Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel
Page 27
Chapter Twenty Five
Gregg Matthews, over thirty years in the job, the rank of Detective Inspector, faithful husband and father to one, stood in his office staring into the reflective glass of his drinks cabinet. Blood had spotted in large red stains on his shirt; his face had the red smears of someone else across his cheeks. He did not recognise the person who was staring back at him. What in the hell had just happened… He could not get those vacant dying eyes out of his head. He was sure that prick had smiled at him before he died; as if it was a final, ‘Fuck you’, before he set off on the road to hell, or whatever eternity for which he was destined.
He had tried… god knows he had tried, hard, but he was not a monster, his colleagues lives were at stake. Baz remained staunch until the end; he did not give anything away, even when he had applied the pressure to his wounds, pressing his fingers deep into the broken flesh. Baz actually looked like he was enjoying it… he knew he was dying anyway… what did it matter to him. Matthews had no comprehension of what made a man that way, not an ounce of compassion, no concept of decent human behaviour. Baz had achieved nothing in his sick life, and his final act was to remain staunch… because that is what dogs did. They did not talk to the police… ever.
He had no idea that the men he was protecting, if that is what he could call them, were sicker than him, their lives more self indulgent than his… He was a foot soldier; he always had been and was only there to do their bidding. They would sell him down the river as soon as blink if it suited them, their supposed code was all talk. In fact, he thought grimly, that is exactly what McLaren had planned to do anyway…
Baz was not the only means of communication McLaren had. Matthews hated the fact he felt like he was beholden to McLaren, but over the years, he had done things because of McLaren’s information that would not pass muster in a court of law in the present climate. He had never broken any laws but you could not clean dirty washing without a thorough going over and that would spell an end to his career. Therefore, he had listened when McLaren had reached out to him directly; he had said that something was going to happen, that there would be a changing of the guard. At the time, he had thought it would be a good thing, Kingi junior was getting out of control and new blood might have been easier to control. He would be able to get the crime stats under control again; the bosses in bullshit castle would see he was dealing with the issues. Baz was going to be going down with the rest of them, but that had changed when Kingi had used Tama and Martin in the robbery, instead of Baz. Things had just gone downhill from there.
He wondered if Kingi senior had told Bridger of Martins involvement in the robbery. McLaren was adamant he did not want his son to go down for that. Martin had not pulled the trigger he knew that, the killer was already dead. Martin had no part in planning the robbery either, that honour had to go to Kingi junior. It was his plan, his stuff up that caused the death of the shopkeeper so he would go down for it. He could hold Martin’s name out of it if he had to for that and still feel comfortable. He just hoped that Martin had nothing to do with the shooting of his stepfather, that one he could not hide from, father or no father.
He would have to cross that bridge when he came to it, now they found themselves where they were, Kingi junior still had John Mouller and Jo Williamson, and McLaren seemed like he did not give a damn.
He had never been this angry. Punching his hand through the thin wooden veneer of the cabinet door he felt the wood splintering and the shards finding their way into his hands, the pain shooting up his arm. He withdrew his hand and inspected the damage; it must be what the Catholics meant by their flagellation of themselves, the pain helping the penance. He was not religious but the pain helped a little.
McLaren had not said what he was going to do and Matthews was not sure if everything that happened was entirely down to him, but that did not matter now. What mattered now were his colleagues’ lives.
He took a fresh shirt from his cupboard next to the broken door of the drinks cabinet; the very act of putting it on helped to calm him. Next to the shirt was his police body armour, unused since the day they issued it to him. He took this out and shrugged it on, having to breathe in slightly to zip it up and attach the belt. At least he would look the part even if he did not have a clue what they were going to do. He needed to lead from the front but did not really feel up to it.
Leaving his office, he set off in search of Bridger and the remaining team.