Chapter Fourteen
"As you all know John Mouller and Jo Williamson are missing. We found their patrol car burnt out near Blackhead quarry around lunchtime. There was no one on board, thank god...." Brian said, while looking around the room. The look on everyone’s faces was grave. A response team had assembled in a hurry and not everyone had made it to the briefing. There were three members of the Armed Offender Squad perched on a desk at the rear of the room, all in different states of readiness. Grant and Becky were sitting at their desks; Detective Inspector Matthews was sitting up front with Brian.
"Detective Sergeant Bridger's cell phone is showing an engaged signal, or it may be switched off, either way we can't get hold of him so I will be running the response" he continued, while looking at Matthews, who nodded in agreement.
"I've tried ringing the officers manning reception at the prison but you know what they’re like; the prison officer on the desk told me he had no record of Mike actually signing in. bloody useless lot of good that does us. He is in the process of checking the various interview room's for our elusive Sergeant as we speak."
"But it’s fair to say that the picture his wife described to you had two people depicted in it?" Matthews queried.
"From what I recall, yes, but I haven't been able to contact her either to verify. Gillian Holler is on her way to her place of work to see if she can find her. The picture was sent by Mike to his wife this morning so whatever he is doing I would bet it has something to do with the disappearance".
"Are you sure he's not just skiving off somewhere and he really did just send a threatening picture to his wife". Ken Moore asked the question as the second in charge of the AOS. "Why would he send it to his wife and not to one of us if it was important? We don't want to be running off on another of his wild goose chases."
"I know you and Mike don't get on Ken," Brian said "But it’s too much of a coincidence that Laura Bridger received that picture at the same time that Jo and John have gone off radar. There will be a reasonable explanation as to why he sent it to her, you know the trouble he had with the new phones we were given, he didn't know the difference between text and email"
Ken Moore just nodded his acceptance of Brian's logic. Brian looked at the rest of the room and continued
"Now it’s my bet that Mike has either taken the picture himself and so would be with them and in the same trouble wherever that may be, or he is at the prison with Joseph Kingi and the picture has come into his possession some other way".
"If Joseph senior is involved then Joseph junior is up to his neck in it, I say we roll the pad now, it’s our best bet to finding John and Jo." Becky said.
"It's a gamble, Detective Wright," Matthews said, butting in "If we execute a warrant at the Pad and they aren't involved then we have wasted a lot of time and resources, no..., we need to wait for Bridger to clarify what the picture is about".
Grant's heckles were up, it sounded like Matthews was going to sit on his hands while anything could be happening to their colleagues.
"This is all tied into the robbery shooting and killing of Tama Wilson", Grant said, anger in his voice "They were going to make enquiries at the pad this morning, now they have disappeared, it doesn't take a genius..."
Matthews glared at Grant "We wait Detective, if Bridger isn't at the prison then we will re-evaluate then. At least we will have a full contingent of responders by then" Matthews looked at Ken Moore for confirmation.
"The boys are about ten minutes away boss, Sgt Stone is a few minutes behind them…, he lives further out of town" he replied.
"Good, now, Detective Johnson you keep on top of the prison, let me know as soon as you here from Bridger; the rest of you get on to your human sources and see what the word on the street is, someone may have heard something."
Matthews stood up to leave "I'm as worried as you are, but we can't just rush into these things" he said, sounding more as if he was trying to convince himself.
He walked out the door, unaware of the incredulous looks the rest of the team were giving him.
Matthews’s attitude left the office in a stunned silence, broken only by a ringing phone.
Brian picked up the receiver, the rest of the room held their breath expecting news. Brian nodded and placed the phone back on its cradle.
"Preliminary results are in on the DNA sample," he said, looking directly at Grant and Becky "It's a match for Joseph Kingi junior... We roll the pad now, screw Matthews"
The rest of the team were on their feet and moving out of the room before he had finished speaking.
Brian just hoped they would be in time to stop whatever was happening to their colleagues.
He rattled the front door but it would not budge. A card on the front read 'Closed for family bereavement'. He looked through the window, the store was clean and tidy, someone’s pride and joy, someone’s life. There was no sign of the horror it was host to a few nights before. Martin looked at the surrounding houses, the place looked different in the daylight, more civilised.
There was someone across the road mowing his lawn, he did not even look across at the store or pay Martin any attention, concentrating on the grass as he went back and forth in parallel rows.
