by Sarah Bailey
‘What’s going on?’ I ask them, annoyed that Fleet and I haven’t been alerted to whatever has caused such interest.
‘Sterling Wade’s blog,’ replies Ravi.
‘Why is that so fascinating?’ I ask them.
‘The techs just found it on his personal computer,’ Ravi says, his eyes back on the screen. ‘He wrote it on Wednesday, just before he died. It was never published. A few other blog posts on there were never published either.’
Fleet hooks his thumbs into his belt loops. ‘I read an interview where he mentioned doing a blog from the movie set. He said he was going to keep a sort of online diary and publish it every week. If I’d been him I would have sold it afterwards, made some quick cash, not given it away for free.’
Ignoring Fleet, I ask Ravi, ‘Is there anything interesting in it?’
‘We don’t think so,’ he replies. ‘It’s not exactly prescient or anything, it’s just kind of weird because of the timing. It’s odd reading something that someone wrote an hour before he died.’
‘You get used to it,’ says Fleet, pulling out his lighter. ‘I’ve read many a shopping list penned by the recently deceased. Anyway, I need a smoke,’ he says over his shoulder as he walks out.
‘Email us the files asap,’ I say to Ravi. ‘And can you get the techs to give us an update on Wade’s social media accounts?’
He nods. ‘We also just heard that Wade’s funeral will be next week, on Thursday.’
‘Was that reported or did you hear it from the family?’ I ask.
‘Mary-Anne told us. She spoke to the family. Apparently they were considering taking the body back to their home town, but now they’ve decided to have him cremated here.’
More officers enter the room, their voices low as they discuss whatever parts of the case they’ve been clawing and picking at over the past few hours.
‘Okay, well, add it to the schedule,’ I say to Ravi. ‘Get on to those social accounts, okay? I’ll see you all at the case meeting later.’
I head back to my desk; I want to read Wade’s blog away from the rest of the team.
Calvin and Nan are standing near Nan’s desk, talking in low voices, their faces drawn.
‘Hey!’ I call out to them.
Nan shifts her head in mild acknowledgement.
‘Hi, Gemma,’ says Calvin. ‘How’s the Wade case going?’
‘Slower than I would like,’ I say.
‘Shame that little prick Carmichael wasn’t your guy,’ Nan says with a snort.
I shrug. ‘Yeah. It sure would have made things easier if he was.’ She snorts again.
Fleet appears, reeking of smoke, his cheeks flushed plum. ‘Hey, team. I’ve missed you guys. What’s happening?’
Calvin stretches his skinny arms high above his head. ‘Sasha Cryer committed suicide last night. It’s just been called in. The story’s going to break shortly.’
‘Oh god,’ I say, thinking about the scared, skinny woman I tried to comfort as she cried about the death of her friend. That was just over a month ago.
‘Yep,’ confirms Nan. ‘She wasn’t particularly reliable, but still. If this thing ever goes to trial she certainly would have been useful. She was the only person who saw Jacoby arguing with Ginny Frost on the balcony that night. Apart from her alleged mystery man, of course.’
‘Are you sure it’s a suicide?’ I ask.
Nan laughs bleakly. ‘We’re sure, which is a shame. I would have loved for Jacoby to have gone all Godfather and had her killed. Another chance for us to nail his arse to a jail cell.’ She juts out her ample hip. ‘But unfortunately, this was a run-of-the-mill cry for help. Bathtub style.’ She cracks her gum loudly and smiles at us. ‘Annoying.’
‘At least you have her statements, right?’ says Fleet, clearing his throat. Nan’s bluntness is too much sometimes, even for him.
‘Of course. But with her gone, Jacoby’s defence will be more likely to weasel their way out of it. And it will make it even harder to ID the missing witness—assuming he really was there. This mess seems pretty similar to the shit you two are trying to wade through,’ she smiles smugly and adds, ‘pun intended.’ She tosses a mint into her mouth. ‘At least we’re keeping the journos happy,’ she continues drily. ‘They couldn’t make this shit up. Movie stars, homeless guys, escorts. They get to use all their favourite words.’
