by Sarah Bailey
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I’m not sure I am coping really, I’m just trying to get through each hour, each minute sometimes. It’s so, so hard.’
‘I can’t imagine,’ murmurs the host. ‘It must have been such a shock?’
‘It was. I still wake up every morning almost not remembering what’s happened. It’s so awful realising all over again that he’s gone.’ Lizzie makes a muffled sound. ‘Sorry, sorry.’
‘It’s fine, cry if you need to,’ says the host, as we turn into Collins Street.
Lizzie draws a deep breath. ‘I know that losing someone is always awful but when it’s so sudden it’s especially devastating.’
‘Absolutely. And these circumstances are just, well, unfathomable really. It’s certainly impacted everyone I know. And I know that you are no stranger to tragedy. You lost your mother at a young age too, didn’t you?’
‘I did. Dad walked out when I was five so it was always just me, Mum and my little brother. We didn’t have much money but we were super close. It was such a happy childhood. And then when I was fourteen, Mum died in a house fire. Kit and I lived with our aunt until I was eighteen and then we moved to Melbourne together. It was really tough but it has made us even closer.’
‘Just here, please,’ I tell the driver, pointing to the police station’s car-park entrance.
‘Terrible, this Sterling Wade business, isn’t it?’ he says, pulling over and shutting off the meter. ‘Being killed in broad daylight like that.’
‘Being murdered in the dark isn’t much fun either,’ I reply, handing him the fare.
‘She’s back,’ says Fleet loudly, drawing out the words like a game-show host when I walk in. ‘Tell us, Detective Woodstock, how was your little jaunt to the country?’
‘Lovely, thanks,’ I say quietly, dumping my bag on my desk and flicking on my computer. ‘Lots of fresh air.’
His voice drops as he says, ‘You sure you’re okay to be here?’
I see real concern in his eyes. ‘All good, thanks.’
He gives me a long look. ‘Right then. Well, back to work, I guess.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, then: ‘I was just listening to Lizzie Short on the radio.’
‘Oh yeah?’ says Fleet. ‘And what did our grieving widow have to say for herself?’
‘Not much. I think it was mainly just an opportunity for the radio host to fawn over her tragic life.’
‘We’ve definitely reached peak trauma culture,’ he says, biting into a muesli bar. ‘Warhol would be proud.’
‘I know,’ I say, rubbing my eyes. I can’t believe it’s only three-thirty. ‘So, where are we at with everything?’
Fleet wriggles in his chair. The leather of his jacket squeaks as he stretches from side to side. Faded cigarette smoke summons thoughts of dingy bars and loud music.
‘Well, we found our blog leaker,’ he says.
‘We did? Who?’
‘Some poor junior called Kate Joosten who wanted cred with her hipster housemate,’ he replies. ‘The silly girl took a photo of the printout in the case room and showed him. He texted it to himself and the rest is literally yesterday’s news. Idiot.’
‘At least it wasn’t malicious,’ I say, picturing the unremarkable dark-haired girl and thinking about how bad she must be feeling.
Fleet shrugs. ‘Just fucking stupid.’
‘Well, I guess it’s good to have it resolved,’ I say. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. Brodie’s missing.’
‘Where has he gone?’ I ask distractedly.
‘Do you not understand the definition of missing?’ Fleet says, laughing. ‘We have no idea.’
‘Lizzie doesn’t know where he is?’
‘Nope.’ Fleet yawns. ‘She hasn’t seen him since he came home after that little chat we had on Friday. His phone is off and he hasn’t touched his bank accounts.’
‘Did you actually go around there?’ I ask Fleet. ‘Maybe he’s told Lizzie to cover for him.’
Fleet seems to think about this. ‘Yep. I’ll get on to it.’
The white buzz of the office lights is making my vision jump. I look at Fleet, talking on the phone, then slide my eyes over to Nan and Calvin who are locked in a heated discussion near the tearoom. Who are these people? What am I doing here?
Ben and I met my old boss Jonesy for a coffee this morning. I hadn’t wanted to go to the station so we met at Reggie’s, one of my favourite cafes.
