Into the Night

by Sarah Bailey

  PRAISE FOR THE DARK LAKE

  ‘The Dark Lake is a thrilling psychological police procedural as well as a leap into the mind of a woman engulfed with guilt.’ New York Journal of Books

  ‘The Dark Lake hooked me from page one! Sarah Bailey combines the very best elements in this stunning debut thriller—a troubled detective still trying to find her way as a female investigator, a small town haunted by secrets both past and present, and a beautiful victim whose unsettling allure appears to be her biggest asset and largest downfall. With clever twists and all-too-human characters, this book will keep you racing toward the end.’ Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Right Behind You and Find Her

  ‘This polished debut is a winner from the first page.’ Daily Telegraph

  ‘I read The Dark Lake in one sitting, it’s that good. A crime thriller that seizes you from the first page and slowly draws you into a web of deception and long buried secrets. Beautifully written, compulsively readable, and highly recommended.’ Douglas Preston, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Lost City of the Monkey God and co-author of the bestselling Pendergast series

  ‘An addictive and thoroughly entertaining read.’ Weekly Review

  ‘The Dark Lake is a mesmerising thriller full of long buried secrets that sucked me right in and kept me up late turning pages. Gemma Woodstock is a richly flawed and completely authentic character—I loved going on this journey with her and the way the truth of her past was revealed in bits and pieces as we went along. Sarah Bailey has crafted an exquisite debut—I can’t wait to see what she does next!’ Jennifer McMahon, New York Times bestselling author of The Winter People

  ‘So many people have compared Sarah Bailey to the likes of Gillian Flynn and Tana French, and they’re so right. The prose is incredible.

  Poetic and perfectly constructed…I recommend this book if you’re into crime thrillers with a strong female lead and lots of twists and turns. I can’t wait to see what Sarah [Bailey] does next.’ A Girl and Grey

  ‘Debut author Sarah Bailey depicts both the landscape and Gemma’s state of mind vividly, bringing into focus the intensity of Gemma’s physical and emotional pain and her increasing discontent. The Dark Lake adds to the trend of haunting, rural Australian crime fiction, and provides a welcome addition to the genre for those left bereft after finishing Jane Harper’s The Dry.’ Books + Publishing

  ‘The Dark Lake is an absolutely stunning debut. This is such a beautifully written and utterly absorbing read, it’s hard to believe that it’s the author’s first novel. I love to get my hands on a good character-driven murder mystery—especially one with a complex protagonist and a plot that keeps me guessing. The Dark Lake delivers all of this and more. The characters and relationships portrayed are so intricate and messy and real…it was a real struggle for me to put this book down.’ Sarah McDuling, Booktopia

  ‘…a page-turner that’s both tense and thought provoking.’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘The Dark Lake by Sarah Bailey is a brooding, suspenseful and explosive debut that will grip you from the first page to the last.’ New Idea

  ‘A compelling debut.’ Booklist

  ‘I raced through this deliciously complicated, mesmerising debut at warp speed. Sarah Bailey’s The Dark Lake is sure to keep readers awake far too late into the night.’ Karen Dionne, author The Marsh King’s Daughter

  ‘Enthralling…Bailey uses solid character development and superior storytelling, rather than violence, to fuel The Dark Lake, and she is off to an excellent start in this launch of a series.’ Oline Cogdill, Associated Press

  Sarah Bailey is a Melbourne-based writer with a background in advertising and communications. She has two young children and currently works at creative projects company Mr Smith. Over the past five years she has written a number of short stories and opinion pieces. The Dark Lake was her first novel. Into the Night is her second book featuring Detective Sergeant Gemma Woodstock.

  This a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2018

  Copyright © Sarah Bailey 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76029 748 0

  eISBN 978 1 76063 621 0

  Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Cover design: Luke Causby/Blue Cork

  Cover photo: ©MikkMait / Adobe Stock Images

  Melbourne, this one is for you

  ‘The eternal stars shine out again, so soon as it is dark enough.’

