Into the Night

by Sarah Bailey

  A young woman walks past our open door, notices us and circles back. ‘Do you guys want a coffee?’

  ‘No thanks,’ we say, holding up our tepid mugs in unison.

  ‘Tedious or not,’ I say to Fleet, facing the board again, ‘that sibling thing might gnaw away at you. Feeling inferior all those years, watching Sterling’s star rise and rise. The relentless narrative of the golden child—whereas from Paul’s perspective, he’s just the brother who shirked his duty. Then your parents hit hard times, and you and your sister are the ones left to pick up the pieces, so it seems even more unfair. Paul and Sterling spoke that Sunday night for the first time in ages. Paul says he was pissed off, and Brodie says they argued. Maybe Paul just flipped.’

  Fleet blinks a few times and then squints at the picture. ‘They barely look like brothers, do they?’

  I look up at Paul’s round face, dull gaze and limp yellow hair. ‘No, not really.’

  Fleet tips his head to the ceiling, causing his neck to crack. ‘Okay, so Paul comes to Melbourne sometime between Sunday night and Wednesday morning. He could have killed Miller, although why? We know he gets his rocks off in the back of his van with a prostitute between 2.30 and 4 pm on Wednesday. And then what, he goes to the film set, whips on a zombie costume and stabs his brother? It doesn’t play for me.’

  ‘I agree,’ I say. ‘But then, where was he for those missing few hours?’

  ‘Dunno,’ says Fleet. ‘Maybe doing something else he doesn’t want us to know about.’

  I glance back at Paul’s photo.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Okay, well, next we have the secret lover who was sick of being a secret.’

  ‘I definitely think Kent’s hiding something,’ says Fleet. ‘There’s something off about him.’

  I look at Brodie’s photo. ‘Really? I just think he seems completely broken. Like he’s still in shock. Plus, I still don’t see motive. Maybe he found out about the engagement and was upset, but attacking Wade in response like that? It doesn’t add up. And can you imagine him killing Walter Miller?’

  ‘Obsession and love are good friends though, right?’ says Fleet. ‘Maybe he lost his mind at the thought of losing Wade. He went into a rage. It’s happened before.’

  I meet Fleet’s eyes, thinking. ‘True. But Brodie seems genuinely devastated.’

  ‘His alibi is a total piece of shit. For both of the murders.’

  ‘Also true,’ I agree with a sigh.

  Fleet stands up and points at two photos on the board in quick succession. ‘Unlike the newly engaged Lizzie Short.’

  ‘Lizzie might be involved,’ I say, as images of Brodie and Sterling embracing push into my mind. ‘She might have found out about Wade’s infidelity and convinced Brodie that he was being used too. Maybe they teamed up.’

  ‘Jesus, Woodstock, this isn’t The First Wives Club.’

  ‘Think about it,’ I say. ‘It makes sense. Whether he had bad intentions or not, Sterling was using them both.’

  ‘Sure, it sucks. But there is no benefit in having him dead, is there?’

  ‘Unless they just wanted him gone? They were humiliated and wanted to punish him?’

  Fleet slaps either side of his face gently, probably struggling to stay alert. ‘Ava might have wanted her knight in shining armour out of the way as well,’ he points out. ‘She could be lying about Cartwright, or exaggerating.’

  ‘Dangerous territory,’ I warn, ‘accusing a woman of making a false harassment claim.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he says, lifting his arms in the air, ‘but hear me out. What if Ava wanted Sterling to think Cartwright was hassling her? She might have been trying to cause trouble between the two of them.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ I allow, ‘but then look at the calls Cartwright made to her and the fact that Katya made a claim in the past. It’s pretty clear he has a problem with women. I bet there are others.’

  ‘Maybe Ava didn’t like Sterling treating her like a damsel in distress. Or maybe she thought it would lead to a romantic relationship and he shut her down.’

  ‘There’s still nothing but rumour to suggest they were involved,’ I remind him.

  ‘Yeah, and attacking him or getting someone else to seems like a pretty extreme response to being rejected,’ he admits.

  ‘These people are extreme though,’ I muse, ‘and used to getting their own way. But I think Ava is a long shot. And what about Miller—why would she kill him?’

