by Sarah Bailey
‘What about security?’ I ask. ‘How easy would it have been for someone to slip into the zombie cast?’
‘I don’t know. A team of people managed that stuff. That wasn’t my area.’ He circles his hands around his mouth and blows warm air into them. ‘I do know that we had to jump through all the standard hoops. Police checks and all that bullshit.’
‘How well did you know the extras appearing in the zombie scenes?’ Fleet asks.
Cartwright shrugs. ‘Not well. You remember some faces from other shoots but there were so many people. And when they had costumes on, it was pretty impossible.’ He squints and looks up at the sky where the sun is doing its best to push through the heavy layer of cloud. ‘I really don’t think it would have been that easy for anyone to get onto the set. There were barricades everywhere and we had guards.’
‘But it’s possible,’ I say.
‘Of course,’ he admits, fidgeting. ‘I hate the idea of someone in the family doing this.’ He itches the side of his face. ‘Did the footage we gave you help? Could you see who did it?’
‘We’re working through the cast list,’ says Fleet, neatly stepping around his question.
‘So, from your perspective the shoot was going smoothly?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. It was looking good. The costumes looked amazing and my DOP was pumped about the light. It was exactly what we wanted.’ He gestures to the sky. ‘Good old bleak Melbourne.’
‘DOP?’ I ask.
‘Director of photography.’
‘It’s like you had an army to make this movie,’ I say.
‘This shit doesn’t just happen,’ he replies. ‘It’s epic. Expensive. So much work goes into every second of film. People don’t get that.’
‘How much longer were you planning to shoot for on Wednesday?’ I ask.
‘Just over an hour,’ he replies. ‘A couple of kids were in the scene and there are heaps of rules about how long they can be on set, so we didn’t have much time.’
‘When did you realise something was wrong?’ Fleet asks.
Cartwright fixes his eyes on the ground. ‘I don’t know. I think maybe I’ve blocked it out or something. I can’t really remember. Definitely not for a while. I mean, it was supposed to be a really dramatic scene. You are supposed to feel like you’re in there with him, Ollie, pushing through all the zombies. It’s desperate, you know? I just thought Sterling was really getting into it.’ Cartwright looks haunted. ‘But when he fell to the ground I wasn’t sure what was going on. I guess I thought he’d tripped or fainted. I remember thinking that I’d give him shit later.’ He laughs jerkily. ‘Obviously I never imagined that someone had hurt him.’
‘Was it planned which of the cast would be close to him?’ Fleet asks. ‘How structured was the scene?’
‘The only real rule was that the A zombies were allowed to be close to Wade—they were what we call “featured extras”. All the other zombies were B’s or C’s. The A’s had to be close to the camera and pawing at Wade, but we weren’t specific about which of the A’s would get nearest to him. We wanted them all grabbling at him, competing with each other so that it looked authentic.’
‘Makes it bloody hard to investigate,’ says Fleet sarcastically.
Cartwright looks at him wide-eyed. ‘It was the right way to make the scene work. We needed it to be genuine.’
Walking us through the plan for Wednesday afternoon’s shoot, Cartwright points out where everyone was supposed to be for different parts of the scene. He explains that the rest of the script, which they never got to capture, sees the army of infected humans lift up Wade’s character Ollie and take him into the park, not realising that he has a rare immunity to their poison. ‘He looks infected but he keeps his mind,’ explains Cartwright.
‘So he becomes like a zombie mole?’ queries Fleet.
‘Exactly,’ says Cartwright. Yet again his movements are jerky, like his brain is an extra beat behind controlling his muscles. ‘It’s a cool concept. His character ends up torn, with sympathy for both agendas. He can see that humans are ruining the planet but he wants to protect his loved ones.’
I nod as though taking in the poignant message, then decide I’ve waited long enough to ask the hard questions.
‘What was Sterling’s relationship with Ava James like?’ I ask.
‘Ava?’ Cartwright looks at me sharply.
‘Yes. We are well aware of the accusations she has made against you but are leaving that in the capable hands of our colleagues. Right now, I’m just keen for your view on her relationship with Sterling.’
