Into the Night

by Sarah Bailey

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ says Cartwright, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

  Fleet sighs exasperatedly. ‘What we’re trying to say is that while you obviously didn’t attack Wade yourself, you certainly know people who wouldn’t have blinked an eye at doing something like this. Are you understanding us now?’

  ‘I had nothing to do with this,’ says Cartwright, his eyes huge. ‘I swear.’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘You have nothing to worry about then.’

  Riley licks his lips. ‘What are you going to do? Will you go through my bank accounts and stuff like that?’

  A message appears on my phone: the team think they’ve located Paul Wade’s mystery sex worker. I look at Fleet who is reading his phone too, clearly having received the same message.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Cartwright,’ he says, glancing up at Riley. ‘We’ll be in touch if we discover anything else we need to talk to you about. In the meantime, you just focus on keeping your nose out of trouble. We’re watching.’ Fleet looks pointedly at the small mirror on one of the kitchen stools and wipes at his nostrils.

  I stand and Riley shifts forward, about to do the same.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say to him. ‘Don’t get up.’

  We turn around at the door. Cartwright is standing in the middle of the room, his brow furrowed as if he’s trying to figure out what to do next.

  ‘Maybe get some sleep,’ suggests Fleet. ‘It’s a big day tomorrow.’

  Thursday, 23 August

  10.19 am

  ‘Listen to this,’ I say to Fleet, reading from an online article as we head in the direction of the church. ‘A select group of mourners will bid popular actor Sterling Wade farewell today in a private funeral in Melbourne. His family members have asked for privacy and respect as they remember the murdered star. Homicide detectives are still baffled by the bizarre attack on Wade just over a week ago, which took place on the set of his latest film Death Is Alive, and will not confirm if they are actively pursuing any suspects.’

  ‘Well, they would know,’ says Fleet, sounding annoyed.

  ‘They go on to talk about how Ava hasn’t been invited to the funeral and how it’s basically going to be a who’s who of the Australian film industry.’ I keep scrolling. ‘There’s also a link to an exclusive Sterling Wade photo gallery, including never-before-seen family photos.’

  ‘Just what his parents will want today, I’m sure,’ says Fleet, lighting a cigarette. ‘Here, show me.’ He gestures for me to give him my phone, smoking furiously as he scrolls. ‘God, would you look at the comments?’ he says, smirking. ‘Who are these people?’ He glares at random passers-by as if they might be responsible for the words he’s reading on my phone. ‘I mean, come on, we have someone called Sterling’s Wife pledging to name her first-born child after him.’ His thumb flicks across the screen. ‘Plus there’s a whole lot of people who think we’re doing a shit job—in their expert opinion, of course.’ He hands back my phone and bins his cigarette. ‘Let’s get a coffee before the sideshow,’ he says, already walking off.

  We stop at the cafe where we met for breakfast on Sunday and order coffees. Fleet remains moody, stretching his legs out under the table and texting on his personal phone.

  I look at him and wonder what’s going on in his world.

  ‘Pretty rough on Lizzie having rumours of Wade’s affair with Ava splashed all over the news on the day of his funeral,’ I say, trying to get him to talk to me.

  ‘I’m sure she has other things to worry about,’ he replies, not looking up from his screen, ‘like what lipstick shade is mourning appropriate.’

  Our coffees finished, we head toward the church. The service isn’t due to start for thirty minutes but already it looks like the red carpet of a daytime awards show. Alongside the glamorous crowd there’s a cluster of camera lenses, their shiny unblinking eyes pointing at the guests like rifles.

  ‘Private funeral, my arse,’ mutters Fleet, throwing gum into his mouth.

  The scene is an assault on the senses: beautiful women teetering on high heels gush loudly as they greet each other, hugging and kissing as if they’re returning from war, but I can also feel the desperation of the media, the hope that those gathered to farewell Sterling Wade will display some unguarded moments of emotion to be captured and beamed around the globe.

  Near the tall church doors, I spot two blond heads: Sterling’s siblings. Their pale hair is slicked back unattractively. Paul looks particularly sullen. I can’t see Matthew or April but I can see Amy and Steve Beauford, the epitome of glamorous grief, standing with a young blond man—probably their son, Jack, who looks a lot more like Sterling than either of his biological siblings do.

