Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel

by Mark Bredenbeck

  Chapter Ten

  Martin was walking again; the temperature had started to climb as the morning had worn on, a northeasterly breeze bringing the warm air making it harder to breath. He had taken his t-shirt off and wrapped it around his head making him look like the pictures of the crop pickers he had seen in his mother's glory box, pictures taken in the late 1970's. The grainy black and white images were of her family working the fields up in Pukekohe, back then it was only a small rural settlement south of Auckland. They showed her father and brothers, his grandfather and uncles. They were people he had never met. He always remembered the pictures, it promised another life was possible, that he did not need to live in his existence.

  His mother had not spoken much of her family in the years he was growing up but they looked so happy in the pictures, they looked like they belonged somewhere, they were hard workers. They were working, not like his loser stepfather; he had not seen him work a day in his life. He was a lazy self-indulgent abusive predator. He deserved to die, not Tama.

  As he walked, his mind was turning repeatedly with hatred and disbelief. With all that had happened in the last two days, he felt more than capable of taking care of business, dealing with the issue of Tama's death had cemented that into his being.

  He wanted what his mother's family had; he wanted a family, somewhere to belong. He wanted to be happy.

  He had not met his own father; he only knew what little his mother had told him. His mother and father had met in Pukekohe, she was only nineteen and he was twenty-two. His father was apparently a big man in their circles. He was someone all the girls had wanted to be with, but he chose his Mother.

  They had given his father a job to do in Dunedin and so they had moved south. She never told him what that job was or who ‘they’ were, only that he was also a big man in Dunedin as well. His mother had told him he died three months before Martin was born.

  He always wondered what it would be like for him if his father were still alive, would he have a good life like the people he saw walking around Dunedin. One thing he did know was that he would not have had his life touched by another man's sickness. He hated this life. He wanted a new one.

  He got closer to town the more he walked, the new houses overlooking the ocean were off to his right housing the rich parents and their privileged children, the older houses indicating the start of his world were in front. Up here, the line between civilisation and the empty fields of the windswept coast stood out starkly against its backdrop. The town seemed to just end, as if the people had chosen not to go any further.

  That could be true of many of the inhabitants around his life, he thought, they had not found any reason to strive for anything different.

  He walked on in a daze; his thoughts were tumbling around inside his head, no clear direction.

  The new cemetery came into view, glimpses of polished headstones through the trees to his left. They would have one more tenant now that Tama was dead; they were slowly building a population of people who would make nothing of the rest of eternity. He wondered if Tama's mother would even bother to claim him or just leave him rotting in the fridge at the hospital. She was such a useless bitch. Tama had practically raised himself.

  A new wave of loneliness washed over him, he had no one else. He had not been close with his own mother now for a long time. She was always at work, blindly trusting in her family at home but never really seeing, left to the mercy of the predators amongst the pack.

  He hated himself for what he had done but it was too late to change anything. Tama was dead.

  Images of a destroyed face flashed through his mind, surrounded in a red mist. The look of a little boy lost, of a life wasted.

  A seed germinated in the pit of his stomach, a crazy idea but he did not have anything to lose. He just had to take care of the loose ends first.

  He continued to walk with renewed purpose.

  The sound of an engine drifted towards him on the breeze, a car approached from in front, it had the unmistakable shape of an unmarked police car. Martin ducked into the small bush to his left and crouched down.

  The car slowed but did not stop, the driver looking down at something on the seat, a driver with a heavily tattooed face and dreadlocked hair.

  Martin watched the car disappear the way he had walked from, wondering why Baz Ropata would be driving a police car.

  "The sample has been sent up to Christchurch for the priority casework team to analyse" Grant said looking at his watch. "It should almost be there by now; we managed to get someone on a plane with it last minute".

  "Good", Brian replied, "The last thing we need is delays, the quicker we get the evidence, the quicker we can go through the gate at the pad, we need to stop this before anyone else gets killed".

  "Let's just hope it belongs to Joseph Kingi and not an unknown who hasn't got a sample on our DNA database", Becky said, hanging up the phone she was using. "I have the team leader's word that once the sample arrives they will get on to it. Unfortunately, he said that it would take a while, there are five processes they need to complete to obtain the profile from the sample and they each take time. That's even before they can analyse the result then match it to a sample on the database."

  "Not like CSI then is it", Grant said.

  "They will work around the clock on this one but his best case scenario was later tonight if not tomorrow". Becky said

  The office went quiet, each of them contemplating the news, positive that it was that they had a DNA sample; processes would slow them down again. Investigations in the real world were slow painstaking processes that took time and a lot of labour. It involved the gathering and collating of information, no matter how small, to build a picture of the crime that would hopefully point very clearly at whom was responsible.

  DNA was just the start, a small but vital piece in the puzzle, somewhere to start, a reason to ask someone to account for why it was present at the scene and in this case on a corpse.

  "Let's just hope Mike comes back with something from his visit, or John and Jo turn something up with the door to door enquiries. It may give us a head start", Brian said.

