The Fish Kisser

by James Hawkins

  Bliss meditated on King’s admission for a few seconds. Finally conceding, “You’re right. But it wasn’t me at the bar.”

  King began, “I saw …”

  Bliss headed him off. “I was only there to get the others to help me find LeClarc. Anyway I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  “You see why Edwards mustn’t find out,” continued King his mind racing and his voice rising in a panic. “It was my fault he drowned. I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure he’d fallen overboard. I thought I saw him in the water, I just wasn’t sure. I panicked, told Motsom, and he said stop the ship, so I chucked the life raft over, but the bloody crewman saw me and didn’t believe me. It was all my fault…”

  “O.K., O.K. Calm down. It wasn’t all your fault, we should have been watching him better. Anyway it’s too late now. But where have they taken the others?”

  King pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and spread it on the table. Neatly scribbled in one corner was an address in Istanbul.

  Saturday’s dawn had broken in Watford, England. The bustle of weekday rail commuters along Junction Road was replaced by families with noisy children off to the seaside, amusement park, or a day’s shopping expedition, but Trudy still lay in the silent gloom of her underground tomb. Away from the foggy coast the brilliant July sunshine started to turn the milk left standing on doorsteps. And, across town, Roger’s father, still wearing yesterday’s shirt, felt the warmth on his arm as he fumbled around the partially opened front door, sweeping up the milk bottle with the daily newspaper in one go.

  “Who is it?” bellowed Mrs. LeClarc from the sanctuary of her bedroom, anxiously anticipating a visit from a policeman to say Roger had been found alive and well, and that the two straight-faced constables who had called the evening before had made a horrible mistake.

  “Only me dear, just getting the milk,” he called up the stairs. “Do you want some tea?”

  “Anything about our Roger in the paper?” she enquired.

  He flopped the Daily Express open on the hall table and scanned the headlines. “Can’t see anything.”

  Ten minutes later, after delivering tea and sympathy to his distraught, though still demanding, wife, Mr. LeClarc’s eyes hit upon a single paragraph on page three of the paper. He read it twice before going on to page four. Halfway through page five he lost concentration and found himself thinking about the earlier article. Flipping back, he looked again at the poorly reproduced photocopy with its caption. “Do you recognize Roger?”

  He drifted up the stairs, the newspaper held in front of him like an offering, re-reading the paragraph aloud.

  “Roger sought in missing girl case. Police have released this photograph of a man they are seeking in relation to last week’s disappearance of 16 yr. old Trudy McKenzie. “He is not a suspect,” stressed Detective Sergeant Malcolm Kite, (43 yrs.), but may be able to assist with enquiries. Roger, (surname unknown) is described as 5’10” medium build, 27 yrs. Known as a computer whiz he is believed to live in the Watford area. If you know this man etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Maybe they’ve run away together,” said Mrs. LeClarc, grasping at straws. “Give it to me,” she ordered, snatching the paper from his hands. “Let me look.”

  She scanned the piece. “Our Roger ain’t twenty seven,” she whined immediately.

  “Maybe the paper’s got it wrong. They’re always getting things wrong.”

  “He’s not five-foot ten neither.”

  “I think we should call. You never know,” replied his father, feeling the need to do something constructive.

  “But look at the photo,” she commanded, thrusting the paper back at him.

  The grainy monochrome picture bore no resemblance to Roger, but he wouldn’t admit it, even to himself. “Could be,” he said, angling the paper against the window for better light.

  “No it ain’t,” she shot back, offended anyone would suggest she couldn’t recognize her own son.

  “I think it could be,” he continued vaguely, rubbing his forehead and leaving a dark smear of printer’s ink, unwilling to let go of the thread of hope.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she hissed, and buried her head in the pillow.

  “I still think we should call.”

  Her muffled words barely reached him. “Do what you like.”

  Detective Constable Jackson, the Roger Moore look-alike with stained trousers, strolled into the C.I.D. office at Watford police station with two paper cups of brown liquid strongly suspected of being coffee, despite having pressed the “Tea” button on the machine. “Is that the Junction Road case?” he asked, as his partner replaced the phone.

