by Thomas Ryan
“Not bad for forty,” Matt said, giving them a last pat.
“Sarge. Got a minute.”
“Not now, Jacobs. I’m finished. Take your troubles to Roberts. He’s duty sergeant now.”
“I can’t find him.”
Jessica Jacobs reminded Bronson of a startled sparrow. She had a permanent nervous look and an earnestness that irritated the hell out of him. He also didn’t like it that she was a loner. He had tried to get on with her, invited her for drinks, but Jacobs was no mixer. The word in the department was that she wasn’t into men, probably gay. He believed it. It would explain why she chose her own company over a night out with his six-pack abs.
He had scanned her records. When she was eleven her father had run out on her and her mother. A lucky break for Mum it seemed. The records showed Dad had been arrested on a number of occasions for beating her up. He supposed it went some way to explaining Jessica’s attitude to men. The home would definitely have become an anti-male domain with a mother passing on her bitterness to the next generation.
Matt made to brush by her.
“Go stand by his desk. He’ll turn up.”
Jacobs stood her ground. “Sarge, this is important. I know the difference. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.”
“You have a minute to convince me.” He held up his watch for her to see. “Go.”
The young constable took a deep breath as if about to run a hundred meter dash.
“One of the cars brought in somebody. He had been bothering the shopkeepers on Jervois Road. At first I thought he was another homeless man. I had a doctor check him out. He has dementia, Alzheimer’s disease.”
“I know what dementia is, Jacobs. Get on with it. You have thirty seconds left.”
“We checked through his pockets. No ID, nothing. Just a note wrapped round a door hinge. The note said, and I quote, ‘I am being held captive, they will kill me in forty-eight hours, please get the police’.”
Jacobs stood and waited. Matt watched her watching him. She reminded him of a hawk eyeing its prey before it swooped. She was not about to let him get away. He rubbed his forehead. She had him and they both knew it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Matt unlocked his locker door and threw his bag back inside then slammed it shut. Jacobs flinched but didn’t move. “Okay, Jacobs. Now that you’ve completely fucked my evening, take me to this man and this fucking note.”
###
“Listen up,” Matt said as he entered the meeting room.
Twenty minutes had passed. He had taken the note to his superior and was promptly put in charge of the follow up. He had not bothered to change back into uniform. Even if he missed the gym, he still had hopes of making the game. He left a message with his sister to inform her husband he might be late.
“Time is against us on this one. I want it dealt with quickly.”
The two constables and detective assigned him sat with pens poised.
“Our John Doe is a Caucasian male. Approximate age, seventy years. Found standing on the intersection of Jervois and Ardmore. The doctor has confirmed he has dementia. He has no idea who he is or where he came from. No ID. For the moment we will refer to him as Mr Smith. Mr Smith had a note in his pocket.” Matt held up a photocopy. “The note says that someone is being held captive, they will be killed in forty-eight hours and to bring the police. Unfortunately, Mr Smith has forgotten where the note came from. Bad luck for the victim.”
A hand went up. Matt shook his head at the detective.
“Question time in a minute, Larry. Now, this note might be bogus but for the moment we treat it seriously. This means urgency. We need to know who Mr Smith is. We have no reports of a missing person as yet, so he hasn’t been missed by loved ones. But, given his condition, he must be in somebody’s care somewhere. Larry, you check with the Alzheimer’s Society. Get the names of all local specialists. He was walking so let’s presume Mr Smith lives nearby. Jacobs, you and Gerry take a photo and get a description out to the media. I want it on the next news bulletins. Questions? “
Larry decided against it.
“Good. Okay people, let’s move. We meet back here in one hour.”
###
The rapid tap of Matt’s pencil on the table was the only sign of his mood. He glanced up at the clock. The football game was underway. Mr Smith sat, elbows on the table, resting his head in his hands. Jessica Jacobs re-entered the room, whispered into Matt’s ear then sat next to the old man. A gentle hand fell on his forearm.
Side on she had a nice profile Matt thought. Fine lines.
“Mr Smith, we have news for you. Your son is here,” Jessica said.
“My son?” The old man wrung his hands and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember a son. I’m such a nuisance. You have been so kind. I feel so useless. I’m so sorry.”
Jessica looked across at Matt. He shrugged but said nothing. He checked his watch. His night might be saved after all.
There was a knock on the door. A constable popped his head in.
“Sarge.”
Matt got up from the table and followed the constable from the room.
“Tell me Gerry?”
“Sarge, this is Frank Horgan, Mr Smith’s son. Mr Smith’s real name is Arthur Horgan.”
Arthur Horgan’s son was a big man, overweight, not muscled. His clothes didn’t quite fit; they made him look uncomfortable. The buttons of his checked shirt threatened to fly off and expose a beer barrel belly. A swatch of thinning hair unsuccessfully attempted to cover a balding head. Matt didn’t like the look of him. He had an intolerance of anyone out of shape. How difficult could it be to exercise?
“Mr Horgan. Thank you for coming so quickly,” Matt said. “I have a few questions. You have ID?”
