Chapter Twenty Three
Detective Inspector Gregg Matthews stood outside the cell door breathing heavily, his white cotton dress shirt spattered in blood and his hands were dripping with red. His eyes were bloodshot and he had a streak of blood across his forehead where he had wiped his hand over it. He was saying something but Grant could not quite make it out over the noise of the panic alarm still screaming in the background. Then everything went quiet as the custody officer killed the cacophony.
“Get a bloody ambulance here right away” Matthews yelled, the loudness of his voice echoing in the now quiet corridor. The custody officer retreated towards the custody reception area in search of a phone.
“Don’t just stand there Detective, give me hand in here.”
Grant did not hesitate, he knew whose cell this would be, and he knew his colleagues’ safety was disappearing as fast as the blood dripping from Matthews’s hands. Moving to the doorway, as Matthews disappeared back inside; the sight that confronted him brought him up short. The cell walls looked like an abstract painting of hell, with claret coloured paint dripping from long casual brush strokes depicting the inner thoughts of a madman. The words ‘Fuck the Police’ was smudged onto the wall, written in excrement and sitting just above the lifeless body of the man who had left this last message as his epitaph. Staunch till the bitter bloody end.
Matthews was crouched over Baz Ropata’s foetal body, his big hands struggling to wrap around Baz’s equally big wrists, slashed open lengthways from his hand to mid forearm in a crude tear. A fatal cut every time but Matthews didn’t seem to acknowledge what he must know, the empty vessel that was Baz Ropata just lay there, curled up in a pool of his own blood and faeces.
Grant stood in the doorway unable to speak while watching his senior officer attempt to save a dead man, realising that their only recourse to finding John and Jo had just painted his life story all over the cell walls.
They were both standing in the yard at the pad, sun on their backs, the warmth evident in the slight breeze, a lovely spring day, except it was not even closer than a dark grey for them.
“I’m not going to say I approve of your actions Mike, but this has gone beyond that now, it is what it is for now and we need to sort it” Brian’s voice was non judgmental as always despite what he was saying. “I’m not sure how they managed to pull off the prison scenario either…” He looked Bridger directly in the eye as if seeking reassurance, Bridger could do nothing but look back at him. He had nothing to give in return. “But I guess nothing would really surprise me with that lot” Brian continued “Some of the prison officers let the prisoners get away with a little too much in order to keep them quiet. They don’t realise that sometimes there is an unseen price to pay for a quiet night in the cell block.”
Bridger could not quite pick up in Brian’s tone whether he actually believed his story about not being able to leave the interview room but he could not dwell on that right now. “I’m under a bit of pressure Brian; I don’t know whose threat to take more seriously Kingi’s or McLaren’s. I’ve tried contacting Laura and can’t get hold of her.”
“I don’t know who McLaren has on the outside to help him but we both know now that the gang have John and Jo. There is not much we can do about Laura at the moment Mike, we have to hope she hasn’t been caught up in this but we can try and do something about what we do know and that is to find our friends”
That was not quite, what Bridger had wanted to hear, but he knew it had an element of truth in it. All he had was a photograph of his wife and Jane to go on, he did not know if McLaren had actually ordered his man to do anything yet, but he did not doubt that if Martin died then McLaren would be seeking revenge just as he had promised.
“Was there anything in the house that might help us find them?”
“We have searched this place from top to bottom Mike; we haven’t found anything that points us in the right direction yet. We have come to a dead end....” Brian’s voice trailed off uncharacteristically, something that was foreign to Bridger when it came to Brian’s usual confidence. He could see the strain on his friends face, Brian had always had a way forward in the past, his calm demeanour and ability to think outside the box had been his forte all these years. Nevertheless, it looked like even this was beyond even him.
“Where are we at with Ropata? Is he talking?” Bridger decided to change the subject.
Before Brain could answer his cellphone chirped, looking at the screen he held up a finger to Bridger before answering.
Becky Wright came out of the house in front of them and walked down the stairs, she was just putting her own cellphone into her pocket. She looked at Bridger a few seconds as if contemplating something before speaking. “Mike, where have you been? What is the story with those pictures? What do you know about all this…?” Her voice was a mix of angry and confused. “You know something, I think it was too early for you to come back to work, Brian is more than capable of handling things… There I’ve said it.” She glared at Bridger daring him to say something.
Bridger did not know quite how to respond. “I know what you’re thinking Becky; there is a lot going on that I haven’t let on to anyone except Brian. After we get everyone back safe and sound, I will explain to everyone. I owe you guys that much at least.”
She did not look convinced but Bridger knew she was too professional to let her emotions get in the way of her work for too long.
“I’ve just got off the phone to Gillian Holler; she was looking for your wife. We needed to see the pictures you sent her.”
Bridger’s hopes rose but then fell flat when he saw the look on her face.
“She wasn’t at work Mike; they haven’t seen her since she left for her appointment this morning. She told them she would only be an hour at the most. Do you know where she might be?”
He did not get a chance to answer as Brian butted into their conversation when he finished talking on his cellphone “That was Grant…” He paused; his face became deathly pale as the concerned look on his face drained away with the blood from his cheeks, “Baz Ropata was found dead in his cell a few minutes ago.”
He wanted to say something but Bridger felt an unwelcome shot of adrenalin go through him, his mouth went dry and his chest tightened. Images of his wife and colleagues were flashing through his mind, screaming his name, pleading with him to do something. His balance failed him slightly and he started to go weak at the knees. He felt like he was having a panic attack, it was either that or he was having a heart attack. He shook his head a little and the images disappeared, easing his anxiety slightly, letting him to breathe again, but he still could not say anything. Things were sliding downhill fast and he felt powerless to stop them.
Becky let out a little gasp as Bridger watched her process the same information “Shit…, did Grant get anything out of him?” her voice was shaky.
Bridger felt the need to say something but still had no control over his voice box.
“He didn’t get the chance, Becky” Brian’s voice was matter of fact “He found Inspector Matthews in the cell block covered in blood with a very dead Baz lying at his feet”.
The panic attack started to ease a little, leaving Bridger with an adrenalin deficit making him feel empty and sluggish as he digested what Brian had said. What did this mean? Becky then answered his question with what he knew to be true, as he looked from Brian to Becky and back again, holding no constructive part in the conversation.
“This is beyond a joke.” Becky’s words were spat out and angry “Baz was the only one who knew where the gang have Jo and John… what happened to duty of care and all that? What in the hell was Grant doing letting him out of his sight even for a minute… He bloody knew how important he was, he bloody well knew…” Tears were visible in the corner of her eyes.
Brain put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, the simple act made Bridger feel slightly jealous of the ease at which Brian seemed to feel compassion for other people and wasn
’t afraid to show it. He looked away and found himself surveying the empty yard trying to gather his thoughts; he could almost feel the desperation leaching out of the ground all around him as he stood there. Year after year of troubled men infecting the soil with their sickness and leaving the ghosts’ of their plight as a legacy. He realised that the same plight which had put them here today, bad men wasting their lives blaming society for their problems. The yard was almost like a prison cell for their ghosts. He was angry at how people could be so different from each other, he had no idea how these people functioned, and they all had their heads wired up in the wrong way, what made them want to live on the edge of society? What gave them violence? He had no idea. It was an argument for another day. Even Nietzsche could not explain this one, but he knew that he did not want the bad men to win.
He made a decision “There’s nothing we can do here now, let’s get back to the office and speak with Grant and Matthews, maybe Baz has left a clue or said something to someone before he died.” Even as he said it aloud, he had a stabbing guilt that he was slowly but surely letting his colleagues’ lives slip away with every passing minute.