Cartwright stares me straight in the eye, raw hostility suddenly steaming off him. I can easily imagine him putting his hands on Ava, her asking him to stop, him ignoring her.
‘They hit it off right from the start,’ he says. ‘Just good mates. I’ve heard the rumours about them hooking up but they wouldn’t have had the time. Even if they had, Sterling wouldn’t have cheated on Lizzie. And no doubt Ava thought he was good-looking and nice but not exactly in the same league as some of the Hollywood guys she’s starred alongside. He was pretty straight really. He was a bit star-struck by her initially.’ Cartwright half laughs. ‘We all were.’ He twists his hands, pulling each finger in turn and cracking the knuckles. ‘That’s where she’s gotten mixed up. She’s angry with me because things didn’t work out between us. I’m not very good at relationships and I can be a bit intense, you know? Maybe I came on too strong. But really, I just admired her. And she was into me at first, I swear. Anyway, she and Sterling were great co-stars. A director’s dream.’
‘Like Woodstock said, we’re not going to get into who touched who right now,’ says Fleet, waving the assault case away. ‘Let’s talk about you and Sterling instead.’
‘Me and Sterling?’
‘Yep.’
‘We were good,’ says Cartwright, his eyes shifting from left to right. ‘You know, mates.’
‘We’ve heard there was a bit of tension between you,’ I say.
Cartwright jiggles around on the spot, shaking his head like a kid. ‘Nah, not really. Just normal movie shit. It’s weird, going from mates to me being his boss. But it was fine, we respected each other.’
‘What about the argument you had last Sunday?’ I ask.
‘Argument? That was nothing. Just a bit of pre-shoot nerves on both sides. Making a movie is stressful, especially with the kind of budget we had.’
‘We heard it was really heated,’ I press.
Cartwright manages a brief laugh. ‘No, it really wasn’t. We just had a little misunderstanding about Ava. Sterling seemed to think it was his job to keep the peace on set. I set him straight and we were fine. Ava’s obviously still a bit confused, which isn’t surprising with all that’s happened. I’m sure that will all be sorted out.’
‘I like your confidence,’ says Fleet in a way that indicates he thinks it is misplaced. ‘You say Sterling was a peacemaker. I know from personal experience that do-gooders can really grind my gears. Did his righteous shtick piss you off?’
Cartwright sighs. ‘It feels weird to talk about this now.’ He pulls his long hair away from his neck and twists it into a straggly ponytail, closing his eyes briefly. ‘Look, Sterling was a good guy. A very good guy. Did he have an earnest streak? Sure. But I put that down to his wholesome country upbringing. I really liked him and I figured that a lot of his naivety would be beaten out of him in Hollywood in good time. You don’t get to make it in that place without being a bit of an arsehole.’
I look at Cartwright and suddenly see a classic Peter Pan type. An ageing cool guy who is starting to shift into bitter mode.
‘Interesting perspective,’ I say. ‘How much did you know about his Hollywood plans?’
‘Not much. Probably about as much as you guys know from reading the news. We used to talk about his career a bit more, but lately it’s all been about the film.’
‘Ever heard any other rumours about Sterling?’ Fleet asks, starting o
n a fresh cigarette.
Cartwright shrugs again. ‘Oh yeah. It’s all pretty standard—drugs, cheating, nice, not nice. The news beast must be fed so the journos end up just making shit up. It’s easier than doing proper research. And it’s not like anyone is ever held accountable.’
‘You were getting a lot of good press about the film though,’ says Fleet. ‘I’ve seen some interviews you’ve done. So the media coverage isn’t all bad.’
‘No,’ says Cartwright, sighing. ‘It’s not. That’s the problem. They’re parasites but we can’t live without them. They are the gatekeepers to the audience. To the money. Gotta make the world go round, I guess.’ He taps his foot on the ground and rubs his hands together again. I notice that his lips are tinged with blue. ‘Sterling must have wondered what the hell was happening. I keep thinking about that, how confused he must have been when he was stabbed. We were all right there but no one knew to help him.’
