Into the Night

by Sarah Bailey

  We rush to keep up with Lauren, who walks surprisingly quickly. I suddenly feel as if I’m under observation, so intense are the stares from everyone we pass. Lauren pauses, her hand on a creamy door, and gives us a look full of something that I can’t quite decipher before she pushes it open and steps inside.

  Two constables flank a young woman on a rose-coloured couch. She is well past shock: she’s expressing the kind of despair that most people find jarring because they’re so unused to seeing it in real life. The space is softly lit, and not unlike a dated lounge room. Three tissue boxes sit on the coffee table, and the couches and armchairs are crowded with limp cushions. I can feel the ghosts of bad news past hovering above us in the lavender-scented air.

  As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I realise a man is sitting in an armchair on the other side of the room. His long legs make him look too big for the furniture and his knees jut out, pointing awkwardly to the ceiling. He’s staring at the wall, unblinking. Despite his long stylish haircut, I guess he’s about forty.

  One of the constables gets to his feet, clearly relieved that we have arrived.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Woodstock,’ I say, ‘and this is Detective Sergeant Fleet.’ My strong voice seems harsh in the soft cloud of the room.

  The girl looks up and tears drip down her face. She’s still wailing, her mouth open and clenched around her fist as she heaves through another sob.

  I raise my eyebrows at the constable, noting that his badge reads ‘Roper’. ‘Let’s talk outside for a minute,’ I say to him.

  He exchanges a look with the other constable, who nods. Then he glances at the man in the corner of the room, who still appears to be in a daze.

  When Constable Roper has joined me and Fleet, I pull the door shut behind him and we duck into a small alcove.

  Lauren glances down at her squawking pager. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she says.

  ‘So, what’s the deal?’ asks Fleet, leaning against the wall.

  Roper’s eyes flick anxiously between the two of us. ‘I was doing crowd control when they were shooting the scene. I was probably the officer closest to Wade when he was injured.’

  ‘Did you see what happened?’ I ask him.

  ‘No, I was facing the other way but the security was solid. We had large barriers on both sides of the street and guards everywhere ID’ing the cast and crew. Plus, we had at least twenty of our guys around the perimeter by the time filming started. I don’t think anyone got in. I don’t see how they could have.’

  I try to picture it. ‘When did you realise that something was wrong?’

  ‘Well, it was weird. There was already so much screaming. They were all supposed to be doing that as part of the movie, you know, hundreds of zombies running along the road toward Wade. It was raining a bit—made it a little hard to see. And like I said, I was looking the other way. But after a while I could hear this one girl screaming, and it sounded different from the others. Some of the crowd started to point, and when I looked back I saw Wade on the ground with his girlfriend. She was trying to hold him up. That’s her in there,’ he says, cocking his head at the room. ‘Elizabeth Short.’

  ‘Who’s the other guy?’ asks Fleet.

  ‘The film director. Cartwright. Riley Cartwright. They both went in the ambulance with Wade—they wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’ I ask him.

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ he replies. ‘My guess is that it was an accident. Someone got carried away with a prop and stabbed him. Probably panicked when they realised what they’d done.’

  ‘Did you see anyone leaving the scene?’ I ask.

  ‘People were running all over the place. It was a mess.’

  ‘I thought you said security was everywhere?’

  ‘Yeah, but everyone just went mad. I’ve never seen anything like it. People were running around in costumes. The security guards were yelling for everyone to stay where they were, and our guys were just trying to control the general public, but it was pretty crazy.’ Roper’s voice takes on a mild whine; he wants us to understand. ‘I mean, people were screaming out that there was a terrorist attack…For a minute I was worried too. I jumped the barrier and got to Wade as soon as I could, but by then he was already in a bad way. Blood everywhere.’

  ‘Was there a doctor onsite?’ Fleet asks.

  ‘There was a first-aid team, and they got to him pretty quick once it became clear something was wrong. They didn’t work on him for long—I think they knew straight away that he needed to get to a hospital.’ He bites his lip. ‘I heard the ambos say he’d need surgery. I just tried to contain the people who were near him when it happened and comfort his girlfriend. She was completely hysterical.’

