She Told Her Parents She Was Going to Adelaide for New Year’s. She Never Came Home.

One

On December 28, 2014, Fang Ting flew from Sydney to Adelaide.

She had booked an afternoon flight and a window seat. After takeoff she kept looking out the window. The cloud layer was thick. She could not see the ground. The flight attendant pushed the cart past and asked if she wanted a drink. She asked for water, did not drink it, left it on the tray table, and poured it out when the plane began its descent.

She carried one suitcase. Not large. Silver. A red luggage tag hung from the zipper. The name on the tag was an English name, not Fang Ting. She had told her parents she was going to Adelaide for a few days over the New Year. Her mother said on the phone, Be careful, do not skimp. She said okay.

After hanging up, she opened another phone. It had one app, a chat window with an agent. She typed: Adelaide, three days, available. The reply: New Year’s, double rate. She replied: Okay.

She slid the second phone into the lining of her suitcase and pulled the zipper shut. Inside were a change of clothes, a charger, and a pair of high heels. The heels were thin, hard, black, patent leather.

Adelaide was quieter than Sydney. She took a taxi from the airport and gave the driver the address of the Hotel Grand Chancellor. The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Here for a holiday? he asked. She said, Mm. He said, If you are staying for New Year’s, there are fireworks on Hindley Street. She said, Okay.

The hotel was on Hindley Street. Four stars. Twelfth floor. She checked in. At the front desk she wrote “tourism” on the registration form. The clerk handed her a key card and said the lift was on the left. She said thank you, dragged her suitcase to the lift, stepped inside, and pressed 12. The numbers went up: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12. The doors opened. The corridor was carpeted. Footsteps were swallowed. She found the room, swiped the card, pushed the door open.

The room was not big: a bed, a desk, a window. Outside was the Adelaide cityscape, low and sparse, with a few rooftops visible in the distance. She put down her suitcase, walked to the window, and stood there for a while. Then she drew the curtains and opened the other phone.

Two

The hotel corridor camera captured a frame every few seconds.

In the footage, the lift on the twelfth floor opened and a man stepped out. He walked to a guest room door and knocked. The door opened. He went in. The door closed.

After some time, the door opened again. The man came out and walked to the lift. The lift doors closed, and the floor numbers counted down.

The scene repeated over three days. Different men, different clothes, different ways of walking. They all walked toward the same door. They all left after a period of time.

The camera did not ask why. It only recorded. The footage sat on a hard drive, time-stamped, one frame after another, unwatched.

Fang Ting did not look out the window much. The curtains stayed drawn. She ordered room service a few times, ate, then pushed the tray outside. She messaged the agent to confirm times, prices, requests. She deleted the conversations. She showered and changed. She put on the high heels and walked a few steps around the room, then took them off.

She sent her mother a message: Arrived. It’s fine. Her mother replied: Take care of yourself. Don’t stay up late. She said okay.

Her mother did not know what she was doing in Adelaide. Her mother did not know what she did in Sydney. In the version she gave her mother, she was studying physiotherapy at the University of Sydney. Classes were intense. Internships were busy. Money was enough. Don’t worry.

She deleted the agent’s messages. She deleted everything on that phone. She kept only the app, because she would need it tomorrow.

Three

December 31. New Year’s Eve.

Adelaide was hot during the day. At night the wind picked up. Hindley Street put up lights. Bars and restaurants filled. People came and went through the lobby of the Hotel Grand Chancellor. The front desk was busy.

Fang Ting did not leave the room all day. She ordered room service, ate half, left the rest on the table. She put on makeup, washed it off, put it on again. She tried on several outfits. In the end she wore a black dress, neckline not high, hem to the knee. She put on the high heels.

She messaged the agent: Last one tonight. The reply: Okay. Client is on his way.

That night, the lift doors opened. A man stepped out. He was twenty-eight, a Chinese national, running a small cleaning business in Adelaide. He carried a black tool bag. Inside were cleaning spray, rags, and a single-edged razor blade. He pressed the button for the twelfth floor.

The lift went up. The numbers jumped from 1 to 12. The doors opened. He walked out, went to that door, and knocked.

The door opened. Fang Ting stood there. She wore the black dress and the high heels. She glanced at him, stepped aside, and let him in.

The door closed.

Four

In interrogation, Piao Chunguang offered a shifting account. He had been drinking. Fang Ting took his money. He could not remember clearly. He only wanted his own things back. He had not meant to kill anyone.

The physical evidence did not depend on his memory.

His fingerprints were on the heel of the high heel. There was blood on the heel from blunt-force impact, and the forensic examination matched it to the blunt injuries on Fang Ting’s head. A single-edged razor blade was wrapped in a wet wipe. His biological traces were on the blade, along with Fang Ting’s blood. The wound on her neck was thirteen centimetres long, horizontal, cutting through the carotid artery and the windpipe.

The toiletries and personal items in the room had been disturbed. Some things were missing. Fang Ting’s phone was gone. Her cash was gone.

The police later reconstructed the approximate sequence. After the two were alone, an argument broke out. Piao Chunguang tried to snatch her money. Fang Ting resisted and called for help. Piao Chunguang grabbed her high heel and struck her head with it repeatedly. She did not stop struggling. He took the razor blade from his tool bag and cut across her neck.

