Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (30 page)

He desperately
needed a drink; times like these he needed to dull from his psyche
to release the stress and he knew no better way than sinking into a
mellow bottle of whiskey. He could almost taste it and feel the
peaty burn in the back of his throat. He swallowed letting the
thoughts hit the bottom of his stomach, he felt it warming him from
the inside as the mellow feeling flowed through his system. Closing
his eyes, he felt himself relaxing; he unscrewed an imaginary cap
then poured himself another hit, going with the feeling. This one
had the same effect as the last. He felt his thoughts clearing as
they always did at the beginning, just before the bite set in and
the alcohol took you on its own journey. He let the feeling
continue, knowing there would not be any journey this time. He let
the thoughts jumble in his head, like pieces of a jigsaw. He mind
always worked better when he could let his thoughts flow freely,
something he had not been able to do in a long while. He downed
another imaginary hit and the results were instant. McLaren… Kingi…
Tama… Three players that were all connected somehow. Martin…
Shotgun… Prison… Lawyers… There was a connection somewhere.
Matthews… Ropata… Laura… Something was not quite fitting into
place. Laura… Jane… Lawyers… Divorce… It started to fall into place
now. Jane… Tama… Duty lawyer… McLaren had a man on the outside.
Matthews… Kingi… Matthews… Ropata… Could it be that simple? Jane…
Lawyers… Kingi… Lawyers… Lawyers… Jane… Matthews and Ropata… Ropata
and McLaren. A shot of adrenalin surged through him, better than
any whisky he had tasted. Ropata was McLarens man, he had to be,
Ropata had been with the gang for most of his life, and he would
have served under McLaren at one point. He was the link and if that
were the case then Matthews would be the officer to whom he gave
his information. Then what had happened between Matthews and Ropata
in the cells? The initial account was that Ropata had slashed his
own wrists with a piece of broken plastic that he had managed to
smuggle into the cells. Bridger was at a loss to say how he managed
to conceal it during the searches Ropata underwent subsequent to
his arrest.

'Not when truth is dirty, but when it is shallow, does the
enlightened man dislike to wade into its waters.'
The familiar Nietzsche quote came to mind for the
second time, but he dismissed it out of hand, that was a line to
far for any police officer he knew, including Matthews.
But that didn’t really concern him now, what it meant was
that McLaren was blind without Ropata and if McLaren was blind and
had no reach anymore, then Laura was safe…, for now…, all he had to
do was find her. He just hoped that Ropata had not had time to get
to her before being forcibly arrested at the pad, but if he had,
she was likely to be being held with his colleagues. He knew it was
dangerous to think this way; Ropata might not be the man McLaren
spoke of, but he could not bring himself to think otherwise, it
would be all consuming and that would get him nowhere.

The thought of
his colleagues brought about the other much more pressing thought
he had, which was Jane… her name connected to his colleagues via
Kingi. Lawyers, Colleagues, Kingi they all went together. Jane was
a lawyer, he had to reach out to her, she could find out whom, or
if, anyone was acting for Kingi and if she did then he could then
get him or her on board and force Kingi’s hand. No lawyer would
want to hold back once he let him or her know what his or her
client was doing. Besides, there was no way he was lodging the
false confession in court, it was laughable if Kingi thought
otherwise.

His brain was
making connections now and the next one hit without warning.
McLaren knew Jane was a lawyer, he had said so back at the prison
when comparing his wife and her in the photo. The only way he could
know that was if he knew whom Jane was, and if he knew Jane in that
capacity, then Jane knew more than what she was letting on.
Timeline or not, it was time he took back control of this situation
and made some decisions.

He dialled
Jane’s mobile number.

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.

Jane had
answered on the first ring; she was actually in the Police Station
dealing with one of her ‘clients’ deaths whilst in the custody of
police. Her voice was all business, with a tinge of blame laced
into each syllable. She must know of the connection he had with
this case and the death, but she did not even acknowledge it.
Bridger had not even bothered to engage in conversation before
cutting the connection. He knew damn well, whose death she was
dealing with, and it figured as much. He was standing in the lift
on his way down to the cellblock level, fuming. He was beginning to
get a very uneasy feeling about Jane and her secrets, if she was
playing games with him; they were sick and misguided and it was
putting his friends’ lives at risk. She needed to tell him anything
she knew about ‘Her clients’ and he wasn’t going to take any of her
shit.

The lift
opened and he stomped out into the concrete corridor. He banged his
shoulder against the steel door as he miss timed his electronic key
tag with the lock opening, only serving to increase his anger.

Inside the
watch-house area it was a hive of activity, the watch-house staff
had escorted the remaining prisoners out the back and placed them
inside the prison escort van for temporary shelter as the blue
circus got to work on the remains of Baz Ropata. Superintendant
Bill Hoskins the Southern Area Commander was standing in the corner
with the Senior Sergeant in charge of the cellblock and one of his
unfortunate staff members, a very nervous looking young constable.
There was a male dressed in a dark suit that he recognised as a
Doctor the Police used on an on call basis as well as well as the
Coroner who had made an appearance for once, but right in the
middle of them, holding court, like only a woman could, was Jane
Little. She looked very sexy, very educated… and very messed up.
The sight of her sharing what looked like a joke with the men
hanging on her every word pulled him up short; did he feel a tinge
of jealousy at what he saw? He did not really have time to worry
about that.

“
Jane,
can I see you in the office over here please.” He did not bother to
acknowledge any of the men standing with her, despite two of them
outranking him. He was indicating the empty room off to his
right.

“
Hi
Mike, sure I can speak with you… will you excuse me gentleman.” She
flashed him a smile with a mischievous glint in her eye before
making her way over towards him.

“
Detective Sergeant Bridger, I need to speak with you on a
number of issues regarding what’s happening today” The
Superintendants voice was calm and confident but Bridger had no
time for him right now. His mood dictated that it would not be a
good idea anyway; the only questions he would ask would be to
explain his behaviour and that would not help find his colleagues.
He did not need to make an enemy of the Area Commander.

He replied as
calmly as he could “As soon as I find Jo and John… Sir…. You can
have my undivided attention…”

He shut the
door behind Jane as she entered, catching the Superintendants
questioning look before he shut the blinds shutting out everybody
else but them. Jane brushed up against his arm, and he breathed in
her fragrance as it invaded his nostrils.

“
Trying
to get me alone Mike? I did not think you would be into this sort
of thing. You know your boss is outside, don’t you” She went to
kiss him but he brushed her off and went over to the wall facing
away from her.

“
Jesus
Jane, will you just give it a rest for once, do you have any
concept of what is actually going on here?” He turned back to face
her and saw a single tear running down her cheek, there was a look
in her eyes that he hadn’t seen before, a slight vulnerability. It
was only there for a second before it disappeared and she wiped her
cheek. “I’m sorry Mike, it’s just the way I am when I get stressed,
it’s like I can’t help it.”

Bridger stared
back at her wondering if that were true or not.

“
The
Superintendant has just told me about your workmates Mike, it’s
awful. It really is... Is that why you asked me about Laura
earlier, is she involved in this? Were those photos of your
friends?”

Bridger’s mood
softened, but only slightly, at seeing Jane actually upset “What
involvement do you have in all of this?”

“
What…?
Nothing… I do not know anything about your colleagues. What do you
think I am?”

“
I don’t
think you are anything Jane I’m just trying to find my wife and
colleagues and your name keeps popping up.” Bridger decided to lay
all his cards on the table, he did not have time for games. “Are
you Joseph Kingi’s lawyer?”