Chapter Five
Bridger had come to Dunedin from 'Up North' as his colleagues called it.
He had been living here long enough now though to consider himself a local, but he had never really acclimatized to the insidious cold that plagued the city. The cold never seemed far away whatever the season.
It was probably the reason the Scots had chosen this area to settle in, he thought, reminding them of bonny Scotland.
Laura had initiated their move south. They had only just met after friends introduced them at a party. The spark had been instant. Bridger had been much younger and had followed her south after she graduated university. The move had been relatively straightforward, not having amassed much in their short time together before the shift.
He had been happy to follow her back then, being in the first flush of a relationship, she was his first serious relationship and he did not feel particularly tied to Auckland where they were living at the time. They moved to Dunedin in early spring, they spent the long glorious summer getting to know each other. They were married just over a year later. Their relationship had been nothing if not turbulent since then, but whose wasn't. If you spend enough time with someone, you get to know how to push the right buttons.
He had been a uniform constable when he transferred south. Not used to the cold he had experienced the pleasure of his first Dunedin winter on the long cold night shifts spent dealing with the riotous student population from the prestigious Otago University, and the less prestigious student housing area surrounding it.
‘Straightjacket fits’ was playing quietly on the car stereo system, a favorite from his younger years. Shane Carter was telling him in his distinctive singing voice that 'She Speeds'.
While listening to the music his mind was running over the events of last night, it seemed of its own accord, trying to fill in a blank space. His brain hated blank spaces; it was a need to have things all in order bordering on the compulsive.
She speeds.
Ironically, he noted that just about everything else on the road including a female cyclist, who was weaving dangerously in and out of the traffic, was passing on the outside lane.
So much for cycle lanes, he thought, a slight annoyance brewing in his stomach.
Bridger increased his speed to keep up with the traffic flow, thankful he was driving an unmarked police vehicle, so as not to draw to much attention to his poor driving habits.
The music played further into the score, his mind wandered a little again.
Along the road he caught passing glimpses of the old Otago University buildings through the much newer ones lining the road front. It was only then he realised he was heading in the wrong direction. Somehow, he had turned onto the one-way system heading south, after taking yet another wrong turn in his lethargic daze.
He tried forcing himself to concentrate more before drifting back into a daydream. The residual alcohol in his system and lack of sleep was making it hard to stay alert.
When he arrived outside the address he wanted in the North East Valley, the album had moved onto the track, 'Down in Splendor'. It was one of his favorites from the album. He had never been able to work out exactly what Andrew Brough had in mind when he wrote the lyrics.
Bridger could feel a flush of sweat beading on his forehead; he looked at the temperature displayed on the air conditioning unit. It was not particularly warm.
His head spun and he felt a little dizzy as he tried to collect his thoughts. He had to concentrate to remember exactly why he was there.
Missing person…, right…, time to get my game face on, he thought.
He looked around at his immediate surroundings taking in the neighborhood. Middle class came to mind, the type of place where neighbors looked out for one another.
He had a habit to assess people he was to deal with before making his introductions. He felt it gave him the upper hand, which was very handy on some occasions. He often made assumptions subconsciously about a person, based on the place they lived their life, and how they chose to live it. Sometimes he got it right, but more often than not, people would surprise him.
Dunedin is the oldest city in New Zealand founded in 1848 by the laymen of the Free Church of Scotland. It had changed greatly in the years since its humble beginnings as a whaling station, and as a result, the housing stock in the city ranges from the very grand through to the very derelict. The house that he had parked outside currently was in the middle of that bunch. It was a tidy house built in the 1960's, a square functional box. The type that somebody's parents have owned and cherished since new. It was a place where old people lived. A busy but well kept tiny front garden completing the scene.
The front door opened before he had a chance to leave the car. Looking at the pail skinned, but stout bodied, elderly woman now standing on the porch she did not make a lie of that stereotype.
Trying his best to put on a professional face, he approached the front door. The woman stood her ground, standing just outside the door.
"Detective Sergeant Bridger Ma'am", he stated, while holding out his identification card and trying not to trip on the front step.
He could tell by her face she taken aback, either because she was not expecting someone of his rank, or the fact that he probably did not look like the image that his rank implied.
The fact that he was still wearing last night’s jeans and t-shirt, combined with the hung-over bleary-eyed state he was in, did not scream Detective Sergeant to anyone.
"Come in Sergeant", she said uncertainly, as she peered at his card.
She stood aside as Bridger walked past her into the hallway, turning his face away so she would not smell the stale alcohol on his breath, trying to regain at least some bearing in the situation.
