The Fish Kisser

by James Hawkins

  “He went for a ride on his bicycle and was never seen again,” he pushed on, careful to avoid looking to his right, Yolanda’s side.

  “Number two … It was put down as a suicide. Drove his car straight off a bridge into the front of an express train. Only bits and pieces were ever found and they were burnt to a cinder.”

  “Cinder?” she questioned, her voice striking him like a tenor bell—he knew which bell.

  “Um, yes. Ashes, nothing left,” he said, struggling to answer without making eye contact. “The body was never properly identified. The car exploded like a bomb when the train hit it—a huge fire, the train driver was burnt to death as well.”

  Kidding himself that he’d broken her spell, he risked a quick glance and immediately regretted it. She was waiting for him—her soft eyes drawing him in, holding him, mesmerizing him. I don’t need this, he thought, breaking free, but with a quiver in his voice continued. “Number three—encryption specialist, another complete disappearance. Went for a stroll with his dogs one Sunday afternoon. The dogs came back. No trace of him … Number four was different. The only female. She was working on an ultra-high speed system to connect banks around the world. She did kill herself, even left a suicide note. It seems she was being blackmailed but we never found out why … Numbers five and six were friends. Two of the most seasoned computer boffins …” he paused and translated, “two of the world’s top computer experts. Worked for rival companies but were responsible for some major advances in computers. They disappeared on a fishing trip off the south coast. One of them owned a forty-foot cruiser and it just … aah! . . um.” Flipping open his hands he made a “pt” sound with his lips. “Gone,” he said, expressively, expecting everyone to understand they had simply vanished into thin air.

  “Seven was a couple of months ago. A major loss to the industry. This guy had just developed an entirely new kind of processor, a complete revolution. He was on his way back from California for a presentation to the company president, but never arrived. His plane blew up over the ocean. His body was never found, neither were his plans or prototypes.”

  “I remember that,” said a Caas, “I zink that was the plane crash that killed all those Americans.”

  “Correct,” said Bliss. “Two hundred and forty-three—twenty of ’em kids.”

  “Do you honestly think they would do that?” demanded the other Yolanda in puritanical outrage, her dour face and lank, chopped, prisoner’s hairstyle as austere as her tone.

  Bliss shrugged, “I don’t know—it’s possible. Some people will do anything for money.”

  Now, with a sweeping glance around the room, he changed stance and tone. No longer the lecturer, he relaxed to being a fellow cop. “Those are all the one’s we’re sure are connected. There was an eighth one, a strange man who worked on his own and sold ideas to the highest bidder. He lived in an old farmhouse in the Welsh mountains.”

  “What is Welsh?” interrupted one of the Jans.

  “Sorry … Wales. You know, the little country stuck on the west of England …” Jan’s puzzled frown suggested that geography was not one of his strong points so Bliss tried making it easy, “It’s part of England.”

  D.C. Wilson, hailing from Cardiff, roused with a start, muttering, “Bloody not part of England,” but Bliss cut him short with a glare. “Anyway, this man disappeared sometime in the past three or four months. No one seems quite sure exactly when.”

  He looked around the room, checking the officers one at a time, taking in the fact they nearly all wore glasses, and all but one were smoking. Even Yolanda No.l, as he had decided to call her, had a cigarette in her hand, and he felt himself shudder at the sight of her nicotine stained slender fingers. “Now,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Now to Roger LeClarc.”

  Memories of the briefing room at Scotland Yard just three weeks earlier zipped through his mind—the briefing room and the pompous superintendent from Special Ops.

  “Right, listen up chaps,” the superintendent had begun, imagining himself still in the RAF where he had been nothing more than a corporal. “This is a big one. Screw this up and you’ll all be back in uniform.” He stopped and glowered at Sergeant Jones, “Name?” he demanded with a nod.

  “Jones, Sir. Serious Crime Squad.”

  “Well Sergeant Jones,” he started, almost conversationally, “smoking is a serious crime when I’m in the room.” Then he boomed, “So put it out—this isn’t a bloody bar.”

  Jones sheepishly stubbed out the cigarette amid the jeers of his colleagues and someone flicked a remote control, unveiling a monster television. “Watch this,” commanded the superintendent.

  “Roger LeClarc, 31 years.” said a caption under an unflattering close-up of a bloated face with unruly hair. “Senior I.T. Consultant, ACT Telecommunications 1999,” appeared under the heading, “Occupation.”

  A series of mug shots followed—family album types mainly: holidays, weddings, birthdays, and people doing stupid things; then a short section of home movie—Brighton beach in front of the Grand Hotel, Roger’s distended white belly and folds of flab flopping up and down as he hopped in and out of the surf.

  Then a more sinister collection, including a couple of video clips bearing the hallmarks of police surveillance cameras: Roger squeezing himself into his Renault; Roger on a train—asleep, snoring; Roger in his office— through a window; Roger eating; Roger’s parents house in Watford; Roger coming out of the old terraced house near Watford station; Roger fumbling with his flies in a public toilet—“Don’t ask,” said the superintendent as a giggle rippled round the room. “O.K. Chaps,” he added, as the video wound down, “everything points to this fat git as the target—in fact we’ve good info. he’s next on the list. We’ve reason to believe that sometime in the next few weeks he will be snatched, and it’s your job to prevent it—any questions?”