  “Yeah, that was LeClarc’s father. They saw the picture in the paper.”

  “It’s a bit of a coincidence—two missing people called Roger both from Watford,” he. said, placing one cup in front of his partner, still eyeing his own suspiciously.

  “The descriptions don’t match at all. I’ve already spoken to a D.C. in Leyton. Nothing fits, only the name. Anyway that team from Scotland Yard had LeClarc under surveillance. They would have seen if he was with a woman.”

  “I still reckon it’s odd that a bloke called Roger from Watford goes missing in the middle of the North Sea and a girl from Leyton goes missing with a bloke called Roger from Watford.

  “They don’t know she went off with this bloke. It’s only what her friend thinks. Anyway nothing else fits. The friend said he lived in a big house. She said he drove a Jaguar. He’s 27, he’s 5’10’ … Shall I go on?”

  “She also say’s he’s a computer whiz.”

  His partner took a quick swig from the cup, screwed his face and spat the whole lot into a wire wastebasket. “Ugh. Sugar!”

  “Sorry, I forgot. Anyway I still think it might be worth having another look at that place on Junction Road.

  The phone rang. “Criminal Investigation Department,” Jackson said augustly, hitting the “hands-free” key, speaking to the ceiling.

  “Switchboard,” yawned a female operator. “Bloke from ACT Telecommunications, whatever that is, wants to speak to someone about a missing person.”

  “Get uniform branch to deal with it, Luv; we’re busy,” he snapped.

  “I’m getting pissed about here. I already tried— they said it were your case. I wish somebody’d make up there bloody mind.”

  “PMS,” he mouthed across the desk to his partner. “O.K. put him on,” he said, tiredly, no idea what missing person she was talking about, and switched to the handset. “D.C. Jackson, can I help you.”

  A polished Oxbridge accent jumped down the phone at him. “What the devil’s going on Officer?”

  Two can play at that game, he thought, replying snottily, “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Sir.”

  “Have you got the Daily Express?”

  What is this—twenty questions with attitude?

  “That’s my photograph on page three but my name is definitely not Roger and I am certainly not involved with the disappearance of any schoolgirl,” continued the voice, not giving Jackson an opportunity to respond.

  Grabbing the paper from his partner, Jackson came close to knocking over his drink. “Watch out!” shouted the other man, as Jackson stared at the picture.

  “What do you mean, it’s your photo?” he said into the phone as he scrutinized the face.

  “Officer,” the voice continued, “I do know my own face and so do a lot of other people. This is very embarrassing. My wife is very upset; so am I. I’ve called the Express. They say someone at your police station gave them the photograph and claimed it was this Roger fellow.”

  “Let me get this straight, Sir,” he said, stalling as he jotted a few notes. “The picture in today’s paper of the man we are looking for in the Trudy McKenzie case is you.”

  “That’s right, and I’m not Roger. I haven’t kidnapped any girl and I’m not very happy. In fact I shall be talking to my lawyers about suing someone for defamation
of character.”

  “Lawyers,” mused Jackson with his hand over the mouthpiece, feeling the weight of the plural, deciding it was time to take cover. “It wasn’t us who gave Express the photo, it came from Leyton. I suggest you give them a call.”

  “Oh,” he floundered for a second, “I thought it was you.”

  “Sorry, that case is nothing to do with us.”

  “But the paper says this Roger lives in Watford.”

  “That’s correct, Sir, but the girl’s missing from Leyton—it’s their case.”

  A few moments silence left Jackson wondering if the caller had slammed the phone down. “Sir ?” he enquired.

  “Yes,” replied the voice, thoughtful, less angry.

  “Have you any idea how someone got your photograph?”

