Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (27 page)

Bridger kicked
at the shotgun that was lying to the side of Martin’s lifeless
body, sending it scattering across the tarmac. Dropping to his
knees, he placed his hand over the wound on his shoulder, trying
desperately to stem the blood flow. “Get a bloody ambulance here
right now,” he yelled looking at Gary and Ken who were standing
above him, rifles still trained on Martin. He could not hear any
breathing when he lent down close to his face, but then his ears
were still ringing. He had felt the bullet fly past his ear so
close that the tiny projectile had caused his eardrum to pop with
the change in pressure.

He knew who’s
rifle it would have originated from and could not help wondering if
he had actually missed his intended target. “You could have killed
me, you dumb prick” Although he was angry and hyped up his voice
lacked any real venom as he knew Ken had undoubtedly saved his
life.

“
You’re
welcome” Ken said, barely containing his own anger, before turning
away and shouldering his rifle then pulling his radio from his belt
and calling for medical assistance.

“
If you
hadn’t been in the line of fire Mike then Ken wouldn’t have been
put in that position,” Gary said disapprovingly “I’m not happy
about what you did at all. You’re bloody lucky Ken is such a good
shot, I’d say he saved your life.”

Bridger
noticed Gary had spoken in his quiet and contained voice, a voice
that he used when he was extremely pissed off but needed to remain
professional, but he was pissed off himself and did not have time
for other people’s feelings.

“
Just
save it for another time will you Gary, I need this boy alive. My
wife’s safety depends on it.” Right now Bridger did not really care
what he said or how he said it, he could repair those bridges if he
had to. He would not be able to put Laura back together if
McLaren’s henchman made her a victim. He continued to put pressure
on the wound while compressing his chest at the same time, trying
to bring him back.

Gary crouched
down beside him and started doing his own compressions in a
rhythmic manner, so Bridger went back to using both hands on the
wound.

Martin gave a
small cough below him and his eyelids fluttered slightly, his chest
started rising and falling, it was very shallow but he was visibly
breathing again.

Bridger sucked
in a deep breath of his own; Martin was not dead… yet. He opened
his eyes slowly and looked directly up at him; his mouth was
working up and down his tongue flicking inside his mouth as if
searching for moisture. He spat out small flecks of blood that were
landing on his lips, Martin was trying to say something.

Bridger bent
closer “What are you trying to say? I can’t quite catch it.”
Martin’s voice was hoarse and shallow, the lung next to his wound
not providing enough air to push out the words and he could not
hear anything clearly. “The parcel? What parcel Martin? Where is
this parcel?” Bridger had no idea what this meant. He watched
helplessly as Martin’s eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth
hung open but did not move anymore.

“
Shit…
where is the bloody ambulance? I thought you had one on standby for
times like these?” he looked up at Gary and Ken

“
We do,
it should be here in a few moments, it was back behind the outer
cordon” Gary had stood up again and was looking back down at
Bridger “Don’t worry Mike, he will be alright”

Ken Moore the
man who had nearly shot him and most definitely shot Martin just
snorted air from his nose and mouth as if he did not care either
way.

“
He
bloody well better be, for my wife’s sake,” the anger in Bridger’s
voice had returned.

“
What do
you mean; your wife’s safety depends on it?” Gary Stone looked like
his blood pressure had just ratcheted up past boiling point. “Is
she tied up with John and Jo’s disappearance? What about their
safety Mike or have you forgotten about your colleagues?” There was
more than a slight edge to his voice as if he questioned Bridger’s
priorities. “Are you going to elaborate on any of this
Mike?”

Bridger did
not answer, instead he looked at the watch on his wrist, he had 2
hours left before Joseph Kingi’s deadline and he had already failed
in his first objective, things were not going his way. He pressed
down harder on the wound, but the blood kept flowing.

“
Get
that ambulance here now.”

Detective
Inspector Greg Matthews put the phone back on the cradle and
contemplated the information he had just received. He was sitting
in his small and stuffy office, a place he had begun to loath
recently. It had never occurred to him that he might start having
doubts about his work this late on in his career. He had not been
able to shake the feelings ever since a fellow officer’s psychotic
son, a case that had far-reaching implications for many people,
kidnapped Marion Watson. He had been a Police Officer for the best
part of 35 years; he had spent a brief stint as a police dog
handler and then qualified and worked as a Detective for 15 of
those years before climbing the ranks to where he was today.
Policing was his life; it was in his blood, just as it was in his
father’s blood before him. He recalled what his father, Sergeant
Jim Matthews, had said to him on his graduation day from the police
college when he had stood there proudly in front of him dressed in
his crisp blue uniform.

‘
Son, in this job there are two types of people, those that
follow the sometimes obtuse and strict rules of law and think they
are doing a good and a just job, and more power to them, and then
there are those who catch the criminals. It’s up to you what sort
of person you are, but remember criminals are criminals and we all
have a sworn duty to catch them.’

He had not
really given much thought to that bit of advice over the years, he
was not quite sure what his father had meant; and his father had
never repeated it, he had just sat back and watched as his son
worked his way through the ranks. He thought about that, his father
had not amounted to much in the job, he was happy to retire a
Sergeant. Matthews had not been satisfied with that rank; he had
wanted more from the job, and he had worked hard to get where he
was, he had caught many criminals in the process. Did that make him
the latter person his father was referring to? He was not anything
like his father.

