The skipper’s plan was already unravelling. For several hours, drawing ever nearer to the search zone, he had tried to think of a way to save himself and his young mate, guessing that once LeClarc was found, or the search abandoned, Motsom and his hoodlums would have no choice but to dispose of them—a simple task in mid-ocean. But if he disabled the engine they would be marooned together until rescued. Motsom would surely realize the difficulty of explaining the absence of crew to the authorities and might think twice about getting rid of them.
Careful not to let his disappointment show, the skipper eased back the throttle, and tried again. “It might take half an hour,” he warned. “We could hit something.”
Motsom relented, stuck his head out of the wheelhouse and yelled, “McCrae. Get up here will you, Sprat as well if he wants.”
“So how are you going to sink this one?” the Sprat enquired of McCrae, as soon as they had replaced the skipper and Motsom on the bridge.
McCrae stared blankly ahead, concentrating on holding the wheel straight, his dour face suggesting he wasn’t comfortable disclosing professional tactics. “Bomb I expect,” he replied, with a shrug.
“Plastic or jelly?”
“Neither, you idiot. This sort of job ain’t like doing a safe you know.”
Boyd’s surprise showed on his face, so McCrae gave him a lesson in the finer points of murder. “Look, when you blow a safe everyone knows what happened so it don’t matter what you use. But if you blast a car or ship with plastic or jelly, or even bloody fertilizer, then the cops knows it’s murder. There’s bits of the bomb left everywhere afterwards.”
Boyd nodded. He knew that.
“So,” continued McCrae, “The trick in my game is only use the stuff that’s already there.”
Boyd wasn’t sure what he meant, but wasn’t going to say so.
McCrae sensed the lack of understanding. “Look,” he explained, recalling a recent exploit, “if you’re going to blow up a plane, use the stuff on board. Blow up a fuel tank or an oxygen cylinder. They’ll think it was an accident. Do it over water and they’ll never work out what hit them—might even think it was a f’kin missile or a laser gun of some sort, but they won’t find any explosives ’cos you didn’t use any.”
Boyd understood. “The two skeletons in …”
“Gas tank,” replied McCrae, adding, “You heard about the computer bloke who crashed into the train?”
Boyd nodded. “Yours?” he asked, with an admiring look.
“Yeah, a classic,” he said, and his eyes glazed as he stared into the fog recalling the event.
They had stopped the unfortunate man on a quiet stretch of country road on his way home from work, his computer disks and various files in two briefcases on the seat behind him. Motsom, dressed in a police uniform, stolen for the occasion from a real policeman’s home, leaned into the car and accused him of drinking and driving.
“I’ve only had one, Officer,” protested the hapless man.
“If you would just step this way, Sir,” said Motsom guiding him toward the unmarked car with dark tinted windows. The naïve man suspected nothing and was neatly stripped, bound, gagged, and bundled into the trunk by McCrae within seconds. With the kidnap victim out of the way, McCrae quickly set to work on his car—wiring an explosive detonator into the fuel tank and refilling the windshield fluid container and radiator with gasoline.
“Motsom had dragged a bum off the street,” explained McCrae, recounting the event to Boyd. “Gave him fifty quid and told him he just wanted him to drive his car for some reason. And you should have seen his face when Billy gave him a load of new clothes, the one’s we took off the computer bloke. He was really chuffed—sat in that car like he owned it.”
“How do you like your new vehicle, Sir?” Motsom had teased in the tone of a car salesman.
“Very nice mate,” the simpleton beamed, happy to go along with Motsom’s fantasy.
“And would Sir like to go for a little drive.”
The longhaired, unshaven, middle-aged bagman hadn’t driven for years but remembered how, and Motsom sat alongside giving directions as they jaunted along the winding country roads. The short journey brought back memories of better days and the man tittered and clicked his tongue with pleasure as he stroked the soft leather upholstery, fiddled with knobs and switches, and admired himself in the rear view mirror which Motsom had obligingly tilted in his direction.
