Into the Night Read online

  Fleet and I calmed Lara down and arranged some temporary accommodation for her before heading home.

  By the time I returned to the station at midday, Isaacs had appointed Ralph Myers as case lead and we’d confirmed an ID. Swallowing my disappointment at being overlooked again, I sat through the formal briefing.

  Our victim, Walter Miller, a 62-year-old perennially homeless man with a staccato history of mental illness, had been living rough for over two decades. He last had a fixed address in the early nineties. Tammy Miller, his 33-year-old daughter, hadn’t seen her father for almost twenty years, after her mother, Walter’s ex-wife, decided she wanted nothing to do with him. Tammy, now an event planner with two young children, is clearly bewildered about what to do with the news of her estranged father’s murder. She’s suddenly grieving for a man who in many ways was dead to her years ago. Her mother died in 2013, and the shock of her orphan status and the horrific circumstances of Walter’s death were written on her pretty face as Ralph led her to an interview room.

  At around 3 pm I was sent back to the crime scene to interview workers in nearby factories. Had they seen anything the previous evening? They hadn’t. They were all long gone and tucked up safely in bed by the time Walter met his grim fate.

  So far, our investigation has revealed a life as lonely as his death. There’s no sign of chronic drug use and no criminal record. There is no apparent motive for the attack at all, unless the objective was a cold-blooded kill. We’ll continue to pull his world apart, analyse his recent interactions and track his movements, because someone is better than no one to blame, even if it’s the victim himself. I’m already getting the feeling that Walter’s death will remain an inexplicable cruelty. A nasty statistic. Sometimes you can just tell.

  Walking past my tiny bedroom, I consider collapsing straight into my unmade bed. But not yet. It’s a Ben night and it’s almost time for our call. I should eat now so that I can put all my focus into his face and voice. The slow turn of my stomach is familiar, my pre-Ben conversation physiology always the same. I’ve come to recognise it before I’m consciously aware of it. It’s similar to the feeling of having a crush but with a ribbon of melancholy tied tightly around it. I love talking to him but it is somehow also very unsatisfying, the pain so acute when he hangs up that I’m still not convinced the high is worth the crashing comedown. But, of course, none of it is supposed to be about me.

  In the end, my relationship with Ben’s dad Scott simply faded away. After working a major murder case a few years ago, where the victim was an old classmate of mine, I was empty. Rosalind Ryan’s murder had completely broken me. It forced so much of my past into the present that eventually I collapsed under the weight.

  In the immediate aftermath of Rosalind’s case Scott and I came together, but ultimately we ended up even further apart. Scott tried, I know he did. He is a solid person, inside and out: broad-shouldered and stocky with a thick crop of dark hair and a sense of reliability that always sees him called upon for favours. His kind eyes, full of hope and effort, followed me around the house. He wanted to be close to me, to connect with me, but I’m ashamed to say, that after a few months of hypervigilance in regard to taking it easy, and giving our relationship the attention it deserved, I regressed to my old ways and funnelled my scant energy into work. I was an exceptional detective but a shitty partner and a barely passable mother. Rosalind haunted my dreams and I was grieving badly for Felix, my colleague who had transferred to a Sydney squad. Our affair, and the resulting miscarriage I’d endured, paired with the emotions Rosalind’s murder unearthed, left me badly bruised. Over time the pain faded to apathy, and I found myself directing that toward Scott. It was as if I’d decided that if I couldn’t be with Felix, there was no point in trying to make it work with anyone else. I was high-functioning but deeply broken and eventually something had to give. When the opportunity to transfer to Melbourne arose, I needed to take it. Living in Smithson was slowly killing me.

  I lean against the bench, looking at my poky kitchen. I can’t be bothered to cook but I know I should eat, especially after my coffee lunch and afternoon snack of crackers and chewing gum. I’ve lost over five kilos since arriving here. I fire up the gas. Grate some bright yellow cheese and pour the dregs of some fading chardonnay into a wineglass. As the water begins to boil I dump half a cup of pasta into the saucepan.