  I look again at Paul, who appears to be kicking some rubbish off the top step. He alternates between adjusting his tie and rubbing his hands together.

  Joanne Scanlon, a tall skinny girl with fine threads of long brown hair, has provided Paul with an alibi for just over an hour last Wednesday afternoon. She says he picked her up in St Kilda and drove her to a corporate car park. She gave him a blow job in the back of his van, then some time later they had sex. He then dropped her back where he’d found her. She knows this all happened after 2.30 pm but can’t be sure of the exact time.

  ‘He didn’t say much,’ Joanne told us. ‘He was kind of a silent type. But he handed over the money no problems, which is all I ask for.’

  ‘You wouldn’t guess that Paul could go twice in an hour, would you?’ says Fleet, still fidgeting next to me.

  I don’t respond but watch as batches of handsome people make their way toward the huge doors, pausing to show ID and be crossed off the guest list. I watch as a woman passes her large handbag to a guard so he can riffle through its contents before lifting her arms to be scanned. The cameras pick up their pace, a chorus of clicks ringing in my ears.

  I feel apprehensive, and removed from the whole thing as if someone is about to call out ‘Cut!’ and everyone will laugh and snap out of the sombre mood.

  Several reporters talk earnestly into video cameras, gesturing to the stars behind them as they smooth windswept hair. Despite the oversized sunglasses worn by most guests, I can see a lot of familiar faces: it’s as if Sterling Wade’s funeral exists in a parallel universe, with some of Australia’s most loved characters stepping outside their worlds, blurring into reality and coming together in the name of grief.

  A pack of skinny young men with carefully trimmed beards appears from around the corner, and the journalists roll toward them like a wave. I give Fleet a questioning look. ‘The puppy pack,’ he explains. ‘Those kids are all hot stuff, earning a crap load more than you or I ever will, just by standing around and looking pretty.’ ‘Speak for yourself,’ I joke, straightening my bulky shirt and fluffing my hair.

  ‘Come on,’ Fleet says, looking up at the church. ‘Time to go in.’

  As the mourners continue to file into the church, the clouds seem to lift as if they’re trying to get as far away from the sadness as they can. I shiver when a gust of wind charges around us, and I make eye contact with a square-jawed man I’m pretty sure stars as a cop in a TV series. We exchange polite smiles and I wonder if Sterling Wade’s killer is here somewhere, watching.

  The service feels perfunctory, as if the Wades just want the whole thing done with. Matthew reads out a short religious passage and talks briefly about Sterling as a child. His commentary stops short of Sterling’s teenage years. April’s sobbing echoes around the church as he talks. The minister takes over after that, detailing the remaining decade of Wade’s life like he’s reciting his résumé. Then Lizzie briefly rises, flanked by Kit and a girlfriend. Looking frail in a long black lace dress, she declares her eternal love for Sterling, promising to do all the things they had planned to do together. ‘I promise I will make you so proud of me,’ she says, looking at Sterling’s coffin, her chin wobbling.

  After this, a diverse symphony of sobs provides a soundtrack, the
ir echoes creating a whirlpool in the high ceiling. Shapely arms heavy with jewels are lifted to wipe teary eyes. A tiny old lady, almost hidden beneath an oversized hat, moans intermittently as a stunning young man pats her back reassurringly.

  I watch April shuffling along behind her son’s coffin, her elbow linked with Wendy Ferla’s as if they’re schoolgirls. April seems shrunken and confused. At one point she looks my way, but there is no recognition in her gaze. Medicated, I think, recognising the cloudy stare.

  Lizzie cries neatly into a black handkerchief, the reassuring arms of her brother and friend around her. She gives the Wades cursory embraces outside the church before being pulled into a circle of young women who paw at her, stroking her hands and hugging her tight.

  ‘It’s all very polite, isn’t it?’ says Fleet, picking at some fluff on his jacket.

  I spot Brodie, pale and ethereal, hovering like a ghost just to the left of the action, clearly unsure of his place. He seems to gravitate toward an oblivious Lizzie, whom he follows around like a timid dog.

