Into the Night

by Sarah Bailey

  I love being a detective, I’m instinctively driven to right wrongs, but truly ridding the streets of crime wouldn’t suit me at all—the death and horror keep me going. I have nothing else: no hobbies, nothing to fill the minutes, let alone the hours. In a utopian world of pure white goodness, I would be lost. If the killing and the pain and the hurt all stopped, I’m not sure what would become of me. Deep down I suspect that I would probably stop too. Luckily, we humans seem hell-bent on ensuring I won’t need to contemplate that scenario any time soon. We enjoy hurting one another too much.

  Isaacs asks Nan to give the room a brief update on the Jacoby case. Now that it’s almost six weeks old, everyone is starting to acknowledge the possibility that a solve may not happen. You can literally sense the shift: hope and optimism have a certain smell to them, while defeat emits a very different scent. Full credit to Nan though: she’s convinced she will get her man and is studiously ignoring the increasingly pungent stench of hopelessness wafting from her colleagues.

  The Jacoby case is one of those complicated puzzles you dream of taking on when you’re a young idealistic detective with a genuine belief in the justice system. For a bunch of sceptical detectives who’ve been around the block a hundred times, it’s mainly just a pain in the arse. A woman turns up dead at the base of a luxury apartment complex one Sunday morning. It’s quickly established that she fell from the penthouse suite, where she’d attended a Christmas-in-July party the night before. Ginny Frost was a 37-year-old escort. The post-mortem was inconclusive but several of her injuries indicate that she was pushed.

  To complicate matters, the suite is owned by Frank Jacoby, a retired chief justice in his late sixties. Charming and connected, he has the rich and powerful firmly in his silk-lined pockets. He’s married, to high-profile academic and artist Ivy Strachan, but that hasn’t stopped him having a ‘healthy interest in all kinds of women’, which was how he referred to his philandering in one of the many interviews Nan has subjected him to.

  ‘If those walls could talk, they’d talk dirty,’ Nan has taken to saying as she sifts through the seemingly endless pile of photographs that detail every square inch of the apartment.

  But the walls can’t talk and neither, it seems, will any of the people who attended the elaborate party hosted by Jacoby that fateful night. The only lead we have is the statement from Ginny’s friend Sasha Cryer: she claims that she witnessed—through a guest bedroom window that night—Jacoby and Ginny arguing on the balcony. Unfortunately, Sasha is also an escort with a history of drug use, and the attractive blond man who she claims also witnessed the argument has either disappeared off the face of the earth or is a figment of her imagination.

  Nan is as determined as ever but I can tell that even she is tiring of Jacoby’s endless denials, fiercely loyal mates and passive-aggressive threats toward our department. The media isn’t helping: their insane theories and rogue investigations have choked the front pages and dominated social sites for weeks, the general incompetence of the homicide squad a key part of their narrative.

  Now Nan runs through the latest leads on the case, which almost all involve hunting down the missing male witness. I pick at some skin under my nail. Pulling at it with my teeth, I’m surprised to taste blood as it breaks away. I suck on my finger discreetly, enjoying the coppery taste, before realising that Isaacs is looking at me, his brow creased. I yank my finger out of my mouth and focus studiously on my notebook.

  I glance at Fleet and wonder if he is also pissed off about not leading the Miller case. I can’t help feeling that we’re on the outer—that Isaacs is toying with us, considering us for a bigger role but only when he thinks we’re up to it.

  I sigh, forcing my attention back to Nan. Even though I find her prickly, I’d prefer to work more closely with her: perhaps some of the glow Isaacs obviously sees in her might rub off on me.

  ‘Alright, let’s get moving,’ says Isaacs. ‘I want a big push to pin something on Jacoby. Let’s find that missing witness or put it to bed. I don’t know if we’ll be able to avoid an inquest but let’s give it our best shot. And let’s get this homeless man some justice. If this thing is linked to those old bashings, I want to know about it. Is everyone clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ we chorus as he exits the room.

  I rise, trailing after Nan and Calvin like a puppy.

