Into the Night

by Sarah Bailey

  ‘They’re fine for you to go straight in,’ says the girl as she hangs up the phone. ‘Just through there. Room three, first on the right.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Fleet, treating her to a charming smile. ‘I guess we’re about to find out,’ he says to me.

  Walking up the hallway, I feel apprehensive. The Wades have now had time to process their son’s death, so they’re likely to have shifted into the phase of mourning where their sentences trail off to nothing and they forget to blink. I tend to find parental grief the hardest of all.

  Fleet’s hand reaches past my hesitation and raps swiftly on the door. After a few moments a round-faced young man opens it, his eyes darting between the two of us before settling steadily on the floor at our feet. He’s wearing a faded grey T-shirt that clutches his bulging curves. His hair is the same colour as Sterling’s but the consistency is different, fine and limp. He must be Paul Wade, not the son-in-law, Rowan.

  Fleet holds out his right hand and introduces himself. Paul shakes Fleet’s hand while itching the back of his neck. He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Woodstock,’ I say, offering my own hand.

  ‘My folks are inside.’ Paul’s voice is a low rumble. He ignores my gesture and walks away from us along the short hallway.

  Fleet forces some air between his teeth as we follow him.

  The central room is a combined lounge and kitchen. Stainless steel gleams from the fridge, oven and sink area; the rest of the décor is an expensive-looking modern stone.

  The Wades look completely out of place. Matthew is wearing a flannel shirt and high-waisted jeans. He’s sitting on a kitchen stool and staring at the bench. His wife is on the couch next to a plump woman who looks about thirty. Melissa, I assume. She’s rubbing her hand in rhythmic circles on April’s back, looking miserable. April’s whole body shakes. Paul sits on the floor near his mother’s feet and leans against the front of an armchair, his eyes fixed to the mute television, which is playing a cooking show. I wonder if he’s in shock.

  A mobile phone starts ringing.

  ‘Excuse me,’ mutters Matthew, pulling it out of his pocket as he disappears into another room.

  I move to sit next to April. ‘How are you, Mrs Wade?’

  She doesn’t seem to hear me.

  ‘Are these your children?’ I ask.

  She nods robotically as the woman on the couch says, ‘I’m Melissa.’

  Matthew reappears. ‘Sorry. I’ve got some neighbours trying to sort out the farm. There’s things that can’t wait. The animals.’

  ‘Please don’t apologise, Mr Wade,’ I say.

  ‘Do you have news?’ There’s a desperate edge to his question that I decide to ignore.

  ‘Nothing concrete yet,’ I say calmly, ‘but we’ve committed a large task force to your son’s case. We’re doing everything we can to find the person who did this.’

  Fleet picks up a chair that faces into a small writing desk; he flips it around and straddles it. ‘So, what’s your name?’ he asks the man who is clearly Sterling’s brother.

  ‘This is Paul,’ says Matthew. ‘And this is Melissa. Our other children.’

  Paul’s expression remains blank. Melissa stands to shake my hand and I realise she is unusually tall.

  It always strikes me as odd that people can be made from the same ingredients but each end up being a completely different dish. Sterling’s siblings are both blond and have the same colour eyes as the ones I saw staring at the morgue’s ceiling yesterday. But the dimensions of their faces are different and somehow their brother’s famous wide-eyed gaze looks alien and cold on them. Their skin is tinted from the sun but their bodies are thick and doughy, hinting at booze and overeating.

  ‘Mr Wade,’ I say to Matthew, ‘this is obviously a very difficult time.’ April starts sobbing quietly into her hands. ‘Since our talk yesterday, have you thought of anything Sterling said that now seems important—anything he seemed worried about?’

  ‘Wasn’t it just some looney fan?’ pipes up Paul, his voice carrying the grain of the country. ‘That’s what all the news stories are saying.’

  Melissa blows her nose loudly into a tissue.

  ‘It might have been a stranger,’ I allow, ‘but we need to consider all options. It’s a very unusual situation. We’re almost certain it was a planned attack and that does lead us to assume a motive. It may have been someone your brother had aggravated, unknowingly or not.’

  ‘Did he mention anything about his work or personal relationships?’ asks Fleet. ‘Anything he was worried about?’

