Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (29 page)

The sound of
the door opening behind him broke the moment. “What the fuck do you
want?” The interruption instantly bringing his temper to the
surface, suppressing whatever excitement had started to build in
his loins. He looked at the interruption, standing there shaking
slightly, “This better be good.”

“
S-sorry
J man, I thought you might want to know this. Baz has been picked
up; the pigs did over the pad a little while ago.” The interruption
was glancing nervously between Joseph and Jo Williamson lying semi
naked on a yellow stained mattress, his eyes staying a little too
long on her.

“
What
the fuck are you looking at?” Joseph snarled.

The
interruption jumped backwards at the outburst and looked like he
was going to cry “N-nothing J man, I was just saying about
Baz.”

“
Well
you have said now, so get the fuck out… Baz is safe; he wouldn’t
diss a brother dog.” He looked the interruption in the eye and knew
what he said had to be true, or every one of them would be
fucked.

The
interruption backed out of the room, eyes fixed on Joseph then shut
the makeshift door behind him leaving Joseph and Jo in the murky
stagnant room.

Joseph shook
his head in anger, the interruption had skewed his concentration,
and he had felt his hardness dissipate. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he
growled under his breath. What’s next…, he needed another hit that
is what he needed; speed up his system a little. She would taste
better on the gear he knew that. However, something else was
bugging him that he could not quite place.

Baz’s face was
in the front of his mind, big and ugly. He grabbed at his head to
try to dislodge the image but he could not shake it free. Baz had
always been there, he had been there when his father had run things
and stayed when he had taken over. Even when some of the old timers
had given up and drifted off Baz had stayed loyal to the patch.
That is what bugged him; Baz was loyal to the patch not to him.
What did that mean? He did not know. If it came down to it though
he knew Baz would not talk to the police, which was one sacred rule
that bound them together no matter what they did. What did Baz have
to do with the coppers wife though…? He did not really care. He
wondered briefly if his father’s plan had worked out but then
dismissed the thought outright, he had moved past that now. This
was his show.

He had time;
the pigs would not find them here, he had done all sorts of things
here in the past and no one had taken a blind bit of notice so a
couple more hours would not hurt anyone. He laughed quietly to
himself at that thought; it would not hurt anyone except his
captive audience. He looked at Jo lying on the mattress, vacant
eyes staring back but not seeing, lost in a haze of drugs. “You are
going to have to wait a little bit longer Miss Piggy, but I promise
you it will be worth it.”

He stroked her
face with his hand, almost affectionately, this felt right to him.
Then he turned and left the room in search of another hit.

Detective
Inspector Gregg Matthews stood outside the cell door breathing
heavily, his white cotton dress shirt spattered in blood and his
hands were dripping with red. His eyes were bloodshot and he had a
streak of blood across his forehead where he had wiped his hand
over it. He was saying something but Grant could not quite make it
out over the noise of the panic alarm still screaming in the
background. Then everything went quiet as the custody officer
killed the cacophony.

“
Get a
bloody ambulance here right away” Matthews yelled, the loudness of
his voice echoing in the now quiet corridor. The custody officer
retreated towards the custody reception area in search of a
phone.

“
Don’t
just stand there Detective, give me hand in here.”

Grant did not
hesitate, he knew whose cell this would be, and he knew his
colleagues’ safety was disappearing as fast as the blood dripping
from Matthews’s hands. Moving to the doorway, as Matthews
disappeared back inside; the sight that confronted him brought him
up short. The cell walls looked like an abstract painting of hell,
with claret coloured paint dripping from long casual brush strokes
depicting the inner thoughts of a madman. The words ‘Fuck the
Police’ was smudged onto the wall, written in excrement and sitting
just above the lifeless body of the man who had left this last
message as his epitaph. Staunch till the bitter bloody end.