  Fleet brushes past me roughly, still reeking of cigarette smoke as he heads toward the car park. I stand watching his retreating figure, annoyed, my finger throbbing, before I head back to my desk to watch grainy footage of faceless young men beating fellow humans into oblivion.

  Wednesday, 15 August

  4.04 pm

  The wind tangles the rain. Leaves and rubbish swirl in a wild dance outside the office windows. After watching several unpleasant hours of violent footage from the 2016 bashings, I’m down a red-herring rabbit hole, following up a lead at a shelter where Walter Miller possibly stayed for a few days in late July. One of his friends told Chloe he’d run into some trouble there, that he’d argued with a fellow guest, but I’m struggling to find someone on staff who can corroborate this. I narrowly avoid sighing into the phone, mid-conversation. I leave my details and thank the person on the other end of the line before I hang up.

  I stretch my arms above my head, gearing up to go find Ralph and give him my updates, when a jolt of electricity seems to pass through the room. A chill runs down my bare arms, rousing the downy hairs. I pull my shirt sleeves to my wrists and look outside. Everything is still; the wind has dropped. Wet leaves form sloppy piles on the walkways. People are still carrying umbrellas but angle them away from their heads, checking whether it’s still raining or if the drips are just falling from trees and awnings. The light is caught between day and night, an eerie alien colour that seems to carry wafts of smoke, just like the way rainbows form in dregs of sunlight.

  Without warning, the switchboard explodes behind me. The terror alert goes off and the office breaks into well-practised action. Eyes widen. Everything speeds up. The air is flush with the taste of danger.

  Fleet is coming back from the tearoom, a mug in his hand, and comically stops to survey the madness. Isaacs charges toward his office, his phone against his ear. I jump as he slams his door shut behind him. A thrill runs through my middle, forcing me to my feet.

  I join Fleet, who is casually sipping his tea with raised eyebrows. ‘Shit’s going down,’ he says unnecessarily.

  A young, pretty cop stops next to us, slightly breathless. ‘Something’s happened at the top of the city,’ she says. ‘My friend’s a journo and she just texted me.’

  ‘Great,’ says Fleet. ‘I’m glad the experts are leading the way when it comes to crime in the city.’

  ‘Look,’ I mutter.

  Isaacs yanks his office door open and thrusts a hand out, gesturing at Nan, Calvin, Fleet, Chloe and me. We all head his way.

  His mobile starts up a wail again and he swears, holding out a hand to pause us mid-step. He disappears into a small meeting room a few metres from his office. We stand in an awkward circle around the doorway, waiting like naughty children. We can hear bits of his conversation, harsh short words muffled by the trills of office phones and the calming voices that answer them.

  Isaacs reappears and we fall into an obedient trot behind him.

  Last inside his office, I pull the door shut. Isaacs laces his fingers, agitated, and looks at each of us in turn.

  ‘What’s up?’ says Fleet nonchalantly.

  ‘A terror attack?’ asks Nan, back straight, ready to pounce, eager to clean up whatever mess her fellow humans have made this time.

  ‘No,’ says Isaacs. ‘There’s been an incident on the corner of Spring and Collins. On the film set. An adult male was stabbed, just over twenty minutes ago. He’s critical and has been rushed to hospital.’

  ‘The big action scene,’ I say, remembering the news report and my conversation with Macy.

  ‘Yes,’ Isaacs says, turning to me. �
�The incident happened live on one of their takes or whatever you call it. It’s a cast member who was injured.’

  ‘So, it’s on camera?’ Fleet snorts out a laugh. ‘That’s kind of funny.’

  Isaacs continues as if he didn’t speak. ‘The injured man is Sterling Wade. I probably don’t need to tell you that this is going to be huge.’

  No one speaks for a moment but the room crackles with energy. I recognise Sterling Wade’s name—he’s the movie star my friend Candy calls her ‘Aryan God’. It takes me a moment to summon an image of a flawless young blond man. I recall Candy mentioning that his family lives in a town near Smithson as she joked about inviting herself over for Christmas lunch.

  Chloe swallows loudly, her eyes enormous.

  ‘The guy from The Street?’ says Calvin slowly. ‘My daughters are obsessed with him.’