She did not die instantly. She struggled. She called out. But the twelfth-floor corridor was carpeted, New Year’s Eve fireworks were exploding in the sky, and the crowd on Hindley Street was counting down. No one heard.

After the killing, Piao Chunguang did not leave immediately. He deliberately discarded toiletries that carried traces of other clients, trying to mislead the investigation. He took Fang Ting’s phone and cash, left the hotel by a roundabout route, and drove away.

That New Year’s Eve, fireworks lit up Adelaide. The city was celebrating the new year. In the room on the twelfth floor, Fang Ting lay in a pool of blood. Her high heels had fallen to the floor. One was askew. One had tipped over. The curtains were drawn. Outside the window, firework light flashed, on and off.

Five

January 1, 2015. Early morning.

The guest downstairs woke up and found the ceiling leaking. Water had spread down from above, carrying a smell that was hard to name. He called the front desk and said, What is going on upstairs? The ceiling is dripping.

A hotel staff member took a rag and went upstairs. He walked to that room and knocked. No answer. He swiped the key card and pushed the door open.

What was behind the door was later written into the police report. Blood across the floor. A female body. A massive wound on the neck. Toiletries and personal items disturbed. Some things missing.

The staff member stepped back out and closed the door. He stood in the corridor. His hands were shaking. He took out his phone and called the police.

Police arrived quickly. They sealed the scene, pulled the surveillance footage, and confirmed the identity of the deceased. Fang Ting, 25, a Chinese national, a physiotherapy student at the University of Sydney. She had checked into the Hotel Grand Chancellor on December 28 and was killed between the night of December 31 and the early hours of January 1.

The surveillance footage was retrieved. In the frames, the lift on the twelfth floor opened and closed. Different men stepped out and went back. Piao Chunguang was the last person to enter the room. After he left, no one else went in.

Police extracted Piao Chunguang’s fingerprints and biological traces from the heel of the high heel and from the wet wipe wrapped around the blade. Among the cleaning supplies he had purchased was the same type of blade. His route after fleeing the hotel was roughly reconstructed from surveillance and cellphone signals.

Piao Chunguang was identified and arrested. Faced with the complete physical evidence, he gave a full account of the robbery and killing. Police found some of Fang Ting’s belongings in his home and in his car.

From discovery to arrest, the case did not take long.

Six

In 2016, the case went to trial.

The first trial collapsed for procedural reasons, and the jury was dismissed. The court then empanelled a new jury. The prosecution charged Piao Chunguang with murder. The defence tried to offer various explanations, but the jury took only five hours to unanimously find Piao Chunguang guilty of murder.

On August 17, 2016, in the Supreme Court of South Australia, Justice David Lovell read the sentence. He said the murder was “brutal and opportunistic.” He noted in particular that Fang Ting had endured extreme fear and suffering in her final moments. He sentenced Piao Chunguang to life imprisonment, with a non-parole period of 25 years.

Piao Chunguang later appealed. In August 2017, the South Australian Court of Criminal Appeal unanimously dismissed the appeal and upheld the original sentence.

The court gave its conclusion. Fang Ting would not come back.

Seven

Fang Ting’s parents received the call in China. It was from the Australian police. The officer spoke a string of English. They did not understand. Later someone translated: Your daughter has died in Adelaide.

They flew to Australia. They did not speak the language. The procedures were unfamiliar. They were taken to the police station to give statements. They learned their daughter had another phone in Sydney, a name called “Honey,” a chat window with an escort agent.

They learned that during her three days in Adelaide, men had entered her room one after another.

They learned that she died on the twelfth floor, her neck cut open, the wound thirteen centimetres long.

They learned that the heel of her high heel carried the killer’s fingerprints, that her neck carried the mark of a razor blade, that her phone and cash had been taken.

They learned that she had not sent them “Happy New Year” on New Year’s Eve. She had not lived to see the new year.

When they left Australia, what they carried was their daughter’s belongings, not a graduation certificate. Among the belongings were a phone, a red luggage tag, and a pair of high heels. The heels had blood on them. After forensic examination, they were returned to the parents in a clear plastic bag.

They took these things home. On the plane, the mother held the bag the whole way. She did not open it.

Eight

The corridor on the twelfth floor of the Hotel Grand Chancellor later returned to normal. The carpet was replaced. The walls were repainted. New guests checked in. They would not know what had happened there. Hindley Street remained busy. The New Year’s Eve fireworks rose every year.

Fang Ting’s path as an overseas student stopped on January 1, 2015. She did not graduate. She did not get her physiotherapist licence. She did not return to China to see her parents. She did not live the life she might have imagined.

News reports and short videos turned her story into a warning and a spectacle. Chinese-language internet gave her labels: “female overseas student,” “paid escort,” “sixteen men in three days,” “vain.” These labels were easy to spread. They flattened a complicated person into a headline.

She made wrong choices. She entered a dangerous trade. But that was not the reason she was killed. The killer was the killer.

Violence killed her. Robbery killed her. Murder killed her.

The New Year’s Eve fireworks were beautiful. The room on the twelfth floor was quiet. A twenty-five-year-old woman died there. Her high heels lay on the floor, one askew, one tipped over. The curtains were drawn. Outside the window, firework light flashed, on and off.