Matthews was
crouched over Baz Ropata’s foetal body, his big hands struggling to
wrap around Baz’s equally big wrists, slashed open lengthways from
his hand to mid forearm in a crude tear. A fatal cut every time but
Matthews didn’t seem to acknowledge what he must know, the empty
vessel that was Baz Ropata just lay there, curled up in a pool of
his own blood and faeces.

Grant stood in
the doorway unable to speak while watching his senior officer
attempt to save a dead man, realising that their only recourse to
finding John and Jo had just painted his life story all over the
cell walls.

They were both
standing in the yard at the pad, sun on their backs, the warmth
evident in the slight breeze, a lovely spring day, except it was
not even closer than a dark grey for them.

“
I’m not
going to say I approve of your actions Mike, but this has gone
beyond that now, it is what it is for now and we need to sort it”
Brian’s voice was non judgmental as always despite what he was
saying. “I’m not sure how they managed to pull off the prison
scenario either…” He looked Bridger directly in the eye as if
seeking reassurance, Bridger could do nothing but look back at him.
He had nothing to give in return. “But I guess nothing would really
surprise me with that lot” Brian continued “Some of the prison
officers let the prisoners get away with a little too much in order
to keep them quiet. They don’t realise that sometimes there is an
unseen price to pay for a quiet night in the cell
block.”

Bridger could
not quite pick up in Brian’s tone whether he actually believed his
story about not being able to leave the interview room but he could
not dwell on that right now. “I’m under a bit of pressure Brian; I
don’t know whose threat to take more seriously Kingi’s or
McLaren’s. I’ve tried contacting Laura and can’t get hold of
her.”

“
I don’t
know who McLaren has on the outside to help him but we both know
now that the gang have John and Jo. There is not much we can do
about Laura at the moment Mike, we have to hope she hasn’t been
caught up in this but we can try and do something about what we do
know and that is to find our friends”

That was not
quite, what Bridger had wanted to hear, but he knew it had an
element of truth in it. All he had was a photograph of his wife and
Jane to go on, he did not know if McLaren had actually ordered his
man to do anything yet, but he did not doubt that if Martin died
then McLaren would be seeking revenge just as he had promised.

“
Was
there anything in the house that might help us find
them?”

“
We have
searched this place from top to bottom Mike; we haven’t found
anything that points us in the right direction yet. We have come to
a dead end....” Brian’s voice trailed off uncharacteristically,
something that was foreign to Bridger when it came to Brian’s usual
confidence. He could see the strain on his friends face, Brian had
always had a way forward in the past, his calm demeanour and
ability to think outside the box had been his forte all these
years. Nevertheless, it looked like even this was beyond even
him.

“
Where
are we at with Ropata? Is he talking?” Bridger decided to change
the subject.

Before Brain
could answer his cellphone chirped, looking at the screen he held
up a finger to Bridger before answering.

Becky Wright
came out of the house in front of them and walked down the stairs,
she was just putting her own cellphone into her pocket. She looked
at Bridger a few seconds as if contemplating something before
speaking. “Mike, where have you been? What is the story with those
pictures? What do you know about all this…?” Her voice was a mix of
angry and confused. “You know something, I think it was too early
for you to come back to work, Brian is more than capable of
handling things… There I’ve said it.” She glared at Bridger daring
him to say something.

Bridger did
not know quite how to respond. “I know what you’re thinking Becky;
there is a lot going on that I haven’t let on to anyone except
Brian. After we get everyone back safe and sound, I will explain to
everyone. I owe you guys that much at least.”

She did not
look convinced but Bridger knew she was too professional to let her
emotions get in the way of her work for too long.

“
I’ve
just got off the phone to Gillian Holler; she was looking for your
wife. We needed to see the pictures you sent her.”

Bridger’s
hopes rose but then fell flat when he saw the look on her face.

“
She
wasn’t at work Mike; they haven’t seen her since she left for her
appointment this morning. She told them she would only be an hour
at the most. Do you know where she might be?”

