Into the Night Page 3

  I’d spent the day wandering aimlessly around the city, up and down the corridors of the Queen Victoria Market, sitting in cafes, nursing coffees until they became cold. Just before five I went back to the apartment and had a shower. I craved a drink and figured I may as well make myself look half decent and go out somewhere. Maybe I could pretend I was here on business, I reasoned. I put on the only dress I owned and dried my long hair. Stepping outside and walking along Exhibition Street toward the heart of the city, I saw a stream of taxis rounding into a hotel entrance. There would be a bar there, I thought, and it would be nice to look out over the main street. It started to rain, fat droplets splattering onto the pavement, and I hurried across the road and through the glass doors, past the smiling concierge.

  I ordered a wine and sat on a velvet-covered chair, watching night-time take hold of the city. Every surface shone and I was mesmerised by the glittering chandelier. I felt gloriously at peace, more relaxed than I’d been in weeks. I took off my jacket and crossed my legs, leaning back against the plush cushions. The waiter returned, a full glass of wine already perched on his tray, and told me that the gentleman at the bar had bought me a drink.

  I looked over to see an olive-skinned man in a navy suit smiling at me.

  I smiled back and picked up the drink, my eyes still on the man as I took the first sip.

  Just as I was finishing the wine, he came over carrying two fresh drinks. ‘What a day, huh?’ he said, handing me a glass. Underneath his smile his gaze was intense as it raked over my body.

  ‘Yes. It’s nice to relax now though.’

  ‘How long are you staying here?’ he asked me.

  I blinked. ‘Home tomorrow. Back to Sydney.’

  ‘Me too—I’m based in Auckland,’ he said, and I detected the hint of an accent.

  We exchanged looks before I pulled my eyes away. My breathing was all through my mouth.

  I was drunk when we got to his room. My arms were above my head, pinned against the wall before the door shut. I let him strip off my clothes; I let him take control. I felt like a piece of driftwood, tossed around by the raging water. It felt good to be held by this stranger. For him to know nothing about me. He held my wrists and threw me onto the bed. His long lean body was heavy on top of me and he pushed so far inside me I winced.

  Hours later, in the dead of the night, I crawled into my own bed, breathing as if I’d been chased. The room danced around me, my pulse pounding through my whole body, while I thought about how I wanted to do it again.

  Wednesday, 15 August

  7.29 am

  ‘Morning,’ says Calvin Atkins perkily as I drop my bag on my desk. Coffee churns in my guts, lonely with only the banana for company.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, my eyes already trained on my computer screen, blocking off more chat.

  Calvin agreeably busies himself with a pile of paperwork, the angles of his thin face emphasised by the glow of his computer screen.

  Nan Sheridan walks in, grunts, and deposits her sizeable bulk into her worn office chair, which groans in response. She plucks out her earphones and rustles in her bag, dumping a worn-looking Val McDermid novel on her desk next to a haphazard stack of crime novels. Emptying her handbag of fast-food wrappers, she snaps on her computer and stares at the blank screen as it whirs into life.

  ‘Want a coffee, Nan?’

  She looks at Calvin right between his eyes, which he seems to understand means yes because he nods and scoots off to the tearoom muttering, ‘Long black, no sugar.’

  I don’t say anything to Nan and she doesn’t say anything to me. I think we like this about each other.

  There are just over a hundred detectives in the Melbourne homicide squad. Nan, Calvin, Fleet and I are in one of the sixteen groups along with Billy Benton, Ralph Myers and Chloe Senna. Each group has a mix of experienced senior detectives like Nan and Ralph, and then junior detectives like Chloe, with people like me falling somewhere in between. Nan has been a senior DS for almost a decade and surely must have her eye on Isaacs’ job. She’s good, I’ll give her that, ferocious—though I’m not sure how well she’d go at managing people. She has slightly more patience with the dead than with the living but not much. I watch as she jabs a single finger at her keyboard. Technology is another thing that Nan merely tolerates—if she could do the entire job with her bare hands, she would.

  A small commotion flares up a few pods along. One of the juniors is back from a holiday and there’s a lot of excitement about her tan. I stay at my desk, working steadily through my emails. Ralph is usually in early but I assume he’s at Walter Miller’s autopsy, which was scheduled first thing this morning. Billy is probably there with him too. Isaacs has set a ten-thirty meeting to review the Miller case and any updates on the Jacoby case, and until then I have plenty to keep me busy.

