The Fish Kisser

by James Hawkins

  “The wall’s three meters thick …” Captain Jahnssen started, when Bliss headed him off.

  “Captain—the meeting … shouldn’t we …” Then the voice of a junior officer came to his aid, calling insistently that everyone was assembled and waiting.

  “Thank God,” sighed Bliss, eager to have the investigation in full swing ahead of Edwards’ arrival. They were ushered into the armoury, which had been transformed into a modern conference room. A hundred or more men and women, drawn from half a dozen stations, chatted amiably, renewing old acquaintances, catching up on gossip—“You’ll never guess who she’s screwing now … Have you heard about…”

  “Alright gentlemen,” the captain began, attempting to gain attention, but the commotion persisted until someone plunked a chair heavily on the old wooden floor and the meeting brought itself to order.

  Bliss understood none of the captain’s address, and was idly examining the intricately patterned brickwork of the huge vaulted ceiling when he heard his name mentioned. “Detective Bliss from Scotland Yard will speak to you now.”

  Shit! he thought, caught unaware—I wasn’t prepared for this. Raising himself nervously, mind churning, he furtively glanced around and was immediately struck by the number of people crammed into the circular chamber. Yolanda had taken a front row seat directly facing him, and he sought inspiration and reassurance in her face. She smiled and gave a little nod, as if to say, “Go on.”

  “You were very good,” she whispered later, as he sat down after outlining the circumstances of LeClarc’s disappearance.

  Very good—very good?. What does she mean? he wondered, trying to evaluate the strength of her words, worried that his address had flown over many of the officers’ heads. But they’d smiled … it couldn’t have been too bad.

  “Mr. Bliss …”

  Yolanda nudged him.

  “Sorry,” he said, realizing that Captain Jahnssen wanted him again.

  “I was asking … Do we have pictures of Motsom yet?”

  Bliss rose. “Not yet Captain. I’ve asked criminal records to fax them over. But I’ve got some background on him.” He paused, shuffled through his papers, found what he was looking for, and gave details: “William John Motsom. forty-eight years old; a few minor convictions, not serious, but he has a bad reputation. Nothing provable, but his name has cropped up in several gangland hits.”

  “I have information about his car,” continued the captain, thanking him, then speaking to the audience in Dutch for a full two minutes, leaving Bliss with the distinct impression he was telling them what bungling idiots this English detective and his colleagues had been in losing LeClarc.

  As Jahnssen sat down an impatient voice barked in English, “How do you know he’s been kidnapped?”

  The question forced Bliss to his feet once more.

  “First,” he answered, “a crewmember named …” He flicked through his notebook, desperately seeking a name, but failed to find it, so repeated, “A crewmember was on deck when King claims LeClarc fell overboard. The crewmember,” the catering assistant’s name came back in a flash—“Jacobs, didn’t see anyone else, only King. So we’re fairly certain no one fell off the ship. King told me he didn’t know Motsom, but I saw them together. And King went to Motsom’s cabin after reporting LeClarc missing. Finally,” he said, his voice rising in a crescendo, “King drove LeClarc’s Renault off the ship.” Feeling it was time to take some credit, he continued, “They knew their plan had gone wrong when I spoke to King. He knew I’d linked him to Motsom, so the only thing to do was to get LeClarc’s car off the ship without anybody noticing. That way everyone would assume LeClarc must have arrived safely. Everybody would be happy, and no more enquiries would be made until LeClarc failed to turn up in The Hague for the conference.” He sat down triumphantly, the case for the prosecution complete.

  “But where is LeClarc?” enquired a spoilsport in the front row.

  Bliss stumbled, “We … ah. We … ah … think he’s been put inside a truck or container. Drugged probably.”

  The captain was quick to step in. “We’ve searched every car, but he’s a very big man …”

  “Fat man,” sneered Bliss, getting in a dig, mindful LeClarc had given him the slip and caused him untold aggravation.

  “Quite … He’s a fat man. So it would be foolish to hide him in a car. We’re sure he is in one of the trucks and we must search them all carefully. We should have photographs of him for everybody soon.”

