 
Human Frailty

A Detective Mike Bridger novel

By Mark Bredenbeck

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Copyright 2013 by Mark Bredenbeck

Book design by Mark Bredenbeck

Smashwords edition

"This book is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, governments, events or locales is entirely coincidental."

"All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated."

You make me cry,

to show your love for me.

You make me scream,

so you know I feel.

You make me bruise,

to put your mark on me.

You make me hide,

so that no one cares.

You make me fear,

so life doesn't belong to me.

You make me bleed,

so that I may die.

Make me cry.

### Prologue

Looking out of the window into the darkness he watched, fear and anticipation of the arrival. The later it got the worse it usually was. Things he had no control over, making him feel useless, scared, unloved.

He had no protection from it, no one who looked out for him. He was constantly frightened.

It had been going on for as long as he could remember; hurt that never ended, even after it ended.

The gate squeaked on its rusty hinges, the sharp sound of the latch closing sending a shiver down his spine. He heard footsteps on the path, the sound of heavy boots.

The key turned in the rusty door lock, the sound that preceded it all.

"Why the fuck is this bloody house so cold?" The sound of his voice echoed in the bare hallway outside his door.

He knew to keep the lights off and pretend to be asleep.

"Where the fuck are you bitch? Why can't you keep a fucking heater on?"

He heard noises in the room next door as the walls were paper-thin. She was moving around, slowly, woken from sleep, resigned to her fate.

He heard the song on his father's lips, out of tune and slurred.

"How was your night dear?" Her voice sounded timid and far away.

"What do you care? The house is fucking freezing, what have you been doing all night?"

"Your tea is in the oven if you want it."

"Why would I want it after it's dried out in the oven? It'll taste like shit."

The sound of bottles clinking in a crate came through the walls. "I'll have to make do with one of these." he heard his father say.

"Ok love, I'll go back to bed now if that's alright? I'm a bit tired."

The anticipation was giving him butterflies. Maybe it would be different tonight.

"Sit down", the drunken anger in his father's voice made him jump in the darkness of his room. "Keep me company; you never talk to me anymore. It makes me feel like you don't want me."

Silence...

The sound of glass breaking broke the short silence. He heard a chair crashing onto the floor, wood splintering.

"I said sit-the-fuck-down."

His mother's stifled scream signified the beginning.

Hiding under his blankets, he tried not to listen.

The cries came through the walls; the walls shuddered with the impact and then the noises stirred dark pictures in his mind. The pictures frightened him more than the actions, so he had to see, to block out the pictures.

Crawling out of bed, he opened the door slowly; the hallway was dark. The only light was coming from the kitchen. The light inside flickering as the bulb swung on its cord.

Crying and swearing, anger and emotion, it all poured out into the hallway in great big puddles of blood, the images in his mind distorting the reality.

He watched as a shadow fell across the open kitchen door, then he saw a body fall. His mother was lying prone on the floor, eyes staring into the darkness of the hallway, into the darkness in his head, eyes showing only fear and self-preservation.

The eyes told him it was his turn now; he looked back at a mother with no love.

He tried to melt back into the darkness; maybe he will not see.

He heard the sound of bottles clinking in a crate, the demon drink; it would give him a reprieve, if only for a while.

Go back to bed. Get some sleep and then get up in the morning, it will be okay in the morning.

He knew when he got up that song would be on the radio, the same one she always played. The tune was stuck in his head.

Don't cry sissy... Father hates any sign of weakness.

### Chapter One

He was walking in the cold light of morning. The air was chilled; his breath was coming in clouds of fog. It certainly had not started today, but it would end soon enough.

He could not remember much about the first years of his life. Apparently New Zealand in the 1970's was not an especially memorable decade, people having just come through the swinging sixties and were worn out.

The beginning of the decade had seen the Vietnam War in full swing, the country protesting against its small contribution clashing with the police. The Beatles had broken up, finishing their world domination of popular music.

The end of the decade had seen the Beehive in Wellington completed and occupied by Government, Air New Zealand flight 901 crashed into Mt Erebus in Antarctica killing 237 people and 18 hectares of land slipped 48 meters down the side of a hill in Abbotsford, Dunedin, destroying 69 homes.

The life people had was a simple affair with fathers working and mothers at home with the kids. You knew everyone on the street by first names, often visiting for social occasions. Fathers competing with each other over the dinner table about who was earning more or what model Ford Cortina was in the driveway. Mothers would exchange recipes or swap baby stories, simple things for simple people.

It was the sort of shit; he thought sourly, that you only see on TV, where the real world did not exist, at least not his. His had been a world of reality, of hard lessons learned at a very young age, a world of violence, pain, and hurt. Violence in those days kept itself in-house, liberal amounts of makeup or simply staying indoors hiding the marks of obedience. Husband and wife never wanting outside involvement for their own very different reasons, and the police were always too busy with other things. Alcohol fuelled the violence in a new generation of men with no war to fight, the ugly side of human nature finding its outlet.

He knew now that violence was the great leveler, it spread across the social divide, infecting homes of rich and poor alike, but back then he thought it had been just his to endure.

New Zealand in the 1970's was still trying to throw off the shackles that bound it to Mother England. Like an emerging petulant child, the country and its citizens not in total control of their lives, laws or emotions.

It was into one of these homes that he was born. He did not choose to be born; he did not choose the life he had with them. He did not choose to cause any trouble...

Of course, mother should not have seen him as trouble; mother should have loved him with all her heart. Mother should have been there for him, in times of pain and hardship, nurturing and caring for him... as mothers should.

Closing his eyes against a cold gust of wind the thoughts turned over in his head, his only memory of her was the bitter thought of a useless bitch.

She was useless for choosing father in the first place, selfish, only ever thinking of her. She never gave him a second thought. Was that a mother?

When Father was there, she would hardly notice him, spending her time as far away from father as possible.

When his father was not there he used to see mother dancing in the lounge room. It was a pathetic one-sided dance. She would be holding herself, eyes closed, quietly humming the only tune he remembered, lost within her own head. A family fractured by fear.

In those moments, he would feel the need to go to her, tell her it was all right, that he was there, but he was only a child. The first and only time he tried, he remembered she had opened her vacant eyes and stared straight through him like he was not there. He had tried to speak but the words did not come. Mother had not said anything either, just turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the cold emotionless room. A child lost.

Eventually, he could see why his father had to do what he did, why he punished her. She was not a good mother, she did not care what happened to him when she went and hid in the bedroom like a sniveling cow, noises like an animal in pain emanating from behind the door. She needed telling, repeatedly. It was the only way.

Things changed when mother hid, it was then he had to endure. It was not as if he minded the pain his father turned on him, it was almost constant, constant enough to be bearable, if not predictable. It had only cemented his hatred for the pair of them. He took his beatings like a little man, wearing the bruises as a badge of honor. He remembered the fear.

At first, he did not understand the violence his father used, but then, as he got older, it molded his thinking, wiring his brain. He had become accustomed to it, perception turning to disbelief, then to denial, and finally to hatred. Hatred directed at his mother for not protecting herself... or him. He had been only young at the time, his mind not yet developed enough to understand, but he remembered a strange sort of pleasure, little electric shocks with every blow. Watching his mother flinch, trying not to cry out. He had often found himself waiting with anticipation of a night for when father got home, anticipation for his favorite show.

Better than sex, he remembered his father saying this on one occasion to no one in particular, there had been no one else in the room but him.

It was only later as he had gotten older that he understood the word sex, watching his mother and father in the bedroom, connecting schoolyard gossip with what he had been audience to.

He had watched mother lying on her back with his father on top in a drunken rage, holding mother by her arms, pressing her face sideways into the pillow, pushing himself up and down in an unnatural rhythm.

He had watched his father, hitting mother on the face, the body, and the other bits that he did not yet understand. Mother would just lie there and take it, not fighting back, her eyes on the verge of oblivion, another night closer to her fate.

He had watched often, each time a different show with the same ending, his young mind taking it all in.

He remembered vividly when it happened though, that was what had put him here in the cold today, it was when his father finally bled the boil he had spent years trying to lance. The night his father's version of love climaxed in such a frenzy that mother was unable to stop herself sliding into the oblivion that she had for so long been looking into. The defeated grey light in her eyes slowly fading. His father, not even aware of the change in her, had rolled over and gone to sleep. Mother was never to wake.

He remembered watching that night, as they had acted out the strange tragedy; he was standing in the darkness of the hallway, watching as the players had put everything they had into their performance. At the final curtain, he had gone to her, sat with her. He had felt her skin go from warm to cold, and watched her as her body paled. He knew she had gone. Her final selfish legacy was leaving this world without a second thought for him; she did not care a toss.

Mother really was a selfish bitch. The thought rattled around inside his head, stoking his hatred. Selfish bitch; she was a selfish bitch, la-la la- la-la. It was almost a tune to him now; he had been living with it for so long.

The rest of that night played out in his head, the feelings returned, feelings that he knew intimately now, but could not understand at the time. Feelings that had gone from sorrow, to rage, to elation, then finally to disappointment. Disappointment that this life as he knew it was over, he would never again watch as his father's performance showed mother how much he cared. Disappointment that he would not feel the intense feelings of disgust, revulsion, fear and excitement caused by each act of the play, and then just fear, as mother was no longer there to take the beatings for him.

It was then he had seen that father had not roused from his drunken slumber....

When he had walked out of that house that night into what passed for early morning he remembered feeling more alive than he had ever been, his senses had been tingling like never before.

Mother, father, and that house were behind him now. They were in his past. The house had contained an angry wretched existence between its rotting four walls, but it had looked very normal from the outside, as he had continued to walk.

He marveled at how his young mind had been able to make him do what he had done. Father had not woken that night, and never again. He had finally felt safe.

Now he walked slowly, shuffling his feet along the pavement, enjoying the feel of the rough surface on his bare soles. Inconspicuous in the fact that he was just any other man, down on his luck, with a lightly shabby appearance and a smell of the unwashed.

The way I look right now, I will fit right in, he thought to himself. There is no need to court any suspicious looks. I need to do this with no distractions.

He had been watching her over the last few weeks in preparation, that had been his primary purpose, but he had also watched the local people with interest as well. He could not help it, he liked to watch people, imagine a life for them. It helped him, to imagine others suffering as he had.

A mix of the unemployable and students, he had found, now populated the area. It was a social experiment if ever he had seen one, but then maybe his purpose fitted that description as well. It was an experiment but it would not be social...

He still hated this place though, the sooner he did what he had to, the sooner he would move away, physically and emotionally. He was only back to purge himself of the dark and primal thing that had been living inside him most of his life. It was something he could not name, but it ruled his life. It was darkness, a black cancer eating away at his soul.

Not for much longer, he thought. He took a deep breath, sucking in the cold air, chilling his lungs. Penance to his body.

The day was just beginning, heavy grey clouds threatening to either break and reveal the morning sun, or burst and cleanse the ground with cold rain. He loved this kind of weather, he would watch the rain that would collect in the broken concrete gutters then run into the drains. The drains took the water and everything it collected along the way out into the stream beside him, flushing the cities detritus out to sea. If only it was that easy...

The stream was one of the reasons he chose this area as his hunting ground, it was one of many that crossed the Leith Valley, Woodhaugh area, providing a pleasant environment in an otherwise unappealing suburb of the city.

The stream circled around a large wooded area, plenty of green spaces, walking tracks, hidden glens, places nobody went.

Except her, he thought, a small smile forming on his lips.

He had only moved back here recently to be closer to her. He knew this area as well as any other in the city; his childhood home was just around the corner. He would never forget that place. A typical house in a typical neighborhood, prosperous, hard working..., hiding all sorts of secrets.

Looking around him now, he saw buildings that were a mix of the old and the older. The rotting weatherboards giving way to the crumbling red brick favored in this part of the country. Buildings with all the charm of yesteryear but which had fallen into unloved disrepair.

My life in one sentence, he thought, unloved disrepair.

Up on the corner in front of him, sitting idle on the corner, there was an old Hotel, long since closed. He felt a slight tremor run up his spine as he walked past the front doors as he had every other time in the past few weeks. He had imagined the stories that passed through them and into other people's lives. He knew these were stories that always ended differently after one more pint in the smoky confines of the public bar inside. It was this place and many like it that was at the heart of his angst.

Trying to shake the feelings, he looked upwards not having to shade his eyes in the grey morning light. He could see the houses on top of the high bush clad cliffs on either side of the valley supporting the more affluent, looking down on the peasants.

These people should have taken more notice of what was going on below them, he thought bitterly, instead they got on with their sheltered lives, safe in the knowledge that as long as they didn't look down they wouldn't see.

The bitter thought, did not help the way he felt and was twisting inside his head as he continued to walk. We would not be here if they had just taken more notice.

He felt the familiar loneliness, there was no one on the streets this morning; people around here did not get out much at this time of year, the sun only made a late appearance, if it bothered at all. They preferred to stay in the relative warmth of their houses, eyes focused on the television and not the windows showing snapshots of the cold changeable world outside. The empty streets suited him; other people would just get in the way.

Walking slowly he let his mind wander a little, letting his thoughts and imagination take over. He thought of the corner his life was about to turn, of what lay just out of sight.

Checking his bag for its contents, he could feel the reassuring weight that told him he had packed all the items he would need. This was beginning to feel like his day.

It was then he saw her.

She looks just like mother, he thought. She is perfect...

He stood still and watched her, blending into the urban environment, just another man, out for an early morning walk. She would take no notice of him, she never did.

She was walking the same leisurely pace she always did, a slight smile on her face, not a care in the world, oblivious to fear and pain. She had no idea that she was about to take the lead role in the biggest part of her life.

The image of her was hauntingly familiar; as soon as he had seen her, it had poured powerful emotions into his body. It had instantly bought back the memories of that time in his life. It had also sparked an idea in his head that had led him here this morning.

The idea had formed into a plan, now his plan had given him a purpose, made him feel in control again.

The psychologists of his childhood would have a field day with this one..., he thought, slightly amused at the notion of them trying to understand him.

He did not really care what they thought though. He was not crazy, the psychologists where in the past, he just hated the memory of them. He was not like that anymore. His parents had been diseased, someone had written a 'tragedy' as the script that chronicled their lives, and he had just been a bit player, only written in to give the play an ending. The script determined his character, but now he was going to rewrite it.

The girl continued to walk. The houses were becoming scarcer, giving way to the trees that were winning the battle to occupy the space. It was now or never.

He shook himself out of his self-loathing revelry.

He had only fragmented memories of his early life; he had patched together what he knew over the subsequent years. Each memory building on the next until it had told the story to him in vivid detail. The darkness was always whispering in his ear. He did not actually remember killing his father; he could scarcely believe he was capable. It was the darkness who showed him how it happened, reminded him of those feelings. The darkness controlled his dreams, and lately it seemed his waking thoughts as well, but that was about to change.

Reaching into his bag he pulled out the bottle, carefully unscrewed the cap, poured a measured amount of the liquid it contained onto a cloth he retrieved from his pocket. He stowed the bottle safely back in the bag and walked towards her. There was a slight chemical smell on the cloth that was tingling at his nose. He found himself whistling, the tune forgotten as she turned towards him, eyes wide.

"Now mother, don't struggle, it's finally going to be alright"

He saw the shock register in her eyes a split second before she slipped into unconsciousness. A feeling of warmth started to grow in his stomach.

"Sleep tight."

### Chapter Two

The rear of the police patrol car slid sideways slightly as it rounded the corner at a little over the recommended speed. The tyres trying desperately to find traction on the wet surface, the noise of rubber on tarmac competing with the wail of the siren. The outside world lit up by the red and blue flashing lights reflecting off the parked cars as the police patrol car accelerated down the quiet suburban street.

"Did you see that lot up in the bar earlier? It looks like it's going to be a messy night", Steve Kirkland said, looking over at his partner. "I saw half of the lawyers from Jones Wilson in there as well".

Gillian Holler smiled a little as she manipulated the steering wheel slightly to avoid a skateboarder, skating on the roadside, almost invisible in the darkness. Her young partner was a bit of a fitness freak and she didn't know if he indulged or not, but if he thought that was going to be messy he would be horrified with what used to go on in the old police station bar when she first started in the job.

"Mike Bridger was promoted to Detective Sergeant", she said, "Do you know him?"

"Yeah I know him, I worked with him after I graduated from the police college", Steve said, holding on the door handle a bit tighter as Gillian swung the car into yet another fast turn, "It was before he became a Detective. His promotion surprises me; he was a bit of a loose unit back when I worked with him. You know I once saw him drink four pints of beer out of his police helmet." Steve paused looking out the window at the passing darkness "I guess it will be a messy night for them".

You have no idea, Gillian thought.

A small red car pulled tentatively out of a side street up ahead, stopping in the middle of the road. Gillian jumped on the brakes, dropping her speed sharply and sounding the air horn.

"Bloody god damned Sunday drivers, all the lights and sirens in the world and he still pulls out in front of us".

Steve watched the shocked and pale elderly face of the driver flash by as the patrol car swerved around him and accelerated once more. The adrenalin in his system was just managing to overcome his fear of when someone else was driving the car. It was not that he did not trust Gillian driving, it is just he much preferred to be in control of the one ton speeding lump of metal that would seriously hurt him if it came off the road. He was not a very good passenger at the best of times.

To take his mind off what he thought would be certain death he picked up the radios microphone and asked for an update to the emergency call. The tinny sounding voice of the dispatcher came through the car speaker. He had to turn up the volume to compete with the sound of the engine and constant wailing of the siren.

"The informant reports that the house has gone quiet now, the last sounds heard were a child crying. No one has entered or left from the address. Occupants are unknown but informant states it is a young family, mum dad and one child. We have no previous record for this address. The informant also said the man of the house is a big guy, so be careful."

"Sounds like it's all over", Steve said. "Just another form filling exercise I expect. What do you bet that the woman swears blind nothing happened while standing there with a bloody nose"?

Gillian did not reply she just kept her foot hard on the accelerator, eyes scanning ahead for any potential hazards.

Steve had only been in the job for a few years, but other people's arguments and problems made him jaded. He hated domestic disputes He hated with a passion having to report on an incident when one party had called police to solve what only amounted to an argument. On the other hand, he had also been to many disputes that had resulted in assault; some of them serious, so he knew that reporting each occurrence helped police build a picture of any escalating problems, which should in turn help them put in place some positive intervention. Well that was the theory the bosses always spouted at training days but it did not help him with the paperwork.

As they neared the address, Gillian switched off the siren and slowed the patrol car to a more sedate speed. Turning into the street, she pulled the car to a stop and shut everything down. Steve and Gillian got out of the warm car and into the cold and very quiet street. Steve shivered slightly in his shirtsleeves. Gillian pulled the zipper on her jacket up a bit further and they both started walking up the street towards the reported address.

They were wearing their Police issue stab proof vests and carried all the necessary tools on their belts should any danger present itself.

Steve felt bulletproof, his size and training he thought would see him through most problems.

Gillian felt vulnerable; it was not because she was a woman, but because she knew that her job and human nature would someday put her in a situation that would be beyond her capabilities. Because of this, she was always cautious and took every precaution she could. Never take anything at face value, she always told the new officers that she took under her wing.

She had been cautious this evening to park down the street from the address, one thing she did not want was someone to take a pot shot at them as they pulled into the driveway. Better, to approach on foot and assess the situation. Complacency could cause complications she did not need.

Steve had started to jog ahead a little as they neared the address, eager to get inside and sort out the situation, or maybe just get inside and warm up.

Just wear a jacket like every other normal person, Gillian thought, as she upped her pace to keep Steve in sight.

Steve was at the door knocking when she came through the gate. She could see his defensive posture in the way he held himself.

It is good to see you taking this seriously, she thought. Although Steve had been in the job long enough to know what he was doing, she still felt the need to watch out for him as she would for anyone she worked with.

A shadow was plainly visible behind the glass panel of the door.

"It's the police, open the door please", Steve called. The shadow did not move.

Gillian came up the front stairs and stood off to the side of the door and slightly behind Steve.

"Open the door, we need to check everyone is alright", Steve said a little louder and more forcefully.

Gillian put her hand on the hilt of her baton, feeling the hard reassurance in her hand. Her other hand unclipped the fastening holding her pepper spray in its case. Never be complacent. The shadow faded a little as if someone was backing away from the door, retreating or retrieving a weapon, it was hard to tell. Her breathing increased slightly.

"I know there is someone inside I can see your shadow, open the door please or I will have to force it open."

"Fuck off out of it, no one called you, we don't need you here."

The voice was male, his speech slurred and full of attitude.

"Open the door and let us be the judge of that."

"Fuck off, I don't want you here and neither does my Mrs."

"Can we speak with your wife?" Gillian said.

"I told you to fuck off, do you not understand what I'm saying piggy. Are you thick as pig shit or something...? Ah ha, pig shit...ha ha."

Both Gillian and Steve heard the male sniggering to himself as if he had said something funny.

"What do you want to do?" Steve asked Gillian.

"From the neighbor's report it sounds as if it was a pretty noisy fight, we have to make sure that the wife is alright.... We're going to have to get inside", Gillian replied.

Steve looked at the door; it was wooden with a frosted glass panel at the top. There was only one lock, an old Yale type. A front door only kept honest people out. It opened inwards as all front doors do. "I can force this open pretty easily, and then we go in and grab him first," he said, already tensing his body for the impact.

The voice behind the door continued to snigger and yell obscenities.

Gillian used her radio to request another patrol for backup.

Steve took a step back and delivered an accurate blow with his size 11 boot to the area of the door surrounding the lock. Inside the obscenities got louder as the door gave way and swung inwards, catching Steve off guard.

Gillian's mind was displaying everything in slow motion; there was an eerie muffled silence in her ears. She watched as Steve lost his balance and fell forwards into the hallway and collided with a man mountain standing there in his boxer shorts and an old white singlet. He was big, muscle turning to fat, shoulder length hair hanging lank against his sweaty neck.

"I told you guys to fuck off", the man mountain said, holding his massive fists down by his waist.

Gillian looked down at Steve who was desperately trying to regain his footing in the narrowness of the hallway, and then back up at the man mountain. Blood covered his dirty singlet. His scratched facet twisted into an angry sneer. Small amounts of blood had already coagulated in clumps that looked like red stubble on his chin.

It took less than a few seconds for her mind to run through all the possibilities of what had happened for him to be in the state he was and then calculate what was happening now. In the same period, she had also assessed what was going to happen.

She made her decision subconsciously, watching as her arm came up in a fluid motion holding the small blue canister of Oleoresin Capsicum spray. She watched as a small stream of liquid arced across the gap between them and tracked upwards towards the man mountain's eyes. She saw the man mountain stagger backwards slightly, and then his face went from an angry sneer to that of surprise, then to that of a man in immense pain. His massive hands came up to his eyes and he screamed.

She watched as Steve regained his footing in slow motion and brought his shoulder up into the man's chest forcing the air out of his lungs. The man mountain deflated and fell to the floor curling up in a fetal position, holding his hands over his eyes and screaming like a newborn child.

"Calm down you big baby", Steve said, as he went to secure the man's hands behind his back. "Pass me some plastic cuffs Gill, I can't get this guys arms close enough behind his back to put proper cuffs on."

Gillian looked down at Steve who was struggling with the man's arms, his shoulders were so big and inflexible they would not bend the right way. She looked up again at the space that the man mountain had occupied and could now see further down the dimly lit hallway. A small and frightened face looked back at her from the darkness. It was a little girl; she looked pale and ghostly in her white nightdress. Her face was glowing in the darkness, radiating her fear from every pore in her skin.

Gillian put out her hand and reached towards her but the gap between them seemed impossible to bridge. Then the expression on the girls face turned to that of indifference. Almost as if, this regular occurrence did not faze her. Gillian's heart twitched in her chest. This was probably was a very regular occurrence in her short life. A life she would continue to live, as she got older if the cycle was not broken.

The face disappeared back into the darkness making Gillian question whether she had actually seen her at all.

Her senses were coming back to her now, noises invading the muffled silence, she could hear music playing in another room, one of those American singers with the big bums, Beyonce, Nicki Minaj, someone like that, singing about women power or something, not really her style at all. The whole scene was surreal.

"Gill, pass me those cuffs will you, I'm having a wee bit of trouble here", Steve said, breathing heavily with the exertion.

Brought back to reality Gillian reached for the rear of her belt, retrieved two plastic cuffs, and handed them to Steve. The cuffs were no more than your average plastic tie used in all sorts of everyday situations. But they were also perfect to secure a wrist too big for proper handcuffs

"Bloody stab vests, make it hard to breath sometimes", Steve said, as he wrapped the ties around the man's wrists and secured them together by pulling them tight. "There, that's you nicked then big fella."

The sound of boots thumping on the pavement outside made them both look towards the door. Two more uniforms came into view. One of the officers had his hat on slightly askew; the other was carrying his baton fully extended in his hand. The poorly painted doorframe framed them both in a picture. The music playing in the background along with the red and blue lights blinking outside made it look like they were arriving at a bad taste fancy dress disco.

"Looks like you two don't need the cavalry after all, bloody typical, we miss out on all the fun", the larger of the two officers said, as he took in the sight of the man mountain lying face down in handcuffs.

"It's just what we do", Steve said, grinning as he stood up and smoothed his trousers. He left the man mountain lying on the floor sniveling quietly.

The officer looked at Gillian. "Do you need us to do anything Gill?"

"Thanks Brendan", Gillian said, regaining some of her composure." We have not seen the wife yet to see if she is okay, I think there may be a little girl in the back room as well. Could you and Darren go and have a look for us, we need to get this lump back to the cells before he kicks off again".

"No problems", Brendan said, as he and Darren pushed past the crowd of bodies in the hallway and disappeared further into the house.

Steve had lifted the man mountain to his feet and was leading him unsteadily out the door. His eyes shut tightly, snot and tears streaking his face. Pepper spray was an effective tool.

"The A team strikes again", Steve said, as he pushed the man mountain into the back seat of the patrol car.

The air outside was cold, the perspiration steaming off their foreheads making it look like two friends sharing a cigarette.

"It worked out Ok this time Steve, but we were lucky," Gillian said. "We should have waited a little longer for backup before kicking the door in".

"Come on Gill, we needed to get in there to stop him hurting his wife more. We can't muck about with scum who beat their wives". Steve slammed the car door shut, not bothering to see if the man mountain was fully inside.

"He was standing behind the door talking to us Steve, we knew where he was. A few more minutes would not have hurt. When we work together your decisions affect me to you know. I want to go home at the end of my shift, not to the hospital".

"Point taken Gill, but let me say one more thing".

"What".

"You're a bloody fast shot with the spray... Partner", he smiled and thumped Gillian on the shoulder.

It took more than an hour to book the man mountain into the custody suite at Dunedin Central Police Station; after-care was unavoidable whenever they subjected a person to a liberal pepper spraying by the police.

According to the Senior Sergeant running the cellblock, it served two purposes. The first was that it ensured that the subject was not likely to have any unwanted side effects from the spray, but the second and most important one in his book was that it stopped them sniveling or screaming in pain, which made his life a lot happier, and a happy Senior Sergeant made for a happy workplace.

It turned out that man mountain's name was Leon Sutcliffe, a 6 ' 6", 36 year old man of no substance. The only record the police held for him was his driver's license. He was unemployed; he did not suffer from any mental illness or allergies. He was not thinking about harming himself, and had never had any previous dealings with police. He lived in rented accommodation with his de facto partner Tina Hamilton and their daughter Lucy. He had been drinking that evening with his partner but did not consider himself intoxicated, despite the reek of stale alcohol coming from his breath.

He acknowledged that he had several minor injuries to his face, but declined to say how they occurred. The only statement he made to police was to say that they had it all wrong.

"He went down without much of a fight after that dose of spray you gave him", Steve said while filling in yet another form.

Gillian did not reply.

Looking at the pile of forms in front of him, Steve frowned. "Two hours of paperwork for ten seconds of fun", he added without looking up.

"The face of that little girl in the hallway...." Gillian said, "What she must have seen..., it's not fair you know, the kids don't choose to be in that situation, I blame it on the mother, she has the choice to leave. It's no environment for children".

Gillian did not have kids of her own, she had not even had a proper long-term relationship, there was no man was willing to put up with her dedication to the job for long. However, if she ever had children she knew damn well that their welfare would come first.

"I just hope the wife is not to badly hurt", she said.

"I think I can help you with answering that question", Brendan said, walking into the office. He was still carrying his baton fully extended in his hand. Darren followed him into the room.

Gillian and Steve's eyes went to the baton questioningly.

"Brendan's got his baton stuck again", Darren said, looking back at Brendan. "It's probably still full of seaweed from your wee swim in the harbor the other day...., I told you to strip it down and give it some lubrication, but would you listen".

"I haven't had time yet", Brendan retorted, looking sheepish.

"What wee swim would that be Brendan?" Gillian said.

"Last night shift", Darren said, grinning like a Cheshire cat, "Brendan chased that idiot from the robbery in town. They ended up in the harbor. The person could obviously swim and disappeared into the darkness and escaped. Brendan was bobbing around like a big blue duckling. He forgot that he was wearing body armor and boots. I don't know who was the bigger idiot, the robber or Brendan".

"I had no choice Darren, as my partner couldn't keep up..." Brendan said, punching Darren in the shoulder. "Someone had to give it a go".

"You're like an old married couple, you two", Gillian said, "Stop bickering and tell us about the wife".

"Well it turns out your big guy in the cells might not be a tough as he looks", Brendan said. "We found the wife in the lounge, large as life and twice as ugly. She was fairly pissed and had a nasty temper on her. She took an instant dislike to Darren, I'm not going to repeat some of the things she called him".

"Was she badly injured? Our man had a fair amount of blood on him", Steve asked.

"Not a scratch on her, it all belongs to him. It seems that we have a case of a battered husband, and I don't mean 'deep fried' either. The little girl confirmed it. Apparently, mummy gets angry when she drinks her special drinks. She yells at daddy and occasionally daddy has scratches and bruises on his face. Daddy tells her he got drunk and fell over, but the little girl is brighter than they both think".

"She was pretty matter of fact about it all", added Darren, "I believe her, and by the look of the recycling bin outside, they drink a lot of special drinks".

"So you sprayed an innocent man", Steve said looking at Gillian with a smile. "Which means he was assaulted by two different females in one day, it has to be some kind of record, don't you think".

Gillian looked at Steve, disappointment on her face "I don't think it's something you should joke about Steve", she said sternly. "That poor little girl is caught up in the middle of her dysfunctional parent's issues. It is going to really mess with her head. What a shitty life she must be leading".

"We took her with us'" Brendan chipped in. "Mum was too drunk to look after her, so she is downstairs waiting for a social worker to pick her up".

"Well at least that's something", Gillian mumbled under her breath.

"I guess we need to go down to the cells and speak with Mr. Sutcliffe and see if he wants to make a complaint of assault", Steve said.

"Its Mr. Sutcliffe now is it, what happened to all the names you were calling him before?" Brendan said.

"A man can change his mind", Steve replied.

The radio on Brendan's belt crackled into life.

'Any available units are required at the Revive Club on George Street; reports are coming in of a large disturbance outside'.

Gillian looked at the clock on the wall; it was five minutes before midnight. It is starting early tonight, she thought, sucking in a deep breath and wishing she could have a cigarette.

It took less than two minutes for the procession of patrol cars to leave the police station and arrive at the club in George Street. Three cars had responded from the central police station, moving through the streets like a disco snake, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Late night revelers took no notice as the noisy parade flashed by. One patrol car had responded from North Dunedin and had approached from the other side. In all, there were eight police officers on the scene.

There was a sea of bodies moving in unison, funneling in and out of the tight alleyway leading to the entrance of the club. Within the flow, people were fighting each other over petty reasons, fuelled by alcohol and false bravado. Fists raised above the melee in different places, like schools of angry fish jumping out of the waves. The two dark suited bouncers on the door were bravely trying to prevent anyone from entering into the club, not wanting the tide of violence to wash into their dance floors.

The eight police officers gathered on the edge of the mêlée, momentarily stunned at the task ahead of them. No one spoke; adrenaline was coursing through them, heart rates increasing, the body's way of preparing for the impending violence. Fight or flight was the saying. Unfortunately, for the eight people there wearing a blue uniform, flight was not an option.

The sound of glass breaking behind them broke the impasse as a full bottle of beer shattered against the gutter, spraying foam all over a young female bent double and vomiting onto the pavement, the brown liquid mixing with the bile and flowing into the drains. The female just wiped her mouth and sat down, oblivious.

A few meters in front of them, two other females were trying to drag the culprit away before he could reload.

Some of the crowd had noticed the uniforms now and had started to turn their attention towards the police.

"Right", Gillian said, "We need to get this under control before those jealous boyfriends turn their attention from their love rivals to us." She looked at each of the officers in turn to make sure they were all on the same page. "Start at the back and move as many as you can, no time for any arrests unless absolutely necessary. We can follow up on that later".

Gillian looked up at the camera on the pole and hoped it was recording.

Then the blue uniforms waded into the tide.

Like most angry crowds, ninety percent of the participants are just there milling about, hoping to see something violent happen, not actually wanting to join in. The voyeuristic bloodlust is the same as that of the audience to the ancient gladiator fights. Most people move on when confronted with a hyped up police officer holding an extended baton and telling them to go home, some did not, they needed more convincing. They were mostly young men, high on alcohol or other substances, with an inflated sense of self-importance making them buck against authority.

Mostly...

Gillian stood nose to nose with an animal by any description. Alcohol and fury had ravaged the girl's features into a snarling spitting mess. Her unfocused eyes were trying hard to focus on Gillian but not succeeding.

"Fuck you pig bitch", she spat. "You can't tell us to go home".

Her friends standing in the background were coaxing her on, trying to get her to lash out.

"Stand back", Gillian demanded, before pushing the girl in the chest and reaching down to her belt, feeling for the comfort of her spray. She backed away slightly as she fumbled with the fastening, trying to give herself some room. The girl stumbled backwards into her friends arms, they immediately shoved her forward again, eager to help the violence. She stumbled towards Gillian.

"I told you to stay back", Gillian said as she raised her small blue canister in front of her for a second time that night.

The girl regained her balance, raised her fist in an exaggerated manner and kept advancing.

Her intentions clearly signaled by her actions, decision made, Gillian depressed the button at the top of the canister. She heard the hissing sound of the canisters pressure filled contents expelling, but saw that the girl was still advancing. She tried to focus her eyes to pick up the stream and direct it into the girl's face, the girl kept advancing. There was no stream.

She realised the hissing sound was the ugly sound of an empty canister. Then the hissing stopped, the canisters pressure was exhausted.

Gillian did not see it coming but she sure felt the girl's fist connect with her left eye, it was a surprisingly heavy blow. She felt her knees go weak, stars sparked around inside her eyes.

Dizzy and losing her balance, she stumbled backwards and sat down heavily, winding herself. The girl was standing over her, looking between Gillian then back at her friends for praise. Momentarily infamous for her actions, buoyed up with what she had done. Crossed a line that she thought she was the first to cross.

Gillian was struggling to regain the upper hand. The girl was still standing astride her, trying to work out what to do next, she aimed an ineffectual kick that glanced off her shoulders. The girl's initial dose of anger had seeped out of her, replaced by uncertainty. The more rational side of her mind was fighting against the alcohol soaked majority.

Gillian reached for her extendable baton; it was not where it should be. Shit, it must have fallen out when I fell, she thought. She frantically searched the ground around her, not taking her eyes off the girl. She was scratching at empty ground. The girl's eyes locked on hers, alcohol winning the battle. The evil smile on her face painted a vivid picture in Gillian's mind as she watched her raise her foot and smash it down towards her face.

Her intoxication had caused the girl to misjudge the distance between them and the stomp connected squarely with Gillian's chest, her stab proof vest taking most of the impact out of it.

Gillian was now flat on her back. Above her, she could see the girl's triumphant look turn to shock as a flash of blue uniforms shoved her roughly to the ground

She looked over towards the mound of bodies. Jo Williamson had a knee in the small of the girls back; her blonde hair had come out of its tie and was hanging down over the girl as she struggled to place the handcuffs on the girl's wrists. She watched as Jo stood up and hauled the girl to her feet, both girls red with exertion. Both Jo and the girl were of similar ages, both had blonde hair, but the difference was startling. Jo looked almost angelic against the struggling, snarling mess beside her, Beauty and the Beast.

Gillian laughed inside at the comparison. The only other female on her group, Jo Williamson was a likeable and capable police officer. She would have to remember to tell her.

The angry noise in her head was fading, looking around her she saw the legs of running people, the noise that had greeted them had died to a hushed silence. The sight of a police officer being hit and falling to the ground had made the crowd realize the seriousness of the situation. Most of them had decided that they did not want to be part of the crowd anymore and had disappeared. The girl's friends had disappeared, leaving their friend to her own fate.

"Are you Ok?" Steve asked, crouching down beside her.

"Yeah, just a lucky shot that's all".

"Well it looks like you're going to get a black eye at the very least for your trouble, might have to take the next couple of days off. Not a bad thing though, I know how you hate early shifts".

"We'll see", she replied standing up.

That is the second time tonight I have felt detached from the scene, she thought to herself, I need a break.

Breathing in and looking around her from her standing position, she saw various intoxicated people in handcuffs sitting against the wall. An eclectic group of specimens found only in the darkness of night. The tide had gone out and left everything behind that was to slow to realize the difference. She saw her colleagues talking to some very intoxicated Detectives; one had his tie wrapped around his head like a bandana.

"Don't tell me Mike's lot ended up here, were they involved in this?"

"I don't think so from what they are saying," Grant replied, "But they are pretty pissed".

"Is Mike with them?"

"Darren saw him slipping off into the darkness with a certain blonde lawyer just after it all went pear shaped. He's married isn't he?"

"Does that stop any man when he's pissed", Gillian said.

"Hey I don't play around on my girlfriend when I'm drinking", Steve said with mock offence, "If anything it makes me want her more the drunker I get".

"You're a saint Steve", Gillian replied, her mind already on the paperwork ahead as well as what to do with Mr. Sutcliffe and his abusive wife.

Looking at her watch the time was ten minutes past one in the morning, they were supposed to have knocked off at ten o'clock the previous evening, it was turning out to be a long night.

### Chapter Three

He could hear the phone quietly ringing somewhere in the distance, the ring tone was Beethoven's ninth symphony, a fitting tune for the warm comfortable place he had found himself on the sand to watch the waves crash on the beach.

Bloody cell phones can let people reach you anywhere, he thought.

The ringing got louder, the waves started to disappear into the horizon. Left in their place was a feather duvet wafting up and down in front of his face. "Your phone is ringing", the duvet was telling him in a singsong female voice. He opened his eyes fully just as the duvet settled on top of him, looking around with a start at the vaguely familiar surroundings. He saw a shapely half-naked figure walking out through a door on the other side of the room.

He tried to sit up, his head protested and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. The ringing got louder, its piercing screech drilling into the hangover making itself at home in his head. He followed the sound to the side of the bed and saw his cell phone vibrating itself across the bare wooden floorboards.

Picking it up he could see the caller display showing a private number, reminding him painfully that he was supposed to be at work. Perhaps that last drink offered last night was not such a good idea, then when had it ever been a good idea to mix beer with whiskey.

He pulled himself out of his lethargy and stood up unsteadily. Jaded memories of last night flashed in the damaged synapses of his aching brain. Pressing answer, he mumbled something unintelligible into the mouthpiece.

"Mike Bridger? You're not the person I expected to hear on the phone this morning". The voice was raspy but unnaturally chirpy. "The way you were putting them away last night I'm surprised you're still alive. Have you even been home yet or did you sleep in the bar?" There was some chuckling followed by a coughing fit.

"I pulled the weekend duty shift John, but you already knew that. That's why you're calling me, what do you want?"

"I guess it's not every day you get to celebrate a promotion is it Mike, but you looked as if you were celebrating for two last night, I don't know how Laura puts up with you. She must be a saint".

Bridger tried to swallow through his dry mouth. He remembered Laura had called his cell phone in the very early hours of the morning. She was 'just wondering' when he was going to be home. He could not remember the excuse he had given her., but it was then she had turned on him and confronted him in the cellular world of his mobile phone about being out all night drinking. He could not really say anything, he could not think of what to say anyway so he just held his breath and let her speak.

She had stopped short of accusing him of having an affair, but he could sense the question unspoken in her breathy sigh, he was almost glad of the distance that the phone offered.

'You're an alcoholic wanker' was the last thing she had said to him as she had cut the connection.

Bridger looked at the cell phone in his hand now, a very different conversation. He shook his head ruefully, then he looked over at the door the naked figure had walked through; guilt was a hard emotion to feel with a hangover.

A few drinks here and there doth not an alcoholic make, he thought. A sharp stabbing pain shot behind his eyes and faded into the back of his head in a slight throb.

Hangovers were becoming an occupational hazard lately and it was only varying degrees of pain that reminded Bridger how much he had put away the previous night. 'Just the one' always ended differently, depending on his mood.

"I'm not really in the mood this morning John, can you get on with it".

Bridger did not need the telephone speaker to hear the slow intake of breath from Senior Sergeant John Maine sitting comfortably in the watch-house at the Dunedin Central Police Station less than four blocks away. He had a way of projecting his feelings that you could not ignore.

"Listen Mike, you know I would not pass this sort of thing on to your lot normally, but Matthews called me from his home and told me to pass it on to you personally, he knew you were on duty weekend. I wouldn't take any notice usually but all my boys are busy dealing with the baddies and the paperwork from last night's 'Rumble in the Jungle'".

More memories flashed before him like a movie trailer. The front door of the Jungle Bar -

trying to get in - a prick of a bouncer - a group of students - things getting out of hand - a fight he may or may not have been involved in - faces he may or may not have recognized in the car loads of blue uniforms arriving shortly after. He thought it best not to mention this memory.

It was not actually called the Jungle Bar, being aptly named the Revive Club, but over the years the locals started calling it the' Jungle Bar' due to the amount of older woman, or 'Cougars', that would be prowling around the dance floor looking to pick off the young and the weak.

Not the sort of place he normally went to, preferring the civil surroundings of the Duke of Wellington at the south end of town, a place that modeled itself on the old English corner Pub. That was much more his style, but needs must.

"Mike, are you still there?"

"Yeah John, listen, I need a quick shower then I will be right in, I need to clear up my head a bit before thinking of any work".

"Fair enough Mike..., you want me to lay on the scones and jam, or the paracetamol, it's not often we get a Detective Sergeant in our office". Bridger could sense the smile in his voice.

"Shut it John, I will see you shortly".

Bridger sat down on the edge of the large bed and looked around; he saw his clothes hung on the back of an expensive leather chair. Both his jeans and t-shirt folded nicely on the seat.

That is not my work, he thought to himself.

He looked around the expensively furnished room. Everything was in its place; he could not see a single pair of stray underpants or discarded clothing. A very fastidious person lived here; it certainly was not his place then.

He heard a shower running in the next room. He pictured the person who would be in there, naked and probably covered in soap. He felt himself becoming slightly aroused at the thought. This was Jane's bedroom, in her apartment that she kept for when she worked late or when she was entertaining. Apparently she lived a long way out of town.

Jane would be in the shower now, a warm steamy place Bridger knew he should actually avoid if he was going to get into work. Selfishly, he also did not want to get into any deep conversations about why they always ended up in bed together after a function. Get in and get out.