Jonesy delighted in grilling me about the ins and outs of police life in Melbourne before embarking on an enthusiastic run-down of the latest Smithson cases. Listening to his familiar prattle, with Ben pressed against my side and drawing circles on my hand with a pen, I felt a wave of intense homesickness despite, oddly, being home.
‘And you’re okay, Woodstock?’ Jonesy said to me as we parted, ducking his head so that I was forced to look into his eyes.
‘Are you okay, Woodstock?’ asks Fleet now, pulling me from my looping thoughts.
‘What?’ There’s a throbbing pressure behind my eyes. Ben loved me being at his soccer presentation but I felt like I was under a giant spotlight yesterday afternoon. I’m still reeling from the constant questions. The stares. Dad and Rebecca. Scott. Plus, I still haven’t called Josh back, so that is probably another relationship I can kiss goodbye.
‘It’s weird going home sometimes, huh?’ Fleet says.
I look at him, surprised. I shrug. ‘It’s okay.’
‘I’m sure it’s a nice little place, your home town. Doesn’t mean it’s not a headfuck.’
He stabs at his keyboard for a few moments. Scrawls something on his notepad.
I venture, ‘Do you go back home often?’
‘Not really,’ he says evenly, underlining so many words it seems unnecessary.
‘Do you miss it?’ I press.
He snorts but his eyes are kind. ‘Let’s not turn this into a lie-back-on-the-couch session. Come on, my part-time friend,’ he says, jumping up. He holds a pen like a cigarette between his fingers and taps its end on the side of his desk. ‘We’ve got shit to do.’
Just as we’re about to head into the afternoon case meeting, Ravi Franks comes up to us, holding out his phone.
‘Check this out,’ he says. ‘Ava James just recorded a panel interview talking about the attack on Wade but she also mentions having issues with Cartwright.’
I look at Ava’s face underneath the play button on Ravi’s phone. ‘Does she mention the assault?’
‘Not explicitly. She alludes to his arrogance and sense of entitlement. I think she uses the words “inappropriate” and “predatory”.’
Standing in the corridor, we watch the interview and I marvel at the desire these people have to share so much of their lives with strangers.
While Ava isn’t overt in taking down Cartwright, the message is still clear: she’s fighting back. She also does a good job of making her relationship with Sterling seem very intimate, and I wonder if it’s an up yours to Lizzie for not being invited to the funeral.
Fleet and I go into the case room and open the meeting. ‘Any updates?’ I ask the team, more aggressively than I’d intended.
I’m annoyed by Ava’s media appearance. Even though nothing she said presents a problem for us specifically, it just feels like another example of this case having a mind of its own. I’m frustrated that we’re watching parts of the story unfold just like everyone else.
As the team members run through their reports it reminds me of a big, sprawling game of hot and cold with the person in charge yelling us into dead ends, causing us to trip over each other and land back where we started.
‘We might have something,’ says Ravi tentatively. ‘We’ve been going through the details on the film production, the security planning, contracts, checking the guards, stuff like that. In the process, we’ve been given access to the film budget and salaries, and it seems Katya March is getting paid almost double the going rate for a film like this.’
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�Is that something she would have negotiated?’ I ask.
‘We’re not sure. But we spoke to a few industry people and it’s certainly a figure that stands out.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Good. We’ll check it out.’
‘There are a few other witness statements to follow up: a young woman claims a man in a hoodie almost knocked her over when she was walking home through Carlton just after Walter Miller was killed,’ says Chloe.
I relay my doubts about Paul Wade’s involvement to the group. ‘But we still need to clear him. Is there any more CCTV to go through?’ I ask the constables who are managing all the footage. ‘Ideally I’d like to have him on tape at the time of the attack.’
‘Some stores are still handing tapes in,’ one of them confirms. ‘But all the city council footage is in and we can only find him on that one file.’
‘Keep looking,’ I say.
As everyone files out of the room, I try to call Brodie but his phone is still off. I shove my own phone back in my pocket.
Fleet looks at me, a question.
