Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (6 page)

As long as he had known him, he knew next to
nothing about John Maine outside of the job, except that he had
been a Senior Sergeant when Bridger had arrived in Dunedin all
those years ago. He had obviously not learnt to climb any further
up the slippery pole himself as he called it.

He could have just told him he was too busy
with other urgent work, but with inspector Matthews fingers in the
pie he could not really hide from this one, however bad he felt,
which is why Bridger now found himself walking out to the rear yard
in search of one of his squads allocated cars.

When she had first opened her eyes, it had
been dark; her head had felt like cotton wool. She had been cold,
uncomfortable. It had taken a few seconds before she realised she
was lying on the floor. A few more before she realised there was a
chain on her left hand anchored to something she could not see. A
few more and she realised she was also naked. Fear had started to
prickle under her skin.

That seemed like so long ago now, she had no
idea how long she had been lying there. Not hours, more like days.
The never-ending dark was making it hard to keep track of time, but
it was long enough for the fear to grow and was now tearing at her
very soul in its effort to gorge itself on her raw emotions,
consuming every particle in her body. It was a fear made worse by
the shadow that came to look at her, being too dark to see the
person behind it. The lights were never switched on, it was always
dark, always the shadow, no form, no substance, just a dark
shape.

She thought she knew the shadow was a man,
hearing a male voice muttering under his breath as he watched her,
or were that just her imagination playing tricks on her fragile
mind, she could not tell. Her perception molded by circumstance,
her thoughts ravaged by fear and hunger.

The shadow was now the focus of her fear as
she sat cowering in the corner of the dark fetid room. This time he
had taken off her shackle freeing her from her prone position. She
had immediately retreated to the corner covering her nakedness as
modestly as she could in her circumstance.

The shadow was now standing in the opposite
corner, just breathing; it was a horrible sucking sound, as if he
was trying to stifle a whimper. All she could hear was that
horrible sound, over, and over. Was he contemplating her fate, was
this it, the way it was going to end, a horrible shadow casting
itself over the end of her life. She did not want to die, not here
in this stinking room. A room full of her feces.

The shadow moved closer to her, making her
flinch involuntarily, she pissed herself, the warm trickle pooling
under her naked buttocks.

She thought he tried to say something
to her but could not hear him clearly.
“
Sorry mother
”
, was the only words she
made out, then the shadow was gone and she was left in the dark
room alone with a mournful wail echoing off the walls. A wail she
finally realised was coming from her own wretched body.

Bridger had come to Dunedin from 'Up North'
as his colleagues called it.

He had been living here long enough now
though to consider himself a local, but he had never really
acclimatized to the insidious cold that plagued the city. The cold
never seemed far away whatever the season.

It was probably the reason the Scots had
chosen this area to settle in, he thought, reminding them of bonny
Scotland.

Laura had initiated their move south. They
had only just met after friends introduced them at a party. The
spark had been instant. Bridger had been much younger and had
followed her south after she graduated university. The move had
been relatively straightforward, not having amassed much in their
short time together before the shift.

He had been happy to follow her back then,
being in the first flush of a relationship, she was his first
serious relationship and he did not feel particularly tied to
Auckland where they were living at the time. They moved to Dunedin
in early spring, they spent the long glorious summer getting to
know each other. They were married just over a year later. Their
relationship had been nothing if not turbulent since then, but
whose wasn't. If you spend enough time with someone, you get to
know how to push the right buttons.

He had been a uniform constable when he
transferred south. Not used to the cold he had experienced the
pleasure of his first Dunedin winter on the long cold night shifts
spent dealing with the riotous student population from the
prestigious Otago University, and the less prestigious student
housing area surrounding it.

‘Straightjacket fits’ was playing quietly on
the car stereo system, a favorite from his younger years. Shane
Carter was telling him in his distinctive singing voice that 'She
Speeds'.

While listening to the music his mind was
running over the events of last night, it seemed of its own accord,
trying to fill in a blank space. His brain hated blank spaces; it
was a need to have things all in order bordering on the
compulsive.

She speeds.

Ironically, he noted that just about
everything else on the road including a female cyclist, who was
weaving dangerously in and out of the traffic, was passing on the
outside lane.

So much for cycle lanes, he thought, a
slight annoyance brewing in his stomach.

Bridger increased his speed to keep up with
the traffic flow, thankful he was driving an unmarked police
vehicle, so as not to draw to much attention to his poor driving
habits.

The music played further into the score, his
mind wandered a little again.

Along the road he caught passing glimpses of
the old Otago University buildings through the much newer ones
lining the road front. It was only then he realised he was heading
in the wrong direction. Somehow, he had turned onto the one-way
system heading south, after taking yet another wrong turn in his
lethargic daze.

He tried forcing himself to concentrate more
before drifting back into a daydream. The residual alcohol in his
system and lack of sleep was making it hard to stay alert.

When he arrived outside the address he
wanted in the North East Valley, the album had moved onto the
track, 'Down in Splendor'. It was one of his favorites from the
album. He had never been able to work out exactly what Andrew
Brough had in mind when he wrote the lyrics.

Bridger could feel a flush of sweat beading
on his forehead; he looked at the temperature displayed on the air
conditioning unit. It was not particularly warm.

His head spun and he felt a little dizzy as
he tried to collect his thoughts. He had to concentrate to remember
exactly why he was there.

Missing person…, right…, time to get my game
face on, he thought.