  Thomas Carlyle

  Contents

  Tuesday, 14 August: 12.14 am

  Tuesday, 14 August: 7.43 pm

  Wednesday, 15 August: 5.55 am

  Wednesday, 15 August: 7.29 am

  Wednesday, 15 August: 10.29 am

  Wednesday, 15 August: 4.04 pm

  Wednesday, 15 August: 5.21 pm

  Wednesday, 15 August: 9.16 pm

  Wednesday, 15 August: 10.38 pm

  Thursday, 16 August: 7.36 am

  Thursday, 16 August: 8.42 am

  Thursday, 16 August: 9.41 am

  Thursday, 16 August: 9.55 am

  Thursday, 16 August: 11.51 am

  Thursday, 16 August: 8.12 pm

  Friday, 17 August: 7.12 am

  Friday, 17 August: 11.56 am

  Friday, 17 August: 2.27 pm

  Friday, 17 August: 3.44 pm

  Saturday, 18 August: 8.54 am

  Saturday, 18 August: 11.19 am

  Saturday, 18 August: 7.44 pm

  Sunday, 19 August: 6.32 am

  Monday, 20 August: 8.05 am

  Monday, 20 August: 2.01 pm

  Tuesday, 21 August: 11.06 am

  Tuesday, 21 August: 5.43 pm

  Tuesday, 21 August: 8.34 pm

  Wednesday, 22 August: 7.12 am

  Wednesday, 22 August: 1.28 pm

  Wednesday, 22 August: 3 pm

  Thursday, 23 August: 10.19 am

  Thursday, 23 August: 3.37 pm

  Friday, 24 August: 10.52 am

  Saturday, 25 August: 11.17 am

  Saturday, 25 August: 2.18 pm

  Saturday, 25 August: 2.59 pm

  Saturday, 25 August: 6.12 pm

  Monday, 27 August: 2.14 pm

  Tuesday, 28 August: 10.35 am

  Tuesday, 28 August: 2.59 pm

  Wednesday, 29 August: 12.03 am

  Wednesday, 29 August: 9.49 am

  Wednesday, 29 August: 11.02 pm

  Thursday, 30 August: 2.33 am

  Thursday, 30 August: 7.58 am

  Thursday, 30 August: 7.03 pm

  Friday, 31 August: 7.16 am

  Saturday, 1 September: 10.32 am

  Saturday, 1 September: 3.37 pm

  Saturday, 1 September: 6.24 pm

  Monday, 17 September: 10.55 am

  Monday, 24 September: 7.22 a
m

  Acknowledgements

  Tuesday, 14 August

  12.14 am

  Freezing air slices my lungs every time I breathe. I walk to the other side of the tunnel in an attempt to shift blood into my numb feet. I peer into its black depths. I assume it’s just a long stretch of concrete and rubbish, shelter for rats and mice, that eventually merges with other concrete passages running underneath unsuspecting roads and buildings. Faded graffiti hugs the curved wall, the colourful scrawls harshly exposed by a mobile spotlight and fresh police tape across the entrance is taut, barely shaking in the breeze. The nearby asphalt path is slick with recent rain. High above, a plump moon peers down at the blunt edges of the city. As the white puffs exit my mouth, I think about how much grittier the crime scenes always seem here than they did in Smithson. So much more sinister somehow.

  I was drifting into my second hour of sleep when the call came through. A fatal attack in Carlton. Putting the phone down, I threw a glance at the lightly snoring man in the giant bed beside me. I slipped out of the warm cocoon, stumbled into the small lounge, then quietly pulled on the clothes I’d stripped off only an hour earlier. After easing the door shut, I made my way to the lift and rushed through the gleaming lobby, eyes on the floor, before jumping into a cab. The city is smaller at night, and less than fifteen minutes later I’m staring into the face of a dead man, the wind biting at my nose and ears.