  A comedian made everybody laugh with the obvious. “Do you mean we might find more than one fat, drugged Englishman hiding in a truck?”

  Then a deep thinker sitting next to Yolanda, scratched his head and asked a question in Dutch, which the captain translated before answering. “He wants to know— if LeClarc is in a truck, where’s Motsom?”

  Billy Motsom was still on the phone. He had changed bars for fear of attracting too much attention, and was now in the one under the Heineken sign. A few of the regulars had managed to keep their daily vigil—nuclear warfare might have stopped them if close enough—but the place was much quieter than normal, and the landlord would have assumed one of his competitor’s was having a fire sale had he not known of the uproar at the port over a missing passenger.

  Motsom stood by the payphone in one corner as he watched the landlord expertly slice the foam off the top of a dozen glasses with a wooden spatula. Why do they do that? he pondered, as he listened to a busy signal for the tenth time. Putting the phone down, he retrieved his florin and tried his cellphone again. The “low battery” signal beeped, so he slammed it shut and went back to the payphone. “It’s me. I’ve been calling for ages. What’s happening?”

  He listened intently for a second, then exploded, “I don’t care how fuckin’ rough it is. Get a bloody boat even if you’ve got to buy one.” He paused long enough for a response. “No, I don’t know what they cost. And I still need a car. The cops are swarming all over mine. I nearly ran into a bloody ambush. Hang on,” he said, stuffing more coins into the slot. “I don’t know how they got onto me,” he continued, “unless that clown King has blabbed—thank God he doesn’t know which truck we’re using or we’d really be in the shit…”

  The barman interrupted nosily, enquiring if he needed more coins. Waving him away, he continued, “Yeah, he knows what we’re doing, ’course he knows. He worked it out. He ain’t that stupid. Anyway, forget King, we’ve got to get LeClarc if he’s still alive, and I’ve got to get away from here before they find the truck and pin it on me.”

  The meeting in the fortress, less than a quarter of a mile away, was dissolving in a degree of chaos with search leaders showing a certain amount of cronyism as they began constituting teams in an adult form of “One for me—one for you.” Bliss and Yolanda fought their way through a dark passage thronged with twenty or more Dutchmen all yakking at the same time, and emerged into the fresh air. Bliss looked up at the sky with surprise, he’d lost track of time and had not expected daylight.

  “Christ,” he said, in a sudden panic. “The super’s arriving at six. I nearly forgot. I’ll have to get going, I’ve no idea how to get there.” He turned to Yolanda, “Where is it again, Ski-pole?”

  “It’s shkeepol. But don’t worry, I’ll take you; we’ve got plenty of time.”

  He checked his watch. “I’d like to talk to King again. I’m sure he knows a lot more than he’s letting on.”

  “Okey dokey Dave,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  “Hello Nosmo. Want a ciggy or a coffee,” he started cheerily as he entered the bare cell a few minutes later.

  “I still haven’t got a bloody lawyer,” moaned King.

  Bliss plunked himself informally on the end of the slatted wooden bench like he was taking a break. “I’ll ask the captain again, but the trouble is I’m only a visitor just like you.”

  “Yeah well you ain’t stuck in jail, are you.”

  “True, Nosmo. But you wouldn’t be, if you told me what
was happening.”

  “Are you offering me some sort of deal? Turn Queen’s evidence as we used to say. Do you still say that, Dave?” He sneered.

  “No. We call it grassing or bubbling now.”

  “I know. The trouble is I ain’t got anything to offer. I’ve told you … I ain’t done nothing, and I don’t know nothing.”

  “No one thinks they’re bad, Nosmo; you know that,” said Bliss, letting his eyes wander around the spacious cell. The high stone walls had been whitewashed recently he thought, but graffiti had spread like poison ivy as each temporary occupant had sought to immortalize his stay with a few hatefully inscribed monosyllables beginning with “F” or “C” on the nearest available space. The expanse of blank wall beyond arms reach from the bunk was relatively unscathed, although some joker had written, “Do not write on this wall,” along the bottom.

  “See that window?” said Bliss pointing to a heavily barred slot.

  “Yeah.”

