Left Luggage

by Andrew Christie

  “He say anything?”

  “Someone shouted just before the van drove off. Not sure who, or what they shouted.” John opened the bottle and took another sip of water. “Dark hair. The driver had dark hair.”

  “Okay.”

  It took two hours to finish the rest of the statement, Moreton going over the details more than once. Finally he put his pen away and closed his notepad.

  John was about to ask if he could go now when there was a knock, and the door was pushed open by a woman.

  “How’s it going?” she said.

  “Just finishing up. Mr Lawrence, this is DI Walker,” Moreton said, as the woman put a folder on the table and pulled up a chair next to Moreton.

  John nodded to her and waited. She didn’t look much like a senior cop, dressed in T-shirt and jeans. Her black-rimmed glasses were perched above a spray of freckles across her nose, and her red hair was long and worn in a plait down her back. Somewhere in her forties, John guessed.

  Walker peered up from the file and said, “We got your file, John. Hot off the printer. It’s interesting.”

  “Previous?” said Moreton.

  Walker slid the file across to him. “No. Army, Sergeant John Lawrence. Left the ADF in 2005. Injured in Afghanistan.”

  Moreton looked up from the file to John’s scarred arm, then went back into the file.

  “Not much else in there,” said Walker. “Just basic records, when he joined, when he left. Nothing about what he did in between. Most of it is sealed.”

  “What does that mean?” Moreton asked.

  “It means they don’t want us to know. Probably something heavy, special forces, counter-terrorism, some secret shit like that.” She looked John in the eye. “Means he’s the real deal. Am I right, Mr Lawrence?”

  John said nothing.

  Moreton flipped through the pages in the file then closed it and slid it back to Walker. “So, Mr SAS? A dangerous man. Just happens to be around when his mum gets kidnapped. One dead, two seriously wounded.”

  “Yes,” said Walker. “The only kidnapper you got anywhere near didn’t fare too well.”

  John shrugged. “That was an accident.”

  “Still, a pancaked head always impresses,” said Walker. “I understand your mother used to be a bit famous.”

  Moreton looked at Walker then at John.

  “She was a war photographer, a photojournalist,” John said.

  “Quite famous apparently,” Walker said to Moreton. “Probably before your time. Vietnam, Lebanon, Rwanda. You can Google her. I just did.” She turned her attention back to John. “The question is, Mr Lawrence, why is someone trying to kidnap your mother?”

  “No idea. I’ve told your mate here all I know, and I want to go now,” said John. “I want to see my mother, and I find out how Ken is doing.”

  Moreton looked at him. “Just got to get someone to type this up, and get your signature. Won’t take long.”

  “Surely I can come in tomorrow and do that.”

  “Better to do it now.”

  “Look I live in Camperdown, it’s only ten minutes away. Give me a call – I’ll come back anytime and sign it.”

  “These are very serious matters, Mr Lawrence,” Walker said.

  “We appreciate your cooperation but we’re going to need you to stay a bit longer,” Moreton added.

  “Look I’m cold and tired, and I want to see my mother. Unless you arrest me I’m leaving now.”

  Moreton stood up. “You’re involved in the death of one man and the shooting of another two. You’re not leaving till we say so.”

  John stood up, slowly, and smoothly, not wanting to give Moreton an excuse to overreact. He was a head taller than the policeman, his torso bare, melted flesh scarring up his left arm and shoulder. As he moved, goose flesh slid over hard, lean muscles that didn’t need protein shakes or steroids. “Unless you charge me, I’m going out that door.”

  Walker let out something that might have been a laugh. “Alright, Mr Lawrence, go and see how your mother is, but make sure you’re in here tomorrow morning.” She looked at her watch. It was just after two. “Harry, get Dave to type up that statement.”

  It was nearly three by the time John got to Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. He had the taxi drop him at Camperdown so he could grab a shower and some clean clothes, before walking up the hill to the hospital. He was in a hurry but he didn’t want to be walking around half naked.

