The Fish Kisser

by James Hawkins

  She responded with a sniffled, “Yes.”

  “You don’t know anything bad has happened. She might have just gone away with this bloke on holiday and didn’t tell you ’cos she knew you’d say no.”

  “Trudy wouldn’t do that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” she snapped, but wouldn’t have bet her life on it.

  “Were you close?” he continued kindly, hoping to ease the tension.

  “Yes, Well …” she wavered—he caught the waver. “Not as close as we used to be. I work evenings, and she’s at school all day, so we don’t see too much of each other.”

  The memories of how life had been were too much: tears started again, quietly this time, tiny droplets dribbling down her cheeks. Tears of guilt, regret, and remorse shed by every imperfect parent; tears for the missed opportunities; tears for things said and unsaid. But Lisa’s tears were magnified a thousand fold by the fact that, unlike other parents, she might never have the opportunity to say: “Sorry daughter. I did my best.”

  Wiping the tears, Lisa leaned forward and touched the constable’s shoulder, insisting he should pay attention. “She wouldn’t leave her cat, she adores it,” she sniffled.

  “What if she was only planning on going for a few days?”

  “She wouldn’t.”

  He uttered, “Ah … hah,” which could have meant anything, but Lisa chose it to mean he didn’t believe her.

  Why wouldn’t they believe her? The first policeman who came to the house had been the same. He’d started off compassionately enough, taking Trudy’s description, names and addresses of her friends and relatives, things she took with her—nothing really, just her handbag, places she liked to visit,; hobbies, even the things she liked to eat. Then he started. “Are you sure you didn’t have any trouble with her?”

  “No.”

  “‘No,’ you didn’t have any trouble or ’no’ you’re not sure?”

  “No trouble.”

  “You didn’t have a fight?”

  “No, we never fought.”

  “Never?”

  “Hardly ever. Well not physically anyway.”

  “But you did have rows?”

  “Yes,” she was forced to admit. “We did have disagreements. Doesn’t everybody?” She sought confirmation in his face but saw a different look; could see what he was thinking—How do I know you haven’t killed her and dumped the body somewhere?

  Twenty times at least she felt like saying, “Get out if you’re not going to do anything.” But she didn’t say it, knowing he would claim that proved her guilt. Then he brought up the drugs, “Was she?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  “Does she smoke?”

  “Yes. They all do, well most of them anyway.”

  His look said, “Hash,” but she carried on before he had a chance to say it. “So what does that prove. I like a drop of Martini, does that make me an alcoholic?”

  “No,” he admitted. Then, after a pause, asked, “And what about sex?” Giving her a questioning look, too embarrassed or too sensitive to come clean and ask if Trudy were a virgin.

  “I don’t know,” replied Lisa, looking away.

  “Has she ever …”

  God, she thought angrily, this man’s a copper and he’s frightened to ask me if my daughter’s ever been bonked. “No … Yes … Possibly. I don’t know. She never told me.”

  “Could she be on the game?”

  “How dare you?”

  “We have to ask.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Look, I’m sorry but we’ve got to have some idea where to start looking. I’m not saying she’s on the game …”

  “She’s not,” Lisa shouted straight into his face, her eyes not more than three inches from his.

  He remained calm. “Like I said, I’m not suggesting she is …”

  “Good!” she yelled.

  “All I’m saying is that I need to know … If there were the slightest possi—”

  “There’s not,” she shot back before he could finish.

  “I’m just asking, then we’d know where to start looking, Kings Cross railway station for instance.”

  She stared at him coldly. “I’m not going to tell you again. She’s not a whore. O.K.”

  “O.K.,” he replied, unconvinced.

  “Anyway, I don’t suppose you’d bother to look if I said she was,” complained Lisa. He glanced sideways at her, doubt written all over his face—she could have throttled him. “I told you, she is not. Got it.”

  He got it.