  ‘Did anyone you spoke to say what happened?’ I ask.

  ‘Everyone just said they saw Wade suddenly collapse. The other officers at the scene were getting statements when we left—but we’re talking about a lot of people.’

  I nod, starting to appreciate the scale of this thing. Often all we want when we work a case is more witnesses. It sounds like that won’t be a problem in this instance.

  ‘Alright, well, we’ll take it from here,’ I tell Roper. ‘It would be great to get your reports as soon as you can manage it.’

  He nods. ‘Of course.’

  When we return to the room, Elizabeth has stopped crying but her blotchy face is tear-stained. Riley Cartwright is still hunched over in the corner, staring into space.

  ‘We’ll leave you with the detectives now,’ Roper says to the two of them. He nods to the other constable, who puts a reassuring hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder before he stands. He takes a deep breath and puffs his cheeks, releasing the air slowly. Angry blemishes form a red crescent across his jawline. He looks exhausted.

  ‘We’ll send through our statements as soon as we can,’ confirms Roper as they escape into the hallway.

  The door shuts behind them and it immediately feels like we’re in a tomb. The heater has switched off and the air hovers, unmoving. Fleet walks across the room and sits on one of the armchairs, eyeing Riley. I can tell he is leaving Elizabeth to me.

  Swallowing, I walk over to sit on the couch next to the grief-stricken girl. I gently tuck my hand into the curve of her elbow and duck my head, encouraging her to meet my gaze. ‘Elizabeth?’

  She’s obviously in costume—even though she must be at least twenty, she is dressed like a schoolkid. Her wavy brown hair is pulled back from her face, seventies style, and she’s wearing a white shirt and a tartan skirt. She is slight but long-limbed. Flat-chested with elfin features, she reminds me of Mia Farrow. Despite knowing she’s an actor, I’m not sure I recognise her.

  She squeezes her eyes shut and rocks forward in another bout of sobbing. It echoes around the room.

  ‘Elizabeth, I understand this is a terrible shock but I need to ask you some questions.’ I spy a glass of water on a coffee table and offer it to her. ‘Come on, here, have this.’ She takes it and gulps down a few mouthfuls, then gives it back to me. Blood stains the skin of her hands and wrists: a light rust-brown has set into the creases of her knuckles, and dark red lines curve under her fingernails.

  ‘I heard the ambulance officer say that he lost a lot of blood,’ she whispers.

  ‘How about we take a walk?’ says Fleet to Riley. The director reluctantly unfolds his body from the chair and stands up. His whole body seems to shake.

  Elizabeth lets out a jerky sob as the door clicks shut behind them. ‘When can I see him?’ she asks me.

  I rub her back and breathe deeply, encouraging her to mirror me. ‘I’m not sure,’ I admit, ‘but I know everyone here is doing everything they can to help him.’

  She tips her head forward as if she is praying, her hands clasped together.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ I say gently.

  ‘Lizzie,’ she says. ‘Everyone calls me Lizzie.’

  ‘Okay. Lizzie. You were there with Sterling today?’


  ‘Our scenes together were finished.’ She paws at her hair. ‘But Sterling had the big zombie scene today. He was so excited about it.’ Her face crumples again.

  ‘So, you were just there watching?’

  She nods and shudders, forcing herself to breathe and answer my question. ‘Yes. Just hanging with the crew.’

  ‘I know this is hard, but it would be really helpful if you could tell me what you saw happen.’

  Her tears spill over again. ‘I was watching Sterling. Everything was going well, the scene looked great, but then after a while I could just tell something was wrong. He just stopped all of a sudden. He was trying to say something but because there were so many people it was hard to see, but I knew, I just knew…’ Her hands squirm on her lap and she talks around fresh sobs. ‘I could tell he was hurt but I didn’t understand what had happened. And then he just dropped to the ground. I thought he’d fainted. But then I saw he was bleeding for real and I just started screaming. I think everyone thought I’d lost my mind. Everyone was just staring at me. No one was doing anything to help…Oh god—’ Lizzie’s voice gives way to her sobs for a moment. ‘I just want to know he’s going to be okay.’