  In contrast, Cartwright leans against the wall of the church beside Katya, observing the scene from behind Ray-Bans as he smokes aggressively.

  The journalists are still breathless as they fuss around the tear-stained clusters of stars, doling out condolences and begging for sound bites that can be wrangled into headlines.

  Fleet coughs noisily and looks across the busy street. The stream of cars is at a standstill, all eyes trained on the action outside the church rather than on the road ahead. On the footpath a guy wearing earphones is so distracted by the sight of a high-profile newsreader that he walks into a bin.

  ‘Well, this has been fun, despite not prompting a public confession,’ says Fleet. ‘Should we grab something tasty and head back to the office?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, throwing one last glance at the Wades. Melissa and Paul look stiff in their ill-fitting clothes, and Melissa is deep in discussion with the funeral director and a man I assume is the head of security; she points to the media scrum, indicating that she wants them kept at bay. Matthew and April have eyes only for their dead son’s coffin, which rests in the back of the hearse. Several security guards in suits roam the area and two flank the rear of the hearse, forcing mourners to give it a wide berth.

  I tear my eyes from the familiar faces and fall into line with Fleet. Lizzie stands a few metres away from Sterling’s family, gripping Kit’s hand and talking earnestly to a serious-faced journalist with a microphone, her gaze continually drawn back to Sterling’s coffin.

  ‘No Ava,’ I comment.

  ‘Nope,’ says Fleet, squinting into the white winter light. ‘I guess she really wasn’t invited.’

  We cross the rain-slick road.

  ‘It does seem odd she wasn’t welcome,’ I say. ‘She and Sterling were friends and the service didn’t seem that exclusive, despite the media beat-up.’

  ‘Maybe the family didn’t want even more of a scene than it actually was. With Ava would have come more media and security. Lizzie probably didn’t want to deal with it and got in Melissa’s ear.’ He slows outside a greasy-looking hole in the wall that promises chips, gravy and hotdogs. I wrinkle my nose. ‘You can get a salad next door,’ he says helpfully.

  ‘I wonder what she’s doing right now,’ I say.

  ‘You mean Ava?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah. It would be weird not to be invited to the funeral of someone you care about. It seems pretty petty.’

  ‘Come on, Woodstock. You know as well as I do that death makes people even pettier than life does.’

  ‘True,’ I say, watching a huddle of sparrows fight over the remains of a meat pie.

  ‘But you’ve got me thinking about what lovely Ava might be up to in that huge hotel room.’ He makes his voice all dreamy. ‘Assuming she’s not sticking pins in a Riley Cartwright voodoo doll, maybe she’s trying to distract herself from her grief. A nice bubble bath, maybe? Some scented candles. Maybe a sneaky glass of bubbles and a good cry. And then, if it all gets too much, perhaps a hand might drift to her creamy thighs—’

  ‘Order me some chips,’ I snap, stomping off before he can reply.

  I walk up to Swanston Street, just wanting to get away from him for a moment. A homeless man lurches into my shoulder, asking me for money. Some young girls run past, knocking him out of the way and forcing me to step into the gutter.

  A dusting of rain begins to fall and I join a cluster of people under the awning of a shoe shop. I lean forward to look along the street and see if Fleet is approaching. Damned if I’m going back to get him. I smile at a round-faced little girl as I exhale warm air into the chill. Finally I spot Fleet making his way through the crowd, carrying two paper bags.

  Just then Mary-Anne calls, confirming that the lab has found traces of Walter Miller’s blood on the knife used to stab Sterling Wade.

  Thursday, 23 August

  3.37 pm

  A breakthrough can drive a case forward, unblock a jam and provide a clearer pathway—or it can bring everything to a grinding halt. I’m now worried that linking the Wade case to Walter’s death will result in the latter.

  ‘Right, everyone,’ I say. ‘Sit down, please. We have news.’

  The case room zips into immediate silence, the air flush with anticipation.

  ‘So,’ says Fleet laconically, scratching his back and lifting his shirt in the process, ‘it seems that two of our cases have come together.’