‘We’re interviewing everyone from the set later today,’ I say. ‘I assume you know about that?’
‘Yeah,’ says Cartwright. ‘A few of the crew called me last night. Everyone is totally freaking out, you know. Dudes who I thought were unbreakable have been crying down the phone to me. It’s fucked. My producer, Katya, she’s worried about being sued for negligence or trauma. Our legal people are all over it.’
‘You might be spending a fair bit of time with lawyers over the next few months,’ says Fleet.
Cartwright scowls. ‘This whole situation is a nightmare. And who knows what will happen with the film?’
The four of us walk back toward Wellington Parade where our car is parked under a giant leafless tree.
‘How is Lizzie doing?’ Cartwright asks.
‘She’s obviously very upset,’ I tell him, ‘but she’s coping.’
‘She’s a sweet girl. Probably not cut out for this industry but a decent little actress. I don’t know what to say to her, but I should call her, shouldn’t I?’
‘I’m sure she’d appreciate that,’ I say. ‘She’s being bombarded by the media.’
‘Yeah, well, she’ll need to get used to that,’ he says bitterly. ‘They absolutely love shit like this. Heartless arseholes.’
‘You want a lift anywhere?’ asks Fleet.
Cartwright has both hands in his tight jeans pockets. Sunglasses on. He looks up the street. ‘Nah. I’ll get the tram.’
Out of curiosity, I have to ask him one last question. ‘You really have no idea what’s going to happen with the film now?’
‘Katya tells me we’re legitimately insured against stuff like this, believe it or not. But I don’t know—I want to finish the film but I can’t see anyone except Sterling in the lead role.’
‘Maybe you just need some time,’ I suggest.
He looks unconvinced. ‘All the actors and the crew have other movies to shoot. So no, it’s not like we have heaps of time.’
‘Do you have another project after this?’
‘Not really,’ he says stiffly. ‘And I doubt this crap with Ms James is going to help my prospects.’
Fleet and I simply look at him.
‘Fuck,’ he says abruptly, ‘I wish she’d just talked to me about it. There was no need to go to the police, for god’s sake. We could have cleared it up in a second.’
‘Maybe she didn’t feel comfortable talking to you about it,’ I retort, my anger rising at his lack of insight.
‘Yeah, well, it’s too late now,’ he says cynically. ‘I’m really looking forward to the media storm raining down on me. I might just get away for a bit.’
‘Well, don’t go anywhere without letting us know,’ I say. ‘We’ll probably need to speak to you again.’
He nods and his bony hands shake as he toys with the zip on his coat, pushing it up and down so that it makes a ripping sound. We leave him standing there as we head to the car. ‘Hey!’ he calls after us. ‘Can I have another smoke?’
Saturday, 18 August
11.19 am
We grab an early lunch—an underwhelming sandwich for me, a greasy pie for Fleet—and half-heartedly argue over Cartwright’s version of his relationship with Sterling. As we head toward the warehouse for the cast and crew interviews, Chloe calls with more news on Sterling’s phone records.
‘That landline call he received last Sunday night? It was made from the house Paul Wade was staying at in Castlemaine. The call lasted for over six minutes,’ continues Chloe, as Fleet aggressively overtakes a slow-moving Barina.
‘And that’s it?’ I say. ‘There are no other calls between Paul and Sterling?’
‘Nope,’ she says. ‘From what we can tell, that is the first phone contact they’ve had in almost a year. There are no emails or messages on social apps either.’
‘Did anything else interesting show up on Paul’s phone records?’
‘He regularly called sex hotlines but that’s it. Mostly he called his parents and his sister. He did get cut off for almost two weeks not paying his bill a few months ago.’
I thank Chloe and hang up, relaying the info to Fleet.
‘Sex hotlines?’ he says. ‘I can’t believe anyone with access to the internet would bother with that.’
‘Maybe he’s an old-fashioned kind of guy.’
‘Interesting that he called Sterling last weekend.’ Fleet glares at a passing cyclist for no apparent reason. ‘Especially since he told us they hadn’t spoken in months.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, picturing Paul’s sullen face. ‘Also kind of stupid to lie about it. Surely he must know we can pull call info, and that we’d see the Castlemaine number.’