“Pull over here,” said Motsom as they neared a narrow bridge over a deep railway cutting.
He stopped as requested, blind to the car with tinted windows sliding to a halt behind.
“Hang on there a mo,” instructed Motsom, as he stepped out of the car.
McCrae slipped unnoticed into the rear seat, whipped a hood over his head and bound him to the seat with parcel tape in less than three seconds. Then Motsom, wearing surgical gloves, squirted the flailing hands with superglue and jammed them onto the steering wheel.
“Eight seconds,” said McCrae, consulting his watch with a professional eye.
“We’ve got one minute,” said Motsom calmly as he walked the few yards to the fence overlooking the fiftyfoot ravine and, as McCrae inched the car forward checking the alignment of the wheels, Motsom frayed the three strands of rusty old barbed wire. “O.K., let’s go,” said Motsom, his head tilted, listening for the train as he prepared to push. McCrae felt his pulse rising as he stood, battery in one hand, two wires attached to the detonator in the fuel tank, in the other. Then, the distant whine of the express, and Motsom flicked his eyes up and down the narrow road—all quiet.
“Ready,” he breathed.
A wolf-howl scream marked the passage of a farm crossing and McCrae bent to push.
“Wait … Wait… Hold it … Hold it …” murmured Motsom, his shoulder to the back of the car, judging the train’s speed and distance. Then suddenly he shouted, “Stop.”
Confused, McCrae looked up to see Motsom dashing to the front of the car. In a flash he opened the door, snatched the mask off the driver and ran back. “Push! Push! Push!” he shouted and the car shot over the top, down the bank, and exploded into a huge fireball as McCrae touched the wires to the battery. Then the flaming steel coffin crashed headlong into the front of the speeding train and the screams of the car driver melded into the screech of steel on steel.
“I wanted the poor bastard to see where he was going,” explained Motsom as they climbed back into their car, the computer specialist safely in the trunk.
“What’s so bloody funny?” asked Motsom, returning to the wheelhouse with the skipper at gunpoint.
Boyd was the only one laughing and he brought his face under control long enough to start, “Mac was just telling me …” then McCrae’s elbow struck sharply into his ribs.
Motsom ignored them, waving at the pale-faced skipper with the barrel of his gun. “I caught him trying to sabotage the bloody engine.”
“That’s naughty …” said McCrae.
“What’s that?” interrupted Boyd, his attention caught by a movement outside the wheelhouse.
They turned as one and followed the direction of his gaze. In the distance a thin streak of fog had detached itself from the surface and was stabbing skyward. Then, as they watched, the top of the spear burst into a little red star and began lazily drifting back down on a parachute.
“It’s a flare,” commented McCrae.
“I can see that,” replied Motsom nastily, “But where did it come from?”
“Over there …” started Boyd, but was headed off by Motsom.
“I mean—who would send up a flare you idiot?”
They looked at each other; no one daring to mention the obvious. Then the skipper broke the silence with the words he had been dreading. “It could be him.”
“Get over there,” shouted Motsom, with a haphazard wave of his gun. “C’mon hurry up—get this tub over there before I blow yer brains out.”
With long sweeps of his short arms, and a heavy hea
rt, the skipper swung the wheel and, after a moment’s hesitation, the trawler shook itself free of its lethargy and bounded toward the flare.
Roger’s little boat was less than a mile away, sinking fast. One side of the inflated raft, the side supporting Roger’s weight, flopped uselessly into the water with a gaping hole, dunking him to his waist. The flare had punctured it. Roger, alerted by the sound of the trawler’s engine, fearing he would be missed in the fog, had frantically grabbed the flare from the emergency box and stupidly held it over the top of the raft’s inflated side while pulling the red ignition tab. Nothing had happened for a few seconds as the fuse glowed invisibly inside the barrel,
and he’d just convinced himself it was a dud, when, with a “Whoosh!” a frightening belch of burning gas shot seawards and the skyrocket roared out of his hand. Terrified, his eyes jerked upwards in awe as the rocket ripped a hole through the fog. Then the raft slumped beneath him and he looked down, horrified, to see a jagged puncture and the water rushing in. In panic, he fought to get away from the sagging side, but his exhausted limbs and swollen hands were of little use. To make matters worse, his stomach was still fighting the effects of seasickness and the overdose of emergency rations. Stomach cramps gripped him repeatedly and, as the hull of the trawler drifted into his circle of visibility, he was leaning over the side throwing-up again.