  I briefly wonder where Fleet is before I firmly shove the thought away. I’m not Nick Fleet’s keeper. He’d have to be missing for days before I would call his mobile. Fleet isn’t the kind of guy who likes to be managed, and I wouldn’t want him to know that I’ve noticed he’s missing.

  The three of us work in silence for a while and just as I’m considering another coffee, my personal phone buzzes. It’s a message from Josh Evans, wondering if I have time to meet him this morning. I feel a pulse of guilt at not texting him back all day yesterday.

  I look at my desk, piled high with papers. Seeing as I’m not lead on the Miller case, I should be able to get through it all later. I can always stay back anyway—it’s not like I have a family to go home to. Placing the papers in my bottom drawer and locking it, I grab my coat. ‘I’m heading out for a bit,’ I tell Calvin. ‘I’ll be back for the case briefings.’

  He nods, looking slightly bewildered.

  Nan grimaces as I push in my chair. ‘Don’t be late,’ she says bluntly.

  ‘Hey,’ says Josh, flashing me a big white smile as I approach the table. ‘I’ve ordered for you already. A latte.’

  ‘Oh, okay, thanks,’ I reply, smiling back as I sit down across from him and toy with my watch. ‘Sorry I’ve been a bit AWOL this week. Things have been intense at work.’

  He grabs my hands, pulling them over to his side of the table. ‘Don’t be silly, Gemma. I know you’re busy.’ He leans forward and gives me a quick kiss. My eyes close and I breathe in the musky scent of his cologne. Not for the first time, I wish I liked Josh as much as he seems to like me. He is so good-looking, so uncomplicated. As I pull away, a businessman at an adjoining table raises a bemused eyebrow at me, and I wonder if my thoughts are that obvious.

  ‘It feels like ages since I saw you,’ Josh says.

  ‘I saw you on Thursday night,’ I reply lightly, gently tugging my hands free.

  He laughs. ‘I know it hasn’t really been that long—it just feels like it. You should have come out on Saturday, it was such a fun night.’ He goes on to describe the evening in detail.

  With Josh has come an instant social life: noisy busy people with interesting jobs who hang out in achingly small bars that turn fifteen dollars into a swish of wine. His cool breezy world has been intoxicating from the moment we met, just over a month ago, and part of me wants to tumble in. To relax into his strong arms. The other part of me stubbornly rejects it. The closer he inches toward me, the further I lean the opposite way. So that I don’t feel so bad, I tell myself he’s probably seeing other people too.

  He ends his story with a sip of coffee and says more seriously, ‘So the homeless man’s murder sounds pretty brutal. Are you working on it?’ His dark eyes are bright with interest as he runs a hand through his short gold hair.

  ‘Yeah. I got called out there on Monday night.’ I picture Walter’s broken body again. ‘It wasn’t very nice.’

  Josh gives a low whistle. ‘Poor bugger.’

  He finishes his coffee just as mine arrives. He orders another and I curl my hands around the warm glass, watching as a little boy seated near the door drives a toy car across the table in
front of his plate. He dips the car into his steaming hot chocolate. He is small, his narrow shoulders only a ruler-width apart. Thick white-blond hair falls in cartoon-like chunks toward his eyes. His furious mother swats at his hand as she admonishes him and I look away, focusing back on Josh.

  ‘Anything else exciting happening at work?’ he asks.

  ‘Just your standard bashings, shootings and suicides,’ I say flippantly. His tan face remains serious and I drop the humour, adding, ‘This murder case is a big one, especially if it really was a random attack.’

  ‘Are you still working on all your other cases too?’

  ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Though, I think this one will become a focus now.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ll be pretty busy then.’

  I shrug. ‘Always.’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it, Gemma,’ he says. ‘You’re amazing.’