  "Has anyone heard from them this morning?” Becky queried.

  Both Brain and Grant shook their heads.

  "It will be lunchtime soon, John wouldn't miss that", Grant said smiling, "He's probably taking his time, giving Jo the benefit of his experience; he never misses a chance that man. I'll give it a couple of hours then give John a call; I wouldn't want to cramp his style".

  "In the mean time we can get on with cataloguing all these exhibits", Brian said, indicating the large pile of items stacked inside evidence bags which were placed against one wall. Bags that contained everything that the two corpses had on them at the time of their demise that were not required for forensic testing.

  Bridger was sitting opposite Joseph who was smiling from ear to ear and sitting back with his hands behind his head, not a care in the world. The small black object on the table in front of them was resting quietly, waiting to give up its secret. He was temporarily lost for words.

  He looked over at the door and then to the red button on the wall. Joseph followed his gaze.

  "It won't do you any good, the screws have locked the door and the button, the screws have been told to ignore it for a while as well" Joseph said quietly, "And I wouldn't be looking to use your own phone to call for help..., not until you've spoken to him. Big J pointed at the inanimate cell phone lying on the polished surface.  

  Bridger stood up and pushed the red button anyway, this ended now. He was too busy to have a convicted criminal messing him around.

  Joseph smiled, "Typical fucking copper, always so impulsive, always needing the upper hand. Well let’s see shall we, how long will you give it until you realise that they won't come?"

  Bridger looked at his watch; he knew from experience that the officer on duty would be only a short distance down the hall, sitting in a small office head down in a daily pa
per or magazine. He would have heard the bell and normally would be in the room within about 30 seconds. He looked at his watch again, time was ticking by and no one had come.

  "This pretty much amounts to kidnap, Joseph..., you do know that?”

  Joseph just shrugged, pulled out a hand rolled cigarette and lit up in front of him, inhaling deeply before blowing smoke in his direction. The distinctive smell of cannabis filled the small claustrophobic room.

  The smile on Joseph's face said it all. "Prison is a fucking supermarket Mr Bridger; you can get whatever you want here, drugs, information, and violence. You just have to know the right people, and in here I am the right people".

  Bridger was amazed at his stupidity. How did Joseph think he was going to get away with this? What was he trying to achieve?

  "What's all this...." The question cut short by the ringing of the phone. The vibrations making it move across the polished surface.

  Bridger stared at the phone for a moment; not wanting to answer it and listen to what he knew in his gut would not be good news.

  "I'd answer it if I was you, he's an impatient man, and he is also on a bit of tight time frame due to his circumstances being similar to my own".

  Bridger reluctantly picked up the phone and accepted the call. The caller ID was blocked.

  "Do you know who this is?” the voice was male, calm and confident.

  "Should I?" Bridger was in no mood for games.

  “I guess not..., I don't remember you either. Mind you, I have been in this shithole for nearly twenty years. I'm David McLaren, President in exile, incarcerated at the pleasure of the Government pretend".

  "So Mr McLaren, maybe you could tell me what this is all about, your man here is committing an offence by keeping me here against my will as I'm sure you’re aware". Bridger's mind was working overtime, trying to get back on top of things.

  David remained silent, but he let out a small laugh.

  Bridger was unsure how to play this new twist so decided to just go with it and see where it led. He did not feel threatened at this stage, as he was quite capable of holding his own if it came to a fight; all he would have to do is hold him off until help arrived. He just hoped it would not come to that and if it did that help would actually come.

  "All in good time, but first we need to lay down some ground rules. You will stay and listen to what we have to tell you and nobody gets hurt". The subtle menace in David McLaren’s voice was unmistakable. "There are a couple of things we need to accomplish today and to ensure that happens I have taken out a little insurance".

  Bridger looked at Joseph sitting smugly across the table from him, he would not be able to hear what McLaren was saying on the other side of the phone but he already knew how this was supposed to play out.

  "Mr McLaren we are in a prison full of prison guards, it won't be long before they come checking on us and then this little charade will be over".

  Bridger heard a slight chuckle on the other end of the phone.

  "Mr Bridger, you are in a prison full of prisoners and it is us that run the show, the guards are just referees, employed to keep people like me at the top and all the others in line. You can also buy off the guards. Every man has his price. You would be well advised to listen to what we have to say".

  Bridger looked at the phone in his hand; this had obviously been set up, for whatever reason. They searched prisoners before and after visits with the public for this very reason. One or more of the guards this morning obviously had a hand in providing the cellphone. He suddenly felt as if he had no choice.

  "Okay, say what you have to say", Bridger said, quietly.

  "It would be remiss of me not to give your host the first right of reply", David said, reasonably "He has something he would like to clear up with you before we get down to our business. After all, he was the one who managed to get you there; I just saw an opportunity to get in on the action. So with that in mind I will cut this connection and call back in, let us say... Five minutes? That should give you enough time to adjust to your position". McLaren cut the connection leaving a silent space.

  Bridger had to fight back a slight feeling of panic as the closeness of the four walls felt like they were restricting his breathing.