  ‘It must have been horrible,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ she says, crying into her hands. ‘What happened?’

  ‘That’s what we need to work out.’

  ‘I should call his parents.’ She moans. ‘And Brodie.’

  ‘Who’s Brodie?’ I ask.

  Lizzie brushes more tears away. ‘Sterling’s best friend.’

  There’s a knock on the door, and the frazzled-looking hospital manager sticks her head inside. ‘Elizabeth,’ she says, ‘your brother is here.’

  A young man enters the room in a flurry and makes a beeline for Lizzie. I can’t tell if he’s older or younger but they look alike: he’s tall and there’s a similar shape to his face, the same chestnut hair, but his complexion is darker. Right now, they have an identical pull of shock in their expressions.

  ‘Thank god you’re here,’ wails Lizzie, sobbing noisily into his chest. ‘They don’t know if he’s going to make it. They keep talking about surgery.’

  ‘This is awful,’ he murmurs, hugging her and stroking her hair. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I know.’ She falls back against him again, cupping her mouth with her hands.

  ‘I’m so glad I didn’t get on the plane before I got your text,’ he says.

  Lizzie nods as she begins a fresh wave of tears.

  I introduce myself to him.

  ‘I’m Kit,’ he says distractedly. ‘Lizzie’s little brother.’

  The door swings open again and we all jump. This time a beautiful young woman stands in the doorway. Her otherwise perfect face appears to slide downward thanks to dark trails of running make-up. The hospital manager, Lauren, stands behind her looking agitated.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me in,’ the woman announces in a strong American accent, tossing her long fiery hair behind her shoulders and apparently making an effort to control her emotions. ‘I’ve been waiting outside for ages. Where is Sterling? Can we see him?’ Her shiny blue eyes are wild and leap around the room.

  ‘He’s in surgery,’ whispers Lizzie, who has noticeably stiffened beside me.

  ‘What the fuck happened out there?’ the redhead implores.

  Before anyone can respond, Fleet joins her in the doorway with Riley Cartwright trailing behind him.

  The woman shoots Cartwright a furious look and moves away from him into the room. I slowly recognise her from glossy magazine covers and a hair-dye commercial claiming the ‘perfect colour every time’. She doesn’t usually have red hair but her surname is James, I think.

  I stand up and walk over to her, introducing myself and Fleet.

  ‘Ava James,’ she says to me. Despite her tears she tilts her chin in reflex with her handshake, with the confidence of a Bond girl. Or perhaps James Bond himself. ‘I’m in the movie with Sterling. I’m his co-star.’ Her tone is clipped, professional.

  Fleet lifts his hand in a lazy wave, brazenly looking her up and down.

  Ava spins back to Lizzie. ‘What kind of surgery?’ she demands.

  Lizzie raises her shoulders in response. ‘I don’t know. I guess they need to try to—’

  ‘How could you let this happen?’ Ava snaps at Cartwright.

  The room has grown crowded and hot. Waves of perfume compete with body odour and swirl around the space, buoyed by the heat now blasting from the wall vents. Lauren’s beeper starts to bleat again, and she glances at us apologetically as she backs away and closes the door. Lizzie continues to cry into her brother’s chest. Cartwright comes to life in the form of a coughing fit. This earns him another glare from Ava, who with hands on her hips seems more furious than upset. Fleet gets up and slaps Cartwright on the back until the coughs turn to heaving tears, and he clutches his knees as he splutters.

  I can’t shake the feeling that I have wandered onto a TV set. Fleet manages to seem mildly amused by the entire scene.

  The door opens again and everyone looks up expectantly.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ starts Lauren, clearly wishing she was anywhere else but here. ‘I’m afraid Sterling Wade has just died.’

  Ava screams. Cartwright drops to the ground, his face in his hands.

  ‘Oh shit,’ whispers Kit.