He looked around at his immediate
surroundings taking in the neighborhood. Middle class came to mind,
the type of place where neighbors looked out for one another.

He had a habit to assess people he was to
deal with before making his introductions. He felt it gave him the
upper hand, which was very handy on some occasions. He often made
assumptions subconsciously about a person, based on the place they
lived their life, and how they chose to live it. Sometimes he got
it right, but more often than not, people would surprise him.

Dunedin is the oldest city in New Zealand
founded in 1848 by the laymen of the Free Church of Scotland. It
had changed greatly in the years since its humble beginnings as a
whaling station, and as a result, the housing stock in the city
ranges from the very grand through to the very derelict. The house
that he had parked outside currently was in the middle of that
bunch. It was a tidy house built in the 1960's, a square functional
box. The type that somebody's parents have owned and cherished
since new. It was a place where old people lived. A busy but well
kept tiny front garden completing the scene.

The front door opened before he had a chance
to leave the car. Looking at the pail skinned, but stout bodied,
elderly woman now standing on the porch she did not make a lie of
that stereotype.

Trying his best to put on a professional
face, he approached the front door. The woman stood her ground,
standing just outside the door.

"Detective Sergeant Bridger Ma'am", he
stated, while holding out his identification card and trying not to
trip on the front step.

He could tell by her face she taken aback,
either because she was not expecting someone of his rank, or the
fact that he probably did not look like the image that his rank
implied.

The fact that he was still wearing
last night
’
s jeans and t-shirt, combined with the
hung-over bleary-eyed state he was in, did not scream Detective
Sergeant to anyone.

"Come in Sergeant", she said uncertainly, as
she peered at his card.

She stood aside as Bridger walked past her
into the hallway, turning his face away so she would not smell the
stale alcohol on his breath, trying to regain at least some bearing
in the situation.

"I was not expecting someone of your rank to
come, what's happened? Have you found her? Something must have
happened for you to be here".

"Nothing's happened that I know of
ma
’
am;
perhaps we could go somewhere more comfortable". He did not put any
more emphasis on his words than was necessary, but his tone seemed
to comfort her and her expression softened. Thank god for that, he
thought. Maybe I can just get in and get out with the minimum of
fuss. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in someone’s front
room with the heating turned all the way up for too
long.

"Ok, but you will have to excuse me
Sergeant, my eyesight's not what it used to be, I'm almost as blind
as a bat without my glasses, and I think the rest of my senses are
going and all".

She told him this as she led him through to
a richly furnished sitting room, cluttered with knick knacks and
photo’s and as if by demonstration knocked her left leg on the side
of the small telephone table, causing a tiny figurine of the Virgin
Mary to fall over.

"Bugger", she said quietly to herself as she
made the sign of the cross before regaining her composure. Reaching
over the table, she put the figurine back on her feet.

Looking over at Bridger she gave him a tight
smile, she indicated that he sit in one of the two ancient
armchairs by the fireplace.

Thank god for small mercies, he thought. At
least his professional image was intact.

"Ma
’
am sit down with me and have a chat, I can
assure you that at this stage I have no reason to believe anything
has happened to your daughter, I was sort of hoping you could help
me with that. How about why you think she's missing, and go from
there".

"Ok Sergeant, let me get some refreshments
first. I'll be right with you".

Bridger watched her walk into the kitchen,
straightening her skirt with her hands. The older generation always
seemed to defer to good manners, he thought, making sure that she
played the host first before getting to the more pressing issue of
why he was here.

Bridger was sitting in the living room
gazing at the photos on the wall, pictures of a smiling girl in all
the stages of life. One of the larger ones showed a younger Mrs.
Watson standing beside a dour looking male who he guessed was her
husband, but there was something off about their smiles. They
looked false from where he sat.

Mrs. Watson returned with a cup of sweet
milky tea for each of them, handing one of the dainty cups to him.
She sat down opposite him and looked at him strangely.

"Do you have children,
sergeant?
”

The question was innocent enough, but it
dumped powerful emotions into the pit of his stomach. Children were
an extremely touchy subject between Laura and him. They had not had
much luck with that in the past, something he preferred not to
think about too much.

"No
…
, I don't," Bridger said quietly.

"Children will change your life
Sergeant. They can make a relationship stronger, but can also break
any frail bonds that may have otherwise kept people together. It's
hard work, some men can't handle the pressures, and then the wives
bear the brunt of their inadequacy". She was looking him right in
the eye. "Some men drink too much, god knows why, it makes them
more angry than relaxed. Are you a drinker
Sergeant?
”

No more than the next person, Bridger
thought to himself.

"Not really, Mrs. Watson. Although you
could say I am partial took a few drinks on the odd
occasion
…
,
like most people". He felt compelled to add.

He looked at Mrs. Watson but could not
detect anything in her expression that told him if she believed
that little ruse.

"My first husband was a drinker Sergeant. He
was a brute of a man when he had the drink inside him. Then there
was Jimmy, he was better at controlling himself. His weapon was
words not fists. Not that he could have used violence if he wanted
to, he was such a weak pathetic man in the end".

"Who's Jimmy?
”
Bridger asked.

"Jimmy is Marion's father, my second
husband. He's dead now
…
, gone three years".

"I'm sorry to hear that Mrs. Watson".

"He was seventy eight, Sergeant; I think he
had a good go at it, don't you".