by Sarah Bailey
I shift my gaze across to Fleet, who is wrangling a crust of sleep out of the corner of his eye. ‘What?’ he says, feeling my stare.
‘Nothing,’ I say automatically.
‘The Wades seem like a pretty close family, don’t they?’
‘I think it’s safe to say that Sterling was the odd one out,’ I reply.
Fleet is watching a young girl lean into the front window of a station wagon to talk to an officer, her low-cut top revealing a nasty blue bruise at the top of her breast.
‘Paul didn’t seem especially upset about his brother though,’ I add.
‘Absolutely not. The green-eyed monster is alive and well in that one. Reminds me of my own brother.’
I wait for him to elaborate but instead he gets out of the car. I follow him to the bottom of the stairwell where he plonks himself down and smokes like a teenager, his hand curled around the cigarette, his lips in a pout as he breathes out grey puffs.
‘I was thinking,’ I say, ‘about what my contact in Smithson told me—that the Wades are having money trouble. I assume that Sterling had a lot of money for a guy his age. If most of his cash goes to his family, that isn’t going to be a problem anymore. They’ll definitely be able to keep the farm. Maybe even retire, if that’s what they want.’
Fleet nods, tapping ash onto the ground.
I add, ‘They said they didn’t know about Sterling and Lizzie getting engaged, but what if he told them?’
‘What, do you think they might have worried that Lizzie would start chipping away at their retirement plan?’
‘It’s far-fetched,’ I acknowledge, ‘and I honestly can’t see the parents thinking like that, but maybe Paul or even Melissa decided that some of their brother’s wealth should be redistributed.’
The smoke mingles with the fresh icy air. Sitting in the cold next to Fleet, I feel an unexpected wave of loneliness.
‘Well,’ he says, wiping ash dust off the tip of his shoe, ‘let’s keep you happy and dig around in pretty boy’s finances, though I think we’d both be shocked if either of the remaining Wade siblings pulled off something like this. They don’t exactly seem to be nailing life like their brother was.’ Fleet somehow looks older today, a faint spray of wrinkles fanning from each eye. ‘It’s probably just normal family bullshit,’ he continues, throwing a mint into his mouth and getting to his feet, ‘but I agree we should cross them off the list. Clearly Paul’s relationship with his brother was strained, and where there is money trouble there is motive.’
‘Maybe Paul knows people in the city?’ I suggest.
Fleet shrugs agreeably. ‘Look, if this mystery caller that Isaacs is so keen on really did kill our celebrity friend, then I’m all for it. I’m missing some really good shit on Netflix. But I have a feeling that our answer is far closer to home—and that we’re a long way off yet. Lizzie and Brodie bother me. Paul Wade bothers me. Ava and her harassment claims bother me. Riley Cartwright bothers me. I mean, come on, everyone’s revealing these major secrets the second Wade’s dead? Something doesn’t add up.’
My work phone rings and I jump. Fleet doesn’t even seem to register the sound.
‘Hi, Mary-Anne,’ I answer.
‘Detective.’ She takes a breath. ‘I have information regarding what we discussed yesterday.’
‘Yes,’ I say, and Fleet’s eyes fix on mine, anticipating news.
‘Well, I can’t tell you who with, or exactly how recently, but in my opinion Wade was regularly engaging in same-sex intercourse.’
Simon Joseph Carmichael is a 27-year-old actor and part-time cafe worker. He’s been an extra on a range of Australian TV shows and films over the past ten years, scoring a bit part in a comedy sketch show on the ABC late last year. He earns, on average, just over forty thousand dollars annually. He lives in Preston with a 23-year-old housemate who is studying to be a dental nurse. He’s Caucasian, with brown hair and brown eyes, and is of average height and average build. Pleasant-looking but completely forgettable. Three months ago, he wrote on Facebook that he was ‘pumped’ to be a zombie in the new film Death Is Alive, calling it his ‘big break’ and describing the production as ‘next level’.
