by Sarah Bailey
‘Yeah, I’m knackered too,’ he says.
I scan the last few rows of Brodie’s financials. ‘Hey,’ I say, as two words suddenly stand out from the others on the page. ‘Isn’t that Riley Cartwright’s company?’ I jab at the name: Blood Productions. The company paid Brodie Kent almost six thousand dollars about two years ago. It’s one of the largest amounts on the ramshackle list of sporadic payments we’ve managed to track down.
Fleet comes around to my side of the table and leans down next to me, peering at the paper. I feel his breath on the side of my face. ‘Yes,’ he says, a thread of excitement in his voice, ‘I think you are one hundred per cent correct, Miss Scarlet.’
Tuesday, 28 August
2.59 pm
We locate Cartwright’s room in the small private hospital on the edge of the city. He’s sitting in an armchair having a foot spa. He looks up when we enter but seems to barely register our presence, his fidgeting hands continuing their mad dance. Similarly, the tiny ball of a nurse crouched in front of him misses only the slightest of beats in her rhythmic kneading of his feet and ankles in the steaming water.
I begin. ‘Mr Cartwright—’
‘Sit, sit.’ He waves us in.
‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, lowering myself onto a chair. Fleet leans against the wall and gently kicks a heel against the running board. Cartwright’s gaze jumps across to the spot where Fleet’s foot connects; he blinks every time it makes a beat.
He laughs but the sound carries no emotion. ‘Not very well.’
‘We need to talk to you,’ says Fleet. ‘Is this a good time?’
There’s a little splash as the nurse’s hands keep working in the water. Cartwright looks down at her affectionately. ‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Alone,’ I say, glancing at the nurse.
Cartwright grimaces and pulls his feet out. The nurse immediately grabs the towel next to her and begins to rub them dry.
‘Yes, yes, thank you,’ says Cartwright, clearly dismissing her. ‘That’s fine, thanks.’
She bobs her head and lifts the tub, waddling from the room, her tiny muscles bulging.
‘Nice place,’ comments Fleet wryly, plonking himself onto the queen-sized bed. It’s not dressed with the standard hospital linen, instead made up with a soft grey and white patterned doona.
‘It’s okay,’ says Cartwright evenly.
‘Do you know Brodie Kent?’ I ask, like a punch.
Cartwright doesn’t blink but a bead of light wobbles in his pupils. ‘Do I? I’m not sure. I know a lot of people.’
‘Brodie Kent,’ I repeat. ‘A young actor and dancer. He was cast in one of your films about two years ago. You attended a five-week shoot with him in New Zealand. Ringing any bells?’ My voice is mean and I realise just how tired I am of these people.
Cartwright tips his head back against the chair and rolls it from side to side, stretching his neck. ‘Maybe,’ he says finally. ‘Dark hair?’
‘Very dark,’ says Fleet. ‘He was also Sterling Wade’s housemate.’
Cartwright straightens up, more alert now. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he says warily. ‘I thought it was just Sterling and Lizzie.’
‘So you do know him then,’ I say with sarcasm.
‘Vaguely. He bugged me for that role, almost drove me mad. I ended up casting him but he wasn’t very good.’
‘Seen him since?’ I ask.
‘I went to some drinks earlier this year—one of the casting places put them on—and he was there. But aside from that, I don’t think so.’ Cartwright bends his long legs and sits cross-legged on the chair.
‘Did you speak to him at the drinks?’ asks Fleet.
‘Nope. Once I recognised him, I avoided him. He’s a pain in the arse and I didn’t want to have him bug me about another role again.’
‘And you’re sure you haven’t seen him since?’ I press.
Cartwright shakes his head. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘He was at Sterling’s funeral,’ I say.
‘I didn’t notice. I was pretty out of it that day, in case you haven’t heard.’ He gestures at our surrounds. ‘Landed myself here.’
‘Okay,’ says Fleet, with zero sympathy, ‘and you definitely haven’t had any contact with him since?’
‘No way. I’ve been either stoned out of my head or in here. I’ve barely had contact with anyone.’
