Frantic (15 page)

Ella covered the mouthpiece and briefed Dennis. He started the car and pulled into the traffic.

To Clinton she said, ‘Get a couple of uniforms. Watch the place but stay out of sight until we get there.’

‘Will do.’

Dennis hit the lights and sirens and they accelerated through the city, Ella’s pulse rising even faster than their speed.

8.00 am

Lachlan had been missing for ten hours.

Sophie stood on the kerb in Royal North Shore’s ambulance bay and looked out across the green lawn towards the Pacific Highway, measuring out the time. Two feeds. Three, maybe four nappies. Seven hours of sleep, and the nice half-hour in the morning when Chris would bring Lachlan into their bed. They’d smile over his head as he rediscovered his toes. Then he’d have playtime after breakfast when he’d pull everything out of the toy box before deciding the squeaky book was still his favourite.

Sophie’s chest hurt. If whoever had him didn’t change his nappy as soon as it was wet, he’d get nappy rash. And they wouldn’t know how much zinc cream to put on, or that after he was dressed again he’d expect a game of peek-a-boo before being lifted off the change table. He’d be scared and confused. He’d be screaming for her.

She only dared to think of him being inadequately cared for like this, keeping a tight hold on her imagination to stop it wandering into the realms of actual harm. That was straying too close to losing control. If she slipped into that territory she’d be no help to him at all.

She closed her eyes. She’d always thought that if anything happened to him she’d drop dead on the spot. It was incredible that she was still standing, still breathing.

And it was still too early to start on her plan. She checked her watch again. It felt as though time had stopped.

At the sound of an engine she looked around. An ambulance pulled into the bay and she stepped out of its path. Both paramedics were in the front, which meant there was no patient on board. Sophie knew Stuart, behind the wheel, and was good friends with Yuri. He opened the passenger door and was out on the asphalt before Stuart turned off the engine.

‘Has there been any news?’ Yuri said. ‘Did the cops charge the smackie doctor?’

Sophie shook her head. ‘He says he didn’t do it.’

‘You know we were the ones who treated him?’ Yuri said. ‘He acted all confused and said he hadn’t taken anything. Just like any other heroin overdose.’

Stuart said, ‘There’s a used syringe on the car floor, the guy’s pupils are pinned, he’s got the trackmark from hell in his antecubital fossa, and he’s up like a rocket from a shot of Narcan. Yeah – he took nothing and I’m the Pope.’

Sophie was sweating. ‘Did you see any signs Lachlan might have been in the car?’

‘No, nothing. We only found out about what happened later when one of the cops at the hospital told us why they were looking for him.’

Sophie tried to think. ‘But he’d definitely taken a narcotic.’

‘Everything pointed to it,’ Stuart said. ‘He’d been drinking too. He puked it up all the way to Ryde Hospital.’

Sophie didn’t know any of the staff at Ryde, certainly not well enough to ask the rule-breaking favour of looking up Sawyer’s blood results.

‘How’s Chris?’ Yuri said.

Sophie shrugged and scratched her head, lowering her face. Funny how you could hold things together until a simple concerned look from a friend did you in.

‘C’mere.’ Yuri folded her in his arms.

He smelled of sweat and takeaway food: the perfume of a long night shift. Sophie remembered when her biggest problems were dealing with drunks and psych patients and the exhaustion of a fourteen-hour night shift plus overtime. If she could go back to that, she’d be the best wife and mother, the best paramedic. She’d never complain about a boring routine transfer or an argumentative drunk or a hypochondriac bullshit call again. She’d never again wish Lachlan would stop crying when she needed to sleep. The sound would be music. She’d never again think Chris should stop worrying so much about the standing of the police service – that was him, and he was wonderful. She’d never so much as look at another man. She would never take her family for granted, not for one single second.

She clung to Yuri.

‘It’ll be okay,’ he said.

Her mind strained at its leash.
What if it isn’t?