Cars passed by intermittently blowing exhaust fumes. Passengers were alighting a bus that had arrived a short distance down the road, a couple of younger passengers were shoving each other good naturedly and laughing as they neared the door. The sign on the bus read 'University-Octagon'. Life went on regardless.
He looked back and he saw an image of Tama standing inside the darkened shop window, shotgun in his hands, he was smiling. He looked content, as if he had finally found his calling. It was almost as if he had discovered an outlet for whatever was inside him eating away at his soul, he looked at peace.
In a perverse way, by killing the shopkeeper, Tama had achieved the recognition he had been craving all his life. A life wasted, so that his own life could achieve its potential, he had actually made something out of the life which trapped him.
Dog eat dog, only the strong survive and all that shit, he thought.
Martin’s emotions were slightly conflicting, he felt badly for the shopkeeper but at least Tama had died happy in the end.
The bus drove by him, slowly picking up speed, the growl of its diesel engine vibrating against the glass of the shop window. The passengers on board paid no attention to him, staring straight ahead or sharing a joke with the person next to them. He stared at the advertising on the rear of the bus as it continued, not really seeing, the fumes of the making him cough. ‘Do you need a break? Try a break at the lake’
He did not really know what he wanted to achieve by coming here, the need to move on had drawn him this way. He took the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and smoothed it with his palm. Looking at his messy handwriting he suddenly felt inferior, he had had trouble finding the words and it was all he could offer. The simple word 'Sorry' would have to say everything that he had swirling around inside his head, stuff that he had been unable to make sense of at all.
He slipped the paper under the locked door of the shop-front and stood up. He saw dark spots staining the pavement around his feet, reminding him of bloodstains. His stomach turned a little and he moved slightly backwards to avoid stepping on anything. Something moved in his peripheral vision and he flinched, looking to his left he saw that he had come in line with a view of the attached house.
The windows were open and the lace curtains inside were moving in the slight breeze. Then a stronger gust of wind blew them wide, revealing the interior, it was for only a few seconds but it seemed to Martin that time had slowed. He looked into the interior, a slightly voyeuristic feeling, as if he was intruding on someone else’s life without their permission.
A young girl was sitting at a table inside; her head was in her hands. She looked up and their eyes locked. He could see she had been crying, she was looking directly at him but not really seeing, the same look he ha
d seen in those same eyes two nights ago. He panicked slightly but could not bring himself to break eye contact with her.
Martin could see there was no recognition in her eyes though, only pain and hurt. Still he could not bring himself to look away; her innocence and sorrow transfixed him.
The girl looked down again, breaking the moment. The lace curtains settled back into place and took her away from sight, leaving a ghostly image floating with the curtains in the breeze.
Martin stood there, paralysed with a deep sorrow. He was once a little boy filled with little boy dreams. Those dreams had died at the hands of one man; he could not change that now. The dreams of that young girl in the house a few feet away died at the hands of one man as well, but for different reasons. He could have changed that but he did not and that made him sick. This man’s death was a joint effort in which he was involved; he was as guilty as if he had pulled the trigger himself he knew that. His had a messed up life, and his sickness had now infected others. He did not deserve this, she did not either, and their lives owed them something better than what they had.
He knew now that he had to make amends before he could move on; he had to try to fix things. He really did not have a clue where to start.
The image of the girls lost face ran through his mind and then he thought of two people who could use some help now, something that he could do before it got worse. They were still pigs though and they had a hand in this mess as well, stirring the pot, causing reactions with their nosiness, but he knew that they did not deserve whatever Joseph had in store for them. He had to go back.
Looking at the window once more, he mouthed the word ‘Sorry’ and then started walking.
The fence line was unnaturally quiet; they could not see any of the usual bloodshot eyes peering over the ramparts. Something was slightly amiss but no one was saying anything, frightened that they had it wrong but not wanting to be the first to voice their opinion. The only outcome that anyone who was present wanted was to have their colleagues back unscathed.
Brian Johnson and Grant Wylie had approached from the golf club car park, Becky Wright and Ken Moore had parked further along Hillhead Road and had backtracked until they had reached the row of Pine trees on the edge of the golf course. The group were now standing in the shadows of the trees, invisible to the pad situated across the sports field in front of them.
“Tama Wilson was shot a few feet over there wasn’t he?” Becky said looking at Grant.
Grant just nodded his reply, eyes focused on the pad.
“Bloody good riddance to bad rubbish if you ask me” Ken Moore spat out. “He got what he deserved”.