  “Unless you start talking, that’s all the daylight you’re going to see for a long time.”

  “And how are they going to keep me Dave? Claim they found a condom of cocaine up my bum?” he scoffed. “They haven’t got any evidence—you know that. And since when is it a crime to try to save a bloke’s life?”

  “It ain’t Nosmo. But you weren’t trying to save anyone’s life. The way it looks to them is that you chucked the guy overboard to steal his car. Is that what happened?”

  “You know it ain’t Dave. I didn’t chuck anybody overboard. And I didn’t steal a car neither.”

  “Well you’ll have to try telling the judge that, but the evidence looks pretty good from where I’m standing.”

  “You’re sitting Dave, not standing,” he said, sarcastically. “Anyway I’ve told you. I’m not saying anything without a lawyer, and I won’t be saying anything with a lawyer either.”

  Bliss changed tack. “What about your missus, Nosmo. Do you want me to call…”

  “I ain’t got a bloody missus, so don’t waste your breath.”

  The cynicism of a disenchanted romantic empathized Bliss momentarily, asking, “Divorced?”

  “Sort of. She pissed off years ago. I s’pose we’re still legally married but I ain’t seen her in ages.”

  “Kids?”

  “Couple. Grown up. One’s nineteen, the other’s twenty-one. They’ve got their lives sorted out. No point bothering ’em. There’s nothing they can do anyway.”

  “Is there anyone …”

  Yolanda’s voice interrupted, “Dave can I talk to you please?”

  She was standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright light in the corridor.

  “Lucky old Dave,” said King under his breath.

  “I’ll be back. Don’t go away Nosmo,” he said, slipping out of the cell and pulling the huge wooden door closed behind him.

  “They’ve found the truck,” said Yolanda, impatience overcoming discretion.

  King, with an ear to the door, muttered, “Oh shit.”

  Back at the port, just three minutes later, Bliss and Yolanda had no difficulty in finding the relevant truck. It was swarming with uniforms. Captain Jahnssen, in darkest blue with a smattering of gold stars, detached himself from the melee as they approached.

  “Found it,” he beamed, pointing to a red and white truck with a matching forty-foot container on its back. “In here somewhere.”

  They caught up to him, “How do you know?”

  He stopped, now alongside the juggernaut. “One of the custom’s dogs smelled the air vent. Here,” he said, pulling Bliss under the truck, shooing away a cluster of inquisitive officers.

  “Look,” he said, shining a flashlight upwards to a tea-plate sized wire grating. “This is where the air comes out.”

  “Where’s the entry?” enquired Bliss, escaping from underneath the monster and carefully examining the joints and seams of the panel work for hinges and a doorway large enough to accommodate LeClarc.

  “Probably concealed behind the cargo. Some dockers are coming to unload it.”

  They walked toward the giant double doors at the rear as the captain explained. “It’s a load of plastic bags going to Istanbul according to the manifest.”

  Fifteen minutes later the area looked like a freeway truck crash. Pallets piled high with boxes were strewn haphazardly over the dockside, and dozens of uniformed officers wandered amongst the wreckage seeking signs of life. A throng of officials were inside the container, examining remnants—bits of broken pallet, shreds of cardboard, billows of plastic wrap— picking over each artefact with the solemnity of a philatelist searching for a first-day cover. Nothing: No neatly constructed cubicle in the middle; no false wheel arches; no carefully camouflaged chunk of cargo containing a hideaway—absolutely nothing.

  Disappointed, they began jumping down as Bliss, still on the ground, seized the flashlight from the captain and stooped under the truck. Emerging quickly he poked his head around the rear doors and peered at the floor.

  “The vent doesn’t come up inside the truck,” he said, to no one in particular. Some of the uniforms stopped moving and he repeated himself. “Look. the vent doesn’t come up through the floor.” Diving back under the truck he checked again, then scrabbled around for a probe; a piece of stiff wire a foot long would be ideal, he thought, and he spotted something fitting on the ground and excitedly lunged for it. A violent overhead explosion caused him to shriek, and his right hand snaked upwards, too late to ward off his attacker—a sharp corner of the chassis. Staggering from under the truck he was caught by familiar hands.

