by Sarah Bailey
Following Brodie’s accusation, we reviewed the reports that the case team had already pulled on Sterling’s and Lizzie’s credit cards and bank records. There are no transactions that indicate the purchase of an engagement ring. April Wade confirmed that it isn’t a family heirloom, and Lizzie says she has no idea where or when Sterling got it. Yesterday afternoon Lizzie agreed to have the ring valued and Chloe accompanied her to a jeweller. While the gemmologist confirmed the high value of the stone in the popular vintage setting, the origins of the ring remain a mystery.
After our review of this material, Fleet called Lizzie and had her describe Sterling’s proposal to us again. She detailed a bended knee over a romantic home-cooked meal at their apartment the week before he died. Sure enough, Wade purchased an expensive bottle of champagne and spent over a hundred dollars at a gourmet food wholesaler in the early evening of the night she claims he proposed. And his credit card records show a purchase of flowers for good measure. I remember a vase of fading white roses wilting on Lizzie’s kitchen bench the day we visited. Brodie was on a night shoot that evening, a TV commercial set in a supermarket, so Sterling and Lizzie had the place to themselves.
I keep playing our conversation with Wendy Ferla over in my mind—the part when we told her about Sterling’s engagement. And the look on April’s face when we told her. Clearly, neither woman knew as much about Wade’s life as they would have liked. It seems that, despite his open and friendly nature, he kept things from a lot of people.
‘Quite the home bloody cook, wasn’t he?’ says Fleet, reviewing the receipt from the gourmet food and wine store: a range of cheeses, a fillet of salmon along with fresh herbs and a side of white asparagus.
‘He was a total catch,’ I agree.
‘Yeah. Apart from the secret gay relationship,’ Fleet says, fetching some water from the cooler and placing a cup in front of me. ‘And the possible affair with his co-star.’
I smile in thanks and take a large gulp.
We seem to have retained our easy rhythm since my call to him on Sunday morning. I think we both know that any leeway we had with Isaacs is gone now—the clock is well and truly ticking, and we’re both feeling it. It makes sense that we buckle down and work closely together, and get the best out of our team.
‘Christ, all these interviews,’ Fleet mutters, scrolling aggressively down the screen with his battered computer mouse. When he came in this morning, I noticed that he was looking better than I’ve ever seen him. He has shaved, revealing creamy skin, and there’s product in his hair. He probably figures he’ll be on the news at some point soon. It’s a good bet: Wade’s looming funeral is like blood in sea water and the sharks are going mad.
‘I don’t know how Wade had time to do the TV show,’ Fleet says, ‘let alone anything else. I swear to god the guy was just chatting up journos the whole time.’
‘I know, the publicity alone seems like a full-time job.’
Even though I know that Sterling was a big-name celebrity, I’m still surprised by the amount of recent content available about him. In the past month alone, he features in over forty interviews, and hundreds of fresh pictures are available online. I click on another article, ‘Wade Wades In’, and am treated to photos of Sterling in sky-blue board shorts swimming in the ocean with a male friend and a border collie at St Kilda Beach.
‘God, I hate the internet,’ I sigh.
Fleet snorts but I can’t tell whether it’s in agreement or derision.
‘Maybe it’s like a kind of therapy?’ I continue.
‘What is?’
‘The interviews. Seriously, I mean, he’s done, what, at least three hundred interviews in the past few years. That’s a lot of self-reflection. A lot of time talking about yourself. Some people pay big dollars to psychologists for that.’
Fleet snorts again. ‘Well, it obviously doesn’t work. Aren’t most actors in permanent therapy?’
‘I guess.’ I get up and walk out into the main part of the office to stretch my legs. It’s quiet here this evening. There are only the soft murmurs of conversations and the intermittent tapping of computer keys. The mechanical hum of the heater forms a steady backing track.
I fetch a Monte Carlo from the tearoom and grab one for Fleet.
‘Thanks,’ he mutters, shoving it into his mouth as he scratches at the side of his face.