On Wednesday afternoon a fellow cast member took a photo of him with cloudy eyes and blood dripping down his face, gore and insides pushing out of a deep gash in his neck.
After calling our case hotline this morning he went on to post a rant called ‘The Moment’—under the alias ‘Dark Knight’—to Wade’s Facebook page at about 3 pm, describing in detail the attack on Wade. When others questioned the extent of his inside knowledge, he replied, ‘I was there, I did this. I saw it all. I made this happen.’ He also wrote that Wade was ‘untalented’ and ‘an average actor who got lucky’.
The tech guys traced his computer and picked him up just after 6 pm.
I stare at him now through the one-way glass of the interview room. He sits calmly, hands folded together.
‘He doesn’t look much like a celebrity killer,’ mutters Fleet, joining me. Stale smoke rolls into my nostrils.
‘No. But he was there. We’ve found him on the tape. And he didn’t stick around to speak with the uniforms either—he got the hell out of there. He was one of the people in close proximity to Wade, though it’s unlikely he was near enough to attack him. Still, he could have a buddy, another cast member. Maybe they worked together and Carmichael has simply decided to go rogue and tell the world.’
Fleet places his hands along the rail below the one-way mirror and drops his body down as if he’s about to burst into a series of push-ups. ‘Why go to all this trouble though? If he really wanted to harm or kill Wade, surely there would have been easier ways to go about it. On a film set there are lots of ways to make something seem like an accident. This is complicated and headline-grabbing.’
I sigh. ‘I know. I feel like we’re looking for a narcissist—someone who deliberately did this crazy thing for attention. So based on his behaviour today, maybe this guy does fit the bill. But he wasn’t wearing a mask, and surely the killer was one of the masked men right near Wade.’
Two masked men and two hooded men were in the scene around the time Wade was stabbed. Only two gave preliminary statements on Wednesday afternoon. Over the past day or so I’ve become convinced that one of the other two isn’t a cast member and somehow joined the frenzied mass, made his way to Wade and stabbed him before disappearing into the crowd.
‘Shall we have a little chat to Mr Carmichael?’ says Fleet, pushing away from the rail.
‘I want more background first,’ I say. ‘I want to have a clearer theory. He seems to have no family and not many friends. The guys are trying to pull his financial, phone and medical records right now. Let’s wait for those to come in and then talk to him. If he had direct contact with Wade, this might start to make more sense.’
‘Suits me,’ says Fleet. ‘My guess? This guy is just some low-grade hack who’s confused life with his sad-arse computer games.’
I haven’t known Simon Carmichael for long but I’m already sick of him. Further analysis of the footage has revealed that he was a metre or so behind Wade at the moment we believe the attack took place. He also seems to be suffering from extreme delusions. We’re almost one hundred per cent sure he’s not our guy—he’s just a guy who has wasted a whole lot of our time.
Fortunately, the afternoon did turn up some useful information. The mild trouble that Matthew Wade mentioned his son Paul had experienced after high school turns out to be three separate pub fights. In each instance, it seems Paul reacted to some run-of-the-mill taunting with his fists, lashing out at fellow patrons. The injuries he inflicted weren’t serious but he was banned from every pub and hotel in the area, which Fleet and I agree is probably the real reason he left Karadine.
Riley Cartwright’s phone records show that he called Ava James roughly forty times in the fortnight leading up to the first day of production. Always in the evenings after rehearsals. Ava didn’t call him onc
e. Sometimes his calls went unanswered; sometimes they spoke for a few minutes. Often he would call her straight after a call had ended and she didn’t answer. Her case against him is strengthening. There are also a few known drug dealers among Cartwright’s contacts; he’s made several recent calls to them as well.