  ‘Okay, but Cartwright clearly had stuff going on,’ says Fleet. ‘He argued with Wade on Sunday. He probably felt like things were unravelling. He’s under a ton of pressure, he’s back on the drugs, and then his picture-perfect leading man is lecturing him about how to behave. Maybe he imploded.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, trying to think, ‘but once again, how does it link to the Miller case?’

  Fleet shrugs. ‘Clearly he didn’t commit either of the crimes himself. Maybe one of his drug buddies was booked twice that week?’

  I press my fists against my head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why would a hit man drop his knife?’

  ‘It all makes sense if the killer is some nutter,’ points out Fleet. ‘Perhaps we’re looking for logic where there is none.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ I sigh, standing up, hands on my hips, barely seeing the case board anymore as my eyes stare through it. ‘And then we’re back to the random stranger again.’

  Fleet cuffs me lightly on the shoulder. ‘We aren’t going to finish this game of Cluedo tonight. Come on, Miss Scarlet. It’s time to get some shut-eye.’

  Friday, 24 August

  10.52 am

  My phone buzzes in my pocket as we’re grilling Brodie Kent. We’ve discovered he volunteered at a large city homeless shelter when he first moved to Melbourne from Adelaide, and we’re trying to establish if he crossed paths with Walter Miller. Frustratingly, the paperwork on file at the shelter is as vague as Brodie about his time there. Since Sterling’s funeral, the little light he had left inside seems to have disappeared and he speaks in a flat monotone. I fantasise about parting his thick hair and splitting his head down the middle, peeling back his scalp and seeing the truth that lies within. As much as I sense his grief is genuine, his inability to be definite about his whereabouts is making me uneasy.

  Brodie says that last Monday evening he was watching TV at the apartment with Sterling and Lizzie until about 9 pm. Then he went into the city and had a few drinks, before buying a ticket to a late movie session at Melbourne Central. He says he walked home just after midnight, getting there sometime after 1 am. Circumstantially, he is shaping up to be our strongest suspect.

  ‘Will Lizzie be able to confirm you were watching TV and the time you were out last Monday?’ I ask him.

  He blinks. ‘Yes. But they were both asleep when I got home.’

  ‘Tell us who you remember from the shelter,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t really remember specific people, more just how working there made me feel,’ he says, looking at the table. ‘It was very special, helping people like that.’ After a minute or so, his eyes widen. ‘Do you think someone from the shelter hurt Sterling? Someone who lives on the street?’

  ‘Just try to answer our questions, please,’ I reply.

  ‘I was on a lot of drugs back then,’ Brodie admits quietly. ‘I went to the shelter high quite a lot, so things are hazy. I wish I could help more.’

  ‘And you’re certain you went to the movies by yourself last Monday?’ I ask, my phone buzzing again.

  He nods tiredly. ‘Yes, I often go on my own. I used to go to the movies when Sterling was busy with Lizzie. It was a good way to distract myself.’

  ‘Do you have the ticket?’ Fleet asks.

  ‘I doubt it. It might be in a pocket somewhere.’

  ‘What about a credit-card record?’ I suggest.

  ‘My credit cards are all maxed out,’ says Brodie, a little defensively. ‘Why are you asking me about where I was that night? Sterling was fine
then, he was at home with Lizzie. I don’t understand—what is going on?’

  Fleet mutters something under his breath before saying, ‘The problem is, Brodie, we’re having trouble pinning down your whereabouts. You’re always on your own and you seem to spend a lot of time just walking around.’ Fleet gets up and paces the room in a little circle, stretching his back. ‘Don’t you have any friends?’

  Brodie’s eyes flash and he bares his teeth. When he speaks his voice is like a blade cutting across the small table. ‘Don’t you get it? My entire life was on hold because of him. He swanned around with Lizzie, making plans to move overseas, telling me he loved me, to be patient.’ The skin on his neck is stretched as he spits out the words. ‘And I was just waiting like an idiot, always waiting!’ He slams a fist onto the table and bursts into tears.

  The room crackles with his outburst. My heart roars into gear and thumps loudly.

  Fleet lifts an eyebrow and clears his throat. ‘Settle down, mate.’