  Matthew shakes his head. ‘I’ve been going over everything in my head, trying to recall what we spoke about, but you just don’t think you’re going to need to remember that kind of stuff.’ He pounds a fist gently to his chest as if trying to dislodge something. ‘We talked about the farm. He always asked, even though he wasn’t interested.’

  ‘What about you, Paul? Have you talked to your brother lately?’

  asks Fleet.

  ‘Me? Nah. We weren’t close. Nothin’ to talk about.’

  ‘He called a few weeks back when I was at Mum and Dad’s,’ adds Melissa. ‘I spoke to him for a bit. I asked him about the movie. My husband likes that American actress.’

  ‘It can’t have been easy having a brother in the spotlight?’ I venture.

  ‘You get used to it,’ says Paul, shrugging.

  ‘When did you both get here?’ I ask, perplexed by Paul’s bluntness.

  ‘Yesterday,’ says Melissa. ‘Dad called me on Wednesday night to tell me what happened. I sorted the kids out so that Rowan, my husband, can look after them for a few days, and then I flew down.’ She glances at April. ‘I knew Mum’d be a mess.’

  ‘You didn’t come together?’ I ask lightly.

  ‘No, I live in Karadine, near Mum and Dad,’ replies Melissa. ‘Paul was in Castlemaine. I called him after I spoke to Mum.’

  ‘Do you live in Castlemaine, Paul?’ I ask.

  ‘Nah. I’m just housesitting for a mate. I’m painting his house while he’s overseas. I move around a lot, just follow work, you know?’

  ‘What’s work for you?’ Fleet asks, clearly wanting Paul to corroborate what Matthew has told us.

  ‘Just odd jobs. Painting, building fences—whatever people need.’

  ‘Have you done the, ah, operation yet?’ Matthew interjects, gripping the back of the couch.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘The preliminary autopsy was conducted yesterday. The coroner will have her final report ready in a few days. You can apply to see the findings if you wish but I have to warn you that family members often find this information distressing.’

  April utters a strangled sob. Melissa grips her hand.

  ‘Did you find anything?’ asks Matthew. ‘Anything that might help?’

  ‘Not at this stage,’ says Fleet, and I try not to think about what Mary-Anne might be doing to their son’s body as we speak.

  They nod and I see the pain flit across their broken faces as the imagined horrors keep coming.

  ‘Are you close to Lizzie Short?’ I ask them. ‘Or Sterling’s housemate, Brodie Kent?’

  April’s crying has subsided slightly but her shoulders shake alarmingly.

  Matthew is giving his wife a helpless look. ‘We met Lizzie, of course, a few times when we came down to visit. And Sterling brought her home once.’ Matthew clasps his hands together. ‘She seems like a nice girl but we barely know her. And we only met Brodie one time. Last year, before he moved in. He seemed very, ah, theatrical.’

  Matthew says this in a way that makes his homophobia obvious. I realise that if Sterling was trying to keep his sexual orientation under wraps, perhaps it was to hide it from his family as well as a shrewd career move.

  April says quietly, ‘Brodie seems a nice enough boy but very different from Sterling. He’s very intense. But we always found coming here very overwhelming.’

  ‘What about you two?’ Fleet asks th
e siblings.

  ‘We met her,’ says Melissa. ‘Lizzie, I mean. Years ago.’ She wipes at her red-rimmed eyes. ‘She seemed lovely.’

  ‘Paul?’ prompts Fleet.

  He shrugs. ‘She’s pretty.’

  ‘And did you meet Brodie?’ I ask.

  They shake their heads.

  ‘Lizzie told us that she and Sterling had recently decided to get married,’ Fleet announces, looking from April to Matthew. ‘It’s already hit the media. Did you know anything about that?’

  Paul mutters something under his breath.

  April’s head snaps up and her eyes suddenly focus. ‘Married?’ she says flatly. ‘But they were so young.’

  Matthew glances worriedly at his wife. ‘He never said anything to us.’

  ‘Lizzie told us they hadn’t told anyone,’ I assure him. ‘They were going to wait until the shoot was done to announce it.’

  ‘We thought they would move overseas together,’ mumbles April, pinching the end of her thumb over and over. ‘Lizzie seemed very ambitious.’