  There were a couple of young journalists and photographers hanging around outside the main entrance, providing a bit of distraction for the desperate patients who had shuffled out into the forecourt in their gowns and slippers for a smoke. The smokers sat around under the giant fig trees that lined the road, some on their own, some in small groups, talking quietly. One man even had a drip on a wheeled stand beside him as he sat on the old sandstone wall sucking on his cigarette. Billy was there too. Sitting with the smokers, watching the cops and the media.

  “You okay?” John asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you hear anything about Ken?”

  “Ambulance took him.” Billy looked down at the bitumen paving beneath his badly scuffed shoes. “He was alive then, when they took him. I walked over here but nobody’ll tell me how he is. Cops won’t even let me in. Then someone said your mum was here too. Thought I’d wait for you.”

  John squeezed the boy’s shoulder “Thanks, mate.”

  “I did what you said with the T-shirt, kept pushing on it, tried to stop the bleeding. But there was blood everywhere. He looked pretty bad. Grey almost.”

  “What did the ambos say?”

  “Not much. Said I done the right thing. Said he’d have died otherwise. That’s all really.”

  “Shit.” John shook his head. “He was a nice old bloke.”

  “They said he might make it.”

  “Yeah.” John turned and looked at the people milling around the front entry to the hospital. “Jesus, yeah. Old bloke, but strong, single wound, good response time.” He turned back to the boy. “Listen, Billy, you did really well. Whatever happens to Ken, you did the best that could be done for him. No one could have done anything else. Okay? You remember that, because you will wonder, Could I have done more? And the answer is you did everything that could have been done. I’ve seen this shit before and the only thing that makes a difference is to stop the bleeding and get transport fast. You did that. You did the best things that could be done in a shit situation. Okay?” Billy just looked at him and John realised he was freaking the kid out. “Okay. You did well, Billy. I’m proud of you. Let’s go find my mum.”

  John walked straight past the journalists with his arm around Billy’s shoulders. He didn’t stop, he didn’t make eye contact. A young woman turned to one of the cops and spoke briefly to him. The cop nodded, but by the time the woman turned back John and Billy were on their way through the doors.

  They found Betty in an intensive care ward just off the Accident and Emergency department. There was a young constable at the door, and John had to show identification before she would let them in. Betty was unconscious, looking very small and frail in the big hospital bed. An oxygen mask covered her face and a big mesh bandage was wrapped around her head. Leads trailed from beneath her gown to a vital signs monitor, and a cannula in her hand connected her to a drip bag. A young nurse was beside her, noting down observations on her chart.

  “How is she?” John asked bending over and stroking his mother’s cheek. “I’m her son.”

  “Oh, good. I’m glad you’re here. She’s stable at the moment but she has suffered head trauma. Skull fracture. Her chest too, but no ribs broken.”

  “Christ.”

  “They’ve done brain scans and they’re talking about putting her in an induced coma.”

  John felt numb.

  “They’ll need you to fill in some forms. I’ll let you know when they’re ready.”

  “Shit,” said Billy, when the nurse left. “What happened? T
hey said there was a crash.”

  “Yeah, she was in the back of a van when it hit a power pole. She would have been thrown around.”

  “What about the men?”

  “Shot another bloke, the bus driver, then they ran off. Don’t think the cops have caught them. What about you? Are you okay? What did the cops ask?”

  “Just what I saw. What the two guys looked like, did I know you. That sort of stuff. Didn’t take long really.” He looked up at John. “Ken had already gone in the ambulance by then.”

  “You were on your own?”

  “There were some others from the village and that. Wanting to know what was going on.”

  A young woman appeared at the door to the ward, said something to the constable and came inside. She was in her early twenties, thin and pale. She looked uncertain, pausing and turning back towards the constable for confirmation after a couple of steps. The young constable nodded to her.

  “Excuse me,” the young woman said to John, “is this Mrs Lawrence?”

  “Yes,” said John. “Who are you?” Wondering if she might be a journalist, until he noticed her red eyes.

  “Sorry, I just ... I’m Lucy Mallard. My grandfather—”

  “You’re Ken’s granddaughter? How is he?”

  The young woman looked as if she was about to cry.