I go back to reviewing Sterling’s financial records. For a man in his early twenties he was making an impressive living. He definitely could have afforded to buy that ring for Lizzie, and it’s pissing me off that we can’t find any trace of its purchase. I wonder if he had a secret bank account. Or a stash of cash squirrelled away somewhere.
‘Sterling must not have realised how bad his parents’ financial position was,’ I say, looking at the steady deposits of cash into his account. ‘He certainly had the ability to help them out.’
‘Children don’t always behave in the way you would expect, I guess,’ Fleet says, his eyes on case reports.
‘I suppose not, but still. I’m inclined to think that he just didn’t know. If he did know then his brother’s right, it seems pretty selfish.’
Fleet makes a non-committal sound. ‘Maybe his folks aren’t as sweet as they seem. Maybe he offered and they declined. Parents can be stubborn.’ Fleet says this last part with feeling.
‘Look at all these calls,’ I say a few minutes later, flicking through the latest hotline summary. Another generous mix of fantasy and facts for us to follow up. The thump of my headache intensifies.
‘So, this is pretty different from working a case in a small town, huh,’ Fleet says.
I look up in surprise. It’s probably the most conversational thing he’s ever said to me.
‘Same, same but different,’ I say.
‘Plan on getting back home much?’
I’m about to reply—some smartarse remark about how I wouldn’t want to leave him now that we’re such good friends—when Isaacs’ head appears in the doorway.
‘In here, you two,’ he barks.
We exchange a look before getting up and making our way across the room. Nan is at her desk, in the row adjacent to ours, her wide frame aligned with her oversized computer screen as she types aggressively on her keyboard. She appears to take no interest in us but I know she misses nothing. She’s like a sly old tabby and I don’t doubt for a second that she knows exactly what’s what in her alleyway.
We enter Isaacs’ office.
‘Sir,’ I say, in greeting.
‘Boss,’ says Fleet.
‘Sit,’ says Isaacs.
We sit. He cracks his knuckles and moves back behind his desk, standing there for a moment before he settles into his worn leather chair. I start to think through what we might have done wrong; the room carries the distinct aura of punishment.
‘We have a problem,’ he states, his nostrils flaring slightly.
Fleet and I remain silent.
‘Wade’s blog posts, the ones that were found on his personal computer, have somehow made their way to the media.’
‘A leak?’ I say.
‘It looks that way. We don’t think that Wade ever uploaded the files.’
‘I just can’t believe that anyone on the squad would put the case in jeopardy like that,’ I venture.
‘Well, you’re very naive then,’ snaps Isaacs.
I reel back slightly, blood making a beeline to my cheeks.
‘Look,’ says Isaacs, his voice firm, ‘you’re both young.’
My hands form fists, which I unreasonably want to use to punch Nan’s smug face. Fleet remains erect and stony-eyed, but a little pulse is beating in his neck. He’s mad as hell too.
‘You’re young,’ says Isaacs again, in case we missed it the first time, ‘and this case is very high profile. It’s much more complicated than I first thought. In my experience, when leaks occur it tends to suggest a lack of respect for the case leads.’
I recall all of the faces looking up at us in o
ur meetings, the sense of shared determination in the room, and just can’t believe that one of them would put us in this position.
I can virtually hear Fleet begging me to keep quiet but I speak anyway. ‘It’s a tight group, sir. Considering the hours and the intensity, things have been running smoothly.’
‘I don’t like having to explain information leaving this office without authorisation,’ says Isaacs as if I haven’t spoken. ‘I’ve been fairly impressed with how you’ve both handled things so far but the scrutiny is only getting worse. I’ve just had word that there will be a story on Wade’s blog post running on the news tonight. Leaks are unacceptable and I need to ensure that you two are demanding respect from the team. I want you at one hundred per cent when working together, and I expect rigour in terms of security. Understood?’
I nod and Fleet nods, and for a few seconds the two of us are just sitting there, nodding like idiots.
‘The Jacoby case is slowing down,’ Isaacs says. ‘Nan and Calvin will be freed up soon, and I want them brought across this when they have the capacity. Nan can help manage the younger officers.’