"I was not expecting someone of your rank to come, what's happened? Have you found her? Something must have happened for you to be here".
"Nothing's happened that I know of ma’am; perhaps we could go somewhere more comfortable". He did not put any more emphasis on his words than was necessary, but his tone seemed to comfort her and her expression softened. Thank god for that, he thought. Maybe I can just get in and get out with the minimum of fuss. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in someone’s front room with the heating turned all the way up for too long.
"Ok, but you will have to excuse me Sergeant, my eyesight's not what it used to be, I'm almost as blind as a bat without my glasses, and I think the rest of my senses are going and all".
She told him this as she led him through to a richly furnished sitting room, cluttered with knick knacks and photo’s and as if by demonstration knocked her left leg on the side of the small telephone table, causing a tiny figurine of the Virgin Mary to fall over.
"Bugger", she said quietly to herself as she made the sign of the cross before regaining her composure. Reaching over the table, she put the figurine back on her feet.
Looking over at Bridger she gave him a tight smile, she indicated that he sit in one of the two ancient armchairs by the fireplace.
Thank god for small mercies, he thought. At least his professional image was intact.
"Ma’am sit down with me and have a chat, I can assure you that at this stage I have no reason to believe anything has happened to your daughter, I was sort of hoping you could help me with that. How about why you think she's missing, and go from there".
"Ok Sergeant, let me get some refreshments first. I'll be right with you".
Bridger watched her walk into the kitchen, straightening her skirt with her hands. The older generation always seemed to defer to good manners, he thought, making sure that she played the host first before getting to the more pressing issue of why he was here.
Bridger was sitting in the living room gazing at the photos on the wall, pictures of a smiling girl in all the stages of life. One of the larger ones showed a younger Mrs. Watson standing beside a dour looking male who he guessed was her husband, but there was something off about their smi
les. They looked false from where he sat.
Mrs. Watson returned with a cup of sweet milky tea for each of them, handing one of the dainty cups to him. She sat down opposite him and looked at him strangely.
"Do you have children, sergeant?”
The question was innocent enough, but it dumped powerful emotions into the pit of his stomach. Children were an extremely touchy subject between Laura and him. They had not had much luck with that in the past, something he preferred not to think about too much.
"No…, I don't," Bridger said quietly.
"Children will change your life Sergeant. They can make a relationship stronger, but can also break any frail bonds that may have otherwise kept people together. It's hard work, some men can't handle the pressures, and then the wives bear the brunt of their inadequacy". She was looking him right in the eye. "Some men drink too much, god knows why, it makes them more angry than relaxed. Are you a drinker Sergeant?”
No more than the next person, Bridger thought to himself.
"Not really, Mrs. Watson. Although you could say I am partial took a few drinks on the odd occasion…, like most people". He felt compelled to add.
He looked at Mrs. Watson but could not detect anything in her expression that told him if she believed that little ruse.
"My first husband was a drinker Sergeant. He was a brute of a man when he had the drink inside him. Then there was Jimmy, he was better at controlling himself. His weapon was words not fists. Not that he could have used violence if he wanted to, he was such a weak pathetic man in the end".
"Who's Jimmy?” Bridger asked.
"Jimmy is Marion's father, my second husband. He's dead now…, gone three years".
"I'm sorry to hear that Mrs. Watson".
"He was seventy eight, Sergeant; I think he had a good go at it, don't you".
"Yes I suppose he did", he said aloud, while thinking of his own father, dead at the age of 60, still working a full day. Did he have a good go at it, or did he waste it toiling away at work for no other reason than to have some sort of promised retirement that he would never enjoy.
Bridger sipped at his tea as his mood darkened. Death and taxes were the only certainty in life.
He did not like to ask, but thought Mrs. Watson looked to be in her 60's. There would have been a bit of an age gap between her and the late husband, he thought.
"Well that's enough of that", Mrs. Watson was saying, "I think we had better get onto my daughter Marion".
Bridger got out his notebook and pen and waited for her to speak.
"I know you probably think I'm being silly Sergeant but Marion is all I have left, I know she is twenty seven now and should have her own life but I rely on her for so much these days. She knows that, which is why I think she has gone missing. I haven't heard from her and she didn't show up for her exam on Friday".
"Exam?” queried Bridger.
"Marion is a Masters student at the university, she had an exam. Her tutor rang me to see where she was when she did not show up. I guess he thought she still lived here with me".
"Where does she live Mrs. Watson?”