Jane Little was a lawyer with a local firm, Jones Allen, and she was Bridger's only addiction. They were not exactly having an affair, but every so often, once or twice a year, sometimes more, their paths would cross and they would both have too much to drink.

It had not taken much that first time, just a little flattery thrown his way, appealing to his sense of worth; he had taken a risk and gone with it. She turned out to be very open in a sexual way. She didn't show any embarrassment when she had described in his ear what she had wanted to do, and she hadn't failed to live up to her promise. He had actually surprised himself, he wasn't normally one for rash decisions, but it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world to follow her home that first night. Like a siren beckoning a sailor on to the rocks, she had whispered sweet nothings in his ear, and like a fool, he had taken a bite of the apple.

Now when he saw her in those situations it would be like a shot of cocaine to his system, something carnal and uncontrollable. He knew when he saw Jane he wanted her, on some base level, more than he did anything.

He tried to remember the last time he had felt that way about his wife. He still found Laura attractive, more than attractive if he really thought about it, but she had this way of making him feel insecure, she always held back as if she had realized that settling for him had been a mistake but she could not bring herself to end it. They were probably unfounded emotions, he knew that Laura had never expressed anything that should make him feel that way, but he still could not shake the feelings.

With Jane, he felt no expectations to live up to, no baggage between them. He could relax and enjoy himself.

Jane had been very accommodating to start with, never wanting anything more from him than physical pleasure. They had not spoken about anything deeper than what got them excited at the time. That suited Bridger as he found himself craving for the touch of a woman. That part of his relationship with Laura had soured a long time ago, but then they never seemed to be a very affectionate couple. Now it seemed that they were only intimate when they were drunk, and then he felt it was more out of habit. Jane was a completely different kettle of fish.

Lately though Jane had taken to ringing him up at odd times, asking him to come over for a drink and a chat. He thought he knew exactly where that would lead and so was always making excuses. He was not ready to cut the connection with his wife, still believing out of stubbornness that they may find common ground again.

The alcohol had taken away those excuses last night though, and he had found himself waking this morning in Jane's now familiar bedroom, still wearing his boxers, unsure if it had gone any further than sleeping.

He did not want to get into it this morning so quietly gathered his stuff together, dressed, and slipped out the front door.

Out in the cold air he rubbed at the stubble on his chin, took a deep breath and started walking towards the town centre and the Central Police Station.

Walking into the 'Senior's office, Bridger could detect the faint whiff of cigarette smoke. There was no smoking allowed in the station but that did not apparently apply to the craggy old Senior Sergeant sitting behind the desk with his feet up on the wooden surface. It looked to him like a scene from the Godfather, the Mafia Don holding court with his family, an ashtray full of used cigarette butts sat on the corner of the desk, smoke rising lazily into the air. A tumbler full of whiskey was the only thing he needed to complete the scene.

Bridger's head was thumping, the smell of cigarette smoke causing his stomach to churn a little. He could see Maine appraising his appearance with a little amusement.

"Bloody hell Bridger you look worse than you sounded on the phone. Is that last night's t shirt?"

"I thought smoking was banned in the workplace". Bridger managed as a reply.

"I couldn't give a shit about a petty ban; if I need my fix I will bloody well have it. It was good enough for us in the old days and it has not changed in my eyes. I still remember the smoky confines of a public bar, those were the days". Maine's eyes looked down as he spoke, a slight wistfulness in his last comment.

"What can I do for you Senior Sergeant?" Bridger said, changing the subject.

Maine's fingers were absently tapping a piece of paper on the desk. He turned the form towards him and pushed it forwards.

Focusing his eyes a little Bridger could see it was a standard police form, one used for recording missing persons.

Normally a job for the uniforms, Bridger was thinking to himself, wondering why Matthews wanted him to attend.

"By the look on your face, you have put your newfound Detective Sergeant detecting skills to the test and deducted what I need you to do".

As opposed to the plain old Detective Constable skills I had yesterday, thought Bridger tiredly.

He gave Maine a tight smile.

"Although it would be a big ask for even Sherlock Holmes to detect anything through those piss holes in the snow you call eyes", Maine added, smiling himself.

Bridger was too tired for any banter. "Matthews asked you to pass on a missing person to me?" he queried, "It's not something I've had to deal with for a while".

"I don't normally get a call from an off duty Inspector asking me to look into something", Maine said, "He had the details for me, from what I gather from our brief conversation he has had someone contact him about it and needs it done ASAP. He wouldn't go into anymore details than that".

"Ok John, if him upstairs has directed it, then who am I to argue", he said while looking at the partially completed form.

Marion Watson, 27 yrs old, reported missing by her mother.

"I owe you one Mike, just go and see what the story is, go through the motions, then pass it back to me for follow up. You have not forgotten the motions in your scramble up the slippery pole have you".

That is all I bloody need, Bridger thought, as he left the office. He was not planning to do a lot this morning after his night out the previous evening. There goes the day hiding behind my desk.

Technically Maine was not Bridger's boss, as he was in the Criminal Investigation Branch and Maine was one of the Senior Sergeants in charge of the General Duties Constables, still finding their feet in the job, so he did not really have any say in his day-to-day workload.

Bridger had worked under John Maine when he first arrived in Dunedin as a Constable himself. Maine was an old school copper, with old school ideas but Bridger actually respected his abilities, and he thought the feeling was mutual, so they had an easy working relationship. Maine had a face ravaged by a lifetime of hard drinking, shift work and cigarette smoke, something that he was actually quite proud of; Bridger had heard him heralding the virtues of work hard play hard on a number of occasions.

If that is how he wants to live his life, who was he to argue, but a bit of moisturizer would not go astray, he thought to himself, smiling through the pain in his head.

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.

### Chapter Four

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.

### Chapter Five

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".

"Yes I suppose he did", he said aloud, while thinking of his own father, dead at the age of 60, still working a full day. Did he have a good go at it, or did he waste it toiling away at work for no other reason than to have some sort of promised retirement that he would never enjoy.

Bridger sipped at his tea as his mood darkened. Death and taxes were the only certainty in life.

He did not like to ask, but thought Mrs. Watson looked to be in her 60's. There would have been a bit of an age gap between her and the late husband, he thought.

"Well that's enough of that", Mrs. Watson was saying, "I think we had better get onto my daughter Marion".

Bridger got out his notebook and pen and waited for her to speak.

"I know you probably think I'm being silly Sergeant but Marion is all I have left, I know she is twenty seven now and should have her own life but I rely on her for so much these days. She knows that, which is why I think she has gone missing. I haven't heard from her and she didn't show up for her exam on Friday".

"Exam?" queried Bridger.

"Marion is a Masters student at the university, she had an exam. Her tutor rang me to see where she was when she did not show up. I guess he thought she still lived here with me".

"Where does she live Mrs. Watson?"

"She moved out about six months ago, It was a shock to me, she seemed so happy at home. Of course, she had rules and boundaries, it was only proper. She said she wanted to be closer to the university, I know it was so she could spend more time with that boy. Mat something...; I do not remember his last name. To be honest I rather switched off when she spoke about him. He was the reason I have not called earlier, I thought she would be off with him somewhere and forgot to tell me. She would be much better off at home".

Mrs. Watson started to rant a little as Bridger was just starting to drift away in his own thoughts.

Twenty-seven sounded a bit late to be just moving out of home, he was thinking. Sounds like a bit of a mummies girl.

Mrs. Watson continued, "This boyfriend Mat, he spends far too much time at Marion's flat. He is always there when I pop in on Marion, and that is only on the odd occasion that I can make it out of the house, but I bet he is there all the time. He has a look about him that makes me uneasy. You know the look Sergeant; the way he looks at you with those beady eyes. I have seen that look before and it always means trouble. No I don't think he's at all the type of boy Marion should be seeing" Mrs. Watson was shaking her head vigorously as she spoke, the jowls below her chin were swaying back and forth making Bridger feel slightly nauseous watching them.

Mrs. Watson continued to speak."Mat's friends..., well they are all thugs and lay-about types as well. You would not know what went on when they were all hanging about Marion's flat."

The way Mrs. Watson's demeanor changed when she was talking about these boys made Bridger think she did not trust the male species much.

"I told her my reservations about him, let her know I disapproved. Marion had to concentrate on her studies not boys", Mrs. Watson continued. "She would never be allowed to spend that sort of time on boys if she lived at home".

She did well to stick it out for as long as she did, thought Bridger, old mum here sounds a bit controlling.

Mrs. Watson's monologue was starting to drill into his headache and Bridger found himself drifting off again in a subconscious effort to relieve the pain. He suddenly realized he had been staring at the floor. He did not know how long he had averted his attention but the change in Mrs. Watson's voice brought him out of his daze.

"Are you all right Sergeant? Would you like another cup of tea?"

He politely declined, "Perhaps we could talk about when Marion was seen last".

The crux of the matter was that Marion had not arrived on Friday morning for her exam. Marion would never miss an exam; she knew how important her education was to her mother. Mrs. Watson had also not been able to contact her daughter on her mobile or at that flat of hers.

Today being early Saturday morning, Bridger could think of numerous good reasons that she could not contact Marion, but none of them he felt was appropriate to share with her mother.

He stood up and stretched his now stiff back. "Mrs. Watson, your daughter is twenty seven; it's only been twenty four hours. I bet she calls you later on with an excuse for the exam. You'll see".

"Sergeant, Marion's exam was last week; I have not seen or heard from her for over seven days".

Shit, thought Bridger, that changes things a little.

"Where does she live Mrs. Watson? I'm sure she will be at home if the police checked her flat", he said, trying to convince himself as well as Mrs. Watson.

Mrs. Watson furnished him with an address for the flat and names of her friends and then saw him to the door.

"Let me know as soon as possible will you Sergeant, I am extremely worried".

"As soon as I track her down Mrs. Watson, I will let you know".

Bridger got back into the car; he could see Mrs. Watson standing behind her lace curtains in the window, watching him from the safety of her living room. He left the window slightly down, glad to be back in the fresh air. He could either go to the address and make some inquiries, or fill in the forms and pass it on as John Maine had suggested. He looked at his notebook; he had hardly written anything on the page, subconsciously placing little importance in the report.

Despite the fact that no one had seen her for a week, Marion was 27, not a child. It sounded like she moved out to get some more out of life, she was hardly likely to tell her mother everything now she was out of her immediate control. Mrs. Watson was nothing, if not a bit strange. However, was she the type to worry over nothing? His foggy mind could not put together a good argument either way.

He could not think of any reason Matthews would want CIB involvement in a missing 27 year old at this early stage. There was no reason to suspect foul play. Passing it on and then going back to the office sounded very appealing in addition, him right now. He thought of the chocolate milk he had in the office fridge. In his state, anything but work, sounded very appealing and chocolate milk was the elixir of life to a hangover.

As he switched on the car, Shane Carter's voice leaked out of the speakers, singing about having 'Skin to Wear'. The lyrics formed a disturbing picture in his head. He knew he would have to make those inquiries, just for peace of mind. He did not really think somebody was out there wearing Marion's skin, but if anybody was wearing her skin, he hoped it was still Marion.

Chocolate milk would just have to wait.

### Chapter Six

He watched her often in the last few days, lying there in the darkness, naked. She was exquisite, just like mother. She did not even have to audition for the part.

It had taken her a while to wake up after he took her. He had feared he had put too much on the rag, used too much to knock her out. Sitting, watching, waiting for her to awake from her slumber he had grown anxious, if she had not woken, he would never be able to lay his darkness to rest. She was the only one who could make it happen, the only one; there would be no other as perfect. He felt strongly about her, had felt strongly about her from the first time he saw her. She was his mother as he remembered her.

Then she woke.

He had watched her in the room waiting to see what she would do. His excitement built. He actually felt sorry for her in a way, not being able to clean her, take care of her. He could only feed her enough to keep her alive; she had to suffer as well. Mother was in no way innocent in all of this. Mother started this, so mother would finish it.

Taking her was only half of what he had planned though. When he went to look at her, he had to stop himself telling her what she was to do, what part she was going to play. What was to happen to put it right, but then she would already know what she had done, wouldn't she?

Mother was going to pay a high price to rid him of this darkness, to shut it out of his life forever.

He looked at the photo in his hand, a small black and white, showing a pretty and petite woman of about twenty one, she was dressed in what he guessed was her wedding dress and was standing next to a man of about the same age. He had a casual black suit on; it did not even fit him properly, not caring on his wedding day either. Nevertheless, they both had smiles on their faces, one smiling for the life she thought she was going to lead and the other smiling for the life he was going to give her, safe in the sanctity of marriage. It was strange seeing his parents like that; the only image he had of them in his mind did not have those smiles attached.

He had freed her from the chain earlier on in the day in preparation. He had stood there trying not to lose it in the corner, as he felt the inevitable drawing closer. It was going to be so perfect.

She had cowered away from him when he unlocked her shackles; she went and sat sniveling in the corner. It had brought back memories of mother crying herself to sleep after one of his father's lessons. He almost told her then, but stopped himself at the last moment. She had wet herself, right there in front of him, showing her innermost fear in such a natural act.

He had felt a burst of twisted pleasure, a cruel pleasure in someone else's suffering brought on by his own actions. Was this how father had felt? He nearly vomited at the thought; dry retching into his mouth, a bitter taste of bile stung the back of his throat. He had fled the room at that point, not even hearing the sound of her anguish behind him.

Composing himself, needing to focus on the task, he tried to think of the preparations he still needed to complete. She could wait, she would find out soon enough and then she would put it right. He could get on with his life. He just had to wait until dark.

### Chapter Seven

Bridger had decided on the side of caution, and he had gone to Marion's address if only to put his tired mind at rest.

Arriving in the unkempt street in the heart of the student area, there was an eerie quiet feeling, like an empty battlefield after the troops had withdrawn to regroup. He looked at all the surrounding houses, windows and doors shut tight, curtains drawn, shutting out the world and hiding the casualties inside. It was a typical early Saturday morning after a busy night in the life a student.

He walked up the short concrete path and onto the veranda. Knocking on the glass-paneled door, he got no answer. Peering through the frosted glass, he could detect no movement either. Yellowing lace curtains obscured his view as He looked through the front windows, before moving to the side of the house. Stacks of old roofing iron and timber choked the narrow path, like battlements in the trenches. In his state he was not about to clamber over the unstable looking pile.

Mrs. Watson was right, she was not home, but there were signs of recent occupation. The letterbox was clear of junk mail for a start, which was more than he could say for the mess on the front lawn of one of the neighboring properties. Marion's flat was tidy compared to most of the street.

Why she would choose to live in the student area was beyond him. Street after street of unkempt houses, old pieces of furniture scattered around the front yards. The house next door had a hand painted sign above the door which read, 'Passion Pit' and underneath in smaller writing, 'For all your pleasure needs'.

Very original, he thought.

Although there was no signs of life in the entire street, he knew from experience that there would be a party on at any of these houses on any given night, each occupant taking a different degree course which all had different time requirements. These parties were the stuff of legend throughout the university world and occasionally the rest of the country. Parties organized or not, had a way of getting out of hand in the student area of Dunedin. Couches set on fire in the middle of the street, riotous behavior. Whatever a decent child from a decent upbringing needed to get out of their system before they knuckled down to responsible jobs, they did in the six or so streets that surrounded him.

Just recently, a roof on one of these houses had collapsed under the weight of drunken students jumping up and down while watching a student union endorsed keg party.

Not that it would have taken much, he thought, looking at the houses that surrounded him.

The Landlords did not seem to put a lot of effort into the upkeep of their investment resulting in a general air of decay. It was the perfect environment for higher learning.

The Masters student living in amongst the first years though, it did not seem right somehow, most mature students moved up in the world after the first few drunken years of a degree. He could not see anyone in his or her right minds wanting to study in the dead of winter in a house that most likely had no insulation and leaked like a sieve. However, Marion might just be making up for what she missed when she lived at home with her mother. Who knew? He was never one to know what went on in a female's mind.

He looked around at the nearby houses; students occupied every one of them, a whole subculture living in a fish tank for all to see. It was almost a tourist attraction.

He had heard somewhere that Otago University was the oldest university establishments in New Zealand, first situated in the Exchange area at the other end of the city, predating the current buildings that were over 130 years old.

One of the downfalls of being such an old establishment, he thought, was the students have had a long and rich history of trouble making, each new induction trying to outdo the last, trying to come up with bigger and better ways to get into trouble, future leaders of society all. Trouble making should be a degree course, he thought. He wondered if they burnt couches for fun in the 1870's.

Feeling slightly uneasy about Marion, Bridger returned to the police station. His head was thumping when he walked into the claustrophobic environment of the watch-house. An office that was the buffer zone between the public and the clients tucked up in their concrete suites at the rear of the station.

"Mike, how's things? You don't look to well".

Bridger looked over at a familiar friendly face.

"Just following up on a possible missing girl that John Maine passed on to me Julie, how's things with you?"

"So, so, Mike, you know how it is when there is more than one person in the cells. Your lot just leaves it to poor old me to operate the front counter. It is just lucky I am such a tolerant sort of person. The complaints I have had to deal with this morning, you would not believe. Everybody and their dog have something to say about last night's riot in town. Sometimes I think I should just become a proper police officer, My current pay packet is not nearly enough to deal with all that. But I guess I'm a little old to join now".

Bridger smiled at Julie, unsure of how to reply. Julie Downie was the oldest civilian employee that they had; he had known her from the day he arrived in the Dunedin police station. She was the first face he saw and she had been friendly with him ever since.

"I'm sure you are more than capable Julie, you put a lot of the new guys to shame with the effort you put in".

Julie smiled radiantly. "If you're looking for John he's gone home. That young Nick Brown is the acting Sergeant now. It seems that they do not have enough senior Sergeants to cover the Saturday shifts. But I guess there are no hot scones on offer in the canteen on a Saturday to entice them in".

Bridger walked into the senior Sergeants office. The scene could not have been more different from a few hours earlier. The smell of cigarettes had disappeared and a fresh faced 20 something with a well-worn uniform was sitting behind the desk reading a thick file. Bridger introduced himself to the serious young officer and explained the situation.

"No problems Sergeant, I will have my section staff check her address every few hours to see if she gets home".

Bridger noted the use of the words, 'My section', and thought it was very proprietary for a person who was only relieving in the role.

"That would be great, just get someone to leave a note on my desk if I'm not around when she's located".

Bridger left the office thinking how long it had taken him to consider any type of promotion, this new breed of police officer all seemed to be champing at the bit to rise up the ranks.

Reaching his squad office, he turned off the harsh overhead lighting leaving only the dull grey light from outside to filter through the blinds. Rubbing his temples, he sat at his desk, then reached over to the small office fridge and found the bottle of chocolate milk he kept in there for emergencies. Opening the bottle he took a long pull, emptying half of it in one go. The milk lined his stomach, making him feel partially better. The sugar content was also gave him a little boost.

Going back over the mornings events, he knew he had done what he could; his enquiries could not raise anyone in the house next door to Marion's place either. The students, who no doubt lived there, were probably sleeping off a big night.

Which is exactly what Marion will be doing with someone right now, he thought.

Bridger was satisfied that he had done right by Mrs. Watson and her concerns about her daughter, and now had to concentrate on the next few hours before he could knock off. He wondered what sort of mood Laura would be in when he got home, if he was honest with himself, which he did not seem to be too much of lately, she would be pretty pissed off. He knew she had the right to be, but it did not make the thought of going home any easier.

Needing something to take his mind off the impending confrontation with his wife he glanced around the empty office. To his dismay, his eyes kept coming back to the overflowing file tray on his desk. He knew he would have to make some inroads into that pile of paperwork that was threatening to fall off the desk. He hated paperwork as much as he hated hangovers. Unfortunately, both were something that was a by-product of a short period of fun.

Reluctantly he picked the file that was closest to the top of the pile and opened the front cover sheet. He would feel like a hypocrite as the newly promoted Detective Sergeant telling others about the evils of forgetting to complete the necessary paperwork, if he did not have a clear desk himself.

Glancing distastefully around the office at his colleagues equally overflowing file trays he realised that he would now be responsible for checking those files as well.

Maybe promotion was not such a good idea, he thought, too late now.

Police work was not all driving fast and using corny one-liners as the movies had enticingly promised him before he joined.

### Chapter Eight

Trapped in the stale room, her breathing the only thing keeping her company, she was fighting against her fear. She did not want to be scared but she could not help it. The shadow had returned a little while later and given her some food, not much and the same disgusting texture as the last time, but it was enough to stave off her hunger pangs. Trapped in the dark little room Marion desperately tried to calculate how long she had been there. Her frightened mind was telling her it was a lifetime. It was telling her that she knew no other existence than the dark torment that she felt now.

The shadow had not touched her since she had woken on the cold floor; he had only watched her in the dark. Her vulnerability highlighted in her nakedness.

Marion's imagination had started to frighten her even more than her reality. What did he want from her? Was this some perverted type of foreplay, is this how he got off. She thought of the rape that would happen. She knew that was what she was there for, his deviant sexual pleasure. What else was there? She thought about how it would feel, how she would feel, what he would do to her and how it would hurt... She did not want him inside her; she would rather die first than have that final degradation as her last memory.

Marion wondered if anyone had missed her yet, or wondered where she was. She knew most of friends would think she was with Mat somewhere.

She thought back to what she remembered of when it happened. She was on her way to the exam from Mats house; she knew that was on Friday, but what day was it now?

She remembered she had kissed Mat as she left his flat, just a peck on the cheek even though he was going away for a week with friends, skiing at Cadrona. Now, trapped in this nightmare, she thought of him carrying on with his life oblivious to her plight. Her mother would wonder of course, she always worried about her. Her mother hated Mat, she hated the fact Marion had moved out and was living in the flat.

She looked around herself in despair; maybe her mother was right in her distrustful view of the world. Is this what she had in mind when she went on about all the bad things in the world? Was this what she meant when she spoke of all the things that human beings were capable of doing?

Memories of childhood lessons on the dangers of making bad choices came back to her. Her mother always delivered these lessons with fervor normally confined to preaching Ministers on a church pulpit. It had got worse after dad died, she remembered. It was almost as if her mother had finally felt free enough or confident enough to vent a lifetime of built up frustrations and emotion.

'Men were nothing but violent Neanderthals capable only of hurt and betrayal', she would say. 'Some were not capable of controlling their violence in any way, letting it spill over into the daily lives of others. Some were clever and were able to hide the undesirable streak, confining it behind closed doors, venting it on those closest to them'.

Marion did not know whether her mother was referring to her father when she spoke of these men, her memories were of a gentle person who showed her nothing but love. He may have lacked confidence and perhaps not made enough of his life, but he always seemed happy enough.

She had heard the late night arguments though, when her mother always talked down to her father, she could tell it would wind him up, but he never had the confidence to say something. He would get sullen and mope around for a while. It was almost as if her mother was trying to provoke a reaction and was not getting the right one. Maybe he said what he needed to in private, preferring to have a rational discussion instead of an angry debate.

She felt a burst of immense loneliness, made worse in the darkness. She missed her father; he would come to her rescue if he were still alive. That is what fathers did, and fathers were men to. She heard her mother's words in her head, she thought of the shadow somewhere outside the darkness. This is one of those men, she thought, mum was right.

The last thing she remembered was someone whistling a tune she had heard before but could not place, strong arms grabbing her from behind, before shoving a filthy rag in her face, and then everything went black. It had been nothing but darkness since, darkness and the shadow. How long had it been, she had no idea. The room was stuffy; it reeked of human waste, her waste. She felt filthy, degraded, frightened. She started to sob, a sob that went on until he came for her, a sob that intensified as he placed a gag on her mouth. A sob turned into a stifled scream when he dragged her from the room and through the darkened house. Then her scream stopped dead as he threw her roughly onto the floor. He placed that stinking cloth over her face again, whispering quietly to her as he held it tight.

"Don't worry mother the end is near".

Then everything went a darker shade of black.

### Chapter Nine

Coming to, he felt spittle forming a sticky pool around his cheek which was resting on the desk, it took Bridger a few seconds to realise he was still in the office. The paperwork he was intending to complete was lying untouched in the tray beside him.

Looking at the clock on the wall it told him that he was well past knocking off time. It was getting dark outside the window leaving the office bathed in shadows. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton wool, the sugar from the chocolate milk doing what sugar did.

The short sleep, however deep, had done nothing to placate his thumping head. He thought about putting in an extra hour to make a start on the paperwork, but he was having trouble focusing his eyes so he decided to stop for the day.

Grabbing his bag he headed out the door and into the stairwell, the stairwell windows looked down into the police station gym on the side of the building, the lights were on and he saw a couple of young officers energetically chucking a basketball into one of the hoops. He was walking slowly himself; every step was thumping inside his head and his breath coming in short little rasps. As he reached the bottom and walked out into the night air he felt a little better but not by much.

He pushed his electronic key tag up against the pad on the rear gate, watching it slide open. He was followed by a patrol car as he walked out of the yard and into the alleyway beside the Police Station, it's red and blue lights blinked on as it accelerated out onto the one way system heading north, off to another call for help. He caught two somber looking faces in the blur of the windscreen as it flashed by, both passengers intent on their destination. He found his own car where he left it the night before; he fumbled with the lock having to jiggle it a little bit to get the door open.

Collapsing in behind the wheel, he let out a pained sigh. He was glad he did not have to get involved in the busy physical world of the uniform branch anymore. He would not have survived a day like this on the back of his hangover. He much preferred the more sedate style of a detective to catch the bad guys.

Bridger drove away from the car park and made his way up into the Octagon, which made up the hub of the central city. Early evening diners were sitting at tables inside the snug looking bar restaurants that lined the bottom half. Bars that looked sedentary now, people having a relaxed drink, or dinner, but later on he knew they would play host to hundreds of intoxicated people as the younger crowd made their way to town, all topped up on whatever cheap alcohol the supermarkets were selling as a loss leader this week.

A few groups of students were starting to dribble into town now as he drove through towards princess street.

I guess it is good for the publican's coffers, he thought, passing by the first casualty of the night, a young bearded male vomiting in the gutter with an exasperated female standing above him furiously texting on her cell phone. The scene forced Bridger's mind to flash back to the previous evening, filling in a few more blank spots.

The traffic lights changed from green to amber then to red. He stopped his car, having to apply the handbrake on the slight incline. Above him, spotlights were shining on the Cathedral and Town Hall at the top of the Octagon.

Bridger was no student of architecture but he had read the plaques placed under the buildings. It was something he and Laura had done when they had first arrived in Dunedin. They had built the town hall in both the Neo Baroque and Neo Renaissance styles for reasons long forgotten to him. St Paul's Cathedral, he had read, was the mother Church of the Anglican Dioceses of New Zealand, all useless information that seemed to stick in his memory.

The statue of Robert Burns was sitting steadfast at their feet, both grand old ladies proudly watching over him. I bet he does not have a hangover, despite spending his life in the Octagon, he thought.

Bridger smiled to himself at the thought of the statue Robert swilling from the left over cans of intoxicated revelers.

There were fairy lights strung in the trees lining the road through the middle of the Octagon on the main carriageway, glittering in the winter twilight. At this time of night, the Octagon had a more genteel feel about it as if it was an older more civilized time in its history.

He wondered what Robert Burns would have made of the city and its inhabitants that now lay out before him.

The lights changed and he moved off as he pushed a compact disc into the stereo system. It was something he always looked forward to, a chance to unwind on the short journey home. It was Gregorian Chants, the rich baritones of the religious choir unaccompanied. Bridger was not religious in any way. He had stumbled across the music one day but he had found the mellow tones helped to relax him as he drove. It suited Dunedin's architecture and history.

He drove further from the Octagon letting the music wash over him. He had installed a new sound system recently and it had certainly made a difference. It was worth more than his car, but it was well worth the expense, he could almost pick out every subtle note.

The Gregorian's were in full chorus as he turned right into High Street and started driving steeply uphill, his 20 year old Toyota crunching as it changed down a gear before struggling on. He wondered how the electric trams used to grind their way up the hill back in the early 1900's.

The large Victorian homes that clung on to the steep incline of High Street went by slowly, some of them gothic in style, the music helping him to imagine the history of them.

They had converted many of these houses into flats, but some remained large family homes, or bed and breakfasts catering mostly to the tourists. He actually knew someone who owned one of the bigger houses, but all he ever heard was complaints about how much it cost to heat.

For the most part, unsuspecting people would only see the charm of the facade on these homes that they saw from the street as they made their way uphill. A facade that was only as thick as the walls shielding some of the occupants from view. They were beautiful buildings housing many different people.

Maybe it was the hangover but he was thinking he had a rather jaded view of this area as he drove into Mornington.

The drive took just over five minutes but when he finally pulled up outside his address, he was done in, the hangover that had been hanging around all day finally starting to win the battle. Parking on the road and looking at his darkened house, he switched off the music. Silence invaded his head.

He had been mentally rehearsing what he would say to Laura on the drive home, but not having come up with anything substantial he was partly relieved to see that her car was not in the driveway. It would give him a bit of time to wash up, maybe prepare a bit of dinner, and open a bottle of something nice. That might help things a bit.

The note he found on the kitchen table however told him a different story.

'Out with the girls, don't wait up', was scrawled onto the back of a used envelope in Laura's familiar handwriting.

With no pleasantries it was plain she was still upset with him.

Look on the bright side; he told himself, at least she left you a note so things cannot be that bad.

Whatever her mood was, he had the night to himself, again. Looking in the freezer he found what he wanted, placed the frozen meal in the microwave and set the dial. He went to the cupboard and found the bottle of Jameson, poured a generous two fingers adding nothing and went out onto the deck ignoring the cold breeze.

Bit late for Hair of the Dog, but what the hell, he thought, at least it will sort out the hangover.

He let the amber liquid slide down his throat, enjoying the warm feeling. He felt a slight burn as it hit his empty stomach. Bridger preferred the Irish whiskey as opposed to Scotch as it had a lighter taste. There were reasons for this, something to do with the way they made it. He tried to remember the long ago tasting session where he had learned of the difference, but could not recall. All he remembered was that they spelt the Scotch version Whisky, and the Irish was Whiskey. Ireland having been credited with inventing it, the Irish monks were first to discover the pleasures back in the 12th century.

He cupped the tumbler in his hands and looked out towards the windswept harbor in the distance, trying not to think of work or his home life, both with their trials. Taking another hit of the warm amber liquid, he let it sit for a second on his tongue before swallowing, the peaty taste becoming evident.

He was at the end of first day in his new rank and he did not feel any better about himself. Sometimes he wondered why he put in the effort. The older he got the more self doubt had been creeping into his thoughts. Ever since he had put himself up for promotion, the thoughts had intensified. He guessed it was comparing yourself with your colleagues, always seeing someone else's work record compared with your own.

Trying to study for the promotion exams was tough as well. He had not had to rote learn anything since his days as a trainee detective and it was pretty taxing.

He realised in that process that he had few close friends in the job, if any. He had only been able to come up with a couple of names to act as referees in the selection process. He wondered if that was the same for most men his age. He had never been any good at nurturing friendships and it seemed the older he got the more introverted he became.

Having to sift through your accomplishments in life in order to satisfy the interview panel was also a chore. He had been weeks preparing his CV, trying to come up with examples of his work in the past five years that best fitted the desirable qualities that the interview panel would be looking for.

He had tried talking to Laura about it, but the Police promotions framework was slightly different from the civilian sector, so she had no real understanding of what he was trying to accomplish.

She had thought that you promoted through the ranks on a time served basis, ending your career at the top of the pile. Well she knew different now, he had spent hours at a time in the spare room they used as an office studying or preparing documents. He had been surprised as anyone to get the job, even though he was the only applicant.

Bridger just hoped he had made the right choice, taking on the extra responsibility.

Well it is a bit late to change your mind now, he thought. I will just have to get on with it and see what happens.

He checked his cell phone, he had no missed calls or text messages, and there were not any more messages from Jane. Maybe she got the message and had decided to leave their occasional fling just that, occasional.

He felt a slight relief.

One thing the job had taught him over the years was how to separate his emotions; he had become adept at putting them in a box in order to cope with the daily demands on his over taxed mind. He had a separate box for every part of his life, one for his work experiences and all the trauma that went with them, he had one for his home life and then he had Jane. Her box, supposed to house his fantasies, was a place where he could escape to when he needed; a place that was not real and could not hurt anyone. However, those fantasies had suddenly become real when he met Jane. Now they were spilling over into the other boxes, contaminating the contents.

He had no safe place to escape to now and it was starting to get to him. Laura did not deserve this; she had to be the most important thing in his life.

Putting his phone down, he thought about Jane, and about Laura. Laura with the fiery red hair he had fallen in love with all those years ago, Jane with her refreshing outlook on life, able to be so open and free. He thought about his professed love for Laura. What did he actually feel now after all this time, he knew he felt no guilt when he saw Jane, but could not see his life without Laura in it, even though they were hardly talking anymore. Maybe it was just that they had spent so much time together, had so many experiences, that it was like his obsession with older music. He felt comfortable with what he knew and was not willing to commit to anything different. No one had ever told him what he had to feel, for love to be real.

He knew that Jane was not the type to settle, he knew she would be seeing other men, maybe even had a boyfriend or husband. They had never really spoken about that side of her life. They had never really had a proper conversation, even in the cold light of day, just before the hangovers set in.

It was too complicated to think about with a couple of whiskies washing away a headache.

Whiskey and maudlin were firm friends this evening.

It is what it is, he thought.

He let the anesthetic wash through his bloodstream.

The rest of the evening past in a pleasant fog, Mazzy Star was playing quietly in the background.

Fade into you.

He did not even hear his wife come to bed that night, or feel her leave again so early in the morning.

### Chapter Ten

The cell phone on the bedside table chirped out Beethoven's ninth. Bridger leaned across Laura's still warm side of the bed and made an unsuccessful grab at it, knocking it onto the floor. Buy the time he retrieved it, the Symphony was in full swing.

"Sorry to bother you at home Sergeant, but the roster has you down as on call, is that right?" a timid female voice enquired. "Only a body has been found at the bottom of Lawyers Head".

"Shit".

"Pardon me".

"Sorry, did I say that out loud?" Bridger apologized, "It wasn't directed at you. I'll be there in ten minutes".

Grabbing a jacket on the way out the door Bridger thought about leaving note for Laura, but not seeing one from her as to her whereabouts decided against it. Besides, she knew this was his duty weekend.

Lawyers Head, he knew, was a scenic place for tourists but a notorious spot for suicides. Situated at the end of John Wilson Drive, it was a long straight piece of road that followed the top of the sand dunes running along St Kilda beach. As he drove up onto the embankment, he could not help but notice how it afforded a great view of the now turbulent grey blue Pacific Ocean, which to Bridger looked very cold and unforgiving in the early morning light. He could see the whitecaps forming and breaking on the white sandy foreshore, coming to rest near the high tide line, and then they sucked back out to repeat the process leaving a foamy residue on the sand.

The city council had closed John Wilson drive off to vehicle traffic just over halfway along its length to allow construction of the city's wastewater outlet pipes; this had an effect on the amount of suicides, with no on jumping to their deaths for the entire construction process. It had opened briefly after construction but within three days, there was another suicide prompting the permanent closure. A closure, which looked like it was going to be very inconvenient this morning, as Bridger pulled up next to the marked patrol car parked beside the bollards in the middle of the road.

A uniform Constable stood guard, shivering in just a shirt and stab proof vest. Bridger recognized the face.

"Steve, why won't you ever learn to wear a jacket? If you get any bluer in the face I might think you need CPR".

"How would I show off these big guns if I wore a jacket", he said, breaking into a pose that looked like a constipated gorilla.

Bridger could think of better ways to spend time in a grunting sweating closeness with other men at the gym, only to stand in the cold with hardly any clothes on to show off the results but he was not about to let Steve 'the muscle' Kirkland know about any of them.

"Before you ask Sarge the council have been called to come and unlock the bollards, but because it's Sunday the on call guy has to come from home, he lives out of town apparently".

Great, thought Bridger, he was looking at the walk of just over a kilometer in front of him to reach Lawyers Head.

"Who's down there Steve, is it Gillian?"

"Only Jo and the guy who found the body, Gillian's got the day off recovering from her black eye. I'm surprised you didn't see it happen, it all kicked off at the jungle bar as you were sneaking away with that blonde Lawyer on Friday night".

Bridger could not tell whether there was any accusation in what Steve had said or he was just making conversation.

"I didn't sneak anywhere, Steve. I was three sheets took the wind and was probably just sharing a taxi home," he said, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"Whose home...?" Steve replied grinning.

The look he received back from Bridger changed his mind about pressing the point to much.

"Where is the body Steve?"

"Jo will point her out to you when you get down there. It looks like she jumped".

The hairs on the back of Bridger's neck stood up the mention of 'She'. He hoped it was not who he thought it was. Pulling his jacket tighter around his neck he started walking towards the prominent point of Lawyers Head, named for its similarity to a lawyer wearing the traditional wig.

Approaching the headland, Bridger took in his surroundings. The wind was blowing but there was not much around in the way of vegetation to judge its strength. The Chilsom park golf course off to his left flowed seamlessly into one of the cities cemeteries. He could see the angular features of the cities crematorium silhouetted against the skyline. The large chimney was jutting out of the top sending any un-burnt particles blowing out to sea.

Would that not put someone off their intended course of action, seeing where they would be in a very short space of time, he thought.

As he got nearer to the point, he saw a female Constable standing shivering in the unused car park beside an elderly grey haired man dressed in a thick down jacket. A fat old yellow Labrador was on a lead at his feet.

"You must be Jo", he said, taking in the attractive face and her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail.

"Yes Sergeant, I was the one who called you. She went over there", Jo said, as she pointed towards the cliff edge. "I've had a quick look and it's not pretty, definitely dead, no one could survive a fall from that height".

"I suppose I will have to take a quick a look", he said, more to convince himself than anything else. He looked over to the cliffs edge, just beyond the fence rails.

Bridger was glad the prevailing wind was an Easterly blowing back in towards the cliff, the way it was gusting he would not fancy getting anywhere near the shear drop if it was blowing out to sea.

"It's not often you would see them after jumping from there", piped in the man with the dog. "Usually it's straight into the sea and into Davy Jones locker, not to be seen again until the tide washes them up on the beach down the ways. That's if the sharks and the dam smelly seals don't get to them first".

"I'm not sure that seals eat anything other than small fish, sir", Bridger said, looking back at him.

The old man stared at Bridger in a condescending manner, and just nodded as if he was just humoring him.

"Sergeant, this is Mr. Potter, he called us after seeing her down there". Jo said.

"Call me John, Sergeant", he said putting his hand out to shake with Bridger.

"Ok John. My names Mike Bridger, I'm a Detective Sergeant".

"Of course you are", Mr. Potter said, looking him up and down. "I would expect nothing less. It is good to see our police taking these things so seriously. There is always a reason, you know, behind the jumpers. People blame it on mental health issues, but I blame the parents. In my day, you respected your parents; you listened to them and you would not ever disobey them. These days the young ones run free and get up to all sorts. It is a wonder we do not have more of them doing this. Society is going to the dogs if you ask me". Mr. Potter gave a tug on the dogs lead and it jumped up excitedly and licked the palm of his hand.

"Well I can't really comment on the state of society John, but I agree with you that there are less restrictions on our young ones these days", Bridger said, looking towards the cliff edge. "I will just go and have a quick look to see what we are dealing with, and then I will need to have a chat with you and get some details. Just stay here with Constable Williamson for the time being".

He went to the edge of the paved area and took a deep breath before climbing over the railing; he felt the wind gust coldly around his body, penetrating the layers of his expensive but useless feather down jacket. He made his way gingerly towards the cliff face. He thought to himself that it must take guts to climb over the fence to start with. He did not know why people chose to jump off something high to end their life; he guessed fear did not even come into it when you were in that state of mind.

Not trusting himself or his balance, he got down on his knees as he approached the side. Cautiously peering over the edge, he felt a moment of panic as his body recoiled at the height, butterflies swirled in his stomach. Regaining a little composure he looked over the edge again, he could just make out the naked body of a female lying on a small ledge almost at sea level. Salt spray whipped up by the wind and waves obscured most of his view. He tried to compare what he was seeing with the picture of Marion Watson he had in his mind. He could not make a connection, but that was not surprising.

He was struggling to think of reasons Marion would choose this way, but then he only knew Marion from Mrs. Watson's description of her; maybe she had some deep-seated issues that were unresolved.

Focusing his eyes through the sea mist, he tried detect any movement. By the unnatural way her body was bent and the red stain that covered what he guessed was her face he knew for certain she would be dead. He could see a bloody and concaved area at the top of her head.

She was lucky, if you could call it that, to land where she did. She would return to her loved ones sooner. Having a body to bury meant closure for them, but it would still be a recovery as opposed to a rescue.

He looked around the cliff edge, searching for anything that may have been relevant. Something green caught his eye just below him. Reaching down he retrieved a tennis ball caught in one of the small bushes clinging to the cliff face.

The ball had more luck than the young girl did, he thought, the image of her had stained the back of Bridger's retinas.

He backed away from the edge and stood up, a gust of wind threatening to blow him back down. Steadying himself, he looked over to the car park in time to see the cavalry arriving at the car park.

The councilperson must have gotten out of bed at last, he thought thankfully. More bodies meant less work. He made a mental note to check on the whereabouts of the key provided to the police for this sort of an occasion.

Looking around him from where he stood he could not see the girls clothes anywhere. People committing suicide would sometimes strip and neatly fold their clothes before committing themselves to oblivion; sometimes you would find the clothes in a neat pile where they jumped, but not always.

Giving up he walked back towards the expanding group of people and cars, absently juggling the tennis ball in his hand. As he approached, he noticed the fat Labrador getting excited at the sight of the ball. That explained why anyone would be looking over the cliff edge, to retrieve a lost ball. Bridger was not sure he would be doing the same if he had dog who had lost its ball.

"Thank you so much Sergeant that is Jakes favorite ball. I thought it had gone for good when it went over the edge. I had to have a peek, just to show willing. I could not have old Jake here thinking I did not care. But when I saw her..., well, the ball went out of my mind".

Bridger handed the ball over, Jake scrambling at the lead and barking.

He spent the next ten minutes questioning Mr. Potter while the fat Labrador bounced on the lead at his feet. Bridger had to retrieve the ball twice from the ground as the dog dropped it in front of him. The slobber from the ball had made his hands wet and slippery but he did not want to give the dog the pleasure of seeing his distaste.

Next time you drop that ball I will throw it over the edge properly, he thought. We will see how you like that. Maybe you will go over as well, while trying to retrieve it.

The dog just continued to bounce on the lead and stare at Bridger, unaware of his thoughts.

Mr. Potter was a fountain of knowledge about the area and its history; he supported the road closure on John Wilson Drive. It would help stop silly little girls, who have not lived yet, from ending it all, before they got a chance to contribute to this world, he had said fervently.

"They haven't experienced hardship in their lives. Not like when I was growing up. They don't know they are born half these kids," Mr. Potter continued.

It did not stop this one, Bridger thought.

For all of his knowledge, all Mr. Potter could really help with was the time he found the body. Bridger sent him on his way with a promise to keep him informed of any developments.

Not likely, he thought; as he wandered over to the group of police officers standing idle in the car park. I do not want to contribute to any of his war stories he would no doubt rattle off at his next 'grey power' meeting, or where ever a man of his age goes.