  Eyes widen and foreheads rumple.

  ‘The blood work suggests that the knife used to kill Sterling Wade was used less than forty-eight hours earlier in the stabbing death of Walter Miller, the 62-year-old homeless man killed in Carlton,’ I inform them.

  ‘Now, there is more than one explanation for this,’ I continue calmly. ‘It’s possible that Miller’s killer dumped the knife somewhere and that Wade’s killer found it before using it. However, this is highly unlikely as the wounds are so similar, almost identical. Based on the evidence we currently have, we think we’re looking for the same perpetrator.’

  Everyone is nodding, clearly doing what we’ve been doing these past few days—trying different theories, seeing what fits.

  ‘I want to be very clear: we do not think that this necessarily means our perpetrator will kill again, but it’s a possibility. We also don’t know if this means our victims were connected to each other. Nothing has turned up so far.’

  ‘From here,’ Fleet says, ‘we’ll merge the two investigations. Current work on all live leads should continue, but we need to shift the focus to any links to Miller and actively check alibis for both crimes. We obviously know more about Wade’s network than Miller’s, so we’ll start there, but we need to work from the other direction too.’

  ‘We must find out if Miller was in contact with anyone involved in the movie—perhaps a crew member who volunteered with the homeless,’ I say. ‘We think it’s possible Miller came across some information that became problematic for our attacker.’

  Fleet details an action plan for the next forty-eight hours, and we reinforce the need for absolute diligence with all case information. Ralph, who is in the final stages of handing over the reins of the Miller case, watches on gracefully, his world-weary expression indicating that he’s happy to let the kids have a turn in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Right, let’s Cluedo,’ says Fleet, pretending to make a magnifying glass with his fingers.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ I retort. Earlier I told him that my old partner Felix and I used to joke about playing Cluedo when we were trying to figure out a case, and Fleet rolled his eyes and made a sarcastic jibe about my country ways.

  ‘Nah, come on,’ he says, ‘I’m serious. I think it will help loosen up my theories. Like a board game enema.’

  He gives me a sweet look and I soften. It’s so much easier when we’re getting along.

  ‘Okay, Colonel Mustard, let’s play.’

  We’re alone in the case room, the last of the uniforms having l
eft five minutes ago. The finality of Wade’s funeral lingers and I feel the pressure of a solve more sharply than before. It’s always better to nail a case before a body is farewelled—the closure is much neater for everyone.

  ‘Both attacks were aggressive,’ I begin, looking at the enlarged autopsy photos.

  ‘But precise,’ suggests Fleet. ‘One clean wound. The person was in complete control, even if they were a tad insane. They can manage their emotions.’

  I push off from my chair and stretch out my aching back. ‘Maybe it’s one of those mental illnesses where you think someone is asking you to do something. Like voices in the head. Apparently that’s how a lot of stalking cases start out. People think they are being instructed to follow certain people.’ I pause to chew the edge of a corn chip. ‘Did you read that stuff on celebrity stalkers that the psych in Sydney sent us?’

  ‘Yep,’ says Fleet cheerfully. ‘That was some fucked-up shit.’

  ‘We can’t discount it.’

  ‘No, we can’t. It’s still very likely that our guy is some deranged loner who isn’t on our radar yet. So let’s leave that fine specimen at the top of the list. Suspect number one: a nameless, crazy, right-handed stalker with delusions of power, on the movie set with a sharp knife, and who wasn’t known to Wade, Miller or us.’ Fleet looks at the board.

  I let a beat slide by. ‘You still don’t think that’s right though, do you?’

  ‘Not really,’ he says. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I still feel like our other suspects hold a lot of promise. Especially based on all the other things that were going on in Wade’s life.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Fleet, pointing at Paul Wade’s licence photo.

  ‘Suspect two,’ I say. ‘A jealous, lying older brother with a weak alibi and a history of violence who worried that his parents were facing bankruptcy and saw a way to put things right. Thoughts?’

  Fleet yawns. ‘I find sibling rivalry so tedious. I mean, why can’t everyone just be happy for their ridiculously successful sibling and enjoy the expensive Christmas presents?’