  “The Historic Borough of Leyton,” proclaimed the sign proudly as they neared Margery’s home. “Asshole of the World,” had been added, unofficially, in fluorescent red, and the artist would have been gratified to know his work reflected well in the headlights of the car. Directed by Margery, the constable pulled up outside the darkened house and looked at the dashboard clock. “Ten-oh-five,” he said, pleased with himself for making good time.

  “This is Roger,” Margery said, triumphantly flourishing the folded sheet from the centre of a biology book a few moments later. Lisa grabbed it and the others stared over her shoulder. Peter quickly shook his head, and Lisa said, “No,” but continued staring, surprised by the lack of malevolence in the man’s eyes, thinking that she herself might have difficulty resisting his obvious charms.

  “You are quite sure this is Roger?” the policeman asked in an official tone, holding the photocopy up for Margery to see. She nodded seriously. And, mindful of the fact the picture could one day become an exhibit in a murder trial, he carefully placed it in a plastic evidence bag and wrote on the label “Roger??? Last known address—Watford.”

  Fifteen minutes later he was on his way to the Daily Express office with a creased photocopy, and verbal description of someone who might well have come from a different species, or planet, than Roger LeClarc.

  Roger would have recognised the man in the picture, although his swollen eyelids would have made the vision somewhat blurry. In any case he was submerged in darkness, darker even than his first night as a castaway, the sky completely shut out by a cold wet blanket of fog.

  Things had brightened just a little by late morning, the great globs of black and slate-grey cloud rushing northwards, leaving a wash of translucent white with the brush strokes clearly visible. But, just as the heavens were being re-painted sky-blue, a swirling mist began wafting around the life raft, shutting out the horizon and coating Roger with tiny beads of water.

  Several ships had slipped by in the fog, only the penetrating tones of their foghorns signalling their presence and, by late afternoon, he had convinced himself that a particularly close horn was that of a lighthouse. It must be a bay or inlet, he thought, deceived by the calmness of the water, and dreamed of a wide sandy beach garnished with bare-breasted nymphets and a hundred hamburger joints. The prospect of hamburgers jerked him awake—food, I need food, must have food. “There must be food inside,” he mused and sat on the edge of the giant rubber ring with his feet dangling speculatively into the opening, weighing the pros and cons of venturing inside, into a water-filled paddling pool.

  His stomach won, and a minute later he was floundering helplessly as his bulk dented the flimsy bottom and a deluge of water knocked his feet from under him. His thrashing flushed him further from the inflated rim and, within seconds, he was drowning again: His weight, sodden coat, the water, and gravity, conspiring to drag him under the canopy toward the centre. He sank to his chest and sat forlornly in the middle with only his head and shoulders above the water, the canopy draped over him like a huge deflated parachute.

  Once the water, and his mind, had calmed, he used his hands as flippers to inch back toward the opening, then his right hand collided with the box of emergency rations and he clung to it thankfully as he clambered back onto the roof and collapsed, exhausted.

  The blanket of fog hanging motionle
ss above the sea intensified hour by hour. By early evening the cold white swirling mist of the morning had become a uniform grey wall. Night appeared to fall several hours earlier than it should otherwise have done and Roger slept.

  Night was also falling in the Dutch port where preparations were being made to keep tabs on the truck bound for Istanbul. A knot of officers, English and Dutch, stood around the rear of the trailer receiving instructions, then Detective Constable Wilson dropped a bombshell. “Sorry, Guv,” he said, “but I’m not volunteering to go in that.” He hesitated momentarily, adding, “With all due respect,” a fraction too late to have any sincerity, and he kept his eyes on the ground, away from Superintendent Edwards.

  “I wasn’t asking for volunteers,” snarled Edwards, his clenched teeth chattering in anger as he hissed, “Come with me.”

  Turning his back, he strode smartly away, leaving Wilson looking to his colleague for support. D.C. Smythe pulled a face— you’re on your own mate, and an embarrassed silence built with the possibility of a showdown. Edwards broke the spell. “Wilson,” he barked, the single word somehow encompassing the phrase, “Come here you bastard.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Wilson replied, half running to catch up with his senior officer.