  ‘It certainly seems like Sterling was being offered parts in Hollywood,’ I say. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have been upset by him leaving?’

  ‘Us,’ says April softly.

  No one says anything for a few moments. Paul’s face has gone red but it’s hard to read. His gaze is back on the TV.

  Fleet taps his foot as if to fill the silence. ‘Have you been in contact with the Beaufords?’

  I catch Paul’s eyes darkening.

  ‘Well…’ Matthew falters. ‘Not yet. We’ve had so many other people to speak to.’

  ‘That’s understandable.’ I assure him.

  ‘We will though. I know Sterling still saw them and they were always very good to him.’ He throws a look to his wife as though he’s after support, but it’s clear from April’s vague stare that she’s no longer following the conversation.

  My work phone comes to life in my pocket. I pull it out enough to see the screen. Isaacs. ‘Excuse me,’ I say to the family, before slipping into the hallway. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Are you still with the Wades?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I reply, startled by his bluntness.

  ‘Well, wrap it up and head back here. There’s been a confession.’ ‘For real?’

  ‘We’re not sure. It’s anonymous but we’re taking it seriously. The guy seems legitimate. Call me on your way back.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I say.

  As I return to the room my blood is on fire, the anticipation of a possible resolution pounding in my limbs.

  ‘So, what happens now?’ Matthew is saying to Fleet.

  ‘We try to find whoever did this, and—’

  ‘We have to go,’ I announce, careful to keep the charge that’s running through my body out of my voice.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ says Fleet, shooting me a puzzled look. And as he passes by the couch I’m surprised to see him place a reassuring hand on April’s shoulder and smile at Melissa. ‘Please call us if you think of anything at all that might be useful in solving Sterling’s case,’ he says softly. April looks up at him gratefully.

  ‘Those reporters were still outside the hotel this morning,’ Matthew says as he trails us to the door.

  ‘Yes, they’ll probably be there until you leave,’ I tell him. ‘Remember, if their behaviour crosses the line, we can give them a warning. Just let us know. But Mr Wade, I have to tell you, the media attention around your son’s death will be intense for a while yet.’

  ‘We just don’t know what to say to them.’ He rubs his fists into his eyes like a child. ‘Our son was the one who lived in this world. We don’t understand it at all.’

  ‘No one is good at this, Mr Wade,’ I say, stepping into the hall and turning back to face him. ‘It’s difficult no matter what.’

  ‘I know you’re right. But Sterling, he was always comfortable in front of a camera. He loved the attention. April and I were so scared when all this acting business started. We were so worried we’d lose him. We worried about drugs. About predators. We never thought we’d lose him like this.’ Matthew’s sun-gnarled hands clench at his sides. ‘And now all these people are saying how much they cared about him. It makes me sick. They didn’t care about him. Not like we did.’

  I think about Mary-Anne almost in tears at the autopsy table.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Wade. It must be awful having all these strangers think they knew your son.’ And I find myself meaning it, suddenly furious at the public outpouring of grief, the personal claim that everyone is laying on Wade’s death. Standing next to his father, I find it grotesque.

  ‘Thank you,’ Matthew says wearily, his decency irrepressible even in grief. ‘We’re just simple farming people. We never wanted any of this.’

  Friday, 17 August

  3.44 pm

  ‘Why the speedy exit?’ asks Fleet, rushing after me toward the car.

  ‘Someone’s confessed,’ I say over my shoulder.

  Fleet whistles. ‘Anyone we know?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  I beep the car open and shove my phone on the speaker dock, pressing Isaacs’ number.

  ‘We’re in the car now,’ I say when he answers.

  ‘Did you say anything to Wade’s parents?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘They’re not in a good way. We made our excuses and got out of there.’

  ‘Good. I want to keep this quiet until we work out how legitimate it is. No point upsetting them even further.’

  ‘What exactly happened?’ I demand.

  ‘A man called the hotline about an hour ago claiming to have stabbed Wade.’

  ‘And what makes you think it’s legit?’ I ask, tapping the brakes to let a young mother run across the road. She’s shielding her baby from the rain with a plastic shopping bag. ‘I mean, by eight this morning we already had over forty people claiming responsibility, right?’