Bridger stood and looked at the group gathered in front of him, notebooks out and pens ready. They were all looking at him expectantly, waiting for instruction. The only faces he recognized were Steve and Jo.

Organizing a small group of Constables would normally be a simple task but Bridger had found himself at a loss for what to say. His stomach had started to feel a bit nauseous, maybe it was a delayed reaction from the height earlier on. He let out a belch into his arm and immediately felt better. The faces on the group in front of him remained stony.

"Right you lot, we're looking for how she got here, her clothes, and anything else you might find along the way", Bridger instructed. "I know it's a long shot but knock on the doors up on the Tomahawk and Tahuna Road areas, near the entrance to the cemetery or golf course. Someone may have seen something. It's the quickest way to the headland now that John Wilson Drive has been shut off". He could not imagine anyone wanting to walk too far on the way to a self-inflicted death, there was too much time to change your mind. Too much time to think the thoughts that got you there in the first place.

"Steve, can you organize who goes where please". Bridger said, watching his face light up.

"No problems", Steve said, with a look of importance.

Bridger turned his back and another belch erupted from his throat. Not very professional, he thought, but it was making him feel a bit better.

He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone. He tried calling the officer in charge of the CIB, Detective Inspector Matthews, to apprise him of the situation but could not raise him on either his cell or home phone numbers.

"Bloody ridiculous, what if something needed to be done that requires direction from higher up," Bridger said aloud to the still ringing phone in his hand. Looking at the screen, he cut the connection. "It looks like it's up to me then".

Well that is the day gone, Bridger thought, as he got back into the warmth of the car. The photographers had taken their photographs; the scenes of crime officers had been and gone. He had even called the duty coroner, but he had declined to attend the scene, claiming it would probably just be a suicide, nothing pressing to get him out of his Sunday lunch.

Bridger had watched as they recovered the body of the female from the rocks, a surfboat struggling against the waves while its crew struggled with the lifeless corpse. Then he had watched again as she was wrapped in white sheets and then zipped into a black polyurethane bag. He saw her being loaded into the rear of the grey hearse and driven away behind tinted windows to the hospital mortuary.

The search of the area had not turned up anything. No clothes, no abandoned vehicles registered to a young female, but that would have been too easy. The door knocks had no result either; nobody looks outside their windows in the wintertime. It is just a reminder of the miserable weather. He expected nothing less; having happened overnight, it was always going to be a long shot.

In the absence of an identity or reason for this unfortunate soul to be where she was, protocol dictated that it be treated as suspicious until decided otherwise, which to Bridger meant work. There would have to be a post-mortem organized. They would need to do various enquiries; speak to various people, they would have to take statements. All of which fell on his shoulders this weekend.

He wished it were Monday morning when he could share out the workload. Actually, he thought, it could have been delegated out, privilege of his new rank.

He quickly reprimanded himself for his lazy thoughts; he was more professional than that. Then whom was he kidding, he knew he was a lazy as the next man. A small mercy in that he had pushed his hangover from yesterday into the annals of history but his stomach was still a bit iffy.

He could theoretically put the call out for assistance from off duty detectives, but he could not see any reason to suspect foul play. He could imagine the grief he would get from his colleagues about not being able to handle a simple suicide on his own, recently promoted Detective Sergeant or not.

He ran over what he had done and what he had left to do in his mind, trying to formulate at least a loose plan of action. As the post-mortem would not be undertaken until tomorrow, pathologists working gentleman's hours, the most pressing question now was, who was this girl?.

Every enquiry needs a name. Every corpse needed identification. It is the first step to finding answers.

One name that was sitting in the back of his mind, and there was one enquiry Bridger knew he should be doing first, but he was not looking forward to the awkward questions he would have to ask and would have to answer.

He started the car and drove reluctantly towards Mrs. Watson's house.

Pulling up outside the address Bridger saw a newish looking dark colored BMW pulling away from the curb, the driver turning his face away as he drove by, vaguely familiar.

Looking back towards the house, he was surprised to see Mrs. Watson standing in the doorway. She must be constantly looking out the window, he thought. Then she would be waiting for her daughter to turn up.

He had hoped that she would turn up as well; even going as far as reassuring Mrs. Watson yesterday that she would, but the morning's developments had most probably made a lie out of those reassurances.

"You've found her haven't you Sergeant", there were tears in her eyes already.

She did not seem surprised when he told her of the young woman that they found at Lawyers Head earlier that morning.

"Where is she now Sergeant? I have to see her, to see for myself. She would not do that to herself, she was not that type.... Why would she jump off a cliff?"

Mrs. Watson was starting to become agitated as Bridger gently led her to his car. Dressed in a thick woolen cardigan, and floral print skirt, Mrs. Watson reminded Bridger of his mother, all dressed up in her Sunday best. The woolen cardigan was almost a uniform for women of her age.

His heart went out to her; he hated this part of his job. He hated telling someone that the person who was close to him or her was not going to be at the dinner table that evening. It was even worse when he could not tell them why.

He told her that they had not confirmed it was Marion, but the circumstances certainly pointed that way so it was best that she prepared. It was no comfort to Mrs. Watson.

Starting the car, Shane Carter's voice sang through the stereo, 'Bad Note for a Heart'. Hearing this Bridger quickly skipped to the next track, which unfortunately turned out to be 'Missing Presumed Drowned'. Banging the off button on the stereo, he hoped Mrs. Watson had not noticed his taste in music. He made a mental note to change the Straightjacket Fits CD as soon as possible.

Mrs. Watson had sat in a nervous silence as they drove towards the hospital, fidgeting slightly with the hem of her Cardigan. An orderly dressed in a blue smock and trousers met them at the door and then led them into the bowels of the building where the deceased ended up prior to post-mortem procedures. It is a surprisingly well-lit, modern facility with rooms for visiting the deceased. It was not at all; as you would expect a morgue to look like.

The former city morgue was located in the old Hercus Building next door, which was well before Bridger's time. He had heard it was a maze of small gloomy rooms and corridors. Dark places that held many secrets. It had looked and felt like a place of the dead. Now after a recent refurbishment it was a state of the art teaching and research facility with the Otago university medical school.

"She's through here", the orderly told them, "But you will have to prepare yourself, she won't look like the person you remember". The orderly looked at Bridger as if to say, should you really be doing this.

Bridger just stared back at him, willing him to get on with it.

"There was a lot of damage done to her cranial and facial region", the orderly continued. "There was also a lot of damage to her skeletal structure so we would be unable to tell how tall or what build she was without the post-mortem".

"Thank you", Bridger said, cutting him off midstream. Mrs. Watson did not need to hear any more about her daughter as she was about to see for herself what a one hundred foot fall could do to a human body.

Bridger thought the orderly must be a moonlighting medical student, with the terms he was using, or maybe he was just more observant than most, mimicking the doctors and with a bit of Walter Mitty about him. He remembered that the fictional Mitty had imagined himself, amongst other things, an emergency room surgeon.

"It could be her, I just don't know, she looks so..., so dead", Mrs. Watson was crying. She had not touched the cold pale body lying on the gurney before them.

Bridger was thinking he should be doing more to offer comfort to her, but could not think how. The girl he saw before him did not even look human, let alone like someone's daughter. The facial injuries were more severe than he had been able to see from his vantage point back on the cliff edge. The hollow concave area of her skull making her face look like a hideous Halloween mask. The mortuary attendants had done what they could, but it would never be enough for a family member to look at.

Maybe this had not been a very good idea, he thought.

Mrs. Watson was struggling to get her glasses off in an attempt to blur the image laid out in front of her. Bridger knew from experience that the image would sear itself into her memory for a long while to come, glasses or no glasses. A person recently deceased from an accident involving injury very rarely looked at peace.

"As hard as this is Mrs. Watson, can you think of anything that might identify Marion, a birthmark, a scar perhaps"?

"No Sergeant, she had nothing like that, I could not even tell you if she had a tattoo, she was such a private person lately, even when she lived at home. I have not seen her anywhere near undressed recently to even tell you what her body shape was. She was always going on about her weight, I was always telling her she looked fine, but she insisted on telling me otherwise and covering up with baggy clothes". Her voice cracked as she broke down, her tears turned to hopeless anguish. She clutched at Bridger as he maneuvered her out of the room and into the hallway.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that Mrs. Watson". Bridger was crouching next to her while she was sitting on a soft covered seat. He had fetched a small cup of milky tea from the machine down the corridor and he handed this to her gently. "There are a few more bits of information I need that may be able to help us".

"I don't know what more I can do Sergeant; I don't even recognize my own daughter. Do you know how distressing that is?"

"I can't imagine how you are feeling Mrs. Watson, I am really sorry to ask this, but can you give me the name of her dentist, they may be able to provide dental records to compare". A long shot, Bridger was thinking, remembering the severely damaged face and mouth.

"Maybe you could also provide us with something of Marion's we could get some DNA off of; in case we need to compare it".

Mrs. Watson looked shocked at the suggestion. "I don't know about that Sergeant, DNA just sounds so intrusive. Don't you think she has been through enough"?

Bridger explained that the procedure was routine and would only involve taking a swab or a small amount of blood, which seemed to placate her. She would not like to think too much about the post-mortem which would follow, that was a much more intrusive procedure. There was no dignity in death with your insides on the outside for all to see.

"Okay Sergeant, I need to know if this really is my daughter here in this frigid place. I know it seems crazy after seeing her in there like that, but I do not think its Marion. I still think she is out there; she needs me to find her..., to keep her safe.... I'll do whatever you need me to".

"Just a hair brush or toothbrush, something like that will do", Bridger told her.

"You might have to go to her flat for that, I don't think I have anything of hers at home, except a few pictures".

"If it comes to it would you be willing to supply us with a sample of your DNA, a familial sample is almost as good".

"If I have to Sergeant, but I would rather not".

"Okay Mrs. Watson, I will go and have a look in the flat first, in the meantime let's take you home". A positive ID would have to wait.

### Chapter Eleven

He had taken her to the place he had chosen, she was safe from prying eyes. It was hard work, to manhandle her to where she now was. Her unconscious body had the weight of the dead. He did not think anyone would find her before he could carry out the next part, before he would cast the next aspiring actor in the macabre drama he had planned, before that person would join her in the encore to the play he had been audience to long ago.

The difference now, he thought, was that instead of sitting helplessly in the audience waiting for whatever the director decided past for modern entertainment, he now wrote the script and only he determined the ending. He had slept like a newborn baby last night; his mind was at peace with what he had done. She would thank him in the end; he had given her a chance of redemption. The scene had been set.

He just hoped the next piece of his plan went as smoothly. It had been easy taking her, she came willingly, after she was rendered unconscious, screened from view by the many trees that surrounded them. Who knew that the fumes of liquid Ether would do that to a person so quickly? He had held her tightly for less than five seconds before she went limp, no fight left in her. A few drops on the cloth were all it took. The dopey student at the lab had told him not to use too much, and not too often.

From the moment he had seen her, he knew she was mother. She was back to give him another chance at life. He had been watching her for months now, making sure he was right. More and more he became convinced. She had very similar mannerisms to mother; she had a shy smile that he saw mother use on a very rare occasion. She would look at you with a faraway expression as if she was not really seeing you, but caught in some inner turmoil.

It was easy to keep track of her; she was always at that boys place in the Leith Valley. Mat was his name; he had heard her speak the name at one time or another. She always walked the same way home from Mats place, a creature of habit. She always cut through the forested area beside the gardens on her way back towards George Street. It was a pleasant environment to calm the nerves and relax the mind. A pleasant environment for him to do what he needed to, people would not see him here.

However, that was then and this was now, now he was driving towards the meeting place he had arranged with his next acquisition. He would not be so lucky with his next target he was sure. That would require more cunning on his behalf. Father was dead, he knew that, but someone needed to stand in for him.

He had said his name was Ben and had been waiting for this opportunity for a while. He had practically jumped at the chance of meeting him. A simple add placed on an Internet chat room, 'Actor required for unusual role, experience not necessary', had elicited over twenty responses. It had only taken a few questions of the applicants to narrow it down to Ben.

He was the right age, right ethnic group, hair colour similar, close enough.

When asked, he had said he lived estranged from his family, having had a rough upbringing. Maybe this would help Ben with his issues as well.

It does not matter really, he thought. It is not about him, it is about me.

Why Ben thought that meeting at the Botanic Gardens was not a little strange, who knew, but it certainly made it easier for what he had in store.

Ben had the part already and he did not even know it.

### Chapter Twelve

It had been Nine o'clock the previous night when Bridger had finally arrived home. Laura had been in bed already, and was in a deep sleep, not even stirring when he had checked on her. With no dinner that he could find left out for him, Bridger had made do with a couple of Jamesons with just a drop of water this time. If anything, it had helped him sleep. Restless dreams and a stitch of guilt waking him before 6:00 am to find Laura had already risen; he could hear her in the shower. Closing his eyes for a second he woke with a start as the front door banged shut. His eyes shot to the clock on the bedside table, his heart skipped a beat as his eyes registered the display that read 7:45am. He must have fallen asleep again. "Shit, shit, shit" he yelled into his pillow. It would be not a very good look for his first morning as Detective Sergeant, rolling in late.

Jogging up to the front door of the Central Police station on Great King Street, last week's shirt found on the floor, slightly damp with perspiration, Bridger entered the spacious foyer area. He let himself through the staff only door with his swipe card.

The modern surroundings were a vast improvement on the old Victorian era police station, now more of a tourist attraction, situated between the equally as old Dunedin Prison Complex and the Court buildings at the bottom of Stuart Street.

Although the old building still had the charms of any building of that age, he much preferred to work in his new modern surroundings.

Foregoing the stairs for the lift, he stepped out on the second floor and made his way down towards his office, thankful that the warm air conditioning was drying his damp shirt. Sweating in wintertime in the Dunedin climate was a rare thing, brought on usually by vigorous exercise, but in his case, it was probably over indulgence, his body just trying to purge the toxins.

Halfway along the corridor he heard the unmistakable voice of the district crime manager and his boss, inspector Greg Matthews.

"What the fuck were you thinking"?

It took a few seconds for Bridger to realise that he was actually addressing him.

"My office, now", he turned his back before waiting for a reply.

Bridger turned in time to see Inspector Matthews disappearing into the stairwell heading for the third floor.

Bridger hated the third floor, as it was full of bosses. People he liked to avoid at the best of times. A trip to the third floor usually meant it was not a usually a social call. The bosses usually made the effort to descend from the ivory tower if the meeting was informal.

Bridger had never had much time for his superior officer. He had first met Matthews when he was still a Detective Sergeant and Bridger a General Duties Constable. Bridger had dared to call him out on a decision not to charge a man with the vicious assault on his wife after she withdrew her statement. Matthews had as good as said to Bridger to 'Pull his inexperienced head in' when he asked for reasons.

Matthews had explained in a condescending manner that he did not see the point in wasting police time, that what happened between a husband and wife should usually stay that way. That the wife only used the police to solve an immediate problem, and that she would be back with him as soon as he had time to calm down and apologize.

Bridger doubted then, and still did, that a broken tooth, and seven stitches in her lip was only just an immediate problem.

The police attitude had changed for the better in the years since, the culture changing as new blood washed through the ranks. Although it seemed to him that, it took longer to change in Dunedin than further north. He had not had much to do with Matthews after that until coming to work in the CIB. Matthews had been the final say in his promotion after the panel recommended him. Surprisingly, there was not any opposition that he knew of. He wondered if Matthews still remembered that encounter.

Matthews's sixth sense must have kicked in as Bridger approached the door in what he thought was a stealthy manner.

Not stealthy enough he thought; as Matthews yelled into the corridor for all to hear.

"Bridger I hope you have a bloody good explanation for this".

Confused, Bridger entered his office, which was a relatively small room for someone of his rank. Bridger noticed the lack of personal effects as if the arrangement was just temporary. Maybe Matthews thought that he was destined for greater things. He couldn't't miss Matthews perched behind his desk though, a big bullish man at the best of times, he now looked twice the size as he was practically leaning across the desk, his face an angry puce colour.

"Bridger have you not learned anything in your uninspiring career. You know I did voice my doubts about you to the interview panel for you promotion, but I was overruled. Bloody new system needs a good shake up if you ask me. I'm beginning to think I was right to have my doubts".

Matthews paused for breath, giving Bridger the opportunity to butt in.

"Could you tell me what I am supposed to have done, sir?"

"Don't take that tone with me Sergeant, that bloody fiasco in the weekend with the jumper, and then putting Mrs. Watson through that ordeal, for nothing as it turns out. You're bloody lucky she isn't putting in a formal complaint".

"What do you mean sir?"

"I've have had the Abbywood clinic on to me, it seemed they had misplaced one of their patients, a young female. The same female you now have lying in the freezer at the hospital. Did you not think to check man, instead of jumping the gun and telling Mrs. Watson her daughter had tried learning to fly off of Lawyers Head?"

Bridger was about to defend his decision but thought better of it, how a female from one of Dunedin's private mental health facilities was able to walk naked, in the middle of winter, the entire ten kilometers from the top of Taieri Road all the way through town and out onto Lawyers Head unnoticed was beyond him.

"When was she reported missing from the clinic sir?"

"Late Saturday night Sergeant, well before you attended the scene where she ended it. The only reason I am not asking for your newly acquired rank to be rescinded is that the paperwork did not make it past the front desk until late on Sunday night, some mix up with the bloody useless Civvies downstairs".

Bridger noted the use of the word 'Civvies' to describe the non sworn staff that worked within the police, a job that was well appreciated by most of the staff these days, but to policeman of Matthews era were still just bloody Civvies, tolerated but not trusted.

He pictured Julie's smiling face, toiling away under an ever-increasing workload, happily complaining about it but not caring. Such a good-natured person was an asset in their environment.

"I want you to pass the file on the jumper over to the uniforms to follow up on, she seems to be just a straightforward loony tunes who can't live with the devils in her mind and commits Hara Kiri type thing. Let the Inquest officer do some work for once".

Bridger cringed inwardly at his boss's crude analogy.

"But what this means Sergeant, is that you still have a missing girl out there and I would like her found as soon as possible. I am getting pressure from influential people outside the job and I do not like pressure. Go and retrieve the file from the uniforms, make it high priority. Oh and you may need this for the jumper file", Matthews added, tossing Bridger an envelope. "It's the note, the clinic found it in her room under her pillow. They were preparing her bed for another patient; it seems they must not have expected her back".

Bridger looked at the envelope, a bird like scratching on the front, reading, 'To be opened after I'm gone'.

"Have you read this?" he queried.

"No, I have not got time for that, I don't want to hear the bleating of a deranged mind moaning about why they can't live with themselves... That will be all". Matthews dismissed Bridger with a wave of his meaty hand.

Bridger retreated from the office feeling slightly deflated, "What the hell does he want from me", he mumbled under his breath, "Maybe if you answered your phone once in a while you could have enlightened me with your opinion earlier, you tosser".

One good thing, he thought, at least Mrs. Watson knew now it was not her daughter lying inside the cold drawer back at the hospital. The memory of Mrs. Watson's anguish for not recognizing her daughter was still playing on his mind. Nevertheless, it was still someone's daughter. Someone's daughter who had obviously had mental health issues,

What a waste of a life, he thought, he just hoped she had found the peace she had been looking for, but doubted it very much. Tucking the envelope in his pocket, he headed for the stairs.

As Bridger walked into his office back on the second floor, four heads turned and looked at him in stony silence, as if expecting something from him. Bridger was still feeling a bit on edge from his encounter with Matthews so was standing there staring back, unsure of what to say. He had worked with most of the four people in the room for the best part of 5 years, he had hoped that his promotion would not get in the way of what he thought was close bonds, but now he was not so sure.

After what seemed like an eternity, he heard a slight snigger coming from behind the desk of Detective Grant Wylie. He looked over in time to catch Grant desperately trying to hold back the tears as he collapsed into a fit of laughter.

"Gotcha Mike..., or should I say Sergeant?" Grant was the joker of the office and had probably set up the little scenario that had just played out.

"We've all known each other long enough so Mike is still fine with me", Bridger was saying, as he shook each proffered hand. "But if you're going to treat me like that maybe it should be Sergeant".

"Not sure I could do it Mike, you're nothing like your predecessor, you've never been a stickler for formalities, coming to work should almost be a pleasure now that the new king has arrived."The king is dead, long live the king", Grant smiled his trademark cheeky smile as he smacked Bridger on the arm good-naturedly.

"Did you get any sly punches in on Friday night", Grant said. "Bit of an exciting end to the night wasn't it. Did you hear Gillian got thumped as well, by some angry Goth chick or something"?

"I was just leaving as it all kicked off", Bridger said. "So I missed it all. I needed to get some sleep before the duty shift on Saturday".

Grant looked at him with a knowing smile. "I thought you had disappeared pretty quickly when it all went pear shaped. Some of those new uniforms downstairs can handle themselves well though".

"What's on the agenda today then boss?" Becky Wright, the only female in the office asked.

Bridger looked at each one of them in turn.

"I've just had my backside kicked by Matthews about a missing twenty seven year old female so I think we will get on with that".

"Twenty seven is a bit old to be missing, how long has she been gone Mike? Can't the uniforms deal with it?"

Bridger looked over at John Mouller who had asked the question, at twenty-seven, he was the newest Detective on the squad. He was a good worker when he could be bothered, but he had a clearly defined idea of what Detectives did and what was just a job for the uniforms, and he hated having to do the latter now that he had passed his exams.

There was always enough work to go around without making an issue of it, thought Bridger. At least that was what the bosses pushed with the latest 'Whole of Policing' approach to crime fighting.

Bridger Frowned a little before answering John's question. "Her mother has not seen her in a week; the job came in on Saturday morning and landed on my desk. I have not been able to follow up on much yet, mostly because we thought we had found her at the bottom of Lawyers Head yesterday morning. It turns out that was a patient from Abbywood. It seems that 'Him upstairs' has been getting outside pressure on this one from someone so he has moved it up the scale of priority, and before you ask, I don't what pressure, or from whom, he did not see fit to let me know".

Brian Johnson spoke up from behind his desk, "Count me out for the next week or two Mike, the Le Cruick trial is starting today and I have a feeling that it is going to need me full time to coordinate the witnesses and exhibits".

Brian was the oldest in the squad, at fifty-seven he had been a Detective for as many years as John Mouller had been alive. He had been acting supervisor for the last twelve months while their last boss went on stress leave then finally quit after a failed attempt to gain compensation for undue stress caused at work. Brian had not been at the party on Friday night, having a dinner for one of his daughters to attend.

He was the most experienced member of the team and had worked his fingers to the bone to break open a long established burglary ring and bring the self-styled leader Jack Le Cruick to Court to face forty-seven separate charges. The team had worked some long hours on that one, but no one had worked harder than Brian had.

Many people in the station had picked Brian for promotion instead of Bridger, especially as he had been acting in the position for almost a year. Nevertheless, as with every other time, he had declined the opportunity stating he did not need the extra pressure in his life of supervising all the 'Children' in the police these days.

"I think we can cope without you for a couple of weeks Brian, but I will try and rustle up a uniform attachment to give us a hand as we are already one down with my well deserved promotion", Bridger said, smiling.

"It will be a pleasure to get on with some real work for once, now that you have officially taken the reins from me", Brian said.

Bridger looked around the room and wondered if he really had the support of every member of the team.

Bridger went downstairs with the paperwork from the weekend's suicide in the hope he could find the inquest officer. Passing the Senior Sergeant's office, he looked in to find John Maine chatting to a female Constable with her back facing the door.

"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".

### Chapter Thirteen

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.

### Chapter Fourteen

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".

"Sounds like you have a few issues Becky, do you need someone to talk to".

Becky looked at Grant, unsure if he was joking or serious.

They carried on walking.

"I'm feeling a little overdressed", Grant commented as they walked up the street. A scattering of students, heading towards the main university complex, were dressed in an array of attire, but none of them as formal as the conspicuous police officers now in their midst. Students throwing curious or suspicious looks at them as they hurried by.

"It's funny", Becky said, "Students notice a police officer in their midst straight away but never see anything when their flats are being burgled by dodgy strangers".

"It's the way we dress", Grant replied.

A young student went by on a long skateboard in baggy trousers barely covering his designer underwear, a dirty zip up hooded top completing the outfit.

Becky looked at the retreating skateboarder, then back at Grant, "I much prefer the way you dress", she said, smiling.

Grant was still blushing when they walked up to the front door.

No one answered the knock; Grant was about to break the glass in the door when Becky came up with a key retrieved from under the pot plant on the porch.

"People are so predictable", Becky said, unlocking the door. A scruffy ginger ball of fur scrambled out the door as soon it was open, making them both jump. Inside a stale unaired smell greeted them, mixed with a distinctive odor of cat urine.

"Smells like the house has not been opened in a while", Grant said as he cautiously moved further inside.

Both he and Becky had discussed what they might find in the flat, one option was Marion alive and well, offering them a cup of tea and an explanation, another was that the flat would be empty. However, there was another more sinister option that he hoped would not eventuate. Moving slowly through the house they checked the rooms one by one determining that the house was indeed empty. No decaying body, half eaten by a starving ginger cat. Apart from the smell, the house looked reasonably tidy. There were no dishes in the kitchen sink, and the laundry was actually in a basket and not strewn all over the floor. More importantly, the house was empty.

Grant was in the lounge perusing the large collection of CD 's. "Nice collection in here", he called to Becky.

Pressing play on the CD player, a funky tribal sound came filtering through the speakers. The raw earthy voice of the lead singer made it clear who the band was.

"Hunters and collectors", Grant said to himself. "Good taste in music".

"I think this album called Human Frailty", Becky said as she came into the lounge holding a small black dairy in her hand. "One of my favorite songs ever was released on this one".

"I didn't know you were a connoisseur of music, Becky".

"There's probably a lot you don't know about me, Grant", Becky said with a crooked grin.

"I think I learnt a lot about you the other night, like how you can't hold your alcohol. You looked worse than Mike, and that was only about seven pm".

"Yeah, I left soon after that, Mum came and got me. She was not impressed. I think I'm grounded for a few weeks".

"I forgot you still live with your mum, makes it hard for a potential suitor to get close".

"Fancy your chances do you Grant?"

"If the Mrs. ever kicks me out you're my fall back girl, you know that".

Becky had known Grant for a long time, sharing meals with him and his wife on occasion, so felt comfortable with a bit of harmless flirting. It helped keep things light and fun during the long hours spent at work. Besides, she knew Grant was devoted to his wife, a trait that she unfortunately found attractive in a man. Nevertheless, she knew relationships at work were never a good idea, especially in a small squad. Inevitably, one or both would have to leave the squad.

It does not stop a drunken slip, she thought ruefully.

"Look what I found in the bedroom, it's her diary", she said, holding it up for Grant to see. "I had a quick look at it while you were in here messing with her music. There is a lot in it, quite wordy if you ask me, and the handwritings atrocious. She was not very conscientious about it either, some days and even weeks at a time are missing entries. I cannot tell what her last entry was. It will take us a while to go through but the good news is that it has names and addresses in the back for what looks like her friends".

"I wasn't messing about, I was searching", Grant said in a mock hurt voice. Spying a sheath of papers laying on the coffee table he quickly picked them up. "See, and I found this", Grant mumbled as he flicked through them. It turned out to be a script for a play of some sort; the lines that had been marked with a highlighter pen appeared to be a female character with a lot to say.

"Marion must be into amateur dramatics", Grant was saying. "It looks like she landed a leading role in this play". Before he could go any further, a knock on the door turned both their heads.

"Marion is that you?" a female voice called through to the lounge. A pretty face followed the voice with brown hair peering around the door.

Startled at seeing two strangers, the girl almost toppled into the lounge. "Who the hell are you", she demanded.

"Police", Becky and Grant chimed together.

Suspicious, she stood her ground, "Can you show me some identification". A slight tremor in her hand the only sign of nerves in her otherwise confident stance.

Grant had his badge out and showed it to her, Becky unable to find hers.

"We're looking for Marion to as it happens; could you tell us who you are?"

The girl peered at Grant's identification uncertainly.

"I'm Beth and I live here.... Well actually, I have not actually started living here, I was supposed to move in last week but Marion has not been home. I have been collecting her mail and throwing the junk away, it was starting to build up. When I saw the door open this morning, I thought she had turned up at last. See, I have been sleeping on a friends couch as I moved from my last place. It was because of all the parties, the boys I was sharing with did not stop drinking, every night. I was the one who always ended up cleaning the place; god knows how they get on with their degrees. I never saw them study once. I put up with it for months before it became too much. When I met Marion at the playhouse and she said she was looking for someone to share, I ..."

Grant put a hand gently on Beth's shoulder, fearing she would not stop talking. He did not even think she had taken a breath during her continuous spouting. "Okay Beth, take a breath and come and sit down. Would it be alright to ask you some questions"?

"What sort of questions? Do you think something has happened to her?" she asked guardedly.

It was Becky who spoke this time, "We don't know yet, her mother is worried, she has not been seen for a while, it's a bit out of character for her apparently, but we haven't spoken to her friends or boyfriend yet so she could just be with them".

"I don't know any of her friends, Marion is a bit older than me, and I'm only in my 1st year. I only know her from the playhouse; she has the part of Jane in our play. She's very good".

"Is this the play", Grant asked, holding up the script he had in his hand.

"That looks like it," Beth said peering closer, "Marion has the lead female role, Jonas picked her out. She did not even have to audition for the part. At rehearsals he is always raving about her performances, I must admit she is my idol; I try to copy her style whenever I can.... Jonas actually wrote the script", she continued, "He says he wants to make a statement about morality, courage and violence within the family".

"Who's Jonas?" asked Grant.

"Jonas Clifton, he is a professor at the university, but runs the university playhouse theatre as well. He directs most of the stuff we do, but this is the first script he has written that I know of. He is a very clever man. He is also a bit of a dish", she added looking at Becky with a shy smile.

What planet does this girl come from? Still using words like dish, thought Becky, smiling back at her. "Well Beth, you have been helpful, you might as well stay at the house now its opened, you can give us a call if Marion turns up" , Becky said, handing her a card. "Where can we find the playhouse theatre?"

"We are meeting tonight for rehearsal; it's at the old church on Dundas Street. Six o'clock".

Returning to the station Grant and Becky found John on his own in the office eating his staple Subway lunch.

"John it's only ten thirty in the morning, bit early for lunch", Grant said to him as he threw the car keys on the desk.

"Nothing else to do", John spluttered through a mouthful of meatball sub, spitting salad onto his trousers.

Becky put a hand to her mouth, "That's just gross John, didn't your mother ever teach you any manners".

Cleaning himself up and swallowing the remaining piece, John asked if they had come up with anything.

Grant gave him the rundown, Marion was not home, it looked like the house had been empty a while. Beth, the new flat mate, had given them some information on a production that Marion was playing the female lead. They had to do an enquiry at the theatre at six.

"Apart from what Grant has just said there's not much else to go on. But there was this", Becky added, throwing John the diary, "It has the names and addresses in the back of her friends, Mat is one of the names in there, it may be the boyfriend. It might be useful to you".

"Cheers Becky, I was finding it hard to come up with names to follow up on". John looked at the empty note pad in front of him. "I had come up with exactly zilch", he added.

Unlikely that you would find out any useful information at a fast food restaurant, thought Becky.

"I'll need that back John, I want to go over the diary entries, see if anything is relevant".

"Rather you than me, you never know what women write about in these things, it could be all Fifty Shades inside that", John said, regarding the dairy in his hand with a slight distaste.

"I'll keep that in mind", Becky said coolly.

"What's this about fifty shades", Bridger said as he and Jo entered the office.

"Just the unknown workings of Johns mind", Becky mumbled.

"Maybe you could tell us about that fifty shades of blonde, lawyer, then Mike", John said. "I bet she knows a trick or two".

Bridger's mind flashed back to Friday night. He could not remember even if he wanted to. He felt a little compromised that Jane had been brought into the conversation, he had not realised he had been that obvious. He just hoped everybody else's memory was in the same state as his.

"She certainly is something John, but she has nothing on my wife", he said, trying to divert the conversation.

John put a finger down his throat and gagged.

Bridger looked around. Becky was regarding him in a questioning manner. He ignored her look.

"Where's everyone at with their enquiries then?"

John jumped in and told him about the diary with its names secreted in the rear, neglecting to mention Becky had recovered it from Marion's flat. "I haven't had a chance to call any of them yet", he said, glancing at the empty Sub wrapper on his desk.

Bridger followed his gaze, "I see, well you better get onto it then, the sooner we eliminate them the sooner we can move on".

Becky filled him in on what Beth had told her and Grant.

"That's a good start you two, it seems that some of my directions are getting through even if I'm not the most experienced leader", he said, only half-joking. John avoided his gaze and concentrated on the telephone receiver he was now holding.

"Well Jo and I did not get a lot more from Mrs. Watson, although with the help of Jo I was able to make an apology of sorts for yesterday's unneeded visit to the mortuary. Hopefully I have avoided my first complaint as a sergeant". Bridger looked over at Jo, "I thought you had a good manner with her Jo, I think she warmed to you".

Jo just looked at the ground and turned a deep red.

You will have to get a thicker skin if you want to keep going in this job, Bridger was thinking.

"Right let's get on with some work, John looks as if he needs a hand on the phones, all hands to the pumps men".

After less than thirty minutes, they had concluded that Marion was not with any of her friends. They had not seen her in the days leading up to her disappearance, every one of her friends mentioning the time she spent with Mat as the reason. Her boyfriend turned out to be Mat Simpson and he was on his way in to see them, claiming he had only just got back from a skiing holiday with his friends and had not seen Marion since she had left his flat over a week ago.

To give him credit, Bridger thought, he did seem genuinely surprised and then actually worried that we would be asking him about her whereabouts. Unfortunately, in cases like this suspicion would easily fall on those closest to the victim.

Was that what she was, a victim? Could a missing person be a victim? Bridger hoped he was wrong in the terminology he was using. It was a hope that had no foundation in reality. It really did seem that Marion had just disappeared off the face of the earth. That would make her a victim in anyone's books.

Looking at the whiteboard in front of him, he had quickly outlined the enquiry underway. He had almost forgotten it was now his job to lead this enquiry; somebody had done this for him last week. He had placed an A4 picture of Marion at the top, drawn various lines off the picture leading to enquiries completed and enquiries yet to complete.

They could disregard the completed enquiries he thought, it all leads to nothing, just background stuff really. The boyfriend Mat would be next and he would be the one to do that interview. Later they had to visit the Playhouse Theatre and speak to this Jonas. Bridger was skeptical whether that would lead to anything but every avenue had to be covered.

He would have to put out a release to the media in due course now that they had all but confirmed that she was missing. He would also have to explain where they were at with the enquiry when he attended the crime meeting in the morning so he wanted to make sure he had everything under control.

It looked like another late one this evening, the thought sitting on his mind while he tried to think how to explain it to Laura. He still needed to let her know what he was doing if only to avoid an argument later.

Sighing he picked up his phone, the direct approach would have to do it. There was no answer on her cell phone but she was probably still in a meeting or something. Leaving an insubstantial message he finished by saying he would text her if anything changed.

Sitting across the desk from him was a male who looked around thirty, trying his best to look like the typical mature student, neatly trimmed beard, thick rimmed glasses, woolen jersey, fawn colored trousers, finished off with a pair of brown leather shoes that looked suspiciously like the boat shoes he used to wear in the nineteen eighties.

After explaining in more detail the reason he needed to speak with him, Bridger began.

"So Mat what course are you taking at the university?"

"I'm not a student, I'm a mechanic", Mat replied, "I work at Mueller Motors on King Edward Street".

So much for first appearances, Bridger thought, normally priding himself on his observations of people.

"How old are you Mat?"

"I'm Thirty two".

Trying to be younger, thought Bridger.

"So how do you know Marion?"

"What, you think, cause she's at Uni and I'm just a mechanic that I'm not her type".

"Sorry Mat, I didn't mean it that way", Bridger said, adjusting his tone slightly.

Somebody is a bit insecure and touchy, he thought, writing a note on the pad in front of him to follow up on the state of this relationship.

"You're seeing Marion, is that right?"

"Yeah, we have been going out for about 6 months. One of my ex flat mates introduced us, well sort of, Marion used to visit her and I, sort of, just butted in. You know when you meet someone and she just seems so right, well that was Marion. It felt like I had known her all my life".

"What was your flat mate's name?"

"Lucy it was, she moved out soon after we got together, she said it was because she had found somewhere closer to Uni, but I think it was because whenever Marion came round she would have competition for her attention. She couldn't handle it and got a bit jealous".

Bridger wondered what went on in someone's life to be living in a flatting situation at the age of 32.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Who..., Lucy?"

"I think it's best if we concentrate on Marion now Mat".

"Yeah sorry, just get a bit nervous around you lot..., sorry, I mean the police".

"That's okay Mat, you're not under any suspicion, and you're just here to help". However, it also depends on what you have to tell us though, Bridger was thinking.

"Yeah..., Marion..., I saw her on the day I was going skiing with my mates, that was Friday, week before last. I was leaving mid morning so she left after breakfast to go back to her flat. She couldn't come with me cause she had an exam or something".

"How was she getting home?"

"Walking, she walked everywhere. She didn't have a car".

Bridger silently noted the use of the word 'didn't' as opposed to 'doesn't'. "What was she wearing?"

"I'm not sure now; it was a while ago... Maybe her grey polar fleece, jeans... and she would definitely have been wearing her sexy boots, she wore them everywhere, hardly ever took them off". Mat was grinning at Bridger as if trying to imply something.

"You're not taking this very seriously Mat, Marion's missing as far as we know and we need to ask these questions".

"Yeah sorry..., you're right", Mat said as his face became paler, finally realizing the seriousness of the situation.

The rest of the interview went in a more formal manner.

Returning to the office Bridger was reviewing in his mind what Mat had told him. It was not much to be exact. According to Mat they were both happy in their relationship, short that it was, although he suspected that Mat felt a bit insecure that Marion was such a high achiever and he just a mechanic. He had provided the names of the friends he was skiing with, they would apparently confirm he had been where he said he was. He had given permission to search his flat, although Bridger had sold that one to him by telling him that they just needed a quick look for formality sake.

Mat was typical of an undereducated male, slightly intimidated in the face of authority or someone of higher intelligence, unsure of his place in the world, wanting to give a good impression but putting his foot in it in the process. A male feeling slightly emasculated by the role he fulfilled in the modern world.

Did he think he was capable of harming Marion, Bridger could not tell, but one thing he did know was that at this stage Mat was the only suspect he had. It was not a very good start to his first enquiry. Maybe he should not write off the enquiry at the theatre to soon, it might throw up some much needed luck.

### Chapter Fifteen

"This is how it's going to work, I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're going to answer them. After that, I am 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".

He pressed stop on the recording device; he thought he had delivered that little speech with the gravitas it deserved. All he had to do was to splice it into the live feed and start the loop. Of course, he had distorted his voice; he could not run the risk of anyone recognizing him when this was underway. It would take a while for this to play out.

Pushing play, he looked at the monitor, he could see her head rise up as his voice flowed through the speaker, she looked confused at first, but by the third or fourth loop of his speech, she was once again struggling against her bonds.

Good, he thought to himself, she would be in the right mood tomorrow for her first curtain call.

Standing up and scratching his tired eyes he smiled to himself, it had been a long few weeks. He had moved quickly once he had realised that what he had planned would be possible. Everything was now in place, he had constructed the set meticulously, his best creation yet.

It was not hard to set up the live feed; all he needed was a computer and an Internet connection. The world would be watching as he righted the wrongs of the past. That would make it so much sweeter. The world that only looked at him as broken and damaged as a child, the world that had then promised to give him so much just too cruelly take it away. The darkness was dictating his life from where it had set up camp inside his mind. Tomorrows forecast was predicting a storm of such proportions that nothing would be able to stand up to it. The demon was in for a rough ride on his way back to hell.

He went through to the next room to check on his leading man. He found him still lying on the floor sniveling, the pathetic little shit. Ben had not really moved since landing his role, choosing instead to get into character early and spend his time practicing his method acting. Ben's interpretation of a pathetic, cowardly, scared little man was breathtaking. He had taken it to the extreme. He would play an excellent role when the time came. It was exactly what he wanted from him. Moving up close to him, he whispered in his ear. "Tomorrow father, you will find out what you have done to me, how I have lived my life with the legacy you left me. How I have suffered, how I have battled with the demon you invited into my life. Tomorrow the final act will play out, I will be free..., and you will be dying. It will not be quick, it will take a while, you will not enjoy it.... Mother is here to see to that".

Ben just stared back, an uncomprehending look in his glassy eyes. He looked stoned or drugged, snot dribbling from his nose. A small amount of dried blood caked on his forehead.

What a waster you turned out to be, Dad, he thought, as he shut the door behind him and went it into the early evening, whistling a tune as he went.

### Chapter Sixteen

Mat Simpson's flat was nothing out of the ordinary, a wooden bungalow similar to the neighbor's house and the one after that. He lived alone now his flatmate had moved on. It was a typical male environment. Xbox in front of the large screen telly, pictures of semi naked girls torn out of an FHM magazine decorated the peeling wallpaper; their thoughts hidden behind their fixed smiles were the only thing left to the imagination.

"The pictures are probably holding most of the wallpaper on", Grant had commented seeing the general state of disrepair.

There was a musty smell in most of the rooms except for the kitchen, which smelt strongly of stale cooking fat. They had found a few items of women's clothing in his bedroom, a bra and tights lying next to his still unpacked rucksack. Mat had confirmed that they belonged to Marion. A pair of well-used skis was propped up against the wall.

Mat looked more relaxed in his own environment and they did not find any evidence of foul play having occurred in the house. It was beginning to look as Bridger had expected a dead end. The only thing he found was a few remnants of a cannabis cigarette in an ashtray on the kitchen table.

"Personal use", Mat had pleaded, his nervous look returning.

Bridger was not interested anyway. Time would have been that he would have invoked a drug search using the now defunct Misuse of Drugs Act to search for more evidence of drug use. Nowadays apart from having better things to do, he had not schooled himself up on the new Search and Surveillance Act enough to remember what his obligations would have been.

Mat's lucky day, Bridger thought, but it is not mine.

Returning to the office, Bridger's mood darkened on seeing an email from Matthews demanding a full account of the enquiry at tomorrow's crime meeting.

"Arrogant tosser, why can't he just come and see me, or phone me on my cell", anger was bleeding out of his voice.

"What's that Sarge?" Jo queried.

"That bloody Matthews upstairs. He sends me an email demanding things. What if I did not check my emails, I bet he would still blame me for not completing his directions... Tosser".

Jo stood there open mouthed, unsure of what to say.

Bridger saw her expression. "Sorry Jo, I know I shouldn't speak like that in front of you, it puts you in a difficult position".

Jo mumbled something about needing the toilet and left the office.

Bridger sat down in one of the chairs and looked around the now empty office. A wave of tiredness washed over him and he yawned.

One more enquiry to do, he thought glumly.

Jo drew the short straw and was to accompany Bridger to the Playhouse, the others were quite happy to leave them to it and scarper out the door to whatever passed as their personal lives.

He knew Grant was married although had no children, he would be out with his wife again, in some forest somewhere pedaling through the mud.