  Next to him, there’s a whooshing sound as all the air leaves Lizzie’s body. She slumps back against the couch, her eyes huge and her knuckles white as she grips her brother’s hands with her bloodstained ones.

  Wednesday, 15 August

  9.16 pm

  The top stretch of Spring Street is empty, barricaded off at the start of Collins all the way to the beginning of Flinders and lined with security. The glow of the streetlights warms the shadowy gutters and the navy sky wraps around everything like an icy blanket. The curious eyes of the stars peer down from their endless dome. A possum jumps from a powerline into a tree above us and I spin around at the sound, hairs prickling on my neck.

  ‘Jeez,’ says Fleet, whistling.

  ‘What?’ I say self-consciously, my heart thumping loudly.

  ‘It’s like a zombie apocalypse out here.’ He says it seriously but tosses me a wink. He taps out a cigarette from his signature soft packet and shoves it in his mouth like a badly groomed James Dean.

  While we were at the hospital, Isaacs, Nan and Calvin went to the crime scene and assisted the first responders: sixteen overwhelmed street cops who had worked with the film’s security crew in an attempt to control the panicked crowd. Between them, they locked down the scene, taking as many initial statements as they could, and bagging blood-spattered costumes and props. A fresh wave of uniforms turned up at about 6 pm and are still dotted along the edges of the streets, keeping the crowds of onlookers at bay.

  Amid the initial madness, a female zombie, her forehead split open above her right eye, nervously handed in a bloodied knife she’d found about twenty metres from where Wade was attacked. She’d recognised that it was heavier and sharper than the other prop weapons littering the ground. Covered in shoeprints, fingerprints and the grime of the city, the knife suggests something far more sinister than a stunt gone wrong.

  I step onto the path and look down into the Treasury Gardens. White-and-blue-checked police tape flaps in the breeze. I turn to take in the empty road. Fleet’s right: the scene instantly conjures up memories of doomsday films. Odd how eerie an abandoned city street can be. So unnatural.

  A clumsy wall of flowers already rests against one of the plastic bollards. Random props are scattered haphazardly on the ground: masks, strips of black cloth, chewing-gum wrappers and folded sheets of paper. I bend to pick up one with my gloved hand. It’s a list detailing the day’s filming. Along the top of both pages is the movie title, Death Is Alive. The ‘mass zombie street scene’ was scheduled for 4.45 pm. The names ‘Wade’ and ‘James’ are listed next to it. Wade’s final act, I think
grimly.

  ‘Find something?’ calls Fleet from behind the barricade, breathing out the last of his cigarette.

  ‘It’s a list of all the scenes they were shooting today.’

  ‘Give us a look,’ he says, walking over and taking it. ‘Yeah, this is the call sheet. So, this zombie thing was the first scene today that had extras. All the other ones were with the main cast in other locations.’ I look at him, little lines forming on his forehead as he skims the list again.

  ‘Since when are you so down with the movie lingo?’ I ask.

  He wiggles his brows at me. ‘Did a bit of acting in my time. Even had a few guest appearances on Neighbours back in the day.’

  ‘Really?’ I can never quite tell when he’s being serious.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he says, reaching for another cigarette. ‘I have legit qualifications. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed my drama skills.’

  ‘You shouldn’t smoke so much,’ I say, as a nicotine craving hits me square in the gut.

  ‘Correct,’ he says.

  I roll my eyes. ‘What do you think happened out here today?’

  He sucks on the cigarette, pulling in his cheekbones. ‘No idea. But that knife changes everything. Someone either planted it as a joke and it ended up going way too far, or we have a genuine homicide on our hands.’ He taps the ash from the end of the smoke. ‘Or a manslaughter, at least.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I put my hands on my hips as our eyes meet. ‘Something’s definitely not right. Even if it was a hoax that went too far, no one’s come forward.’

  I look at the small huddle of our forensics team, diligently toiling in the area at the top of Collins where Sterling Wade was stabbed. ‘Come on,’ I say, leading Fleet over to them.