“Lay off it Ken, no one deserves to die, no matter what they have done.” Becky’s tone was slightly matronly.
“It’s his lot that have John and Jo, Becky, so don’t tell me to lay off it.”
“I don’t need the team arguing the toss right now,” Brian said angrily. “We have a job on in case you haven’t noticed.”
The team fell silent again.
Brian looked at his watch, and then out over the field. The sun was shining; there was a slight breeze but not enough to lower the temperature. A smell of freshly cut grass invaded his nostrils. It was a typical spring day in a typical neighbourhood in Dunedin. The only difference was, behind the tall wood and tin fence hiding its ugliness inside and situated between two tidy houses, was a police target, and things were about to get noisy.
He counted down silently from five, using his fingers, until he reached zero, then watched with a satisfied smile as the large tractor with a front end loader bucket attached and held out in front rounded the corner and then came rumbling along the street, it was followed by a procession of police vehicles. Thirty seconds later it made a sharp turn and accelerated quickly towards the gate of the pad, the noise of the engine sharp but then muffled by the sound of the destruction it brought. The gate gave way as if it was made of matchsticks.
Men dressed in black, faces covered under their Kevlar helmets and bristling with weapons disgorged from the patrol cars following the tractor. They moved with precision, the sound of flash bangs reverberating across the field as they filed in through the destroyed gates, rifles raised and pointing forwards, all with a single purpose, find their colleagues.
Brian listened but hoped he wouldn’t hear any shots fired, although he desperately wanted to get John and Jo out safely, the fallout from any police shooting had far reaching effects, whatever the justification was. It was his decision to do things this way; they had only had time to come up with a loose plan of action based on best practice. Although he would not be the one pulling the trigger, the authorities would test his actions repeatedly in any subsequent enquiry to see if there was any weakness. All to make sure that some fine line had not been crossed, that it was a last resort and that there was no one else to blame but the person who presented the danger in the first place.
He was comfortable with his decisions whatever the outcome; John and Jo were his first and only priority.
Looking at his cell phone, he could see no missed calls or messages. Still no sign of Bridger then, he thought, hoping that his instincts had been right and he had not just wasted the last half an hour on a wild goose chase.
“It’s time to move over and see what we have got” Ken said, who appeared to be listening to his radio earpiece. “The lads have got the building secure.”
There was no discussion as the group moved out of the trees and started jogging across the sports field in the direction of the pad. They did not look back; they did not see the person standing a bit further back from them, hidden in the shadows and trees.
Martin stepped out of his camouflage and watched them crossing the field; he had heard everything they had said about Tama. It only served to increase his confusion, he wanted to do the right thing, he needed to do it to be able to move on, but what he had just heard showed the futility of it all. It will always be them and us, he thought, the underclass and the rest. “Open your fucking eyes and see,” he yelled after them, not caring if they heard or not “I’m right fucking here… This is my world, I fucking matter to you know.” He crouched down in the long grass and began to cry, tears of anger and frustration at his inability to find the right coping mechanisms.
The closer they got to the pad the more it looked like the place was empty. Brian had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he saw a few of the Armed Offender Squad officers were gathered just inside the broken gate, milling around, wondering what to do next. Ken Moore asked the nearest officer what the state of play was.
“The place is empty boss, there’s only one guy left as a caretaker and he’s not saying anything… there’s no sign of Mouller or Williamson”
“Shit, that’s not what I wanted to hear” Brian butted in on hearing what was said. “Where is this caretaker person? I will have a word with him. He must know something”
“He’s in the back room,” The officer said, pointing at the main building. “The boys have him covered. Good luck getting anything out of him though, it’s Baz Ropata and as you know he’s no friend of ours”
Brain was about to say something when a loud commotion erupted from inside the house. First one black clad member, then another, came stumbling out the door backwards. Both were off balance. The first one missed the steps and tumbled onto the ground below the porch, his rifle hanging in a sling over his shoulder over digging into his back as he landed heavily. The second officer had regained his footing only to be knocked backwards again by an unstoppable force that materialized out of the darkened hallway and morphed into a very angry Baz Ropata. He stood there on the porch just outside the doorway, breathing heavily and looking around. He had the look of a caged animal looking for his next victim. He looked like he was in no mood to be answering questions and he was not going to just sit down and take the police infringing on his personal space.
