The Fish Kisser (13 page)

The police sergeant started to rise. “Thank you, George, most informative. Now, I don't suppose you'd
know anybody with a key to the place would you? I'd like to have a little snoop around.”

George fumbled in his pocket sheepishly. “Well, I shouldn't let on really, but the Greeks gave me a key when they moved out. Just to let the water and the 'lectricity people in. 'Course he might have changed the locks, but we could give it a try.”

Slivers of faded saffron yellow cracked off the front door as it opened with an arthritic creak and the odour of abandonment—fungus, damp earth and musty clothing— signalled to it being unoccupied. A pile of mail lay swept to one side by the door and the staff sergeant scooped a handful. “Anybody home,” he shouted, making George jump, dropping it back on the pile. “Junk.”

There was no reply. Trudy was there but she couldn't hear.

They searched the entire house; it didn't take long. Two rooms upstairs and two down, plus the cupboard under the stairs, and the poky little bathroom tacked onto the back in the early 1950s, at a time when the combined introduction of running water, piped gas, and electricity turned personal cleanliness from a chore to a pleasure. Each room contained more or less the same. “Garbage,” according to the policeman. “Just a load of old garbage.” And everywhere the same powerful smell, the exhaled breath of billions of unseen creatures all busily devouring the fabric of the place.

“Look at it, George,” he said scornfully. “Nobody's living here. Scraps of bloody firewood, that's all there is. Look at this chair,” he exclaimed. “A fly couldn't sit on this without breaking it.” And to prove his point he put his foot on it and pushed. “Oh Shit!” he exclaimed, as the chair splintered into a half a dozen pieces.

“I'm buggered if I know what he's been living on,” said George, obviously dispassionate about the damage. “There's no furniture to speak of, no food, there's not even a bed.”

There was a bed—Roger's bed—hidden in Roger's secret room. It was an oversized single bed; an expensive bed with a floral patterned pocket sprung mattress, and it had a very solid looking fancy brass bedstead. Trudy was lying on it, dreaming of somewhere else— anywhere else. Trudy, bruised black and blue, exhausted and bleeding, was sleeping, and had fallen asleep praying that her mother would rescue her when she woke. Trudy was there alright, but neither George nor the sergeant saw her.

After carefully locking the front door behind him, and giving it a little shove with the palm of his hand, just for good measure, the sergeant pocketed the key and thanked George for his assistance.

“Happy to help Sergeant,” he replied, desperately wanting to ask for the key, too embarrassed to do so.

“Call us if he comes back,” the sergeant shouted getting into his car.

“That's bloomin' weird,” mumbled George, scratching his nose, staring at Roger's house, then he headed for Mrs. Ramchuran's to bring her up to date.

As soon as he turned out of Junction Road the staff sergeant punched the “recall” button on his phone and was patched through to Superintendent Edwards. “Nothing here, Guv, nothing at all as it turns out, though the nosy old bugger across the street reckons the house is definitely our boy's. If he's right, I'd like to know why he didn't tell his family he'd bought it—that's pretty odd. Anyway, I'm on my way back. Any news from Holland?”

The superintendent had no news from Holland and was still attempting to contact D.I. Bliss, who had
failed to call back as promised nearly two hours earlier and was verbally abusing a frightened secretary in retaliation. “Stupid girl—is this the best you can do?”

Bliss was far too busy to deal with Edwards and, in any case, was delaying the call until he had better news. He had none. They had been in Holland for five hours and he still didn't know if Roger LeClarc had been kidnapped, drowned, or twigged, he was being followed and gone into hiding. His Renault had provided few clues, although, as Bliss explained to Yolanda, while standing beside it tapping his fingers on the windshield, “The most significant evidence in any case is often the total lack of evidence.”

Yolanda's pinched eyes and furrowed brow suggested she was having difficulty with the concept, so he explained, gripping an imaginary wheel, “King was driving LeClarc's car. Right? But none of King's belongings were in the car.” Comprehension turned her frown to a smile and they started to laugh.