‘What happened?’ asks Fleet. ‘The funeral push you over the edge?’ ‘Something like that,’ Cartwright mumbles.
‘Alright,’ says Fleet, ‘so you’ve had no contact with Brodie Kent since a party earlier this year, correct?’
‘That’s right. To be honest, he’s not someone I’ve ever thought about. Apart from being annoying, he’s completely generic. It seems odd to me that he was part of Wade’s crew.’
‘So if we check your phone records and emails, there will be no contact between the two of you?’ I snap.
He looks steadily at me. ‘I would be very surprised if something came up.’
‘How long will you be in here?’ asks Fleet.
‘Dunno. Probably a while. I’ve had what my psychiatrist calls a “major crash”.’
‘Does your psychiatrist also say experiencing a major crash is beneficial for someone facing assault charges?’ I ask.
Cartwright meets my stare head-on but says nothing.
‘Look, mate, we obviously know that you weren’t the one to attack Wade,’ says Fleet. ‘We’re just trying to make sure you didn’t have a partner in crime to do the dirty work while you watched on.’
Cartwright shakes his head in disbelief. ‘You really think I had something to do with this? It has ruined me. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I see Sterling’s face as he went down over and over. I’m a mess.’
‘Maybe the pressure of carrying a film just isn’t for you,’ Fleet suggests. ‘Perhaps the idea of a large cash payout is far more appealing. You can sit around in this joint with someone rubbing your feet. Maybe pass some money along to your hit-man buddy.’
‘No way,’ retorts Cartwright, struggling to pull himself up straight in the chair. ‘Sterling was my friend and I had no idea about the insurance money until Katya told me. This is just some lunatic who flipped out.’ He leans forward menacingly, pointing his finger at me. ‘Believe me, being in a place like this you see just how crazy people are. It’s not hard to see how someone who was obsessed with Sterling could have taken it too far.’
Fleet and I stand up wordlessly.
‘Whatever,’ Cartwright mumbles. Then: ‘Do you really think that Brodie kid has something to do with this? He always seemed kind of pathetic to me.’
Fleet eases his hands into his pockets as he heads to the door; his fingers must already be on his cigarette packet. ‘Brodie may be pathetic but right now he’s also missing, so do let us know if he drops in for a visit, won’t you?’
Wednesday, 29 August
12.03 am
The buzz of my phone yanks me out of sleep.
‘It’s Ava James,’ breathes Chloe. ‘She’s been attacked.’
‘Is she okay?’ I ask, scrambling upright.
‘We think so,’ replies Chloe. ‘She’s just been taken to the hospital. Shock and minor abrasions.’
I swap my tracksuit for jeans and a jacket and rub my face with a hot wet flannel before I walk the short distance from my apartment to Southbank.
The Yarra River is a bed of pewter, rumpled with white moonlight. I look across to the other side of the water and see the silhouettes of people walking home, or heading out to bars or the casino to piss away more of their money. Next to me Fleet is smoking steadily, his eyes slits. The forensics team has fenced off the area with tape. Two giant spotlights are aimed at the concrete path as they trawl through every square inch. A curious, eclectic crowd has started to form.
Despite my thick jacket, I feel ice in the air and I can only imagine the temperature of the murky water. We speak to Ava’s quick-thinking rescuer: a small wir
y arts student who just so happened to be carrying a skipping rope in his backpack. Unfortunately he saw nothing, just heard a splash followed by screams before he rushed over to find a desperate Ava flailing in the freezing water about a metre below.
I open my mouth to speak to Fleet but the cold air steals my voice. I swallow and try again. ‘This just keeps getting more and more complicated, doesn’t it?’
‘Conveniently so,’ he replies.
‘I don’t buy that this was a random attack.’
‘Nope.’ He blows air into his bunched fists and stamps his feet for warmth. ‘If it was, surely the bloke would have mugged her or felt her up or something.’
‘Yeah.’ That has been bothering me too. ‘The guys are checking but there’s no CCTV along this stretch of the path apparently. At least we’ll probably be able to see who came up and down the walkway unless they climbed the wall somehow.’
‘You think she could have faked it?’ asks Fleet, just as the thought crosses my mind.
