The Fish Kisser (29 page)

“Where are we going?” he enquired almost casually.

“Istanbul.”

His eyes went wide and his voice lifted an octave, “Istanbul?”

“Yeah. Istanbul.”

He sat bolt upright and stared at her. “Don't be silly Yolanda, I'm in enough trouble already. Anyway it would take at least four days.”

“We're not driving there.”

“We are not going there,” he said firmly.

“Why did you give me the handkerchief then?”

“Stop.”

“No.”

“Stop, or I'll jump out,” he shouted, undoing his seat belt.

Her eyes stared straight ahead. “Go on then,” she taunted, pulling a “couldn't-care-less,” face.

“Please stop Yolanda,” he said, trying hard not to get cross.

Her face changed; his seriousness had sunk in and disappointment dragged her down. She parked untidily, without indication, and suffered the angered blast of the following driver's horn as he barely missed rearending them in the fog. “Dave, What else can we do?” she began, trying to reason with him.

“Contact Interpol.”

“Have you ever dealt with Interpol?” she asked in a way that made it clear she had.

“No,” he admitted.

“Look at your watch Dave.”

He looked

“What's the time?”

“Eleven-thirty.”

With a confused look she quickly checked hers. “It's twelve-thirty, Dave. You've still got English time.”

“Oh, right.”

“So,” she continued, “It's twelve-thirty Friday. If we work hard the request will be ready for Interpol by five o'clock. With any luck they'll deal with it first on Monday morning. They might have a Turkish translation by next Tuesday and by next Wednesday hundreds of Turkish police will go the address.”

“That's useless,” he cried, “They'll have cleared out long before then. They might have left already.”

Bliss gnawed on a knuckle, deep in thought, for a few seconds. Istanbul sounded good; Istanbul with Yolanda sounded … “Sorry,” he said eventually, shaking his head from side to side, his speculations soured by malignant thoughts of Edwards. “I have to go back. I would lose my job. Edwards is determined to nail me.” Putting his hand lightly on her arm he looked deeply into her face. “I really am sorry. You don't know how much I'd like to say yes, but I can't. Please take me to the ship or I'll miss it.”

The roar of the ship's siren sounded a final warning as they drove into the port. Yolanda expertly navigated a maze of plastic traffic bollards, snubbed a “no entry” sign, and came alongside the ship.
Slinging his suitcase onto the end of the gangway, Bliss caught her up in his arms and their lips smacked together and refused to let go. A parting peck turned into a full-blown smooch. Her body swung limply in his arms, her mouth moved frantically against his, and his hands swam up and down her body.

The crewmember at the top of the gangway was waiting to give the order to lift, and yelled, “Oy! Get on with it mate. We're bloody late already.”

Bliss broke away, grabbed his suitcase, jumped onto the bottom step and peered wistfully at her. “Sorry,” was all he could say, and he really meant it.

Then she threw him a curve. “It's Okey dokey, I'll go on my own.” Her face clearly said she meant it. “Goodbye Dave.” Was there a crack in her voice? Her bottom lip quivered. He was sure he saw it quiver.

“Bye,” he mumbled.

She tried a smile. He recognized a false smile when he saw one.

“Damn,” he shouted, jumped off the gangway, marched back to the car and slung his suitcase on the back seat.

“Make up your bloody mind mate,” shouted the crewman, giving the thumbs-up to lift.

Yolanda talked on her car's mobile phone with the same alacrity and excitement as she drove. Bliss sulked, his arms folded tightly across his chest. The fog had thinned a few miles inland and the powerful car negotiated the sweeping curves of the highway at more than double the speed limit.

“We'll have to drive,” she had said as soon as they left the port, “It's too foggy to fly.”

“All the way?” he'd asked, expressionless.

“No,” she'd laughed, “only to Schiphol.”

With a final burst of chatter she flipped the phone into its holder. “They'll hold the plane.”

He tried to sound uninterested, “What plane?”

“To Istanbul.”

“I don't believe you,” he said frostily. “Why would they do that?”

The deep crescents on either side of her mouth accentuated her smile. “I told them a very important British police officer was pursuing an international terrorist and there would be a lot of trouble if they let it leave.”

Bliss tried hard not to, but couldn't help smiling. Slowly unfolding his arms he enquired, “Does Captain Jahnssen know what you …” he stopped and corrected himself, “What we are doing?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean—sort of?”

“I said that as I was flying to Istanbul for the weekend anyway, I might as well snoop around a bit. He didn't believe me. He just said be careful.”

A large truck in front of them was proving to be an obstinate obstruction. Yolanda blasted her horn several times although Bliss had no idea what she expected the driver to do. Finally she took an outrageous chance coming out of a bend, slamming her foot to the floor so hard the tires spun as they leapt ahead. Fishtailing, they shot pass the truck and forced an on-coming car onto the verge. “Weekend drivers,” she shouted, forging ahead, another truck in her sights.

A wide stretch of dual carriageway with sparse traffic relieved Bliss' anxiety and he felt it safe to break Yolanda's concentration. “What's Istanbul like?” he asked, excitement getting the better of him. “Have you been there before?”

She had, several times, and talked animatedly for several minutes about the fabulous Blue Mosque; the
sun rising over the majestic Bosphorus bridge; the bustling bazaars; and the mounds of deep purple figs and heaps of sugar dusted Turkish delight hawked by vendors at almost every street corner. “We might even try some of the famous bluefish,” she added, as if they were a couple planning an adventurous holiday.