“Christ!” he shouted. “That means that wherever King's things are we might find LeClarc. King wouldn't have taken LeClarc's car and just abandoned his own stuff. He hasn't got anything with him because somebody has got it for him, somebody else must have brought it ashore.” Then he completed his train of thought, speaking almost to himself. “Motsom—it has to be Motsom.”

Yolanda had no idea what he was talking about as he reflected on what had occurred. His eyes, wide open, were not looking at anything as he scratched an imaginary itch on his forehead. “King was talking to a man in the bar,” he began slowly, pausing for thought between each phrase.

“King went on deck and saw, or said he saw, a man fall overboard … I know he lied about the man in the
bar … He went to Motsom's cabin as soon as he left the bridge … He drove LeClarc's car, but why?”

Catching Yolanda by surprise he grabbed her arm, looked her straight in the eye, and said triumphantly, “Motsom paid him. And,” he continued enthusiastically, “I bet Motsom has got his luggage. And I wouldn't be surprised if Motsom has got LeClarc, or at least knows where he is.”

Yolanda, managing to keep up with him for the first time, cut into his deliberations. “So, where is Motsom and what car does he drive?”

Taking her hand, he dragged her across the dock-side toward the car deck of the ship. A crewmember tried to stop them. “You can't come on this way, Sir. No passengers are allowed on the …”

“Police,” shouted Bliss, refusing to stop, but having to yank Yolanda's arm to prevent her being hit by one of the huge containers manoeuvring off the ship. Once inside, they ran along the empty steel deck, their footfalls reverberating like automatic fire around the massive chamber, taking the elevator to the purser's office.

The purser was expecting them. “Saw you on the monitor,” he said, nodding in the direction of a bank of security screens. “A lot of people get killed on the car deck,” he added, as if it were a daily occurrence.

Ignoring the admonishment, Bliss breathlessly asked for the list of registration numbers from the voyage.

“He knew exactly what I wanted,” protested Bliss, as he and Yolanda headed to the captain's office a few minutes later. “He was just being bloody awkward.”

“Would that be ship's registration, crew registration, Custom's …” the purser had started, but got no further.

“Passenger's cars and trucks from last night,” Bliss had shot back angrily.

With the list of vehicle numbers obtained from the captain, Bliss and Yolanda had made their way back to the main police station in her white BMW 325i convertible.

“Company car?” he asked, impressed.

“Mine,” she replied, as if it were a Ford.

The entire ship had been searched, “bow to stern, mast to bilge,” according to the captain, when they found him in his cabin, and no trace of LeClarc had been found. “I don't see what else we can do,” he had said, clearly anxious not to be delayed further. Failure to sail within the next two hours would make it impossible for the ship to ever regain its schedule, he explained. An entire two-way crossing would have to be scrapped, leaving more than four thousand people stranded—two thousand each side of the North Sea.

Bliss had considered his request gravely, as if he alone shouldered responsibility for releasing the vessel. “I don't see any point in holding you up any longer,” he had said authoritatively. “We can search the vehicles and containers once they're ashore.”

Back at the station, D.C.s Wilson and Smythe were snoozing off the alcohol when Bliss found them, spread-eagled on the leather benches in the room where he'd first met Yolanda. He would have woken them, annoyed he was still working to clear up the mess that had been, in large part, due to their negligence, but Yolanda restrained him. “The poor things, zey are exhausted.”

Bliss relented, conceding there was little left for them to do. The list of vehicle registration numbers had been faxed to Scotland Yard for a search of the massive computer database; inspection of all the passengers' cars had been completed, apart from those that had got
through the Custom's control point before the alarm was raised. “Zhey will be picked up at the check points,” explained Yolanda; and the Dutch police were now concentrating on the massive trucks. Sniffer dogs, more used to searching for dead bodies than live ones, had been brought to assist.

Fresh coffee was brewing in the briefing room. “I need that,” said Bliss as a phone rang. Yolanda tapped him on the shoulder, he turned, still stunned by her looks, half wishing she would stop touching him—no intention of saying so. “It's for you,” she said, glancing in the direction of the man holding the phone.

“Detective Bliss?” he introduced himself into the mouthpiece, listening attentively in case the voice should have a foreign accent. Then a dreadful noise exploded in his ear and he felt his hands shaking, his heart pumping, and the heat rising in his face as it reddened.