Sterling’s phone records, on the other hand, seem squeaky clean. There are only a handful of placed and received calls that we are following up. Most of his calls were to Lizzie. There was an almost clockwork weekly call to his parents. A few to Wendy Ferla. A handful to Brodie’s prepaid mobile. A few sporadic calls to Ava but nothing to substantiate their rumoured affair. Almost all the texts Wade sent were to Lizzie and Brodie, mainly telling them what time he would be home: neither stream of messages was overly affectionate, though he was the kind of modern guy who doles out kisses with abandon. Sterling did call Ava early on Saturday morning, which backs her claim that they met up after Cartwright’s unwanted advances last Friday and she told him what happened. I wonder if Wade’s meeting with Ava outside of the film schedule may have caused Lizzie or Brodie to feel insecure. Whatever the case, it seems he respected Ava’s privacy and didn’t tell anyone the details of what happened between her and Cartwright. And so far, her claims haven’t reached the media.
I rub my eyes, craving sleep. Fleet’s nowhere to be seen. Realising it’s late, I figure he must have left already. I decide to call it a night too.
Walking out through the car park, I call Josh, jabbing my fingers roughly at the screen. He answers and I can hear the sounds of Friday night footy in the background. Cheering and the clink of beer glasses.
‘Hey, you,’ he says over the noise.
‘Hey.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re calling to cancel on me tomorrow night?’
‘Not yet,’ I reply. ‘Sorry for the radio silence. It’s been pretty nuts.’
‘I can’t even imagine. This Sterling Wade thing is just insane. I’ve been watching the news constantly. All the old footage of him they just keep playing over and over from his shows and ads and stuff, it’s pretty sad.’
It starts to rain and I square myself against a concrete column. A cold snake of air slithers up my pants leg, causing a chill to run through me.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s been a total circus.’
‘I’ll try not to have a late one tonight so that I can look after you tomorrow. I’m thinking some good wine and pasta are in order.’
I smile—his enthusiasm is infectious and the thought of someone going to an effort for me is definitely appealing. ‘Sounds great. Hopefully things don’t go pear-shaped tomorrow. I’ll try to be at yours by seven-thirty. I’ll let you know if anything changes.’
A huge cheer roars down the phone and we say goodbye.
I watch as people rush past in the hazy rain. It doesn’t look like easing up. An older man holding two identical little boys in matching football beanies runs by making race-car sounds as they squeal in delight. He throws me a withering look, probably envious of my seemingly carefree existence.
I walk on feeling invisible. Insignificant. I marvel for the hundredth time that there is no way for anyone to know that I am a mother, to tell at a glance that Ben exists. I know women who are permanently touched by childbirth, changed by the experience, but not me. I have no scars, no telltale signs on my skin. It’s as if pregnancy temporarily hovered over me and then lifted and vanished, leaving no trace of its visit. It was the same when I had the miscarriage. Something was there and then suddenly it wasn’t. A possible future was immediately erased. No one knows about it except my old friend Anna—and Felix, although I’m still not sure whether he believed me. I try not to think about it often; I never really let myself consider what I lost to be a baby, another Ben.
Now I have no school lunches to pack, play dates to plan, homework to figure out. I nursed my son, soothed his cries and held his hands as he took his first steps, but time has dulled these primal contributions. They could easily belong to someone else. I feel fraudulent claiming Ben’s achievements as my own.
Apart from Macy and Isaacs, no one in Melbourne knows about Ben. As I walk the streets, trudge through the days, my motherhood is a secret. Something that no one would assume. I am too hard. Too empty. Too remote. Too selfish.
But Ben did change me. I feel more fear than I did when I was childless. I am all too familiar with what can go wrong. I have lost so much already and I am not naive enough to think that loss is dealt out in fair portions. Pain and sorrow do not discriminate or show mercy—they can strike at any time. Ever since Ben was born, ever since the moment I was gifted my own precious perfect human, I’ve counterintuitively held him at arm’s-length, terrified that one day I will have to endure him being taken away.
Saturday, 18 August
8.54 am
There is no rain today but the air is heavy with the cold. Coffee-laden onlookers walking along Spring Street slow to watch Fleet and I talk to Cartwright. I suspect they sense we’re connected to the tragedy that unfolded here only days ago. Maybe a few of them recognise Riley.