Fun for some he thought, but not his cup of tea.

Becky was still single as far as he knew; he did not delve much into her personal life these days, still a bit embarrassed. He remembered a drunken Christmas party long ago, a drunken kiss that went no further, pulling away at the last moment, both of them looking at each other, wanting to say something, but they left it unsaid. Come Monday morning they had said nothing about what happened and they had said nothing since.

John was still single and was out playing the field most nights, if you believed the stories he spouted.

He had not seen Brian since the start of the day but knew he would be at home, tucked up in front of the television with Mrs. Johnson, East Enders or Coronation Street for entertainment, quite content to leave the rigors of his court appearance for the next day. He envied that in Brian, being able to switch off.

Maybe it came with age and experience, he thought. Then how much age and experience did he need.

He thought about his life compared with his colleagues, all completely different, they all seemed happy enough, always doing something. He realised that he could not remember the last time he had actually spent some meaningful time with Laura without it ending in arguments or stony silences. Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, he tried to concentrate on the job ahead.

For her part, Jo looked keen as mustard to be working late on an enquiry, the keenness of youth not having dulled her sense of excitement for the job. He envied her enthusiasm, having lost a lot of his over the years. It was not as if he was old, but the job had taken a lot out of him over the years. He had developed what he thought of as a coppers intuition; Laura called it a mistrust of people in general. She still believed in the goodness of people, he just believed that most people had secrets, most of them stayed secret and were never a problem. Some of them spilled over into their daily lives, and then some of those secrets were against the law.

He wondered what secrets he would uncover at the Playhouse this evening.

"There it is," Jo said, pointing to the old red brick church building standing beside a row of Victorian terraced houses. They could see a large spire in the middle, which gave it a grand feel.

There was a lot of old buildings in Dunedin used for every purpose other than what they were intended for when they were first constructed. Churches were a popular choice; Bridger did not know whether it was the decline of religion that made this possible or something else entirely, either way. This one was now apparently a fully functioning theatre.

The billboard out the front was displaying past and present productions. The one that caught his eye was called; 'The Frailty of an Angry Man' \- A journey into the violent emotions of men. Displayed under a bright banner proclaiming it was 'Coming Soon'.

The play that went with the script Becky had shown him earlier in the day, Bridger guessed. Reading the fine print, he picked out the name Marion Watson. He wondered if she would make the curtain call. He certainly hoped it would be so.

Stepping inside the building it looked as if it had not changed from its days as a place of worship, all that was missing was a white collared man greeting them at the door. The white washed brick walls inside the door giving it the feel of a small courtyard, and radiating a slight chill.

"I've never been in this place", Jo was saying, "I've been to the Globe and the Fortune but not this one. The girls from work like to go to a play every so often; I will have to keep this place in mind next time".

Bridger was about to say something when middle aged male stepped into his personal space. He was dressed in beige trousers and a woolen v-neck jersey, which had the slight smell of body odour clinging to it.

"You must be the police", he was saying, "Is it about Marion? The rumour mill has been going wild; people are saying she is missing or that she died. Beth said you were coming tonight, I thought she was just Beth being Beth and making a big thing about it. She idolizes Marion you know".

Bridger held up his hands, "I'm sorry you are?"

"Jonas..., Jonas Clifton, the writer director of this play. Marion was my leading lady".

Another person using past tense already, Bridger noted.

Glancing at Jo, he saw she was studiously writing in her notebook as Jonas was speaking. Bridger could be a bit slack on the note taking sometimes, preferring to keep everything in his head. His memory did not fail him often but he was glad of a backup just in case.

"Jonas, I am Detective Sergeant Bridger and this is Constable Williamson. We are here about Marion as it happens. She has disappeared and we would like to find her".

"Of course, of course, come through to the main hall". Jonas turned with a flourish and swept into the hall area clapping his hands. "People..., people please".

A hush swept through the small group standing in the middle of the room. Heads turned expectantly, "Are these the critics from the paper then?" one of them said loudly.

"No Jeremy they are from the police, here about Marion".

Jeremy looked embarrassed and lowered his head. Turning back to Bridger, he spoke quietly, "I've asked them already whether they know where Marion has got to and no one has a clue".

"If you don't mind", Bridger replied, "We would like to speak to them ourselves..., and you to Jonas. We will try and be as quick as possible, let you get on with your play".

"Of course, but I'm not sure I will be of any help, I hardly knew the girl outside of the theatre group. The play can wait. Besides, without her it will force me to use Beth. Jonas looked towards where Beth was standing. "She is her understudy, nowhere near ready. Marion was who I envisioned when I wrote this, she was my muse, and she seemed so perfect for the part".

"But you just said you hardly knew her", Jo said, looking up from her notebook.

"Y yes..., quite right constable", Jonas stuttered. "I guess I meant to say that she fitted the character that I created... she was better than I could have hoped for".

Nice call Jo, Bridger thought, looking at Jonas's reaction. It is always good to put someone off guard. You get to see how they react.

Bridger looked over at the eclectic bunch of people arranged in a small line in the middle of the room. A few of them were dressed in clothes he used to wear as a teenager, a throwback from the eighties.

Maybe the play was set in that decade, he was thinking.

"Right Jonas we had better get on with it if we can", Bridger said.

He had already discussed with Jo on the drive over what they needed to ask. He had gone over what information would be helpful in the enquiry so he felt comfortable with letting Jo get on with her part.

They divided the small group into two and then began speaking to everyone one by one. The whole troupe consisted of five main actors, four without Marion, a stage hand, a writer come director, and three hangers on who called themselves understudies, one who doubled as the lighting and effects person. It was not a huge operation.

The actors were all students from the university and only knew Marion from the theatre. None of them confessed to having anything to do with her outside of the play except for Beth. Bridger did not press Beth for any more information than what she had provided to Grant and Becky earlier.

Jeremy who had spoken earlier apologized a lot for making light of the situation; he liked Marion and said he would never wish her any harm. He had met her for coffee a few weeks ago, but she had a boyfriend he had added quickly, so he thought it better if he did not see her again. He did not want to cause trouble between them.

Bridger thought that a coffee hardly rated in the book if infidelity.

Moving on, he found the lighting and effects person was a student counselor employed by the university. A nondescript sort of man, middle aged, conservatively dressed. Bridger was currently getting a very descriptive lesson on the stage set he had designed for the play. His expressions animated in his face as he explained the intricate workings.

"That sounds pretty technical Mr. Crompton, but can you tell me if you know Marion at all outside of the theatre group?"

"No Sergeant I didn't..., I only met her this year when I got asked to design the set for the play. I have worked at the university for about 8 years but she has never set foot in my office. She did seem very settled and composed. I guess she had no use for my services". He was now looking at the floor, almost embarrassed.

"What sort of services do you provide, Mr. Crompton, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm sort of a sounding board for the new students. Some of them get a little overwhelmed when they first arrive. For most of them, it is their first time away from home. They have too much freedom and don't know how to make the right choices; I sort of guide them through the finer points of university life..., and life in general".

"Sort of like a social worker then", Bridger said.

"Not really, I don't have any formal qualifications. My job description is more to point them in the right direction; I have been helping Beth, which is how I got into this. We were talking about her acting and I mentioned that I was handy with a hammer. She suggested I contact Jonas as he was looking for volunteers to build his set.... And here I am".

Bridger looked at the man in front of him. He did not look like the type that a young girl would open up to, but it took all sorts.

"Thanks you for your time Mr. Crompton", he said.

Bridger looked at his watch. It had been less than half an hour and they had covered everyone. They were no further forward. No one knew anything about the whereabouts of Marion and they could offer no further information on friends that they had not already spoken to before. It was starting to look serious; females of any age do not usually just disappear.

First thing in the morning, he would ring the bank and get them to hurry up on checking usage on her account. He would also have to think about a media release.

Bridger motioned for Jo to follow as he made his way towards the door.

"Thanks for your time Jonas; you can get on with your practice now".

"It's actually a rehearsal, but I don't think I can carry on tonight, not without Marion, we might just call it a night. I am sure whatever Marion is up to she will sort it out soon. The play will not go ahead without her, she knows that".

"I hear that you are a lecturer at the University Jonas, what do you teach?" Bridger asked, as he stopped the door.

"I'm a Professor of Sociology actually, I provide tutorship to various students but I don't lecture at the moment..., I am currently undertaking various studies".

"Forgive my ignorance Jonas but what exactly is Sociology".

"Not at all Sergeant, I don't mind explaining". Jonas took a deep breath "In a basic broad sense Sociology is the study of society and the way social structures impact on our daily lives, how people work together for the greater good...., or not, as the case may be. I'm sure you see many examples in your work of the negative side of social structures no longer working".

Bridger nodded.

"I believe people are a product of their circumstance. What they experience in their lives shape them into whom they are and what impact they have on the world. Take those religious extremists that insist on females wearing a burqa in public to protect their modesty, which is not about religion, it is about power and control, keeping the woman subservient. The women have grown up like that and so they never question the custom. The men are hardly likely to change it of their own accord because they have it to good.

Then we have the western world, its teenage population is out of control, a young female in her room listening to the lyrics of a song or watching the raunchy music videos, she is forming a distorted view of what life is like. Young males watching those girls trying to portray what they see on TV, receiving mixed signals. That is control as well, only in a different form. Life can be to free for them, causing issues all of its own".

Bridger was beginning to regret asking the question.

"Then there the extremes like the child soldiers in central African wars, inducted into a violent world of rape, mutilation and murder at the age of 12. They grow up thinking that it is normal. You see how Circumstances directly affect who we are.

At the top of the pile, we have the Governments and big business that control the world's finances, their decisions impact on billions of lives worldwide. The greed of man has caused the fiscal meltdown of the world's economy. It's all about the few controlling the many....., maybe that's how it's supposed to be, to stop all out anarchy, I don't really know. I do know society needs structures to work; I just do not think we have worked out what they should be yet....

In the mean time, to coin a phrase, it looks like we are all going to hell in a hand basket. Anyway, you are not interested in all that. It bores most people, happy to live with the status quo. If you're not one of the affected you can just turn off the television and pretend it isn't happening."

Jonas looked almost angry at the end of his little speech, Bridger saw him take a deep breath and close his eyes for a second.

He looked at Bridger and Jo again, "You should come and see my play. I could get you some tickets. I am trying to explore the reasons why man has a violent streak and why he uses it against the ones he loves. It seems so inconsistent with human nature to hurt those closest to you. Surely it could spell the demise of the human race if we all started maiming and killing our families every Friday night".

"I'm not sure it would be my cup of tea Jonas as I see the real thing often enough, but thanks for the offer".

"Anything I can help you with Sergeant just call me, we all want to see Marion back safe and sound".

Back in the car, Bridger turned to Jo, "What did you think of Jonas then?"

"He is a bit pretentious for me, but then I've never been the academic type, the deepest I ever think is what to wear in the morning, then this job took that choice away as well. There's only so many ways to wear blue trousers and a stab vest".

"Well for the next few weeks at least, you will have to think a bit harder about what to wear in the morning", Bridger said smiling.

Jo looked down at her jeans and tee shirt, "I was sort of caught out this morning Sergeant, I was not expecting to have to wear civvies. I will wear something more appropriate tomorrow".

"You look absolutely fine in what you've got on", Bridger said glancing over at her. This time it was his turn to go red as she caught his eyes involuntarily straying to the tightness of her shirt.

Jo did not say anything as Bridger quickly turned away and fumbled with the keys.

"What exactly does the phrase, 'Going to hell in a hand-basket', actually mean anyway?" Bridger said to deflect his previous indiscretion.

"I think it's something to do with the baskets used to catch decapitated heads from the guillotines", Jo said. "Most of the people decapitated were criminals so were destined to go to hell, hence the saying".

"Sounds like a reasonable explanation", Bridger said, wondering why she would know that piece of information.

"More likely it's just a colorful way of saying we are all destined for disaster", she added.

"That's Beth over there getting into that car with Jonas isn't it?" Jo said pointing down the street.

Beth looked more than friendly with Jonas as she rubbed up against his arm while he opened the door for her.

"That's strange", Bridger said, "I would not have picked them for a couple, especially the way he was talking about having to make do with her now that Marion's missing. Not to mention the age gap, it must be at least 15 years".

"Some girls like an older man", Jo said, "It offers a stability that you don't get with someone younger".

Bridger realised that he did not know anything about the personal circumstances of his new member of staff; she may be going out with an older man herself. She could be a lesbian for all he knew. "Something's a bit off there", Bridger said more to himself than Jo. Some things just did not sit right with Bridger and this situation was an example.

Bridger caught Jo looking at her watch, realizing that he too would like to go home he suggested they call it a night. Maybe it was time for a serious heart to heart with Laura. Jonas's little speech was playing on his mind.

They hardly spoke on the drive back to the police station, Bridger happy to lose himself in his thoughts, Jo staring out the window.

Dropping Jo off at the front door of the central police station, he watched her jog up the front steps and through the doors. He realised with only a little bit of guilt that he was looking at her backside as she disappeared through the front doors. Maybe it was the problems he was having at home having a subconscious effect on his behavior. Bridger thought of his conversation with Jonas earlier, was he a victim of his circumstance?

He would have to watch himself, I do not want to be getting a reputation, he thought.

Bridger couldn't be bothered going through the hassle of driving around the back and parking the work car in the basement garage then walking the ten minutes to reach his own car, so he made an executive decision and decided he would risk taking it home for the night. If anybody asked, he would just tell him or her he had a late enquiry to make. He would just have to be in early the next morning.

He was actually looking forward to seeing Laura this evening, he knew they were long overdue for a proper talk about the last week's issues, if he was being honest with himself, he thought, there was probably more to talk about than just the last week of their relationship.

With this in mind, he made a stop at the liquor store just off the Octagon to pick up a nice wine. Paying more in the smaller shop always gave him the pretence of better vintage.

Pulling up outside his house Bridger saw his wife's car in the driveway, a red Mini Cooper that she had always wanted and had purchased a few years ago after a blazing row over something long forgotten. She had told him guiltily after she had brought it home that she had only bought it to prove to herself that she was still in control of her own life. Lucky she did not have a penchant for cars with bigger engines, he thought.

Opening the door, he could smell something cooking, thinking that it was a good sign he went into the lounge. Laura was on the couch with a glass of wine already in her hands. There was a huge bouquet of flowers sitting on the table in front of her. Laura looked up and tucked something into her pocket. It looked to Bridger like a card, the type sent with flowers.

"They sort of put these to shame", Bridger said nodding towards the flowers, holding the wine and cheap chocolates lamely in his hands. "Who are they from?"

"The boss", Laura said quickly, "We landed a big client...; it was sort of a thank you".

Bridger had met her boss, a very severe looking fifty-year-old woman called Cynthia; somehow, he did not see her giving flowers to anyone. They looked more like the ones he would have chosen to send to his wife as an expression of his feelings. Putting that thought aside he sat down beside her and patted her knee. "Dinner smells nice", he said.

Laura did not look him in the eye when she got up saying she had better serve it up before it went to waste.

Sitting at the table it seemed to Bridger that Laura was being unusually quiet. He tried to open up the conversation he knew they had to have. Before he could start, Laura burst into tears.

"Laura what is it..., what's wrong?"

### Chapter Seventeen

Beth was warm in the car beside Jonas, something was playing quietly on the radio, Jonas was whistling tunelessly along with the music as he drove through the dark streets. She could not quite hear what it was, but the tune was slightly familiar.

One of those annoying pop tunes that always stick in your head, she thought. Never mind she would not have to put up with it long, she just wanted to score and go home. Jonas was always good for that, he could get his hands on whatever she wanted... usually, all she had to do was flirt a little, touch his arms when she spoke with him, that sort of thing, putty in her hands.

He had tried it on once, but she had pushed him away, playing hard to get. Some things she would not do, still there was no harm in letting him think he had a chance. She had even found herself praising him to other people on occasion, what that was about she had no idea.

"It was good of you to give me a lift home Jonas, I am always forgetting my jacket, silly really in the middle of winter, but it was actually quite warm when I came in this afternoon".

"No need to thank me", Jonas said, with a sleazy smile on his lips, "I just need to make a stop to get the stuff you wanted, it's on the way to your place anyway".

Jonas turned into the wharf area surrounded by large warehouse buildings, Beth could see the Forsyth Barr stadium all lit up over towards the Marina. She did not think she had been in this part of town before, at least not at night. It was quiet and no one else was around. She looked at Jonas, his demeanor had not changed, was he planning something. Rumors at the university were that Jonas had his favorite students in every year; he had more than one if the rumors were correct. Of course there were rumors of a heavy hand on occasion, Jonas pushing things a little too far with the wrong person. She had not seen that side of him, when she rejected his advances he had not taken it any further. Was this what he did, waited until he could have his own terms, a place no one would be. A place he could take what he wanted. She tried not to think about it, what could she do anyway, she just had to go with it.

Looking about at her surroundings it was just streets of faceless buildings. She had no idea if they used the warehouses during the day, as most of them had no signage on them. It was an eerie feeling being here at night, with Jonas. She shivered involuntarily as he pulled the car to a stop outside a large rundown building with orange wooden sliding doors on the front. What in the hell was this, she thought. "Do you know someone here?" she queried Jonas.

"No one, it's my building. Wait here I will just go and get what you wanted".

"Can't I come in with you?" Beth asked, feeling slightly nervous left outside on her own.

"I don't think that's a good idea", Jonas said, as he got out of the car and went over to the doors.

Beth watched him unlocking the heavy padlock on the front. Seeing Jonas disappear inside, she thought of getting out and making a run for it. All this for a bag of weed, he could be doing anything in there. She looked at her surroundings but did not recognize the road where they had parked. Where would she go anyway? Sighing, she sank back into her seat and fiddled with a button on her shirt.

Jonas returned a short time later making Beth jump slightly as he opened the car door and threw the small bag onto her lap. The familiar smell of her chosen vice permeated from inside the plastic. "It's the good stuff", Jonas said licking his lips and staring at her breasts, "Lot's of head".

"You know how I like a lot of head Jonas", Beth said silkily, playing along with his disgusting dialogue. Inside she managed to hold back an involuntary gag at the thought of what Jonas was implying.

"We could share that one", Jonas was saying as he pulled away from the curb. "Heads always better with a partner..., you know..., to share the high".

Beth felt the bile rise in her throat.

"I know Marion's not home at the moment", he added with a perverted smile on his face.

She could almost see the sexual tension leaching out of every pore in his body.

"Not tonight", was all Beth managed to say, fighting back the urge to tell him to 'get fucked'. She could be hard when she needed, and she could not afford to lose what Jonas provided. Moreover, she was still hoping to take Marion's place in the play; she had worked bloody hard for that.

She could see the whites of his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel tightly, pushing the accelerator slightly harder than he had to, causing the car to surge forward. It looked like he was not going to stop at the approaching intersection.

"Better get you home then, I would not want to mess up your night", Jonas said tightly, as he jumped on the brakes at the last moment and swung the car violently around the corner.

Almost immediately, the darkness lit up with flashing lights, blue then red. A short burst of a siren pinpointed where the lights were coming from.

"Bloody police, where in the hell did they come from?" Jonas said. He looked like a nervous schoolboy as he pulled the car over. "Throw that shit under the seat", he said urgently.

Beth looked over her shoulder and saw a blue uniform approaching, hips weighed down by all sorts of scary looking things. Panicking, she shoved the plastic bag into her bra, straightening her shirt as the police officer knocked on the driver's window. The person was huge; his arms were as big as her thighs, his blue shirt stretched over his biceps to the point of ripping.

The whole thing seemed surreal to her, surrounded by darkness, blue and red flashing lights blinking, giving glimpses of this officer standing beside the car looking sternly at Jonas as he remonstrated about his driving. Panic was making her thoughts clouded, she could not make out much of what was being said, words like 'Speed' and 'Dangerous' morphing into words like 'Cannabis' and 'Search'.

The next thing that happened was the passenger door opened and another police officer beckoned her out of the car, this time it was a female. Beth had not had much to do with the police before, apart from the Detectives earlier that morning. This police officer was reciting something to her from in her notebook. Words like Lawyer, Search, and Cannabis. Did she hear Marion's name in that, bloody hell, what did she have to do with it.

Beth started to panic even more, reaching into her bra she pulled out the bag she had stashed there and handed it to the female police officer.

The officer was touching her shoulder now, talking to her, words she did not hear, did not understand. Tears had welled up in her eyes, as she was lead over to the police car and placed in the rear seat. The officer was saying more to her, things she did not listen to, she was watching Jonas. She could see Jonas getting back into his car. The car started moving and then Jonas was leaving. It was his stuff, why did they allow him to leave. The huge police officer got into the driver seat of the car, the female officer was sitting beside her. Beth completely shut down with fear. The car began to move. Lights began to flash by faster and faster until they became a solid line of light. Beth closed her eyes as she sank deeper within herself, into her safe place.

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.

### Chapter Eighteen

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.

"Bridger, I need you to attend the crime meeting as discussed. We need to disseminate the information on this, the more eyes we have out looking the better."

Bridger's eyes glanced quickly from Matthews to the computer monitor and back. It was hardly likely they would find Marion walking about the streets of Dunedin if the video stream was live. However, who was he to argue. It would give him some thinking time. He needed to formulate a reasonable plan of action and his hangover was not helping in the thought process.

Matthews spoke up as he was leaving the room. "Right everybody, this is pretty serious, Marion is in trouble, we need to find her, and I know that you will all work hard to ensure that we do".

As far as pep talks went, Bridger thought, that one would not even inspire a starving man to eat a free meal.

"One thing we do know", Bridger added to Matthews's speech once he had left the room, "Is that whoever has Marion wants to get even with her for something. That usually means a spurned admirer or ex boyfriend. We need to revisit the people she knew and see if they can shed some light on anyone she may have had a falling out with, or if she was having trouble with anyone".

Looking at the clock he realised that the meeting was about to start down on the first floor.

"Grant, can you hand out the information on her friends and her boyfriend Mat", he said quickly.

Grabbing a picture of Marion and the name of the web site she currently had a starring role in, he made his way out the door and into the corridor.

He saw Matthews standing along the corridor beside the lift. He was talking to a smartly dressed man with his back to him. Matthews looked back at Bridger and said something quietly to the man, and then they both looked at Bridger. Then the inspector and his companion started to walk towards him.

Great, that is all I need, thought Bridger.

"Sergeant Bridger, I trust you know Glenn Gallagher, CEO of one of the biggest firms in this fine city of ours, and very influential with our city council".

"I know of you, but we have never met", Bridger said, giving him weak smile.

Gallagher put out his hand and Bridger took it. He noted the weak and sweaty shake, along with the smarmy smile.

"The Inspector tells me you are working on the missing girl, you know I used to be in the job to, so I know a bit about how these things work. Tell me do you have any leads yet, do you know who's taken her?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that yet," Bridger said, looking at Matthews. "We have only just found out ourselves that she has been taken and not just gone off on her own somewhere for a while".

"Quite right Sergeant", Gallagher said. "Please don't hesitate to ask for my help should you require it, I used to be quite good in a crisis when I was a copper. I have had my fair share of adventures. The Inspector knows how to get in touch".

Not likely, you tosser, Bridger thought. "I'll keep that in mind Mr. Gallagher, but if you will excuse me I need to get to the crime meeting".

Funny whom you see sometimes, Bridger thought as he walked into the briefing room on the first floor. He was most likely the face in the car outside Mrs. Watson's house the other day. Was Gallagher the person putting pressure on Matthews? He made a mental note to find it if Gallagher was connected to Mrs. Watson.

Looking about the briefing room, he saw the same old faces in attendance, seated more towards the rear of the room, avoiding the front seats like a bunch of teenagers at a school assembly, the more senior officers lining one wall, mostly Senior Sergeants and above. Bridger often wondered how many job descriptions were stretched a bit to accommodate so many senior staff. He saw John Maine sitting towards the rear of the room so made his way over and sat next to him

"How's things Mike? I hear you have sort of found your missing girl".

"Well we can see her; we just don't know where she is".

A loud cough from the front turned their heads, "Right, let's get started".

The meeting followed the same format as always, the intelligence officer reading out any occurrences overnight and listing those currently cooling their heels in the cells downstairs. There was just the one this morning, an unknown female arrested on drugs possession overnight. She had not communicated anything to them since her arrest so consequently they did not know who she was.

People never learnt, Bridger thought, the police were not likely to let you go if they did not know who you were.

They gave Bridger centre stage next due to the urgency of the Job. He hated public speaking but he thought he gave as eloquent an account as possible of what they knew and what they needed to know. He looked about the room at a lot of nodding heads, but did not see anyone who looked like they could assist in anyway. No one spoke up to offer anything.

They were probably thinking, rather you than me, he thought sourly, he had no idea how he would pull this one off either.

So much for the whole of policing approach, he thought.

He would normally have a chat to Brian when he had issues, Brian's experience and level head always made a good sounding board, between them they would normally work out a decent plan of action. He thought about calling him now, but knew he would have his hands full down at the court. It looked like it was up to him.

"Did you see who came in to see Matthews?"

The question bought Bridger out of his inward thinking.

"I did," Bridger said. "I also had the pleasure of an introduction. He told me he was in the job, seemed arrogant to me. How long has he been out of the job now"?

"About Fifteen years I think", Maine, said, "Long enough to get to be the right hand man of the Mayor, he's done well for himself. I did not think he was that close to Matthews back in the day, but thinking about it, they have similar personalities so I guess they could be friends. I cannot think of any other reason he would be visiting Matthews personally. Do you know what it was about?"

"I have no idea, but he did ask me about how the missing girl".

"Did he? Did he say anything else?"

"I didn't give him a chance really; I was already running late for this meeting".

"Have you met him before? I can't remember if you arrived before or after he left the job".

"That was before my time here. What was he when he left?"

"He made inspector before giving everyone a break and leaving. I didn't have much time for him to be honest," Maine said. "He was a bit of a player with the ladies. Even other cops wives weren't off limits".

Bridger saw a look of bitterness in Maine's eyes.

"He was not my type of policeman at all. But then people can change can't they, I was certainly no saint in those days".

"It's funny but I saw him driving away from the side of the road where Mrs. Watson lives the other day", Bridger said, "She is our missing girl's mother".

"Dunedin's a small place", Maine said, looking straight ahead.

Not that small, Bridger was thinking.

The meeting was ending and people were shuffling for the door, jokes and insults traded on the way out. Life goes on as normal in the police station whatever jobs you had on the go.

"I forgot to say Mike; I took a look at the note left by your suicide the other day. She was one troubled girl. Her parents are coming down from Auckland in the next couple of days; they mentioned that they would like to talk to the officer that found her. I do not think they meant Jo and Steve. Would you be able to have a chat with them when they arrive?"

"I'll see," Bridger said, not wanting to commit. "I'm not very good at that sort of thing, my minds not compassionate enough I think. I never know what to say".

Maine pulled the white envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Bridger. "Take a look; it might help you understand a little about her".

"I'll see," Bridger said, putting it in the inner pocket of his jacket and heading for the door. The last thing he wanted was to read about someone's inner demons and troubled life. He had enough of them himself.

Out in the corridor Steve Kirkland stopped him with his trademark fake punch. "Nearly got you there sergeant, you will have to attend remedial tactical and safety training if that happens again". He grinned, flexing his pectoral muscles absently. "Actually have you got time for a quick chat, Mike?"

Bridger looked at his watch, more out of habit than anything else, not really, he thought to himself. "I can spare a couple of minutes Steve, what's it about?"

"Gillian and I stopped a car last night near Fryatt Street, he was fair moving as he came round the corner. Some ponce from the university, he had a young female student with him, quite a cute wee thing. The dirty little lucky bastard... Anyway, while I was talking to him I smelt a bit of Cannabis, when I started with the search the girl with him sort of freaked out and handed Gillian a big bag of Cannabis. She is down stairs still now. We could not get anything out of her; she looked like she was on something. She completely freaked out. Live scan fingerprints didn't come up with an identity for her either".

"Why didn't you ask the driver of the car?" Bridger queried.

"I sort of thought Gillian had got her details, I was busy dealing with the driver and when I let him on his way....., well that's when Gillian told me she had not been able to get details from her girl. I haven't seen the driver since to speak to him".

Bridger could imagine what Gillian Holler had to say about that little stuff up, as he remembered she was not one to hold back on the junior staff if they made simple errors.

"What's all this got to do with me?" Bridger asked.

"Well that's the thing, after he finished telling me he knew nothing about the Cannabis the girl was holding, he told me he had already spoken to you that night. His name was Jonas something..., just thought you would like to know".

A flash of recognition sparked in Bridger's mind.

"Thanks Steve, I think I may know who your mystery female is, it's possibly a girl named Beth. I will go down to the watch house and confirm it".

"Cheers Mike".

The grateful look on Steve 'the muscle' Kirkland's face was priceless, and Bridger, despite the circumstances both personal and professional, could not suppress the grin on his face as he headed downstairs to the cellblock in the basement.

There was no love lost between those two then, Bridger thought as he descended the stairs, Jonas practically leaving her to carry the can for what he knew would have been a joint enterprise. Bridger smiled again at the pun. His mood lifted slightly.

Bridger found the Jailor with his feet up reading a book; he did not know the face.

"Not a lot on this morning, Constable?"

Jumping up the Constable looked embarrassed, "Sorry mate I didn't see you there...." A look of recognition crossed his face and he corrected himself. "Sorry Sergeant, I've only got one in the cells and she's not saying much so we can't process her yet".

"Well I think I can help you with that", Bridger said, glancing at the book he had been reading. It looked like a police manual or university textbook. It would have been a men's magazine in his day he thought. "Let me take a look at her and I will confirm it".

The officer showed Bridger through to the female cell area; he opened the heavy door and saw Beth curled up in a ball on the concrete floor beside the bed. She looked awful, tears and snot on her face, her dark hair all over the place. She was whimpering slightly like a sleeping puppy. She just stared through glassy eyes at the two men in the doorway, not saying a word.

"That's Beth Johansen she lives in Castle Street North".

He looked at the charge written on the board just outside the door, 'Possession for Supply'. So it must have been a little more than enough for the two of them, he thought. Although he did not know her at all, Beth did not strike Bridger as the type to be a major drug dealer. If anything her reaction to being arrested attested to that. Tough on the outside but went to pieces when confronted with anything out of the ordinary.

Jonas has to be the supplier. Maybe that is what they were doing when he saw them getting into the car together. Even with the urgency of finding Marion, Bridger did not like the idea of Jonas leaving Beth on the hook.

"I'll get one of my detectives to come down and have a talk to her, she spoke with her yesterday on an unrelated matter, so may be able to use that to her advantage and get her to talk. I will clear it with Gillian Holler the arresting officer".

He knew Becky would not be too happy about moving off the team to deal with it, but they needed to follow it up before they released Beth. He went back upstairs to break the news to Becky.

Back in the office the room had thinned out a bit, most of the extra staff had either gone out to speak with Marion's friends or gone back to their own work, the initial buzz of the web site find fizzling out to produce only a few more possible inquiries.

The computer tech was busy tapping away on a keyboard while simultaneously holding a phone to his ear and speaking to someone in a language that only a tech would understand.

Becky was in the corner speaking with Grant, John and Jo, as Bridger came in. Bridger motioned to her to come over.

"Becky, Beth Johansen from Marion's flat is in the cells downstairs, she was locked up last night for possession to supply cannabis. Can you go and have a word with her; she has not spoken since her arrest. I think she was with Jonas Clifton last night; she was in his car when the sectional staff arrested her. Jonas left her to carry the can when I would bet it was him who supplied her".

"Jonas Clifton, he's the dish she was talking about yesterday?" Becky queried.

"I'm not sure about dish, but he sure has a lot of opinions on the ways of the world. For all his bleating about negative influences he doesn't have a problem with mind altering substances, apparently".

Becky gathered her notebook and a few items from her desk then headed out of the office to speak with Beth.

Bridger went over to his own computer and fired up the national intelligence application to see if the police knew anything of the man who called himself Jonas Clifton.

It took less than five minutes to find that he had no criminal history, which was not surprising, as he doubted he would still be working at the university if he did. They had him listed as the victim of a theft a couple of years back. He had reported his laptop stolen from university common room. What was surprising was that there was a noting attached to his name suspecting him of sexually harassing a female student.

Bridger clicked on the link and read the details.

The victim was a twenty one year old student who reported to police that Jonas had made unwanted advances towards her at a party held at his house. When she refused those advances, he had become heavy and pinned her to the bed. The victim, fearing he might rape her, had only managed to get away when another student barged in on them. The police had spoken to Jonas but he had claimed it was a consensual act until she told him she did not want to go through with it then he had stopped. It was another case of his word against hers. Both of them had been drinking so the police decided not to progress it any further.

A further noting mentioned a second report to police from the same girl claiming Jonas had been calling her all sorts of names and stalking her since the incident, but she wasn't going to take it any further as it was almost the end of her time at the university and she just wanted to get on with her life.

Well, that sheds a new light on Jonas Clifton, Bridger thought to himself. He would make sure to follow up on him after they found Marion.

"Bingo", shouted the tech from the other side of the room, "You thought you could hide from me..., from me..., never, I've found you. How easy was that..., get in there"

Bridger thought he might break into a victory dance with the way he was carrying on. "What have you got?" he said, moving over to the other side of the room.

"I know who is hosting the site, the guys behind Revenge.com..., and guess what; they are locals, right here in Dunedin. In fact, I know them. We were at university together. We didn't keep in touch or anything after, but I definitely know them".

"Well don't hold anything back", Bridger said looking at his watch emphasizing that time was ticking very quickly.

"I found their details hidden in a zip file attached to the main site. I only saw it because I ran a program that scanned the site for Trojans and such. The program found the zip file and flagged it up. The guys' names are Jack Woolwich and Simon Freeman; they were best buddies at Uni, a bit nerdish, both of them, fancied themselves as the next Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. I wondered if they had made anything of themselves. I guess this answers that question".

Bridger could not hide his impatience, "That's all very interesting but does the information tell us how to get a hold of them?"

Sam looked at his cell phone and started scrolling through the contact list, let me make a call, I may know someone who still keeps in touch with them.

"Right, Grant and Jo, as soon as we get an address get round there and stir them up. If they can track who is streaming this on their site then we are in business".

"Ahh Mike, I think it's started", John said quietly while his eyes were fixed on the screen in front of him.

Bridger and the others looked over and saw Marion begin to move, but she was not in control.

She looks just like a child's Marionette, thought Bridger.

### Chapter Nineteen

She opened her eyes into the bright lights still enveloping her. She had been sleeping, she had no idea whether it was night or day, but her body had told her she needed to sleep after struggling for what seemed like an eternity against her bonds. The crazy speech was still coming through the speaker from somewhere in the dark. It had not changed; she knew the dialogue off by heart.

What a way to learn your lines, she thought. If only it was that easy.

She was thirsty, the roof of her mouth covered in a layer of fur. The hunger had long since dissipated into just a hollow feeling, there was tightness in her stomach that could just as much have been from fear.

She had dreamed fitfully while she slept, her mind processing what might be about to begin. Unable to comprehend the reality, it had made all sorts of assumptions and portrayed them to Marion in the form of the worst nightmares she had ever experienced.

She made another feeble attempt to free herself. The bonds held firm, but the movement was making her sway and rock, causing her stomach to churn uncontrollably. She did not want to be sick; she just wanted this whole thing to be finished. There were no more tears to be shed, nothing left in her but dark primal fear. She started to crave the darkness beyond the light, wanting to hide away so as not to be seen, a place to curl up out of the limelight.

Her brain took a few seconds to register that the sound had stopped; the light around her had changed slightly. She felt her arm move of its own accord, up, down sideways, then the other arm followed. He legs moved in a mechanical fashion, like a marching wooden soldier. She found herself moving from side to side, unable to control her own body. The hunger had made her weak and the bonds that held her were tight.

She could hear a slight squeak from above her as the ropes strained against the movement. Her body, manipulated like a puppet, was moving around the circle of light, dancing like a demented witch at an ancient pagan ritual.

As she circled, she caught sight of herself in a bank of mirrors that in a row behind her. The image shocked her. Staring back from the reflective glass was a pale face with crudely applied red lipstick. Dark eyeliner caked around her eyes. The flowing white dress she was wearing made her look like a morbid incarnation of a zombie bride.

The squeak continued her dance went on until she was back in the place she started, staring from the light into the darkness. The movement stopped, it was as if the puppeteer had tired or was he just drawing breath, readying himself for what was to come.

She wondered if she was just to dancing for him, some sexual deviancy of the shadow. It might actually be preferable to the scenarios that had played out in her head. She thought of him, where he was, getting his rocks off, somewhere over in the darkness.

She could hear that tune whistled quietly from out in the darkness. She had heard the same tune before he took her. A tune she could still not quite place. A voice came out of the darkness; it had the same tinny far away sound as the speech that had been playing repeatedly.

"Good morning mother, it's good to see you up and about. I trust you slept well. Do not worry, everything is organized, you do not have to lift a finger. I will be doing everything for you.

Might I say to start with, you look beautiful. It is such a shame how your life turned out, you were such a beautiful woman. Pity you had to make the choices you made, but that is how you ended up where you are. You have to accept that.

You see, the human psyche is such a complex thing; it makes people do the most improbable things. Love, hate, fear, anger, happiness, sadness, all these emotions contained within us, fighting for their turn. You cannot have one without the others. There are so many ways that they intertwine. To, love something conversely means fearing its loss. To, fear something can make you angry. Anger can morph into hate. To hate something intensely must mean that you know how to love. To, love something can make you happy or sad, and to know what it is to be sad means you have been happy at one point. It just goes on and on, and we are not equipped to control any of it. Some people can suppress these emotions, I guess, but some cannot, it is a learned thing. It starts at birth and probably does not stop, the learning that is. Families passing it down the generations like a hereditary disease.

That might just sound like waffle to you, but I have had a lot of time to think about these things since we saw each other last.

I know you remember when that was; it must be the last thing you remember. I wonder what it has been like for you, wherever you are, your last memory playing over and over.

You did not equip me to control my emotions mother; I have had to learn that for myself. All I learned from you is that you can display your emotions in all sorts of ways. It was very hard to interpret for a young mind. Lessons learned from watching. Monkey see, monkey do.

You made your choices for you, not for me, you did not care about me at all.

Well I am going to give you the chance to put that right today.

However, we cannot start just yet. Today is the anniversary of the worst decision you ever made. Today all those years ago, you were married to him.... That is where the story starts, that is where it all began, so that is the time we will begin to put it right."

### Chapter Twenty

There was complete silence in the office, they were waiting for something more, but It did not come. The dialogue had stopped and Marion continued to hang. They had watched as she had danced then listened as he spoke in a muffled tinny voice. They stared at the screen for a couple of minutes in case something else happened.

"What the hell was that about?" John said.

"It was pretty bloody macabre", Jo said.

Macabre was a good description, thought Bridger, he remembered from somewhere that the word had evolved from, among other things, the dance of the dead. What he had just witnessed and the unnatural mechanical way Marion had moved certainly fitted that description.

"Is there any way we can see that again Sam?" Bridger said, "Maybe record it so we can get some idea what he is talking about".

"No problems", Sam said, while holding the phone to his ear. Pushing a couple of buttons, the scenario began to play on the other monitor while remaining live on the other. "Push that to record and that to play it back", he said, motioning to a couple of buttons on the keyboard before the phone distracted him.

"Hi Barry..., its Sam. Listen do you still keep in touch with Jack and Simon, yeah pseudo Bill and Steve... You do, great, can you let me know how to get in touch with them..., No I don't want revenge on anyone..., Yeah it's a police matter, I can't really say too much..., No they are not in trouble, we just need to talk to them..., Cool thanks".

"He's going to text me a cell phone number," Sam said, ending the call.

Within seconds, there were two electronic beeps from Sam's phone signaling the arrival of the information.

"Grant can you get on to that, get those two in here, get them to give us the location of that stream, then get them to pull it. We don't need the rest of the world watching". Bridger looked at the clock on the wall. "He said it was going to begin at quarter to one, it's just before ten now so that does not give us much time".

Bridger ticked off the task in his head.

"John, you keep an eye on the main screen in case something starts before the time. Jo could you look at the recording, pick out anything relevant, see if you can see anything. That might give away a location".

Bridger had a thought eating away at the back of his mind. It was the way that the voice spoke, the words he used. It was very familiar.

The realization hit him like a sledgehammer. It sounded just like Jonas Clifton. However, Jonas Clifton was at the playhouse and then with Beth last night, both he and Jo had seen and spoken with him. He desperately tried to fit him to the scenario. He ran over the timeline in his head.

Jonas was at the playhouse last night at six..., but where was he before that. The live stream had started late afternoon but the voice was a recording so he did not need to be there after that. The police had arrested Beth about quarter to seven and no one had seen Jonas since that time. Putting all that with what he had read about his behavior towards women, Jonas was looking more and more like a good suspect.

Bridger thought about going to Matthews with what he thought, maybe get a warrant for Jonas's address, but he knew that his hunch alone would not cut it. He needed something more. He wanted to show Matthews that he was capable.

"Jo, forget that, get on to the university and find out the whereabouts of Jonas Clifton. We may need him. I'm going downstairs to see how Becky is getting on", Bridger shouted as he made his way out the door. He could feel his excitement building. This had to be it; it was too much of a coincidence. He just hoped Becky got Beth to talks; she might be able to fill in some missing pieces.

As he approached the watch house, he saw Becky coming the other way. "What did you get?" he queried.

"Not a lot, she started talking a little, she's one angry little girl though. Under that quiet demeanor, she has a vicious streak. I am not sure what you see is what you get with her. Almost like a split personality. She did say that she had bought the weed from Jonas. However, she was going to use it for her and her boyfriend. She was seething that Jonas had just driven off and left her. The only other thing was she said he got the cannabis from an old warehouse building down by the wharf area; there was a big padlock on the door locking it from the outside. He had gone inside and she stayed in the car. She did not know the exact place though".

"That's great Becky." Bridger almost kissed her. Becky pulled away when he breathed in her direction.

"I think you may need to brush your teeth", she said, screwing her face up in distaste.

The comment went unnoticed. "I think we may have found who has Marion", he said. "We need to go up and see Matthews. I'll explain on the way".

They made a stop on the second floor to let the rest of the team know what was going on. The scene on the main monitor had not changed. The pathetic broken figure of Marion hanging limply, suspended on those ropes, made Bridger angry. How could anybody be so cruel? This was beyond a joke, beyond revenge. He did not know what this madman had in mind for Marion, but whatever it was; he knew it would not end well. He just hoped they could get to Jonas before it went any further. Looking at the clock slowly ticking, he knew that time was disappearing, faster than he would have liked.

"Where are we at with finding Jonas, Jo?"

Jo had just got off the phone. "The university is expecting him in at eleven for a tutorial; it usually lasts for an hour. He has not arrived yet; my contact will let me know when he gets in. The listed address for him is one of the university accommodation blocks. Executive apartments, room number eleven. It's used for visiting staff and other VIP's but apparently Jonas is in between addresses at the moment so they made an exception".

"Well that fits with the timetable our mystery man wants to keep with Marion. Jonas could have been with Marion this morning, and after the tutorial will make it back to start whatever he has planned", Bridger said.

"What's Jonas got to do with this?" Grant asked.