I breathe out a cloud of white air and march on the spot too, willing my blood to keep moving. ‘God, I don’t know. It seems pretty extreme, but I guess it’s possible.’ I look up at the moon, a veiny sphere of white light. Tonight it’s almost as bright as the sun. ‘Maybe she was upset about the media coverage after her interview and wanted the spotlight back on her in a good way,’ I muse. ‘The press has pitted her against Lizzie, right? The poor grieving widow. Maybe she’s looking for some sympathy.’
‘Maybe,’ says Fleet, gazing out at the water.
We watch as one of the techs shines a flashlight down the side of the stone wall into the water and shakes his head.
‘Or maybe this case is just fucking with my mind,’ I say, ‘and making me think that Agatha Christie plots are coming to life.’
Fleet drops his cigarette unceremoniously and twists his foot, killing the last of its glow. ‘These people are all batshit crazy. I know we weren’t lucky enough to meet young Mr Wade in the flesh but he’s starting to seem like the most normal of them all.’
‘I know. My truth radar is all over the place.’
Fleet smirks but he cuffs me gently on the shoulder. ‘Truth radar. We don’t have those in the big smoke, champ. We just assume everyone is lying. Statistically it’s more likely.’
I smile at him and feel like we’ve hit an even better groove since I’ve been back from Smithson. I realise how much I want his approval and hate myself for it.
We walk a little further up the path. I nod at a few of the techs and scan the collection of faces behind the police tape in the dim light. Who are all these people? What are they all doing? What secrets are they hiding? I stare for a second too long and their features blur together, my mind creating a bizarre montage of melted faces.
‘Yeah, well,’ I say, snapping my eyes into focus and banishing the image, ‘all I know for sure is that it’s becoming increasingly important that we find Brodie Kent.’
Ava James sits bolt upright in her hospital bed, eyes wide open as if she is possessed. Her bright blue irises follow us as we walk in but she doesn’t say anything. Her hair is no longer red, but a rich dark brown and cut much shorter. It is combed back from her face, still damp, though I assume it’s from a hot shower and not the fall in the river. Her right temple is grazed and there’s some light bruising on her collarbone. She doesn’t blink.
‘Ms James?’ says Fleet gently, and I can tell that even he is spooked by her vacant stare. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions. Is that okay?’
‘Yes,’ she whispers.
‘We’re very sorry that this happened to you,’ I begin.
She nods, her face a mask.
‘What did you do earlier tonight,’ Fleet says, ‘before all this happened?’
She speaks slowly, her voice even and flat. ‘I met some friends for a drink. One of them is staying at a hotel at the other end of the city. I walked there. I wanted some fresh air. I’ve been walking a lot since everything happened…’
I wonder whether she realises we’re still here. It’s like she’s talking to herself.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘What’s your friend’s hotel called?’
‘The Spence.’
‘Did you go anywhere else?’ I ask.
‘No. My friends wanted to go out but I didn’t feel like it. I walked with them about a block to a tapas bar and then I kept going. I’ve really struggled to be around crowds since Sterling’s…attack.’ She pulls at the bedding with her hands.
‘What time was this?’ Fleet presses.
‘I think just after 10 pm.’
‘Was the bar near the river?’
‘No.’ She’s still staring up at me, her eyes hollow. ‘The restaurant was near the corner of Spencer and Bourke. I walked to the river afterwards. I didn’t want to go back to my hotel room.’ A bitter laugh escapes her lips. ‘Can’t be around crowds, can’t be alone. I’m turning into a complete head case.’
‘I thought you had full-time security?’ says Fleet, clearly trying to keep her to the story.
‘I do.’ She drops her gaze for the first time, watching her manic fingers. ‘I told them I was going to stay at my friend’s hotel for the evening.’ She looks back up with a flash of her trademark defiance. ‘Seems pretty stupid now, but sometimes I just need a break. I like walking at night. People don’t tend to recognise me. You probably don’t understand.’
‘Everyone needs some time out,’ says Fleet.
‘Yes,’ she says, her glassy stare returning. ‘Anyway, I walked around for maybe an hour. I had my headphones on, listening to music. I wasn’t paying attention to the time, I was just walking.’