He did not get
a chance to answer as Brian butted into their conversation when he
finished talking on his cellphone “That was Grant…” He paused; his
face became deathly pale as the concerned look on his face drained
away with the blood from his cheeks, “Baz Ropata was found dead in
his cell a few minutes ago.”

He wanted to
say something but Bridger felt an unwelcome shot of adrenalin go
through him, his mouth went dry and his chest tightened. Images of
his wife and colleagues were flashing through his mind, screaming
his name, pleading with him to do something. His balance failed him
slightly and he started to go weak at the knees. He felt like he
was having a panic attack, it was either that or he was having a
heart attack. He shook his head a little and the images
disappeared, easing his anxiety slightly, letting him to breathe
again, but he still could not say anything. Things were sliding
downhill fast and he felt powerless to stop them.

Becky let out
a little gasp as Bridger watched her process the same information
“Shit…, did Grant get anything out of him?” her voice was
shaky.

Bridger felt
the need to say something but still had no control over his voice
box.

“
He
didn’t get the chance, Becky” Brian’s voice was matter of fact “He
found Inspector Matthews in the cell block covered in blood with a
very dead Baz lying at his feet”.

The panic
attack started to ease a little, leaving Bridger with an adrenalin
deficit making him feel empty and sluggish as he digested what
Brian had said. What did this mean? Becky then answered his
question with what he knew to be true, as he looked from Brian to
Becky and back again, holding no constructive part in the
conversation.

“
This is
beyond a joke.” Becky’s words were spat out and angry “Baz was the
only one who knew where the gang have Jo and John… what happened to
duty of care and all that? What in the hell was Grant doing letting
him out of his sight even for a minute… He bloody knew how
important he was, he bloody well knew…” Tears were visible in the
corner of her eyes.

Brain
put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, the simple act made Bridger
feel slightly jealous of the ease at which Brian seemed to feel
compassion for other people and wasn’t afraid to show it. He looked
away and found himself surveying the empty yard trying to gather
his thoughts; he could almost feel the desperation leaching out of
the ground all around him as he stood there. Year after year of
troubled men infecting the soil with their sickness and leaving the
ghosts’ of their plight as a legacy. He realised that the same
plight which had put them here today, bad men wasting their lives
blaming society for their problems. The yard was almost like a
prison cell for their ghosts. He was angry at how people could be
so different from each other, he had no idea how these people
functioned, and they all had their heads wired up in the wrong way,
what made them want to live on the edge of society? What gave them
violence? He had no idea. It was an argument for another day.
Even
Nietzsche could not explain this one,
but he knew that he did not want the bad men to win.

He made a
decision “There’s nothing we can do here now, let’s get back to the
office and speak with Grant and Matthews, maybe Baz has left a clue
or said something to someone before he died.” Even as he said it
aloud, he had a stabbing guilt that he was slowly but surely
letting his colleagues’ lives slip away with every passing
minute.

Bridger sat on
the edge of one of the desks in their small office; the remaining
team members were all there deep in their own thoughts leaving the
office deathly silent. Two very vacant desks were sitting in their
midst as a stark reminder of the terrible task at hand, he could
almost feel the desks mocking him as he sat there. He shook his
head; he felt a lot like he had yesterday, a huge sense of failure
after they had released Tama without charge. The view from the
window did not even grab his attention, as it normally would have.
He remembered what Brian had said to him yesterday, that he had
‘done the right thing’ and ‘not to kick himself’, he had also said
‘Tomorrows another day’. Well that bit was true, it was another
day, but it was a whole lot worse. He could not help thinking what
he could have done differently, if he had made better decisions
none of this would have happened. He had been back at work for a
little over 72 hours and everything had turned to shit. All he had
left in his life was his job and it looked like he was not very
good at that either. A slight uneasy feeling began building in his
stomach and he felt himself become dizzy, breathing deeply he tried
to calm himself, he didn’t want another panic attack if he could
help it.