Rage floods through me. The timing of this dressing-down, just as Fleet and I are getting on the same page, seems so unfair.
‘Is there anything else, sir?’ I ask tentatively, after a few moments. ‘I won’t bore you with the half of it,’ he says, somewhat wearily. ‘But suffice to say if we can’t put this one to bed it’s not good news for any of us.’
Tuesday, 21 August
8.34 pm
Ben is telling me about his football club’s end of season award event. His little face fills my phone screen and is lit up with excitement as he asks if I’m coming.
‘I’m not sure, sweetheart,’ I say, struggling to keep smiling. ‘When is it?’
‘On Sunday, I think. Dad knows.’
‘Well, I’ll have to see. My work is pretty busy at the moment.’
‘Yeah, that’s what Dad said you would say,’ he replies.
My hand clenches the phone but I force a little laugh. ‘Your dad’s a clever guy,’ I manage.
‘It’s going to be so much fun,’ Ben continues, and launches into a detailed overview of what a school friend told him happened at last year’s function, his right-hand waving in the air as he talks. His two budding adult teeth have given him a slight lisp and my throat constricts as I watch him talk.
We do our star-watching routine, my voice slightly choked up as he exclaims over a rabbit he’s convinced he can see in the sky.
Afterwards I’m restless. I pace around the apartment trying to decide what to do. I was supposed to catch up with Josh but he cancelled on me, claiming a hectic workload. I feel a twist of unease in my stomach and wonder if our aborted date on Saturday is the real reason behind his reluctance to meet. If I were him, I wouldn’t bother with me either.
In the end, I call Dad. He tells me about a shed that he’s building at his friend’s place and the new library being built in Smithson.
‘It’s a beautiful structure, Gemma,’ he says. ‘Very modern. Like some of the places I saw when we were in Melbourne. You would probably like it.’
‘Sounds great,’ I reply, realising that Dad still doesn’t understand that the reason I left Smithson has nothing to do with the aesthetics of the architecture and everything to do with my constricting throat and racing heart.
‘Are you coming home on Sunday for Ben’s award night?’ he ventures.
I work hard to keep the irritation out of my voice. ‘You know how hard work makes it for me to get back, Dad.’
‘Of course, of course,’ he says quickly. ‘I just wondered. Rebecca and I will go, so I’ll make sure I take some photos for you.’
I’m annoyed that Rebecca will be there watching my son and I won’t. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say after a pause.
‘When do you think you’ll be coming for a visit?’ he asks.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say stiffly. ‘I was thinking that maybe you might bring Ben again in the school holidays. I probably won’t have too much time off until much later in the year.’
‘Oh well,’ says Dad, clearly not keen on the idea. ‘Yes, that’s something we can think about. It would be good to spend some proper time with you, Gemma.’
We speak for a few minutes longer and then we hang up.
Grabbing my cigarettes from my bedroom drawer I open the sliding door, stepping out onto my tiny balcony. The freezing air rages against the exposed skin on my face and hands as I plonk myself on the upside-down plastic crate under the bathroom window. When I light up, I realise I can no longer deny that I’m smoking again, seeing as this is at least the fifth packet of cigarettes that I’ve purchased since moving here. A fifteen-year-old habit that I can’t afford—either financially or health-wise—but that comforts me. My dad and Scott would kill me if they knew, and based on the rant about all the people smoking that Ben went on when he was here, I don’t think he’d be too impressed either. I hear a cough not far away and lean forward to spot the glow of a cigarette tail and the shadowy outline of a guy a few apartments down. I think of all the lonely people sitting on their balconies close by—smoking, freezing their arses off and looking out into the night—and feel a strange little flutter of fondness for my neighbours. The vice-like grip of lonely panic that coursed through me when I lived in the cottage in Smithson has gone, replaced by a steadily growing camaraderie with hundreds of strangers.