  “Sorry. I’m John, John Lawrence.” He nodded towards the bed. “I’m her son.” John pushed a chair across to her. “Here, sit down. This is Billy. We were going to try to find out how Ken was doing, but you’ve found us first.”

  Lucy Mallard tried to smile. “Thank you. I don’t really know how he is. They said the operation was a success but ... I’m so worried about him. He’s not awake yet, so I wanted to come and see Mrs Lawrence. To see— How is she?”

  “Like you, we don’t know a lot. She’s got a fractured skull. They haven’t said what the extent of brain injury might be. Not yet.”

  “I was hoping she would be awake. I want to find out what happened.”

  “We were both there,” John said. “It was pretty quick. Your grandfather was brave. Bloody brave, taking on two armed men.”

  “The police said it was a kidnapping. Is that true? They said a young boy kept him alive, till the ambulance came. Was that you?” She looked at Billy.

  Billy shrugged.

  “Yeah, it was Billy,” said John. “He stayed with Ken while I went after Mum. He stopped the bleeding till the ambulance came.”

  Billy was standing beside the bed in his slightly too small second-hand school uniform, looking uncomfortable and embarrassed.

  “Thank you,” Lucy Mallard said.

  “Just did what John said to,” Billy mumbled.

  “You saved his life,” she replied.

  John told her what had happened that morning. Describing the events again, he recognised the process that was turning the events of the day into a story. With each retelling it was becoming neater, less confused, more of a self-contained package. The story about Mum’s kidnapping. Each time he told it, it became less like the confused, adrenalin-charged reality. “I’m sorry I didn’t get there earlier, before they shot Ken.”

  “Then you would have been shot,” said Lucy.

  “Possibly,” said John. “No way of knowing.” The clowns might have backed off if he’d got there sooner. Come at them hard and fast before they got to the van. It might have changed things.

  “They would have just shot you both,” said Billy.

  Later in the afternoon, after Lucy Mallard had gone, John took Billy home. The boy wasn’t keen to leave but John wanted him to go and get something to eat and to rest. “I need to get some things for Mum and get back to the hospital,” he said.

  The story was all over the six o’clock news, that was how Large found out.

  “For fuck sake,” he spluttered through his first mouthful of stir-fried beef and basil.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” said Darlene, carrying her own dinner in from the kitchen, plate in one hand, glass of cold chardonnay in the other.

  Large pointed at the screen, chewing and swallowing his mouthful. He took a drink from his beer bottle before he spoke. “The news. Some idiots tried to kidnap an old lady from a retirement village.”

  “Why would they do that?” Darlene put her glass down on a side table and settled back into her recliner. “Is she rich or something?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  The news coverage showed lots of footage of the front of the retirement village and a white van that had crashed in Forest Lodge. There was plenty of blue and white police tape and the little yellow plastic evidence tags the cops use when they are photographing crime scenes. The journalist spoke directly to the camera in front of the van, then the scene cut to a senior uniform cop, rumbling on in a series of clichés: shocking crime ... one man dead ... shocking circumstances ... can’t confirm ... community outrage. Basically saying fuck all except that there was a kidnap attempt, one man had been killed and two others wounded.

  That was all Large knew until the next morning. By then the news bulletins had a name for the dead man. It was Brain. It sounded like Jimmy had run out on him when some bystander decided to intervene. Panicked. And now the big Serb was dead. The gruesome details were all over the Saturday papers, together with photos of Brain’s body under a blanket.

  Jimmy showed up at nine thirty, just as Darlene was getting ready to leave for her sister’s place. Large had to get Jimmy to move his Commodore out of the driveway so Darlene could back out. It gave him a chance to calm Jimmy down a bit, get him to shut up until Darlene had gone. There was no point getting her fired up too.

  “See you on Thursday then.” Large leaned through the window and gave Darlene a kiss. Sharon jumped across Darlene’s lap and licked Large’s face. “Yeah, you too,” he said.

  “Don’t forget the food in the freezer,” Darlene said, putting her sunglasses on, and reversing out of the driveway.