  We get false confessions during every high-profile murder case—everyone is looking for a purpose on this earth, and owning up to a murder is apparently one way to anchor yourself to something hard and real—but the virtual tsunami of confessions the Wade case has stirred up is unlike anything I’ve seen before. Fleet and I have three teams working on these claims, running names through our systems and tracing IP addresses.

  ‘I know,’ says Isaacs, ‘but this particular one is detailed enough to take seriously.’

  ‘Did he know Wade?’ I press. ‘Did this guy have any direct contact?’

  ‘From what we can tell he may have been a cast member but that isn’t one hundred per cent confirmed.’ There’s a heavy dose of frustration in Isaacs’ voice.

  ‘What do you think, sir?’ I ask, again wanting his opinion. I’m not used to having a boss who holds so much back. Jonesy would always give me his complete assessment of a situation whether I asked for it or not.

  Isaacs steps neatly around my question. ‘I believe an individual with some kind of mental health issue is the most likely suspect. And this guy has quite a lot of details about the attack. He could be an opportunist dicking us around, but at this stage it’s adding up.’

  ‘What details did he mention?’ asks Fleet.

  ‘He described the knife used, and what Wade was wearing. He mentioned Lizzie rushing over and her screaming. In fact, he did a pretty good job of overviewing the whole scene. And he seems to have a real issue with Wade. He’s aggressive.’

  I turn this around in my mind. ‘Most of that info could be assumed from the media coverage.’

  ‘Or leaked by any of the hundred people who were there,’ says Fleet ominously.

  Isaacs cuts in, ‘Of course some information has leaked. Lord knows enough people have touched this thing, but it’s also possible that this guy really was there, as the attacker or a witness. Either way, we want to speak with him. Our killer may have attacked Wade as a means of gaining a profile and this could be him reaching out to claim his status as a celebrity killer.’
r />   ‘But we can’t tell if this guy is on the footage from the movie set, can we?’ I say.

  ‘Not yet,’ admits Isaacs gruffly. ‘We’re still trying to confirm who is who.’

  I grip the steering wheel, feeling unsettled at the thought of the answer to this mess being as simple as a random unstable guy.

  ‘We’re almost back, sir,’ I tell Isaacs. ‘We’ll see you shortly.’

  A few minutes later I turn into the station car park and shut off the engine.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ I say to Fleet.

  ‘About this crackpot confession?’ He’s already fumbling for his cigarettes. ‘Who knows? It could be legit but my money is on it being one hundred per cent bullshit.’

  ‘Yeah. Though like Isaacs said, it’s the most likely scenario. If this guy turns out to be a cast member, his confession definitely carries more weight.’

  While I know it’s plausible that a total stranger became so obsessed with Wade that it manifested into something sinister, I still find it hard to get my head around. I’m uneasy about things that don’t have logical explanations; I don’t like the idea that anything is possible. On one hand, I know that there’s a little bit of stalker in all of us—it’s why we read the papers, it’s why social media has taken off. Gossip, speculation and idol worship are as old as the hills. But I find the psychology of stalking a total stranger difficult to fathom. I’ve certainly had my share of obsessions, and as a teenager my preoccupations occasionally led to unhealthy behaviour, but I can’t imagine having such strong feelings about someone I’ve never met or met only in passing. Physical attraction, sure. But for me, an emotional connection takes time to develop.

  From my perspective, someone who was in Wade’s orbit, no matter how peripherally, is more likely to be responsible for his death than a random stranger.

  Last year back in Smithson, I was involved in a stalking scenario. A widow fell in love with a detective in a neighbouring town. He’d investigated the accidental death of her husband on their farm, and the kindness he showed the woman and her daughters during that difficult time was enough for her to form strong feelings for him, despite his marital status. It started innocently enough. She called him just a little more often than was comfortable, and drove past his house on her way home from her retail job. But when she started following his wife around town, then watching his family have dinner through their lounge-room window as she sat in her parked car, clearly something was amiss. I read the woman’s diary, tentatively handed in to us by her eldest daughter: page after page of deluded fantasy. She was going to make him see. Make him understand that it had all happened for a reason—her dead husband wanted them to be together. It was frightening, her fierceness, the force and devotion with which she’d plotted a future with this stranger, but it was sad too. All that energy funnelled into someone who had no inkling of the effect he was having on another human being.