Left Luggage

by Andrew Christie

  At Leichhardt, John was ushered into an office where he was greeted by Moreton and Walker. “How’s your mother?” Moreton asked, passing across the typed statement for John to read through.

  “In a coma, still. Fractured skull, chest badly bruised but no bones broken. I haven’t had a chance to talk to the doctors yet.”

  “This won’t take long,” Moreton said.

  John just looked at him and nodded. He read through the statement. The events it described were washed clean of emotion, reduced to a sequence of facts. While John read, Walker fiddled with her phone, tapping the screen a few times then reading some messages.

  John signed the statement and passed it back to Moreton. Walker looked up at him, but a chime from the phone had her tapping at the screen again. When she was satisfied, she left it face down on the desk.

  “How is the investigation going?” John asked, directing the question to Walker. “Do you know—?”

  Walker’s phone dinged again and she picked it up. John waited.

  “Go on,” she said scrolling through something on the screen. “I’m listening.” She began typing something on the tiny keyboard.

  John nodded. “No, it’s okay. I’ll wait.”

  She finished typing and put the phone down again. “Sorry, bloody meetings, trying to get everyone in one place at the same time. Herding cats.”

  John nodded again. “I want to know who tried to kidnap my mother, and why. I want to know who the guy was that died.” He looked at Moreton and back to Walker. “I want to know what is going on.”

  “Yes, of course you do,” said Walker. “We know who the dead man is but not why he was trying to kidnap your mother.”

  “Who was he?” John said.

  “His name was Branco Delic,” said Moreton. “Know him?”

  “No.”

  “Delic, Branko Delic.” Moreton repeated. “Known as Brain, apparently.”

  “You’re kidding,” said John.

  “No. I’m not. His street name was Brain.”

  “Christ.”

  “He was twenty-six,” said Walker. “Lived in Panania. Been in and out of the system ever since he landed on our sunny shores.”

  “Where’s he from?” said John.

  “Refugee.” Moreton read from the file: “Bosnian Serb, arrived in ninety-six, ten years old. Came with his sister and mother. Father was already dead. Did eighteen months for assault ...” He flipped a couple of pages. “That was in 2007, nothing since. Seems to be associated with small-scale drug distribution.”

  “Nothing as ambitious as kidnapping,” Walker said. “It won’t be long before we know who the others are. We’re waiting on forensics from the van, and ballistics. We may get some DNA from the vehicle too, but it’s more likely that we’ll get something from Delic’s known associates before that comes through. The witness descriptions haven’t had any hits from the files, but if we don’t get any leads from the intel we may try for some photofits. Has Dave Timmins spoken to you about that? He’s supposed to be setting that up.”

  “No,” said John.

  “Okay, maybe we can do that this morning while you’re here, while the impressions are fresh.” Her phone started vibrating. She read the screen, sighed, then turned off the phone and put it in a pocket. “Yeah, so, photofit next.”

  John looked from her to Moreton. “Why though? What’s the motive?”

  “Yes,” said Walker. “Motive has been underlined several times with lots of question marks on the white board.”

  “Little old lady,” said Moreton. “Minding her own business, in her apartment. Two blokes walk in on her, then wham-bam: kidnapping, guns, car chase, dramatic rescue.”

  “Ordinary little old lady,” said Walker.

  “Except that her son is ex-special forces,” said Walker. “And the little old lady used to frequent the most violent shit-holes that the second half of the twentieth century had to offer.”

  “So we are open to the possibility that the motive might be out of the ordinary too,” added Walker. “Like the backgrounds of the participants.”

  “Victims,” John said. “We’re the victims here. And I have no idea what it was about.”

  “How long has your mother lived at Forest Court?” said Walker.

  “Not long, a couple of months.”

  “She came straight from Paris?”

  “She’d been there for years. At the end of last year she had an accident, broke her leg. I wanted her to come to Sydney so I could look after her, but I think she’s found it a bit difficult. Getting used to a new place, after so long away.”

  “A retirement village? After Paris?” Walker didn’t add What did you expect, but John heard it.

  “So, was she lonely?” asked Moreton.

  “Don’t think so. It was a bit hard at first, not much in common with the other residents, but she made a couple of friends. Ken Mallard was one.”

  “Can you think of anything? Anything that might explain yesterday’s events?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “You sure? Little old ladies don’t get kidnapped every day. Not around here. There must be some reason for it,” said Moreton.

  “Why is she at the village, why not have her at your home?” asked Walker.

  “My place is a mess, I’m still renovating. There are only three habitable rooms, including the kitchen and laundry. It wouldn’t have worked.”

  “Especially after being apart for – how many years?”

  “A lot. I was born in Paris but I’ve spent most of my life in Australia. Mum sent me to school here. My friends are here.”

  “What do you know about your mother’s work, her career?”

  “I know where she worked. Who for. Not much detail, we didn’t talk about it much.”

  “I’ve seen some of her photos online,” said Moreton. “She was good. Covers of Time magazine and Life, high-profile stuff.”

  “She was in Vietnam?” asked Walker.