“Already checked it, Sarge,” Gerry cut in. “Driver’s licence and passport and a family photo clearly showing Mr Smith, um, Horgan.”
“Good. We found a note in your father’s pocket. It said someone was being held captive and was going to be killed if the police did not rescue them. We think your father in his wanderings has been given the note. Now he can’t remember where he got it from.”
“My father has dementia. He imagines many scenarios because he never knows who he is or where he is. He writes notes all the time.”
Matt held up the photocopy of the note.
“And does this look like one of his notes?”
Frank Horgan leaned forward and gave it a quick scan.
“I can’t say for certain but it’s highly likely. As I said, he lives in a fantasy world.”
Matt flicked the photocopy with his fingers. He made a decision. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Matt walked back into the interview room.
“Mr Smith.” Matt was not about to call him by any other name. Not yet anyway. “Here is a pen and paper. I want you to write ‘Please bring the police’.”
Arthur looked puzzled.
“Go ahead,” nodded Jessica.
Arthur gave her a cursory glance and she smiled encouragement. He wrote on the piece of paper as instructed. When he was finished Matt put the two documents together.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
###
Disappointed groans greeted Matt as he entered the Bar. A quick glance at the giant screen covering half a wall showed the Warriors were losing by ten points. Typical. He’d raced for nothing. He looked over the heads of the gathered masses until he spied his brother-in-law. He bought two beers and made his way towards him.
“Hey Matt, you made it,” Danny said. “We have company.”
“Hi Matt.”
It was Matt’s sister.
“Danny, you brought your wife. You know the rules. No women on football night.”
“She’s your sister. You tell her.”
“Matt, this is Bronwyn from work,” his sister said.
Nice smile and nice body. Matt put the two beers on the table and held out his hand. Bronwyn held on a little longe
r than necessary. Susie gave him a conspiratorial look and Matt clicked immediately: another blind date. Still, Bronwyn was not bad looking. Better than some of the others she’d tried to set him up with. The crowd moaned. Matt looked up at the screen. The Warriors had fallen further behind.
Matt was losing interest in his team and turned his attention to Bronwyn. For the next twenty minutes they traded information about each other’s private lives. Bronwyn was an accountant. She had been married but no children. She liked sports and had even run a marathon. Matt found himself warming to her and was already thinking of the night ahead.
Bronwyn was distracted by something over Matt’s shoulder.
“I think that woman over there is trying to catch your attention,” she said.
Matt looked to where she was pointing. “Jesus Christ.”
It was Jessica Jacobs.
“A girlfriend?”
“No, a work colleague.”
Bronwyn gave him an ‘I’m not sure I believe you’ look.
“It’s work, I promise. Excuse me a moment.”
When Matt reached Jessica he took her arm and guided her into the foyer.
“Out with it, Jacobs. Why are you here? What can’t wait until morning? And how the hell did you know where I was? “
Jessica’s eyebrows raised.
“Everyone on the force knows you come here when the Warriors are playing, Sarge. I wasn’t happy with tonight’s outcome. I’m not certain sending Arthur home was the right thing to do.”
Matt took a moment to calm his irritation. Much as he considered Jacobs a pest of sorts on duty, Jacobs out of uniform was not quite the Jacobs in uniform. Tight jeans and T-shirt suited her way better on her than the shapeless police blues. She wasn’t bad looking he supposed. However, her mood was far from sexy. Right now she looked like a pit bull waiting to rip his throat out.
The crowd inside roared. The Warriors must have scored.
“Okay Jacobs. Tell me why.”
“Call it a hunch or whatever but I didn’t like the look of Arthur Horgan’s son. I thought maybe he might be abusing the old man in some way. You know it happens. I ran a background check on him. Nothing came up so I checked everything including births and deaths.”
“What the fuck for?” Matt said, exasperated. The sound from the crowd inside was now bordering on hysteria. “He’s the man’s son. He had ID to prove it. And without wanting to sound callous, why the hell would he want to claim an old man with dementia if they didn’t belong together?”
“That’s the question I’d been asking myself,” Jessica said. She took a document from her pocket. “But the bigger question to ask is how was it possible that Frank Horgan was able to take his dad home tonight when records clearly show his father died in a car accident seven years ago.”
Jessica handed Matt a copy of the death certificate. Matt scanned it then read it through again. He raised his head. Jessica nodded when she saw Matt comprehend.
Another roar from the crowd. Matt looked towards the bar.
“Fuck, fuck and double fuck.”
###
The glass paneled door rattled from a none-too-gentle rapping from Matt’s knuckles. When he and Jacobs left the tavern the Warriors had drawn level. This bloody investigation meant he would miss the most exciting, in fact, the only exciting game of the season. He stamped both feet as he waited for the door to be answered. He scowled at Jessica. It irritated Matt that she ignored his disrespect and returned a tolerant smile, or was it a smirk? Was the bitch patronizing him? He banged on the door again. A piece of loose putty fell onto the welcome mat.
“Pass me that pot plant,” Matt snapped, pointing to the small terracotta pot a metre to her left.