“Come on you fucking piggies, come and get some slop… its dinner time and I’m dishin
g it out”. He locked eyes with Becky Wright standing in the group by the gate and smiled salaciously. “You first little Miss Piggy, I’ve got something right here for you” Baz grabbed at his crotch and sneered.
The officer he had knocked over stood up and made to grab at Baz’s arm. Baz kicked him in the stomach then expertly brought his knee up into his face as he doubled over, blood and mucus spilled from his mouth and nose as he deflated to the floor. “Come on, I’ll take any of you’s bastard’s” he yelled, making ‘come here’ gestures with his meaty hands.
The rest of the squad had regained their composure after the surprise of Baz’s advance; they had all brought their weapons up and were pointing them directly at him. That did not seem to faze him one bit.
“Get down on the ground; get down on the ground now” The commands were being yelled.
Baz did not move an inch
“Get down…, do it now”
He just stood there smiling as the officers inched closer and closer, weapons raised, eyes locked on their target.
“You’re gonna have to kill me” he said quietly, holding his arms wide like a cross and looking at the sky. “Just fucking kill me.”
“Not likely dickhead” the officer to his left said as he swung the butt of his rifle into the bony part of Baz’s face, knocking his head sideways. “I wouldn’t want to waste a bullet on you”
The officer to his right returned service and swung the butt of his rifle into the other side of Baz’s face in what looked like a practiced move. Baz dropped to his knees, a stunned look on his face replacing the angry sneer. Another officer used his boot to kick him face first into the dirt before putting a knee in his back and reaching for his handcuffs.
Grant had moved over to the mêlée and leaned down. “Where are they?” he said, barely containing the anger he felt towards him.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about Piggy” Baz replied groggily, spitting blood onto the ground.
Grant grabbed a handful of dreadlocks and pulled his face up off the ground. “I said, where the hell are they?” his voice was a hushed angry whisper, his face right next to Baz.
Baz just looked back at him, arrogant indifference written all over his face.
“He’s not going to help you Grant,” Brian said putting a hand on his shoulder. “Just get him out of here Throw him in the cells for a while, see if that helps his memory.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Obstruction, resisting arrest, assault, take your pick…”
Grant asked the two officers either side of Baz to help him out. Lifting him bodily, they dragged him facing forwards, Baz refusing to move his legs, over the remains of the broken gate and out into the street before shoving him unceremoniously into the back seat of a patrol car.
Another police patrol vehicle came driving up to the scene in a hurry, braking sharply as it pulled to the side of the road. The car door opened and Sgt Gary Stone, officer in charge of the AOS, stepped out.
“I see I’m too late for all the fun. Typical, I told the missus that we should have bought a house closer to town.” The smile on his face died when he saw Grant’s expression. “Have you got them back?” he queried, hesitantly.
“No, the pad is a ghost town and this prick isn’t letting on where everybody went.” Grant indicated Baz sitting in the back seat. “He knows where they are, I’m bloody sure of it, but we can’t do a damn thing about it” Grant kicked the side of the car in frustration.
“What about Bridger? Has anyone heard from him?”
“Not yet…”
A call from inside the fence cut Grant’s reply short. Becky’s urgent shout had them running into the house to see something she had found. Entering the room, she indicated what she had seen to them, they all drew in a breath realising straight away, what they were looking at. There was a mattress on the floor in the corner, and it had clothes next to it that looked like the ones Jo had been wearing that morning. In the other corner was a small wooden chair, one of its legs broken making it lean against the wall. There was blood all around the base of it and sitting against the opposite wall was a wooden baseball bat. Red stains ran like rivers down its length and they could see what appeared to be hair matted in the blood pooled around the bottom.
“Bloody hell, this doesn’t look good” Grant said taking in the scene “Looking at this I would say that whatever happened here wasn’t pleasant, and if Jo and John were involved they are in a lot of trouble.”
“These are Jo’s clothes,” Becky said, her face white as she held up Jo’s police identification card. “This was in the pocket.”
There was a short stunned silence in the room as they digested the fact that their colleagues were now in serious danger.
“Get Baz Ropata back to the station now” Brian said, looking at Grant “Lean on him hard, he knows where they are, make sure he knows that if anything happens to them he will be just as responsible.”
Grant did not need telling twice, he was already heading for the door.
“I’ll get the scene of crime officers down here to bag this lot up. The rest of you start looking through the rest of this place, see if we can find something that might point us in the right direction. It’s our only course of action.” Brian looked at his cellphone wondering where in the hell Mike Bridger was.