Bridger explained his theory, quickly outlining his thought process that led him to believe Jonas would be the person behind the sick puppet show.

"That makes sense", Jo added, "He seemed to have a thing for showiness, and I agree that the speech we all heard does sound like the way Jonas was going on last night".

"Well we can safely assume that he has not hidden Marion in his room at the apartments, that warehouse Beth told Becky about seems like the best bet", Bridger said.

"But we don't have a clue where it is, apart from in the wharf area". Becky said, "Beth could not be more specific than that".

"Well let's get down to the university and grab Jonas. At least that will stop anything happening to Marion", John said.

"I think we had better hold off on that", Bridger said, "We have no idea where the warehouse is, if we grab Jonas to early he might not give us Marion's location, Jonas strikes me as a person who thinks he is a bit smarter than everyone else. It sounded to me like he wanted to solve all the world's problems last night. Now it seems he has a personal problem with Marion he needs solving. So we need to be a bit smarter ourselves about this".

"What about the things he is saying", Jo said, "He sounds like he is talking to his mother. And it sounds like he has a past issue that needs resolving, but why is he taking that out on Marion?"

"I don't know what the issue is at the moment Jo", Bridger said, "But whatever it is we won't give him time to sort through it. I will go up and see Matthews; we will need the surveillance squad on this. They can pick up Jonas from outside the university; I am hoping he will lead us right to Marion. Then we can go in and grab them both. Has anybody got any other ideas?" he added, hoping for a bit of positive confirmation from his colleagues about the decisions he was making.

Nobody said anything.

"Ok, Grant, can you give Stan Walton a bell and give him a heads up, as soon as Matthews gives us the go ahead I want his squad on the doors of that university. This is probably our only opportunity; I don't want to mess it up".

"Right you are Sergeant", Grant said, clicking his heels together and flicking him a mock salute. "Ohh and I forgot to say, the two web site owners are playing hard to get, and they say they can't leave the office until the close of day....."

Bridger looked back at Grant his question going unsaid.

"We were just on our way out to see them before you came in Mike. Can't have them telling us what we can and can't do", Grant added smiling.

Bridger looked at the clock, calculating the time they had up their sleeves. "I'll come with you; we have time to pay them a little visit after I see Matthews. I think we need to make sure that whatever happens, it will not be broadcast into cyberspace", he said, as he was heading for the door.

Standing in the lift on his own, he realised that he was dog-tired. There was a slight burning sensation behind his eyes. The breath mints had obviously worn off by the odour that was now surrounding him in the confined space of the lift.

I must start drinking Vodka; he thought to himself, it would smell less leaching out of my pores.

Reaching into his pockets, he fumbled unsuccessfully for some more mints. Maybe I should just lay off the drink a little instead, the thought tumbling inside his head.

He remembered why he was in the state he was, and wondered what Laura was doing this morning. Whether she was thinking about him or getting on with her day. The way Bridger's day was going he had not had time to think about her at all until that moment. His jaded mind would not respond to the feelings he should be feeling. The door opened and he walked down the corridor towards Matthew's office.

The door in the office just down from Matthews was open and Bridger glanced in as he went by. Mrs. Watson was sitting there dressed in her customary cardigan and floral print dress. She looked a little bit happier than the last time he had seen her, but still had fidgety nervous posture. Bridger was about to go in and say something when he heard another voice inside. Then he saw Glenn Gallagher move into view and hand her a cup of tea. Her smile towards him looked friendly, as if she knew him. They were about the same age, Bridger thought. He supposed they could know each other, but something did not sit right with what he just saw. It made sense that Mrs. Watson would be here, they had obviously found her daughter on a website but had no idea where she was. Mrs. Watson had a right to know what was going on.

He should have already spoken to her; he thought guiltily, it was something he had overlooked. What bugged him more though was what she was doing speaking with Gallagher and not Matthews? He was still pondering the question as he knocked on Matthews's door.

"Bridger, come in, close the door".

"I'd rather not", Bridger replied, thinking of the way he smelt.

"Close the door".

Here we go, thought Bridger, as he closed the door behind him.

"You look like shit Bridger and you smell like a cheap brewery. It seems that is becoming a bit of a cliché with you. Mrs. Watson has said pretty much the same thing about your state in the weekend. Is that was what was affecting your judgment. You are not on some stupid TV cop show Bridger; I do not need fucken alcoholics on my team. It's not acceptable; I have a good mind to stand you down for the day until you sober up".

Mrs. Watson's perception was not as slow as he thought it was, Bridger thought.

"I didn't say anything when I was down stairs about your appearance, only because the team does not need any distractions while this is going on. They might have faith on your abilities Bridger, pissed or not, but I do not. Mrs. Watson is in the next room, she is beside herself. If this turns to shit Bridger, then you have provided me with the perfect scapegoat".

Bridger knew that he was right, even if it pained him to admit it. "I'm going through some personal problems at the moment sir", he said lamely, not exactly the answer he wanted to give.

"I don't give a shit Bridger, personal problems stay at home, and you don't bring them to work. I've said my piece; now what progress have you made".

Bridger, feeling slightly admonished, outlined what they knew. He tried emphasizing his thought process, trying to show Matthews he was capable, whatever he thought of him. He realised he sounded just like a petulant schoolboy and silently kicked himself. Not the image he wanted anyone to see.

Matthews listened intently to what he had to say, nodding every so often. When he had finished, Matthews surprised him by just saying, "It sounds reasonable Sergeant, get on with it".

"Is there anything I should be telling Mrs. Watson?" Bridger asked, before he left the room.

"It's under control Sergeant", was the only answer he got.

Leaving the office Bridger could not help but feel a little embarrassed. He knew he was a drinker, but no one had ever pulled him up on it before, and for Mrs. Watson to notice, that made it even worse. He was supposed to be a professional; he did not feel very professional now. It was something he knew he would have to face but right now, he forced himself to push the thought to the back of his mind. He had to get on with the job; he owed it to Marion, and all the other Marions that he may come across in the future. Nevertheless, it would have been a hell of a lot easier without a hangover.

He went back to the office and phoned Stan Walton to arrange for the surveillance team to begin trying to locate Jonas. He gave them a description of Jonas and the building at the university where he was to be tutoring. Stan had assured him that his boys would have it under control. Bridger knew Stan from his days in uniform and knew that he was a capable officer. Once the surveillance team had Jonas in their sights, he was not likely to give them the slip. This made Bridger feel better about the situation.

He looked over at the monitor to check on Marion. There appeared to be no change in the circumstances, the only change was Marion who looked like she had almost given up. Her head was hanging down in defeat.

Not long now Marion, just hold on a few more hours, he thought to himself.

Bridger saw that she was still moving, although it was very slight, but at least that was a good sign. He just hoped they would reach her before what came next, whatever that was.

He asked John to start on the paperwork for the search warrant. It would speed up the process once they knew the address that Jonas was keeping Marion. Bridger liked to think he was never one to cut corners but he knew from experience that the need to follow the correct process could hinder good police work sometimes. Although this was one of those times, he did not want some smartass lawyer appealing the charges due to an illegal entry. He knew in the back of his mind that he would be going into the building to get Marion, warrant or no warrant.

The rules were there for a very good reason and in Bridger's mind; they were what helped keep the public's confidence in the way police operated. However, he did not want any delays once they knew her location. Forcing the fuzzy feeling in his head aside, he tried to think further ahead, he did not want to miss anything. He looked at the computer screen again, trying to see behind the light. What sort of set up did he have in there, hiding in the dark, were there any potential weapons? He realised that they may need some support to execute the warrant, so he also phoned the team leader of the police armed offenders squad to let him know he needed his men to enable a safe entry into the warehouse.

Bridger was satisfied with what he had put in place, Marion and Mrs. Watson deserved the best service he could provide, not some jaded, fuzzyheaded excuse for a police officer. He looked at the clock on the wall again, just over three hours to go.

Leaving a sullen John in the office with Sam to complete the necessary paperwork and look after the computer, he took the rest of the team to pay a visit to the headquarters of Revenge.com

### Chapter Twenty One

Bridger's mind was working overtime on the drive over. Glenn Gallagher's presence in the police station still bothered him. Had he been visiting Mrs. Watson before he arrived the other day? Did Gallagher ask Matthews to investigate? Why was Matthews being secretive about it all?

"Not very auspicious for an Internet company", Becky was saying from the driver's seat.

"Sorry Becky..., I was miles away", Bridger said.

Looking up at the listed address for Revenge.com, Bridger was surprised to see it was only a small wooden bungalow on an even smaller plot of land. Jo and Grant had already got out of the back seats and had started to walk down each side of the house towards the rear. Bridger smiled to himself; it was almost an automatic reaction for a group of police officers visiting an address of interest to cover all points of exit. You never knew who was going to be coming out of a rear window when the police knocked at the door. Before Bridger and Becky got to the front door, the door swung open and a chubby bearded face peered out of the gloomy interior.

"Yeah, what do you want?" the face queried suspiciously.

"Police", said Bridger reaching for his identification.

The face changed its expression from suspicion to paranoia. "Oh, I thought we were meant to come and see you guys later this afternoon. Don't you need a warrant or something to come here?"

"This can't wait," Bridger said, walking up the front stairs followed closely by Becky.

The face retreated into the shadows inside the hallway. As soon as they stepped inside the door, the unmistakable odour of freshly smoked cannabis hit them full in the face. The face had grown a body that matched its flabby appearance, the person whom it belonged to was dressed in casual sweatpants and top. The pants were sporting a large stain on the front, something Bridger did not want to think about too much.

"Let me guess, you're Steve Jobs", Becky said with obvious disgust in her voice.

"What, no, no I'm Jack..., Jack Woolwich", he stuttered, the Steve Jobs inference going straight over his head.

"So you must be Simon Freeman", Bridger said to the equally scruffy male who appeared from a room to the rear.

"He certainly is," Jo said, following him into the hall. "I saw this falling out of the bathroom window", she added, holding up a plastic bag containing a substantial amount of cannabis plant. "It nearly hit me on the head".

"He was sitting in the kitchen having a cup of tea as we came in the back door", Grant said. "He swears blind he does not know anything about it".

"I'm sure he doesn't", Bridger said, "Lucky for you two we are too busy to worry about your smoking habits just now. I take it you know why we are really here then".

"Yeah, it's about the puppet girl..., isn't it?" Simon said, "That's pretty unhinged, even for our site. The stream has over three thousand viewers from all over the world. We normally only average a couple of hundred if we are lucky. It is an advertisers dream. This is going to put us on the map".

"I'm afraid your plans of expansion will have to be put on hold, we want you to cut the stream", Bridger said. "Can you show us where it all comes from", he added, unsure of the terminology to use.

"What..., no, you can't make us do that, what about freedom of speech, freedom of the Internet, our rights as a company", Jack spluttered, small balls of spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.

"What about being a party to a serious crime", Jo said sternly, "And I'm not talking about the weed. That poor girl is there against her will. We do not know what is going to happen to her. We are not in the business of letting every Tom Dick and Harry get their jollies sitting in some smelly darkened room in front of a computer. I do not care a toss what deals you have jacked up with advertisers willing to put their products on your twisted site. Your revenue stream means nothing to me. We are talking about a girl's life here. Now show us where you run it all from".

"It's through here", Jack said, looking chastised.

Nice work Jo, Bridger thought, as he followed them through to another room. He could see by the look on Grant and Becky's faces that they thought the same thing about the quiet new girl.

The epicenter of the business was a small musty room with a large array of computer equipment quietly humming away. Bridger looked at the screens to his left and saw a view of the front of the house.

Well that explains how they knew we were here, he thought. A bit paranoid though, what else did they get up to in here?

Leftover fast food wrappers littered what little free space the desks had. He could see four screens with various things playing out on them; one view was disturbingly similar to what Marion was currently going through. It was clearly a parody of the real thing though as it depicted a female crudely tied to some string with a male standing behind her on a chair using her like a puppet. They were both laughing and joking.

There were some callous people out there in the world, he thought to himself.

"Do you not regulate what is and isn't shown on your site", asked Grant.

"If it's not illegal then we don't have a problem with it" Jack Woolich said, "It's normally pretty harmless stuff. We do have a list of do's and don'ts before you can upload anything".

"That obviously works well for you", Becky said sarcastically, indicating the screen with Marion's image plastered all over it. Nothing had changed in the short time they had been out of the office.

The large 42-inch screen above the monitors was showing Marion, displayed unnaturally large in the small room and in high definition. Below the picture was a series of numbers that kept changing, going up and down at random.

"What are these numbers?" queried Becky.

Simon answered, clearly no more the brains behind the operation than Jack was. "Those numbers tell us how many people are viewing this stream at any one time. It is a worldwide thing. Those numbers could be coming from any country in the world... Well not every country", he corrected, "As some countries, like China for instance, have very regulated Internet use. It helps to tell the advertisers how many people they are reaching. Some sites generate millions of views worldwide. It is better than any television campaign could ever hope to generate. It's the way of the future".

"Can you tell us where the stream is coming from?" asked Bridger.

"We don't have the software to record incoming IP addresses for people who upload to our site, I guess it can be done, but don't ask me how". Simon said, looking at Jack for confirmation.

Typical, thought Bridger, they can run a program but do not have the first clue as to what goes on under the buttons they push. I guess that is why they still base themselves in this shithole, so much for Bill Gates and Steve Jobs.

"I take it you know how to shut the thing down", Bridger said aloud. "We need everyone but us blocked from viewing it".

"I would need to know where to send the stream but it can be done remotely from here", Simon said.

Bridger's phone rang in his pocket, "Grant can you ring Sam back at the office and get him to sort that out with these two Internet tycoons", he said as he backed out of the cramped stuffy room and into the hallway. He answered the phone as he stepped outside onto the front steps.

"Bridger here", he said, as he gulped a lungful of fresh air.

"Mike, it's Stan, we have your boy inside the university. One of my lads has it under control. When he leaves we will be all over him".

He cut the call and turned around to find Jo coming out of the house. "Sarge, my contact has just phoned to say Jonas is in the university".

"Cheers Jo, but I think the surveillance boys beat your contact to the punch... Nice work in there by the way," he added. "Sometimes you need to be forceful in this job to get things done".

Jo went her trademark red colour and looked at the ground. "Thanks Sarge", was all she managed to say when she raised her head and looked him in the eye.

Becky and Grant came out the door, followed by Jack and Simon who both looked very pale and unkempt in the sunlight.

"These two have agreed to come down to the police station until we can sort this out", Becky was saying as she descended the stairs. "They have cut the connection for the live stream, Sam talked them through diverting it to the computer he has back at the office. We should be the only ones that can see it now".

"Good", said Bridger. "Do you think whoever is streaming the images can tell he is not being watched anymore?" Bridger directed his question at both Simon and Jack.

"I'm not really sure", Simon replied, "Probably not".

Jack just shrugged his narrow shoulders.

"Well we will have to take that risk I suppose", Bridger said. He was thinking that Jonas was not at the warehouse to seeing any change in the streaming anyway, and when he eventually led them to his warehouse, he would not have any time to do anything about it.

The familiar thrill of the chase was beginning to build in the pit of his stomach, the adrenalin slowly building, which was helping him feel almost human again.

### Chapter Twenty Two

She was back in her cell again, the walls felt like they were closing in on her. How long was she going to be stuck here? The concrete breezeblocks offered no warmth even though the ambient temperature was at a comfortable level. She had completely lost it last night; she had not shut off like that since she was younger. She didn't't know what it was that set her off, maybe it was the sight of that huge policeman. Why did they have to be so big? He looked almost mythical, the lights blinking off and on giving her glimpses of the strength and power of the state. Uniforms that had gotten more military like, tools of compliance strapped on the waist, keeping the masses in a state of submission.

It sounded just like the shit that Jonas spouted on a regular basis. He kept that side of himself well hidden during the day, but when he threw those parties, had her and her friends around, he was a very different person.

That bastard had left her last night. It was his shit as a well. Well she had sorted him out now. The woman Detective had been nice, she had thought that yesterday when she had seen her at Marion's place. She had told her about Jonas, that it was his Cannabis. She had told her about the warehouse where he kept it. That would teach him, the shit. She hoped the police would go in and smash the place up, take all his Cannabis. How would he prey on the girls now, if he did not have anything to give them?

What had she seen in that pathetic, self-obsessed, sanctimonious piece of shit? She had been such a fool, his power came from other people's wants and needs. She wanted what he could give her, the Cannabis, the part in the play. He was not a dish at all, she almost felt embarrassed for suggesting it to that woman Detective. Everybody thought she was such a 'Goody Two Shoes', sweet little naive Beth, would never hurt a fly. Well Jonas would find out soon that she had a vicious streak. Fuck him.

She knew she had messed up big time though; her place at the university was probably gone. Her parents would be so disappointed in her, like always. They expected so much from her. She had never lived up to their expectations. Her little sister was the apple in their eye. That little bitch had a charmed life; it was as if she could do no wrong. It was always Kate this and Kate that, she never heard her parents talk proudly about her as they did for Kate.

University was going to prove finally that she was worthy. The leading role in the play was going to show them as well. Until, that bitch called Marion had come along and ruined it for her. Marion was missing now, the part was hers, but she had fucked that up as well by snitching on Jonas. He was not likely to give her the part now, if there was even a play to be in after the police had finished with him.

The cell door opened and a figure stood in the doorway.

"Time to go Beth, just a few formalities then we can bail you for Court next week".

This one looked different to the rest. He seemed almost human. He had a smile on his face, friendly, trustworthy. She would go with him. He offered hope, freedom. He did not judge when he read the charge on the door. He chatted, cracked a few jokes as he took her fingerprints and asked her to smile for the camera. He smiled as he handed her the paperwork explaining that she needed to attend court next week. He even waved as he showed her out the front door and into the fresh air. He was nice.

Breathing in a lungful of cold air, she felt herself becoming calmer. She thought of someone else who was nice. Time to go home and give him a call, see what is happening, she thought, smiling a small secret smile.

### Chapter Twenty Three

Bridger had made the decision to send Grant and Jo back to the office with the two computer geeks. He had asked that he and Becky ride along with the surveillance team to provide evidential support. Whatever Jonas did between leaving the university and getting to the warehouse could be of value to proving the eventual case against him He and Becky would be there to see it all.

A serious looking man, who had introduced himself as Sticky, then had not said much after that, appearing to concentrate on his driving, had picked him up from outside the headquarters of Revenge.com. That suited Bridger as he had time to think through the next steps of the operation. He phoned the officer in charge of the armed offender's squad, told him that the target was where he was supposed to be, and that the surveillance team had him contained. The team leader promised him that they would be assembling at the safe point as soon as he heard that the target was on the move.

He had just cut the connection on his phone when Sticky slowed and then stopped at a set of lights. Bridger was gazing out of the window absently when he caught a glimpse of a couple sitting inside a Cafe beside the intersection. It was an everyday sight, people getting on with their lives, enjoying one another's company, not a care in the world.

He continued to watch as the female rose from her seat with her back to him and touched her male companion on the arm. He watched as the male companion rose as well, then she kissed him on the cheek. The male smiled at her and said something that made her laugh. He saw her tuck her laptop under her arm and turn towards the door. It was then that Bridger realised he was watching his own wife.

As Sticky pulled away from the lights, he lost sight of the Cafe and Laura. Suddenly he could not breathe, he felt winded, as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. What in the hell was that, his mind started racing. He knew Laura was a tactile person and touched people a lot while talking to them, he had seen it often enough and it was harmless. He had never seen her kiss another person though, and to kiss another man. The thought warped in his brain, he was imagining where it all went after that. Was Laura having an affair? Was that why she left him really?

He thought back to the flowers the previous night. She had said they were from her boss, he had believed her. What about the card she had tucked into her pocket when she thought he had not seen it, how could he have been so stupid? How could she have been so stupid? Why had she not said anything? Bridger's mouth was dry; he swallowed but could not get any relief.

There must be an explanation, he thought. He had been so tied up with his own guilt he could not see it in her.

He looked at his cell phone, tempted to ring her and demand the explanation that was due him. The cell phone was such an impersonal thing, he realised he needed to confront her in person, to see her face when she started telling the lies that she thought would extricate her from the situation. The feeling of hurt deepened when he imaged her lying to him. Making excuses, turning it back onto him, and blaming him for the fact that she was screwing some other guy. Images started to screen in his mind, Laura and some young guy with a Photoshop abdominal area, sweating and grinding against each other, her face twisted in pleasure. He pictured the guy bringing Laura to climax, then both of them turning to look directly at him. Except it was not Laura, it was Jane.

Bridger looked down at his hands and realised his sweaty fist was clamped tightly around his cell phone, the whites of his knuckles showing vividly on his fingers. Turning to Sticky he was about to tell him to turn around and go back so he could confront her. He saw that Sticky's mouth was moving but his speech sounded muffled, he appeared to be talking to himself. He realised sticky had been talking to someone on his radio.

"He's on the move Sergeant, Sloth has him walking west on St David Street".

Shit, not now, thought Bridger, torn between the need to nail Jonas and the need to see his wife.

He felt Stickys driving became more urgent, which took the decision from him, he realised something had happened. Sticky turned on the main radio speaker so Bridger could hear what was happening. The chatter of the radio was just gibberish to Bridger, the surveillance boys might just have well been speaking in a foreign language. Everyone in the team seemed to have a nickname; either that or their parents name choices were very strange. That was about all he understood. Sticky though, new exactly what was going on as he moved himself closer to Jonas's location.

"He's getting into a vehicle Sergeant, just around the corner..., He's on the move, should be coming into sight over there in a few seconds".

Sticky was pointing in the direction of the next road coming up. Bridger looked over at the intersection and sure enough, Jonas drove by in front of them in an unassuming blue sedan. He did not look to be in any hurry and certainly did not look to Bridger to be about to commit any crimes.

You're one cold bastard, Bridger said to himself.

The gibberish continued on the radio as Jonas drove through the streets. Bridger could not help but be impressed with the skill of the surveillance team. They did not lose sight of Jonas or his vehicle for any period.

He did not stand a chance, he thought to himself.

The pace was fast, the radio chatter constant. Bridger found himself caught up in the adrenalin as the car he listened to the progress of his quarry. The route he was taking made it appear that he was heading in the direction of his temporary address in the university apartments.

Unexpectedly, Jonas made a stop, swerving into a parallel park on the side of the road. He quickly got out of the vehicle and started walking away in a bit of a hurry. Bridger heard Stan Walton on the radio, "Make sure you don't lose him", he was saying, "Keep him in sight at all times, we need to know where he goes".

Bridger's phone rang in his hand; he could see it was Becky's number. He knew she would be sitting in Stan's car somewhere in the area.

"Mike, Stan thinks Jonas may have been spooked".

"Hopefully Jonas is not that switched on Becky. He shouldn't have any reason to think he was being followed, but then I guess he would be a bit paranoid if he had snatched a girl and had her locked up somewhere".

From the commentary that was still coming over the radio it sounded as if Stan's boys still had Jonas in their sights.

"Let's just hope he hasn't been spooked, for Marion's sake", Bridger said before cutting the connection.

If he had been spooked, he was sure Stan would have words with that member. Bridger did not know much about how the team operated, but he knew Stan was aware how crucial this operation was. He also knew that he was not one to tolerate simple mistakes like that.

A team member named Smurf reported over the radio that Jonas had cut through an alleyway and into the next street over from them. He had come out onto the street beside his place of residence and then gone inside.

So he is acting a bit suspicious after all, Bridger thought.

Sloth came on the radio and reported that Jonas's vehicle had parked in a five-minute zone, so was likely he would be returning to it soon. Bridger looked at his watch, still plenty of time. He sat back in the car seat and waited for Jonas to reappear. Less than five minutes went by and Smurf reported Jonas coming out of the apartment and retracing his steps towards his car. He was carrying a blue backpack over one shoulder that appeared to be relatively full.

After a few minutes, Sloth reported Jonas getting back into his car. Things got more frantic again as the surveillance team scrambled to get into position as he drove away.

Sticky was behind the vehicle Jonas was driving as he pulled away from the curb. Bridger saw Jonas turn his car into a side street with 'No Exit' displayed on the street sign. "This must be it", Bridger said, "There is no other way out of that street".

Sticky pulled his car in behind another a short distance from the corner.

"We better wait a minute before we go in, give him time to settle", Sticky said as he informed the rest of the team what had happened.

A few moments later Jonas's car reappeared, pulled out of the side street and drove in the opposite direction. Bridger watched him as they passed each other nose to nose. Jonas looked oblivious to the fact that he had just been a few feet from a police surveillance team.

"Classic anti surveillance move that was", Sticky said, handing control to the next team member who had managed to get in behind Jonas.

Bridger looked at the width of the street in which they were in currently.

It could be that it was just an easy way to turn around though, he thought.

Bridger found his sense of direction tested to its limits as he struggled to understand what the surveillance team was saying. Sticky was driving all over the place, but knew exactly what was going on. However, he did get the sense they were nearing the wharf area where Beth had said his building was.

The radio crackled "Target has turned into Fryatt Street" Bridger knew it ran parallel with the Otago harbor; he listened to the commentary tell them that Jonas had made another right and stopped outside a wooden warehouse building. This time, Bridger thought. It must be his building.

There were a large number of cars parked in the street but Sticky had no trouble parking in amongst them, hidden from Jonas's direct view, but enabling Bridger to see him quite clearly through the car in front. As Bridger watched, he saw Jonas get out of his car and unlock the double doors in the front of the building. He was in no hurry, he got the impression he was actually whistling to himself.

"You won't be whistling soon arsehole", Bridger said aloud, Sticky appeared not to notice the comment.

He watched as Jonas slid the big wooden doors open one after the other. He got back into his car and drove inside the building out of view to Bridger. Another vehicle drove by the entrance to the warehouse and then went into a side street. Immediately his phone rang, Becky's name was on the caller display.

"We went past the front of the building when he drove inside but the interior was to dark to see much of what was there", she was saying, "He looked as if he was closing the doors behind himself when we went around the corner".

"Thanks Becky, looks like this is it, I'll let the AOS team leader know that I'm going to give the go ahead for his squad to move in. Once they are inside I want you to come in with me to make the arrest. I'll get Grant and Jo to come down and deal with Marion".

Bridger pushed the off button on the cell phone and took a deep breath, he realised he was feeling a lot better, his head no longer felt like it had a steel wrecking ball bouncing around inside it. All thoughts of Laura and the unknown male pushed to the back of his mind. He pushed send on the text message that gave the order to move in. He watched the screen as the little envelope disappeared indicating that he had sent the message successfully.

Bridger looked over at Sticky who was sitting still in the driver's seat. He just looked relaxed; like it was just another day at the office.

I guess that comes with his job description, thought Bridger, but you could to relaxed sometimes.

That was not his concern though as he looked back towards the warehouse. Similar looking buildings lined the street they were in; all had padlocked front doors on them. There were plenty of cars parked in the street but not much pedestrian traffic. The vehicles must belong to the employees that worked in the area. He wondered what those workers would think if they knew what was happening just inside the wooden walls of the building a short way up the street from them.

"Things are about to get loud", Sticky said, pointing towards a figure dressed all in black who was walking slowly around the corner with his back to the wall. He was followed by three more figures dressed the same, all of them wearing black helmets and had something covering their faces.

They were certainly a foreboding sight, thought Bridger. They moved with the precision of a military unit. All of them had semi automatic weapons in their hands and more items strapped to their black body armor.

The Armed Offender Squad was only a part time job, all its members undertaking normal police duties until needed. A unit called in after an incident had occurred required specialist intervention. Their primary role was to cordon and contain an offender until he gave himself up or they had explored all other avenues to resolve a situation. Sometimes they were required to be the first port of call when undertaking jobs that required more caution. Bridger knew many of its members, and they would all tell him that they enjoyed these types of jobs better. Today was certainly one of those jobs.

The lead member had approached the door and was standing with one hand on the handle. Another team of four had materialized from the other side. Altogether, there were eight figures all clad in black, bristling with weaponry, standing on an otherwise empty street. The lead member held his free hand in the air, when it came down he pulled the sliding door open. The figure standing beside him appeared to throw something into the open doorway. A very loud bang followed the movement, the noise waves vibrating out of the opening. It had made Bridger and Sticky both jump in their seats. Anyone inside that building was going to be temporarily stunned and deafened.

That would have been the point though, Bridger thought, as the black clad figures moved into the building with their weapons raised.

### Chapter Twenty Four

He had been waiting for this day to come. It had taken a lot of preparation but it had been worth it. All the hard work was going to be coming to fruition in the next couple of hours. His plan had consumed his entire thought process, laced with bittersweet emotions. He was finally going to have his mother put right the wrongs she inflicted on him as a child. She was going to thank him. He was sure having had time to think about her actions all those years ago, that she would want to put it right for both their sakes.

He had prepared father for the day's activities, he was waiting backstage for his curtain call. Father was almost catatonic, his eyes were not focusing, there was a stream of clear snotty liquid running from his nose and glistening on his messy facial stubble. His movements were more like a person who needed guidance than someone actively resisting. It had not taken much to put him in the frame. Father's frame was not as elaborate as mother's was. His part did not require much in the way of movement.

Mother on the other hand had to be able to dance, he wanted her to dance the dance of the desperate and frightened. The selfish dance he had witnessed as a boy. He had made her do it a while ago, to see if she remembered.

Watching her while he manipulated the ropes, twirling and swaying, had invoked the memories he wanted. This had to be vivid and clear for it to work. He did not want to hide from the feelings it was going to bring him. In order to purge the demon, the feelings had to return. He was strong now. He could face them.

He grabbed a bottle of water from his bag and opened the lid. Taking a mouthful of the cold, still water, he looked at the screen. Mother was there, doing what he remembered her doing. She looked to be lost in her own thoughts, shutting out the world and everyone in it, thinking of her own torment and not his. Torment inflicted on her by the sniveling mess in the next room. She chose that man and everything that came with him. He looked at the photo in front of him, the smile on her selfish face. That smile told him that she was happy with her decision, that she invited him into her life with open arms. His smile told him that he was happy for her to do just that.

He looked at the clock, ten minutes to go. He would not start a minute before; it had to be just right.

The team leader of the Armed Offenders Squad, Sergeant Gary Stone, was struggling with his emotions. He was an athletic forty seven year old father of two daughters, both in their late teens and out dating, something he was having trouble coming to grips with. He had married young, with children soon to follow.

He had seen the best and the worst of people in his career to date, but what this man was doing was beyond comprehension to him. He had listened in anger as Bridger had filled him in on whom and what they were dealing with. His blood was running high, as was the other members of the squad, so they had to be professional. His brief to them was simple, get in, secure the building, and Jonas. Then evacuate Marion to a safe place.

Once they were alone with Jonas, he wanted to make sure they did everything by the book. As much as his instinct told him that he should hurt this man, he had to let real justice take its course. He could not let natural justice into the equation. He was trying hard not to picture his own daughter trussed up in the contraption he had seen on the live feed earlier, as the thunder flash exploded inside the building.

He watched in anticipation as the front man disappeared inside followed closely by the rest of the team.

The shout of 'Armed Police' was bouncing off brick walls of the warehouse as the men moved in and then fanned out in search of the quarry. It was a move practiced a thousand times before and they executed it perfectly.

The room was cavernous, measuring about twenty meters by thirty-five meters, it contained one blue sedan, various large metal drums, and further towards the rear there were rows of shelving similar to a library.

It took a couple of minutes to check the room with various members of the teams shouting, 'Clear', as they searched the area they were assigned to and found nothing.

Less than three minutes after the first loud explosion, Gary Stone stood in the middle of the building surrounded by his team. Neither Jonas nor Marion was in the building. The rear door was still locked with a padlock on the inside so could not have been used. It looked like Jonas had been spirited away.

"We watched the guy drive in here, he must be inside somewhere", Bridger was saying into the cell phone as he approached the entrance to the warehouse. Slightly out of breath he stepped into the building, as soon as he saw the Stone he put away his phone. He was standing in a huddle with some of his squad members; they had removed their black helmets leaving sweaty hair stuck to their scalps.

"Where the hell is he then?" Bridger said angrily.

"Hey Mike, don't shoot the messenger, we checked and rechecked. This building is empty. You must have missed him coming out after he parked his car up".

Bridger silently kicked himself. Had he taken his eye off the ball once he saw Jonas going inside, expecting him to stay inside with Marion? If he had, he did not expect that sticky had looked away, or the other members of the surveillance squad.

"Tell your boys to search again, he's in here somewhere", he demanded.

"Look Mike we do this sort of search all the time. My boys are good at their jobs; if he were in here, we would have found him. I'm telling you he's left the building".

"That can't be right", Bridger said, "we had at least four pairs of eyes on this building, I'm sure we would have seen him coming out if he had".

"Well we haven't found him, and you lot haven't seen him leave, so he must be in here somewhere then", Stone said, indicating the four corners of the room, clearly visible from where they were standing, his irritation starting to show a little on his normally calm and confident features.

Bridger looked around helplessly, there were not many places to hide and the boys dressed in black had searched every corner. Anger started to bubble in the pit his stomach, anger and frustration at the lack of someone to blame.

Becky was standing off to one side, looking at the sidewall, then back at the door. She had a slightly puzzled look on her face.

"Mike this room is smaller than the buildings footprint", she said.

"What?"

"The building is bigger on the outside than what I can see in this room. There has to be another room here".

"The only door is at the rear and that was padlocked", Stone said. "My boys had to break the lock to check. It leads out to the rear yard..., what there is of it".

He looked around the room trying to see what Becky was trying to say. A momentary glance at the floor below the workbench off to his right gave him the explanation he was looking for. He could see a semi circular shape in the dust pattern on the floor, as if a door opened over it recently, except there was no door visible.

"Turn off the lights", Bridger whispered urgently, the excitement building again over the feeling of failure.

Stone motioned to one of his men; the large industrial lights went out leaving total darkness.

Bridger blinked his eyes to try to regain his vision in the blackness of the warehouse. He turned around in a slow circle scanning the area where he imagined the floor to meet the wall. He did not need night vision to see the faint glow emitting from a small crevice under the workbench attached to the sidewall.

"Put the lights on again", he said.

The lights went on leaving everyone blinking. Bridger put his finger up to his nose, indicating the need for silence. Then he pointed at the workbench.

The rest of the team had seen the same thing in the darkness and needed no further explanation.

Bridger watched for a second time as the black clad figures lined up on each other, each man holding the shoulder of the man in front. The two lead members took hold of the workbench on either side. Stone gave a reverse three count using his fingers. They manhandled the workbench away from its position, bringing with it a whole section of the wall. Light flooded out of the opening, light that was brighter than the area they were in currently. The light reminded Bridger of a fictional alien spacecraft opening its door. It was light that you would see as a part of any stage set.

Bridger watched for a second time as the black clad figures disappeared into the light one by one. He looked at his watch, two minutes to one o'clock.

"How much do you think he knows Greg?" Glenn Gallagher asked.

Matthews did not quite know how to respond, they had been sitting in his office for the past half hour with Mrs. Watson, passing pleasantries between themselves as if they were old friends. It had not slipped Matthews attention that Mrs. Watson had not once mentioned Marion during that time. He knew the history between her and Gallagher, but he was sure she had been more than a little flirtatious with him as well. Gallagher had been smarmy as always, the same tosser he was when he was in the job.

Matthews had watched as he had bullied his way into the rank he attained prior to leaving the police, he had a knack of knowing everything about everybody and would use some of that information to hold people to ransom. Matthews had no doubt that he employed the same tactics to gain his position at the table next to the Mayor, as the Chief executive officer of one of the biggest construction firms in the city, he had open access to the city leaders ear.

He hated the fact that he was unable to stand up to this man, but self-preservation was a strong motivation to play along.

Matthews had not done anything illegal back in the day, but illegal or not, the morality of the job had changed a lot since then and it would not do for Gallagher to start any rumors about him that could derail his promotion aspirations.

Now that Mrs. Watson had excused herself to go to the toilet, Gallagher was back to being all business.

"Well Gregg what do you think, is Bridger up to it? Or is he the alcoholic cowboy you described to me".

"He can't know anything about it yet", Matthews said, "But he's about to take down the operation as we speak. Do you think Jonas is our boy?"

"He could be it's been so long since I've seen him. People change so much as they get older".

"Obviously they don't change their nature though, as I recall he was a bit of a violent child in his time. A victim of his circumstance maybe", Matthews said.

"Like father like son more like," Gallagher replied.

Gallagher had never let on who the father was.

"When did you realise that it could be him?" Matthews asked

"As soon as he opened his mouth, it was what he has been saying, and there is no doubt that Marion looks exactly like her mother did at that age. He wants to resurrect the past using Marion as the prop to exorcise his demons".

"What's his name Glenn?"

"I don't know, I think it was Daniel or something like that. I didn't really take much notice of the kid; I wasn't there to see him was I".

"Where has he been all this time and why hasn't he tried contacting his mother?"

"I told him she had died as well. It seemed easier and it smoothed the way for his entry into that residential school I put him in".

Matthews looked at Glenn's stony features as he talked.

"You really are an arsehole aren't you..."

"Don't be like that Gregg; I did my best for the boy. He was no good in that house...or with either of them".

"How can he be better off being dumped in another hell hole thinking that his parents had died? You did your best for you. It sorted out your inconvenient problem. If you had reported any of those assaults, it would have all come out eventually. You would have been out of the force".

Glenn smiled back at Matthews, a sly knowing smile. It turned Matthews's stomach to look at.

"It pays to know things in this life, Gregg, I would have been slightly embarrassed to air my dirty washing in the canteen but that's as far as it would have gone".

Matthews could only imagine what he knew and whom he knew it about.

"What made Mrs. Watson contact you about Marion?"

"I guess I was the only police officer she knew. I guess she thought with our history that it would be better for me to handle this than a younger police officer that thinks differently about things".

"Does she know that this pervert who is holding her daughter is possibly her long lost son"?

"She thinks he died that night, Gregg, along with her husband. I would like to keep it that way".

"What happened to the husband, you have never told me who he was?"

"It's better that you don't know..., better for him and for you. These things can be very awkward".

"I can't be responsible for what he tells Bridger, it may all come out. And besides as a serving police officer my first responsibility is for Marion's safety, you know that".

"I know you will do your best to steer any confessions he makes in the right direction", Gallagher said.

"What really happened between you and Mrs. Watson, Glenn?"

"That's a story for another time Gregg, what matters is what this boy will say if it is him, and that Detective Sergeant Bridger of yours digs a little too deep. He can bring us both down you know. My job depends on my reputation".

"Don't lump me in with you Glenn, as I recall it was all you're doing, a social experiment you called it. I reckon it was just plain laziness, either that or you were trying to cover up the fact you were screwing Mrs. Watson the whole time she was being beaten half to death by that husband of hers. You did nothing about it then and look what resulted".

"Don't be like that Gregg, just remember, you were not Snow White back in those days either. I covered for you on a few occasions as well. Besides Mrs. Watson was a real police groupie back then, she would do anything for me, and I mean anything", Glenn Gallagher said with a leery grin.

"I bet she had no choice in the matter, you pathetic piece of shit", Matthews mumbled under his breath, not caring if Gallagher heard or not.

If he had heard, he did not let on, as Mrs. Watson walked back into the room.

"Talking about me, boys", she said as she sat down. "It's not often these days I get two men discussing me in any way. At my age I will take any male attention I can get".

Matthews looked at the elderly woman sitting in front of him, smoothing her practical skirt over her ample thighs. She looked back at him with a smile and a look in her eyes that spoke a thousand words, a look that belonged on a woman half her age. On the other hand, he may have been just imagining it, Gallagher's description of her clouding his judgment. He had not seen that look from his wife in a long while. He was not that much younger than Mrs. Watson and Glenn was a few years older.

We are all getting older, he thought to himself as he looked away. Age always hides the sins of the past.

Mrs. Watson had not let on whether she remembered him from that night, Matthews was not about to jog her memory.

"Do you think Marion knows this person who is holding her, Mrs. Watson?" Matthews asked, getting down to business himself.

"I have no idea Gregg", she replied. "But I guess we'll find out soon enough when Sergeant Bridger comes to the rescue".

Matthews felt almost dirty at her attempt at intimacy, using his first name, Gallagher's description of her running through his head. Mrs. Watson's demeanor had changed from distraught to a strange kind of indifference when she found out that the police were about to rescue her daughter.

She is a very strange and messed up woman, he thought.

"If anything this little experience will teach Marion a very valuable lesson about who she can and can't trust in this life", she said, "Lord knows I've been trying to tell her all these years. Maybe she will listen this time".

"Let's hope she hasn't been hurt in her ordeal, Mrs. Watson", Matthews said.

"Yes..., yes of course Gregg, I hope you don't think I'm not worried for my daughter, she's all I've got left in this world".

"We should be hearing word any minute now, Mrs. Watson. The officers on the ground have let me know that the boys have just gone through the door. I'm confident that my officers will see to the safety of your daughter".

"I'm in debt to both of you", Mrs. Watson said, smiling at both of them in turn. "I hope I can repay you in some way".

Matthews shuddered inwardly.

Gallagher just sat there with a false smile on his face.

Beth Johansen had made her way back to Marion's flat. She had tried ringing him on his cell phone after she left the police station. She did not want to walk home in the cold, but it had just rung through to answer phone. Typical bloody male, she thought to herself, not available when you want them.

She had walked all the way back to the flat without feeling anything, just numb from her night locked in that concrete coffin.

She thought about him as she looked around the flat at possessions that did not mean anything to her. They were possessions that belonged to Marion. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he playing nicely with his temporary housemate? Bloody Marion, she got all the best parts. So successful and confident, she even had a boyfriend. She so desperately wanted to be Marion; it almost made her ill thinking about the time she was spending with him. Time he could have been spending with her, she needed comfort and security just like anyone else. Just a couple of days, he had said, she will not even know you were involved. He just needed to humiliate her a little, for what she had done.

What the fuck was she to him anyway? Beth thought. He was her friend, not Marions. He always understood her issues. He understood her fears. He listened when she spoke of her childhood, always knew the right things to say. She had felt comfortable the first time she had gone to him, offered herself willingly. He had done things to her that she had never experienced. When he had been a little rough, she had been a little shocked at first. When he had made her bleed, she knew then that she deserved it. She needed his discipline, her fears were her own to endure, and she had grown up with them.

Her parents had never paid any attention to her fears, her perfect sister had seen to that. Her parents were too busy taking her sister to one thing or another, pushing her to be the perfect daughter, no time for me. All they did for me was force me further inside myself. He has helped me make sense of the darkness inside me. She felt herself slipping back into one of her black moods.

Answer your fucking phone, she thought desperately.

She looked around the flat for her fix. Something to take the edge off, just a small spliff. The memory of last night surfaced in her head and she realised that the police would have taken everything. There was nothing in the flat, not even prescription medicine.

"Bloody Marion, why do you have to be such a square, doesn't everybody use something these days. Maybe I will go and see him; yes, that is what I will do. He will know what to say, he will make it better again".

She picked up her jacket and went back into the dull daylight, overshadowed by deep grey clouds. It suited her mood, her inner feelings showing on the outside as well. There were a few students walking quickly down the street, intent on getting from their lukewarm flats to the warmer university without freezing to death. They all looked content and happy with their feelings, busy with their perfect lives.

