Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (13 page)

"John, can I have a word when
you
’
re
free?
”
He
asked, popping his head inside the door.

"Come in Mike, I hear you have already met
Jo".

He looked over and saw her now familiar
face; she had her long hair tied in a bun this morning.

"Yes", Bridger said, giving her a nod.

Jo held out her hand and said, "Jo
Williamson, Sergeant, I did not get a chance to introduce myself
properly yesterday".

"Jo here has just expressed an interest in
CIB work Mike; it seems you made quite an impression on her
yesterday".

Bridger looked at Jo and smiled, he could
see she had turned a slight shade of red.

"It's just that sometimes you need to get to
the bottom of things, find out why, and not just pass it on, like I
did yesterday", Jo stuttered, going an even deeper shade of
red.

"Well Jo, it's just as well you caught me
yesterday and not the day before, I don't think I would have made
quite the same impression on Saturday", Bridger said, giving her
what he thought was a disarming smile, but just causing her redness
to spread even further past her cheeks. He wondered how old she
was.

"As it happens John I am looking for someone
to spend a bit of time in our office as an attachment, Brian's out
for a couple of weeks with the Le Cruick trial, Jo here would be
welcome to join us if you can spare her".

He looked back over at Jo and the smile he
received back was radiant.

Maine nodded.

"Go get changed out of that uniform Jo and I
will see you upstairs in half an hour". Bridger turned back towards
Maine as Jo made her way out the door.

"She's a keen one Mike…, and easy on the
eye”, he added, with a mischievous grin.

"I hadn't noticed," Bridger said,
tossing the file in his hand on Maine
’
s desk. "Deal with that for me
Senior, will you".

Bridger left Maine
’
s office wondering whether
he needed to clear his new member with Matthews.

"For those of you who haven't met, this is
Jo, Jo this is everyone". Bridger waved his hand around the small
office indicating the squad.

Jo had let her hair down and rustled up a
pair of jeans and a tight t-shirt showing off her shapely form,
which John Mouller was now unashamedly appraising as he shook her
hand. Jo did not seem to notice and continued the hurried but
awkward introductions.

It was funny how you could lose touch with
who was working downstairs in the uniform branch when you were only
one floor above them on a daily basis. The staff members downstairs
seemed to change from week to week to Bridger. Every time he went
down there, someone new was sitting in a chair looking nervous as
if it was his or her first day. He could never keep track of the
names and faces even when he was in uniform. It was all but
impossible now.

Jo and Becky seemed to know each other,
sharing a private joke together as they looked sideways at
John.

"Right, now we are all present, we should
come up with some tasks for everyone to see if we can progress this
enquiry. Here's what we know so far".

Bridger gave a rundown of what he knew.

"Marion Watson, 27 years old, she’s not been
seen since Friday last week. She attends the university as a
Masters student, lives in a flat in Castle Street North, and has a
boyfriend named Mat".

"Just the basics then Mike", John chipped
in.

Bridger shot him a look and carried on, "We
need to go and see Mrs. Watson again, get a statement. We need to
get into Marion's flat and we need to trace her boyfriend and
friends, see if they can shed any light on where she might be".
Bridger paused for a moment to see if there were any questions.
Seeing there were none he continued, "I'll go and see Mrs. Watson,
I already have a relationship of sorts with her, Jo you can come
with me. Grant, Becky, you go to the flat, see what you can dig up.
John you're on locating the boyfriend and friends, start with the
boyfriend, with any luck she will be with him, Mrs. Watson will
have her daughter back and we can get on with some other work".

Bridger handed out the relevant details, and
then motioned for Jo to grab her notebook before walking out the
door, heading for the basement garage where he hoped he would find
one of the two vehicles allocated to his squad.

Vehicles were a hot commodity in the current
climate, there were barely enough to go around. Occasionally, as
they held the spare keys elsewhere, other squads or even the
uniform staff borrowed the vehicles allocated to his squad. When
this happened, nobody usually bothered to advise them and would
sometimes find an empty park where they had left the car the
previous day. Not today, Bridger could see the brown three-year-old
Holden parked where he had left it the previous evening.

Throwing Jo the keys, he climbed into the
passenger seat and rummaged around in the glove box looking for a
CD he could replace the one he had in the stereo, remembering the
incident yesterday.

Inappropriate music selection would be the
least of his worries today; Mrs. Watson had every right to be upset
with him for her ordeal at the morgue. For some reason he was
feeling slightly uneasy, his run in with Matthews was playing on
his mind as Jo guided the car out onto the one-way system heading
north. What was he going to say to Mrs. Watson, probably just hold
his hands up and apologize, then take it from there. She still had
a daughter who was unaccounted for and it was his job to find her.
Maybe having Jo with him would help the situation.

A flick on the shoulder brought him out of
his thoughts. Surprised by such an intimate gesture from someone
who he had really just met, he looked over at Jo with a puzzled
expression.

"Sorry Sergeant", Jo was saying, the
familiar redness returning to her cheeks, "I was just trying to get
your attention; I don't actually know where we are going".

"No need to apologize Jo, I was miles away,
and call me Mike, I still have not got used to the word
sergeant".

She woke to a bright light shining on her,
surrounding her. Was this the end? The light that everybody talked
about? The light that would guide her to whatever fate had decided
was her eternal destiny. Could it be the light seen at the end of
one life and the beginning of another?

At the edge of the light there was darkness,
she did not want to return to that darkness, it frightened her,
reminding her of before, of the shadow. She wanted to stay in the
light, the light was comforting and warm, and it promised that
things were better, that her ordeal was over.