The Emergency Department doors slid open and someone said, ‘Sophie?’

It was Angus. For the first time since The Big Mistake she didn’t feel guilt on seeing him, as if losing Lachlan pushed everything else into insignificance.

‘Chris is waking up.’

Thursday 8 May, 8.10 am

C
hris struggled out of unconsciousness as though it was a swamp unwilling to let him go. First he heard people talking around him, then he managed a moan, then he gathered the power to move his arms and legs millilitres at a time. His head throbbed. His eyes seemed glued shut. He couldn’t breathe through his nose and his throat was sore. And all the time something black and nasty pulsed in his veins, something that could surely not be true.

He forced his swollen eyes open. Sophie’s tear-streaked face came into focus. The black thing in his veins flooded his heart at the sight. ‘He’s gone, isn’t he?’ he croaked.

Sophie burst into sobs and sagged onto his chest. Chris struggled to slide his arm around her back. She was alive, that was one good thing, and he swore to himself he would keep it that way. He held her close, feeling her body heave.

But Lachlan was gone and that was all wrong. Chris knew that he was the one who should be dead and Lachlan should be safe at home with Sophie. Lachlan hadn’t done anything. Lachlan wasn’t the one who should be paying.

Sophie said through her tears, ‘Can you remember anything?’

Chris turned his pounding head. The room was full of people and they were all looking at him. Gloria wiped her eyes; beside her Angus Arendson wore civvies and an anxious look, and doctors and nurses checked equipment or just watched.

He raised a shaky hand to the aching wound on the bridge of his nose. ‘I opened the front door and saw a man in a black balaclava.’

Sophie caught her breath.

‘He had a handgun. It had a silencer on it.’ He saw again the mouth of the barrel. ‘That’s all I remember.’

‘Nothing else?’

He hesitated. What should he say? What was right? More importantly, what was best?

8.12 am

Sylvia Morris’s house was a sprawling, shabby, lowset brick place on Herring Road in North Ryde. Clinton pulled up in front of it and Dennis parked behind him. Ella scanned the low fence, the patchy lawn, the struggling garden. There was no sign of movement. In contrast, the neighbours’ curtains were already twitching.

They met at the foot of Morris’s driveway. With Clinton and Travis were two uniformed officers. Ella felt for her gun in its holster. Dennis said, ‘Everyone ready?’

They nodded.

‘Okay.’

The uniforms headed around the rear of the house with Clinton. She and Dennis and Travis walked steadily to the front door. There were three cracked concrete steps up to a patio coated in worn pebblecrete. A dead plant in a faded green plastic pot stood forlornly in a corner. A screen door had hung in the doorway once but only the broken hinges were left now. The door itself looked flimsy and the blue paint was split and peeling. There was no peephole. Ella unclipped her holster. Travis was breathing quickly behind her. Dennis edged up to the curtained window.

She banged her fist on the door. ‘Police! Open up!’

Silence.

She banged again, harder. ‘Sylvia Morris, this is the police! Open the door!’

There was a shuffling sound. Ella tried to envisage what was happening in the house. Behind her Travis bounced on his toes. ‘Want me to kick it?’ he whispered. She held up a hand.

There was the click of a turning lock and the door opened as far as the security chain would allow. A short woman with eyes hooded like a lizard’s peered out. ‘It’s a bit early.’

‘Are you Sylvia Morris?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Detectives Marconi, Orchard and Henry.’ Ella gave a cursory flip of her badge wallet.

Sylvia Morris closed the door and slid the security chain free. The door swung open unassisted. She stood with her arms folded, her face blank. She wore navy tracksuit pants covered in grey pilling, and a worn white top advertising the 2000 Olympics. The word ‘
Sydney’
was printed in faded multicolour across her chest. She looked tired, resentful, and older than fifty-six.

‘You were at the Ampol service station on Epping Road last night,’ Ella said.

‘Was I?’

‘You’re on the closed circuit TV footage.’

