Into the Night

by Sarah Bailey

  ‘Someone could have just been following her,’ says Fleet. ‘Maybe she caught someone’s eye at the bar and they trailed her as she went on her late-night stroll? Perhaps they were going to rob her or assault her, but they got spooked at the last minute and pushed her instead.’

  I think this over and nod. He’s right. Ava wouldn’t be as recognisable late at night and out of context; her hair had been tucked under a woollen hat and she’d worn a bulky coat. But at the bar she would surely have caught the eyes of fellow drinkers. Maybe someone followed her, eventually realising she was alone.

  Silly girl, I think, before chastising myself.

  ‘It is sort of odd that the one night she doesn’t have security trailing her, she’s attacked,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, I know. She might be being stalked. But we can’t rule out the possibility that she’s screwing us around.’

  ‘We should pull CCTV from the bar. See if anyone was watching her or left around the same time she did.’

  ‘Yep,’ he says, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’ll get someone on it.’

  ‘It’s two weeks today since Wade was killed,’ I say after a minute. ‘Maybe whoever did this doesn’t want Ava sticking around. Maybe she knows something about what happened to Sterling and it was a warning.’

  ‘Pretty dramatic way to say fuck off,’ Fleet comments.

  ‘It’s worked though. You heard her last night—she’ll be on the first plane out of here as soon as she’s released from hospital.’

  ‘Well, we know Lizzie hates her, but physically attacking her seems a bit of a stretch. Maybe our friend Brodie has gone all fugitive, hiding in the shadows and only coming out in the dead of night to attack people?’

  ‘Cartwright probably has the most reason to want her out of here but it obviously wasn’t him. He hasn’t left the rehab centre since he checked in.’

  ‘True,’ Fleet says. ‘But like we keep saying, if Cartwright’s involved in this mess, he’s not getting physical. He’s working with someone.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I’m frustrated that our attempt to discover a connection between Brodie and Cartwright has hit a brick wall—we can’t find any contact between them. ‘Maybe Ava was originally involved in the attack on Wade but whoever did this just wants her to shut up now and go back to the US.’

  ‘If that’s true then it means this is the same guy. Do we really think that’s likely? That he’s hunting down people close to Wade like in a teen horror flick?’

  ‘Do you really think it could be Brodie?’ I ask.

  ‘Dunno. It’s not a huge stretch to imagine him pounding the streets at night thinking up weird shit to do. And then there’s Walter Miller—Brodie’s still the only person we can even vaguely link to both victims.’

  I scratch my ankle underneath my thick sock. The skin on my legs is rough, with prickly hairs pushing through. ‘Yeah, he volunteered at a homeless shelter years ago. It’s not exactly a hot lead.’

  ‘No,’ Fleet admits. ‘It’s not. But we don’t have anything else.’ He kicks at the floor, making me jump. Glancing at the clock, he says, ‘This case is such bullshit.’ He pushes his fingers against his temples and bends forward onto the table, and I think that this is the first time he has been so vulnerable in front of me.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask after a minute.

  He ignores my question and looks at his watch. ‘The troops will be here soon, so we’ll be able to tell them the good news about Ava. Another celebrity for them all to jizz over and then chat about with their nearest and dearest tonight.’ He curls his lip in disgust. ‘I need another coffee.’ Then he pulls himself to his feet, yawning. ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, ‘thanks.’

  He smiles at me as he walks past, the buzz of the real world rolling in as he opens the door.

  Wednesday, 29 August

  11.02 pm

  Trapped in the deepest of sleeps, I dream of fingers and toes. Close-ups of unseeing eyes. My mind flutters around the edges of old cases. Terrified children. Dead children. Ben’s sleeping face. So peaceful. Too peaceful? I start to panic that Ben is actually not asleep at all. I step closer to him, lines of moonlight resting on his perfect face. He is so still. I can’t think; I don’t want to believe what I’m seeing. I step closer, already crying. Ben isn’t moving and I’m saying his name over and over and he’s still not moving. I touch his face. My hand connects with cold skin and then he disappears. I paw at the empty bed, desperate to find my little boy, pulling bedclothes onto the floor, my cries ringing around the room. He’s gone.