  “Yeah, that’s where she started. And Cambodia, Lebanon, Bangladesh, Biafra and Rwanda. Sarajevo, that was her last, she was getting on a bit by then.”

  “She was a bit of a legend in her day,” said Moreton.

  “Maybe,” said John. “She was very dedicated. She would have been a pain in the arse for the media managers but probably not for the grunts. They would have got her.”

  “You said Sarajevo was her last assignment?” said Walker.

  “Yeah. She retired after that.”

  “It was a siege wasn’t it? Was she there long?”

  “I don’t think so. There was some problem. Her fixer got killed. Mum didn’t talk about it much. Never went back.”

  Walker and Moreton exchanged a glance. Moreton said, “This Delic, the guy you killed, he’s from Bosnia. Came here as a kid after the war. His father was killed in Sarajevo.”

  John looked at him. “So?”

  “Just wondering if there might be a connection.”

  “I have no idea, but there were a lot of people killed in Sarajevo. You’ll have to ask Mum. When she wakes up.”

  “Thanks for your time,” said Walker. She handed him a business card. “If you remember anything about yesterday or your mother’s work that might be relevant let me know. I’ll take you around now, and see if we can get this photofit organised.” As they stood she added, “That kid, Billy Sheehan?”

  “Billy? What about him?”

  “Just, how does he fit?”

  “Mostly he doesn’t fit. Bit of a loner. Bad home situation.”

  “Yes, we know his family. His mother has a few convictions. Drugs. Tom seems to be keen to carry on the family tradition.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “So what’s the story with you and Billy? You signing on as a Big Brother?”

  John looked at her, trying to gauge her expression. “No. Billy just helps me out with some of the renovation work on weekends. He’s not too much of a nuisance. Turned up for a sticky beak one day. Curious becaus
e my place used to be owned by his grandmother. I think he’s looking for a bit of relief from his dysfunctional family. Mum likes him too.”

  John went back to the hospital when he finally got away from the police station. During the afternoon, Betty opened her eyes. Only for a little while but the doctors said it was a good sign. It meant she was starting to come out of the coma.

  The registrar reckoned that Betty would be okay. “There’s no brain swelling,” she said, “that was our main concern, so we don’t need to keep her in an induced coma. The fracture is stable, not depressed at all. She’s started to wake up now. Those are all good indications.”

  “What about her chest injuries?”

  “Nothing broken, just deep bruising. She’ll be sore, but she’ll recover.”

  John waited until visiting hours had ended but Betty didn’t open her eyes again. He walked up to King Street to pick up something to take home for dinner and for something to drink. With a plastic bag full of Thai food in one hand and a six pack of beer in the other, he walked south along the winding Victorian shopping strip.

  There were a lot of people out and the passing parade was entertaining to watch. A lot of skin and a lot of ink on display. Piercings were popular too. The crowd was mainly young, students, and plenty of freaks, representatives of the various urban tribes he had no names for. Newtown was close to the university and was renowned for grunge and alternative lifestyles. The few times that John had been here when he was in his late teens, his main impressions had been of dog shit and broken glass. It was a land of workers and junkies in those days. Nowadays it seemed to have cleaned up its act a bit, but he was glad to see it still had a bit of edge, that it hadn’t become too middle class.

  A lot of the students seemed to be having their parents take them out for dinner, to get a solid feed into them, knowing that they would probably only eat cereal or pot noodles for the rest of the week.

  Back at Camperdown, John found Billy waiting on the front veranda. It was Saturday – he hoped the kid hadn’t been waiting all day. He should give him a key.

  “How long have you been here?” he said as he opened the door.

  Billy shrugged. “Couple of hours. Came by this morning, wasn’t sure if you’d be working. Went up the hospital when you weren’t here. Wanted to find out how your mum and Ken were. Bastard cop wouldn’t let me in.”

  “He was just doing his job. You should have rung me.”

  “Didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Mum’s not come ’round yet. Docs reckon she’s okay, though. Showing some good signs. I didn’t see Ken. Have you eaten?”

  Billy shook his head.

  Inside John opened a beer for himself while Billy filled a glass with ice from the door dispenser on the new fridge and poured orange juice over the top of it. John divided his pad kapao between two plates, and they sat down side by side at the kitchen bench.

  While they ate, John opened his computer and typed Branko Delic into the search engine. There were lots of hits but the only Australian result was a Facebook page. The young man who’d had his head flattened on the pavement outside Forest Court stared back at him, smiling. A big, dopey smile. Delic didn’t look like a kidnapper in the photos, he just looked like your usual young Australian shithead. There were lots of photos of Delic giving the finger to the camera, arms around his mates’ necks. Mouths open in the middle of stupid faces. In most of them he looked drunk or stoned. Not many women featured in the photos and those who did were notable for the amount of teeth and cleavage they were showing. The men favoured singlets in black and shaving the sides of their heads. Their bulging shoulders and upper arms were steroid pumped and decorated with tattoos.