Feeling flat, I ease into my chair and log onto my computer. I see the email from Ravi that contains Wade’s posthumous blog posts.
Nan pulls her coat on. ‘Well, we’re off to look at a dead girl,’ she announces cheerily.
Calvin looks at me apologetically, transforming into Inspector Gadget as he dons a tan trench coat. ‘See you guys later.’
‘Hopefully one of us gets a break soon,’ says Nan ominously, looking over at Isaacs’ office.
Our boss is on the phone, his arm making a sharp triangle as it bends to his hip, his jaw locked as he talks, his feet rooted to the ground.
‘I think he’s copping some heat,’ she adds as she walks past.
Blinking hard in an attempt to freshen my eyes, I open the Word file dated last Wednesday.
Writing just before the zombie street scene from his mobile trailer, Sterling details his pre-shoot nerves and some of the techniques he employs to overcome them. He mentions how stressful the week has been and references ‘some difficult decisions’ and a ‘falling out with a good mate’. He says he can’t wait to share some ‘massive news’ with all of his fans ‘really soon’. He signs off with, ‘This is shaping up to be the best year of my life. I feel so lucky.’
The terrifying truth about every case we work on is that no matter what, the answers are out there somewhere. Whether we stumble across them or not is due to an uneven mix of luck, experience and sheer bloody-mindedness. For this reason, part of leading a case involves monitoring how deeply to go into the detail. While it’s tempting to latch onto a thread and pull hard, it’s just as critical to step back and look at the big picture, to weave all the threads together. Fleet and I are the conductors and we need to be careful we don’t get stuck playing the instruments. But, of course, no matter how good you are, things are always missed. Sometimes I think about all those clues scattered around, hiding in paperwork, stuck onto case boards—a telling sentence filed away in a taped interview, a critical strand of hair that blew away in the wind—and feel overwhelmed. Every cold case is a box of evidence that a bunch of frustrated detectives just couldn’t quite make sense of. And the brutal truth is, there are as many sliding door moments when working a case as there are in any average day at the office. It’s just that our mistakes and oversights sometimes mean that people get away with murder.
I come back from the bathroom trying to shake the soft buzz in my ears, which seems to be directly feeding off the pressure of my growing tension headache. Ralph Myers is walking in front of me, his arse wobbling in its self-important way.
‘Hey, Ralph!’ I call out as I catch up with him. ‘How’s the Miller case going?’
I follow him into the case room, where a couple of uniforms are doling out slices of pizza. I look at my watch, surprised to see that it’s already 6 pm. I need to get out of here, go home and throw myself in the shower if I want to get to Josh’s place for dinner on time.
‘All going well, thanks, Woodstock,’ says Ralph breezily. ‘It’s just a tough one with the site and the victim being so isolated. Unlike your case, where you have witness statements coming out of your ears.’
I smile politely and nod, glancing up at Miller’s autopsy photos: his sagging skin resting loosely on his sharp bones, the dark ugly slash where his soul leaked out.
‘Well, I hope you get out of here relatively early tonight,’ I say distractedly, the buzz in my head turning up a notch.
Ralph rubs his ample stomach. ‘I certainly plan to—just refuel-ling before another hour of power and then we’re done for the day. You’re welcome to join us if you’re hungry.’
Thankin
g him but declining the offer, I head out of the room, away from the smell of hot cheese, to the Wade case room, kneading the back of my neck.
‘Hi,’ I say to Ravi who is seated at the back of the room. I quickly review the hotline call log and the case sheets. ‘Anything I need to be across?’
‘Not really,’ he replies, standing up nervously as if I’m royalty. ‘More CCTV footage from the city has come in. And we’ve received all of Wade’s financial info now.’
‘Great, thanks,’ I say, making it clear he should sit down again.
‘Did you want to look at Paul Wade’s phone records?’ he asks casually. ‘I know you guys are planning to speak to him about the call he made to his brother last Sunday. We don’t think there’s anything else worth looking at except for the occasional call to a sex hotline.’
I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing them for a few seconds. A swirl of colour explodes behind my eyelids.
