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in the heart of the student area, there was an eerie quiet feeling, like an empty battlefield after the troops had withdrawn to regroup.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 perio
d 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.