  Delic listed his employer as a smash repair workshop in Moorebank and his interests as fast cars and tight women. Jesus what an arsehole. He was about to close the computer when Billy said, “That’s him. The other one.” He leaned over and put a greasy finger on a face in the background of one of the photos. It was the skinny blond man who had shot the bus driver. The photo had caught him looking past the camera at something. Delic and another idiot were in the foreground, leering at the camera, but the other one, the passenger, was staring intently at something. It was definitely him.

  “Yeah, that’s him. Well spotted.”

  They checked through Delic’s friends, but the guy wasn’t among them. Only a few of their pages allowed public access to their photos, and none of those that did featured the skinny blond man. John went back to Delic’s page and saved a copy of the photo on his desktop.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  OP

  John didn’t sleep well that night. He lay awake listening to the city’s night noises and thinking about his mother. About Delic, and Sarajevo. And about his father. He’d have to do something about Jorge’s furniture soon.

  When the currawongs and butcher birds started singing in the park he sat up in bed and opened his laptop to look at the photo he had saved. It was definitely the same bloke, thin face and deep-set eyes, long curly blond hair. Acne scars. He reached over to where his jeans were folded on a chair and retrieved Walker’s card from his wallet. He was about to email the photo to her but decided to call first, in case there was anything new she could tell him. It was still dark out, so he read a couple of online newspapers. When the sky became light he decided that the gym at Broadway should be open by the time he got there. He dressed quickly, threw a small towel and his wallet into a backpack, and set out running, up the hill towards the hospital and the university. There were other gyms closer but he preferred this one. It was old school, wooden floors, smelly, more free weights than machines. And, importantly, no video. He liked it a lot.

  After an hour on the weights he was sore and sweaty. He walked home along Parramatta Road, passing a police random breath testing road block. Set up to catch morning-after drunk drivers, John presumed. Four cars and a motorbike. He hoped the cops were putting that much effort into finding the kidnappers.

  After he’d had a shower, he walked down to the coffee shop beside the park and ordered a flat white and a bacon and egg roll. He sat at a table on the footpath and watched the sun light up the grass and the trees. The park was full of people out for a walk or a jog. Lots of dogs, most of them running around loose, chasing balls, sniffing each other. Some of the little ones doing a bit of half-hearted yapping. Later there would be kids playing rugby on the oval, and families picnicking on the grass.

  At eight o’clock, he called Walker’s mobile.

  “Walker.” She answered after two rings, sounding impatient.

  “It’s John Lawrence.” There was a short pause.

  “Mr Lawrence, what can I do for you?” Her tone was curious now.

  “I was just looking at Facebook last night. I found Delic’s page. Branko Delic.”

  “Yes, we’ve seen it Mr Lawrence.”

  “Yeah, of course you have. Thing is, there’s a photo on there of the other guy. The skinny one.”

  “The one that shot the bus driver?”

  “Yeah, that one. It’s definitely him. I can send you the photo. Email it.”

  “Yes, do that please. That would be very useful.” She paused then continued. “Mr Lawrence, why are you checking out Delic?”

  “It’s just what you do, these days, isn’t it? Google people.” He wanted to know why they had tried to kidnap his mother, what the risk was. He wanted to know who else he might have to kill.

  “Don’t, John. It won’t end well. Let us do the investigating, we’re good at it.”

  “Of course, just trying to help. But she’s my mother. I’m going to look out for her.”

  “It’s not your job, John. Just send us the photo. It’s a good find but leave the investigating to us. You look after her. That’s what she needs.”

  John hung up. They could do the investigating but he wasn’t going to trust them to do the protecting.

  Back at his house he emailed the photo to Walker, then thought
about what to do next. Before he went back up to the hospital he should go over to Forest Court to check on his mother’s apartment. He hadn’t been back there yet and he had no idea what state the kidnappers and the police had left it in. He’d probably have to do some cleaning too.

  Large watched the white Toyota utility crawl along the street towards the retirement village. When it reached the gates it swung out across the road and did a three-point turn to park next to the driveway. The driver stood by the door, scanning up and down the street before he disappeared through the gates. Large had seen him before. On the TV news, getting into the back of a police car. He could be the one who did for Brain. Jimmy said the killer was tall and this guy was well over six feet. He must live nearby or maybe he’s visiting someone? Could have a parent here or something. That would explain why he was around to stick his nose in on Brain and Jimmy.

  Large was watching the street from a borrowed Volkswagen campervan, parked behind a small Suzuki hatchback, fifty metres from the retirement village. From there he could see the entrance and had a clear view up and down the street. He had arrived just before eight thirty and planned on spending the whole day here if necessary. Something was going on at this place and he wanted to know what it was. He had made himself comfortable in the back of the van and had the curtains arranged so that there were gaps where he needed them, but they still kept most of the interior screened. It was busy enough that a strange van wouldn’t be noticed. This part of Sydney was full of backpackers and young travellers. People were used to seeing campervans and big old station wagons full of bedding parked in the street for long periods.

  The police and media were long gone, taking their vehicles and blue and white tape with them. Now it was just the locals. Before the ute had shown up there hadn’t been much to see, just a steady stream of pedestrians. Occasionally cars came and went through the gates, and a taxi arrived to pick up two old women who were waiting on the footpath just outside.