  A youngish female voice piped up from the back. “Is he married, Sir?”

  “Why … Do you fancy him?” brought a hail of laughter.

  “Have we got a full description, Sir. Address, date of birth, that sort of thing?” asked a young detective leaning forward in the front row.

  “Naturally, Officer,” he said, turning to his staff sergeant. “Pass out the portfolios, Sergeant, there’s a good chap.” He paused long enough for most people to get a blue folder with CONFIDENTIAL typed in the top right hand corner, then studied his copy. “You’ll find everything you need in here, including rotas. Three teams of four—Inspector, sergeant, and two constables. Anything else?”

  “Yes, Sir,” queried one of the sergeants. “What’s happening to them, the missing whiz kids—Do we know?”

  Superintendent Edwards slumped in his chair and massaged his face in thought, taking time to decide how much to reveal. “We know for sure this isn’t some two-bit ransom job,” he began after a few moments. “Whoever’s doing this ain’t after their piggy banks. But, at this particular moment in time …” He paused, still undecided, and finished by saying, “At this moment in time we have absolutely no idea.

  “Dismissed,” he shouted, above the buzz of speculation, stifling further questions.

  “Wait,” he commanded, stilling the crescendo of shuffling feet. “One last thing …” then he paused while a couple of fleet footed officers were motioned back into the room. “LeClarc must not find out he is being watched under any circumstances. According to his boss he’s a strange character. There’s no telling what he might do if he thinks he’s a target. So keep your heads down and jolly good luck chaps.”

  “Bombs away,” shouted one of the officers, keeping his back to the superintendent.

  Bliss, cautiously evading eye contact with Yolanda, completed his briefing, then reeled off a list of tasks for Captain Jahnssen and his officers. “You’re already searching the cars as they come off but you’ll need to search the trucks and containers. We’ll need a complete search of the ship; interview crewmembers; photograph the possible crime scene—the railings on t
he aft boat deck; check LeClarc’s car and all his belongings for clues; talk to as many passengers as possible—someone must have seen something.” He looked up, had he missed anything? “Perhaps you could assign an officer to help me with translation and liaison duties,” he said, then immediately realized what was about to happen. His mind raced back to the annual police sports day the previous August. Marty McLean, complete with kilt, threw the 20 lb hammer high into the air and totally in the wrong direction. He saw it coming as he stood on the track, warming up for the half-marathon. Rooted to the spot, not knowing which way to jump, he had watched with fascination as it hit the ground in front of him, bounced, and tapped his leg with little force.

  Just like the hammer, he could see what was coming and stood, transfixed. Although not déjà-vu, the feeling was certainly similar as blue-eyed, blondehaired, Yolanda No.1 slunk alongside and zapped him full force with her gaze. “Ze captain says I must do everything you would like, Sir,” she said, and he felt a lump rising in his throat. Christ, he thought, this is bloody ridiculous, this sort of thing only happens in trashy novels and second rate TV movies. He swallowed hard, saying, “Dave, um, please call me Dave.”

  “Okey dokey, Dave,” she replied, her English learned from CNN.

  Bliss found himself staring again, but then realized he was on a two-way street. You must be almost old enough to be her father, he scoffed to himself; anyway don’t be ridiculous—you’re in enough trouble already; not to mention that you’re still sinking in emotional quagmire from your last imbroglio—O.K … You win— don’t rub it in.

  Quickly burying his head in Roger’s subject profile, he sought an escape route in professionalism.

  “I need a secure phone line to England right away,” he said coolly, keeping his head down, “and a set of radios on the same frequency as your captain. And coffee, lots of coffee.”

  She didn’t hesitate, “The coffee’s over zhere, help yourself,” she pointed, then headed off. “I’ll get telephone and radios.”

  He watched as she left, her pert backside swishing elegantly from side to side, wishing he wasn’t quite so curled round the edges, that his hair wasn’t greying and tousled, that he had taken more care of skin, and that he’d put on a fresh shirt. No matter; some women still prefer the slightly wrinkled older man look—providing they’re tall and reasonably slim, he thought, slicking back his hair, sucking in his stomach, pulling himself upright.

  By the time he had poured coffee she was back with the radios. “Come with me please,” she said leading him to a phone.

  The, ex-R.A.F superintendent, Michael Edwards, was in a foul mood on the phone. “What an effing balls up, Bliss,” he bawled, leaving no room for explanation or excuse. All he knew was what the Ops room had told him—that the team had lost their target—but the worst was yet to come. He still knew nothing of the possibility that LeClarc had jumped ship, or of King being arrested in possession of his car. “And where the hell is Jones?” shouted the voice in London. He didn’t know about the sergeant’s accident either.

  Ten minutes later he had the answers, didn’t like any of them, and was ruining what was left of Bliss’ awful day. Finally, Bliss had taken all the abuse he could handle—it wasn’t his fault, he told himself; Jones and the other two had screwed things up and let him down.