  I close my eyes as I tip the wine down my throat. Next door a man’s voice yells through the thin common wall and a woman’s sharp voice retorts loudly, sparking a ping-pong argument; it penetrates the soothing shield that alcohol is gallantly trying to form around my brain. I picture the cold grey tunnel that Walter Miller called home and shiver, turning the heater up higher. I open a new bottle of wine and pour another glass. It seems that the TV options on Tuesday night are no better than those on Monday.

  I flick from an episode of The Street to the news, and my boss’s face fills the screen. I sit up a little straighter and note how Isaacs’ grey stare holds the reporter’s as he calmly answers her questions about Walter Miller’s death.

  As I shovel my unappetising dinner into my mouth, I have to admit my boss is compelling on TV. His thick grey hair obediently falls into place every time he shifts his head. His nose hooks slightly, set above full lips. His movements are slow and deliberate, like those of a lizard whose blood needs warming in the sun. His low voice is steady, an authoritative baritone.

  Isaacs is polite to me, polite to everyone, but everything about him feels distant. I sense it’s intentional: he seems determined to keep everyone at arm’s-length. Our relationship is formal, forced, and so far I feel like I’ve struggled to transcend the job interview phase, which is unsettling as I’m still technically on probation. Nan, Ralph and Calvin are his clear favourites but even with them he is frosty. He’s so unlike Ken Jones, my old station chief who wore his heart—and every thought that ran through his head—prominently on his sleeve.

  Rumour has it that everyone thought Isaacs was a shoo-in for the commissioner role a few months back, but instead Joe Charleston, a well-regarded inspector from Tasmania, got the gig. Allegedly Isaacs has been even more aloof since then.

  The news shifts a gear and a reporter is now talking excitedly about the Hollywood movie Death Is Alive, which will begin filming in Melbourne tomorrow. I’m vaguely aware of the production—a bunch of our guys have been working with the film’s security team and the council for the past few months, and Candy keeps mentioning it because she has a crush on the lead actor.

  Candy Fyfe is a reporter back in Smithson and probably my closest friend. She is a force of nature, the first indigenous journalist Smithson has seen and probably the most dedicated. We weren’t friends initially, in fact we were openly hostile, but I’ve grown to love her relentless energy. She is single-handedly trying to keep our friendship alive via various forms of electronic correspondence. With a stab of guilt, I realise I never got back to her most recent message, which she sent over a week ago. I pull it up on my phone, laughing as I reread her updates about our home town. She’s heard a rumour that the local Presbyterian minister is having an affair with the funeral director, so she’s been fronting up to church every Sunday to investigate. I can just imagine Candy, her athletic brown body poured into one of her trademark tight-fitting outfits, lurking around the church trying to catch the unlikely couple out.

  Famous faces flash onto the screen as the reporter chatters on. Having zero interest in celebrities, I barely recognise any of them. I yawn and get up to pour another wine. My hips creak as I rise and stagger the few steps to the kitchen. I might be losing weight but my fitness is at an all-time low. I’ve stopped running. I do enough at the squad gym to pass for trying, but I’m only going through the motions. I need to get into a better routine.

  I need to do a lot of things.

  Checking the time, I head onto the tiny balcony for my daily cigarette, eyes on the twinkling dots in the sky as smoke fills my lungs. I begin to picture Ben
’s face. His pale green eyes, identical to mine. His smattering of freckles. The sweet curve of his mouth. 8.28 pm. He will ring any second now. He is punctual, a trait inherited from his father.

  Scott sometimes says a quick hello to me but we spoke on Sunday so it’s unlikely that we will this time. The finances are agreed for now, Ben is fine, so there’s nothing for us to talk about.

  Shoving the cigarette into the growing graveyard of yellow butts in an empty flowerpot, I go back inside and pull the door closed. I drink more wine, wrestling with the memory of the hotel room from last night. The abstract art on the walls, the strong eager hands on my body. I cringe slightly, my head pounding. I realise the bottle of wine is already half empty.

  My phone buzzes and I scramble to mute the TV. Wipe my mouth. Pull my legs underneath me and curl into a ball to Skype with my son.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ His face fills the screen and he waves at me.

  ‘Hey, Ben!’ I summon my best smile and push my guilt firmly aside. ‘How are you, darling?’