A shout from above startled him, “Oy! You there. What’ye doing. Kissing the fish?” Motsom was laughing and even McCrae came close tó breaking his face.
“Save Trudy. Please save Trudy,” was all he managed to say, then he collapsed unconscious into the water.
The old clock in the railway refreshment room clunked its way to 8 p.m. and the lumpy waitress stood by the door and flipped the “closed” sign. She’d had an unusual day and was anxious to get home to see herself on the news. Although the excitement had perked up her flagging energy mid-afternoon; she was now feeling the effects. In addition to interviews and photos, she’d still had to serve the dozens of press and television people who had lined up for endless cups of tea. And everybody had been in a rush, no one wanting to leave the circus at Roger’s house for a moment longer than necessary lest they should miss the star attraction.
Walking up Junction Road, a minute later, she briefly joined the knot of sightseers staring expectantly at Roger’s front door. Disappointed when nobody recognized her, she was just moving on when Roger’s innocent looking yellow door cracked open a fraction and a man’s face searched the crowd. Then the gap widened and a uniformed officer slid out and quickly pulled it shut behind him, heightening the speculation that they had discovered a house of horrors; an excited buzz went around the expectant audience—enough pressmen and rubber-neckers to fill a double-decker bus—this could be BIG!
Standing at the top of the steps, the policeman cleared his throat and flashed a hastily scribbled communiqué. Waiting, just long enough for the cameramen to fire up their machines, he balanced up and down on his toes, coughed a couple of times, then read from the sheet.
“Investigations into the disappearance of Roger LeClarc and Trudy McKenzie, sixteen years, are continuing. At present we have no clear evidence but we cannot rule out foul play.”
A barrage of questions flew toward him but he ducked back into the house leaving the cameras with a picture of the closing door.
Detective Constable Jackson, looking more than ever like Roger Moore in the flattering warmth of the evening light, stood in the hallway with the staff sergeant and a handful of other officers.
“I don’t think we can do any more,” said Jackson, addressing the air as his eyes swept around making one last check. Every floor, wall and ceiling in each room had been poked, prodded and tapped; bright lights and pencil thin beams had shone into every crevice; magnifying glasses had magnified everything imaginable—but no one had even considered the floor in the cupboard under the stairs. The cupboard had been searched, almost everyone had poked their nose in at some time, some even fingering the hook in the ceiling thinking it to be a clothes hook, but no one had tugged at the floor.
“I think you’re right lad,” replied the sergeant. “If we have to, we’ll get a builder in to take up all the floors, but there’s no point until we get the lab tests on the hairs and blood. That won’t be until Tuesday or Wednesday next week.”
Jackson stamped his foot on the wooden boards and a quiver ran through the house. “If she is under here she won’t be going anywhere in a hurry, so it doesn’t matter.”
Trudy was there—directly beneath him, just ten feet away; ten feet that may as well have been a mile, her emaciated little body scrunched into a lifeless ball against the prison door. The computer still bearing her final plea to her mother, humming happily in the corner, while countless little creatures nibbled away at the fabric of the room, and each other, in the moonlight of its screen. The constant struggle for life and death continued unabated.
“Alright lads,” continued the sergeant, “let’s call it a day. Make sure you take everything with you and nobody is to blab to the press. Got it?” His eyes scanned each face, waiting to see a nod of agreement before moving on. Satisfied, he opened the front door and heard the buzz of excitement as the remaining reporters pressed forward.
“Last out turn off the lights,” said one of the officers jokingly as he made his exit.
“Wilco,” replied Jackson with a smile, then he glanced at the conveniently placed electricity meter on the wall next to the door.