  “Sir,” he shouted down the phone, halting the superintendent mid-flight. “I am doing my best. I’ve been on duty for more than twenty-four hours. I’m too tired to argue. I need back up and co-operation. The Dutch are very helpful, but until we’ve searched every inch of the ship and every vehicle we just don’t know where he is. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes;, I have to go now, Captain Jahnssen wants me urgently.”

  Edwards was still winding himself up when Bliss slammed down the phone.

  “Ze captain doesn’t want you,” Yolanda corrected him naively, handing back his coffee.

  “I know that,” he sighed, slumping his backside against a desk.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, catching on, waiving a finger in his face, “I zink you are a naughty boy.”

  “Ah shit, Yolanda, where the hell is he? The fat slob has probably found some bloody warm hidey-hole on the ship and overslept. Either that or he’s playing a trick on us and he’ll suddenly pop up and shout, ’April Fool.’”

  “What is this April Fool?”

  “Oh, never mind. Come on let’s go and help search. The first thing I want to do is to go through King’s possessions. There has to be a clue there somewhere.”

  Yolanda walked to the window and stuck her nose against it as she screwed up her eyes and stared down at the port. “Zair is zee Renault, by the port police office,” she said, stabbing the glass with an index finger. “Mr. King’s bags must still be in zair.”

  Bliss peered over her shoulder, his eyes following her finger, and he recognised the little green car though the fuzzy mist of her hot breath on the windowpane.

  “Let’s go back to the port then,” he murmured, his mouth no more than two inches from her ear.

  Activity at the port was simultaneously at a fevered pitch and a standstill. Customs, police, and Koninklijke Marechaussee officers were frantically searching each and every vehicle, while drivers and passengers idly stood around wondering what on earth was happening.

  An impromptu press conference was taking place in the port manager’s office. News of the situation was spreading quickly throughout the community where almost every household survived on the wages of at least one port employee. The reporter for the local paper and stringers for two dailies were hounding the ship’s captain for more information, but he could offer little. “No … We don’t know for sure if anyone’s fallen overboard.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there were no witnesses. Just one good citizen, an ex-policeman, who said he thought someone had fallen.” The captain, unaware of King’s arrest, knowing nothing about the stolen car, was happy to give him the credit. “He raised the alarm, even managed to launch a life raft, but in the rough seas it would have been difficult, almost impossible, for a swimmer to get into it without help.”

  “And his chances?”

  “Without a life jacket, rough seas, middle of the night—he might have survived thirty to forty minutes, possibly an hour, no more …” He shook his head from side to side just once as he finished his reply, “A thousand to one against—no chance really.”

  “And this person,” queried the local reporter, a sombre beaky-looking man who spent most of his time nosing out obituaries, “He had no life jacket?”

  “We don’t know. I told you. We don’t know if anyone actually went overboard.”

  A female stringer jumped at him, her deep masculine voice loaded with criticism as she did her best to lay the groundwork for a juicy controversy. “What would you say to people who might suggest you should have done more, Captain. After all, two hours searching was not very long.”

  He gave her a critical stare. Scheming witch, he thought, trying to make a catastrophe out of a disaster, trying to stir shit —wasn’t the unfortunate death of a human being in itself enough to make the front page.

  “Miss, as I have already explained,” he began firmly, as if lecturing a fractious child, “firstly, we don’t know for sure that anyone is missing. Secondly, if, and I stress the ’if,’ if someone fell overboard, they could not have survived more than an hour, and,” his voice rose in crescendo, “thirdly, two thousand passengers would have been greatly inconvenienced and upset if we had wasted any more time.”

  The stringer sat back with a satisfied smirk. Now she had her story, and with it would have great delight in bringing this arrogant Englishman down a peg or two. The headline was already buzzing around in her head, the story already written, all she needed now was to top it with a few quotes from the local police, a few facts from the shipping company, and she would be ready to e-mail her editor—Priority: “Man sacrificed to please passengers.”

  Roger had not been s
acrificed, not yet anyway. Alive, but not well, he was still bouncing along on top of his personal watercraft, waking from time to time, but never managing to achieve full awareness. Each time his mind neared the surface his eyes would float around, checking the ropes and peering in search of a rescue vessel. One sweep was all he could manage on most occasions, but as he drifted back into a coma-like state, he would always think of Trudy and mentally cry out for her.

  Trudy’s mother, Lisa McKenzie, had been crying for Trudy for seven days, four hours, and thirty minutes. She had counted every one as she sat on an old wooden chair in her apartment kitchen, surrounded by goodwill cards from relatives, friends, and people she’d never met, never even heard of. One, from a complete stranger in Scotland, had even contained a cheque for £5,000 with a wish she should spend it to find her little lassie. The signatory had added a postscript: “I lost my lassie twenty years ago and hope you don’t suffer the same way as I.” She’d cried for hours, holding it in her hands, feeling the heartache in the words. Crying for the man and his suffering; not for Trudy—Trudy would come home.