  My body aches for rest. I taste wine on my breath. Sex is still fresh on my skin. I pull my wool coat tighter around me and shake my head, forcing my brain to accept that for the next few hours at least, sleep is out of the question.

  The forensics officers are silent as they go about their business, glowing in their puffy white uniforms. Their jaws are set as they pluck items from the ground with gloved hands and tweezers, dropping them carefully into evidence bags, their experienced eyes taking in the story of the scene.

  All I can hear is the endless buzz of the sprawling night.

  I jump slightly as a camera flash lights up the dingy surrounds—once, twice, again—and it reminds me of a music video. But in place of curvy dancing silhouettes, there is only the profile of the victim, his head hanging forward into his lap, his back hard against the wall. In death, the old man’s gnarled fingers curl gently into each palm. His bald head is partly shielded from the cold; a woollen beanie dotted with holes grips his head. His tracksuit pants are down around his knees but his oversized shirt grants him some dignity. His hands are slick with drying blood, indicating that he tried to keep the life inside his body. He didn’t want to die despite living like this. The dark red mingles with the rubbish on the ground, creating a murky, smelly puddle. I wonder if anyone is left alive who remembers him as a child. I wonder about his mother.

  The glowing tip of a cigarette bobs into my vision.

  ‘What a place to go,’ says Detective Sergeant Nick Fleet, extinguishing the smoke and placing it in a plastic bag before shoving it into his pocket.

  The familiar smell finds my nostrils and instantly triggers a craving.

  ‘It’s pretty isolated,’ I observe. ‘And badly lit. You’d be fairly safe to assume that you could get away with pretty much anything out here.’

  Fleet snorts. ‘Well, if it wasn’t for the witness I’d guess it was a gay hook-up gone wrong, seeing as our guy’s half naked.’ Fleet squints into the tunnel at the body, wrinkling his nose. ‘But it was probably drug payback. Usually is.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I reply, ‘but I don’t think so. Everything here suggests that he was taken by surprise. I think he was urinating against the wall when someone attacked him.’ I point to the rancid wet circle not far from the body.

  Fleet clears his throat loudly and the rattle of loose phlegm nauseates me. ‘My money is still on drugs.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ I say, ‘but there’s no suggestion that he was using or selling. No track marks, no drug paraphernalia.’

  ‘Maybe he pissed someone off.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say curtly.

  Fleet clicks his tongue. ‘We must keep an open mind, Gemma,’ he says in a faux-wise voice. ‘It’s early days after all.’

  A familiar surge of frustration flares just as headlights swing across the darkness nearby. The bark of a dog explodes behind us. Moments later, our boss, Chief Inspector Toby Isaacs, ducks under the tape and into the mouth of the tunnel. He nods at me, then Fleet, before surveying the scene with wide grey eyes. His features don’t move but his gaze lingers on the dead man’s worn boots; the sole of the left one gapes open at the toes like a howling mouth.

  ‘What do we know?’ asks Isaacs.

  ‘He was stabbed,’ I say, straightening my shoulders and forcing strength into my voice. ‘Looks like a single wound, though we haven’t moved him yet. No sign of a weapon. I’ll arrange for a field team to do a search at first light and see what CCTV we can pull from the area, but I think we’ll hit a dead end on that front. I can’t see any cameras.’

  Isaacs nods briskly. ‘And we’re sure he was homeless?’

  ‘It certainly looks that way,’ I confirm.

  ‘And smells that way,’ says Fleet. He points past the forensics team to a blanket and a tatty backpack. ‘That looks like his bedroom over there.’

  ‘We can’t find any ID,’ I add.

  ‘Where’s the witness now?’ asks Isaacs, looking around.

  ‘She’s at the station,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll head back there and take her statement once we’re done here. Apparently she’s elderly and homeless herself. On my way here I spoke to the constable who’s with her, and he says she’s in a bad way.’

  ‘She definitely doesn’t have anything to do with it?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like it. He said she’s terrified.’

  Isaacs purses his lips. ‘Do we have a description to work with?’