  Edwards turned on him as soon as they were out of the group’s earshot. Making eye contact he flew at him, “You will go in the truck you little snot,” he spat. “How dare you show me up in front of the captain.”

  “But, Sir …” Wilson tried to explain.

  “Don’t you ’but’ me you little runt.”

  “Sir, I have an important engagement,” he managed, before Edwards could stop him.

  “Nothing, I repeat, nothing is more important than this case to you, and your career, at this moment,” he said, adding with venom. “Do I make myself abundantly clear?”

  Wilson wouldn’t give up; couldn’t afford to give up, “Sir, I promised my wife …”

  Edwards cut in with a sneer, “You promised your wife what? I bet you promised you wouldn’t get pissed, or wouldn’t get a dose of AIDS from a whore in Amsterdam. Wouldn’t have stopped you though would it?” He paused for breath and a change of tone. “That reminds me, I still haven’t found out what you and the others were doing when Bliss lost LeClarc on the bloody ship. Where were you? How come Bliss was the only one on deck? What was Sergeant Jones doing when he fell over? Trying to hold up the bar was he? Or, do you expect me to believe Bliss lost him all on his own?”

  Wilson spluttered, “We were …”

  “I should warn you mister, I’ve already spoken to Sergeant Jones. Just in case you were thinking of telling me porky pies.”

  “I’m not sure what we were doing,” Wilson replied hesitantly after a few moments of prudent thought.

  Superintendent Edwards, an experienced interviewer, knew the signs; knew very well that Wilson remembered precisely where he was and what he was doing at the material time. “I’ll tell you what Mister Wilson,” he began, offering a backhanded compromise, “you get in that truck with Smythe and the others, and by the time you return I’ll have forgotten all about what went wrong on the ship.” Still staring, he raised his eyebrows, “Do we understand each other?”

  Wilson understood. “Yes, Sir.”

  Edwards marched stiffly back to the truck with Wilson, slack-shouldered, in his wake. “Now Captain,” said Edwards as if they had never been away, “please continue with the briefing.”

  Fifteen minutes later, unaware he was carrying three passengers, the driver gunned the huge truck life and, after warming the engine for a few minutes, dropped the rig into gear. Destination—Istanbul.

  “What do you think, Michael?” asked the captain as they watched the big rig rocking violently as it rolled over the railway lines on its way out of the port, carrying Detectives Wilson and Smythe together with Constable Van der Zalm.

  “We shall soon find out,” replied Edwards. “The driver may be lying, especially if he was paid enough—or scared enough. He was certainly nervous, but wouldn’t you be if you were arrested in a foreign country; particularly if you hadn’t done anything wrong?”

  The captain nodded, “I suppose I would … That reminds me, you haven’t spoken to King yet.”

  The truck swung hard to its right just outside the dock and accelerated toward Rotterdam. An unmarked dark green police car, waiting out of sight just beyond the dock perimeter, took up its position and the two-vehicle convoy set off.

  “David King?” Superintendent Edwards enquired of the lone occupant in the cell.

  King was tempted to say, “No,” just to be awkward, but nodded without getting up. “What?” he replied defiantly.

  “I’m Superintendent Edwards, New Scotland Yard. I’d like to have a few words with you.”

  King studied him critically, rising slowly—thoughtfully—saying nothing. Edwards turned to the captain, still standing in the cell doorway. “It’s O.K. Jost. I’ll call if I need anything.”

  Edwards swung on the substantial wooden door, heard the solid clunk of the lock dropping into place behind him, and turned to face King, now standing a good six inches taller than he.

  “Sit down please, Mr. King,” he said, feeling ill at ease under the weight of King’s stare.

  “I’ll stand,” replied King coldly.

  Edwards dropped to the bench. “Sit down,” he instructed with a wave of the hand, somehow managing to make his order sound like an invitation.