Trying to move she immediately felt the
bonds that were holding her tightly in place. She realized she was
in an upright position; both arms tied above her, encased in a
wooden brace of some sort. Her lower legs felt heavy, looking down
she saw that they were in crudely made heavy wooden boots; ropes
attached to the makeshift boots ran upwards into the darkness
above.

With growing terror, she realised that her
arms and body also had similar ropes disappearing up into the dark.
Uncomprehending, she struggled against her bonds, achieving a slow
rocking motion but not breaking free. Her arms moved in strange
ways, her legs stiff against the weight of her boots. She felt like
a puppet on a string, the devils marionette.

She could hear a creaking sound above her as
she swayed, the gentle rocking motion not doing anything to comfort
her growing distress.

She realized, with some relief, that she was
not naked anymore. She was now wearing a white pretty dress; it
looked like a wedding dress, one worn a long time ago, the fashion
well out of date. Was this the shadows doing? Or had she actually
passed into the next world. She did not believe she had died; this
was not a heaven or a hell, whether she believed in either. This
was real; this was the work of a deranged mind, so it had to be the
shadow.

Marion began to cry, bound in the strange
contraption, unable to break free.

Something inside of her snapped, her mind
cleared, she started to scream, not in terror but in frustration,
frustration built of not being in control. She had spent her entire
life subservient to her mother; doing everything that she told her
to do, never daring to step out of line. Mother's anger was never
far from the surface. She loved her mother but she saw now that all
she got in return were rules and expectations, not remembering many
affectionate moments. Her father had loved her but then he had
never stood up for her, letting mother rule the roost. He too was
subservient as if trying too hard to please her mother.

She was subservient now, to this
contraption, to the shadow. Was she to hang here, dressed in white,
at the whim and pleasure of a sick mind. She was beyond being
frightened, she was not dead, and the rape she was expecting has
not happened. She would survive this, whatever this was. Struggling
once more against her bonds she continued to scream in
frustration.

Just outside the bright light, out of view
to Marion, a small camera stood on a tripod, like a sentry,
documenting her plight.

Looking at the screen, he could see her
dressed in white, suspended off the ground. He could control her
every movement, make her do as he pleased. The camera feed was
working. The stage set was perfect.

Ben had accepted the part when they met at
the gardens, a small knock to the head as an inducement.

Head wounds were a messy business; he could
not believe the amount of blood for such a small cut. It had taken
a while to clean him up, even longer for him to wake. Ben was now
in his dressing room, learning his part, except that there would be
no lines for him to learn. He almost started to laugh at the
thought of Ben in a room with lights on the mirror, putting on
stage makeup, as he recited his lines to himself. The reality in
fact was very different and very dark. He wanted him to suffer as
she had.

It would start soon. He had timed it
perfectly. The anticipation was growing, giving him a warm feeling
in his stomach. The cancerous black cells that lived in his
darkness did not like warmth; they were cold, dark creatures. Only
one more night to wait, tomorrow being the anniversary of the date
stamped on the back of the photograph he had been holding onto for
most of his life, the photo that depicted the day of his parents
wedding. What more fitting date to finish it than when it started,
and thanks to modern technology, the world would be witness.

Grant and Becky arrived in Castle Street,
parking a short distance along the street from the flat and had to
walk back.

"I know you two are mates, but what do
you really think of our new boss?
”
Becky asked Grant.

"Mike's a good Detective, a little rough and
ready maybe, but he gets the job done", Grant replied.

"The juries out on that one, Grant, when he
was one of us it was easy to ignore some of what he had to say. Now
he's the boss I will need to bite my tongue a bit".

"He's got what you would call a pragmatic
approach to life," Grant said. "He calls a spade a spade if he has
to".

Becky looked at Grant, a tight smile
on her face. "He
’
s certainly got a pragmatic approach to
drinking, I've heard stories of his early days in Dunedin, but it
seems these days he is trying to outdo himself".

"A man always has his reasons Becky;
it
’
s our
way of dealing with stress. We don't have knitting circles or
woman
’
s
support groups to turn to".

"Well maybe the male species should evolve a
bit more then", Becky said, slapping Grant on the arm.

"I heard his wife gave birth to a still born
baby a few years ago, maybe that's a reason", she said,
quietly.

Grant looked at Becky with a slightly
puzzled expression.

"He hasn’t
’
t really made that public knowledge
Becky, where did you hear that?
”

"Just talk around the station, you
know what it
’
s like, nothings a secret in that place. How
did you hear about it?
”

"He spoke to me about it one night after a
few drinks. He just blurted it out; I think he wanted to talk.
Apparently, it was not a stillbirth, the wee boy lived for a few
hours..., and they named him Max. I think he was very premature. It
happened just after he made Detective. Mikes a very private person
Becky, it would have been hard to share that with anyone, let alone
me, so don't say anything will you".

"That
’
s awful; he must have a pretty
strong marriage to survive something like that. That does not
really fit with the reputation he has of being a bit of a sleaze
though. I've heard he's playing away with Jane Little from Jones
Allen".

"That doesn't make him a bad copper, Becky,
and that rumour has probably been started by one of your jealous
friends from the 'Woman in Police' group you hang out with".

"Bloody men are all the same, stick together
until you get found out", Becky replied, shoving Grant
good-naturedly.

"Well neither of us put our hands up for the
job, so I guess we will just have to get on with it", Grant
said.

"Who would really want promotion these
days", Becky said. "It's more work for only a little more money,
and you get to be the meat in the sandwich between the bullshit
demands coming out of the third floor and us plebs having to work
even harder to achieve targets that are forever getting further
away".