  “What’s happened Dave?” enquired Yolanda urgently.

  “Hit my bloody head.”

  “Let me see,” she said, gently prying his fingers from his scalp and tenderly parting the hairs. “It’s only bleeding a little,” she lied, quickly putting her hand over the wound to stem the flow. “I think we’ll get someone to look at it.”

  Reeling noticeably, he allowed Yolanda to guide him toward her car. “Wait,” he cried without opening his eyes. “Tell the captain the air vent goes forward to the front of the container.”

  Another pair of hands, bigger and firmer than Yolanda’s, caught hold and eased him into the car as he swooned; fatigue, pain, and blood loss sapping his will.

  Bliss would have seen Motsom walking back from the port to one of the bars had he been alert as they shot past. Motsom, knowing the truck had been discovered, scurried to the nearest phone. It was only a matter of time before the driver was induced to talk, warnings had to be given, arrangements made.

  Twenty minutes later disillusionment awaited a drowsy Bliss as they returned from the port medical clinic. “Just one stitch should do it,” the doctor had said, muttering about the apparent epidemic of injured cops—Sergeant Jones with his broken wrist, Bliss assumed, though he hadn’t asked, believing Jones had already received more attention than he deserved.

  With the truck’s cab detached, a concealed door into a hidden compartment had been exposed, but the forlorn look on Captain Jahnssen’s face warned him not to expect good news.

  “Empty,” Jahnssen shouted “He’s not in there.” Then he turned to a group of officers lounging against one of the pallets, lighting cigarettes from a common Zippo lighter, and angrily fired a volley of Dutch at them. The cigarettes were grudgingly stubbed out, one man making a performance by dropping his on the tarmac and defiantly dancing it to pulp with a flamenco. They ambled away, joining the ragged snake of uniforms heading toward the offices, seeking coffee or a cold beer.

  “Look here,” said the captain leading Bliss and Yolanda to the secret door they had discovered; he pointed out the professionalism of the construction, the way the riveted seams of aluminium had been used to mask the door’s outline, and inside, three narrow collapsible bunks hung on the back wall.

  “That’s a false wall,” Bliss pointed out, quite unnecessarily, giving it a tap and noticing the hollowness as the sound bounced around the emp
ty container behind it. The entire front end of the container was a narrow compartment invisible from inside or out.

  “Very clever,” muttered Bliss to himself. “But where’s LeClarc?”

  Some plastic storage containers of food, and several plastic jugs of water, had been pulled out by the officers and, as Bliss bent to examine them, dizziness struck again. Yolanda grabbed him, eased him back to a standing position, then opened each container and patiently displayed the contents: Bread, steak & kidney pies, and an assortment of chocolate cakes. Enough for several days, he thought, even for LeClarc.

  “Where’s the driver?” asked Bliss of the captain who was still nosing around inside the compartment.

  “Arrested,” he said, jumping down. “They’ve taken him in for questioning.”

  “Shit!” spat Bliss, “You know what this means?”

  Yolanda shook her head for the briefest of seconds before he continued. “LeClarc isn’t here. He didn’t drive his car off the ship …”

  “So …” she started to say, but he beat her to it again.

  “So, he must have fallen overboard. King was telling the truth after all.”

  The captain tried to butt in, but Bliss didn’t give him a chance. “Oh God! That poor sod’s been in the water all day; nobody’s done anything and we were supposed to be protecting him.”

  “There could be another truck with a hidden compartment,” the captain suggested implausibly, offering Bliss some defence. “Anyway, it’s too late to start a rescue operation now. It will be dark in a few hours. All we can do is ask shipping to keep a good look-out.”

  Alerted to the time, Bliss sneaked a look at his watch. “Four-thirty,” he said, keeping his shabby timepiece under his cuff. “We should get to the airport, Edwards will be here soon.”

  “Let me see,” she said, grabbing his wrist.

  Oh no! A nightmare—a scratched supermarket special; its vinyl strap shedding threads—damn!

  “That’s English time Dave. It’s five-thirty here.”

  He let out a squeal. Had she noticed?