Would everybody know her mixed up feelings were what they saw in the greyness of the sky? Fuck it, she thought, let them stare, maybe they would realise that not everybody had it easy. She turned her collar up against the biting wind and started walking.

"What the fuck is this", Bridger said, quietly and as menacing as he could. He had Jonas backed up against the wall, a wall that was covered in silver tinfoil from top to bottom. Bridger clamped his hand tightly around his throat. The harsh overhead lights throwing out heat as well as shadows, a strong pungent smell enveloping everyone in the room. Shadows fell across Jonas's face, making him look like the villain in a fairytale. All around them were green plants in various states of growth, sprouting from long troughs lined from end to end.

"Where's Marion, what have you done with her".

"What, I haven't done anything with her", Jonas spluttered.

Bridger increased the pressure on Jonas's throat and repeated his question.

"Steady on Mike", one of the black clad police officers said, his familiar voice coming from somewhere in the greenery. "We need to be a bit cleverer about this. He's no use to us if you kick his arse".

Bridger released the pressure on his neck but stood his ground, staring intently into Jonas's eyes. A flicker of self-doubt flashed through them; if Bridger had blinked, he would have missed it. Jonas regained his composure, buoyed up by the black clad police officer's words.

"I hope you have a warrant, Sergeant, otherwise you are trespassing on private property. I also resent the fact that you think I have something to do with Marion. I can assure you that I have no idea where she is. As for what you can see around you, it is only for personal use. It's a wee hobby of mine".

"You pompous prick," Bridger yelled. "She might not be here but you sure as hell know where she is". The red mist was starting to descend over Bridger's eyes. He could feel forces outside his control urging him on.

Jonas smiled.

"You know Sergeant you really should see someone about your anger, it can be an issue if you let it control you".

"Fuck you Jonas", Bridger growled.

He punched Jonas in the sternum forcing the air quickly out of his lungs, as he folded forward Bridger bought his knee up and connected with the soft cartilage of the nose. There was a sickening crunch and Jonas fell to the floor, blood starting to pool around his face. Bridger had no control over his actions, the anger and frustration taking over; he kicked out, repeatedly, at any exposed part of Jonas's body now lying in a fetal position on the floor.

He looked down at the body curled up on front of him. He was no longer Jonas; he had morphed into the man who had been with his wife. The male looked up and mouthed the words, 'Laura's a great lay man', then smiled salaciously at him.

"What the hell are you doing with my wife you prick", Bridger snarled. He kicked out at his head, narrowly missing, before strong hands grabbed him and pulled him away.

"Get him out of here", Becky was saying as she looked at Bridger.

Bridger stood there restrained by two black clad police men, face flushed. Tears were prickling at the corners of his eyes and he was breathing heavily. He looked over at Becky but could not tell whether the look on her face was concern or confusion, but he felt a deep sense of embarrassment. Looking down to break the eye contact he saw Jonas, his body was lying prone on the floor, he saw his face covered in blood, his eyes were closed tight and he was speaking quietly to himself. Bridger tried to make out what he was saying but the words were struggling and confused, being spat out with the blood in his mouth.

"Come on Mike, let's get outside", the man on his right said.

Bridger looked away and let the two black-clad police officers walk him outside into the daylight. Outside in the cold light of the early afternoon it all seemed so normal; he did not feel anything for Jonas. His only thoughts were for Marion and his failure.

His cell phone began to ring in his pocket, the caller display showed Grants name on the screen. He looked at the black-clad police officer nearest to him.

"Go ahead", he said, indicating the ringing phone.

Bridger pressed the answer key.

"Mike, it's started. You must have the wrong guy".

"No shit".

Breathing in a deep lungful of cold air he turned around and punched the side of the building.

### Chapter Twenty Five

Marion had all but given up trying to free herself from her restraints. She hung there like a puppet, exhausted. Her nose had started to bleed, leaving a deep red trail down her chin and onto her white dress. She could no longer feel her arms or legs bound tightly by the wooden frames.

When she swung around, she glimpsed something in the mirrors that she did not recognize. It was as if her body had become the puppet, an angry wretched marionette, controlled by the whims of a madman. The shadow had not spoken for a long while; she did not feel any anticipation for what was next. She did not feel anything. Music filtered through the speakers in the darkness, quietly at first, them becoming clearer. 'Here Comes the Bride' or something that almost passed for the tune.

Marion had not thought about marriage before, preferring to live in the moment. No one had come into her life that had invoked such deep feelings. Hearing the music now brought out a sudden sadness that she would not ever have the chance to find out for herself what marriage was like. She began to cry, tears and snot combining with the blood from her nose, spreading it even further. It began dripping onto the floor below her.

She hung there crying, like a carcass in a butcher's shop, the spirit of the animal crying in the knowledge that its life's blood was dripping onto the floor, the unfeeling butcher sharpening his knives in the background.

The sound of hard wheels on a concrete floor started to compete with the bridal music. A male came out of the darkness and into the light. Was this the shadow, finally revealing itself to her? Her eyes tried to focus through her tears. She could see a male, around her age, dark hair. He was handsome, dressed in a black suit. The male kept coming closer, the squeak of the wheels continued. Marion was face to face with the male. His eyes were staring and unfocused. His mouth hung open slightly. He was leaning slightly backwards, giving him the appearance of being slightly shocked at what he saw before him.

Marion found herself getting angry at his reaction to her. Frustration erupted from her lips. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you pathetic shit. What do you want from me"?

The male continued to stare at nothing and remained motionless. She tried to lash out but the restraints held tight.

Then the shadow spoke.

"If only you had the same reaction when you first met all those years ago, we would not be here today. Mother meet father, as if introductions are necessary. You two know each other intimately already. He must have been something in his day mother. Why else would you so willingly submit yourself to him? Well that is all academic now, you did choose him and he chose you. Together you created your own existence in which to live. Till death did you part.

I've been doing some calculations over the years, and although I'm not that good at maths even I can see that my birthday is only seven months after your marriage, how noble of you mother, not wanting to bring a bastard into the world.

As you can see father is in no state to present his case, but that is the idea, today is not for him, it is for you. Father has already paid the price for his miserable contribution to the world.

Today is for you to have your turn. It is for you to put right the wrongs, stand up for yourself and more importantly stand up and protect me. It is something that should come natural to a mother. It is something that is as primal as nature. There should be a natural instinct in anything capable of bearing young.

That is the problem with the human being, we have an over developed brain, capable of all sorts of variations. Animals have basic instincts, which they will carry out at all costs. You see it ensures the survival of the species.

Humans have free will, selfishness, fear, anger, sadness. All these things jostle around in our heads, sometimes we cannot control which comes to the fore. Sometimes we do not care.

Did you care mother? Did you care when he did those things to you. Did you care when he did those things to me.

I needed protection mother, why did you put up with it for so long".

The shadow sounded deranged to Marion, she could not comprehend why he thought of her as his mother. Was he asking her or was he telling her when he spoke. She did not know if she was supposed to answer.

She felt like a little girl, scared and lost. She did not want to get it wrong; she did not want to let this man down. Marion heard the music start again, her body started moving, slow jerky movements, not really in time with the beat. The tune was the same as she heard him whistling when he had taken her. The dance continued as she circled the comatose male in front of her.

He just continued to stare into nothingness.

The office was in complete silence, the drama played out in real time on the small screens everyone was intently watching. The initial anticipation of a result reduced to helpless horror, as they realised that they had the wrong man.

Matthews broke into the silence as he entered the room. "Where the fuck is Bridger?"

"He's on his way back sir", Grant said. "It appears that Jonas had a hydroponic Cannabis operation in his warehouse. He has left the uniforms in charge of the scene. Becky is bringing Jonas in to the cells".

"That's all good and well but he practically assured me that he as good as had Marion back. Mrs. Watson is upstairs watching the same thing as you are. I don't have to tell you how she is feeling".

"Do you want me to go and sit with her", Jo suggested, "I have met with her before and may be able to offer her some comfort".

Matthews looked at Jo. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Jo Williamson, Sir, Sergeant Bridger asked me to help out for a few weeks in his team".

"Did he just, well he hasn't said anything to me about it......, well lucky for you there's not much I can do about it at the moment as Sergeant Bridger is not here to confirm it".

Jo stayed silent, unsure of how to respond.

"Go up and sit with her then, she's in the office next to mine..., I take it you know where that is, don't you?"

"Yes sir", Jo said, turning bright red.

"Well don't just stand there girl, get on with it".

"Yes sir".

Bridger's mood had not improved as he practically ran up the stairs to the second floor. The knuckles on his right hand were swelling slightly and he had pulled a muscle in his left shoulder. As he entered the corridor he caught site of Jo going through the door at the other end, he was still looking in that direction when he collided with Matthews coming out the office door. Bridger pushed past him and into the office without a word. He could feel Matthews stare drilling into his back but did not care. He still had a job to do. Marion was still out there and he had wasted enough time on bullshit.

"Where are we at?" he asked Grant.

"There's been a development. We have an unknown male in the shot now. He seems to be strapped to some kind of upright gurney. Sam the tech has managed to zoom in a bit and it appears he is still breathing, although he looks fairly out of it".

Bridger was looking at the monitor and could see Marion dancing around in a strange waltz with her invisible partner. She was circling the male Grant had described, who was not paying any attention to the show. There was a vaguely familiar tune playing in the background.

"There's also been a bit of dialogue, Mike. It was more of the same about Marion being his mother, and then something about the male being his father. It sounds like he wants Marion to put right some issues he had with his childhood".

"Could the male in the shot be the one who is holding Marion?" Bridger asked.

"Not unless he is a ventriloquist who can throw his voice", Sam said. "The feed is live, it hasn't been pre recorded. He is somewhere nearby though, watching everything. I would say he is the one controlling the puppet strings as well, a real one man band".

"How are we getting on with finding out where that place is", Bridger said, looking directly at Sam.

Sam looked at the far corner of the room.

Bridger followed his gaze and saw the two pale geeks from Revenge.com working feverishly on a computer. He did not know whether the reek of cannabis he could now smell was coming from them or from his exposure to what was growing in the warehouse.

"As soon as they know, we will know", Sam said.

Bridger looked at Grant, the question unspoken. Grant just shrugged his shoulders. "We need all the help we can get", he said.

"Where was Jo going when I came in?" Bridger asked the room.

"She's upstairs with Mrs. Watson", Matthews said loudly.

Bridger looked behind him, he had not realised Matthews was still there, his bulky frame almost obscuring the doorframe.

"Have you got anything to add, oh gracious leader", Bridger said sarcastically.

The look of contempt in Matthews's eyes was unmistakable. "I'll see you in my office Sergeant".

Bridger turned his back on Matthews and was about to say something.

"Now", Matthews growled.

"Yes sir".

Jo was sitting opposite Mrs. Watson; the computer monitor was glowing on the table beside them. Its ghastly images seared into both of their minds. Neither of them had to look at the screen to know what was going on. Mrs. Watson had been crying, Jo could tell that as soon as she walked into the room. She looked like she was about to say something to her then stopped herself and looked at the floor.

"Is there anything I can get you Mrs. Watson? I'm here to help you as best I can while we locate Marion".

"Both Glenn and Gregg promised me that they knew where Marion was and she would be fine", Mrs. Watson said. "Now Glenn has disappeared to god knows where and Gregg is being elusive. It is just like what happened that night, years ago. You can't trust the police, you couldn't then and you can't now".

Jo guessed that Gregg was inspector Matthews but she had no idea who Glenn was.

"All I can see of my daughter is what that bloody computer shows me. Don't you people have computer people who can work out where she is"?

"We have a person working on that right now Mrs. Watson, he is doing the best he can".

Mrs. Watson just looked at her as if she was something she had stepped in. Jo did not know what to say so looked away. She caught a glimpse of Matthews and Bridger walking into the office next door. Matthews was full of outraged importance, Bridger had the look of a petulant schoolboy.

Detective work had always appealed to her, ever since she had first walked into a police station wearing her brand new uniform. The Detectives were always smartly dressed and had a look of confidence about them that the hard working and mostly junior uniform staff were missing. The Detectives all looked to have their lives on track, job prospects sorted. They were like adults and she still felt like a teenager in need of guidance.

While in uniform she felt she was always rushing from one job to another, never having time to do anything that made a difference. She wanted more from her job; she wanted to be involved in solving the crime she attended.

She thought about Bridger and about what she had just seen. She was not normally one to form opinions on people so quickly, she preferred to give them a chance to show whom they really were. She was not sure that Detective Sergeant Bridger would fit into that category. She had not met him before last weekend but had seen him about and heard from other people their mixed opinions of him. He certainly seemed pre occupied to her now and she could not recall him not smelling of stale alcohol. It looked as if he was human after all.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can get you Mrs. Watson?"

"No thank you Constable. I think I've had enough from the police to last me a lifetime".

Jo looked at the elderly woman sitting in front of her; she could see that she was upset, the way she kept glancing at the computer. It looked as if she was reassuring herself that Marion was still alive.

Marion had been dancing for a good ten minutes, if you could call it dancing. Attached to the wooden frame she looked like Pinocchio, a wooden toy manipulated by a child. Movements' jerky, uncoordinated. That tune playing in the background was vaguely familiar to Jo, something from her childhood. Memories were stirring of her parent's living room, music playing on the Hi Fi system her father was so proud to own. The name of it was on the tip of her tongue, but yet still elusive. Mrs. Watson was subconsciously humming along with the tune, eyes closed now, lost in her own thoughts. A single tear running down the paper like skin on her cheeks, lined with faint purple veins.

"Do you know what this tune is Mrs. Watson?" Jo asked.

Mrs. Watson's eyes opened slowly rose a little and stared right back at Jo. Although they had eye contact, Jo was doubtful Mrs. Watson was actually seeing her. Her eyes had a deep faraway look about them.

"Mrs. Watson, do you know what this tune is? It might be helpful to us in finding your daughter".

"I remember this from a long time ago, Constable. It was a time in my past that I thought I would never have to revisit. A song was so popular at the time. It played constantly on the radio, hundreds of times a day. I remember it well. I was so young back then, younger than you are now. I did not know anything of life. I was a naive little girl, a stupid little girl. It is life's greatest tragedy, the fact that we only gain the knowledge and maturity, as we get older. It is too late by then, the choices you make as you grow from child to adult shapes the way you live the rest of your life. I thought I knew it all, I thought I was so grown up. My whole life was ahead of me, but all I could see was what was in front of me at the time".

Mrs. Watson was shivering and she was holding back more tears as she spoke.

"I have tried telling Marion that her whole life, she needs to make the right choices. I thought she was going to be okay when she did so well in her first few years at university. Ever since she met that boy, her attitudes have changed though. She is making the same choices I made. It will ruin her".

Jo looked at the computer monitor thinking that it will not only be her choices shaping her life now. Marion looked in no state to make any choices even if she was able.

"Are you involved with anyone Constable?"

"I have a boyfriend Mrs. Watson; we have been seeing each other for a few years".

"I hope he treats you right, they don't all act the same I'm told. My experience with men has not been so blissful unfortunately".

Jo wanted to press Mrs. Watson on the name of the tune, in case it was important, but thought better of it. Mrs. Watson looked like she wanted to talk. Maybe it would keep her mind off Marion while they were trying to find her. She moved her chair closure to Mrs. Watson and put a hand on her knee. Surprisingly Mrs. Watson placed a hand on top of hers and gripped it tightly. She started crying, long pitiful sobs. The floodgates opened in the dam that had so long held back her darkest emotions.

Jo sat there and let her cry.

Beth was standing outside his house. It was cold; the clouds still hung low in the sky, not letting her feelings escape into the blueness. That is where they belonged, in the sky, not inside her, eating her away from the pit of her bowels. When she was younger she watched the birds, she loved how they were free. She imagined them taking her feelings and flying away to a place where those feelings belonged. There were no birds today.

She knew he lived here, she had seen him go inside before, because she had followed him home on many occasions. He did not want her knowing where he lived, but she would know. She needed to know. He was part of her life; she had opened up to him. She deserved to know. She had given herself to him, only him. He had felt so good, he connected with her, understood her, as they lay there on the cheap carpet that lined the floor of his office. They could talk about anything. They had talked about everything. She loved him.

Then he had started talking about Marion. That bitch. He was obsessed with her.

There was no answer at the door. She had knocked, banged and kicked, yelling into the frosted glass. The only movement was the distorted reflection staring back at her. She actually liked what she saw, an abstract version of her face. She stood and stared at it, analyzing every curve and slant. This is what I really look like.

She could not see through the windows, the shut curtains inside the house blocking the view, but then so were many in that street. Where the fuck is he, she thought, he would be with Marion that much she knew.

She looked around desperately, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, or her. Then that was silly; he was not likely to be walking along the street with her. Hand in hand, like some star crossed lovers. Was that what she was, his lover. That bitch Marion with her claws all over him. That little story he had fed her about getting even with her just a cover for them to be together.

"Fuck you Marion", she screamed at the top of her voice. "Fuck you and all your family to. Perfect little Marion, got to have it all don't you".

She picked up a rock from the garden and hurled it through the glass in the front door. Then she moved out on to the front lawn and threw another one through the front window, and the one beside that. Sitting on the front lawn, she put her head in her hands and started to cry uncontrollably. Across the street a curtain flickered, the person behind it holding a phone to their ear.

Beth did not notice.

"I'm beyond helping you now Sergeant", Matthews growled. "You assured me that this Jonas was the only likely suspect. That you would put this whole mess, to bed and we would have Marion back. I am not blind or stupid and neither is Mrs. Watson. Marion is clearly still hanging on a butcher's hook, in god knows where, waiting for a mad man to figure out what fetish he wants to play out next. You're not thinking clearly, your decisions have let you down again".

Fuck you Matthews, you fat lazy bastard, Bridger thought. "With respect, when have you ever helped me sir".

"It's not my fucken job to help you Bridger, you're not the only person under my supervision. You are supposed to be role model to the younger staff. You have pushed it to far this time; your alcohol dependence has crossed over into your work".

"I'm not an alcoholic", Bridger snarled.

"Whatever you want to call it Sergeant, it's up to you. You are going to have lot of time to think about it. I am putting you on sick leave as of now. Do not expect to be back at work either; I am going to push for a disciplinary hearing. You will be lucky you don't end up handing out parking tickets for the rest of your life".

Bridger was stunned, things were clearly at a crisis point and all he could see was his problems mincing about in his head in a purplish haze. There was no clear direction, no clear resolution. This fat pompous prick in front of him was not helping either, he thought. He had no other option but to go on the offensive.

"I don't know what it is about this Marion, sir, but I don't think you have been very forthcoming with help. You wanted me to deal with this as soon as it came in, normally a job for the wooden tops downstairs. Fill in a report and wait to see what happens".

"It's a bit more than a missing person now though isn't it Sergeant", Matthews growled.

"That's my point, Sir; it seems that you knew it was going to turn out this way. Get the CIB involved at the first instance, cut out the middle man, less chance of missing something, less chance of a fuck up".

"If I wanted to avoid a fuck up, Bridger, I wouldn't have got you involved would I", Matthews said through clenched teeth. "As it happens the mother of this missing girl is a friend of Glenn Gallagher and she spoke to him first. He rang me and asked if I would deal with it. Unfortunately you were the only one on duty at the time".

Bridger looked at Matthews expecting something more.

"What is it with you and this Gallagher, why jump when he says?"

"That's all you're going to get sergeant, now get out of my office".

"So is that it, the only explanation I'm going to get. Am I still on this case or not?"

"What do you think Sergeant"?

Bridger backed out of the office, his anger barely contained. Matthews had not mentioned the beating he had given Jonas so he could not have heard yet. That will not take long though, he thought, as soon as Jonas completes the process downstairs he will make a complaint. He had the injuries plainly displayed on his face. The complaint will have to reported, and then he would really be for the high jump. There was no backing out of this one.

Turning around he caught a glimpse of Jo and Mrs. Watson in the next office. Mrs. Watson was in tears, but she was talking. Jo was studiously taking notes and offering comfort. The image of Marion was glowing behind the pair causing them to cast shadows on the floor. The image reminded Bridger of the shadow puppets he saw as a boy, shadow shapes created by all sorts of objects, manipulated to tell a story.

Usually it would be a fairytale involving good triumphing over evil. The shadows he saw now did not portray the image sitting on the chairs in front of the computer monitor. Jo's shadow was cowering under Mrs. Watson's shadow. Mrs. Watson's shadow was shaking and moving about like a demented witch, an ugly sister reprimanding a meek sibling, a tormentor, tormenting the tormented. Bridger stood by the door and listened to what Mrs. Watson was saying. She was speaking very quietly and her voice was shaky with sorrow.

"I was so young; you must understand that, he was my first boyfriend. He was my first for many things. We told each other we were in love, whatever that is to a silly young girl. He paid me a lot of attention in the beginning, pursued me you could say. I guess that is quite flattering somehow, having a male show me attention. He was so suave in his flashy uniform, a real heart breaker, and he wanted me. My father was a cold man you see, he found it hard to show his emotions. He was not abusive or anything, but he had a quiet menace about him, something I grew up fearing. So when I found out I was pregnant to this boy, I begged him to marry me as quickly as possible so I would not have to face my father's scorn, or the sanctimonious looks from the neighbors'. Life was difficult for young unmarried pregnant woman in those days. Children were labeled bastards and the mothers subjected to a lifetime of hardships. They had only just introduced the domestic purposes benefit but I would still have been too young to get it by a year. We were married on this day, a lifetime ago. I remember it was cold, my mother was complaining about it; my father was quiet, which was his way. They both knew about the pregnancy by then. He was a handsome boy; he looked so dashing in his black suit. I remember looking at him as the priest was speaking. I was so scared, but when he looked back at me and smiled, I thought at that moment that everything would be alright".

Mrs. Watson looked up and saw Bridger standing in the doorway; she looked away but did not continue to speak. Instead, she hugged herself tightly and started to rock slowly back and forth. Jo looked over at Bridger, realizing that Mrs. Watson needed privacy if she was going to continue she stood and went over to him.

"Sergeant I think she feels more comfortable if it's just me in the room", Jo whispered. "I think she needs to open up about something. If anything it will help keep her mind off what's happening with her daughter while you go find her".

Bridger looked back at Jo, her trusting innocent face. She had no idea of the state of play, all she saw was his rank and trusted in that completely.

I wish I had your confidence, he thought to himself. I feel like a pathetic mess of a man now.

"Just keep doing what you're doing", Bridger said. "If anything it will keep her mind off Marion for a while until we have better news. It's all we can do".

The only thing I can think of doing, he thought grimly, as he walked away.

Marion did not know how long she had been dancing for his pleasure. It seemed like an eternity, but what was time to her now, it was nothing but a distraction until the final act. Her body was weak with hunger and exhaustion; she had no control over her movements. The music kept playing repeatedly, as she circled around the light. She could not place the tune and she found to her surprise that it was making her angry. She hated not knowing something. The tune was sitting in the back of her mind with a name attached but she could quite make it out, however hard she tried.

The man tied up in front of her, the one he called father, had not moved or said anything since emerging into the light. She watched him closely every time she passed by, she had seen his eyes following her, those eyes, so deep and lost. They were empty, no glimmer of hope was visible in the darkness of the pupil, and the spark of life had retreated into his head, out of view from the outside world. She passed by again and she saw them move ever so slightly, just the eyes. Like a clowns head you threw balls in at a sideshow. They were following her movements. It was enough for her to believe she was not alone in this; another soul was here, living in torment alongside her.

Maybe they were both dead; then this must be the anteroom passed through on the way to the gates of hell. It made sense; no god would put anyone through this before reaching the salvation of heaven.

Desperately she searched her memories for the times she had done something in her life that would lead her on this path if she died. She could not think of anything hateful she had done to attract the devils attention. She was not religious, not really. She had been to Sunday school as a child but never paid any attention to the lessons, but everybody knew the teachings of heaven and hell, religious or not.

Maybe that was it; she was not a believer, so that left her off the list of protected persons. Leaving her exposed to the reaches of hell.

The music faded out to silence.

The dancing stopped abruptly leaving her swaying back and forth.

"I think you two have had enough time to get reacquainted, it's time we moved on. Father I hope you liked the way mother danced.

From what I remember, you never saw that side of her. Although I only remember the later years, the years when mother used to dance alone in the room, hugging herself and humming the tune.

What went on when I was too young to remember I guess I will never know. If I asked you, it would be all lies anyway. How can it be anything but lies coming from you, mother? It is not as if it was any different than I remember. Nothing can end up as it did without a beginning.

You chose him knowing deep down that he was going to be the death of you. His lack of self-control must have been evident even to you. No one can hide their true selves for long when you know each other intimately.

What I do not understand mother, is that you chose him for me as well, knowing what he was like.

You made that decision for me. I had no choice. You put me in harm's way.

It is your turn to protect me now mother. You will see to that won't you"?

Jo went and sat back down. "Take your time Mrs. Watson, anything you tell us could be very helpful". Mrs. Watson looked back at Jo; she had a faraway look in her eyes.

"I didn't know what he was like, not really. We had only been seeing each other for a few months. You could not live with anyone before marriage in those days. It was not the 'done' thing. We had nowhere to go... to... well, when we wanted to be intimate. I always thought that my first time would be special. It turned out to be a short, uncomfortable, passionless thing in the back of his smelly old car, parked at the top of signal hill. Not very romantic, I know, but enough to create a life. It was not until after we were married and living together, that he let his true feelings show. He was not earning a lot of money, they were not paid as well as you are these days, he had only really just started his job. We lived in a small house in the Leith Valley. It was always cold in the winter, the sun never showed its face".

Mrs. Watson shivered with the memory

"He liked a drink, and it was what he did best. He always had money for the drink. We were really just getting to know each other when the baby arrived. He was not violent at first. It was more what he said to me that hurt. He thought I had got pregnant on purpose just to trap him. He was happy enough to be screwing me in the back of his car, but he still said that I took the decision about the course of his life from him. After the baby arrived, he spent more and more time at the pub, I hardly ever saw him. I found myself trapped in the house; I was too scared to take the baby out into the cold. My parents were no use; my father had practically disowned me. He forbade my mother to visit me. I had few friends, and even less when the baby arrived. I felt very isolated and alone. I was only just coping with things. It was as if he owned me. I was his possession to do with what he wanted. I was an absolute mess".

Jo looked at Mrs. Watson, trying to compare the person sitting in front of her to the person she was describing. She looked so normal, it is funny the secrets people hide on the inside. I guess you could never know what went on in anybody's head, she thought.

You could live with someone day in and day out, but unless you had the ability to read minds, you would never really know a person.

Gillian Holler was in a foul mood, apart from the fact that her face looked like a blueberry muffin with the black eye; she had been in court all morning giving evidence in a drink driving case. The defendant, a middle-aged bank executive had employed a very expensive lawyer to argue that Gillian had not provided him with the proper disclosure. The argument was irrelevant in her eyes, as the lack of disclosure related to forms that had nothing to do with the fact that she had stopped the defendant driving his expensive car at twice the legal speed limit and almost twice the legal drink drive limit. The fact that he was the most obnoxious person she had ever met on the night in question was not a factor either. The thing she hated most out of the whole thing was, after the judge had ruled not guilty on technical grounds, the defendant had smiled and winked at her while she sat in court, open mouthed at the stupidity of a system that allowed such decisions.

She had returned to the police station in search of a soothing cup of tea and quiet corner to lick her wounds. She had only just put the water in the kettle when Steve came into the meal room and told her that they had an urgent job to attend.

Steve was driving at a crazy speed; he had already had a few near misses as he barreled through intersections against the red signals. He always seemed to think that the lights and sirens would stop any other motorist in their tracks; leaving the way clear for their speeding patrol car to speed towards whatever emergency required their presence. Gillian flinched as she heard the screeching of brakes to her left. Another car travelling through a green light had little time to react as they flashed through another intersection.

"Bloody hell that was close", Steve said. "Useless bloody drivers, can't they see we're in a hurry here".

Gillian's knuckles were white against the handles on the passenger door, her left foot making useless attempts to apply an imaginary brake.

"Bloody well slow down will you Steve; it sounds like the girl has stopped throwing rocks. We actually want to get there don't we"?

If Steve took any insult from her comments, he did not show it.

"Sorry Gill, it's a priority one job, that's why we have lights and sirens isn't it".

Gill was about to argue the point, but realised they had arrived at the scene when Steve suddenly stood hard on the brakes and pulled over to the curb.

"Darling we're home", he said, smiling to himself at his attempt at humor.

Thank god for that, Gillian thought.

Getting out of the car into the cold, she tried pulling her jacket tight around her neck. The stab proof vest she was wearing making the task all but impossible. The temperature in this part of town always seemed to be a few degrees colder than other areas.

Steve was on the other side of the car rubbing his hands together but still wearing short sleeves under his vest, the tails of a tattoo peeking from underneath, mottled with Goosebumps.

"Right where's she at then", he said, looking about.

Gillian looked towards the house and saw the damage to the windows, large shards of glass were scattered on the concrete path below. The sound of breaking glass at the rear of the property answered Steve's question. She could hear a hysterical female voice screaming, "Daniel, I know you're in there, you and that bitch. I am going to break every part of this house until you come out and see me. Let me in you prick. I love you Daniel, do you hear me. I love you".

"Steve you go that way and I'll go this way", she said, pointing to the side of the house.

Gillian made her way cautiously down the side of the house. A window shattered above her, showering her in glass. Brushing the glass from her hair, she felt a sharp pain in her hand. Bringing her hand down and opening her palm, she saw the warm blood oozing out of a cut about an inch long. Looking up she saw a familiar face advancing towards her. The face was gaunt and tear streaked the person behind it agitated and lost. Her eyes were almost vacant.

"Beth, what the hell is going on", Gillian demanded.

Beth stopped still and stared at her strangely. Gillian realised she was staring at the blood dripping from her hand. She opened her palm towards her. Beth recoiled slightly at the sight. She raised her arm towards Gillian and pointed a weak finger at her injury.

"Did he do that to you?" she asked.

"No Beth, I cut myself on some glass. Did you break that window?"

"I have to get in there, I need to see him. He did not answer the door; I know he has her in there with him. I cannot let her have him. Can you ask him to come out? You can make him, you're the police".

Steve had come up behind Beth and looked at Gillian, he pointed to the blood on her hand and pointed at Beth, mouthing the words, did she do it. Beth had sensed the movement behind her and backed up against the wall. "Get away from me, I haven't done anything. He has, he is the one. Just leave me alone". She slid down the wall and sat hunched over hugging her legs. "He's the one, he's the one", she started to repeat quietly to herself.

"Isn't that Beth?" Steve asked Gillian.

"Déjà vu", Gillian said as she crouched down beside her.

"Beth", she said quietly, "What's happening. Did you break the windows? Whose house is this?"

Beth did not answer, just carried on repeating, "He's the one".

"Well Beth, I'm arresting you for criminal damage to these windows", Gillian said, as she took Beth under the arms and stood her up.

"She's having another episode", Steve said, waving his hands in front of her vacant eyes and clicking his fingers.

"Steve, that's not helping. See if anyone is inside, it might be able to help us with why Beth has broken all these windows if we know who it is. If there is no one home, talk to a neighbor and find out who lives here. I'll take Beth to the car and see if she will calm down a bit".

"Rather you than me", he said.

This girl has some real issues, Gillian was thinking. Beth was sitting next to her in the back of the car just staring straight ahead. Eyes dead still, her breath was short and rapid. Gillian had no luck in getting Beth to say anything. She had just succeeded in frustrating herself in the process, her earlier bad mood not helping much. Gillian jumped as Steve opened the door and slumped into the seat.

"No one's home, I talked to the neighbor across the road and she was not much help. All she could tell me was that he was a middle-aged man, lived alone and possibly worked at the university. I think she is the one who called us but she did not let on. I could not get inside the house but I could see into most of the broken windows. It was strange; there were no pictures on the walls. I could not see any personal effects either. Who lives like that?"

"Well Beth seems to know who it is", Gillian said. "Trouble is she's not talking again. I think we should contact the mental health crisis team to come and asses her. Maybe they can get her to talk".

"Sounds like a plan", Steve said, starting the car.

### Chapter Twenty Six

"Why did you have me mother? I know I was an accident, but why did you bother to continue with the pregnancy? I was such a hindrance to you. You could never show your emotion towards me could you. You were such a cold unfeeling person. I grew up in a world of confusion and pain. I did not understand at first, why other children at school spoke of happy times at home or what they got up to with their families over a weekend. I could not understand why we did none of those things.

I could not deal with it, I thought there was something wrong with me mother. I was a broken favorite toy, something of no use but you could not quite see a reason to throw it away.

Well you did throw it away mother, you threw away what could have been. Choices mother, it is all about choices. Only we decide our path in life, you were blind to your path. You chose to follow someone else's. His path was his alone and he resented you being on it mother, that is why he did what he did.

If you walk on someone else's path, you have to follow their rules. It is their decisions you have to take as your own. He had the right mother and you knew that, that is why you never left him. You would have been lost on his path with no way back to your own, a life in limbo.

There is always life's leeches' mother, those who cannot function on their own and attach themselves to others, sucking the life out of them slowly.

Father was the one who taught me how to deal with those people, mother. He showed me how and why. You were his muse to those lessons mother. He was an effective teacher if he was anything.

Well you know better than I...do

I do not need to tell you about that do I mother.

However, I have grown up now. I see things differently. The remnants of those lessons have plagued my life. I once read you can hard wire something into someone's brain by repetitive actions. It is like addiction; the brain thinks it is normal and tells the rest of the body to react if it sees any deviance from its craving.

Two people who had no idea of that concept hard wired my brain. You were too busy dealing with your own addictions to worry about what my future cravings would be.

It might surprise you to know that I have changed. I have almost made it. I just need to put this one thing behind me and then I shall be at peace with myself.

It's the only thing left to conquer".

Mrs. Watson was still crying but had calmed down enough to keep talking. Jo had refreshed her cup of tea she was cradling it between two hands looking into the cup, almost as if searching for a message of hope in the tealeaves. Jo had turned the sound off on the monitor, the live images of a wretched young puppet bride that was Marion flickering quietly now in the background. Mrs. Watson had turned away from the screen; the sight was now only visible to Jo. Maybe its better she does not keep watching, Jo thought. If anything changes for the worse, she would be able to divert her attention before causing her too much alarm.

"You know Constable; I have some deep regrets about my earlier life and what I put my baby through because of that. What he must have seen in the years with me, what he must have thought of me. I will not give you any of that rubbish about how afraid I was of my husband, or what he would do to me if I left, that would be untrue. I was not afraid. It was only pain. I could handle the pain if it meant that my child would have roof over his head, food on the table. His job was what scared me the most; it made asking for help almost impossible. Looking back at the hypocrisy of it all, I cannot believe I put up with it.

I was weak you see. I did not think I would be able survive on my own. I certainly would not be able to do it with a child. My father had disowned me, he was a proud man and it was his way. I was his princess once, but I was sullied by a boy in his eyes and those of the friends and neighbors'' he looked up to. With no support it was all I could do".

Jo was a few sentences behind Mrs. Watson in her note taking. She looked at her messy scrawl and re read the last few points. She almost missed it and at first, she thought she had made a mistake. She had recorded 'He' as the sex of the baby Mrs. Watson was talking about.

"Excuse me Mrs. Watson, did you say the baby was your son and not Marion".

"Yes Constable, she said. His name was Daniel, but he died a long time ago".

"I grew up in those years, faster than I would have liked. I missed my childhood. I had seen too much to have the innocent wonder of a child's belief. I do not know if you remember mother, but I stopped playing with toys at a young age, not that I ever had many.

I remember that day vividly, my toys would not react to anything I did to them. They had no feelings. They took their punishment and then lay there broken, mocking my attempts to hurt them.

I threw them away and never, ever, touched a silly child's toy again. It was my way of gaining control over them.

Control was what I found myself craving. You had no control mother, father could not control himself, but at least he could control you. In my eyes that gave him power, power to decide, power to feed his cravings at will.

At least he was living mother; it was more than what you were doing.

I bet it came as a relief the day he made the biggest choice of all for you.

It certainly changed my life".

After leaving Jo with Mrs. Watson, Bridger had made his way back to the office. He was damned if he was going to let Matthews dictate what he did today. He had too much invested in this to leave it now. Grant looked up from the computer screen as he walked in the door.

"Are you all right Mike?" he said, with a concerned look on his face. "Becky's just phoned from the custody suite; she told me what happened back at the warehouse with Jonas".

"The prick just pissed me off Grant; I was out of order whatever the reason though".

"Well I didn't see what happened there Mike so I'm not going to comment".

"Thanks Grant, are we any further ahead with finding her location?", he said, as he looked towards the three computer nerds who had now joined forces and were all huddled around one monitor in quiet discussion.

"Those three haven't said much since you was here last, I haven't seen or heard anything in the dialogue to give us any clues yet. I have had John checking on missing persons and friends of Marion to see if we can ID the male but no luck. It seems he is an unknown at this stage. From what I have heard so far, after she stopped dancing, is about his childhood with his mother. It sounds like he grew up in an abusive home. He blames his mother for it. I'm not sure what he has planned but I bet it's not going to be pleasant".

"It seems everyone has a past they don't want to remember", Bridger said, "Mrs. Watson is upstairs telling Jo about when she fell pregnant with Marion. It sounds like her family wasn't happy with that either".

"The worlds a messed up place", Grant said, as they both looked back at the image of Marion hanging limply next to the comatose male, all bathed in an unnatural light.

Becky walked into the office behind them and sat at her desk. Bridger looked over towards her but could not detect anything in her neutral expression.

"I've booked Jonas into the cells, he refused any medical attention, and before you ask, he hasn't made any complaint, yet".

The tone of Becky's voice made Bridger feel like a twelve year old, reprimanded by the mistress for smoking behind the sheds.

"Thanks Becky", was all he managed to say.

Becky looked back at Bridger, but did not say anything. He saw the slight shake of her head as she looked down at her desk and began writing in her notebook. Bridger looked away slightly embarrassed just as Brian Johnson walked into the office.

"Change of plea at the 11th hour, guilty on all counts", he said cheerily. "Le Cruick has been remanded in custody for sentencing in a couple of weeks". The smile on his face faded as he looked around the room, "Where are you at with the missing girl", he said.

"Have a look", Bridger said, pointing at the computer.

His eyes focused on the computer screen nearest to him and widened slightly as he took in the macabre drama playing out on the screen. "That doesn't look good. You had better fill me in on what's happening Mike".

"To be honest Brian we have been chasing our tails a bit, lets grab a quick coffee in the canteen", Bridger said, "I need the caffeine hit".

As they made their way out of the office, Bridger felt himself relaxing a little, Brian's calm confidence boosting his mood. A fresh pair of eyes was maybe what they needed to make sense of what had turned out to be a fast moving day.

"I don't want anything to happen to my daughter, Constable". Mrs. Watson said. "Don't let that man hurt her, I don't think I could cope with that". She looked back at the screen, reached out and touched the surface, stroking Marion's face through the glass. She then quickly turned her head away and took a deep breath, stifling more tears before they overcame her.

"How did your son die, Mrs. Watson?" Jo asked, wanting to get back on track.

"I don't want you to judge me Constable; you must remember it was a different time in my life. I was a different person. I am stronger now, which is why I will tell you. I haven't spoken of that time to any one since it happened".

Mrs. Watson took Jo's hand in hers again and looked into her eyes.

"I let him kill my son", she said.

Jo was unsure of what to say next so just remained silent. She gave Mrs. Watson's hand a little squeeze in reassurance.

"I need to tell you why though; you have to hear what I have to say before you form an opinion on that".

"Okay", Jo said quietly

"He broke me; day after day he worked on me with his words. Then his words turned to fists and he hurt me. The first few years he was careful about where he hit me. He left only bruises in places no one saw. After a while, he realised that I would not say anything so he got careless. He hit me wherever he pleased. He left whatever mark on me he felt like and would smile while he did it. The only way I could cope was to close myself off from the world. My son suffered more from my neglect than from his father's fists.

Daniel grew up a very unhappy child because of me. You know I do not think I have ever seen a child that did not know how to play. Daniel used to sit in his room with his toys spread around him. He would be quietly mumbling to himself but not really interacting with them. He could not play. I know it is because of what was happening inside the wooden box we lived in. Every day of his life, the box sealed itself that much tighter. Layer upon layer of tape added to the outside until it completely sealed. There was no escape for him. He was just a child. I was the one holding the scissors, the one who could cut the tape binding the lid. I was too afraid.

It is not right. I know that now. I have worked that out with the benefit of time. I have developed a maturity since those days, I will never really get over it but I have learned to live with it, in my own way. Daniel never got that chance. I let him down. He paid the price that was my debt. Sometimes I wish I had died that night as well.

I used to pray for death, Constable. It was the only end I could see to my pitiful existence".

"What happened", Jo asked gently.

"It got so bad one night that I actually called for help. After finishing with me, he had turned his attention to Daniel. He beat that boy black and blue. After he had had his fill, he left the house and went out drinking. Daniel was crying in the bathroom. When I went in to see him, he was naked from the waist down, his buttocks covered in faeces. He was desperately trying to scrub his underwear clean. You see, Daniel had lost control of his bowels while his father carried on hitting him. He looked so embarrassed; tears and snot were mixing with blood from his nose.

The poor boy was beside himself. Maybe it was that sight that finally got through to me, I realised we needed to reach out for help.

So I called the police".

Brian sat across the table from Bridger, his demeanor more of a father figure than a colleague. Bridger had found himself opening up to him over the cup of coffee, more than discussing the case; he unburdened himself completely in a rush of words. He did not feel embarrassed, he felt relieved. Two men, face to face, no secrets, completely shut off to the outside world. To anyone on the outside watching it would have been a weirdly intimate sight.

"Jesus Mike, you have got yourself in a tight situation. Are you holding up?" He asked the question without judgment.

"Just about..., well as much as always I think".

"You were in the army went you?"

Bridger did not understand the question.

"That was a long time ago Brian, I wasn't really suited to the overbearing authority, to hard headed according to my superiors".

"What I'm getting at is that you must have learnt to take orders without question, whatever you thought about them. This job can be like that sometimes. You just have to shut up and take it".

Bridger looked at Brian; he seemed so in control, level headed.

"Maybe it would have been better if you had put your hand up for this job Brian. You did an exceptional job relieving in the position".

"Well that's all academic now, putting your personal life aside, it's your job and you either have to man up and do it, or do as Matthews says and go and hide in a corner waiting to be transferred to the dark side... Are you up to it, Mike"?

Bridger looked at Brian's face; he could not see a trace of judgment in his expression. A face you could trust, calm under pressure and he always listened.

"Let's get this done", Bridger said.

"Good man", Brian replied as he rose from his chair, an indication to Bridger that it was time to get to work.

"What are you going to do about Matthews?" Brian was saying as they walked along the corridor.

"I'm just going to ignore him for the moment, stay out of his way and finish this job. I may have a better bargaining position then if it comes to a disciplinary hearing".

"That's not going to be an easy thing to put behind you Mike. If Jonas makes a complaint you could lose your job".

"He would be well within his rights to throw me to the wolves Brian and I wouldn't blame him if he did". Better not to think about that now.