He knew that
he had cut some corners in his time, crossed a few lines, but never
once had he lied in court when providing his ‘evidence in chief’.
It was something he was proud of, he lived by the mantra that if
nobody asked him directly then he did not tell. Defence lawyers had
never pushed Mathews about how his evidence came into his
possession, taking it at face value. Maybe it was his size and
stature, which intimidated them, or the way he delivered his
evidence in a sincere and believable manner. Then maybe he had just
been lucky. His attitude was evidence is still evidence no matter
how you came across it. Many criminals had gone to jail because of
that, and they had all deserved it.

The man
downstairs in the cells had not gone to jail very often though. He
had done time when the offence was violent enough or public outrage
would have been a probable outcome, but he had slipped past the net
on numerous occasions. Baz Ropata was almost a protected man thanks
to him, and it had never bothered him up until now.

He had been
receiving information from Baz for the best part of 20 years, ever
since the night he had come across David McLaren, the same night
his dog Zeus had died at McLaren’s hands. It was the most terrible
sight he had seen up until then, his dog bleeding to death in a
cold wet alleyway, and it had ended his career as a dog handler.
However, the man who had inflicted those fatal wounds, the
dangerous killer who had slain the man earlier, and who he found
crouched against the fence crying quietly had been the one to
facilitate his journey on his new career path.

His first
instinct had been to kick the shit out of him, make him pay for
killing his dog but he did not. His blood had been boiling but he
was glad he had managed to refrain, as David McLaren became his
first real informant. He was pathetic that night, crying like a
baby, babbling on about family and role models as if he was
actually a decent human being lured off the path by some dark and
evil force outside of his control. All Matthews remembered seeing
was a killer, plain and simple; he did not really care how he ended
up in that position or what sob story he was going to dish out. He
had killed someone and he had killed his dog, he had wasted
whatever opportunity life was going to throw him in that one
moment.

Matthews had
seen the opportunity that presented itself; he knew what McLaren
was offering him and grabbed it with two hands. He had used
McLaren’s vulnerability and played on his conscience recruiting him
as a snitch as he crouched on the ground crying and stroking the
bloodied fur of the dead animal at their feet. That human source
relationship had endured all this time via his trusted henchman Baz
Ropata. McLaren had told him he wanted to make amends for Zeus and
had been true to his word, providing a lot of information through
Ropata about the local criminal element. Matthews had a lot of
success on that information which had helped him make the jump into
being a trainee Detective. When that information had started to dry
up, McLaren thinking he had done enough to quell his conscience,
Matthews had just reminded him that he would not want to be branded
a grass while he was confined to jail, and so the information still
flowed.

Matthews was
not stupid though, he knew McLaren had been throwing curve balls on
a few occasions. McLaren had used him to further his own agenda by
providing information or evidence against people he wanted out of
the way. But as always he weighed up the evidence against the
person it was used against; if that person was a criminal living on
the edge of society and had got away with other things in the past
then he used it, plain and simple, and he slept like a baby knowing
another scumbag was off the street. His father’s words came back, a
criminal is a criminal; it is all just a matter of time for
them.

He had never
let on to anyone his connection with McLaren or Ropata and that was
never going to change. He wondered if Bridger had the same sort of
relationship with Joseph Kingi senior, it was not beyond
possibility, he knew Bridger played his cards close to his chest.
This little visit he was on at the prison could be just a little
ruse to meet and exchange information but then it didn’t make much
sense for Kingi senior to be dobbing his own son in to the police
because that’s who was most certainly involved in the murder of the
shop keeper. Brian Johnson had confirmed as much with his phone
call earlier about the DNA match.

All he knew
for sure was that since Bridger had gone to the prison to visit
Kingi, two of his officers had gone missing and Bridger had a
photograph showing them in a state of hostage in some shithole
somewhere. It pained him to admit but he thought Bridger was
actually a decent Detective, someone who stood up for himself, so
he knew the photo would be legitimate.

He recalled an
incident a long time back when Bridger had questioned him on a
charging decision involving a domestic assault. He had balls to do
that; Matthews had outranked him several times over even back then.
He had him down as someone to watch, ever since that day. Sure, he
was a bit 'rough and ready' and certainly not without personal
problems, but then who did not have any of those. Deep down, he
knew that whatever Bridger was doing it was what Bridger did best,
which was work on his own.

He knew he
would never tell Bridger what he thought of him, that just was not
his style. His was more of a ‘take no shit’ sort of guy, it had
served him well throughout his later career and he knew he had
gained a reputation of being a bit of a hard nut.

He thought of
reaching out to McLaren, but it was Baz Ropata in the cells now,
not McLaren. He was the monkey, not the organ grinder and that
posed a little problem. Baz had been arrested at the pad where his
two subordinates had been held very recently and it made sense he
would know where they were now, but he was also the monkey that
danced to Joseph Kingi junior’s organ, just by nature of the gangs
hierarchy so he would be loyal to Kingi to. If he pushed Ropata he
risked his relationship with McLaren, but then what information had
he received recently. He rubbed at his temples wishing the decision
were easier.

Although he
did not know what connection McLaren had to this, he knew Ropata
would know where they were holding his colleagues. He had never
actually elicited any information from McLaren or Ropata; he only
ever received the titbits that they threw his way; that was going
to change today. Baz was going to tell him where they were, or he
would sell that little monkey down the river, and even Baz would
not survive being a grass within the Gang. He did not give a toss
what McLaren thought, his colleague’s lives were at stake.

Matthews stood
up in his small stuffy office and tucked his shirt into his
trousers before heading for the door, the reflection he caught in
the polished brass nameplate as he walked out of the door looked
drawn and haunted. He was getting to old for all this shit and he
needed a break. He walked out into the hallway and took the short
walk to the lifts, stepped inside and pushed the button marked
‘Basement level’. The cold concrete and painted block walled level
with no natural light…, where the cells were.