  King stood defiantly, and an uncomfortable feeling prickled the back of Edwards’ neck. “I really think it would be better if you sat,” he persisted, forcing himself to stay seated.

  “I said I’ll stand.”

  “Sit,” he commanded, as if ordering a dog.

  King glared, “Do you always get your own way?”

  Edwards, realizing he was at a severe disadvantage, pressed his hands firmly on the bench and started to rise, “I’m here to ask the questions, Mr. King. I said sit down.”

  King made his move, towering over Edwards, making no attempt to sit. “Why don’t you go screw yourself?” he said, spitting malice.

  “How dare you?”

  “Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten …” continued King, and a horrified look of recognition spread over Edwards’ face.

  “Nosmo King?”

  The scream of a siren pierced the air, reverberating sharply along the tunnel-like corridor, bringing the captain and officers running. King’s cell door flew open and he handed Edwards’ slumped body to them, saying, “Mr. Edwards had a little accident.” And he shut the door himself.

  Edwards, holding his hand over his mouth, mumbled, “I’m O.K., I just slipped.”

  Confused, the captain tried to help. “Let me see?”

  “No, ’I’ll be O.K., I just need a toilet.”

  “What happened?”

  “Like I said: Accident—slipped and fell against the bench.”

  The captain shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve never heard of a policeman slipping in the cells—prisoners sometimes.”

  Blood was oozing from between Edwards fingers and he winced as he gingerly ran his other hand over the back of his head. “There is always a first time,” he managed to reply as he allowed himself to be led to the washroom.

  Two minutes later the cell buzzer sounded again. Returning, the captain warily unbolted the observation flap. “Yes—what do you want?”

  “I want to talk to D.I. Bliss,” demanded King, with new found arrogance. “Is he still here?”

  “What happened to the superintendent?” asked the captain, sceptical of Edward’s explanation.

  “Slipped and fell. Is he alright?”

  “I don’t know,” he snapped. “Anyway, why do you want to see Detective Bliss?”

  King thought, for just a moment, as if he were considering telling, but then decided against it. “Just get him. O.K.”

  Captain Jahnssen shot a look at his watch. “It’s after midnight. You’ll have to wait ’til the morning
.”

  Slamming the hatch shut, the captain marched off to find Edwards. “Should I get the doctor, Michael?” he asked a few minutes later, as Edwards continued spitting blood into the sink.

  “No, I’m fine really,” he replied with difficulty, his swollen upper lip already protruding like a small red balloon. Then he tilted his head back and regretted it as the pain brought tears to his eyes.

  “I wish you would be honest with me Michael,” said the captain, reigning in his anger. “I can’t see how you fell and hit your head and face at the same time.”

  Edwards made no attempt at an explanation. “I’ll be alright in the morning Jost.”

  “King has asked to see Bliss again,” he said, a query in his voice.

  “Has he,” replied Edwards; neither an answer nor a question.

  The two-vehicle convoy processed slowly toward Rotterdam amid the sparse evening traffic. Wilson and the other two officers were being flung around amongst the towering skids of boxes inside the little den, like riders in a crazy ride. Illuminated only by a small batterypowered lamp, they had no choice but to sit tight. Constable Van der Zalm, a dour Dutchman even in good weather, sulked in a corner and made it obvious that being cooped up with a couple of Englishmen for four days in a truck was about as appealing as being castrated by a madman with a plastic knife. And Wilson, still smarting from his brush with Edwards, worried what his wife would do. Her ultimatum still nagged— “Once more, just once more,” she had said, coldly. “If you let me down once more … that will be it.”

  “I’ll be back early Saturday,” he’d promised.

  “You’d better be. I mean it this time.”

  “I really, really promise,” he’d added foolishly.

  “The christening’s at ten o’clock. If you’re not back …” she’d left the sentence unfinished. She didn’t understand—but how could she. A teacher, always a teacher, only a teacher, for whom anything other than nine to five Monday to Friday, was an infringement of personal liberty.