  Brodie’s eyes are still full of fury, his hands balled at his sides.

  ‘Does the name Walter Miller mean anything to you?’ I ask.

  ‘No!’

  I soften my voice. ‘Did you know Sterling had been offered a major role overseas?’

  Brodie is breathing heavily, as if he’s been running. He pushes away from the table and folds his arms, his eyes now completely clear. ‘He was always getting offered roles. We talked about it sometimes. I said it would be a good time for him to break up with Lizzie.’

  ‘Did he agree?’ I press.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Would you have gone with him?’ asks Fleet.

  ‘That was the plan, wasn’t it?’ replies Brodie tersely.

  ‘We don’t know, Brodie,’ says Fleet, ‘was it?’

  Brodie scowls and his voice is full of venom as he hisses, ‘I don’t fucking know either, do I? Maybe he really did propose to her, and I was being fed a bunch of lies. I don’t know what to believe anymore.’

  We go around in circles with Brodie for a few minutes longer, but he has shut down again. His alibis remain vague and we can’t confirm a direct link to Walter Miller despite the shelter connection.

  ‘It’s good to see that our apparently spineless friend has at least a tiny bit of backbone,’ says Fleet when I return from walking Brodie out.

  ‘Yes.’ I recall the fury in the young man’s eyes. ‘He’s clearly much closer to the edge than we realised.’

  ‘And more capable of violence than we realised, perhaps?’

  ‘Well, his little blow-up was interesting, but I don’t know if it means—’ My phone buzzes. ‘Yes,’ I answer impatiently.

  ‘Hi,’ says Chloe. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to update you on something. Two things actually, both about Paul Wade. Firstly the tech guys have found a money transfer that Sterling scheduled before he died. Five thousand dollars is set to hit Paul’s bank account this weekend.’

  ‘Does it have a description?’

  ‘It just says “for dad”,’ Chloe replies.

  ‘Okay, what else?’ I ask, having no idea what the money transfer means.

  ‘Paul has turned up on some city CCTV footage from last Wednesday afternoon. A retail store handed it in this morning.’

  ‘Where was he?’ I ask, locking eyes with Fleet, who is obviously desperate to know what is going on.

  ‘Just near the corner of Collins and Spring. It looks like he was walking away from the film shoot just after the attack on Wade took place.’

  Saturday, 25 August

  11.17 am

  The trees close in on me as I steer the hire car nearer to Smithson. I pull the sun visor down in an attempt to block out the unfiltered light. I don’t seem to be able to get enough air into the car and I fiddle with the controls again. I decided to come the back way from the airport; it takes the same amount of time but the road is winding and tends to be less popular. Sure enough, I have it all to myself. For one crazy moment, I think that perhaps I’m completely alone, that maybe there is no one else left out there, that everyone has just disappeared. I am achingly tired, the result of a sleepless night paired with an early start. I clutch the steering wheel, my pale hands threaded with fine veins. They don’t look like the hands of a mother, or the kind of hands that can take on a killer.

  The Wades have been out of contact since the funeral. Paul Wade’s mobile has been off since Wednesday; the messages we’ve left on his phone and with his parents haven’t been returned. Melissa’s husband Rowan answered his mobile yesterday afternoon but swiftly hung up when we identified ourselves. Sterling’s family has gone into lockdown.

  ‘We need to speak with Paul Wade,’ I told Isaacs after Fleet and I cornered him in his office yesterday afternoon. ‘He lied to us three times—we now have evidence he was in proximity to the crime scene at the time of the attack. Plus, we don’t know when he came to Melbourne. He said he sleeps in his van sometimes so it could have been any time from Sunday night onwards. Maybe he arrived earlier in the week when Miller was attacked.’

  Isaacs tipped forward and gripped the edges of his desk. ‘Is there anything to indicate that Paul Wade knew Walter Miller?’

  ‘Not that we know of. But it does look like the guy spent quite a bit of time in Melbourne for no apparent reason. He’s a bit of a drifter so it seems feasible that they came into contact.’

  ‘And you know for sure that Paul went back to Karadine with his family?’ Isaacs said.