  ‘Yes. I’m told there are already about a hundred distraught teenage girls at the scene refusing to leave. They’ve started turning up at the hospital too.’

  Nan narrows her eyes. Teenage girls are her least-favourite type of human. ‘Good lord,’ she mutters.

  ‘Was anyone else injured?’ I ask.

  ‘It doesn’t appear so. But it’s absolute chaos down there. Over three hundred people were running around with masks on, in zombie costumes, plus the crew and general public who were watching, so it’s near impossible to do a stocktake on everyone.’

  ‘Do we know what happened?’ I press.

  ‘The reports coming through from the security firm aren’t clear, but I’m marking it as suspicious for now though I assume it was probably some kind of accident. An issue with one of the props, or maybe a mental-health issue with a cast member, but we’ll need to do due diligence and a full review. Especially if there was a security breach.’ Isaacs rolls his shoulders back in their sockets. ‘We’ll need to conduct formal interviews with everyone who was in the proximity of Wade and work the scene as soon as possible.’

  I’ve heard about terrible accidents happening on film sets: faulty props or stunts that backfire, silly pranks with serious consequences. It’s not hard to imagine how things can go wrong with so many people working under pressure and acting out such dramatic scenes.

  Fleet rubs his hands together. ‘Okay, so, who’ll do what?’

  Nan’s pale eyes are shining sharply in the yellow office light. With her grey cropped hair, she looks like a wild wolf.

  Isaacs glances out his window. ‘Woodstock and Fleet will lead,’ he says after a moment. ‘Senna to support. I want your full attention on this now. If it turns out to be a simple accident, you can get back to business as usual tomorrow. But if it’s more complicated, you will handball your existing case load, and that includes the Miller case.’ Isaacs looks like he’s about to say something else but shuts his mouth instead. His phone rings again and he talks quietly with the caller for a minute.

  Endorphins zap around my body. Even though I know this whole thing is probably some kind of accident, I’m slightly disoriented by Isaacs’ decision. And I can sense the surprise in the room. I glance at Fleet, who sees me looking at him and winks.

  Isaacs ends the call and I notice little pulses of adrenaline rippling across his face. It’s flowing through all of us. I want to say something, to assure him that I’ve got this and have already worked out the next logical step, but he speaks first.

  ‘Get to the hospital,’ he says to me and Fleet. ‘Talk to anyone you can who saw what happened and speak with the ambos who brought him in. Apparently it’s not looking good for the Wade kid.’

  ‘I can’t live with your sadness anymore, Gemma,’ Scott said to me abruptly one night in early December, after he put Ben to bed.

  I blinked, looking up from a magazine article I’d been half-reading. I marvelled that Scott couldn’t see that I could barely live with it either.

  ‘We need to get on with our lives,’ he said. ‘I want you to leave. Or I will.’

  I left the next day. I called in sick, packed a small bag, dropped Ben at school and drove to Dad’s.

  Dad opened his door to find me clutching my overnight bag. He held me in his arms as I cried. Years of tears poured out of me, breaking down my bones, making them soft and floppy. All I could think was ‘we didn’t make it’, until I couldn’t tell whether I was thinking it or saying it. Even after I stopped crying, I barely spoke for days.

  Our split brought back all the old grief. I cried for Mum, who was taken from me so suddenly when I was only fourteen. I cried for my dead high-school boyfriend, Jacob. I cried for the way I’d treated Scott, for how things ended with Felix, my miscarriage and my broken heart. Most of all I cried for Ben and the mess I was about to make of his life.

  Three weeks later I left Dad’s, moving into a tiny rental cottage not far from my work. Scott and I grimly worked out how to share Ben. Scott’s resolve terrified me but I was grateful for it too—I didn’t have his strength and I needed him to show me how this could work. Show me that it was going to be okay.

  There were no rings to take off. No papers to sign or names to change. We were able to detach instantly, as if we’d never happened at all.

