The Fish Kisser (24 page)

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.

A profound change in engine noise signalled a transformation of landscape. “We are coming into the city,” declared Van der Zalm, hearing the exhaust reverberating off houses and walls. Wilson had just picked up the radio to tell the car driver to start closing the gap when the truck driver suddenly slammed on his brakes. Without warning, tires squealing in protest and bouncing off the road, the trailer slowed rapidly, shimmying from side to side as if trying to overtake the cab. The radio flew out of Wilson's hand and Smythe looked up just in time—the pallet of boxes behind them was being forced over by its own momentum. He shouted a warning as he leapt to his feet and began pushing against the stack with all his weight. The others scrambled to their feet and together they held it, not upright but straight enough to stop it falling.

“What the hell is he playing at?” shouted Smythe as the trailer ground to a halt and they were surrounded by an unexpected calm. The total silence, and almost tangible stillness, contrasted so sharply with the noisy motion of a few seconds earlier that the three occupants were temporarily stunned. Then Wilson thrashed his way past the boxes to get to a spy hole in the side of the truck. “We're at a junction,” he called to the others still holding onto the stack. “I can see the traffic lights.” The lights changed, nothing happened. “Call the car,” he shouted. “See if they know what's going on.”

Van der Zalm had an animated discussion, in Dutch, on the radio, then turned to Smythe. “We're completely blocking a main intersection. They don't know what to do. They can't drive by and they can't see the cab.”

“Shit,” shouted Wilson, angry at their lack of initiative. “Tell one of them to get out and see what the driver's doing.”

Almost a minute later the back doors rattled as the giant bolt slid back. A familiar face peered in. “The driver's run away,” said the officer.

Wilson leapt out and took control. “He can't have got far. Split up and get after him. You,” he pointed to Van der Zalm, “get on the radio and ask for assistance.” He looked around—tall apartment buildings clustered at each corner of the junction; a dozen alleyways and driveways radiated in all directions. A plaza of six stores at the foot of one apartment block had attracted a small group of people and he ran toward them in the hope they had seen something. The other officers fanned out without any thought of organizing a proper search.

Wilson reached the group to find a hostile alliance of prostitutes and junkies congregating outside an allnight pharmacy, seeking a snort or a shot from a legal addict. None admitted being able to speak English apart from one woman wearing an indecently short skirt over a seam-splitting backside. “You wanna good time big boy?”

A cacophony of shrill sirens splintered the group and within minutes a dozen or more officers were milling around the truck. The junction was completely blocked, the driver had taken the keys and even locked the doors to make the task of clearing the obstruction as difficult as possible.

“I guess this means Edwards will send us back on the next ship,” Wilson said to Smythe with a broad grin.

Two hours later, the search abandoned but the truck still firmly in place, the six officers returned to the police station and reported to the captain in the control room.

“Where's the super?” enquired Smythe, who had been psyching himself up to expect a major meltdown.

“Gone to bed,” replied the captain. “He's had a bit of an accident.”

“Nothing trivial I hope,” muttered Wilson.

“You may as well get some sleep,” he said, equally grateful for Edwards' absence. “I am sure he will want to see you in the morning.”

Billy Motsom placed himself squarely next to the skipper in the smelly wheelhouse of the herring trawler. No other boats were moving as they slipped out of the harbour at first light and headed slowly along the river toward the sea. The ancient skipper, as short and stocky as his boat, sporting an obligatory beard and embroidered peak cap, was adding to the fog with his pipe. The scented tobacco smoke hung listlessly about him in the still air, creating his own personal cloud of fragrant smog, which followed everywhere

“Bad veather,” he spluttered for the nth time, and gave three short coughs as he did at the end of almost every sentence.

“You got your money,” replied Motsom tersely, not eager to recall he had already paid ten thousand dollars and had promised a further ten if they found LeClarc alive.

“I know you vant to find your brother Mr. LeClarc, but it will be difficult in this fog.”

Motsom managed to look crestfallen, although the skipper could hardly have noticed in the poor light. “We must find him—his poor wife and children …” His voice, dripping with anxiety, trailed off, and the merest suggestion of a tear appearing in his right eye was swiped away with the exaggerated brush of a hand.

The anchor-chain capstan, on the forepeak below the wheelhouse drifted momentarily into view as the fog thinned a fraction, then disappeared again just as fast. The bow of the vessel remained permanently out of sight, the other side of the murky wall into which they continually pushed. With dawn, just a hint of daylight had seeped through the gloom and changed the black of night to the smoky grey of day. Only the booming foghorns penetrated the thick fog. Their sonorous tones, muffled further by the water-laden atmosphere, came from all directions at the same time. Some from ships, others from lighthouses, and some from navigation buoys along the waterway.

Stretching above his head, the skipper pulled a switch and the foghorn on the roof of the wheelhouse rumbled through the entire boat. Motsom reached up and flicked it off. “Too noisy,” he said, his tone daring the skipper to challenge him. Concern and anger met in the skipper's eyes, but he said nothing, quickly turning his attention to the radar screen. The x-ray vision of the radar saw through the fog, mapped out the river-banks and marker buoys, and occasionally a large blip indicated a ship at anchor. Rows of little blips showed the location of a string of trawlers and pleasure craft firmly tethered to moorings, their skippers too wise to venture into the murk.

The marine radio, humming quietly to itself on a shelf above the console, suddenly buzzed with the crackly voice of a coastguard. The skipper reached for his microphone to respond—Motsom seized the arm, “What are you doing?”

“They vant to know why we are going out in this veather.”