I blink at Ravi, who is holding a sheet of paper over one of the open case folders, ready to file it if I say no. ‘Um, yeah,’ I reply vaguely. ‘I’ll have a quick look.’
He hands the printout to me.
Half an hour later I’m packing up my things at my desk when I quickly scan the document. For a guy in his late twenties, Paul’s mobile call history was oddly sparse, telling the story of a loner life. The call he made to Sterling last Sunday was from the landline of the Castlemaine house, so it isn’t on this record. The outgoing calls are mainly to the Wades’ farmhouse, while the incoming calls are mainly from the same number and another that I know is Melissa’s.
Lizzie claims to know nothing about the Sunday conversation between Sterling and Paul—Fleet spoke to her earlier about it. I make a mental note to find out if Wade said anything about the call to Brodie.
I head back to the case room to file the call summary with the other reports, when I notice the last line on the sheet: Melissa’s incoming call to Paul on Wednesday in the late afternoon, following the attack on their brother. A jolt goes through my body as I realise that when Paul spoke to his sister, he was already in Melbourne.
Saturday, 18 August
7.44 pm
I’ve been at Josh’s apartment for less than twenty minutes and my brain is struggling to let go of work and embrace the domestic scene before me. Phrases from Sterling’s blog post tease the corners of my mind. I wonder what he meant by ‘massive news’. Was it his engagement to Lizzie? The role in the US soap that his agent told us about? The Canadian film? Or something else? And why was Paul Wade lying about being in Melbourne on Wednesday? Is it connected? As much as I found Paul’s lack of empathy off-putting, I doubt he knew enough about the workings of the film to orchestrate this attack—unless someone was feeding him information. Though he does have a history of violence, I remind myself. I press my fingers to my head, trying to quiet the rattle of thoughts.
Josh is in the kitchen flitting around like a moth: cracking eggs and boiling water, pouring wine and adjusting the volume of music that blasts from an invisible speaker system. I have no idea what he’s thinking but I would hazard a guess that his mind isn’t jumping between alibis and violence.
‘Can I help?’ I ask, thinking that at least if I’m occupied with a task, I won’t have to watch him fussing.
‘Absolutely not!’ He points a finger at me, commanding me to stay where I am. I sip my wine obediently and he nods in approval. ‘You’ve had a terrible week,’ he says. ‘You need to relax.’
Feeling tense, I look around the room reminding myself it’s not his fault that his thoughts aren’t fixed on death.
Josh’s apartment is beautiful. It’s not particularly big but it’s a lot larger than mine. Candy would describe it as luxe. I’m pretty sure his parents are helping with the rent. It’s been freshly painted; I detect the faint scent of recently refreshed walls. The light bounces off kitchen surfaces and is absorbed into the cushiony lounge. Gauzy curtains float gently over subtle heating ducts, and fresh flowers explode out of the crystal vase on the table. Jazz music flows from the speaker system, making an odd dance partner for my grim thoughts. Josh is twenty-nine, three years younger than me. I think about my own life at twenty-nine—hell, my life now—and marvel at the differences.
‘So, Sterling Wade,’ Josh says, whistling between his teeth as he assembles a fancy-looking salad. ‘Wow, huh?’
‘Yeah,’ I say warily. ‘You know I can’t say too much about it, Josh.’
‘I know, I know,’ he says good-naturedly. He tops up my wine. ‘Hey, so, when a case like Wade’s comes out of nowhere, how many detectives work on it?’
I smile. ‘You do realise that all our cases come out of nowhere, right? We don’t tend to get a heads-up.’
He laughs. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘A case like this definitely demands a big team and puts us under pressure,’ I tell him. ‘We don’t neglect other cases or anything but certain things are prioritised. For example, I’ve been pulled off the homeless man’s case. Some of the old cases get downgraded. We obviously can’t get to everything. We just don’t have the people.’
I think briefly about Walter Miller slumped in the freezing tunnel, sitting alone in his own blood, and can’t help feeling like I have abandoned him.