  I duck my head, brushing off his praise. Josh seems fascinated by my job and appears to understand the unpredictable nature of my world, which is a welcome change—and in stark comparison to Scott’s steady stream of exasperation and judgement. Josh rubs his foot against mine under the table and winks at me, causing a deep wave of shame about Monday night to swirl through me. And Saturday night. All of it. I know I need to stop. Or I need to stop seeing Josh. It’s not fair to string him along. But at the same time, it’s so nice having someone here to rely on, having someone be so into me. And so far, Josh seems fine with taking things slowly, though surely at some point that will change. I imagine being in bed with him but my bones get twitchy and my insides squirm. For the hundredth time, I wonder why I’m so much more comfortable being intimate with complete strangers. Somehow it seems less dangerous than being with Josh.

  ‘What about you?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m good,’ he says. ‘Work is really busy. I think I’ll need to stay back late tonight and maybe tomorrow too, which is why I wanted to see you this morning.’

  Josh is a junior lawyer at a huge firm with a string of letters for a name. His weekdays are a blur of court, research, teleconferences and coffee.

  ‘So, did you have fun with your friend on the weekend?’ he asks me.

  ‘Yeah, it was great to catch up with her,’ I lie. ‘It was low-key though, just dinners and sightseeing.’ I wave my hand to emphasise the fun of my imaginary weekend.

  ‘Sounds great,’ says Josh, clearing his throat. ‘So, hey, I thought it might be nice if you come over to my place on Saturday. I’ll cook us dinner.’

  I smile and nod, alarm bells sounding at the potential awkwardness of this scenario.

  The woman at the table near the door leans close to the little boy, angry-whispering in his ear. He keeps his eyes steadily trained on the tabletop where his toy car sits, sticky with chocolate. She straightens, still scowling, and her eyes meet mine. I try a tight smile but it is not returned: she doesn’t recognise any maternal solidarity in me.

  ‘That sounds great,’ I say when I realise Josh is waiting for an answer. ‘As long as things don’t get too crazy at work.’

  He takes my hand and laces his fingers through mine. ‘Cool. We can meet some of my mates afterwards if you like, or we can just have an early one if you’re tired. I want to spend some proper time with you.’ His voice lowers. ‘You can tell me all about your week and maybe I can even give you a massage or something.’

  Outside, the wind has picked up and it’s raining again. Sheets of water are falling at an angle, sneaking under the edges of umbrellas and threatening expensive handbags. Parents clutch their children, yanking hoods onto small heads in futile attempts to keep them dry. I think about Macy and hope that she’s found shelter. Suddenly anxious, I rub at my face: my skin feels sallow and dry, like a rubber mask. Josh is stroking his fingers in circles on the top of my other hand, making my eyes droop.

  ‘I’ve got to get going,’ he says, frowning slightly and looking at his watch. ‘I’m due in court soon. But hey, I’m really glad you could meet me. I’ll call you about Saturday. Don’t work too hard.’ He stands up. ‘God, I can’t wait for summer,’ he mutters, seeing the rain.

  He aims another kiss on my lips but I turn my head and he catches the side of my face instead. I watch him pause to collect his golf-sized umbrella from the bin near the door and carefully open it into the rain, his tall figure crossing the road and disappearing into the gloom. Once again, I’m struck by how attractive he is. How attentive and fun. I have to admit I feel like I’ve known him a lot longer than a few weeks.

  I look back at the little boy and his mother. His face and hands have been cleaned, and he is picking at a scab on his hand, his mouth in a pout. The mother is frowning too, her thumb scrolling on her phone.

  I sigh heavily as my conflicting thoughts battle each other. I down a glass of water to drown them out. There’s so much that Josh doesn’t know about me; I imagine how quickly he would back away if he knew even half of it.

  Noting that the rain is fading to drizzle, I stand up and rally myself for what is sure to be a long day. I can worry about Josh later. Right now, I need to get my head firmly in the Miller case.

  Wednesday, 15 August

  10.29 am

  Fleet slides into the case room just as Isaacs is closing the door. He tosses a nod in my direction, and I dip my head and push stray hairs behind my ear in response. The smell of fresh smoke wafts off him and gropes at my edges.

  Ralph stands at the front of the room, legs spread wide, and launches into an overview of the Miller case. We have accessed some grainy CCTV footage from a nearby car park, which shows a shadowy figure walking quickly across the corner of the screen around the time Walter was attacked. The figure appears to be male and young, matching the description that Lara gave us, and is perhaps slightly taller than average, which hardly narrows the field. Walter himself appears to have had no apparent enemies. Although his flimsy medical records show a mild learning disability, it seems he kept to himself and, until now, avoided trouble. Preliminary autopsy findings reveal a single deep stab wound to the chest and some bruising along his collarbone where the killer probably pinned him against the tunnel wall with his forearm.