  My leg kicks out, jerking me awake. A car alarm curls through the night.

  Damp and anxious, I lie looking at the ceiling as my body adjusts to wakefulness.

  Josh and I met for a drink earlier this evening, seated side by side on uncomfortably tall stools. I filled him in on my week and surprised myself by telling him about Dad and Rebecca’s engagement; I even talked about Mum dying. Despite my assumption that he would be dismissive with me since our aborted romantic evening, he was more attentive than ever and seemed to understand my complicated feelings. It felt good to unload on someone who isn’t directly involved. He played with my hand as I talked and made me laugh with stories about his entitled co-workers. Looking at him, I felt a rush of affection. I did what I always do and promised myself that when the Wade case is over I’ll make more of an effort. Give this a real shot. Men like Josh don’t turn up regularly and I need to stop being so careless with him.

  Ben called as I was walking home and I forced myself not to ask him about Scott’s girlfriend. We talked about school, and I took a photo of the sky over the city and sent it to him. After we hung up, I got home and crawled into bed, tumbling into a restless few hours of broken sleep.

  Turning to the clock, I see it’s not even midnight. I listen to the various heaves and grunts of the night for a bit longer before hauling myself up and heading into the kitchen. Gritty and irritable, I’m annoyed at my failed attempts to sleep while I have the chance. I run the tap until the water turns hot and then stand at the window as I sip it.

  My glass soon empty, I toy with the idea of alcohol but I know I should try to get more sleep. I walk through the apartment, running my fingers along the walls, and climb back into bed, shutting my eyes and willing the next day to appear in front of me.

  I must have drifted off because suddenly my eyes are springing open. My work phone, which has somehow ended up under my pillow, is pulling me out of unconsciousness. The name ‘Nick Fleet’ fills the screen and I feel a sense of dread as I answer.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Woodstock? That you?’ He’s somewhere noisy—I hear shrieks and laughter in the background. ‘Gemma?’ The acoustics change like he’s stepped into a stairwell.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘I need you to come meet me.’

  ‘Now?’ For a second I wonder if I’m dreaming this. ‘Where are you?’ I say as I roll out of bed.

  ‘The casino,’ he replies. ‘Come now. There’s been a development.’

  I toss a ten-dollar note at the cab driver and rush the short distance into the heat of the casino foyer. I call Fleet as I push my way past a steady flow of people. Tall glamorous women in strappy dresses clutch the arms of portly men; drunk teens move in packs, slapping and groping one another, shrieking and giggling. A family who could easily have stepped out of an ad for Ralph Lauren stand together looking disoriented, each holding the handle of a plush-looking suitcase. A young woman dances solo across the foyer with her eyes closed. Unblinking security guards appear to see none of this, only coming to life to ID a group of girls with thick eyeliner.

  Before I left my apartment I pulled on a grey jumper and a pair of jeans, covering both with an oversized navy coat. For a moment I think that the guard is going to ID me but he waves me through into the gaming area. The plastic beeping sounds make me feel like I’m in the bowels of a computer game. Everywhere I look people are glued to the illuminated scree
ns, robotically lifting their arms to farewell more money. Fleet’s not answering and I scan the aisles of machines, half expecting to see him.

  My phone rings and I startle. I am only half present—the other half of me is still asleep in bed.

  ‘Are you here yet?’ asks Fleet.

  ‘Yes, I’m here. Somewhere. I have no idea where to go though.’

  ‘I’m at the Solar Bar, near the main tables.’ He hangs up.

  ‘Great,’ I mutter through gritted teeth, as I walk back to the security guards.

  ‘Hey, sweetheart,’ leers a short man in a shiny jacket. He grabs at my waist as I go past.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I say and he laughs, his hands in the air.

  ‘Just trying to be friendly.’

  ‘Where’s the Solar Bar?’ I ask one of the guards, who had watched this exchange with zero reaction.

  He blinks slowly and shifts his empty stare in my direction, then lifts his hand to point. ‘Down that way, to the left. Follow the chandeliers.’

  I soon see Fleet sitting in a booth, a half-drunk martini in front of him, tapping at his phone.