“We are running out of time Mr Bridger, even with my reach we can’t hold the screws back for too much longer, you need to make your choice.”
Bridger sensed in McLaren’s tone of voice that his choice would have to fall on right side for this to be resolved to his satisfaction.”
“If I do what you want then I risk hurting my colleagues,” he said looking directly at Joseph senior when he spoke. Joseph’s expression changed slightly on hearing Bridger’s words. He realised that Joseph would not be privy to what was being discussed between them; he thought he had his confession signed and sealed. He was expecting McLaren to back him on his crusade for his release; Joseph had no idea that McLaren had put him there in the first place, and more importantly wanted him to remain there.
“And if I can’t do what you want, then what?”
“Then I can’t guarantee that your wife won’t meet with the loving hands of my man on the outside. I have told him that he has the green light if you do not agree with my proposal. If my son ends up in any sort of trouble then its game on”
Bridger’s mind was about to burst, his thoughts were all over the place. He was stuck between the beliefs of Joseph Kingi that he had set him up and the unreasonable demands of McLaren. On one side were his two colleagues, in very real danger, and on the other his wife and possibly lover were targets for the sick fantasies of a violent pervert. How was he actually meant to weigh up the two, they both deserved his protection. He knew in his heart that his colleagues needed the help first. Knowing this did not make his choice any easier, only harder.
“Time’s ticking by Mr Bridger. You know in your heart which way you should decide, just say the word”
Bridger took a deep breath, Nietzsche surfacing in his thoughts once again.
‘All things are subject to interpretation whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.’
“Can you help me with my problem?” Bridger hoped McLaren would notice the inference that he was talking about his colleagues. He did not want Joseph knowing what was going on until he made his decision which way he was going to play it.
“The simple answer is… no, Mr Bridger, I don’t have a clue where Kingi will be hiding your little friends…, except the pad, it’s the only logical place I can think of. You are a clever Detective so you will figure it out. It’s not really my problem; I only have to worry about how to stop my man’s unholy desire for your wife if he doesn’t hear from me.”
That is what he had been afraid of; the pad was the first place he had thought of as well. It looked like he was going to have to do something he did not think he would ever
have to do. Bridger had come to a decision, “Okay Mr McLaren, I’ll do my best. That’s all I can do.”
“That’s what I thought…” David said softly “Love always wins out doesn’t it; blood is thicker than water when it comes down to it, your first priority will always be your wife. For what it’s worth though Mr Bridger, I hope your colleagues will be okay.”
The phone went dead which left Bridger staring at Joseph Kingi who was sitting across the table from him, a suspicious look on his face.
‘You have your way, I have my way, as for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist’
He did not bother saying anything to him, just picked up the paper with the false confession scrawled onto the face of it. He folded it in two and placed it inside his jacket pocket.
Joseph smiled as he watched him do it, “You have three hours from when that door opens to get that lodged with the Courts. My lawyers will be advised when it happens and will let me know, they have been told that there is going to be a development, but do not know what it is. Once they let me know then your little piggy friends can go ‘wee wee wee’ all the way home. If I don’t hear from them then I can’t call off the dogs and your friends will become food for their appetite”
Bridger remained impassive, shaking his head unconsciously at the futility of the situation. Two men who had wasted their lives still had the power to control the destiny of others in a world where everyone had their own boundaries and some were willing to cross them all too easily. He just hoped his decision had been the right one.
The steel door clanged behind them as the lock was undone, swinging open, it bought a rush of cold fresh air into the stagnant room, and it surrounded and cooled the two men who sat staring at each other, almost intimately like feuding brothers who have finally come to an understanding.
Bridger took a long deep breath of the fresher air and stood up to face the officer in the doorway, his anger only barely contained that someone in his position would allow a prisoner to dictate what he did. He saw an unfamiliar face staring back at him; it was not either of the two officers from earlier.
“There you are Sergeant; I’ve had a bit of trouble locating you… Why was this door locked?”
Bridger did not bother to ask and just gave him a hard stare.
“You really should sign in at the front desk you know, it’s not a safe environment here, especially if we don’t know where you are or if you are even present in the building.”
Bridger was about to say something this time but stopped himself at the last minute, he needed to fix his own problems first, not sort out the prison service. Picking up his cell phone from the table, he stalked out of the door, feeling Joseph’s malignant eyes staring at him in the small of his back.
“Three hours Mr Bridger” Joseph called from inside the room as Bridger continued to walk.
Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel Page 15