“There’s a light on,” he muttered to himself.
“What d’ye say lad?” enquired the sergeant.
Jackson indicated the meter with a nod, “It’s still moving. There must be a light on.”
“Don’t think so,” he replied.
Thirty seconds later, the entire house checked, Jackson and the sergeant stood in the hallway watching the tiny hand creep slowly around and around, and around.
“Well something must be on,” said the sergeant.
chapter thirteen
The atmosphere in the bustling terminal at Istanbul’s Atatürk airport had all the qualities of a Turkish bath, forcing Bliss and Yolanda to fight their way out of the scruffy building through a smelly smog of sticky air. Attempts to mask the stench had failed, and the atmosphere suffered as much from the cure as the malaise. Sickly sweet antiperspirants, as nauseous as body odour, and ammonia disinfectants more noxious than the stinking toilets, competed for air space with exhaust fumes and the odour of roast goat.
“Taxi,” shouted Yolanda at the snappily dressed chauffer of a sleek limousine, a dainty flag dangling limply from a little staff on the roof. The driver’s half closed eyes ignored her as he jerked his head in a backwards nod and clicked his tongue.
“Tack … see?” she mouthed, pronouncing both syllables, assuming he had misunderstood the universal word.
With a look of disdain, he lifted his nose in the air and flicked a finger toward a line of yellow cabs, the apparent losers in a recent demolition derby.
“I’d rather take this one,” she said, determined not to be fobbed off.
“Sir,” he replied, smiling directly at Bliss. “Please tell your wife this car is for the Minister of Antiquities.”
“She’s not my wife …” he started, then stopped himself, noticing the phoney smile on the driver’s face, recalling Anne’s warning on their flight from Vienna. “You’ll be alright as long as they don’t smile,” she had said, adding, “The only thing more dangerous than a growling Grisly is a smiling Turk.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled and dragged Yolanda away.
“Always some excuse,” she moaned, as they lugged their bags toward the line-up of write-offs on the other side of the road.
The first cab reeked badly of garlic and, no sooner had they sat down than Bliss retched, and they shot back out. The driver of the second didn’t speak English, Dutch, or Bliss’ schoolboyish variation on the theme of French. Yolanda tried a few words of her native tongue and would have bee
n stunned had they understood.
“Was that Swedish?” he asked, as they headed to cab number three.
“Nearly … It’s Danish—they’re similar. We moved to Holland when I was two.”
Well that explains the hair and eyes, he thought, with a glance.
“I speak Englees,” said number three, addressing Bliss. “My name is Abdul.”
Yolanda gave him an affirmative nod—the taxi and Abdul would not have been out of place in Amsterdam or London.
“Hotel first,” she whispered, as Bliss reached forward with the address Nosmo King had given. “I need a shower,” she added with uncharacteristic diffidence.
“Oh, I’m sorry—of course. I should have thought,” he replied, reflecting on their exploit in the plane.
“Which hotel, Sir?”
Bliss, stumped, was readying to say, “Somewhere cheap,” when Yolanda came to his rescue. “The Yesil Ev, please,” she said, confidence restored. “I’ve stayed there before,” she explained. “You’ll love it, they have huge beds with beautiful brass bedsteads.” Her eyes smiled. “We may as well enjoy ourselves now we are here.”
And, in celebration, their lips crushed together.
“Sir. Sir. Sir. Please, Sir.”
Bliss broke away reluctantly, “What is it, Abdul?”
“You must not do that, Sir. It is a crime.”
“To kiss my wife is a crime?” he asked loftily, hoping his presumption wouldn’t offend Yolanda.
“Yes, Sir, in public it is a crime. In private it is O.K. but it is forbidden in public in our country.”
He leaned to whisper in Yolanda’s ear.
“Sir, Sir,” the driver warned, fearing another kiss.
“It’s O.K.,” said Bliss with a placatory wave, then continued sarcastically, “Would it be alright if I speak to her?”
The Fish Kisser Page 25