  ‘We’re pretty sure,’ Fleet replied. ‘We’re still waiting on the airlines to get back to us. We had the local cops go around to his mate’s address in Castlemaine and he’s definitely not there.’

  ‘Alright,’ said Isaacs. ‘Send an officer up there to speak to him. And find out why the family isn’t talking.’

  ‘I was thinking I’d go,’ I said, raising my hand like a kid in class. ‘It’s a short drive from my home town and there’s a family matter I need to attend to this weekend anyway.’

  There was a short silence. I kept my eyes down and gathered my notebook, standing up as if the decision had already been made.

  ‘Okay,’ said Isaacs, ‘go to Karadine tomorrow. When can you be back?’

  ‘Monday, sir,’ I replied, already wrestling with a bubble of unease at the thought of going home.

  I slow down as I reach the familiar T-intersection. Tall grass crowds the bases of the fence posts. In the middle of the road ahead, a large crow feasts on the insides of a dead kangaroo. To the right is Smithson and, a little further along, Karadine. Left leads to the centre of the country. To red desert. To nothing. I look back and forth between the roads, letting the car hum on the spot even though no one is coming.

  I pull over a few kilometres from Smithson and call the Wade farmhouse again. I try Paul’s mobile, then Melissa’s. Still no answer.

  I bypass Smithson’s main street—I want to get my visit to the Wades out of the way before I surprise Dad and Ben. I think about how happy Ben will be that I can come to his soccer event tomorrow. My body aches to hold him but there’s something intoxicating about dragging it out for a few more hours.

  About thirty minutes later, a sign informs me that I have reached Karadine. I have only been here a handful of times: it’s a tiny farming community that consists of a cluster of shops and a few wineries. I pass the evidence of minor civilisation until the road thins and turns to dirt.

  A stream of dust flies out behind me like a smoke signal. Huge gums line both sides of the road, and the fields are dotted with cows and horses. I pass several tired-looking letterboxes, lonely at the tops of driveways that trail off into the distance.

  I reach the Wades’ property which, unlike the other residences I’ve passed, has its gate shut. A few bouquets rest near the wooden stumps at either side. Just before I turn the car into the driveway, I pull on the handbrake and quickly jump out, pushing the gate open and collecting the flowers. After stacking them carefully on the passenger seat, I slowly steer
the car along the ruler-straight driveway until a ring of vibrant green appears like an oasis. As I draw closer I see a squat stone house nestled on dense lawn among several trees. To my left are acres of picturesque, albeit dry farmland. Beyond the house is a steady climb of mountains.

  Parking behind an ageing ute, I study the house. It looks exactly how a farmhouse should look, with fecund herb gardens bursting from under the protection of the eaves and a flourish of wildflowers forming a haphazard barrier along the front.

  Before I have the chance to exit the car, the front door swings open and Melissa steps out, her face twisted into a scowl. ‘No,’ she says, shaking an outstretched hand at me, her whole body leaning forward. ‘No.’

  ‘Hi, Melissa,’ I say evenly, shielding my face from the sun.

  ‘Please,’ she says. ‘We’ve had enough.’

  ‘I need to speak with Paul.’

  ‘No. No speaking about Sterling anymore.’ She runs her fingers through her limp hair, pushing it away from her red face. ‘Do you know what this is like for people like my parents? They don’t deserve this.’

  ‘I need to speak with Paul,’ I repeat. ‘If he doesn’t agree to speak with me here, I’ll have to take him back to Melbourne.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can you get him, please? Or I can come with you?’

  She huffs air through her nose for a few moments. ‘Wait here.’

  I slip on my sunglasses and gather up the bouquets, placing them on a patch of lawn out of the sun. Leaning against the car, I breathe in air that is jarringly pure and lightly scented with flowers and grass. Snippets of conversation drift my way before the door swings open again and Melissa heads back toward me with Paul following feebly.

  ‘Hi, Paul,’ I say. ‘We just need to have a quick chat.’ I look around. ‘Let’s sit over there.’ I point to a wooden bench near the side of the house. ‘Melissa, you don’t need to be here.’

  ‘I better go and be with Mum anyway,’ she replies, looking worriedly at Paul. ‘Let me know if you, um, need anything.’