He looks thinner than he did at the hospital. He’s agitated and blotchy, pacing around in small circles and repeatedly pushing his stringy hair behind his ears. His eyes are wide and bulge slightly. Not knowing what his normal demeanour is, it’s hard to tell whether Ava’s accusations and Sterling’s death have caused his erratic behaviour or if he always runs at such a high frequency. And from what Wendy said and Lizzie alluded to, Riley is an intense character. The two leads on his assault case told us that he flat out denied Ava’s claims when they formally launched their investigation. In just over three weeks he’s set to appear in court for the initial hearing, and Ava has said she’ll stay in Australia to see this through.
All the film set’s security barriers have been removed, while the piles of flowers laid down earlier in the week have been shifted to the lawns of the Treasury Gardens. They’re still fresh and vibrant, thanks to the weather. Cars roll past, hurried by the occasional toot of a horn. It’s not the kind of place where grief can linger for long; it’s too embedded in the cut and thrust of the everyday.
‘So we started setting up the scene just before 3 pm,’ Cartwright mumbles, stopping in the middle of the path near where the main camera was positioned. ‘We’d done some other stuff in the morning, some scenes just with Sterling at his work desk. And we shot the first few cafe scenes with him and Lizzie.’
‘Where was that?’ I ask.
‘In a studio in the Docklands,’ says Cartwright. ‘We were shooting a lot of scenes there. It was where all the bedroom, kitchen, cafe and office locations were set up.’
‘Where else were you shooting?’ I ask.
‘All over Melbourne,’ he replies. ‘On the streets, parks and a little bit in regional Victoria. There are a few farm scenes at the end when Ollie and his girlfriend are hiding out from the zombies.’
‘Those were Sterling’s and Ava James’s characters, right?’ I confirm, looking at Cartwright pointedly as I say Ava’s name.
He breathes in and presses his lips together. ‘Yeah, that’s right. We were also shooting at a few landmarks. Above Flinders Street Station in the old ballroom space, and in the Botanic Gardens. That’s where the zombie lairs are.’
Fleet looks like he’s about to comment on the concept of zombie lairs but has a rare moment of maturity and decides to let it go. ‘It’s a big film, huh,’ he says instead.
Cartwright nods. ‘Huge. An absolute beast. The planning has been intense. The permits, the insurance. I’ve never been so busy. The pressure was crazy. And now this, well.’ He drops his gaze to the ground and shakes his head. ‘It’s completely surreal.’ He thrusts his hands in and out of his pockets. Pulls at his lips with his teeth.
‘Was there anything unusual about Sterling’s behaviour?’ I ask.
‘Nope. He was great.’
‘Totally normal then? No outbursts?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Cartwr
ight squints as if he’s trying to remember. ‘He was a pretty relaxed guy. The crew were loving him. He made an effort with names, remembered things. He was just decent like that.’
‘Do you work with the same crew all the time?’ asks Fleet, lighting a cigarette.
Cartwright brightens a little. ‘Can I have one of those, man?’
‘Sure,’ says Fleet, sliding one out of his packet.
‘Thanks.’ Cartwright lights up and sucks deeply, closing his eyes. ‘God, this is a nightmare,’ he mutters.
‘You were about to tell us about the crew?’ Fleet presses.
‘Yeah, yeah. I’ve worked with a lot of the guys before. Australia’s not that big a place. You always get a few new faces on every shoot though, especially for scenes like the one we were shooting on Wednesday. You need people with certain skills.’ He pauses and looks puzzled. ‘None of them had anything to do with this. They were nowhere near him.’
‘We’re just trying to work out if someone could have given the killer details about the shoot,’ I say.
Cartwright laughs bitterly. ‘Everyone knew everything about this movie. It was impossible to keep things under wraps. Even if one of the fucking make-up artists said something, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Our shooting schedule was pretty much in the news every day.’