Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (18 page)

The car was slowing now, it was pulling in
behind a huge dark building, and she opened her eyes, watching as a
massive iron gate slid silently open inviting the car into the
bowels of the building. The door opened and a gust of cold air
prickled at her skin, Beth shivered from inside her safe place. She
watched through her eyes, which showed her the outside world as a
door opened in the darkness and light flooded out to meet them. She
watched as they led her inside and then shut her into a small
airless room. She could see it had a desk, chairs and a box that
looked like it held some sort of digital equipment.

The two police officers were sitting in
front of her now, the bag of Cannabis on the table. The smell,
which she usually enjoyed, was making her nauseous in the small
room. She could see their mouths moving but could not make out what
they were saying. Fear had completely taken control of her. She
wanted to shut her eyes again and close out the world, curl up in a
ball and hide.

She moving again now, ushered into a cold
faceless room with glass panels and bars. Bright lights were
everywhere. A different police officer was standing behind a desk
protected by Perspex, what did they think? That she was going to
attack them. His voice muffled behind his protective bubble, was
making it difficult to make out what he was saying, so she just
stood and stared. She could see her reflection in the reflective
surface. The face looking back was not her; it was Marion. What had
she done?

Hands were holding her shoulders and upper
arms, moving her towards another open door, a large steel door
hiding its claustrophobic environment. Inside was a bed, a blue
vinyl mattress, a steel toilet and a basin. It looked like a
functional hotel room without the frills. The door shut behind her,
its clang sending a jolt through her numb mind and body.

Beth started to cry.

Bridger was staring at his face in the
bathroom mirror, his eyelids were stuck together with sticky
secretions, and small broken red veins lined his nose. There was
scratchy dark growth on his cheeks where they had been smooth a few
days previous.

Bloody hell Mike, you really do look like
shit, he thought.

Last night they had spoken, or rather, Laura
had spoken and he had listened. She was not happy, she never saw
him anymore. He was drinking too much, not taking care of himself,
to introvert when she tried to reach him. Their relationship was
suffering and he did not seem to care. The bloody job was too
important to him; he needed to find more balance in his life. She
was not getting any younger; it was not a happy healthy home to
bring a child into, he needed to change. He was just bumbling along
in his life with no real ambition to change things. She needed a
break to sort her head out. She needed space to think and take
stock.

Bridger had sat quietly, listening to her
reveal emotions long suppressed. She had obviously been harboring
some grievances. Why had he not seen them?

Most of it seemed to stem from his drinking,
but instead of trying to contribute to her monologue and offer
assurances of change, he had been nervously waiting for her to
bring up the matter of his infidelity. He selfishly hoped that she
would not bring it up, even if she had suspicions. He was not sure
what he would say to that question. He did not know whether he
could lie to her face when she was showing him her deepest
emotions. One thing he did know was that he was sure she could not
be dumb enough not to suspect he had been seeing someone else.

They had finished the bottle of wine between
them and had made inroads on a second. She needed the drink to talk
and he needed it to listen. After she had finished talking she
looked at him with a strange expression. It was as if she wanted to
say something else but could not bring herself to, and so felt pity
for him instead. Fifteen years together and he did not have much to
say in his defense. He felt like a coward, he was not able to come
clean about Jane; instead, he had let the conversation take its
course.

Surprisingly to Bridger they ended up in the
bedroom.

They had made love in their bed, neither of
their hearts really in it. It seemed it was more for comfort sake
than love. Maybe it was a test, Bridger thought, and a way to see
if she still turned him on or maybe she had expected him to tell
her about Jane.

She had got up after that without saying
anything more about their train wreck of a marriage and left. She
was going to stay with a girlfriend for a while. She would call and
talk later. Bridger had got out of bed and turned to the Jamesons
for comfort.

He had finished most of the bottle by the
time he went back to bed. He thought he could remember tears,
brought on by the mix of bitter emotions and alcohol. He could not
remember the last time he had cried, not even when he buried his
father. He was not sure whether he was upset at the possible loss
of a person he thought he loved or the possible loss of his
comfortable routine, in which he could be married, have a
supportive wife at home to listen to his troubles. Companionship
when he needed it and everything else that went with being in a
relationship. Was there even a difference between love and
everything else? Was that what love turned into, comfortable
routine.

Staring at his reflection now, he thought
about calling in sick, climbing back into bed, sleeping off his
hangover, waking up in a more positive frame of mind. It would give
him time to work through what they had discussed. Was it really
that bad, he worked hard, she worked hard, and of course, that
would get in the way of any relationship, wouldn’t it? He did not
think he was incapable of letting her into his life as she had
said.

Jane's face popped into his head, she was
smiling suggestively, as if she knew he would be home alone. He
felt himself get slightly aroused at the image. He could not think
straight, he needed a distraction. If he stayed home, he would just
turn to the bottle again. It was not the answer he wanted, he
needed to get out. With staying home not being a good option he set
about trying to put his work face on.

Looking in the bathroom cabinet he suddenly
noticed a lack of feminine items; he did not recall Laura packing
much before she left. He wondered if she had already packed before
he got home. It would mean her leaving was premeditated.

His police officer instincts kicked in and
he checked her drawers and cupboard, both empty. His stomach
churned, what a bloody mess, it did not look like a short stay away
was her plan.

His phone rang in the bedroom, he half hoped
it was Laura checking he was all right, but to his disappointment,
the display had Grant Wylies name on it. He answered to hear Grants
urgent voice, "Mike you had better come in early, there's been a
development".

