From Chapter 18: More than meets the eye
Page 198…
The sound of the television pierced Nicholas Ridge’s sleep like a broken alarm. He opened his eyes, his eyelids still feeling heavy. He saw the thin, gray strips of dawn light filtering through the window blinds.
Then, his attention was drawn to the device, which he had forgotten he’d left on the previous night; it was playing the morning news. Ridge sat up abruptly, the springs of the old mattress creaking in protest. A man’s voice, distorted by the old speakers, filled his small apartment.
“…unprecedented material that has caused a global shock. Audio evidence, allegedly from the abducted former minister George Monroe, reveals a massive corruption network dating back decades…”
In the face of these revelations, the morning fog in his mind dissipated instantly. On the screen, the faces of old politicians and businessmen alternated with headlines that looked like political obituaries.
He listened to the trembling voice of the minister dredging up and bringing to light ghost-cases from the past. Now, it all made sense. This wasn’t a kidnapping for ransom. It wasn’t simple revenge. It was a political execution, broadcast live. The kidnapper didn’t want money. He wanted to tear down the temple of impunity.
And then, a memory hit Ridge like a punch to the gut. An image from the television, a few months ago. George Monroe, with his arrogant smile, emerging from Parliament and answering a reporter’s question about the relatives of the victims of the bus station explosion.
“We respect their pain, but they need to understand that some are manipulating them with precision,” Monroe had said, his voice dripping with bile. “Certain circles want to bring down the government and are dragging them into political games. Let’s leave justice to do its job.”
We respect their pain, he thought as he walked barefoot to the kitchen to make coffee, liars with no shame at all…
The bus station explosion. The country’s largest, open wound. Nine dead. A tragedy that had turned into a theater of the absurd, a farcical cover-up that had been going on for almost three years. The case was well-known. To everyone. The findings that changed overnight, the experts who resigned, the judicial delays, the threats.
With a cup of coffee in hand, he returned to his office at Police Headquarters. The space smelled of paperwork and stale cigarette smoke, even though smoking was forbidden inside.
He searched his files and found the number for Jason Thorne, a retired fire marshal, one of the first to arrive at the scene of the disaster. Thorne had taken early retirement shortly after, citing health reasons. Everyone suspected the real reasons were different.
“Nicholas?” came Thorne’s surprised voice from the other end of the line. “It’s been a long time since we last spoke. What’s up?”
“Jason, sorry to bother you. I’m calling about Monroe.”
The reply came after a beat.
“I’m watching it on the news. The bastard deserved it.”
“You were at the bus station explosion, weren’t you? You did the initial inspection.”
Thorne took a deep breath. “Don’t go down that road, Nicholas. That well is deep.”
“I have to, Jason. I think it’s connected. What do you say?”
“I’m telling you to be careful,” his tone turned serious abruptly. “They took the case out of our hands within hours. Orders came ‘from on high.’ They brought us pre-written papers…”
“And you were expected to sign with your eyes closed…” Ridge completed icily, gripping the receiver.
“Exactly. Documents claimed a major gas main rupture. It was a lie, Nicholas. We all knew it. Anyone who refused was threatened, told their career was over. I didn’t sign. That’s why I’m a retiree at fifty.”
“And the others?”
“The others did. They signed. They had families, mortgages. They were scared.”
Ridge leaned forward in his seat.
“Do you know what really happened?”
“There was no gas leak. It smelled of gun powder, not natural gas. The blast originated from the train station loading bay next door, not from a pipe underground. It blew a hole in the station’s support wall, and the whole damn terminal came down like it was made of cardboard. That’s what killed the people in the bus station. The blast killed the two workers on the tracks.”
“Substandard construction?”
“No. Murder. I looked into it off-duty. From informal conversations with former forklift operators who worked at the station, I learned that what they were transporting was not always properly marked on the containers. They were simply told to “be very careful” in private. Everyone suspected that a pallet must have broken during loading and the goods fell from a great height to the ground and exploded. At the station, the concrete crumbled like sand. The rebar was as thin as a pencil. The whole building was a death trap waiting for a push. They covered up two crimes that day, Nick. The smuggling of military equipment, and the shoddy construction.”
“Thanks, Jason. We’ll talk again.”
Ridge hung up, the taste of coffee having turned bitter in his mouth. The system didn’t just protect its own. It forced them to become accomplices.
He made a second phone call. This time to Miranda Lane, a combative lawyer representing some of the victims’ families.
“Inspector Ridge,” she greeted him in a curt, suspicious tone. “If you’re calling about the kidnapping, I have no comment. Some are saying it’s divine justice.”
“Ms. Lane, I need your help. The kidnapper is a professional. But even ghosts have a motive. I believe his motive is the station explosion. Monroe is unequivocally a scumbag, but will he stop there? Who can guarantee that a troubled mind won’t start seeing enemies everywhere?”
The lawyer’s silence was eloquent. And who could blame her for it? It was Ridge’s colleagues who had made the evidence of the state’s crime disappear, the very evidence she and the relatives were struggling to find to bring the perpetrators to justice.
Nicholas could hear her breathing catch over the phone as she weighed her next words.
“What do you want from me?” she finally asked.
“I’m looking for someone who has the motive, the rage, and the skills all at once. Someone who isn’t just a desperate relative. Smart, methodical, perhaps with access to technology.”
Lane thought for a moment.
“There are many who would fit the profile you’ve given me. Parents, siblings, classmates…”
“I know that, Ms. Lane,” he interrupted, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “I’m not looking for a list. I’m looking for a case that stuck with you. Someone who stood out for their rage or their despair.”
“One… one comes to mind. He wasn’t a relative; he was a survivor. A young man, Peter, his last name escapes me at the moment. He lost both his parents in the station. He was a computer science student, a genius, they said. After the accident, he disappeared. Dropped out of his studies and no one knows where he went. I always wondered what became of him.”
Ridge felt a prickle of excitement, the old hunter’s instinct stirring. It wasn’t the solution yet, but it was a start. A thread to pull.
“One last thing, Ms. Lane. Everything we’ve learned so far about the explosion is peanuts, isn’t it? The real filth about what happened hasn’t surfaced yet.”
“Inspector,” the lawyer replied with an icy tone, “all the unacceptable things that have come to light are only the tip of the iceberg. They’ve hidden things we know we’ll never discover. If the kidnapper has evidence of what really happened that afternoon… then he didn’t just kidnap a man. He kidnapped an entire government.”
…