‘Still no answer from Brodie,’ I reply, lifting my hair away from my neck.
‘I think it’s time to make our missing person official,’ he says.
Tuesday, 28 August
10.35 am
Katya eyes us warily as she sits across from us in the interview room. Today she wears a bright red blouse under a navy faux fur shrug, her black hair piled on top of her head.
‘Riley and I have an agreement,’ she explains after we query her inflated pay cheque.
‘Like a you-drop-the-harassment-claim-if-he-pays-you-a-stack-of-cash-now-and-forevermore kind of agreement?’ asks Fleet.
She purses her lips. ‘Something like that,’ she says.
‘Did Cartwright assault you three years ago?’ I ask.
‘Like I told you,’ she says, spreading her fingers on the table, ‘he’s a good guy but he acts like a jerk sometimes. Back then I didn’t know how to handle him.’
‘But you do now?’ says Fleet sceptically.
‘I know how this world works now,’ she says. ‘People like Riley are never going to change so you just have to work around them.’
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘so you agreed to drop the charges if he gave you more money?’
‘Pretty much. When he first came on to me I wanted to show him who was boss, you know, do the feminist thing, make a formal complaint, stand up for myself. But I quickly realised how inconvenient that made me. No one wanted to hear about it and I was the problem, not Riley. Getting another job would have been impossible.’ She shrugs, tilting her chin at us. ‘He offered me some money to shut up and I decided to negotiate an even better deal.’
‘How exactly does it work?’ I ask her.
‘It’s simple. I keep my mouth shut about what he did and choose to ignore a few of his other weaknesses, and I am guaranteed an executive producer role on every film he does at an extremely high salary.’ She crosses her arms. ‘Based on all the extra shit I do to manage him, believe me, it’s more than fair.’
Her cool confidence radiates around the room and I can’t help feeling a little bit impressed by her conviction.
‘He doesn’t really learn his lesson that way though, does he?’
She sighs. ‘The saying about leopards changing spots springs to mind. At least this way I get the career I deserve out of it. I’m a good producer.’
‘Do you know if he’s assaulted other women?’
Her gaze is defiant. ‘I couldn’t say.’
‘But you could guess,’ says Fleet.
‘I would assume so, yes.’
‘Like Ava James,’ I say.
‘I’m sure Ms James will be absolutely fine,’ says Katya, narrowing her eyes and avoiding the question.
‘Is there anything else you know about Cartwright that you haven’t shared with us?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘You’re sure? There’s no other large payment coming your way in exchange for keeping quiet about something?’
‘I told you, I’m positive Riley had nothing to do with what happened to Sterling. He can be a creep but he’s not a killer.’
‘Maybe he got desperate. Wade had dirt on him too but obviously wasn’t interested in being paid off to keep quiet,’ suggests Fleet.
She looks amused. ‘Sterling didn’t threaten Cartwright. He wasn’t that kind of guy. His little confrontation was more the old-fashioned, do-the-right-thing type. Cartwright was annoyed but to be honest I think he was more pissed off at Ava for running to Wade for help.’
‘Will you keep working with Cartwright?’ I ask.
‘If the price is right, sure. But to be honest I’m not sure if he’ll be able to take on another project for a while. He’s checked into rehab. Did you know that?’
‘No,’ Fleet says wryly. ‘We must have been left off the group text.’
‘He’s a real mess this time,’ she says. ‘I saw him yesterday. So who knows what will happen now?’
‘You don’t seem that worried,’ I say.
‘My reputation isn’t the one in tatters,’ she replies confidently, but I detect real fear in her eyes.
‘At least we know where Cartwright is,’ I say to Fleet, as we walk back to the case room after Katya leaves. ‘Unlike Brodie.’
Earlier we spoke to Brodie’s parents in Adelaide, an elderly Greek couple with broken English, who told us they haven’t seen their son since Christmas and haven’t heard from him in over a month. His father’s strong accent filled the tiny meeting room as he told us, with a sort of resigned judgement, that his son has a habit of disappearing.