Josh doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, and the room fills with the sounds of vegetables being chopped and then sizzling in a frypan. He starts humming along to the music.
This could be my life, I think. I could spend my evenings sitting here with Josh as he cooks delicious meals and asks me about work. We could make plans, talk about restaurants we want to go to, movies we want to see. Maybe we would even travel: I’ve never been out of Australia. Everything in Josh’s body language, the way he engages with me, indicates that’s what he wants. A normal relationship where a joint future is happily mapped out and navigated.
Before I even have the chance to picture Ben, an icy fist grips my insides and I cross and uncross my legs, thinking about those nights I’ve spent in the hotels. How I don’t want to stop.
Josh’s voice breaks into my thoughts. ‘Are you really stressed?’
I finish my drink and pour another glass, blowing air out of my cheeks. It’s hot in the apartment, cosy, and I’m flushed from the heat, the forced relaxation, the wine.
‘The whole squad is under pressure,’ I reply. ‘This case is as high profile as you get. And then there’s the homeless man’s killing on top of that—people don’t like it when the vulnerable are attacked, so there’s a lot of political pressure. And, of course, the Jacoby case still isn’t resolved. My boss is determined to give that one last big push.’ I swallow a large mouthful of wine. ‘Everyone is on edge.’
Even as I’m talking, my mind continues to churn, reviewing pieces of information. The knot of disparate threads is loosened by the alcohol, and they rejoin and begin to braid together. Something is trying to make itself clear but I can’t seem to see it.
I’m also unsure about what Josh wants from me tonight—whether he sees this as a significant step in our relationship. So far, he hasn’t pushed things between us physically, but we’ve barely been alone together in private, and I’m conscious of where things might go without the noise and buffer of others.
I look over at him, waiting for his response, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s focused on the meal preparations. But he seems a bit more distracted than usual tonight, and I wonder if he’s nervous too.
I top up my glass and get up to look out the window. The view of the city is so different from this side of the river. It looks less overwhelming, calmer. I reach out and trace one of the office towers through the glass before my eyes shift back to my shadowy reflection.
For the hundredth time, I wonder what Josh sees in me.
When we met a month or so ago, I’d come from the Jacoby press conference and was bracing myself for a court appearance with a strong coffee at the cafe next to the courthouse. Josh appeared in my line of sight, his casual gesture indicat
ing that he wanted to sit on the spare seat next to mine. I shuffled along and smiled up at him that it was fine. We got talking. He seemed both impressed and a little intimidated when I told him I was a homicide detective. He insisted we exchange numbers but I assumed I’d never hear from him again. But he sent me a message that night asking me out to dinner.
I enjoyed his company from the start. Not only is he extremely good-looking but he is easily the most uncomplicated person I have ever been involved with. Texts flowed and dates were suggested. He is keen but never pushy, and from the start has seemed to understand that my apartment is off limits. Most importantly he appreciates that my job comes first. I suspect he thinks I am damaged goods, worn down from past relationships, but he doesn’t pry. He seems comfortable with being stuck at first base. I’ve no doubt Josh could have his pick of dates but maybe he thinks I am interesting, unlike the women who usually cross his path. Perhaps I am an experiment. Perhaps he likes me. I have no idea.
Even if Ben didn’t exist, and setting aside my inability to settle into something and invest in it, we are so different. Josh has seen so much more of the world than I have but in so many ways he is blinkered. His existence is one of privilege, his smooth path into adulthood generously lubricated with a steady flow of money. He hasn’t had to battle for anything. He is all soft edges and optimism. I am hard and my settings default to cynicism and doubt.
Josh expertly dishes up two generous bowls of pasta and the fancy salad, placing them proudly on the table, and gestures for me to sit. It’s been days since I’ve eaten a proper meal and I hoe into my serving enthusiastically.
Josh declares that we should talk about something else before launching effortlessly into a steady stream of conversation about his sister, her new boyfriend, a new guy at work, his impressive Qantas Frequent Flyer Points balance and his new gym routine. I marvel at his ability to propel the conversation forward, appreciating that it means I can remain a passenger with only minimal contributions required.