Looking at the clock, he saw that it was
still only six thirty, time for a much needed shower.

Twenty minutes later, he was driving down
hill towards work feeling lucky he was in the work car. Driving
slightly over the speed limit, these days, would normally get you
stopped by the traffic boys, and the way his breath smelt, he would
not blame them to put him straight on the breathalyzer. He just
hoped the breath mints he was crunching between his cheeks did the
job before he got into work.

A few minutes later and he found himself
entering the rear yard at the police station. The lonely smokers
inhaling tar in the shelter eyed him as he went by. Parking in the
basement garage, Bridger smoothed his clothing took a deep breath
then headed up to the office.

Walking in the door, he found Grant and
Becky hunched over a computer monitor. Both looked mesmerized by
what they were looking at. He could hear someone speaking through
the small speakers.

"Morning you two", he said making them both
jump.

"Bloody hell Mike, did you tie one on last
night? That Mrs. of yours must be a saint to put up with you".

Bridger did not know how to reply so just
grunted.

"Have a look at this", Becky spoke without
taking her eyes off the screen.

Bridger peered over her shoulder; it took
him a second to make it what he was looking at. It looked like the
set of a strange play. There looked like there was a puppet on
strings in the middle of a room lit by a spotlight. The puppet was
dressed in a white dress and was hanging limp. There was no
movement whatsoever. Bridger listened closely to the commentary
that accompanied the strange scene.

"
This is how
it's going to work, I'm going to ask you some questions, you're
going to answer them, and then I'm going to tell you a story. A
story that you could have been a part of, but you were not. This
story will bring you right up to date, then it will end, right here
in this room. I have already written the ending, you will follow
the script; there will be no room for improvisation on your part.
Tomorrow we will begin
".

It just went on and on in a continuous loop.
Bridger looked at Becky and Grant, they both stood there silently.
Becky spoke first.

"It's Marion..., John saw this last night,
but was out with friends so called me and left a message. I did not
get the message until early this morning when I got up for a run.
Do not ask me how John came to see this, he did not say. She was
moving around a bit when he saw it apparently, that's when he
recognized her".

Well one thing we know for sure is that it
is not an online advert for the play she is in, thought Bridger
grimly, remembering Jonas's description of his script.

"Is this live, where is
it?
”
he
said.

Grant answered.

"All we can see at the moment is that it's
being streamed through a website called Revenge.com, it advertises
itself as a place to publicly get even with someone. It guarantees
a huge worldwide audience; perfect to make sure that the intended
victim is well and truly humiliated. All you need is a web camera
and a broadband connection, the site has specialist software that
lets it stream live, or upload pre-recorded items".

"You sound like an expert Grant, how
do you know all this?
”

"It's all in the terms and conditions, we
needed to agree to them to get onto this site".

"Which one is this, live or
pre-recorded?
”
Bridger was hoping for the latter.

"I'd only be guessing but I'd say it's
live, it's been streaming all night. It looks like it started
streaming late yesterday afternoon. Which makes the words 'Tomorrow
we will begin', mean today..., but what the hell is about to
begin?
”

"Right, well we can safely say she is not
there of her own accord", Bridger said, "No one would willingly
subject themselves to that. Which changes this from a missing
person to abduction", Bridger said as he picked up the phone and
dialed some numbers.

The clock read just after seven o'clock, he
hoped Matthews was still in bed so he would have the pleasure of
waking the prick up.

"John and Jo will be in at eight
o'clock, do you want me to get them in any earlier
Mike?
”
Grant was asking him, as the phone was ringing in his
ear.

"No leave them, but get onto a computer tech
will you, we need to find out where this place is".

A clipped female voice
answered the phone, the type of voice that you listened to
and did not question. She sounded much put out when Bridger asked
that Matthew's morning routine be disturbed to come to the phone.
For his part, Matthews sounded very reasonable, stating he would
make a couple of phone calls then be right in. Not quite the
response he had thought he would get.

In less than an hour Bridger's small office,
cramped with his staff alone, had doubled in numbers, even the
district organized crime staff had joined the party. Matthews
looked like he had dressed quickly; his uniform shirt was un-tucked
at the rear.

Both John and Jo had arrived at work; John
had just looked sheepish when Bridger had asked him why he only
left a message on Becky's phone when he had first seen Marion on
the site. His answer was entirely unsatisfactory and he made a
mental note to follow up on that when he got the time.

Grant introducing the computer technician
interrupted him.

"Mike, this is Sam, he's from the electronic
crime lab".

Sam held out his hand and Bridger shook it.
He looks like he has just left school, he thought.

"Grant explained what's going on so I can
sort of give you some forewarning. If we can get a hold of the
people behind the host server, they may be able to give us an IP
address for the computer streaming those pictures. It is not going
to be so easy if they have not listed any host details on the site.
They could be IP spoofing or hiding behind a proxy in which case we
could be chasing our tails for a while. Then we have the problem of
the offending computer doing exactly the same thing. Even if we get
an IP address, it would rely on the ISP to be holding accurate
details of the person it provides the service to, either way we may
need search warrants to obtain the information".

Bridger's fuzzy head did not understand half
of what was being said; just nodding when he thought it was
appropriate and making agreeing noises. Bridger watched as he set
up more computer equipment and plugged various things into various
places.

"Right", Sam said, "Let's get to it".

Feeling redundant as far as the computer
stuff went, Bridger turned to Matthews who was hovering near his
shoulder. Matthews had actually waited to get his attention this
time before offering his pearls of wisdom.