fleet, wrinkling his nose. ‘It’s much nicer.’
‘Enough,’ I say. I’m well over his constant jibes.
I give the room one last scan and we return to the lounge. I look out at the tree, its skinny branches like tiny hands reaching toward the surrounding apartments. I wonder if Sterling felt exposed here.
‘Lizzie, we have to go,’ I say. ‘We’ll be in touch but if you find or think of anything else we should know about, please call us straight away.’
‘Do you think I’m safe here?’ she asks me, her hands gripped around a huge white mug.
‘I’m sure you are,’ I reply. ‘But if anything worries you, please let us know.’
As we exit the apartment building, I look over at a street market stall selling jewellery and handmade cards on the corner. Rugged-up couples with hands in each other’s pockets stroll past, pausing to look at the wares.
Fleet shoves a cigarette in his mouth as we near the car, shielding his face from the wind. He smokes hard and fast, flattening it into the ground.
‘Gosh, home visits with two beautiful actresses in as many days,’ he says with a singsong lilt. ‘We are lucky, aren’t we? Come on,’ he says, yanking the car door open before I can respond, ‘mustn’t be late for the appointment with our agent.’
Friday, 17 August
11.56 am
Wendy Ferla’s crisp white South Yarra office is an overwhelming jumble of paper. Loose sheets, notebooks, Post-its, books and old movie tickets litter the desk, the chairs around the desk and most of the floor.
A large framed black-and-white photo of Sterling is propped on the bottom shelf of a bookcase with a line of tea light candles burning beside it.
‘Wendy will just be a moment,’ a harried young woman with red-rimmed eyes tells us as she pushes piles of paper out of the way with the butts of two sparkling-water bottles. She cocks her head to the side, causing her long earrings to jingle. ‘She’s just out there.’
Fleet and I spin around to see a woman through the office’s French doors, pacing in a small courtyard and gesturing wildly as she talks on her mobile.
The assistant, who looks too young to be legally employed, flashes us a sad smile. ‘Everyone’s been calling her. You know, since it happened.’ She glances at the photo of Sterling. ‘She’s been on the phone for hours. Everyone wants to talk to her about him. Like, just saying the same things over and over. It’s kind of weird.’
Fleet looks distastefully at the avalanche of papers. ‘People are weird,’ he says.
‘You are so right,’ the girl says to Fleet as if he’s a genius. ‘Anyway, she knows you’re here so I’m sure she won’t be long.’
‘Cheers,’ says Fleet, admiring her retreating figure.
He looks around and makes a face at the mess. ‘Well. Lucky we’re happy to stand, huh.’ He picks up a shiny gold paperweight shaped like a handgun, turning it over and pretending to aim it at an expensive-looking vase that holds a single white rose.
I feel another jerk of irritation. Fleet and I remain awkward, still frequently bumping into each other. Despite brief flashes of camaraderie, most of the time we’re like two pieces of wood with the grain running in different directions. He’s so deliberately obtuse, inexplicably intent on not liking people and in turn giving them zero reasons to like him. And it annoys me more than I can explain that I have no real sense of how he feels about me.
‘Jeez, c’mon,’ he mutters, tapping at his phone and dropping his fist onto the desk.
Outside, Wendy Ferla is still pacing in an uneven circle as she talks on the phone, emphatically waving a hand in the air.
Fleet is watching her. ‘So this chick’s been Sterling’s agent from the start, right?’
‘That’s what she said on the phone,’ I confirm.
‘Wonder if she knows much about his personal life?’
‘Agents are normally pretty close to their clients, aren’t they?’
‘You been watching trashy movies again, Woodstock?’ He smirks at me and I notice his fingers are twitching—I can tell he wants a cigarette.
‘Just try to be nice for once,’ I snap, as Wendy yanks the door open.
A slightly sour floral fragrance wafts into the room as she enters. She is taller than she’d appeared when she was outside, though it’s hard to tell where her head ends and her hair starts. Dyed orange curls explode around her face; some are pinned back but several ringlets have escaped and sway loosely past her shoulders and down her back. Her face is heavy with grief but she holds her head high.
‘I’m sorry to keep you,’ she says. ‘Everyone needs to talk about what happened.’
‘Detective Sergeant Woodstock,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘We spoke yesterday.’
Fleet introduces himself too and then we stand awkwardly, unsure where to sit.
‘Come in here,’ she says, walking past us into an adjoining room. ‘It’s much nicer and there’s nowhere to sit in there. Billie should have thought of that.’
Fleet bugs his eyes out at me as we follow her into a spacious lounge. It’s spotless, with a two-seater couch and two comfortable-looking armchairs. A huge vase of lilies on a side table is made to look even larger due to the mirror behind it. Several bunches of flowers are piled at its base; a large army of sympathy cards stand like soldiers next to them.
‘I’m sorry if I’m a bit distracted.’ Wendy sits and then abruptly stands, shifting to the other armchair. ‘Please sit.’ She jiggles her leg up and down. ‘I still can’t believe this, you know.’ She flaps her heavily ringed hands in the air. ‘I don’t really know what to do with myself.’
‘When did you last see Sterling?’ I begin.
She puts a hand on her heart as if trying to manually calm it down. ‘Ah, well, last week on Tuesday. He’s been so busy with rehearsals for Death Is Alive that we hadn’t caught up properly for ages. We had lunch and discussed his future.’ She emits a strange noise and fans at her face. ‘Oh, goodness me.’
I catch her eye, trying to get her to focus. ‘So you said you’ve been Sterling’s agent since he first began acting?’
She nods. Despite the papery wrinkles around her features, there’s a youthful aura about her. ‘Yes. I met Sterling when he was twelve. Such a country boy back then. He was just a child but already a beautiful soul.’ A crumpled hanky appears from somewhere and she dabs at her ey
es. ‘I helped place him with the Beaufords. They are an amazing family. Very prominent in the industry. They only had one child, Jack, and they were more than happy to take in Sterling and give Jack some brotherly company. This will hit them very hard too—they really embraced Sterling.’ She shudders through a few breaths. ‘Truly, this is just devastating. Talking to April and Matthew is breaking me. Good, honest people like them, it’s just, well, they shouldn’t have to deal with something like this. They barely coped with his success. I just really can’t believe it. Sorry.’ She closes her eyes, her lips moving as if she’s talking to herself. ‘Ask me anything,’ she says after a few moments. ‘I just want you to find out what happened. I can’t bear the thought that this was deliberate. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘We’re investigating all possibilities at the moment,’ I tell her.
‘You manage all of Wade’s business dealings, correct?’ says Fleet.
‘Yes, that’s right. Every dollar he earns goes through me.’
‘And all of his publicity and correspondence?’
‘Yes.’ She nods earnestly. ‘I manage all his engagements with my team here.’
‘When we spoke on the phone you said that Sterling had admin access to all his social media accounts.’
She nods.
‘Is that normal?’ I ask.
‘Yes. Most of our clients like some level of interaction with fans but leave the news alerts and community management to us. The young ones do prefer to be hands-on though. It’s just their world, I guess.’ She leans forward. ‘I’ve been in this business for a really long time and I tell you, it’s changed so much in the past few years. It’s a completely different ball game now. You have to constantly feed the media beast. Everything is so disposable and you can become irrelevant quickly.’ She falls back against the chair and her eyes seem to get stuck on the vase of lilies. ‘Sterling was unique in that he understood that world but he didn’t let it get him down. He had a good head on his shoulders from a young age. He was very rare. Very special.’