  “Oh yes. Someone stole it a few weeks ago from the showcase at our head office. We knew it was missing—assumed it was a staff member’s prank.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you, Sir,” Jackson said as he put the phone down. Then he looked at his partner. “There’s something funny here. Let’s take another look at that place of LeClarc’s. I’m beginning to wonder if the two Rogers are connected.”

  He laid out his theory driving to Junction Road. “If the photo ain’t Roger’s, then the description’s prob’ly wrong as well. What if LeClarc has run off with this girl.” He thought for a second, going over the evidence in his mind, then reconstructed the case out loud. “This McKenzie girl deliberately gave her friend a photo of the wrong guy; gave a false description, and didn’t tell her mum where she was going.” He paused long enough to negotiate an absurdly parked truck, then triumphantly solved the case, “I bet Roger and this McKenzie girl have eloped. I bet her mum wouldn’t have him in the house, so she came up with a dodgy excuse and sloped off to Holland with him. Now they’re sunning themselves on the Costa Bravo or a beach in Florida and laughing their pants off at us silly sods.”

  “Maybe,” replied his partner, unconvinced.

  George Mitchell was just leaving home for High Street, scouting for something interesting for his dinner, when the two detectives returned.

  “Mr. Mitchell,” Jackson called, as the sprightly eighty-three year old marched along Junction Road like he was still in command.

  He halted and peered down into the car. “Good morning officer,” he responded crisply, proving the strength of his eyesight matched his legs; then he bent and enquired seriously, “Did you manage to get the stain out?”

  Jackson blushed as his partner jumped out and greeted the old soldier with a wide grin. “Morning Mr. Mitchell, lovely day.”

  “G’morning. Any news of your young man?” he nodded toward Roger’s house.

  “We were hoping you might know something.”

  “Only what I told you yesterday. He’s not come back s’far as I know. I ain’t seen ’is car for best part of a week.”

  Jackson, spotting a parking space, headed off as his partner and Mitchell wandered across the road into the warmth of the sun.

  “Did he ever bring a girl here?” asked the detective, getting to the point as he scrutinized Roger’s doorstep.

  George Mitchell shook his head. “I never saw no one, but he kept funny hours like I told you. He’d come and go at all times.”

  “How did you know when he was here?”

  “Sometimes he’d put the front room light on. Other times I’d see him go in.”

  “Mr. Mitchell never saw a woman here,” called the detective as Jackson returned, then he ran up the two steps to the old yellow door and banged hard. “Just in case,” he explained to George who was eyeing him as if he were deranged.

  “I told you …There’s no one there,” said George, visibly offended.

  Trudy woke with a start. Her ears, sensitized by two days of total silence, had picked up the faint sound of the thump. For a moment she lay disorientated on the damp stone floor in the darkness wondering what had woken her. Then she slowly pulled herself up, carefully testing each joint and limb for pain, and stuck her ear to the keyhole—nothing. A few seconds later she fastened her mouth over the hole—like a baby sucking its mother’s life-giving breast, and drank in the refreshingly oxygenated air.

  Leaving George on the front doorstep, the two detectives fought their way to the rear of the house over the unofficial waste dump. Clambering through the garbage and debris they forged a path through the stringy vegetation, Jackson scything wildly at a patch of nettles with a length of rusty guttering, disturbing a frenzy of flies.

  “Ugh. Want something for lunch,” he called to his partner, finding the fly-blown carcase of a rat and poking it with his lance.

  “Disgusting sod,” replied the other as he climbed over the rubble of the dividing wall into the wilderness of Roger’s backyard.

  George Mitchell greeted him as he rounded the back of the house. “Bloody eyesore that mess is—council should get it cleared up.”

  “How the hell did you get here?” he enquired, astounded at the appearance of the old soldier.

  “I came through old Daft Jack’s next door,” he replied, using his thumb to point at the gap in the decayed wall between Roger’s house and his next door neighbour and, following the thumb, the detective found himself looking at the scarecrow figure of an old man, with wispy grey beard and antiqued leather skin. Jack grinned, and all three of his teeth shone green in the morning sunlight.