  ‘Good.’

  My chest tightens at his little boy nonchalance. He’s not obtuse; he just doesn’t go into detail. Our conversations are a blissful jumble of simple words and sweet silences. They are everything. They are not nearly enough.

  ‘Did you have sport today?’

  ‘Yep.’

  I smile, just taking him in. He always sits up straight when he talks on Skype. It’s still a task that requires his full concentration, like he’s worried he’ll get the next answer wrong if he relaxes. Ben has just turned five and I often struggle with the thought that he’s not that many years from being the same age as so many of the kids I deal with at work. The kids who are tangled up in the bad situations I’m trying to figure out. Kids who’ve been around evil for so long that it has seeped into their souls and erupts in all the worst ways. I swallow past an image of a future Ben, broken by his mother’s rejection.

  ‘Soccer, right?’ I say.

  ‘Yep. And my team won again!’ He beams at me.

  ‘That’s great, sweetheart! And do you have footy on the weekend?’

  ‘Yeah, this Saturday, and then we have a week off. That’s what Dad said.’

  We chat about his friend’s mini-golf party, and he asks about my goldfish.

  ‘Frodo is fine,’ I tell him, shifting the phone so he can see the fishbowl. ‘He told me to tell you he says hi.’

  Ben giggles and I smile again before sadness bubbles inside me. Oblivious, he chatters on about school, his teacher and what he ate for lunch.

  ‘Do you want to look at the stars now?’ he asks, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, careful to hide the crack in my voice. ‘I bet I know which one you’re going to talk about first.’

  ‘Well…’ He moves toward the window in the lounge. ‘There’s that big one right in the middle of the sky. And like, three little ones in a little line next to it. Can you see the one I mean?’ He turns the phone around and I get a sweeping glimpse of the familiar room before hazy sky fills the screen.

  ‘Sure can,’ I tell him. ‘That’s a good one. Can you see the sneaky sparkly one on the right? I think it’s right near my apartment.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he says, eyebrows shooting up, ‘it’s kind of yellow. Cool.’

  He stifles a yawn and his eyes drop away from the heavens. ‘Time for bed,’ I say firmly—still able, occasionally, to be his mother.

  ‘Okay,’ he agrees, yawning again. ‘Speak to you on Thursday, Mum?’

  ‘You bet. Have a great day tomorrow. I’ll give Frodo an underwater kiss for you.’

  We blow a kiss to each other and, as I hang up, I realise that my hand is flat across my heart.

  I brush my teeth, use the toilet and undress, sliding into my freezing bedding. My head spins and my stomach cramps uncomfortably. In the lounge, the heater makes an unhealthy ticking sound. The TV next door mumbles. Rock music thuds through the ceiling. Glass smashes on the street. A cat meows. I toss and turn, picturing first Ben sleeping peacefully in his bed and then Walter Miller slumped forward in his cold bloody puddle. Until finally, I am asleep.

  Wednesday, 15 August

  5.55 am

  I wake before the alarm goes off, my eyes sore and grainy, traces of wine fixed offensively to the walls of my mouth. Rolling over, I stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, considering the day ahead. I expect it will mostly consist of attempting to confirm Walter Miller’s final movements, trying to work out why the hell someone wanted him to exit the world so dramatically.

  I pull myself up and throw the blanket roughly back over the bed. Turning on the shower, I let the steam warm the air before stepping in. Wash, dress. Blast my hair with the dryer and I’m ready for whatever the day hurls my way. I tap some flakes into Frodo’s bowl and give him a half-hearted kiss for Ben. As I thump down the stairs, I swallow the tail of an overripe banana.

  At the base of my apartment block is a tiny cafe called The Boil, which does a strange mix of breakfast food and noodles. I order two takeaway coffees and pick up the newspaper. A grainy, decades-old photo of Walter Miller and his daughter is on the front page, the bold headline above his face screaming ‘Homeless and Hunted’.

  When I step back outside, the cold air fingers my scalp and flicks up my hair. I pull my scarf around my head in an attempt to pin it down. I walk up to the corner where, behind a bench seat, a little concrete alcove is cut into the base of an old office building.