‘He doesn’t strike me as super bright. And some people can’t help lying.’
‘True.’ I watch the landscape become more industrial as we reach the other side of the city. ‘I wonder what they spoke about?’
‘Well,’ says Fleet, parking the car and yanking on the handbrake, ‘once this little adventure is over, I guess we’ll ask him.’
We’re greeted by a rumble of voices as we push the heavy warehouse door open. Outside it looked almost like an audition call, with a few uniforms milling about, directing attractive people into groups. The surrounding streets are jam-packed with haphazardly parked cars. Inside, it’s a zoo. In addition to our case team, there are hundreds of people, most of them tall young men with close-cut beards and trendy haircuts.
I spot Amir and beckon him over. ‘How many do we have here?’ I ask him.
He wipes his forehead. ‘All but twenty. So there are about three sixty-five here. I gotta say, this hasn’t been easy. I’ve never been involved in anything like this.’
‘Celebrities are usually a protected species,’ quips Fleet. ‘They don’t die very often.’
‘Right,’ replies Amir awkwardly, clearly not sure how to take Fleet’s comment. His response makes me realise how accustomed I’ve become to the sarcasm. ‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘we’re getting there. We’re hoping to secure all the primary interviews today but it’ll be a late one. Our main priority is obviously ID’ing the people who were in close proximity to Wade during the attack.’
Amir runs us through the plan for the day, explaining the process they will follow.
He leads us to a long table covered in large sheets of paper. Every cast and crew member has been numbered and is being plotted on a detailed map of the crime scene. This will allow us to identify who was close enough to Wade to have attacked him; to establish whether we have someone on the tape who can’t be accounted for; and thirdly, to see if anyone on the periphery of the scene remembers an extra going against the grain in the minutes afterwards—a zombie desperate to distance himself from the epicentre.
Once we have all the eye-witness accounts we’ll be crosschecking them against the disparate CCTV footage that continues to roll in from the top end of the city. We’ve already received over seventy hours of tape from the council and surrounding retailers to review.
The high-pitched melody of a phone starts u
p nearby, the notes lacing through my headache.
I nod as the buzz in the room goes up another notch. ‘Good job,’ I tell Amir. ‘Let us know the second anything comes up.’
‘Will do,’ he says, visibly bursting with the responsibility of his task.
‘Hive of activity, isn’t it?’ says Fleet, looking bored as he surveys the room.
To my left, a lanky guy with thick black-rimmed glasses is asking one of the constables if he can go somewhere quiet for a few minutes to do a quick Skype audition.
‘These people kill me,’ mutters Fleet, as the uniform tells the tall guy that he’ll need to postpone his audition until after he’s been interviewed. ‘And a fucking zombie movie to boot. It’s like a bad joke.’
I watch another guy attempt a discreet selfie as he pretends to look at something on his phone.
‘Let’s head back,’ I say, as a coffee craving hits me hard. ‘The guys have got this and, clearly, finding anything that will prove useful is going to take a while.’
On the way back to the station we get a call from Chloe. The team has looked into Sterling’s will and the legalities around his assets and have confirmed that his estate will go to his parents.
‘Lizzie might be able to argue some of the items in the apartment are hers,’ says Chloe, ‘but they don’t have any joint bank accounts and his will only lists Matthew and April as beneficiaries. Basically his parents are set to inherit a significant amount of money.’
‘How much?’ I ask.
‘We don’t know yet but it will be well over half a million dollars.’
‘When did he last update his will?’ asks Fleet.
‘January,’ replies Chloe.
‘Lizzie was well and truly on the scene by then,’ Fleet comments.
‘She was,’ I agree, ‘but I think a lot of young people just put their parents down to receive everything until they are married or have kids.’
Fleet shrugs. ‘Maybe. I just wonder if Lizzie knows she didn’t make the cut.’
There’s a sense of restrained excitement when we return to the case room. A few constables are crowded around a desk along the back wall, their eyes glued to a computer screen.