  “He’s not really daft,” said George as if Jack were not there. “It’s just that he’s deaf, so the kids make fun of him.”

  Jack remained on his side of the dilapidated wall, fascinated by the unusual activity.

  “Can he hear anything?” whispered Jackson.

  “Oh yeah. When he’s got ’is deaf-aid on. He ’as it off most of the time to save on batteries, so you have to tell him.” He turned to the old man, put his right hand to his own ear and, with a twisting motion, yelled, “Earring aid.”

  Jack fiddled with the device until it let out a shriek that made him jump, spent two minutes adjusting it, and ten seconds saying he’d never heard or seen Roger. The excitement over, he promptly clicked it off and disappeared back inside his house.

  The two detectives turned their attention to Roger’s back door—still firmly locked.

  “We really should get a search warrant,” said Jackson for George’s benefit, though he had already made up his mind not to bother.

  “If it’s empty we won’t have a problem,” replied his partner.

  George overheard. “There’s nothing in there, I can tell you that for now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “One of your sergeants came by after you left yesterday and I let him in,” said George, failing to mention that he too had been in the house.

  “How?”

  “With a key.” Then he added sarcastically, “How do you think I let him in?”

  Jackson’s partner ignored the sarcasm. “Oh great, now you tell us—c’mon let us in then.”

  George carefully examined the highly polished toecaps of his boots for several seconds. “I let ’im take the key,” he mumbled, feeling guilty for some reason, as if he had been personally responsible for its safe-keeping.

  A few minutes later they stood in the front hallway, just inches from the cupboard under the stairs, directly above Trudy’s dungeon. The “accidentally smashed” kitchen window was letting in a welcome breath of fresh air.

  “Sewer,” said Jackson with a sniff, as his partner shuffled through the heap of mail squashed into a pile behind the front door.

  “This one’s undone,” he lied, as his finger prised open the flap of an envelope that appeared to contain more than junk mail. Slipping out the contents, he recognized the letterhead from a furniture store. “According to this, LeClarc had a new bed delivered here back in May,” he announced. “Phew, look at the price.”

  Jackson peered over his shoulder. “Well where is it then?”

  George unintentionally gave away his previous incur
sion. “There’s no bed in here.” But the detectives overlooked his remark, intent on searching for more documentary evidence.

  A letter from British Telecom fell open with some assistance. “There should be a phone here somewhere,” said Jackson, skimming the printed page. “Here’s the number. This was May as well—the fourth apparently.”

  His partner flipped open his cellphone and tapped in the number. The distant phone rang twice in his ear but no one in the house heard it, then a string of high pitched bleeps alerted him to the fact that he was trying to communicate with a machine.

  “It’s a fax or a computer modem,” he said, with a confused look.

  The computer screen, just ten feet below, leapt silently into life “STANDBY—MODEM CONNECTING.”

  The sudden movement caught Trudy’s eye and, with only a moment’s hesitation, sent her scrabbling across the room, oblivious to the pain in her hands and knees.

  Detective Constable Jackson had shut the lid on his phone and cut the connection before Trudy even reached the machine. “CONNECTION—ABORTED,” flashed three times before the screen went blank. Tears streamed down her face. “MUM, MUM, MUM,” she typed frantically, then sat sobbing and coughing, staring at the screen, begging it to try again. “MUM HELP.”

  “There should be a phone jack somewhere,” said Jackson’s partner as he probed around the hallway and on into the front room where he discovered the recently installed socket. “It’s here, and there’s no phone plugged in,” he called, as if that somehow explained the modem’s response.

  D.C. Jackson, rifling through the mail, needed more light and tentatively toyed with the ancient brass light switch before finally giving it a flick—whipping his hand quickly away as if it might bite. “The powers on,” he pronounced unnecessarily, when they were bathed in the sepia glow of an ancient bare bulb, then he dropped to the floor and swept up a number of long black hairs.

  George Mitchell took once glance and brushed them off, saying, “Mrs. Papadropolis,” as if she’d lived there the day before.