On the day of the funeral Brodie posted a farewell message to Wade’s Facebook wall. It was one of over 450,000 goodbye messages that Wade’s social platforms attracted that day, the outpouring of grief ranging from the short and sweet to the laboured and passionate. Brodie also uploaded an image to his Instagram of a ferocious ocean with the caption: ‘Thank you for everything. Now you are part of the earth, sky and sea.’
A friend commented on his post later that day, asking if he was okay. Twenty-three people liked this comment, and over the past few days three other people have responded, expressing concern about him and offering to help. But Brodie never replied.
He seems to have disappeared into thin air. He has no car registered in his name and his bank accounts haven’t been touched for over a week—though seeing as the balances total less than thirty dollars, this doesn’t mean much. His credit cards are maxed out. His phone remains off.
‘Let’s go and make sure he’s really not at Lizzie’s,’ I say to Fleet. ‘Maybe he’s like the Wades and just wants to shut the world out for a while. And told her to cover for him.’
We make our way across town, which takes twice as long as it should due to all the stretches of roadworks.
‘I swear the traffic here is getting worse,’ I complain. But Fleet has his eyes glued to his personal phone.
At the apartment, we’re greeted by a made-up Lizzie who is about to go out.
‘I have a TV interview this afternoon,’ she tells us. ‘I’m joining The Street later this year and so it’s part of my publicity obligations.’ She takes a deep breath and draws herself tall. ‘Keeping busy helps. It’s a good distraction from—’ She waves a hand at the empty apartment.
Lizzie confirms she hasn’t seen Brodie since the day of Sterling’s funeral.
We ask to take a quick look in his room. ‘Of course,’ she says.
It looks exactly as it did the other day.
‘You have no idea where he might have gone?’ I ask her when we return to the lounge.
‘No idea, and I wish he’d told me where he was going. I’m getting pretty worried. I don’t think he has many friends. Maybe he went home to see his parents? I think he’s from Adelaide.’
I look out the window behind her, noticing little buds forming on the huge tree.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘if he comes home or you hear from hi
m, you need to let us know straight away, okay?’
‘Of course,’ she murmurs.
As she walks into the kitchen I notice the dark rings under her eyes that the make-up can’t hide.
‘Are you looking after yourself?’ I ask.
‘I’m just trying to get through each day,’ she says. ‘The funeral was awful. I’m so glad it’s over.’ She smooths her hair. ‘Like I said, there’s been a lot going on. The media is relentless and I’ve done lots of interviews. But it’s good, it keeps me going.’ She looks toward Brodie’s bedroom. ‘Kit has been staying here most nights because I’m too scared to go to sleep on my own. Do you think Brodie’s okay?’
‘I’m sure he is,’ I tell her. ‘He probably just needs some time out.’
Fleet and I don’t talk on the way back to the station. I notice he keeps staring out the window and I wonder what he’s thinking about.
A few hours later I’m making my way through a mug of instant soup that says it’s chicken-flavoured despite its distinct beef vibe while reviewing Brodie’s patchy income streams over the past few years.
‘He’s not very good at being an adult, is he?’ I comment to Fleet.
‘Some of us never quite get the hang of it,’ he replies, as he lifts his feet onto the corner of a table and leans back into his chair, stretching his arms above his head and revealing a small tear in his shirt seam.
‘Wade must have let Brodie stay at the apartment rent-free,’ I say. ‘There’s no way he could afford a third of the rent unless he was getting money off the books.’
‘Clearly Brodie was paying him in other ways,’ suggests Fleet.
I roll my eyes and say nothing, wondering why straight guys are always so obsessed with commenting on sexual activity between men.
‘Maybe he wanted to be with his boyfriend in heaven and jumped dramatically off a cliff,’ muses Fleet, voicing one of my many fears for Brodie. ‘Or,’ he continues, ‘he’s as guilty as all get-out and has disappeared into the wilderness, never to be seen again.’
My eyes are starting to burn; even blinking hurts. ‘I think I need to go for a walk,’ I tell Fleet, pulling at my cheeks and trying to wake myself up. ‘I’m falling asleep.’