The bright light went out suddenly leaving the room in absolute darkness. It was a welcome relief to Marion, not having to see that poor pitiful man in front of her. She had tried to make a connection with him as she hung there, but his eyes betrayed nothing except hopelessness. That was not what she wanted. She wanted him to be strong. She wanted him to make her feel hope. She had begun to feel like he was letting her down. He was a male; he was supposed to be the hero. She wanted him to break free from his shackles and come to her rescue. All he showed her was despair and frailty. She hated this man.

Marion sensed some movement in the darkness, a sudden shifting of air. She could hear the sound of shallow breathing next to her ear, first one side then the other. She could feel hot breath on her cheek, the disgusting wet sucking sound of a tongue flicking in and out of dry lips. She knew it was the shadow, invisible in the darkness. Marion bucked against her bonds; she tried to force her hands to lash out against the darkness, hoping to connect with something, anything to dispel the inhuman nightmare he had become.

A strong hand gripped her wrist, stopping her movements. The pressure was excruciating, somebody thrust an object into her palm, something hard, cold, and cylindrical. She felt a hand close her fingers around the shaft and held them closed. The hand released the pressure on her wrist, the free hand now wrapping tape around her closed fingers.

She heard a whisper in her ear.

"A gift mother, the power to help yourself".

Then the shadow was gone.

"Something's happened to the feed", Grant said urgently. "We've lost the picture". He was now staring at a black screen, the last image of Marion still fresh in his mind.

"According to this, the feed is still live," Sam said, indicating a row of numbers flashing across the bottom of his computer. "The lights must have gone out. Can you hear anything?"

Grant turned up the volume and lent his head closer to the computer monitor.

"You're right I can still hear some movement, it doesn't sound like much is going on though", Grant said.

"How much noise does a murder actually make?" John said. "It's not like on the telly is it? One thrust of a knife in the right place. You wouldn't hear that would you".

"Bloody hell John, let's hope that's not what is happening", Becky said; "Besides it doesn't fit with what's already happened. I don't think he's finished yet, this mad man has more in store for poor Marion".

The room went quiet, the two computer geeks either side of Sam had lost all colour in their faces. The more slovenly of the two, Jack Woolich, looked like he was about to vomit. They were all looking at the computer screens, waiting for the lights to come on, hoping it would make John a liar.

"What's going on?" Bridger said, as he and Brian came into the office.

"The lights have gone out on Marion", Grant said. "The feed is still running so it's not a malfunction. I think he may be doing something that he doesn't want broadcast".

"Well we can only wait until it comes back on I guess", said Bridger.

"Right, let's take this opportunity to quickly assess where we are at with our inquiries", Brian said, looking at Mike.

Bridger took the cue handed to him by Brian.

"Ok everybody listen up", he said.

Gillian was sitting with Beth in one of the interview rooms on the first floor. The Senior Sergeant in charge of the cellblock had refused to have her in the cells, saying it would tie up his only staff member with the constant monitoring Beth would require.

God forbid you would actually have to do some work, thought Gillian.

It did not help her mood much, but at least it was warm. She had given Steve the job of contacting the mental health crisis team to come and assess their detainee; she just hoped that he would convey the urgency of the situation. Having this girl tie up her time for any longer than was required was not something she relished.

Beth was sitting on the floor in the corner; she was hugging her legs, tucked up to her chest, slowly rocking back and forth. She had not said anything since her arrest. Gillian's dislike for this girl was growing.

"Look Beth, you have to tell us what's going on, it's the only way to help you. Why were you at that house breaking windows", Beth just stared at her with vacant eyes.

What is going on inside that head of yours, Gillian thought.

There was a knock at the door and Steve put his head inside the room. "The crisis team is on another job, they reckon they will be here in about two hours".

Gillian looked at her watch. "That's bloody great; we will be well past knocking off time by then".

"Sorry Gill, I tried to convince them to hurry up but they weren't having it. I'll see if I can convince the next shift to take over when they get here".

"Yeah, good luck with that", Gillian said sarcastically, looking back at the empty dark eyes of the girl sitting in the corner.

Steve closed the door leaving the two alone once more.

"Well Beth, looks like it's just you and me for the foreseeable future", Gillian sighed. "We might as well get to know each other a little".

Beth just sat there quietly rocking.

The lights came back on, making Marion blink. Squinting she could see that the male in the suit was still in front of her. He had not even registered the lights coming back on, his pupils not reacting the way they should. With his large pupils and wide eyes, he looked almost comical. A small smile twitched involuntarily at the corner of her mouth. Looking to her left, she realised what the object was taped into her hand. The light was glinting off the edge of a large blade, attached to the rounded hilt she had clasped in her palm.

Marion gagged, wild thoughts fighting for attention inside her head, many different scenarios, each ending badly.

"What do you think of your gift, mother? Does it make you feel powerful? Brave enough to help yourself? Brave enough to protect me? Well to be honest mother I do not actually care how it makes you feel. It is only a tool; I am giving you this as a final resort. You spent years not protecting me; I do not have time to wait for you to reach any decisions about that and try to change things. It is too late for that, so now I am just speeding up the process.

This will end a lifetime of self-doubt and darkness.

I remember vividly the day things changed. It no longer became just about the violence, a wall went up between you and me. We have not breached that wall, ever since that day.

Do you remember when it happened, mother? It was when father beat me so badly that I shit my pants. I was in the bathroom trying to clean myself up and you came in. You just stared at me with disgust in your eyes. I was so ashamed, I felt humiliated.

I hated you for that, I did not want anyone to see me but you called the police.

I remember two police officers at the door, in the darkness. They looked so huge to me. I was only a child. They looked at me with the same eyes as you mother, not caring.

You were standing there in your ripped nightdress, showing your world to them.

One of them sat in the lounge with me while you took the other one to your bedroom. The one in the lounge just sat there staring at me, not saying a word, as the muffled rhythmic sound of your coupling came from down the hall.

That's right mother, I have grown up now, experienced it for myself. I know exactly what you were doing that night and on all the other nights after that when father was out.

Did you think I was stupid? I used to lie awake at night listening to it, the disgusting animal sounds that operate used to make.

Did you like the uniform mother, was that what got you? The uniform of the protector, the uniform called upon to sweep up life's detritus.

You showed me that I would never be safe, that even the protector would not protect me.

You corrupted the uniform; you drew in the man like a serpent temptress in twisted version of the Garden of Eden.

You made the uniform eat the apple; only god did not punish you as he did the serpent. He punished me.

Even father could not see what was before his eyes. He just carried on blindly.

What did you get from it mother?"

Marion listened to the ranting of the shadow not quite comprehending his tirade.

The arm that was holding the knife started to move, the blade flashing back and forth, light was glinting off the sharp edge. It came closer and closer to the waistband of her dress, her brain unable to control the mechanical movement. She felt a slight pressure on her stomach as the blade ran across it, no pain, but followed by a warm wet feeling. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw the rosy bloom spread across the white of her dress.

She looked back into the darkness and felt nothing.

"This is the bit that I'm most ashamed of Constable", Mrs. Watson said. "This is where it should have ended, but it didn't. I made a choice and it was the wrong one. It took a lot for me to call the police that night; you must understand that, he always told me to keep myself to myself. He told me that it was our business and no one else's. They would be too busy with their own matters to listen to me. He would know that better than most.

The police came that night, when they stood in the doorway I could have cried. Just the sight of them standing there was offering us a way out. I should have taken it. The older one introduced himself as Glenn, I do not remember the other ones name but he seemed to be the junior officer. Glenn asked me to speak with him in another room, the only one tidy enough was the bedroom. I could not have him see the mess we lived in so I took him in there. I was in such a state that I had not realised that my nightdress had ripped open.

Glenn obviously noticed. I saw he kept looking me up and down when he was speaking with me. I realised he could see more than he should. I tried to cover up a bit, he just told me not to bother. That it helped him to get a feel for what happened if he saw the state I was in at the time. At first, I was embarrassed, but he had a way of looking at me that I had not seen in my husband's eyes ever.

I was still young, I could not think for myself. My husband had seen to that. I was very subservient, to my husband, to anyone of authority. When he leaned over and kissed me, I just sat there and let him. When he pushed himself inside of me, it was nice at first, having a man who wanted me, who lusted after me. It made me feel special. It made me forget my terrible existence, if only for a moment.

It was over so quickly, he had not even taken his jacket off. He got up and buckled his trousers; I did not know what to say. He just stood there and looked at me with a strange look on his face. It must have been an age but he finally said that we must not tell anyone about what happened. I just nodded.

He watched as I put on my underwear and pulled down my nightdress. Then he walked with me into the lounge where the other officer was waiting with Daniel. I do not know if he even spoke to Daniel that night, Daniel never told me what happened. Glenn said he would call in to see how I was getting on over the next few days, and then they both just left.

The door shut and there we were, Daniel and I, still in the same room as before".

"That's awful Mrs. Watson", Jo said, getting angry. "They should have helped you, not take advantage of the situation".

"That's only the beginning Constable, Glenn would visit me after that, each time it would be the same. He always got his fill, and each time I would let him. I kept thinking this time he will help; this is the time that he will take us out of the situation. This went on for months, and my husband was still beating me. Glenn never made any comments about my cuts and bruises. I began to believe that there really was no help out there. If the police weren't bothered then who would be".

The elderly woman sitting in front of her captivated Jo, she could not take her eyes off her. She could see so much torment radiating from her eyes, only now finding an outlet after all these years.

Mrs. Watson continued to talk.

"Glenn always came when my husband was out; he had a knack of knowing when that would be. I just put my brave face on and got on with it. I will not lie to you constable, I did enjoy the sex. You know how it feels to have someone desire you. It makes you feel special. Well it did not take much for me to feel special in those days; I had nothing else in my life. I guess Glenn took advantage of that, but I let him.

One night when Glenn was visiting, my husband came home unexpectedly. I heard the front door shutting and he called out as he always did when he had been drinking. I could tell he was drunk just by his voice, that would usually mean I was going to be beaten. He did not need a reason anymore; he would just get drunk and beat me.

Glenn got up and grabbed what he could, opened the window and climbed out. It was actually quite comical seeing his bare buttocks disappearing out the window. He had me conditioned to what was going to happen next so I just sat there and looked at the door, waiting for what came next. It was like a routine for me, it almost did not feel right if he did not hit me at least once a day. He would show me how much he cared by hurting me, and I would crave his attention.

I saw it just as my husband came into the room, he saw it to, and then our eyes moved off Glenn's shirt and locked together. He knew that it was not his shirt and he was not stupid so I did not say anything. His face is something I will never forget. There was incredible rage in his features, but his eyes looked betrayed. Like a little boy, lost and hurt. I do not think he could comprehend how I would do that to him.

He delivered the first punch with more force than usual. I do not remember much after that, my eyes went blurry and my head started spinning. I do remember he climbed on top of me and then pushed himself inside. It was not sex... it was rape. It was not gentle, not that he ever was, but this time it felt like he was trying to hurt me on purpose. He did not say anything; I did not even hear him breathing.

When he was done, he stayed inside of me and began to hit my face, repeatedly.

The last thing I remember is feeling the bones in my face break, my cheeks and nose crushed under the weight of his fist. Before I fell unconscious, I prayed for an end that I would not wake into my life again. At that point, I felt that I was completely alone in the world. There was no one that would help me. I let myself slip into unconsciousness; I did not even fight it. I welcomed it with open arms. It would be my salvation.

I did not give my son Daniel any thought at all.

This all happened on the day of our wedding anniversary, we had both been so lost in our own wretched lives that we didn't even remember those dates anymore".

Mrs. Watson let out a pitiful sob, then closed her eyes tightly and started praying.

Jo looked at Mrs. Watson wondering if she would continue. She was completely enthralled with her story. The emotion was clear in her voice it created a vivid picture of what she was saying. She wondered who Glenn was, if he was still in the job. She hoped he was long gone; no police officer should act like that, taking advantage of vulnerable people. She would have to speak with Sergeant Bridger about it when she had the chance.

Jo looked back at the monitor behind her. She realised with a shock that Marion had a red stain spreading slowly across the middle of her dress, and she had a large knife in her hand.

Bloody hell, she thought, before switching off the monitor. Mrs. Watson did not need to see that.

The briefing was short and to the point. They were no further ahead with their enquiries. Every avenue they went down was a cul-de-sac leading them back to the beginning. Their meager attempts at brainstorming cut short by the resumption of transmission from the live feed. The office fell silent again; no one spoke as everyone listened to the voice talking to Marion. There was a collective intake of breath as the lights switched back and revealed the large knife taped to Marion's hand. Bridger could not hear anyone breathe now as they all watched the blade run across her stomach leaving a small red trail, like a stream on a map that was flooding, the red stain breaching its banks and expanding.

He felt helpless, as the only thing they could do was watch and wait for what ever happened next, or for the voice to slip up and revel a clue that they would be able to use. Bridger had listened to the voice talking about his mother and the unknown police officer who visited her. Something was nagging the back of his mind, he knew dam well that there was a culture among some police officers in the past to take advantage of any situation presented to them. It was a human condition, one that he knew was not as widespread as the media tried to portray but one that had existed nonetheless.

If only he could find out who the mother was, he might be able to find some record of domestic violence. It might go some way to finding out the identity of the abductor. It certainly had not occurred in the recent past as rumors like that would spread like wildfire in the police station these days, and he would have heard the story. The way this male was talking it sounded like he was a child when it occurred so that could mean anywhere from Fifteen to thirty years ago, even more.

Record keeping and intervention in domestic violence issues had come a long way and were very comprehensive now, but back then they had been erratic if anything. It would depend on the police officer who attended and how that felt on the day. He looked over at Brian who was deep in thought, eyes glued to the screen.

The voice began to speak again.

"Don't worry mother, it's not serious. Just a little blood that is all, just enough to remind you that you are still alive, still able to do what I need you to do. It will not be long mother then you can go back to your eternal slumber. I on the other hand have had a very long time to live with what happened.

Do you know what it has been like growing up not being able to trust anyone, not even those charged with protecting us?

That policeman you degraded yourself for, he was the one who found me that night. I guess he did not run as far as you thought when father came home.

I watched father beat you, I watched you go. I guess in some way I was happy for you. You made it out. I was still there mother, I had not gone anywhere, and I was suddenly alone.

I was afraid of father, of what he would do to me now that he no longer had you. I had to do something mother, so I took care of it myself. It was easier than I thought to kill him. I beat him the way he did you. I kept going until my arms and shoulders were so tired I could hardly move them.

I felt powerful for the first time in my life; I left him lying next to you mother and walked away into the night.

I did not get far when that police officer came out of the darkness and grabbed me; he wanted to know what happened. I could not speak, I tried, but the words would not come. I was only a child.

He put me in a car and told me to wait there. It wasn't a police car; it smelt of whisky, the way father used to smell. It was dark, I was frightened, and so I hid underneath a woolen coat that was lying on the seat next to me.

I must have fallen asleep, as the next thing I remember it was morning; I was still in the car. I could not recall the events of the night before.

The policeman was not there in the car. Outside I could see grey clouds, through the skeleton branches of the winter trees. He had parked outside a great big stone building with many windows on its facade. In a few of the windows closest to me, I could see faces looking back at me. Children's faces, all of them lost, the anguish of loneliness that only a child could recognize. They were faces that reflected mine whenever I looked in the mirror.

I remember thinking that I was finally home, somewhere that these faces would understand me, of what I went through. I did not care that I was no longer under my parents' roof.

That policeman came back with a grey haired old woman; she looked at me with pity in her eyes.

They talked and then he said that I was to go with her.

He did not speak about what happened back at the house, he just got back into his car and drove away.

The old woman put out her hand and I took it, then she led me through the big wooden doors, into the only life I was to know for the next ten years.

They called it a special school, a place to dump problems that did not fit into conventional life. Most of the kids in there had real issues with themselves or the world they inhabited.

Psychologists would come in and experiment with different techniques; they had an entire captive audience at their disposal. They tried with me but I was never one for sharing my experience. To, tell you the truth mother I could not actually remember clearly, what happened for me to be where I was. They call it psychogenic amnesia, it happens when you have a severe emotional trauma, it is the minds way of defending itself.

The life you subjected me to that was the catalyst for this condition. Over the years following I pieced it all together, I remembered what I had done, what you had made me do. It fascinated me and disgusted me in equal proportions.

I never told anyone why I was there. It was my secret to keep. It kept me strong.

I am not sure you deserve to hear about the next few years of my life mother, you gave up that right a long time ago. Suffice to say I eventually thrived in that environment, but it took a long time for me to accept my life for what it was. Day after day, I used to question myself, what had I done, why I was there. The loneliness was the worst thing. You might ask how you can be lonely in a place full of people. Well mother those people did not love me; they did not make me feel part of something. Everyone was there on their own journey, wrapped up in their own existence. The other children were fighting their own demons, all bullies and victims. The staff was just there as referees, employed to make sure we did not kill each other. After a while, I just accepted it and then I found a talent for helping the other kids, I felt useful, and I was doing something. It was not out of a great desire to help them with their pathetic lives. It made me feel better and that was what counted. It was like a drug; I could not get enough and believe me I had no shortage of them to help feed my habit.

I came out of that place complete again, I did that with no help from you, aren't you proud of your son mother.

I am growing tired off this; I thought it would be therapeutic to tell you about my life after you. However, it is all academic really; we are here now, so we might as well get on with it.

I have scheduled the final act for 9pm, which is the time you died all those years ago. Let us start the final dress rehearsal shall we. It's time we involved father in this little charade, he needs to be part of this as well".

The music started again. Marion's arms began moving, a strange wooden movement. The knife flashed before her eyes as she moved closer to the comatose male staring vacantly at her as she swayed back and forth. At first, she circled him, swaying seductively. Like a courting ritual of an unknown species with a white flowing gown dyed a deep red around the middle. The arm holding the knife slashed viciously across his chest, opening his shirt and leaving a blood red trail underneath.

Marion sucked in a deep breath and tried not to cry out; it suddenly became clear to her. She was there to hurt this man. He wanted her to hurt this man, as he wanted his mother to hurt his father, to protect him from his life. His twisted mind had decided that she was going to make up for his mothers short falls, and he had found a stand in for his father.

Brian looked back at Bridger; the look in his eyes told him that he understood exactly what was going on now. The situation was now in a critical stage. He did not need too much imagination to realise what the final act would be. There was now a definite deadline. Nine o'clock tonight, come what may the final act would play out. He just hoped that had enough time to rewrite the script.

They needed to find Marion and the male right now. They also needed some serious luck. They needed ideas and Bridger was right out of them. He had a limited grasp of information technology but by the looks of the three computer geeks hunched over their keyboard, they were not going to be of any help in the near future. All the detectives in the world would struggle to come up with a fair plan of action. Bridger found himself starting to panic a little; Marion was relying on his skills as a police officer, to keep her safe. The rest of the team was looking at him to make critical decisions; ultimately, it would come down to him if it all went wrong. Matthews had made it clear what he thought of him, and what would happen when it all went wrong. Matthews was going to be nowhere near it.

"What do you think Mike?" Brian said.

"I'm all out of ideas Brian; we might not get her out in time. I just hope we don't end up having to discover her body somewhere after this idiot has finished his little vendetta against his pseudo family".

"Why don't we take a look at this from another angle", Brian said. "He has been talking about an abusive childhood, leading to his mother dying and then him killing his father. Something like that would surely have made the news; the police would have attended an incident like that. There must be records of this somewhere. Someone must have a memory of it".

"Where do you think it happened though Brian, surely you would know about it if it happened here"?

"I'm not sure, let's just work on the assumption that it did happen here in Dunedin, the only issue is the timeline".

"We don't know how old this guy is so we don't have a reference point to work with", Bridger said.

"I've worked in Dunedin for my entire career Mike, like you said; I don't recall anything like this happening. Sure, we had plenty of domestics, but in the early days, it really depended on who attended as to what happened. There were a lot of big personalities working in the area with little or no real supervision, things got done, but not always the way they were supposed to".

"You can't cover up a murder though Brian, and anyway why would you".

"I agree," Brian said.

"From what has been said, two policemen came to the first call for help his mother made. One of those policeman sounds like he took a few liberties with a vulnerable woman". Bridger said.

"That's if we can believe what he says", Brian replied, "He's not exactly displaying the actions of a rational mind".

"Well it's all we've got at the moment so let's run with it". Bridger looked over at John, "Can you get on to the records and see what you can dig up. You find the mother, we find the madman".

Becky cleared her throat, "Sorry to interrupt", she said, "But as you didn't look like you were going to include me in this I thought I better speak up".

Bridger looked at Becky; she was staring back at him, daring him to make something of it. He could not make out her expression.

"Sorry Becky, I didn't mean to exclude you from this. I'm just a little bit stressed at the moment".

"Aren't we all", Becky replied, looking at Marion and the male on screen, both were bleeding, one was oblivious, the other dancing like a demon, a bloodied blade in her hand.

Bridger could see the rest of the room had their eyes on him, he did not know what was bugging Becky but he did not have time for theatrics.

"What is on your mind Becky?" he said.

"Well in my opinion, the environment has changed in the police. We do not stand for, or tolerate that type of behavior anymore. Everyone has seen the fallout in the media in the last few years from that type of behavior. It is a fine line between consensual sex and rape if there is a power imbalance, and as a police officer, we hold a lot of that power. If someone has a propensity for that type of thing, we normally find out eventually. They would have arrogance about them, as if they were above the law. People are more likely to talk these days; you can't keep anything secret on this job for long, the boys clubs have all but disbanded".

"So what are you saying?" Bridger asked.

"I'm saying that we should be looking at anyone who used to be in the job, and who worked here that might fit that profile. Brian you have been here the longest, do you remember anyone like that?"

"Most of the CIB were like that when I first joined the job Becky, even I found myself falling into the prevailing culture at the time. We were all dinosaurs, even back then. Attitudes were different, I cannot think of anyone that stood out as any different. I also cannot remember anything like what he was talking about happening here in Dunedin. Maybe the memory of this mad man is fictional, he may have embellished the truth a bit, or maybe the psychogenic amnesia he talks about has given him a rogue memory. Maybe he is just a psychopathic liar and enjoys hurting people".

"There's still a lot of the old school around, Becky", John said, from the corner of the room.

"I'm not saying that everyone who was in the police back then were arrogant rapists John, and Brian, I certainly don't think you were. The ones who are still in the job are those that either adapted their behavior or those that are just decent hard working coppers".

Bridger had tuned out a little as the mechanics of his brain started slowly turning. An idea sparked inside his head, just a slight hunch but enough to grab onto and see where it would go. He knew one arrogant ex copper that had his hands all over this, and another, still serving that could help fill in a few holes.

Jo looked at the old woman crying and praying in front of her, so much pain was coursing through her, a lifetime of hurt and sorrow. How could someone endure so much and still have faith in a higher power? Where was her god when she went through all her torment? She wondered if Mrs. Watson had ever asked herself that question, and if she had what conclusions, she had come to.

Jo had seen a lot in her short time with the police, she had seen the good and the bad in people. Something that would always stay with her was the capacity for most people to endure anything thrown at them. She looked at the monitor displaying Marion in all her degraded glory, bloody and defeated yet she could still see her eyes moving around. It was a defiance that only a strong mind could show and strong minds could heal. She only hoped that Marion's mind would have the chance to heal. She spoke as gently as she could to Mrs. Watson.

"How did it finish?"

Mrs. Watson looked back at Jo with a sad smile on her face.

"I was unconscious for a while, I don't know how long. Maybe I slept as well, who knows, but when I finally woke, it was the next day. I was alone in the room; there was blood all over the bed linen. The sun was shining outside; it shone through my window, glinting off the dust in the air. I lay there in my bed, covered in blood. I could not feel anything on my face, as it was numb and swollen. I tried to call out to my son, but the words would not leave my mouth. I tried sitting up but the pain returned. The dry wounds on my lips opened up and I could feel the wetness on my mouth. I could not move. The pain trapped me in my bed. I wondered if my husband was still in the house. I could not hear any noise, so that told me he was not home.

My son did not make a lot of noise in the house; he would usually sit quietly in his room for hours, especially after an incident like that. I saw Glenn's shirt was still lying on the floor. I knew he would come back for it; he would come back for me. Everything would be all right.

Well he did come back, but when he did, it was not all right. He told me that my son was dead; that my husband had beat him to death and then committed suicide. I did not feel anything but relief, constable, how terrible a person I must be, but at the time, it was escape. I was free of him and my son was free of us. I did not question him any further; I did not even ask to see the bodies. I actually felt sorry for him, having to deal with my mess. He looked so out of his comfort zone, Glenn was so young back then as well, I doubt he had the maturity to deal with it all properly. He came to see me in the house during the next day or two, but by then my mental health had deteriorated rapidly, I was having a break down.

He booked me into the hospital and that was where I stayed for the next 6 months. Glenn did not come to see me in there; I went through that on my own. When I came out I was stronger, but I would never forget what had happened to my son because of me".

"What happened to Glenn", Jo asked.

"I did not see anything of him after that, he never tried to contact me and I thought it was not my place to contact him. I got on with my life, eventually met someone else, Marion was born and life went on".

Mrs. Watson looked back at the now blank screen

"When she went missing it was Glenn I thought of first. He had helped me all those years ago, I trust him. He was not hard to track down; I see his face on all those billboards around the town. I knew he would know what to do".

Jo realised who Mrs. Watson was talking about, and then remembered she had seen that person with inspector Matthews. Trust was not the words she would have used hearing Mrs. Watson's description of this man. She looked at Mrs. Watson's anguished features, then back at Marion on the screen. Glenn Gallagher may be a big shot now but he certainly did not start out that way.

### Chapter Twenty Seven

Gillian was suffocating in the small room with the sniveling girl in the corner. Her attitude towards her was now bordering on contempt. "Stop acting like a spoilt child, Beth, we found you breaking windows. The sooner you start talking to us the sooner we can get this sorted out", she said.

Then we can both go home, she thought.

Beth just sat there slowly and gently banging the back of her head against the wall, tears mixing with the dark eyeliner on her face slowly making its way down her cheeks.

"Look Beth, let's start again", Gillian said, deciding to try another tact.

"I don't actually think I have introduced myself properly. My names Gillian and I don't think I'm all that bad a person". Gillian crouched down beside her in the corner, and put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm just trying to help you".

Beth's eyes fluttered at the touch of Gillian's hand on her shoulder.

"You know I knew a girl like you once, a long time ago. She was tough, like you. She could hold her own in any situation. She thought she was bulletproof. She was a top athlete in her school, she had played in the top netball team, and she had been someone. Nevertheless, inside she had these feelings of inadequacy, as if she did not measure up to what people expected of her. Those feelings were strong and it always held her back from going further. Any little mistake she used to analyze continuously in her mind until she had convinced herself that everybody had seen it and were judging her on it".

Beth looked back at Gillian, her dark eyes flickered an interest that Gillian saw straight away.

"When that girl left school, she joined the police; she had an ideal in her head that she could make a difference in people's lives. She was very young when she started, hardly experienced anything in life. It was difficult".

Beth looked at the ground and shook her head slightly.

"This job is not for everyone Beth it takes a certain type of person and she did not know whether she measured up, a bit like not everyone can go to university like you. The problem was the feelings of inadequacy she had got worse when she started work in what was essentially a man's world. Her so-called colleagues had made her feel inferior in many ways; she had to fight for any respect or even recognition from them. She knew they were all thinking, what could a mere female do in the rough and tumble world of cops and robbers. She had no place in it all, which can be very hard for a girl with the type of feelings she had inside her. Then bit by bit, day after day, she found her place in it all. You see as police officers we deal with all sorts of issues. You see a lot of people with problems far worse that your own. By helping them in any small way, she helped herself overcome her own issues. Just by doing something positive in every interaction you have can help. That is true for both sides of the law. Just because someone has done something terrible, it does not mean that they are bad, there are always reasons behind someone's actions. No one is a true psychopath".

Beth placed a hand on Gillians. "That girl was you weren't it", she said.

"Yes Beth, it was", Gillian admitted, "But I'm not that girl any more, I still have those feelings sometimes though, I won't lie to you, but when I do I remind myself how far I've come since those days. Others judge you by your actions and I make sure that whatever I do I can be proud of, no matter how small. It no longer matters to me what other people think, they don't live inside my head, I do, and I have to like it".

Gillian could see a change behind Beth's eyes, very subtle, but she could see a light in them that was not there before. She could sense that Beth was in there, wanting to interact with the world again.

"The house belongs to Daniel Crompton", Beth said, quietly.

Now where getting somewhere, Gillian thought.

"Ok Beth, why were you breaking Daniels windows"?

"Because he's a tossed", Beth spat back.

Well it is a start, thought Gillian.

Bridger was making his way up to the third floor. He was deep in thought about Glenn Gallagher and his association with Matthews. It made sense that they would have worked together in the early days. He had heard first hand Matthews attitude about domestic violence, odds on that Gallagher thought the same way. Both men cut from the same cloth; they had come up together in the bad old days of cops and robbers. He thought they were probably very controlling in their own relationships as well, preferring the wife to be at home while they went out and provided for them. Very normal, very old fashioned. It only worked for some people these days, everybody wanted to feel like they contributed.

He knew he could not just barge into Matthews's office and demand that he tell him about any incidents he recalls from the past that would shed light on what the puppet master was saying. He was not even supposed to be still at work. His first stop would be with Jo and Mrs. Watson. He had to known what the connection was between her and Gallagher; it may give him some ammunition to help with confronting Matthews.

As he approached the office, he saw that Matthews had his door closed. The door was open in the office further along which he knew Jo and Mrs. Watson were in. He could hear the sound of crying and as he reached the door, he saw Mrs. Watson in tears with Jo providing a comforting shoulder. He stood at the door for a second and took in the sight.

It was such a natural act to comfort someone. As a man he found it very difficult to comfort someone, he did fell empathy for people but did not feel comfortable to express those emotions physically to anyone other than people he loved. Jo looked up and seemed startled. She said something quietly in Mrs. Watson's ears then stood up. Bridger watched as she ran the back of her hand over her left eye. Had she been crying as well? Jo motioned for Bridger to move away from the door.

"Come into the hall Sergeant, I think there is something you need to hear".

"What is it Jo?"

"I've just listened to the most awful story of Mrs. Watson's past life. I think it involves that Glenn Gallagher that was in to see Inspector Matthews earlier. I know you probably don't have time right now with Marion missing, but I think I need to tell someone".

Bridger felt a surge of adrenalin, "Now would be perfect Jo, fire away. But just give me the quick version".

"Things have gone too far now Glenn, Marion and that unknown male are in serious danger. We have to let on what we know. The police force is a very different place now; it is not the same as when you left all those years ago. Have you any idea what name he is using now".

"Don't lecture me on morality Gregg", Gallagher's breathy voice was coming short and sharp over the telephone receiver. "There is no way it will go that far. A little bit of blood is nothing. Just let it play out, I am sure once he has said his piece it will end there. Why do you think he is broadcasting it over the Internet, he wants an audience to witness his mothers suffering. He cannot be that stupid as to let them watch him commit a crime though, it doesn't make sense".

"None of this makes sense Glenn, he is a mad man. If he is who you think he is then you had a hand in making him this way. You are the architect of this situation; he is just the by-product of bad workmanship. If you had dealt with this properly back then we would not be here now. So now it's your turn to man up and make things right".

"Fuck that mate, I've got to much invested in my own life to worry about the silly little problems of others. You would be wise to think of yourself to. Marion will be fine, trust me".

"I don't care what you think you have on me Glenn, you need to tell me who he is so we can get on with some real police work and stop a serious crime being committed".

Gallagher sighed on the other end of the receiver.

"The only name I have for him is Daniel; I don't even remember his surname. I suppose you can ask Mrs. Watson what her married name was back then. I'm surprised you didn't record it in your little note book that first night, you were always recording things weren't you Gregg".

"Thank you Glenn, I will take it from here".

Matthews was about to put down the receiver.

"Whatever is said, I will deny it Gregg, and I will leak what I know to the papers. Just you remember that when you talk to him. The public is getting very sick of senior officials and their skeletons, whatever job they are in".

Matthews could feel the vein in his forehead pulsing against his sweaty skin. He spoke slowly, quietly, deliberately.

"When we find him and Marion is safe, I'm not going to talk to him Glenn, you are. You are going to explain yourself and then we will see what skeletons rise from the grave to haunt you. You said it yourself, whatever job you are in; the public are getting sick of it".

"Are you trying to out cock the cock Gregg? Don't be silly man; you don't have the back bone".

"We'll see, won't we".

Matthews put down the phone before he got a reply.

He looked around his office and took a deep breath. Time to take some action he thought. Nevertheless, Gallagher was right; it frightened him to think an unscrupulous media, using snippets of sound bites to evoke outrage in the public, could take everything he worked for away from him. He had not done anything illegal, or morally wrong in his eyes, but that would not stop the feeding frenzy for fresh blood. One thing that the greater public liked more than anything was someone to fall from grace. The higher they were the harder they fell and the better the public felt about it, finding new ways to be morally outraged.

The public had not evolved much from the times of public executions, all sitting, watching, knitting and cackling as head after head fell into the baskets.

He picked up the newspaper lying unopened in front of him and threw it into the waste-paper bin under his desk.

"Shit".

Matthews stood up and straightened his tie. Time to talk to Mrs. Watson, he thought. However, he was going to have to be smart about it. One thing he had learned in his career was that you never play all your cards at once, always hold something back to use later if needed. Sometimes it turned it that you never had to reveal what you know. He was hoping for that option.

Bridger's mind was working overtime. "Have you not been listening to the commentary on the live feed Jo? It matches Mrs. Watson's story almost too perfectly".

"I've had the sound turned off Sergeant; I didn't want her to have to hear what was going on. She was distressed enough".

"The only thing that doesn't fit is the fact that this puppet master says that his mother died and he killed his father for it. Mrs. Watson is saying her husband and child died and she was put in a mental facility by the policeman who she was having an affair with".

"It sounded more like she was being raped to me", said Jo. "I don't care what she says about feeling desired and wanted; she was being taken advantage of. That negates any consent in my eyes".

Bridger looked at Jo, her eyes burning fiercely with self-assurance in her assumption of the facts. She would go a long way in this job, he thought.

"Well that's for another time Jo, what matters is that the link in all this is the policeman that appears in both stories. It is too much of a coincidence to discount that the ex police officer called Glenn Gallagher Mrs. Watson talks about is not the same person that the puppet master relates to in his story. They must be connected what ever happened that night".

Bridger smiled inwardly, his hunch was proving to be right. Jo had done excellent work in getting Mrs. Watson to open up about her past, it had provided the last piece of the puzzle needed to cement in his mind the evidence he needed to confront Matthews and then Gallagher. More importantly, he hoped it took them one-step closer to getting Marion back. He looked over towards the detective inspectors closed door. He imagined the red puffy face behind the desk, he wondered if Matthews knew anything of Gallagher's involvement.

The door opened and the red puffy face appeared in the now open space, Matthews's eyes had a slightly haunted look about them. He did not seem surprised to see Bridger staring back. Something to subtle for either to register passed silently between them.

"Sergeant..., my office. Could you bring Mrs. Watson and Constable Williamson with you to please".

Bridger could detect nothing in Matthews's neutral tone. He motioned for Jo to fetch Mrs. Watson, and then stalked down the hall and into the lion's den.

He did not sit down, Jo and Mrs. Watson followed close behind but sat on the chairs provided, then the big man himself completed the party as he shut the door on the confined space. Bridger would much rather have confronted Matthews on his own, confirming his suspicions before subjecting Mrs. Watson to them.

Bridger was about to start when Matthews cleared his throat loudly before sitting behind his desk and placing his meaty hands in front of him, the whites of his knuckles showing clearly as his fingers intertwined tightly.

"There have been some developments", he said quietly, "It has come to my attention that there may be more to this that meets the eye".

"No shit, Sir". Bridger was in no mood to listen to Matthews; Marion did not have the time.

Matthews held up a meaty hand, "Just listen will you". He looked directly at Mrs. Watson, "I know about you and Glenn Gallagher, about what went on, he told me some of it, and I worked out the rest".

Matthews looked at Bridger trying to gauge his reaction to the admission.

Mrs. Watson looked stunned, before regaining her composure a little.

"What did he tell you", she said, not looking at him but at Jo with a questioning gaze.

"He lied to you Mrs. Watson; your son is still alive. I think he may be the one holding Marion".

The statement had the effect of a knockout punch. Mrs. Watson's mouth fell open; her eyes betrayed the fact that her mind did not really comprehend what had just heard. Bridger looked at Matthews; this was not what he had expected. Matthews face remained expressionless; it was hard to tell how much of his admission contained the truth. If he knew more, he was not likely to let anything slip if he did not have to.

"Mrs. Watson, I know your son's name was Daniel, I need to know what you're married name was when you had him".

Mrs. Watson just continued to stare at Matthews open mouthed. Matthews looked at a loss for what to say next, so he looked over at Jo.

Jo took the hint and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, "Mrs. Watson I know this is a shock but it's going to help us find Marion".

"Marion..., yes Marion, my daughter..., Daniels sister... It cannot be Daniel. He is dead. Glenn told me... Daniel would not do this to his sister. What are you trying to tell me? He died. He is not here anymore. He did not get to live; he never even met his sister. How did you know it is Daniel, I know dam well that ghosts do not exist. Why are you saying this...?"

"Mrs. Watson, you have to trust us right now". The look Jo gave Matthews was full of questions. She turned back to Mrs. Watson. "I know it's difficult, but we believe that Daniel is alive, he may be holding Marion but we have no way of knowing if he is aware of his relationship with her. If we know who he is then we may be able to find him faster. You can speak with him when we find them. Make your peace, whatever he's done".

"Maine, it was Maine, but I thought you would have known that already. You lot always stick together. Close ranks when you need to. You just screw the public when their problems do not fit within your silly little rules for the game you are playing. You are all just boys who never grew up, all playing cops and robbers. Well it is not a game, its other people's lives, lives that matter. There are no rules in this life. The only thing that matters is what is right and what is wrong. What is wrong with life is what put Marion where she is now. At the hands of some mad man you think is my son. Well if it is him, it was one of your lot that made him like that, that and one man's weakness". She was looking at Matthews when she said this.

"Thank you", Jo said.

"Jo can you take Mrs. Watson through to the other room, I need to speak with the inspector privately".

Jo and Mrs. Watson stood up and went towards the door.

Mrs. Watson turned and looked back at Matthews. "I know it was you that first night", she said, then left the room.

Bridger had his phone in his hand, "Brian the name we are looking for is Daniel Maine.... Yes, that is the one. I will be down in a second. I just need to square something away with Inspector Matthews".

Putting his phone away, he looked at Matthews sitting behind the desk.

"I think you know more than you're letting on, I don't really care what your involvement is at this stage, the priority is Marion and the unconscious male. But if I find out you're holding something back that might make it easier for us to find them, I'm..."

"You're what, Sergeant; you are in no position to bargain with me. You are not even supposed to be here. There's disobeying a direct order for a start. We have no room for pissheads on the force; if I want you out, you will be out, simple as that. But you are right on one thing; Marion is the priority and as much as it pains me to say, I need you to get on with it".

"There's a connection with you and Mrs. Watson isn't there, I heard her almost say as much before she walked out of the room".

"Don't go there Sergeant, she's upset, not thinking straight".

"We'll see".

Bridger walked out of the room, something had happened all those years ago, Mrs. Watson had said, 'you lot all stick together'. He wondered if she had just meant what Gallagher had done or if there was another connection.

Bridger saw Mrs. Watson and Jo sitting across from each other next to the monitor in the office. Jo had switched it back on and he could see the far away image of a wretched puppet. Mrs. Watson was watching with renewed interest, trying to make a connection with the scene and the memory of her son Daniel. Bridger could see nothing had changed on the screen; Marion was swaying from side to side, a bloodied knife in her hands, like a deranged bride, drunk with bloodlust.

Jo had a look of confused concern on her face. Matthews was a senior officer and what he revealed to them was a little strange, a story with many unanswered questions. What he had seen of Jo in the last couple of days he was sure it would not have slipped her attention.

"Mrs. Watson, I realise I have not shown the greatest sensitivity with you in the last few days and for that I apologize. But believe me when I say it, I have your daughters best interest at heart and I will do my utmost to find her and get her back safe and sound".

Mrs. Watson looked at Bridger; her look did not show any malice or emotion. "I know you are doing your best Sergeant but you will have to excuse me, I don't have much faith in the police as a whole. I have been badly let down in the past".

"I can only apologize again for what's happened in the past between you and the police, I hope by finding your daughter we can go some way to restoring some faith in us".

"You will only be doing your job Sergeant, something that should have been done all those years ago".

That is what I need to know about, thought Bridger, the sins of the past.

"I do need to ask you a few questions Mrs. Watson. What did you mean by what you said to Inspector Matthews before?"

"That's between him and I, Sergeant".

"You told us your married name was Maine; can you tell me who your late husband was?"

"I would have thought it would be common knowledge between you lot, but I don't suppose you were working in the police back then. You look to young. If you do not know already, I think that is something you should ask your Inspector. He was great pals with Glenn in those days. I certainly will not get involved in any more cover-ups. That is all behind me now. He told me that he died that night. I just want my daughter back".

Mrs. Watson turned back to the screen and stroked Marion's face through the glass.

"Thank you", Bridger said, before retreating to the door. "I will be down stairs Jo, if Mrs. Watson needs to ask any questions just let me know".

Bridger walked into the open elevator. They had a strong lead but where would that really lead them. It could throw up a name, possible location maybe. If they were lucky, he would be living in the address they had on record and it would all be over.

Something was bugging him about the whole situation. Who was the Maine person that both the inspector and Mrs. Watson did not want to elaborate on? If the puppet master was to be believed, he was dead anyway, so what would it matter. Then the son was supposed to be dead as well and he turned up unexpectedly holding his sister in some sort of revenge ritual against his mother.

The past was a murky place and the participants all had something to hide. What were they protecting?

Bridger's phone rang in his pocket, the annoying symphony again. I have to change that bloody ring tone he thought angrily.

"Mike, its Grant, I've made all the usual checks with our databases and we have no record of a Daniel Maine. It is a dead end. He must be using another name, or he doesn't exist".

"Shit, that's not what I wanted to hear".

"I can check with outside agencies but that will take time".

"Make a few calls; see what you can turn up. I will see what else I can come up with in the mean time".

Bridger pushed the call cancel button and looked at the blank screen.

It is not going to be that easy after all, he thought.

Bridger looked at the key pad on the elevator wall; the lable read 'Watch House' next to the ground floor button. Maine was the surname they were looking for and John Maine would be sitting in the watch house this afternoon.

He had said it himself, Dunedin is a small place and the name was the same. It was worth asking if he knew of a Daniel Maine or his father, relations maybe. He was certainly working in the area at the time all this happened. He pushed the button for the ground floor and the doors closed, leaving Bridger in the quiet confines, his mind working over the details.

Senior Sergeant John Maine was sitting behind the desk in his office as Bridger walked in. He could almost see the stale cigarette smoke rising off his uniform.

The man must smoke like a train, he thought, at least he does it outside during the week.

"Mike, how are things going with young Marion?"

"We're making headway..., which is why I need to pick your brains".

Maine looked puzzled. "How's that Mike? I'm not sure I would know any more than you".

"It's more what you may know about the past John..., Mrs. Watson, Matthews and Gallagher are all connected in some way. I have just been upstairs with Matthews and Mrs. Watson, from what I can work out, Gallagher and Mrs. Watson had an affair, years ago. Matthews won't let on what his involvement was".