I inhale hard and almost gag as the smoke grips my throat. A car’s horn blasts on the road below and I’m rewarded with a jolt of vertigo as I look down. The wispy grey clouds I’ve created brush into my eyes, causing them to water. God, I think, I really shouldn’t be smoking.
I’ve been spending too much money lately—it seems to flit in and out of my bank account like a slippery fish. Even though I earn slightly more now than I used to, things are tight. Rent here is expensive. And Scott hasn’t had a great run with work this year: with all the uncertainty around the potential closure of the cannery, there’s not a lot of commercial development in Smithson.
I take a final drag and then crush the cigarette into the crowded flowerpot, reuniting it with its yellowing brothers. I think about Isaacs lecturing us earlier and my anger charges back. I get why he believes Fleet and I are a risk—hell, I think we’re a risk—but I hate the way the skin between his eyebrows creased, and then there was that little moment when I sensed pity in his eyes. Pity always drives me spare.
I light another cigarette, just as my work phone rings in my jacket pocket.
‘Hey,’ I say a little breathlessly, after fumbling to retrieve it.
‘Good evening,’ says Fleet. ‘Got you at a good time?’
I work to calm my racing pulse.
‘Of course.’
‘What are you up to?’
I take a drag. ‘Sitting on my balcony, smoking.’
Fleet emits a healthy belly laugh and I find myself laughing as well. ‘Good for you,’ he says, still chuckling. ‘And a perfectly reasonable response to a pep talk with Mr Fun.’
‘I’m so angry,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry, Woodstock,’ says Fleet. ‘It says more about him than us. He’s stressed and worried about his rep. No point getting carried away in his drama.’
‘I’m not getting carried away. It just pissed me off.’ I suck hard on the cigarette.
‘Good,’ says Fleet. ‘I think you’re a better detective when the chips are down. Hey, so, I didn’t actually call you to check on your mood, I just thought you would be interested to hear this straight away.’
‘What is it?’
‘The team working on Ava James’s assault claims have picked up another charge that was made against him a few years ago. It was dropped.’
‘Interesting,’ I say.
Repeat sex offenders make up more than half the criminals reported to the police in Australia so this isn’t altogether surprising. It’s also not uncommon for claims to be dropped. Often people, parti
cularly women, can read the unjust writing on the wall, and they decide it’s best to try to block out the bad memories and get on with their lives.
‘Was it a similar situation?’ I ask. ‘Another actress?’
‘No,’ says Fleet, ‘but we do know this person. It was Katya Marsh, the film’s producer.’
Wednesday, 22 August
7.12 am
Macy is back in her usual spot. Her dark hair curls out from under the heavy woollen loops of her beanie and she is surveying the scene in front of her blankly.
I’m feeling wide awake from an unexpectedly solid night’s sleep and the hottest shower I could handle. I place a steaming coffee down in front of her. ‘Good morning.’
She shifts her gaze up to settle on my face, shrugs and mumbles her thanks as she takes a sip.
I let a few beats go by. ‘I’ve missed talking to you this week,’ I tell her. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Can’t complain,’ she says, her voice lacking its usual wry tone.
‘Where have you been?’ I venture, unsure if she wants to talk to me.
She has more coffee. Wipes her mouth. Shifts into an upright position. ‘I been moving around a bit with Lara. She’s still not doing very well. I’m trying to look after her but we’re both pretty spooked about what happened to Walter.’
I don’t say anything, knowing that there’s no real comfort I can offer. I imagine what it would be like not having anywhere safe to go. In many ways Macy is invisible but she is also permanently exposed.
‘Plus, my back’s been playing up,’ she continues. ‘We went to a shelter for a few nights and slept in a bed. I hate it there with all the people all over the place, but you know,’ she shrugs, ‘this beautiful body isn’t as tough as it used to be.’ She flashes me a smile and for a moment the old Macy is back.
‘Well, I was worried about you,’ I say, feeling utterly useless. ‘Is your back better now?’
‘It’s better than it was,’ she says, staring out at the road again before her almost black eyes land on me. ‘You worked out who killed that movie star yet?’