I look at Ava and think how impossible it seems that such a beautiful woman can be so lost and lonely. With her legs wrapped in the hospital sheet and her hair waved and damp, she looks like a fantasy mermaid.
‘Why did you go to the river?’ I ask her.
She doesn’t appear to move but a lock of hair slips over her shoulder. She picks it up and toys with it. ‘I don’t know,’ she finally says in the same spooky monotone. ‘I decided to walk back to my hotel along the water. I’ve been walking along there early most mornings this past week.’
‘With your security guard?’ asks Fleet.
She nods. ‘Yes. Tonight is the first time I’ve gone alone.’
‘Are you still staying at the hotel where we visited you?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Bit out of your way, to walk along the river,’ he comments.
‘I wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere. I was only going to go home and lie in bed for hours, trying to sleep.’
‘Okay,’ I jump in, ‘so you cut down to the river and walked along the path. Were you planning to come out through the station to the corner of Flinders and Swanston?’
She nods again. ‘Yes. And then along Flinders Street up to the hotel on Spring.’ Her piercing gaze burns through me. ‘You must live around there,’ she says suddenly. ‘I’ve seen you walking early some mornings too.’
Ignoring the curious look Fleet gives me, I say, ‘Tell us what happened next, Ava. What do you remember?’
Her hands flutter across the blanket. ‘I don’t really know. I was just walking. I stopped to look at something on my phone. And then it happened so fast. Hands around my neck, grabbing me—like, choking me. I didn’t even fight back, I just thought I was going to die.’ Her voice drops to a mist. ‘Just like Sterling.’
‘Have you felt like you were being followed before tonight?’ Fleet asks.
‘I don’t think so. And I’m pretty aware of stuff like that, especially lately.’
‘Did you see your attacker at all?’ I ask. ‘Remember anything distinctive?’
‘I was just freaking out waiting for him to stab me. For a moment, I thought he had.’
‘You’re sure it was a man?’ asks Fleet, rocking back and forth on his heels.
‘I’m pretty sure,’ she says, urgency entering her voice. ‘He was s
o strong.’
Tears well in her eyes, threatening to spill over.
‘After he grabbed me I heard breathing in my ear, then he let go of my throat.’ She looks at us like a frightened animal. ‘I dropped to the ground, my legs stopped working, I couldn’t move but I was so relieved. I thought it was over. I got up—I wanted to make a run for it in case he tried to rape me—and then I felt pressure under my armpits.’ She squeezes her eyes shut, her perfect hands twisting madly around each other, her nails a beautiful pearly purple. ‘He grabbed me one more time, and then I was flying. I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t really know what was happening until I hit the river.’ Her mouth twists as she tries to quell the sobs. ‘It was so cold. I tried to scream but I thought the water might be toxic so I was panicking. A man in dark clothes was walking past on the path and his face was covered. He didn’t stop even though I was screaming, but I don’t know if he was the one who attacked me. I could barely think, it was so cold.’
She shudders and curls her legs up as she tilts forward into a ball. I can tell there is still ice in her veins.
She begins to cry. Deep sobs rack her body. ‘I just want to go home.’
Wednesday, 29 August
9.49 am
The case room smells like burnt toast. Fleet and I both look terrible, as if we’ve aged a decade overnight. He clears his throat and it catches roughly on the beginning of a cold.
After we left the hospital I got a cab home and tried to sleep. I think I finally drifted off around four and woke to my alarm just before seven. The weight of my exhausted eyes is putting pressure on my whole face, and the rhythmic pounding in my head feels like it’s counting down to an explosion.
I fan my fingers then lift them up and down one by one. ‘What is this guy trying to prove?’ I ask Fleet.
He coughs before wheezing into a sigh. ‘Fucked if I know.’ Yawning, he rotates his head in a slow circle. ‘I know we said it seems like it’s linked, but maybe it’s just a run-of-the-mill late-night psycho.’
‘It has to be linked though, doesn’t it?’ I say, looking at the board along the back wall, the beautiful faces staring back at me.