Free Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel by Mark Bredenbeck Page B

then
let’s get on with it", Bridger said, pushing record on the machine
next to him. He began reading the preamble off the cue card in
front of him. Clarifying Tama's name and details as well as his
rights while under arrest and during the interview.
    Tama declined
to speak with a lawyer then said nothing for the entire interview.
He was sitting petulantly, arms crossed, rolling his eyes
occasionally and sniggering under his breath as Bridger described
the incident in as much detail as possible in an attempt to appeal
to his rational side, if he had one.
    Becky had
tried a different tact and had asked Tama about 'The Gang' and what
he knew about Joseph Kingi. Bridger had seen a slight change in his
demeanour at the mention of this name, a look of fear had flickered
across his eyes. Not much, but it told him that Tama Wilson knew
more than he was letting on. They were looking in the right
direction.
    Tama remained
silent, smirking to himself.
    The interview
concluded and they were none the wiser about how Tama's
fingerprints came to be on the cans found near the stolen car and
what his involvement was with the robbery and shooting.
     
    It was not a
real castle, just a ruin really; originally built for the seventh
son of Captain William Cargill, one of Dunedin's founding fathers.
His son's name was Edward Bowes Cargill, a prominent businessman
and one time Mayor of Dunedin. Construction began in 1876 and it
was a grand building in its day, built out of poured concrete, it
had parapets similar to a castle. 'The Cliffs' was its actual name
but the locals referred to it as 'Cargill's Castle', a name that
has stuck right through its decline into the ruin it is today.
    Martin sat
below what was left of the grey concrete wall at the front of the
building, the sun was shining on his face, and his t-shirt was
stuck to his skin with drying sweat. It had been ten minutes and
his breathing had only just returned to normal.
    Too many
bloody cigarettes, his mother always said it was a filthy habit;
his stepfather did not give two shits either way and regularly
stole from his pack. He could really feel the heaviness in his
chest today.
    From
where he sat, high on the cliffs edge, trying to slow his
breathing, he could see the cold Pacific Ocean as it washed up on
St Clair beach far below. A few surfers were braving the spring
temperatures and riding their boards just off the rocky point, down
by the council run salt-water hot pools.
    He
realised then that he had never been to those pools before. He
could not even remember the last time he had even swam in the
ocean. He lived so close to the ocean all his life, but he felt he
did not belong there.
    Looking
at his watch again, he noted the time. Tama had not shown up, but
he was only a little concerned, he knew his friend would be here
shortly.
    He sat
back against the cold concrete, being at the castle always brought
back memories of childhood adventures, imaginary games shared
between the innocent minds of the children they once were. He and
Tama had discovered it a long time ago, not long after they were
old enough to roam the neighbourhood on their own. Not that there
seemed to be any specific age it happened, no one was usually
around to stop them and those that were never seemed to care. His
mother was always at work, trying to earn money to support him and
his useless stepfather.  
    That day
they had felt brave enough to leave the street they lived on and
embark on an adventure into the big bad world. Back then it had
seemed that they walked for hours before stumbling across the
ruins, but now that they were older it was only a few blocks from
home, just on the other side of the golf course.
    That was
before it started to happen, although if Martin was honest it was
probably already happening to Tama. He remembered Tama was always
crying, never wanting to be at Martin's house. Tama had it worse
than Martin; his parents were violent drunks in those days, the
worst of the violence only