Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (10 page)

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.