"She moved out about six months ago, It was a shock to me, she seemed so happy at home. Of course, she had rules and boundaries, it was only proper. She said she wanted to be closer to the university, I know it was so she could spend more time with that boy. Mat something...; I do not remember his last name. To be honest I rather switched off when she spoke about him. He was the reason I have not called earlier, I thought she would be off with him somewhere and forgot to tell me. She would be much better off at home".
Mrs. Watson started to rant a little as Bridger was just starting to drift away in his own thoughts.
Twenty-seven sounded a bit late to be just moving out of home, he was thinking. Sounds like a bit of a mummies girl.
Mrs. Watson continued, "This boyfriend Mat, he spends far too much time at Marion's flat. He is always there when I pop in on Marion, and that is only on the odd occasion that I can make it out of the house, but I bet he is there all the time. He has a look about him that makes me uneasy. You know the look Sergeant; the way he looks at you with those beady eyes. I have seen that look before and it always means trouble. No I don’t think he's at all the type of boy Marion should be seeing” Mrs. Watson was shaking her head vigorously as she spoke, the jowls below her chin were swaying back and forth making Bridger feel slightly nauseous watching them.
Mrs. Watson continued to speak.”Mat’s friends…, well they are all thugs and lay-about types as well. You would not know what went on when they were all hanging about Marion's flat."
The way Mrs. Watson's demeanor changed when she was talking about these boys made Bridger think she did not trust the male species much.
"I told her my reservations about him, let her know I disapproved. Marion had to concentrate on her studies not boys", Mrs. Watson continued. "She would never be allowed to spend that sort of time on boys if she lived at home".
She did well to stick it out for as long as she did, thought Bridger, old mum here sounds a bit controlling.
Mrs. Watson’s monologue was starting to drill into his headache and Bridger found himself drifting off again in a subconscious effort to relieve the pain. He suddenly realized he had been staring at the floor. He did not know how long he had averted his attention but the change in Mrs. Watson's voice brought him out of his daze.
"Are you all right Sergeant? Would you like another cup of tea?”
He politely declined, "Perhaps we could talk about when Marion was seen last".
The crux of the matter was that Marion had not arrived on Friday morning for her exam. Marion would never miss an exam; she knew how important her education was to her mother. Mrs. Watson had also not been able to contact her daughter on her mobile or at that flat of hers.
Today being early Saturday morning, Bridger could think of numerous good reasons that she could not contact Marion, but none of them he felt was appropriate to share with her mother.
He stood up and stretched his now stiff back. “Mrs. Watson, your daughter is twenty seven; it's only been twenty four hours. I bet she calls you later on with an excuse for the exam. You'll see".
"Sergeant, Marion's exam was last week; I have not seen or heard from her for over seven days".
Shit, thought Bridger, that changes things a little.
"Where does she live Mrs. Watson? I'm sure she will be at home if the police checked her flat", he said, trying to convince himself as well as Mrs. Watson.
Mrs. Watson furnished him with an address for the flat and names of her friends and then saw him to the door.
"Let me know as soon as possible will you Sergeant, I am extremely worried".
"As soon as I track her down Mrs. Watson, I will let you know".
Bridger got back into the car; he could see Mrs. Watson standing behind her lace curtains in the window, watching him from the safety of her living room. He left the window slightly down, glad to be back in the fresh air. He could either go to the address and make some inquiries, or fill in the forms and pass it on as John Maine had suggested. He looked at his notebook; he had hardly written anything on the page, subconsciously placing little importance in the report.
Despite the fact that no one had seen her for a week, Marion was 27, not a child. It sounded like she moved out to get some more out of life, she was hardly likely to tell her mother everything now she was out of her immediate control. Mrs. Watson was nothing, if not a bit strange. However, was she the type to worry over nothing? His foggy mind could not put together a good argument either way.
He could not think of any reason Matthews would want CIB involvement in a missing 27 year old at this early stage. There was no reason to suspect foul play. Passing it on and then going back to the office sounded very appealing in addition, him right now. He thought of the chocolate milk he had in the office fridge. In his state, anything but work, sounded very appealing and chocolate milk was the elixir of life
to a hangover.
As he switched on the car, Shane Carter's voice leaked out of the speakers, singing about having 'Skin to Wear'. The lyrics formed a disturbing picture in his head. He knew he would have to make those inquiries, just for peace of mind. He did not really think somebody was out there wearing Marion's skin, but if anybody was wearing her skin, he hoped it was still Marion.
Chocolate milk would just have to wait.
Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel Page 6