  Large and Jimmy walked back to the house side by side. “Okay,” Large said. “Tell me. Why the fuck did you start shooting?” Leaving out the bigger question of why the fuck they thought kidnapping the old woman was a good option.

  Jimmy wasn’t happy. “This old cunt wouldn’t back off. Okay, Brain shouldn’t have shot him, but what was he meant to do? What’s the point of having a gun? The old prick grabbed his arm, didn’t he? Brain’s got his gun out, waving it around. What sort of fuckwit grabs his arm? He’s just asking for it. What was Brain meant to do? Say sorry, old mate, do you mind taking your fucking hands off my fucking arm. He’s got a Glock in his other hand what’s he going to do? Brain is ... Brain was ...”

  “He wasn’t one to back down,” said Large.

  “No, he wasn’t. Then this other fucking hero shows up. Where did he come from?” They were in the study now. Jimmy pacing back and forth, working himself up. “Why did he stick his beak in, be a fucking hero?” Large thought Jimmy might start crying, but instead he started ranting again.

  “So Brain shot the old cunt, and so he should have. The old guy had it coming. No fucking business getting all heroic. And the other guy came out of nowhere. Blindsided Brain, put him down on the ground, shoves his head under the wheel. I’m shouting at Matt to put his foot down. To get the fuck out of Dodge.” Jimmy stopped pacing and looked at Large, sitting behind the desk. “Crushed his whole head, they said. That must have looked awful. Can you imagine? His brains would be all over the road. I’m glad I didn’t see that. Bloody hell, no. And his face, imagine. Fucking tyre tracks, Jesus. The poor bastard.” Jimmy threw himself down in the leather lounge. “That prick is gonna pay. Fucking Serbs know all about revenge.”

  “You’re not a Serb,” said Large.

  “No, but Brain was and I swear to god I’m going to do that big cunt. Do him slowly, with a knife. Cut him till he’s begging. Leave him hanging somewhere, let him bleed out.”

  Large tried very hard to keep his temper under control while Jimmy ranted
. This whole thing was a fucking disaster. He was tempted to take his money and pull out. Hit the road. Spend the rest of his life getting massages and blow jobs somewhere warm. But he knew it wasn’t that simple. There was Darlene, there was Pike, and there were twenty-four Glocks arriving in three weeks. No, retirement needed to be a controlled withdrawal, not a fucking rout. Not unless the jacks were on him. And they weren’t, not yet.

  He had liked Brain. Not the smartest bloke, but funny, always ready for a laugh. Could tell a good story. No front to him either, he was all out there to see. No hidden agendas. Still, it must have been quick. Messy, but quick. No open casket for his family.

  “Who was this guy, the one that killed Brain?” Large asked.

  “Dunno who he was or where he come from. Brain was waving his Glock around but the guy just ran up and tackled him.”

  “Well, now he’s another cunt we’ve got to settle with.”

  “We don’t know who he is,” said Jimmy.

  “We’ll find out.” Large stood up and walked over to the window. There were bees flying around the bush outside. They were all over the little white flowers, busily poking their faces into the flowers. Darlene would know the name of the bush, she was into all that stuff.

  Large turned his back on the window. “Right, first off, you and Matt need to disappear for a while. Get out of town. Lots of people saw you, someone will ID you. And cut your hair, do it yourself, don’t go to a fucking barber. And change the way you dress.”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Jimmy.

  “Have you got somewhere you can go?”

  “I’ve got an aunty down in Thirroul. She’s always saying I should come and stay, you know, have a holiday by the beach.”

  “Okay. Go there, and take Matt with you. Stay out of sight. Call me when you get there. Get a new phone too, ditch the old one. Now piss off, I’ve got some thinking to do.”

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  We Didn’t Talk About it Much

  John was at the hospital early on Saturday morning. There was a different cop on the door so John had to show his ID again to get in. His mother was still unconscious. He found a nurse but she said he’d have to wait till the doctors were available. John sat by Betty’s bed, reading the paper, occasionally holding her hand, squeezing it, stroking it. All he could do was wait. He had to be at Leichhardt Police Station at nine so after an hour he kissed Betty’s hand and left the hospital.