  ‘A man in a hoodie,’ I reply. ‘We’ll push for more details but it’s so dark out here I doubt she saw much.’

  ‘Men in hoodies really are the root of all evil, aren’t they?’ quips Fleet.

  I watch as he scratches his elbow and pushes a hand roughly through his wiry hair. Isaacs seems to tolerate rather than favour him, which he never seems too fussed about—but, then, Nick Fleet never seems particularly ruffled by anything.

  In the three months I’ve been in Melbourne, I’ve worked more closely with him than anyone else on the squad. He’s a detective sergeant like me but at least a couple of years older—I’d be surprised if he’s forty. I get the feeling he had another life altogether before entering the force. I also quickly learned he has a massive reputation with the ladies, though I’m yet to see the charm. He’s unappealingly hairy and frequently rude, and he has a rough, primal quality: a harshness.

  The forensics officers begin to trawl through the pile of bedding. The camera strobes again before a jumper and a faded picnic blanket are swiftly bagged.

  Isaacs rubs his hands together and breathes into them. ‘Hopefully it was someone he knew. A random attack on the homeless is the last thing we need.’

  ‘I’m going to have another smoke,’ announces Fleet. ‘I’ll have a bit of a look around while I’m at it.’

  Isaacs just clasps his arms and rocks back slightly on his heels. He turns his head to look out across the parkland, his angular profile sharp. The moonlight paints his hair silver. As always, I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

  I shift my gaze past Isaacs to take in the maze of lights and uneven rooftops. I feel uneasy, not knowing who might be watching from the darkness.

  ‘Detective Woodstock?’ says Brenton Cardona, one of the senior techs. ‘We’re going to move him in a minute. That okay with you?’

  Aware that Isaacs’ eyes are on me, I give Cardona a firm yes before squatting next to the nameless victim one last time. Careful to avoid the blood and debris, I look into his face. His bottom lip hangs open slightly and shines with saliva. His unseeing eyes are fixed on his broken shoes. I would place him around sixty-five but the
layers of grime on his leathery, pockmarked skin make it hard to tell. He might be much younger. My back teeth grind together as I play out his macabre demise in my mind: the split-second register of a presence, his surprise at being grabbed from behind and spun around. The blinding pain as a knife is pushed into his chest, eyes widening as his blood flowed straight from his heart and onto the ground. His panic as he realised he was dying. His terror.

  It’s impossible for me to know if he was good, bad or any of the shades in between. But no matter what happened at the end, right now—punctured, slumped forward and drained of life—this dead old man looks like an abandoned little boy.

  Tuesday, 14 August

  7.43 pm

  The heavy door thuds shut behind me and I stand in the dark boxy entrance for a moment. I just want to be perfectly still as the day fades away. The brutality of the homeless man’s death has pulled me down, his crumpled corpse heavy in my thoughts. I walk over to the lounge-room window and take in the sprawl of activity below. Cars creep along the ruler-straight roads, the angry glow of red tail-lights evidencing the collective frustration of their drivers. Everyone here is so impatient to be somewhere.

  My apartment is at the top end of Melbourne, near the corner of Little Collins and Exhibition streets. It’s eight floors up and the view gives the city such a sense of grandeur. Smithson, my home town in regional New South Wales, is definitely growing, but its 25,000-odd people has nothing on the crazy melting pot of lives that Melbourne homes.

  Dropping my keys onto the kitchen bench, I shake off my jacket and flick on the ancient wall heater. It chokes into life, half-heartedly filling the room with warm stale air.

  I ended up leaving the station just before 3 am, wired on caffeine, my eyes like two hot discs in my face after interviewing Lara Maxwell, the terrified witness. Lara couldn’t tell us much and knew the victim only as Walt. Both homeless, they’d spoken occasionally but she said he’d mainly kept to himself. She described him as simple but harmless; she often saw him talking to the pigeons and whistling show tunes. The perfect sitting duck.