  ‘I’m here,’ I announce, sinking into the seat in front of him.

  ‘Gemma Woodstock,’ he says. ‘Wow. You really are here.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ I say, my heart sinking as my embarrassment rises, closely followed by rage. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You know, I don’t even really know why I called you.’ He throws back the last of his drink, sucks the olive off the stick, and then uses the stick to pick his teeth. ‘I’m used to having you around, I guess.’

  ‘If this was just you wanting to chat, I’m leaving.’ My anger has quickly shifted to a deep sadness and all I want is to be in bed. ‘We can talk tomorrow.’

  I stand and he grabs my wrist. ‘Hey. Come on, Gemma. Don’t go, please.’

  ‘Let go of me, Nick,’ I say, his first name awkward in my mouth.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mutters, dropping his grip. He pushes the glass away and puts his head in his hands and moans.

  I look down at the top of his head, his unruly tangles of hair unable to agree on a direction. I notice a few strands of grey at the crown.

  Suddenly he launches forward, his head between his knees.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I ask.

  His laugh is like a slap. ‘Am I alright?’ he repeats, laughing rudely again.

  ‘Okay, fine.’ I turn around and start back toward the entrance.

  ‘Gemma!’ The chair scrapes the floor as he roughly pushes it back. One of the guards eyes us and his look asks if I’m okay. I nod—I can handle this.

  ‘I can’t believe you,’ I hiss at Fleet. ‘Dragging me out here in the middle of the night because you’re pissed. Or have you lost all your money? You need a ride home?’

  He closes his eyes as if he’s trying to disappear. ‘That’s not what it was like,’ he mumbles.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say and turn around again.

  ‘Gemma, I’m sorry. Please stay and have a drink with me.’

  I pause, hating myself for it. There’s a sadness in his voice. Regret. I don’t want to leave angry—our partnership is so important—but I hate that I’m here at his beckoning.

  ‘Please Gemma. I’m not…good. I didn’t know who else to call.’

  I feel myself relenting. Part of me is glad he’s reached out to me. ‘One drink,’ I acquiesce.

  ‘Not here,’ he says, taking my arm and guiding me across the room.

  Ten minutes later we’re tucked into the corner of a small wine bar attached to the casino. Hot air is blasting my face from a vent in the ceiling as I glance at the drinks menu. We order and our drinks arrive almost immediately.

  ‘So do you come here often?’ I say sarcastically, sipping my vodka soda. My body is confused at the taste of alcohol, having already been to bed twice. But I’m not tired anymore, I’m wired.

  ‘I’m not a gambler,’ says Fleet out of nowhere.

  ‘Not my business if you are,’ I say, the liquid warming a trail to my stomach.

  ‘I’m not.’ He tips more beer into his mouth. His face is flushed pink and his lips are ruby red. His eyes have a sheen from the booze. ‘It’s one vice I don’t have.’

  ‘Okay.’ I have more of my drink and wonder if I’m finally going to find out more about the elusive Nick Fleet.

  Creatures of the night surround us. Loners. Tentative couples. Bored-looking bar staff. I think about the bartender from last weekend and wonder if I’ve been added to his folklore, whether he told his mates about the girl who came to the bar alone, went back to his house, then screwed his brains out before disappearing at the break of dawn.

  Fleet laughs hollowly. ‘Do you know what I did tonight?’ He looks at me, his eyes all over the place. ‘I went on a date. This woman has been bugging me for weeks and I’m like, okay, cool, sure, let’s go out. Why not? Not getting anywhere on this piece-of-shit case anyway. May as well blow off some steam.’ He pulls at his collar. Presses the insides of his wrists to his forehead.

  I watch him silently, unsure why he’s so angry. I can feel the energy pulsing from inside his body, his blood running hot.

  ‘So I’m on this date. We have dinner. Drinks. It’s going well. It’s nice. And then I say we should go somewhere else, have a cocktail. And she says, nah. Reckons I have a bad vibe. So she thanks me for dinner and then says she has to leave.’

  ‘Well,’ I say slowly, ‘I’m sorry you had a shitty date but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting another one. A better one, I mean.’