"Gallagher was screwing a lot of people back then Mike, literally and figuratively". Maine's expression showed renewed curiosity with a touch of bitterness.

"I think this particular affair has something to do with Marion's disappearance, something that happened between them all a long time ago".

Maine sat quietly looking at Bridger, waiting for something more.

"The man holding Marion has been telling a story of an abusive upbringing, culminating in his mother dying and him killing his father. Does that ring any bells with you?"

Maine's face remained impassive, "It's not something I recall happening around here Mike. How is Mrs. Watson connected to the man whose holding Marion?"

"I think that she's his mother".

Bridger saw something flash behind Maine's eyes, small and imperceptible, but there all the same.

"What's Mrs. Watson's first name Mike?"

A question set off the alarm bells in Bridger's head, the conversation had just taken a turn in the wrong direction.

"It's June, it would have been on the paperwork. Did you not read through it?"

"I only had a surname when the job came in; you have been dealing with it since. What else have you worked out?"

Bridger listed the points of information they had pieced together so far, watching closely for any sign of recognition or stress in Maine's eyes.

"That's some story Mike; I still don't know how I can help though. As far as I know, there was no other Maine's living in the area apart from me at the time. It is farfetched though, to link the two, a bloody coincidence that the stories are very similar. You said it yourself though, that his mother and father are dead. It's pretty hard to mistake that".

"The boy was pretty young at the time John, his memory of what happened would have been tarnished by fear and his age".

"Mrs. Watson says her son is dead..., Gallagher told her so. It is a mess; I will give you that Mike. But I think you are barking up the wrong tree". Maine was looking into Bridger's eyes, a hard and menacing stare.

"We've known each other a while now John, you're a good copper, if there was anything you knew about this I know you would tell me".

"What are you trying to say Mike, because my last name is the same as the name that silly cow upstairs gave you I must be involved. You're better than that Mike, I would expect more from you".

"I'm not saying that John, I'm just following my nose. Marion is my priority".

"Well don't let that nose get you in trouble, people have long memories Mike. They don't forget".

Bridger could not tell whether Maine's anger was coming from guilt or the indignation of having someone accuse him of something. He wanted to believe the latter. "Fair call John, as I said I know you would let me know".

Bridger turned to go.

"There is one thing Mike, that little problem with Jonas earlier, I've had a word with him and he isn't taking it any further, as far as he is concerned he deserved it. I am not even going to commit anything to paper. No need to get Matthews involved. I'm sure the rest of the crew won't say anything about it either".

Bridger did not really know what to say. "Thanks John, I know I was out of order with him, but it's a load off anyway".

Their eyes met and held each other in conflict.

"That's what friends are for Mike, we look out for each other. God knows that there are many out there who would love to see us come crashing down". There was a knowing smile on Maine's face.

Bridger broke eye contact and left the office, closing the door behind him.

Did that mean he was now indebted to Maine for covering his screw up? It seems everyone has something on somebody to use against them. He just hoped for Maine's sake that he was not involved in the puppet masters little revenge act.

Twenty-five years in the job had given what Gillian liked to think of as her 'Bullshit radar', it had never let her down. It was not that what Beth was telling her was untrue; it is what she was not saying that had her intrigued. She knew there was always something unsaid.

People held back for many reasons, privacy, guilt, fear. Beth was just being obstructive. She had gone back to the moody, silent, 'Poor Me' routine after revealing the name Daniel.

Gillian was getting really agitated. Beth was a silly little girl, tied up in her own unremarkable life. She was obviously not used to looking after herself and did not have the coping mechanisms that she needed. Maybe she was a daddy's girl and she craved the attention of older males now that she was far away from home. That would explain the relationship with Jonas, apart from the drugs. Maybe this Daniel was older as well.

The room was beginning to spin a little as she breathed in the stale air.

All this for a couple of broken windows, Gillian thought.

She needed a break.

"If you're not going to talk to me Beth then I'm afraid there's not much I can do. You can sit there banging your head off the wall all you want while I get some fresh air".

She got up and left the room, making sure the lock was on as she did. Stomping down the hall, she put her head in the open door of spacious office they used as a muster room and yelled at the back of Steve's head.

"Your turn babysitting, I'm going for a break".

Steve turned and wiped his mouth as a piece of meatball fell onto his lap.

"Ok partner", he coughed.

"I didn't know you were a smoker Mike, I should know I'm out here most hours of the day and I've never seen you here before".

"I'm not Gill, I just needed some air".

"You and me both", Gillian said letting out a deep lungful of smoke.

Mike had known Gillian Holler since the first day he had arrived in Dunedin; she was the next person he had met after Julie Downie in the front office. She was the officer assigned to showing him the patch. He had found her straightforward, pragmatic approach to the job refreshing. She was tough, but she also had a touch of the 'Mother Hen' about her. Deep down she had the best intentions for everyone she encountered, although she hid it well beneath her tough outer shell. The need to hide her emotions was a hangover from past times, when she had to fight for respect in a job full of testosterone.

They were both standing under the shelter of the high roof next to the armed offender's squad room in the rear yard of the police station. The hulking mass of the mobile command unit parked behind them.

"Penny for them, Gill?"

"I'm sure you have got more than enough on your plate with the missing girl to have me add to your woes".

"Sometimes I find not thinking about the problem for a short while helps me. I can cleanse my brain a bit and see it from a new angle. Lay it on me Gill; you will only be helping me". Bridger attempted a smile.

"I've got our mutual friend Beth upstairs; Steve and I picked her up breaking windows at an empty house in the Leith Valley. She is playing her teenage angst routine again and is really starting to piss me off. People have to realise that they are responsible for their own actions and take ownership for once. People are too quick to blame their upbringing or the fact that they were not loved enough as a child. This girl has that act down to a tee".

"Sounds like you have your hands full..., why was she breaking windows?"

"I don't know. The only thing she has told me in the last couple of hours is that she was breaking Daniel's windows because he is a tosser. I have not even been able to find out who Daniel is and why he is a tosser. When we arrested her, she was just repeating, I am the one. I'm beginning to think she is a real fruitcake".

Alarm bells were ringing loudly in Bridger's head. Connections were firing in the right order producing scenarios that started to sound plausible. Outwardly, he was staring open mouthed at Gillian.

"Are you Ok Mike?'

Bridger was trying to suppress the excitement, it was not the first time today that he had felt this and each time it resulted in a dead end.

"It's not the first time I have heard the name Daniel today Gill; and Beth has come into this investigation one way or another since the beginning. Beth connected to Marion by way of her flat and the play, and now Marion connects to a Daniel... I believe he is the person holding her".

After he had said it aloud, it sounded more and more plausible. Bridger had his cell phone in his hand, "Where are you holding her Gill?" he asked as he was dialing.

"She's in the interview room on the first floor. Steve is with her. We're just waiting for the mental health crisis team to come for her".

Becky answered his call. "Becky, get down to the first floor and talk to Beth, she's back again, locked up for breaking windows this time. I think she knows Daniel, and he is the one holding Marion. Do not let the crisis team anywhere near her, you already have a good rapport with her; get her to tell you where he is. I'll be up soon".

Gillian was looking at Mike uncertainly. "You know she's having some sort of episode Mike, I'm not sure that even what she has said already is true".

"You said it yourself Gill, she's only throwing a tantrum. I trust your instincts, and I am willing to run with it. It's too much of a coincidence".

Bridger turned and jogged over to the rear door of the building, fumbling in his pocket for his electronic key tag.

Gillian inhaled deeply, holding it for a second before blowing a steady stream of smoke into the air. Stubbing the butt out on the ground, she followed Bridger up the stairs.

### Chapter Twenty Eight

The atmosphere was icy in the rear of the command unit parked in the shadows somewhere in the Leith Valley. They had just been going over the final risk assessment for the operation they were about to commence. "I don't want a repeat of what went on this afternoon Mike, by rights I don't even think you should be here. It's not on, putting my men in that position".

Bridger was distracted a little with the events of the last hour; it had taken more out of him now that the initial adrenalin had worn off. The last couple of days were starting to take a toll.

"I know Gaz, he said, rubbing the stubble on his cheeks. I am at a loss for what to say. It will not happen again. This whole thing is getting to me".

Gary Stone looked at Bridger in the semi darkness of the command unit, he was looking very tired and stressed. He had known him since they were both uniform constables. Work hard, play hard was the section motto in those days.

"Maybe the drinking is catching up a bit Mike; we're not as young as we used to be".

Bridger thought of the mess his life was in right now. He had no idea.

"Maybe it is Gary.... Maybe it is".

"We go back a long way, I've got your back Mike... The boys will not say anything about this afternoon. Just don't let me down".

What had he done to deserve this closing of ranks around his indiscretions?

Bridger just grunted a reply, his mind running over the events of the past hour. It had taken Becky about 5 minutes to break through to Beth, using a combination of bad cop and angry cop. Once Becky had put her in her place, Beth let the floodgates open. Bridger had listened to Becky and had been impressed with her technique. She was clearly very skilled at reading and dealing with people.

Beth's Daniel was Daniel Crompton, the counselor from the university and the back stagehand for Jonas's play. They had been having a relationship of sorts. He had made advances on her after she started going to him for guidance at the beginning of the semester. Bridger had pictured the innocuous male he had met at the theatre less than 24 hours ago. Their relationship seemed to be that of mutual benefit, both getting what they needed from the unlikely tryst.

Beth had also told them of Daniel's plan to humiliate Marion for some unknown reason. The reason was all too clear to them now. For her part, Beth seemed very surprised to hear of what Daniel was actually up to. She had fought his corner well, defending his reputation as someone who cared, someone who could not hurt anyone. Daniel's interest in Marion did not really concern her though, it only cleared the way for her to step up and take the leading role she had been craving.

Bridger had watched her demeanor change in front of his eyes as she spoke of her aspirations. All thoughts of Marion buried in herself aspiring dialogue. Her eyes were alive again, her face showed emotion that had not been there only a few moments ago. Then as fast as her mood changed it descended back into the black abyss that she lived in.

She had no understanding of what Marion was going through, or what danger she was in with Daniel. A great advertisement for the 'Me' generation, he had thought.

Bridger looked over at Gary; he was a solid capable sort of guy. Bridger felt embarrassed that he had let himself down so badly in front of him and the other members of the armed offender squad.

I am not so different from that girl back at the police station, he thought.

He felt beholden to so many people because of his actions. A sick, uncertain feeling started to churn in the pit of his stomach. Two people were in serious danger right now because of the actions of different people in the past. He felt sick that his own actions were going to be responsible for the outcome, good or bad. What ever happened now he could not change what had happened previously, but he would not be able to look back on this with any sort of pride. He had not acted the way that society dictated; he had not followed the rules of life.

"Mike the lads are in place, we just need the go ahead from you".

Gary's voice was a hushed whisper in the back of Bridger's mind. It was a call to action that he should not ignore. He wanted to stay where he was though, it was safe here inside his head, and he did not have to make serious decisions that affected people's lives.

"Mike, snap out of it mate, we need to get in there". Gary knocked Bridger's knee with his black gloved hand in the cramped interior of the van. "Listen Mike," he said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We're all human, we all have our shortcomings. People are quick to judge others but everyone has things hidden in the closet that they would rather stay hidden. Some people's line is a bit further away than most and once they cross it they are into unknown territory. This guy is so far over that line, its unknown territory for all of us. No one can tell you how to react. This investigation is on your shoulders, we know that, it is bound to put a lot of stress on anyone. You need to step up to the plate now Mike. You need to make the call".

Bridger stood up, cracked his neck from side to side, cartilage popping as he did so.

"Let's do it".

Bridger and Gary stepped out of the van and into the chilled night air of the Leith Valley, their breath mingling to create a small fog. Gary put his black Kevlar helmet on his head and secured the strap. Bridger looked further back up the street; he could see an unmarked police car in the gloom, engine on, exhaust curling lazily into the air. Grant and Becky would be sitting there with the heater on full blast.

Brian and John would be further back, knowing Brian there would be no heater on in that car; engine noise gives you away at nighttime he would always say.

Up ahead he could see the outline of Daniel's house, with its windows smashed earlier by an angry young girl. It was the only point of reference they had for Daniel, even though Steve Kirkland had sworn the house was empty when he checked.

No offence to Steve, thought Bridger, but he would rather find out for himself. Steve would not have been expecting to find the macabre scene they hoped to uncover. He probably just called out inside the house, got no answer and so left it at that.

The surveillance team had been watching the address as they were preparing back at the central Police Station. Stan Walton had confirmed that nobody had either arrived or left the address in the time they were there.

Bridger listened to Gary as he spoke quietly over his radio, checking for the final time that every point of exit was covered. The affirmative replies sounding in his earpiece.

The squad members were invisible in the darkened streets, the black jumpsuits they were wearing helping with their nighttime urban camouflage. He knew they were there, he had watched them deploy. If the puppet master was keeping to his timeframe, then they had two hours until 9pm. Two hours to find and dismantle his little stage show. All going well it should be over in the next ten minutes.

Bridger looked around at the darkened windows of the neighboring houses, the curtains drawn shut against the cold night. Most of these people would only read about what went on in the morning's paper. That is if they bothered to read it at all. For the second time that day, he hoped that his hunch was right.

"Send them in", he said.

Thirty seconds later a there was a flash followed by a dull thud which echoed down the street, as the usual greeting was thrown through the door of the target address. Bridger's night vision had adjusted and he could just about pick up a flurry of shadows moving towards the door. He was less than one hundred meters from the address and could make out the shouts of 'Armed Police' carrying on the slight breeze.

Once the house was secure, they would move in and make the arrest. An ambulance, placed on standby, would be ready to administer whatever aid Marion and the unknown male required. Bridger was edging closer to the address in anticipation. He could hear the first team call, 'Room Clear', through his earpiece, as they moved through the front door. He was about twenty meters from the door, still hidden from view in the shadows. More shouts of 'Room Clear' were coming through the radio.

It is not that big a house, Bridger thought. They have to be in there.

'House Clear', was the last call he heard before a blinding white light erupted from the doorway, the displacement of air caused by the sound wave nearly knocking him of his feet.

There was a moment of eerie silence after the initial noise of the explosion, and then reality rushed back in to meet them. Urgent calls came over the airwaves. Teams were checking in as they found themselves in the shocked aftermath but otherwise okay. Bridger watched in stunned silence for a few seconds as small licks of flame started creeping up the front door frame.

"There was an explosion in the hallway, team two are down. They're unresponsive". The voice on the radio was shaky but calm. "Attempting to evacuate them now".

Bridger watched as other members of the squad dragged out two black clad figures. Their arms holding the Kevlar plated vests of the victims, making them look just like the dummies used in the police fitness tests all around the country. The two apparently lifeless members were dragged through the increasing flames, out onto the front porch and down onto the grass. They threw their rifles onto the ground as the men began working franticly on their fallen teammates. Gary Stone had run over towards the mess of bodies.

"Get their vests off, make sure they are breathing", Gary called.

"I've got a pulse", yelled someone.

"Jamie's got a pulse to", called another.

"Right carry out a quick assessment and get them into the recovery position", Gary ordered, not a trace of panic in his voice. He looked over at his second in command, a stocky, confident looking man called Ken Moore. "What the hell happened in there?"

"I think it was rigged boss, some sort of man trap. We had just finished clearing the house; I switched on the hall light just inside the door then the gas bottles exploded on the sidewall. The only thing that saved Jamie and Paul was the structural wall between them and the bottles. Most of the force would have been directed outwards".

Bridger cut in, "What about that target or Marion, any sign of them? Could you have missed something?"

Ken Moore looked back at Bridger, barely hiding the contempt in his eyes. "Not this again, we cleared that house properly, they are not in there Sergeant. If you want to check be my guest".

"Look sorry, I didn't mean that you hadn't done your job properly". Bridger felt chastised again. "I just think that if he would go to the trouble of setting a man trap, he must be protecting something".

"Well whatever he is hiding, it bloody well isn't in that house", Ken spat out, before turning back towards his fallen friends.

"The house is clear Mike," Gary said, hand on his shoulder. "I trust my lads. We are on the right track though. The explosion proves he has something to hide".

"The problem is he's not hiding it here though, is he Gary". Bridger looked at his watch. Time was ticking by.

Daniel Maine watched the bank of screens in front of him. He could see clearly, as the black clad police officers had entered his house. The same as he had watched that silly girl Beth break all of his windows. Technology was a wonderful thing. A few cameras hooked up to his Internet connection was all it took. He had also prepared some delaying tactics for just this type of occasion. Although he did not actually think, he would need them. Maybe he had misjudged Beth's resolve and instability.

The bright light of the explosion had disabled his view and now the screens were blank, probably destroying the cameras in the blast. Never mind he had seen enough. It would soon be over.

"It seems we have visitors mother. I have given them a surprise gift to welcome them to my home. It should keep them busy for a while. Time enough for us to help father with his valediction... And your redemption. Although we may need to bring the ceremony, forward a bit. We could be pushed for time.

I wish father had given us more time mother, if he had then we would not be here. He pushed us all along at whatever pace he wanted. Time meant nothing to him, the faster the better, all the way to the end.

You know after all that he put us through you would think that father would have more to say for himself. I guess you cannot have everything in this life, I should have known that.

Do you know who our visitors are mother? Do you? Of course you don't, you are a little too tied up in your own life to worry about such things. It is the police, mother, anger and self-indulgence in a uniform. Who do you think they are here for mother, you or me? On the other hand, maybe the both of us deserve rescuing. What do you think?

One thing I can be certain of mother is that each and every one of them are here for their own selfish reasons, all lying to themselves about helping people and all that rubbish. Their uniforms give them delusions of grandeur, self-importance, a false sense of self. The only thing the uniform has brought me mother is misery.

Father's uniform was the same as theirs, mother, only his always smelt strongly of cigarettes. Whenever I am around a smoker, it reminds me. You probably think I was too young to remember, but I remember that fact very well. His stinking uniform represented hurt and misery and it has stayed with me all these years.

That is why they all deserve to be hurt, just as they hurt me.

Listen to me mother; I'm ranting a bit now, I'm sure you should have something to say about my behavior".

Marion was beyond caring what the shadow was spouting, his delusions were of no interest to her. She did not want to have the last thing she heard to be the ranting of a mad man so she was trying to block out his ugly monologue.

She had heard a deep rumble from somewhere out in the darkness, like a roll of thunder. She wondered if it was stormy outside, she loved the wild unpredictability of that kind of weather. It was the awesome power of Mother Nature on show in all its glory. She thought of her own mother, at home in front of the fire, she would be nervous, because she hated storms. Marion remembered sadly how she would flinch at the flash of lightening, then wait, not breathing, for the thunder to come rolling in. Like a little girl in need of comfort, her mother used to come and sit next to her. Marion remembered the small grateful smile she received when she would put her arm around her mother's shoulders, the same smile she had been seeing all her life.

What would her mother do without her? She did not want to die.

She had not heard him when he mentioned the police; she did not know the end was getting closer as her captor hurried the proceedings along.

Marion felt her body start to sway again as the now ugly tune started in the background, her arms started moving back and forth, the blade glinting seductively in front of her eyes.

"Your wedding dance mother."

### Chapter Twenty Nine

Bridger was standing in the darkness away from the immediate scene. The ambulance had responded quickly and was now tending to the two patients who had sat up and were looking about groggily. Brian and John were speaking with members of the armed offender squad.

"Have we missed something? Was Beth entirely honest with us?" There was no accusation in his voice but he was looking at Becky as he spoke. Grant was standing beside her.

Becky looked back at Bridger, her expression hidden in the shadows.

"Excuse me", the voice came from somewhere behind Becky. "Excuse me, can I speak to whoever is in charge".

A middle-aged female was standing behind the group, her dressing gown pulled tightly around her neck to ward off the cold.

"Can I help you Ma'am?"

"Are you in charge?"

"Yes, Detective Sergeant Bridger Ma'am". Bridger held out his hand in greeting.

The woman looked at it distastefully and did not reciprocate. "My name is Mrs. Cottingham, I live at number 12", she said, pointing at the tidy bungalow across the road. "I'm the neighborhood watch coordinator for my street. Could you tell me what is going on here please"?

"Do you know who lives at this address?" Bridger inquired.

"There was a girl here breaking his windows earlier, I called the police and when they arrived I told them what I knew. Why did you have to blow up the house?"

"We didn't blow it up, we don't actually know what happened for sure yet, but we do want to speak with the person that lives here".

"I would think that when you find him you will have some explaining to do, don't you Sergeant. How much bad luck can a man have in regards to his own home? The police are supposed to protect us against such things not make them worse".

Bridger was starting to lose patience. "Listen Ma'am, we have reason to believe that a Daniel Crompton lives here, we need to find him as soon as possible".

"Is that his name", Mrs. Cottingham was writing something in a little notebook she was carrying. "What do you want to speak with him for?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that at the moment Ma'am". A real life Miss Marple, he thought.

"Well I don't suppose we will be having an early night in this street, what with all this going on. If it will speed things up a little I do not suppose it would hurt to check the old Woodhaugh Hotel, I have seen your Mr. Crompton going in there a lot recently. I thought it was empty, but you never know these days. The neighborhood is not what it used to be".

Bridger looked in the direction of the old hotel. It was less than one hundred meters away, close enough to hear the explosion, close enough for an early warning.

People intent on doing bad things did not like interruptions, they might hurry things up a bit, but they would carry out their intentions, one way or another. Bridger began to run in the direction of the old Hotel.

Grants mind had obviously worked out the same scenario as he followed close behind. "Becky, get Stone and the boys down here as fast as you can", he called behind.

Mrs. Cottingham just stood there, mouth open with indignation, notebook hanging useless by her side.

Bridger reached the main entrance at the front of the building in less than a minute, he tried the doors but found them locked. Peering through the old frosted glass, the lack of light was playing tricks with his eyes, he saw the ghosts of patrons past moving about in the shadows but little else. There were no lights on inside the door that he could see. He looked upwards at the first floor but could not detect anything there either.

"They must be in there. I'll try around the back, Grant you stay out front and wait for Stone's boys, tell them where I've gone".

Bridger did not give Grant time to reply before moving around the side of the old building and scaling the high fence.

Dropping into the darkness, shielded from the streetlights on the other side, it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. The shapes of old rusted machinery came into focus as he slowly moved his way towards the rear of the building. The shapes looked sinister in the darkness putting him slightly on edge.

He almost walked into the rear wall, putting his hand out at the last minute he felt the cold brick on his fingers. Using an old Fire Fighters trick that someone had shown him a long time ago, he slowly traced his hands along the wall in the darkness until he found what felt like a door. Fumbling for the door handle, he found it unlocked. He turned it slowly at first, testing for any noise. It moved freely and he pushed open the door.

The room inside did not smell stale to him, and there was a slight warmth which would not be in an empty building. Somebody was here. He felt for the radio in his jacket pocket, but then changed his mind. He was here now he would finish this.

Controlling his breathing, he listened for any noise. Somewhere in the darkness, he could hear a tune playing. Music he had heard earlier on the live feed from Revenge.com. It seemed to be floating all around him as if playing with his senses, trying to tease him into making a move.

He heard or maybe sensed something move on the floor above him. Looking around the room, he could see an old distressed door at one end; empty shelves lined the rest of the walls. The door would lead to stairs; the stairs would lead to hell.

He went for the door as quietly as he could on the cracked wooden floorboards; the handle moved slightly then came off in his hands. The door remained shut. Bridger looked at the small brown tin knob in his hand. He turned and threw it against the back wall in frustration.

Shit, so much for the quiet approach, he thought.

Bracing his shoulder he ran at the door as hard as he could, the old wood splintered but held firm. The old timber still had the strength to protect its ingress to the rest of the house. He tried again and this time it gave way with a tired groan. He fell through into a hallway, catching his arm on a splinter of wood.

The stairs were in front of him and he took them two at a time, ignoring the pain in his bleeding arm. Reaching the landing, he looked around desperately trying to find his next move. There was a glow under a door to the right of him; the volume of the music had increased the nearer he got, providing some sort of cover for his noisy advance. Taking a deep breath, he planted his left foot on the ground and kicked out with his right, connecting with the door just below the handle.

The door burst inwards, a bright light streamed outwards. The music was at fever pitch, something spectral and white floated by the door cavity. Blood red streams lined his eyes in its wake. He stood transfixed at the sight, a room full of confusion, a head full of adrenalin, a demented puppet bride, slashing and cutting, pushing and thrusting. The blade was red and silver, silver and red, colors changing with every step around the floor. A wedding dance the groom in the middle was taking no part in, a dark suit stained darker, deep red liquid melting onto the floor around him, the never-ending music, drilling into his mind.

The bride looked over, her face inviting him to dance, before she turned back towards the hapless groom. It was no wedding scene; it was a pagan ritual of the worst kind, and there in the background, behind a wall of glass and monitors sat the puppet master, shadows and light mingling on his wicked features.

The image of Daniel Crompton that Bridger had in his mind had morphed into a Beelzebub, one of the seven princes of Hell, sitting in evil judgment over his charges.

Staring intently into the light, he had not noticed Bridger in the doorway. His small dark eyes were soaking in every move that Marion made, an ecstatic smile on his lips with every slash of the blade.

Bridger stood there in the periphery, empty handed, unsure what the next move was. He looked closer at Daniel, he was moving his arms in time with Marion's dance, and the choreography was the same. He was moving her.

Stop Daniel, he would stop the dance.

Bridger made his decision subconsciously and charged across the open space between him and Daniel. Using every ounce of anger he had, he slammed into his foe, the force of the blow sending Daniel crashing backwards before recoiling forwards on his arms. The confusion in Daniel's eyes matched that of Bridger's when he realised that Daniel was still in control of the marionette. His hands taped to the levers, acting as a crude dead man's switch.

"No help again, typical, you Coppers are all the same". Daniel smiled an evil little smile as he got back to his feet and began jerking the levers as hard as he could.

Bridger could see Marion swinging around wildly in the light, the hand holding the knife slashing at its unmoving target.

Stop Daniel, then he would stop the dance.

Bridger grabbed at his wrists, closing his fingers tightly he wrenched his arms up and left, he heard the tape tearing as Daniel's hands came free. He held onto Daniel's now free arms in an attempt to get him under control. Bridger could hear a high-pitched scream in his ears, with his hands unbound Daniel was able to move closer to Bridger than he liked. He could smell his sour breath, the screaming got louder until Bridger thought his ear drums would burst. He felt a sharp pain in his ear lobe and heard the sickening crunch of cartilage tearing as Daniel bit down on his ear. Jerking his head back and forth like a rabid dog, Daniel was refusing to release the bite.

Bridger managed to get his hands up onto Daniels chest and shoved him away as hard as he could towards the blackness of the rear wall. Daniel was surprisingly light, almost childlike in his build. The black wall was a heavy thermal curtain, designed to block out light. Not designed to stop Daniel's momentum, what was behind it shattered in a shower of breaking glass. Bridger saw a burst of bright sparks and heard a loud crack when Daniel collected the mains power cable attached to the side of the building as he fell out of the first floor window.

Everything went black, the music slowed to silence just in time for Bridger to hear the devil hit the pavement outside.

Bright streams of light were flashing through the door." Armed police, armed police, don't move".

Bridger stood up in the shadows.

"Armed police, I said don't move".

Bridger ignored the warning and turned towards the empty window frame. A cold wind was blowing into the room, refreshing his face as he looked towards the ground. Daniel Maine was lying face down on the stone pavement below, paramedics hunched over him. Becky was looking up at him; he could not make out the expression before someone grabbed him roughly from behind, pulled him inwards and shoved him to the floor.

"I said don't move dickhead", the black clad figure yelled as a light was directed at his eyes, a second before the butt of a rifle slammed into his forehead.

Everything went a darker shade of black.

### Chapter Thirty

Bridger was back on the beach, a warm safe place. Waves were washing up on the shore, the gentle sound of moving water. It was warm, he felt relaxed, more relaxed than he had in a long while, although he could not remember why he should. There was no one else on the beach, he was on his own, the blue haze of the sky reaching all the way to the horizon. He thought about going for a swim. He had not swum in the ocean since he was a child and it would be a nice way to spend the afternoon.

He went to stand up but his legs would not move, he tried pushing up with his arms but he did not have the strength. The sand started moving around him, he started to sink lower, sand moving, sinking lower. He looked towards the sea. It had begun to boil. He saw Laura. She was standing waist high in the water. She was waving, but has a sad smile on her face. Then the sea rose up and took her, still he could not move. He did not even hear her scream.

Hands began to caress his chest, a shade of nail polish he recognized. The colour that Jane wore, they playfully pinched his nipple before disappearing back into the sand.

Just before he sank into the sand completely, the earth coughed him out again. The water had settled back to a gentle swell, he sat up looking for Laura, but there was no sign. He did not feel any alarm, just a sad knowing. He turned over and lay on his stomach, a crab crawled out of the sand hole he lived in and started to speak.

"Mike, can you hear me? Mike..."

He did not want to speak to any crabs.

He turned over to face the sun; it shone brightly in his eyes making him squint. He was not enjoying himself anymore; he just wanted to go home.

"Mike, wake up, can you hear me".

The voice got louder; the hands came back and pinched his ear. The sun got brighter. He sucked in a deep breath of salty air and opened his eyes.

"Welcome back".

Bridger looked at the face in front of him; not one he recognized. A bright surgical light was shining behind the face hiding the features.

"Mike, I'm Doctor Mortimer, you're in the accident and emergency ward in Dunedin hospital. How are you feeling?"

Bridger felt like a truck had run him over forcing everything in his body into his head.

"I've felt better Doctor".

"You've had a knock to the head. Apparently, in the confusion you were mistaken for the bad guy.... I thought that only happened in the movies". The doctor smiled a reassuring smile.

Bridger's first thought was Daniel to his distaste. "The bad guy, what's happened to him?"

"You mean Daniel, he came here in the same ambulance as you, not ideal, but we are running short of ambulances. It seems the police have needed quite a few tonight. Overall, though he is in a bad way, he fell from quite a height. It might be touch and go. We will know more in a little while".

Bridger's mind had revealed more of what happened. "Marion, is she alright?"

"The police officer that came in to sit with Daniel told me that you had saved that missing girl, she's okay" the doctor looked into Bridger's eyes with a pen light. "You've had a busy day".

"What about the other male, the one in the suit. I saw Marion stabbing at him, how's he?"

"He has a few cuts and bruises, a small puncture wound. He is going to live. We still do not know his name. He is very traumatized and a little embarrassed so he's not saying much".

Bridger tried to sit up, but the pain in his head told him to stay put.

The doctor looked at him. "I think you had better get some rest. I do not think it is too serious, but we would like to keep you over night to make sure. I would say it's just a mild concussion despite the loss of consciousness".

The doctor looked calm and professional in his crisp white lab coat. He had an air of confidence about him and Bridger felt a little jealous. "I need to know what's happened, there are things they don't know about this case. I should be with my team".

"I'm not sure about the others Mike, but you should worry more about yourself. You do not look to be in the picture of health even without your head injury. Are you exercising regularly, getting enough sleep".

"Not now doctor, I'm not in the mood".

"Very well, but I recommend you talk to someone, things like these can be very traumatic. I know how you police officers deal with your stress normally". The doctor gave him a small knowing smile.

Bridger did not know how to respond so changed the subject. "Who's with Daniel now, doctor?"

"He called himself John something, Maine maybe, I can't remember, anyway now you're awake I will send in a nurse to follow up on your cognitive tests. It is just procedure, nothing to worry about. You don't even have to study", he added, smiling.

Bridger tried to smile, but his uneasy mood would not let him. Why was John Maine here?

The nurse was a small Scottish girl, pretty and efficient; she had even folded Bridger's clothes and placed them at the end of the bed. He had to concentrate more than usual to answer some of the questions she asked because of the thick accent. Apparently, he had passed with excellence and had received a radiant smile in reward. As Bridger was watching her leave the room, the bulky shape of Senior Sergeant John Maine dressed in civilian clothes, replaced her shapely form.

"Good to see you awake Mike; it sounds like Ken Moore was a little over exuberant. I told the doctors not to worry though, because you had a very hard head".

Bridger did not think over exuberance was necessarily the reason for his sore head. There was no love lost between him and Ken. "What are you doing here John? I would have thought you would have been off duty".

"I heard what was going on and everyone else was tied up so I volunteered to babysit your handy work".

Bridger looked at Maine trying to read his expression. "How is Daniel?"

"He's gone Mike; he died about ten minutes ago. Mrs. Watson refused to see him; she is denying that it was her son. She is in with Marion now. It's all tears and forgiveness".

"Shit".

"It's okay Mike, you're covered, and no one blames you for what happened. They know you would have been defending yourself".

I am a big boy John, I know what I did and why. I am comfortable with that. Are you comfortable with the way things turned out?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"There are three people involved in this mess other than Marion and her mother, Matthews, Gallagher, and Daniel's father. I think Gallagher has a lot to answer for". Bridger was watching Maine carefully. "Something happened all those years ago that needs to be put to rest, we have some of the story from Daniel, more from Mrs. Watson and a little from Matthews. That's more than enough to sink Gallagher for his part".

John Maine remained unmoved. His face betrayed no emotion.

Bridger continued, "I think Matthews and Gallagher knew Mrs. Watson's first husband, Daniels father. They covered for him then, and they are covering for him now. What I don't understand is why".

Maine spoke quietly, looking directly at Bridger, a neutral expression on his face but his eyes radiated a hard malevolence. "Some things are best left in the past Mike; it does no one any good to rake them up. Just remember that your copybook is not squeaky clean either. If you want to carry on doing this job then you had better lock that cupboard door to keep your own skeletons inside. Don't go rocking the boat, the people who can keep you balanced may just fall out".

Maine got up to leave. "One more thing Mike, the fact that Daniel has the same last name as me is a coincidence, I can't tell you what to think, I don't know what you think you understand about that, but I am more than comfortable from where I stand. I have put my entire life into this job and I am bloody good at it. It's up to you to decide, but whatever you decide just remember what I said".

Bridger just lay there in silence as Senior Sergeant John Maine walked out the door. The faint odour of cigarette smoke lingering in the room.

Everybody has something on somebody, he thought. Maybe that is how humans survive. He looked around the now empty ward. A wave of loneliness washed over him, he needed a drink. He needed to see Laura.

He closed his eyes in search of the beach.

### Chapter Thirty One

He was walking, the cold night air chilling him as he breathed deeply. He was lonely, lonelier than he had ever been. He was finding it hard to connect within himself; alcohol was coursing through his veins. The bottom of the last bottle the last burden he could bear. All thoughts of rectifying the situation buried as he walked past the liquor shop and continued into the dark night, advertising hordes showing the headline banners going unnoticed. -High-powered CEO resigns as links found to ongoing investigation into long serving police officer-.

She had made it clear that she did not want to see him. He had not seen her. He wanted to see her. He did not know where to start. He carried on walking, shadows playing out ghoulishly in front of him as he passed the streetlights one by one. No one was looking his way, those people did not care, eyes focused on their own affairs. Some things never change.

The street lights became less, the sound of the sea grew with every step. He loved the sound and the smell. It cleansed the soul. Cold wind was gusting around him, chilling his skin, protected only by the threads of a thin cotton shirt. The darkness became absolute.

He sat at on the damp ground, crossing his legs, listening to the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks 100 feet below him. He began to cry.

"What's the matter?" A female voice came out of the darkness, concern evident.

"I have no soul". His voice cracked.

"Why are you here?" The voice showed soft concern.

"To make amends for things I have done, things I should have done, because there is no other way".

He drew in a cold breath.

"Why are you here?" he asked the voice.

"I don't know..., I have hurt someone' the voice replied."It was out of my control, but I still hurt him and I cannot get that time out of my head. I needed space to think..., work through my options.... Are you going to jump?" her voice slightly fearful now.

He stood and faced the voice on the darkness, thought about reaching out and touching it, then thought better of it. Instead he spoke.

"You know I have done a lot of things in my life that I'm not proud of, some can never be undone. I have hurt those closest to me. I still have the memory of what I have done; it is in my head and will not ever go away. A bit like you".

Silence...

"You know I recently read something written by a young girl, something she had written just to prove she was here once. That she mattered in a small way.... That what she was doing was best for her, no one else.... What she wrote put many things in perspective. She was truly a tormented soul.... I guess I came here to find out whether the answer to her angst was the right one".

"How will you know?" the voice said.

He did not reply, looking into the shadow, he hoped for a glimpse of the kind face behind the voice. Not seeing anything in the darkness, he took a step forward, out into the black abyss and towards the watery turmoil below.

### Chapter Thirty Two

Bridger was sitting in the dark office, alone. It had been a week since they recovered Marion, a week since he had sent Daniel to his death outside the old Woodhaugh Hotel. It had been a week since he had seen his wife outside the Cafe. It had been almost a week since he had his last drink.

After his discharge from the hospital he returned to an empty house, Bridger had found himself at a loss; he had no idea where he went from there. John Maine's words were festering in his head. He was beholden to men of no character; he was beholden to his own frailty of emotion.

He had looked in the cupboard for his solace; he almost found it in the half-empty bottle of Jamesons. Catching his reflection in the glass as he poured, the image had distorted in front of his eyes, it turned into something ugly, something that looked just like the puppet bride, strung up in an abstract image of hell. That was something he never wanted to see again. He had hurled the glass against the wall and smashed the image into a thousand pieces.

Placing the bottle back in the cupboard, he had closed the door. When he looked at the smooth texture of the wood, he could not see any image there. As long as the door stays shut, the image stays locked away.

He had not opened the door since.

Matthews had started a closed investigation into John Maine; his involvement in the hostage drama kept under wraps. The official line was 'Historical abuse of power complaints'. He had suppressed the exact details. Matthews had then tied Gallagher into it. Whatever Gallagher had on him must have been of no use in the end. Alternatively, Matthews just did not care anymore.

It is funny what perspective things take when death and all his angels come to visit, he thought.

No one had said anything about Jonas Clifton, he had let it lie, but he knew he would have to face that skeleton one day.

The phone started ringing in the darkness. Bridger looked at it with disinterest.

It continued to ring.

He picked up the receiver.

"Mike, its Gillian", her voice was slightly shaky, "John Maine has just thrown himself off Lawyers head".

"Shit".

"That's not all, Marion Watson is downstairs... She was there when it happened".

"I'll be right down". He placed the receiver on the cradle and looked into the darkness of the room.

Taking a deep breath Bridger stood up and stretched his back.

When it all came down to it, you had one of two options, make the best of what you have, face your past, make amends and move on, or run away and join the circus.

John Maine had not done either.

Walking out into the hall, he hoped that Marion would choose the right option. He would find out either way...

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Wasted Lives

A Detective Mike Bridger novel

By Mark Bredenbeck

### Prologue

He could hear the dog's ragged breathing a short distance behind, he could almost feel its hot breath on his heels. His own breath was coming in short rasps, the oxygen fighting for space in his tar filled lungs, his body rebelling against years of smoking in one malicious moment.

Turning right into the darkness of a service alley he nearly stumbled, tripping over his own feet, the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream along with another shot of adrenalin.

He was not far from home but he was running out of time. The dog had sensed its opportunity and had increased its pace, the scattering of paws on the rough surface got louder, touching every fear receptacle in his brain.

He knew there was a tall fence here somewhere he desperately needed the escape.

A muffled silence invaded his head, his vision blurred. He sensed the dogs' presence getting closer. There was no noise, the sound of paws on tarmac disappeared as if the dog was suddenly floating. Turning his head, he saw a vision of hell as a flash of sharp white came out of the darkness in line with his throat. The dog had found its target.

He panicked and kicked out at the last minute, his foot colliding with the meaty part of its chest just below its vicious head. He heard the air go out of its lungs through its mouth, so close he could smell the fetid stench of its sour breath. It deflated onto the ground below him, an angry growl gurgling in its throat.

The dog was scrabbling on the wet surface trying to regain its footing, giving him precious seconds. Pulling the knife from his belt, he thrust it downwards, putting all his force into the movement. There was a small sucking sound as the sharp blade entered its skull through the eye socket. The blade lodged itself in the bone and stuck fast, the dog shook violently but then became still, light disappearing from its good eye. He did not even hear a whimper as the brave life faded away. Pulling the knife from its destruction, he felt only sadness.

The sight of this life ending was the same as he had seen less than ten minutes ago, that life to had ended on the end of the same knife.

A life traded over a difference of colours, a rival patch of allegiance. A fight over a woman possessed by another but lusted after by him. He had lusted and she had lured by using that lust. She took him from the bar with promises of heaven and he had seen glimpses of it as well, with gentle hands and welcoming wetness. He had been well on the way before the man had shown up. He could not remember the anger although he knew there had been some.

She had tried to calm things between them, she had done her best, but she was the alchemist that had put them together, his foe and him. Her boyfriend's death was the outcome of her unfaithful desire. He would have left it, normally, but for the different 'patch' on each of their backs. It was not as if he had not been in that position before.

A gang's strength came in its ability to subdue the rest of the pretenders. When he saw the man's allegiance displayed openly on his back, he could not let it lie, not now that this man had found him using his treasure so openly. He could not show any weakness.

He was surprised how easy it had been. He had moved fast, taking the man by surprise. This patched foe had just stood there and taken it, no great struggle, no fanfare, no begging for mercy. Once the knife had entered his sternum, punctured his lungs and pierced his heart the man had fallen to his knees, a look of surprised indignation on his face. The dying patch, his life cheating him so cruelly, and then his death had found him because of nothing but a difference of affiliation. He had tried to say something with his last breath, his words struggling with the lack of air, but then his lights had gone out in front of him, taking something from his soul he could not explain. It was the eyes he remembered most, they had been vacant and lost, a bit like his own. Had he seen an acceptance in them before he had passed? It certainly looked like he had found a certain sort of peace.

He looked down in the dim light at the dog quietly panting, the dog knew it was dying, he knew the patch was already dead... his knew his own run was over.

He thought of the woman. The hands that had been so gentle shortly before had turned on him, words of hatred spewing from within in an angry torrent. He remembered her naked breasts flapping about as she had clawed and kicked at his bare skin, tears and snot staining her once pretty face.

He touched at the drying scratches on his cheek.

She had been so sultry, sensuous even, he was a fool to himself, and he had wanted it all. It was something he could not control.

Looking around at the darkened alleyway, the brave animal bleeding out below his feet, he knew it was his weakness to blame. The darkness that surrounded him echoed his life.

The sound of heavy boots bouncing off the walls of the alleyway suddenly presented another danger; this one was more urgent. The policeman in those boots had been quick off the mark; he had hardly left the woman's house when he heard him release the dog. He must have been in the neighborhood when she had called for help. Now his dog was dead and the policeman would be here to witness it very soon. He looked around at the fence behind him, home was so close but his body was too tired to run anymore.

He looked at the bloodied knife in his hand, then back towards the approaching policeman, a shadow growing larger. He thought about his infant son, safe at home in the innocent arms of his mother, no knowledge of the world he inhabited. He thought of the star he had placed above his cot, telling him quietly that it was there to guide and to protect him.

Do not live my life, he thought sadly, you are daddy's little Star.

He held the bloodied knife to his chest, sat back against the wire of the fence behind him and waited.

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Wasted Lives is the second book in the Bridger series, available now.