  I threw myself into caring for Ben, willing the time I spent with him to mean more than it ever had. We fumbled through Christmas, and I sleepwalked through work, navigating the terrible crimes, the stupid ones and everything in between. But Smithson was closing in on me, and the anxiety I’ve always battled became overwhelming. Every night as I lay in the tiny cottage, trying to sleep, I could feel the town talking. The endlessness of the bush pawed at me through paper-thin walls. During the day, the open spaces and lonely roads taunted me. The need I had for Ben felt dangerous. My mind pushed me into darker and darker places, and I was scared to be alone with him. Scared to be apart from him. Scott became wary, worried. For a while there, I’m not sure he trusted me with our son—and, if I’m honest, I didn’t trust myself.

  Three months after our split, Jonesy sat me down for a serious chat. ‘I have news,’ he said, before detailing a senior position that had come up on the Melbourne homicide squad.

  ‘Your work is still exceptional, Woodstock,’ Jonesy said. ‘I rely on you more than I should. But I don’t want to watch you fade away.’ He lifted heavy, water-filled eyes to mine. ‘I can’t have that.’

  I went ahead with the application and summoned the energy to do the interviews.

  When the offer came through, Jonesy firmly suggested that I accept it. My body exploded with fear: it knew before I did that I would go, that I had to, and that this would rip me apart but save me at the same time.

  ‘But I can’t go,’ I said, Ben’s little face sharp in my mind.

  Jonesy just looked at me sadly, already knowing I could.

  I arrived in Melbourne halfway through May and was greeted by vivid green lawns, naked trees and raincoats covered with metallic polka-dots that had obviously become a fashion statement when I wasn’t looking. Standing outside my serviced apartment, battered by chilled wind and doused by fine misty rain, I was buffeted on both sides by people who were busy in a way I’d never known before. I was completely disoriented but wildly, heart-thumpingly alive.

  Saying goodbye to Ben was like a stake to the heart. In my memory, the locked-off shot that I play over and over has the smell of death around it. My beautiful son, always a solemn child, stood next to Dad’s car, his hand in mine, and looked at me, looked inside me. In that moment the natural order switched. I yearned for his permission and he gave me his blessing. I think he understood that I had to go.

  Wednesday, 15 August

  5.21 pm

  I scroll through an endless stream of Google images and news articles about Sterling Wade as Fleet steers us toward the Royal Melbourne Hospital. He’s weaving in and out of the traffic like a race-car driver. The day has broken into a moody tantrum. Sections of the mostly grey sky are bruised a soft blue. Fleet seems to be in a mood too, making strange little noises every minute or so and fiddling with the he
ater dials.

  ‘Wade’s twenty-three,’ I tell him. ‘He won a Logie a few months ago. And he was rumoured to be leaving The Street at the end of the year to move to LA.’

  ‘No Hollywood break for him anytime soon now,’ comments Fleet darkly.

  ‘Obviously,’ I say, rolling my eyes, ‘though you never know. If he survives this, it’s a great story. It could be his golden ticket in LA.’

  Fleet snorts.

  ‘His girlfriend is in the film as well,’ I continue. ‘There are heaps of local actors in it. Even I recognise some of their names.’

  ‘Maybe you can get some autographs, Woodstock.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I reply calmly. ‘Here’s another fun fact for you. Wade grew up right near my home town. His family live on a farm just outside of Karadine in New South Wales.’

  Fleet snorts again, slowing to turn into the hospital entrance. ‘If only your paths had crossed years ago, imagine how different your life might have been.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot. He’s almost a decade younger than me.’

  Fleet starts to say something but his personal mobile lights up. I catch a row of emojis before he snatches it out of the centre console. ‘You talk, I’ll watch,’ he says, sliding into an emergency-vehicle parking spot and flicking off the ignition.

  ‘Sure.’ I shrug agreeably. ‘That works.’

  After dealing with security—who are trying to contain at least fifty teenage girls at the main entrance—we present our IDs at the reception desk and ask to speak to the manager. Doctors and nurses are buzzing everywhere like bees in a hive. I hear Sterling’s name whispered, faces flushed with the drama of such a high-profile victim. A frazzled woman appears, telling us she is Lauren Klein, the hospital operations manager. She ushers us toward a small room at the far end of the main corridor. Fleet’s eyes dart around like he’s casing the joint, which I find strangely reassuring; I know those eyes won’t miss a thing.