Morris rubbed the top of her bare right foot with the heel of her left.

‘You bought nappies then took them back and swapped them for another size.’ Ella could feel Travis leaning close behind her, feel his desire to get into the situation. She nudged him back with her elbow. ‘Who were you buying nappies for?’

Morris glanced over her shoulder into the living room. Following her gaze Ella saw a neat room. There was a single recliner chair upholstered in once-white vinyl, and beside it an upturned milk crate with a tea towel over it held the television remote control and a folded
TV Week
. In what she could see of the kitchen the benches were clean and bare. Against one wall of the hall stood a bookcase containing six ragged Mills and Boons in a neat row. There were no kids’ toys to be seen. No sign that anyone else ever came here. One chair: Ella guessed Morris didn’t often entertain friends. But why had she looked back?

‘Is there anyone else here?’ Ella said.

Morris cleared her throat but didn’t speak. Just then there was a burst of talk from the side of the house, and Clinton came running round to the front door. ‘There’s a baby in the back room.’

‘Is it your baby?’ Ella asked Morris.

Morris didn’t answer. For Ella that was reason enough to go in. Travis stepped on her heel as they crossed the threshold. Dennis veered off into the living room with Clinton and the uniforms. ‘Check the place over, make sure there’s nobody hiding anywhere.’

The hallway was dim. The floorboards creaked. Overhead an uncovered bulb hung on a cord; Ella heard Travis flick the switch but the light didn’t come on.

The first room was on the left. There was a fist-sized hole in the outer layer of the door. Ella opened the door cautiously and saw a single bedstead with rumpled purple sheets and a grubby quilt. Travis crouched to look under the bed.

The next door was open and revealed a small bathroom with blue tiles on the floor and a cracked shower screen.

The final door was closed. A sticker on it declared that someone had a great time at the Royal Easter Show of 1979. The knob was white china decorated with painted flowers. Ella turned it and looked in.

The room was small and empty except for a bare single bed mattress on the floor. On the stained surface lay a baby. It was swaddled in a beach towel and lay face down, its head turned away from Ella. Its hair was dark.

Ella held her breath as she crouched by the mattress.

‘Is it him?’ Travis said. ‘Is he alive?’

Ella picked the child up. It was warm and moved in her grasp. The enormity of her relief made her want to sob out loud. She brought it close to her body and as she and the baby came face to face it opened its eyes. They were blue.

‘It’s not him.’

‘You sure?’ Travis came closer. ‘Don’t all babies look the same?’

‘Lachlan’s eyes are brown.’

‘Maybe they put contacts in to make him look different.’

‘Baby contacts?’ The child started to whimper. Ella laid it down on the mattress and unwrapped the beach towel. The baby was wearing only a nappy. It kicked its legs and cried. Ella undid the tabs on the nappy. ‘It’s a girl.’

‘It’s not hers, though, is it?’ Travis said as Ella rewrapped the baby in the towel. ‘A fifty-six year old woman having a baby would’ve been all over the news.’

In the living room Morris sat in the recliner, her feet together on the thin grey carpet, her hands grasping the chair’s arms. Dennis stood beside her, his arms folded. Clinton and the other uniform were in the kitchen.

Clinton held up a plastic pack of nappies and a receipt.

Ella said, ‘It’s not Lachlan.’

She stood before Morris with the baby snuffling in her ear. ‘You want to tell me whose baby this is?’

Morris picked at a hole in the vinyl.

Ella felt rage building inside her. ‘We’re looking for a kidnapped child.’ Her words were clipped and hard. ‘The longer we spend dealing with you, the less time we have to do that.’

Dennis’s phone rang and he walked outside to answer.

Morris pulled foam from the hole in the chair, studied it intently for a moment then pushed it back in. Ella fought an urge to kick her in the shin. ‘The station then.’

Morris got up without a word.