“Bliss. What the bloody hell are you playing at?” Superintendent Edwards screamed into phone.

“Sir …” Bliss tried, but was cut off immediately.

“It's taken me two effing hours to get hold of you. What the hell is going on? Why didn't you call me?”

“Sorry, Sir,” he lied, not in the least sorry, “I couldn't get to a phone.”

“I'll have you court marshalled for this you pompous little git,” the voice on the phone was carrying on, forgetting he was no longer in the armed forces. “How dare you put the phone down on me. You are relieved of duties immediately, do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” he replied., feeling relieved. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Put one of the others on. Let me speak to Wilson.”

Bliss glanced at the figure crashed out on the couch—it's tempting, he thought, but inexplicably decided against it. “Sorry, Sir. He's not here at the moment.”

A grunted blast of disbelief came down the line, so Bliss added, “They're busy searching.”

“Right, Bliss. It's one-thirty here. What time is it there?”

“Two-thirty,” he replied quickly, and avoided the temptation of adding, “As any schoolboy could have told you.”

“O.K. I'm on my way over. Flying to Schiphol Airport. Arriving six p.m. Get someone to meet me. Car and driver. How far is it?”

“Damn,” said Bliss, his hand held tightly over the mouthpiece as he turned to Yolanda. “Edwards is coming. How far to Schiphol?”

She held up one finger and her lips mouthed the word, “Hour.”

“About an hour, Sir,” he said, his eyes glued to her lips, realizing the shape of the word “hour” had formed a perfect kiss.

“Right. Make the arrangements and don't muck anything else up.”

“Sir …” he started, intending to rat on Sergeant Jones and his drinking companions, then deciding against it. “Will do, Sir.”

“And hold that ship until I arrive. I want to examine it personally.”

Bliss looked out of the huge window and saw the first of the passengers' cars trickling down the ramp into the belly of the ship. Smoke billowed from the huge chimney as the engines fired up, and the dock below was a hive of activity as workers scrambled to load everything as quickly as possible.

“No can do, Sir,” he said quickly, with no intention of returning to disappoint the captain. “She's just leaving.”

Yolanda was touching him again, tugging insistently
at his sleeve, trying to draw his attention to a fax just in from England. Motsom's car had been identified on the list from the ship. He grabbed the sheet, stared at it, and could scarcely control his excitement. Thinking quickly he noisily scrunched the paper into a loose ball next to the mouthpiece and mumbled, “Bad line, Sir. Better go. Meet you at six.”

Then he replaced the receiver as Yolanda was saying, “You are a very naughty boy.” They laughed together—again.

Is
this a dream? This is a dream: Is a dream this?

Trudy, chasing the words in her mind, fingered the rough sheets of the bed beneath her, Roger's bed, and was gashed by the sharp edge of reality.

“It's not a dream. It's not a dream. It's a FUCKING NIGHTMARE.”

Stop screaming—you're screaming again. Stop screaming.

Why ?

You're wasting breath. No one hears you.

Roger might.

You want him to hear?

“No … yes … maybe … I dunno …” she bawled.

Now look at the mess you've made of your face.

How … how can I look? It's pitch black in here and I can't move.

“I CAN'T MOVE!”

You're screaming again.

You'd scream if you couldn't move.

Am I dead?

Can you smell that stink?

It's awful. What is it?

You.

Me? Yuk … I stink that bad. I must be dead.

YOU'RE NOT DEAD.

I need to pee.

Get off the bed then—get to the bucket.

“I CAN'T”

Stop screaming. You can get up if you try … Oh … Now you're wet again.

Told you.

You might as well go back to sleep.

She woke with a mouthful of cotton wool, minutes, hours, days, later—gulping mouthfuls of air until her chest rose and fell with reasonable rhythm.

“Where am I… I can't breathe.”

The smell from the old plastic bucket in the corner suddenly caught up to her, made her retch, and put her mind in place. Tears trickled down her cheeks as they had so often in the past week; she would have wiped them away if only her hand would co-operate.