  He waves my comment away. ‘You should have seen the way she looked at me. Like there was something wrong with me. She said I seemed aggressive.’ His lips twist into a sneer. ‘It’s fucked up that I’m the one hunting down the wife beaters and thugs but this chick thinks I’m aggressive.’

  ‘You do seem kind of worked up,’ I say carefully. ‘We’ve both been under a lot of pressure. Maybe going on a date tonight wasn’t the best idea.’

  ‘Inspector Gemma, the relationship detective.’ He slumps back into his seat and laughs. ‘Ah well, her loss.’ He sips his drink. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say, not wanting to discuss Josh with Fleet.

  Fleet puts on a dreamy voice. ‘Don’t worry, he’s out there somewhere.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I’m keen to move this conversation away from me. ‘What time did all this happen? Have you just been roaming around here ever since, feeling sorry for yourself?’

  He tips back the last of his beer and waves the waitress over for another. I slip a look at the clock, wondering if I’m going to get any more sleep tonight.

  ‘I got pretty wasted,’ he says. ‘Went to the tables. I meant it when I said I don’t gamble but I like to watch. The guys who know what they’re doing—it’s cool, you know.’

  His beer arrives and the waitress raises her eyebrows at me, but I indicate that I’m fine with the drink I have.

  ‘Anyway, then I saw Jacoby,’ he says, ‘and shit got interesting.’

  I put down my drink. ‘You saw Frank Jacoby?’

  ‘Yeah. It was weird. He sat down next to me and started playing the tables. He was with his usual cronies.’

  ‘Please tell me you didn’t speak to him,’ I say, imagining Fleet’s drunken aggression and the trouble it might land him in. Land us all in.

  ‘Nah. Don’t worry, you can untwist your undies. I just watched them. Like a good little detective.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, relieved. As I look at Fleet, I try to think what to say next. There’s a madness in his eyes and I can’t work out if it’s self-loathing or rage. Or both.

  ‘Jacoby was with his crew. A real wolf-pack vibe. There were lots of whispered chats. No doubt some dodgy deals going on. Escorts to be arranged.’ Fleet’s voice is part TV reporter and part sarcastic comedian. He takes another slug of beer and wipes his mouth roughly. ‘Anyhow, I recognised one of the guys he was with from somewhere. I think
we pulled him in last year about a suicide—some guy hung himself in the dunny of a law firm, and this guy was a partner or some shit.’ Fleet taps his finger to the side of his nose. ‘These guys, you know, they’re always neck-deep in shit. They can’t help themselves.’

  ‘Well, if it was a suicide, that’s not necessarily suspicious,’ I say, reluctant to get into a discussion about it.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe. But you know, the dead guy’s wife reckoned he was being bullied, that he’d been blamed for a whole heap of stuff that he hadn’t been involved in, so I don’t know.’ Fleet shakes a cigarette out of its packet and starts flicking it between his fingers. ‘Jacoby and his mates, they think they’re untouchable. It fucking pisses me off.’

  ‘So why did you call me?’ I ask. ‘To talk about Jacoby? Or your shitty date?’

  ‘I dunno. Dunno. Just felt like it, I guess.’

  I sigh. ‘We should make a move.’

  ‘You know best, boss,’ he says, executing a sloppy salute as he tips back the last of his beer.

  I take care of the bill and we head out of the bar.

  ‘Where was Jacoby?’ I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

  ‘At the tables,’ says Fleet, ‘just through there.’

  ‘I want to see him,’ I say, guiding Fleet through the maze of machines.

  He’s unsteady on his feet as we make our way to the tables. Sure enough, I see Jacoby and his mates backslapping each other and looking incredibly smug. They are clearly also about to leave, pulling on coats and shaking hands with the croupier. I wait until they’ve started toward the main entrance before pulling Fleet along after them. One of the men with Jacoby is talking loudly into a phone, describing where to pick them up.

  Exiting the casino, we’re blasted with a last gust of warm air before being thrust into the night. Fleet stumbles and lurches toward a concrete pillar; bent over, he looks as if he’s about to vomit. I bend down next to him and speak into his ear. ‘Are you alright?’

  He squeezes his eyes shut and coughs toward the ground.