  Looking at the grim photos, I try to see all the things around the violence: pale wrinkled skin, spidery veins, a rangy beard and dirty broken fingernails.

  After Ralph has run through his updates, Isaacs joins him at the front of the room. Looking at the small group, he doesn’t speak for a few moments and I sense that we collectively become self-conscious. I cross and uncross my legs, trying to mute my growling stomach.

  ‘While we know our victim was homeless and had been for a long time, what we don’t know,’ Isaacs says, eyeing each of us in turn, ‘is if he was killed because he was homeless.’

  I know what Isaacs is referring to, thanks to Calvin, who got me up to speed just before the meeting started. About two years ago there was a spate of homeless bashings across Melbourne. Back then the media embraced the story, with one journalist even sleeping on the streets for a week and reporting from the ‘front line of poverty’. One of the four men who were attacked died from his injuries, and the entire city was on edge for months. A couple of the incidents were captured on film, though tragically the perpetrators were never caught. At the time, it seemed most likely that the trio of young thugs had desired to inflict pain and found the perfect victims on the streets: alone, weak and vulnerable, with no family waiting for them to come home. No one looking out for them.

  ‘Well, he certainly wasn’t killed for money,’ says Fleet, smiling at his own joke.

  Isaacs looks at him blankly for a long beat before saying, ‘I’ll be confirming the number of extra uniforms we’re putting on at nights to the press this afternoon.’ He scans the room with his grey gaze and continues, ‘Fleet, Woodstock and Senna, you will work with Myers on the homeless-shelter interviews and the secondary-witness reports.’

  In the row in front of me Chloe Senna nods, the straight line of her thick blonde hair shifting up
and down on her shoulders. She absently rubs her pregnant belly. Fleet shifts next to me, kicking the side of my shoe.

  Ralph clears his throat. ‘We’ve identified three other homeless men who frequently spent time with Miller and we believe two of them saw him the day before he died. We obviously want their statements as soon as possible. And we need a clear view of Miller’s regular habits and movements. We want to know if anyone was hassling him or if he’d been involved in any conflicts recently, or if he mentioned anything that might be linked to his murder. I want reports by Friday if we can manage it.’ Ralph puffs out his chest, revelling in handing out orders.

  Isaacs is nodding his approval at this action list. ‘It’s a shame we’re still thin on the ground because of the Jacoby case but we’ll just have to make do,’ he says. He turns to Nan pointedly before his eyes stray to me. ‘I don’t want to lose focus on Jacoby.’

  Next to me Fleet muffles a burp.

  I’m unsure which group I’ve been lumped into. Clearly I need to help Fleet with the statements from Miller’s contacts but it seems like Isaacs also expects me to help Nan on the Jacoby case.

  Before I have time to confirm, Isaacs reels off a list of things he wants me and Fleet to follow up on top of Myers’ tasks, including retrieving the footage from the 2016 bashings. Isaacs’ gaze seems to rest mainly on me; I can’t shake the feeling I’ve done something wrong. The energy I summoned earlier has fizzled, and I look around at the others, convinced I’m the odd one out. Glancing at Miller’s autopsy photos again, I feel so frustrated. I want to be leading the case but Isaacs obviously doesn’t trust me enough, even though I was first to the scene. I clench my jaw and, for a horrifying second, I think I might cry.

  It’s hard here, I admit to myself. Harder than I thought it would be. There’s no special treatment, no reassuring winks from Jonesy. No end-of-day cuddles from Ben. Not for the first time, I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake. I do wonder what the point is sometimes. I am a mother to a son I can’t seem to look after, and his father wants as little to do with me as possible. My old life, the only one I’ve ever had, is over a thousand kilometres away. There’s nothing I’m looking forward to, I realise, the thought like a laser beam into my brain. And in the meantime, I’m wrapping my body around strangers, pretending to be someone else, when a perfectly good man is interested in me. Outside the window, a crow tips its head from side to side and looks down its beak at me. In the end, I have to look away.