Ella cradled the baby close, feeling the soft hair brushing against her cheek as the child wriggled. She nodded to a uniformed officer. ‘First call the station and get a detective who’s not on the team sent over. Get an ambulance round here. Go with them to the hospital and have them check this baby out. Call DOCS too. They can meet you at the hospital.’ She handed the baby over and walked outside.

Travis followed her onto the patio. ‘Can’t we stay with it?’

‘Our job is Lachlan.’

‘But what if the cases are somehow linked? What if this is, like, a baby black market, and that’s why she’s not talking?’

‘Doubtful. She’s probably helping a friend hide from DOCS.’ Ella went down the steps to where Dennis stood on the lawn, putting away his phone.

He gave her a thumbs-up. ‘Chris is awake and remembers the attack.’

9.03 am

Sophie sat on the side of the hospital bed, her fingers interlaced with Chris’s. Her need for contact with him was like a thirst. She could feel it low in her throat. She wished the detectives would get their questions over with so she could climb onto the bed properly and wrap her arms around him.

‘Did you notice what colour eyes and skin the man had?’ Ella said.

‘Don’t remember the eyes,’ Chris said. ‘He was Caucasian.’

Ella scribbled notes. ‘Height, weight?’

‘About my height,’ Chris said. ‘A metre eighty. Average build, I guess.’

‘Clothing?’

‘Something dark, but all I can really remember is the balaclava.’

Dennis said, ‘He was alone, is that right?’

‘I didn’t see anyone else.’

Sophie watched Gloria pace beyond the closed door of the hospital room. Angus had left. Passing nurses glanced through the window.

‘Notice any vehicles? Hear anything strange before he knocked on the door?’ Ella looked up. ‘He did knock, didn’t he?’

‘I saw no vehicles, I heard nothing unusual at all. I was about to go up to bed. The knock came and I didn’t look through the peephole, I just opened the door and there he was. He didn’t say anything, just raised the gun.’

Dennis leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. ‘His eyes weren’t familiar in any way?’

‘No.’

‘Have you received any threats recently?’

‘No.’

Sophie moved closer to Chris so their hips touched.

‘Do you remember Shane Brayfield?’

‘The drink-driver?’

Dennis nodded. ‘He’s recently been released. He never made contact?’

‘No, and I’d recognise his eyes. This wasn’t him.’

‘What about Paul Houtkamp? He assaulted you and Senior Constable Dean Rigby a couple of months back.’

‘It wasn’t him either.’

‘Do you have any idea who might be behind this?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Chris said. ‘Don’t you think I’d tell you that straightaway? Jesus. This person has my son.’

Dennis pulled a copy of the note from his pocket. ‘This was found on you.’

Sophie saw Chris turn pale as he read it.

‘Any clue what it’s about?’ Dennis said.

Chris shook his head. ‘None whatsoever.’

Sophie tightened her grip on his hand. So much had depended on him remembering what had happened, but now it was turning out to be next to useless anyway. What had they learned? A white man in a balaclava? How the hell did they find him?

Chris looked up at her with tears in his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’

She tilted her head to his. Having him awake and knowing he wasn’t brain-damaged was not only a relief, it meant she could focus more strongly on finding Lachlan.

Ella said, ‘Chris, did you call the TV stations to report that the robbery gang is made up of police officers?’

He faced her. ‘I did not.’

‘Do you know anything at all about the gang?’ Ella said.

‘I’ve seen their handiwork but I don’t know who they are.’

‘Do you remember going to see Dean Rigby on the morning of Tuesday the sixth? The day after the latest bank robbery?’

‘I was upset about it. I went to talk to him.’

Sophie squeezed his hand. He squeezed hers in return.

Ella went on. ‘Rigby said that you left shortly after ten, but you didn’t arrive back at your mother’s until half past twelve.’

‘That’s right.’

‘It was during that time that the phone calls were made to the TV stations,’ Dennis said. ‘Where were you for those two hours and twenty minutes?’