  ‘Morning, Macy,’ I say, relieved to see the familiar mass of blankets. I hold one of the cups out to the large woman curled underneath the hard grey overhang. A giant beanie rests just above her eyes and her round chin juts out above her tatty coat collar as she appraises the new day. She heaves herself up, her face cracking into a smile as she takes the cup from me. This alcove, about two hundred metres from my front door, is the closest thing Macy has to a home. Everything she owns is in an ancient North Face backpack that she uses as a pillow.

  A few weeks after I arrived in Melbourne, I locked myself out of my apartment block after a night shift. Tired and alone, I collapsed on a park bench crying my eyes out. Macy emerged from her alcove and sat with me for over an hour listening to my story, while I waited for the property manager. And then she shared hers. It turned out we both have sons we don’t get to see anymore. These days I find it easier to talk to Macy than anyone else I know. Surveying Walter Miller’s crime scene had reminded me of her modest jumble of earthly things more than I’d wanted to admit to myself.

  ‘What’s news today, big cop lady? More of my fellas turning up dead?’ She’s smiling but I think she must be so scared about what happened to Walter. She must feel so vulnerable out here. Not for the first time I think about helping her in some way. Finding her somewhere to stay or inviting her into my apartment, but when I alluded to this a few weeks ago it was clear it made her uncomfortable. She is such a proud woman and wears her resilience like an invisible badge. So I settle on buying her coffee and the occasional snack but anything beyond a token gesture feels like it’s off limits.

  ‘No news yet today, Macy,’ I tell her, sitting on the bench, ‘but it’s still early.’ I pause, then say, ‘You didn’t know the man who died, did you?’

  She wipes her nose on her sleeve. ‘Not really. Met him once or twice. But my friend Lara, she knew him. She said you spoke to her the other night at the cop shop. She’s not doing so well. Keeps remembering what she saw.’

  I instantly summon Lara’s terrified face, her jerky movements and nervous glances as Fleet and I interviewed her about what she witnessed at the tunnel. I wonder if she’s back on the streets already; I don’t know how far the empathy of the tax-paying dollar stretches to a homeless witness.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Macy,’ I say. ‘We’re doing everything we can to find the person who attacked Walter.’

  She shrugs and sips more coffee, suggesting little faith in the likelihood of this outcome. As she pulls her mouth into a sm
ile again, her stained teeth gleam in her dark face. ‘Well. Anyway, enough sad talk. There’s big excitement around here later today. They’re shooting a movie along the top of Spring Street.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say, putting my coffee down so I can make jazz hands, ‘the big Hollywood film.’

  ‘They’re blocking off all the cars, you know. Your lot are gunna be everywhere, keeping people out of the way. I read the information flyer they were handing out. There’s gunna be some big action scene. With real movie stars.’ Her gravelly voice rolls across the path, and we get a few odd looks from eager corporates in tailored suits and sleepy shift workers heading home. ‘I’m going to get myself a front-row seat. Try to get Lara to come.’ She knocks back more coffee and closes her eyes. ‘Man, this is good stuff. Just a beautiful, beautiful thing.’

  I tuck my feet in their new boots under the bench as I notice her woollen socks sticking through holes in her worn broken ones.

  ‘How is your little boy?’ she asks.

  I sigh and have some of my own coffee. ‘He’s fine. He seems happy. You know, with school. With his sport.’

  ‘Well, that’s the main thing. And don’t you go worrying about things that aren’t really there. If he’s fine, then everything is. Remember?’

  I nod and try to smile. ‘I know you’re right. But look, I gotta get going, Mace,’ I say, already on my feet.

  She gives me a reproachful look. ‘You take care out there, Detective Gemma.’

  ‘You too,’ I say, giving her a pointed look. ‘I mean it, be careful.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she says, but I see a flicker of fear in her eyes again.

  I smile at her. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing about your day at the movies.’

  I don’t know why I went to the hotel that first night. It was a Thursday. I’d been in Melbourne for exactly one week and had barely spoken to a soul. I was still staying in a serviced apartment, applying for rentals and due to start work the following Monday.