“You can’t break in, Sarge. We need a search warrant.”
“Jacobs, are you certain of your information?”
She nodded.
“Then pass me that fucking pot plant.”
He was not about to show deference, legally mandated or otherwise, to the man forcing him to miss the football. Jessica held out the pot. Matt snatched it from her hand and used it to smash a glass panel. Shards of glass tinkled across the floor inside.
“No carpets,” Matt observed.
He reached through the jagged opening and unlocked the door. A light went on in the next house. A curtain pulled across. “Nosey fucking neighbours. That’s all we need. Stay right behind me Jacobs,” Matt ordered as he entered.
He opened the first door along the corridor. His hand snaked around the door jamb and felt for the light switch.
“Bingo.”
Matt switched on the light.
Just inside the door a table. Scattered across the table and all over the floor were empty plastic water bottles and sheets of paper with numbers scribbled across them. The window on the far wall had been padlocked shut. Above it a smaller a window gaped half open. In the centre of the room sat a single bed. A chain had been looped through the iron frame and on the end of the chain a set of handcuffs. The handcuffs were clamped to the ankle of Arthur Horgan. His head rested at an unnatural angle on the mattress. In death, his lifeless eyes managed an accusatory stare.
Matt knelt and checked for a pulse. He looked up at Jacobs and shook his head.
“He’s dead.”
The smell of urine and excrement was overpowering.
“Where the hell is that smell coming from?” Matt pulled out a tissue and covered his nose.
Jessica lifted a sack draped over a small waste paper bin in the corner.
“The toilet,” she said, staring down at the uncovered bucket. She dry retched, dropped the sack and turned away.
Matt passed her one of his tissues.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here and secure the rest of the house.”
The next room looked to be an office. Used coffee cups sat on the desk. A number of floor boards had been pulled up. Matt and Jessica peered into the hole. It held a floor safe with the door open. Matt rubbed the back of his neck, the Warrior’s game now well and truly forgotten.
“You better call it in, Jacobs,” Matt said, his tone softer, conciliatory.
“I’ll do it outside if you don’t mind , Sarge. I need some fresh air.”
“Sure. Go ahead. I’ll check the rest of the house.”
Five minutes later he joined Jessica outside. “There’s a spare bedroom in the rear of the house. There’s some mail on the bed, addressed to Frank Horgan. It’s pretty obvious what happened here. Horgan was a boarder and he found out about the old man’s safe. He’s been trying to get the poor old bastard to remember the combination. Tonight he got lucky.”
“Looks like it, Sarge. Then he killed him, cleaned out the safe and scarpered.”
Matt said, “By the look of the number of sheets of paper lying about, it’s taken a long time for him to remember. It must have been the visit to the station that jogged his memory. What beats me is how the old bugger managed to escape in the first place. Guess we’ll never know.”
“At least we know who the killer is. It’s something, at least,” Jessica said. The note the old man wrote. He must have thought that when he had the chance he would throw it from the top window. Then just forgot he had it.”
“Dementia is a shit of a disease,” Matt said.
Jessica walked away to meet the arriving patrol car.
Matt thought through his actions. Had the football game distracted him? Would he have checked as Jessica Jacobs had done if he had not been distracted? She was a good cop, even if she was a cold bitch and a man hater. She came through with a result. He would write her efforts up in his report. She deserved a pat on the back.
###
Matt was thankful he had joined an all-night gym. Exercise cleared his head and he needed to erase images of the old man from his thoughts. He worked his routine harder than usual. After half an hour he was gasping for breath. Beads of sweat rolled down his face and across his abs.
###
Jessica, too, perspired
. She too pushed her body to its limits. Her sweat-drenched t-shirt clung to her breasts like a second skin. Her nipples, easily visible through the flimsy material might have been tantalizingly erotic to a voyeur hiding in the trees, watching. But Jessica was confident she was alone.
She paused to catch her breath.
Matt Bronson, the egotistical chauvinist asshole, had surprised her. He was going to put in a good word on her behalf. It would go on her record that she had carried on with the investigation and it was because of her diligence they had found the body. He would not mention she had dragged him out of the tavern and neither would she say anything. After all, they were colleagues, and colleagues supported each other. But she knew Matt’s momentary lapse into benevolence would be as long-lasting as an ice cube on an oven hot-plate. In the end he was a man and all men were the same.
She had seen the way he looked at her, ogled her. If she let him bed her, afterwards he would toss her aside like a dirty sock into a laundry basket. Gossip was he did that with all his women. All men were the same. They disgusted her.
She stopped digging. The hole was deep enough. She dropped the spade and walked to her car and opened the boot. Frank Horgan looked up at her. The eyes on the fat man were wide with fear, confused. She helped him climb out. His hands, handcuffed behind his back, made movement awkward. He grunted and screamed but the crumpled rag she had shoved into his mouth muffled the sound.
Jessica pointed in the direction of the hole. Horgan’s head made rapid shaking movements. She reached into the boot and pulled out a tyre lever. As her captive cringed from her she swung the lever at the side of his head, enough to stun him.
