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*
The airport is quiet, hardly any cars around and no planes in the sky.
“If you’re just going in to swap your bag, do you want me to wait?” asks the driver. “There won’t be any cabs on the rank now, so you’d need to call for one.”
“Oh, if you don’t mind waiting, that would be great. Thank you,” I say, surprised at his thoughtfulness. Though perhaps it’s less a case of him being thoughtful, and more of wanting to monetize his journey back into town. Either way, I’ll take it. I grab the suitcase from the boot and hurry through to departures.
The terminal is deserted, except for a woman behind one of the airline desks. She has short bobbed black hair and fifties-style red-rimmed glasses.
“Hi.” I beam at her. “I wonder if you can help me? Arrivals is closed, but I picked up the wrong bag when I came in from London earlier. Whoever’s bag I have, I think they must have mine.”
“Sure, you can leave it here with me,” says the woman, holding out her hand.
“But what about mine?” I ask, making no move to give her the case. “Has it been handed in? If someone called, I’m happy to go and make the swap in person.”
The woman wearily checks her watch, then picks up a telephone on her desk. She punches a few numbers into the keypad and gazes at me as she lets it ring.
“No one left anything in the baggage hall, and nothing’s been reported to me,” she says, hanging up the phone and shaking her head. “Best leave it here and call about your bag in the morning. Don’t worry, it will turn up, they always do.”
I grip the handle of the suitcase firmly.
“No, I’d rather swap the bags in person. Can’t you look on the passenger list to see who owns this one? His name is here, J. Le Maistre—we could call him? He might not have realized the mistake yet.”
“I don’t have access to that information, madam.” The woman holds out her hand for the bag again. “Just call in the morning when the lost luggage desk will be staffed, they can take all your details.”
I hug both arms around the case.
“I’m not giving this bag back until I get mine.”
I’m fully aware I might be coming across as a little persistent right now, but if I give up the bag, I might never find Hot Suitcase Guy, and I’m not sure how many chances the universe gives you in situations like this.
“You can’t just take someone else’s bag home.” The woman shakes her head in bemusement.
“Surely you can find his phone number or his address? What if it was a matter of life and death?” I give the woman my best serious face, like maybe I’ve been injected with some kind of deadly serum, and the antidote is in my bag, but I can’t tell her about it because there’s a hit man watching my every move.
“Is it a matter of life and death?” the woman asks, narrowing her eyes. Clearly my “deadly serum” face is not being conveyed effectively.
I shift my eyes to the ceiling, trying to think of something more feasible.
“Look, if I was an undercover cop”—I give the woman a deliberate wink—“and my lost suitcase had important, urgent evidence in it, how would you go about getting it back? Who would you call? There must be someone who knows who J. Le Maistre is, and how I can track him down?” OK, that definitely sounded more stalkery than I’d planned.
The woman crosses her arms in front of her chest, peering at me over the top of her glasses.
“Are you an undercover police officer?”
“If I was, I wouldn’t be able to tell you because of the sensitive nature of the case, so let’s just say that I am not,” I say, slowly nodding my head.
“Madam, if that is not your bag, I cannot let you take it.” She stands up and holds out her hand for the bag. “Airline policy.”
“OK. OK, fine—” I make as though to hand it over, then just as she’s reaching for it, I hug the bag back to my chest, turn, and run.
“Madam, you can’t take that bag! MADAM!” she calls after me.
Outside the terminal, I look left and right for my cab. For a moment, I panic that the driver’s gone and Red Glasses is going to come out here and wrestle the bag away from me. Luckily, he’s just pulled forward a bit. I run toward the car and jump into the backseat, the suitcase still clasped in my arms.
“Go, go, go!” I shout at the driver.
“What happened?” he asks.
“I stole this suitcase.” I laugh, breathless. “Quick, you’re my getaway driver. Floor it!”