“I hope it's better than herring,” he said, with the makings of a smile.

Now, only a few miles from the airport, Yolanda thought Bliss had relaxed sufficiently to answer a few questions. “What did Nosmo say about Edwards?” she enquired innocently.

He reflected, just for a moment, then recounted the salient parts of King's story without embellishment, though sparing her none of the macabre' detail. “Eleven teeth smashed as he kept ramming his brother-in-law's mouth into the metal door knob at full force,” he said, and noticed her contemplatively running her tongue along the top of her teeth as he spoke. She shuddered thinking of the excruciating pain as the solid brass ball had smashed its way into the poor man's mouth. With the worst yet to come he considered keeping quiet about the chopped fingers, then perversely decided to punish her for forcing him to go to Istanbul. She swallowed hard and drove silently for a short while, staring intently at the road ahead. “That's horrible Dave,” she said quietly just as they reached the airport.

Dumping the car across a pedestrian walkway, Yolanda leaned on the horn and caught the attention of a passing porter. Bliss grabbed his case from the back seat. “Mine's in the trunk,” she shouted over her shoulder as she threw the car keys at the porter, flashed her badge and shouted a load of Dutch. The porter gave a weird sort of smile which caused Bliss to ask, “What did you say?” as they ran together across the concourse.

“Told him to take it to the airport police office,” she liberally translated, totally ignoring the warning that, if she found the slightest scratch on her return, she would break his legs.

Although Bliss had certainly flown before he'd amassed few frequent flyer points, and felt an exhilarating rush of adrenalin as the giant plane stood on its tail and roared eastward. Settling back in the comfortable first-class seat—“Don't worry,” Yolanda had said, “I'm paying.”—he watched, fascinated, as Europe floated beneath him. Tiny blobs of cotton wool cloud drifted into view, seeming to keep pace with the plane, and Yolanda gabbled away, ten to the dozen, in Dutch with her stewardess friend. “We went to school together,” she'd confided, as they scuttled to their seats. He sensed they were talking about him, and felt like a pedigree dog being discussed by a couple of trendies. “Glossy hair, nice teeth, well groomed, good proportions.”

Something Anne said made them both giggle. “Is he house trained?” thought Bliss laughing to himself. Occasionally Yolanda dragged him into the conversation. “Anne says, would you like to go to the flight deck and meet the pilot.”

He nodded, “Yes,” he would like that.

“We've got plenty of time,” she added, “It's about three and half hours to Istanbul.”

Prettily arranged plates of hors d'oeuvres, together with a couple of miniatures of Mouton Cadet, appeared on the little tables in front of each of them, and they began toying with each other. Yolanda started it, playfully sneaking titbits from his plate, trying not to get caught. He grabbed her hand on the third occasion, the little caviar and smoked salmon roll still between her thumb and finger. Bending down, he forced her hand to his mouth and slowly crammed the whole lot
straight in, food and fingers together, and wouldn't release them until he had licked the fingers clean. Still holding her hand, his eyes sought hers, they met and locked. Then he slid her fingers back to his mouth.

“Tell me about yourself, Dave,” she said in a soft voice, retrieving her fingers, maintaining the gaze.

He picked at his plate and started slowly, almost shyly. “I don't know where to begin … I ‘m forty-two. I'm a cop, but you know that.” He hesitated. “I don't really know what to say.” But then added, “I'm not really dedicated to any particular sports or hobbies. I like to do lots of different things. I like to try everything at least once.”

Yolanda smiled, “I thought all English detectives studied poetry, or classical music, or psychology.”

“Only on television, Yolanda. Most of the ones I work with study beer, soccer and women—probably in that order.”

The question, “Are you married?” slipped out as she tried to bite it back and she snapped, “Don't tell me.” Her fingers flew to his mouth and pinched his lips tightly together. She studied him earnestly, her fingers digging into the flesh around his mouth, making his eyes water. “Promise you won't tell me.”

“Um, um,” he hummed trying to make it sound like “O.K.”

“Promise,” she demanded seriously, and slowly backed off without taking her fingers away.

“I promise,” he mumbled as best as he could. “I promise.”

She took her hand away a little, but left it hovering. “Promise again,” she said, “Please promise you won't tell me.”

“I will promise,” he began, “but …” she fiercely clamped his lips together again.

“You promised.”

Wrenching her fingers away he gasped, “Alright, I promised, but what if I said I was …” She tried to stop him but he caught her hand. “I'm not saying I am, and I am not saying I am not. I'm just saying what if you knew I wasn't married. How would you feel?”

She sat back. “It would be difficult for me to fall in love with a foreigner.”

His head jerked up—a foreigner? He'd never considered himself a foreigner and was startled to realize that was exactly what he was.

She continued, “It would be too complicated—imagine the wedding, nobody would know what to say, what to wear, or where to have it. Then it would be a problem to know where to live. And the poor children—seeing only half of their relatives most of the time.” She carried on with numerous other objections: religion, customs, education. “Food,” she added, poking him in the ribs accusingly. “You don't like herrings.”

“Neither do you,” he reminded her, poking her back.

“Then there's sex,” she concluded, giving a little smile.

“What do you mean—sex ?”

“Well, you might do it differently to us.”

“We could always find out beforehand.”

Her look was mischievous. “We could?”

“But what if I were married?”

“Oh, that would be exciting. Sort of thrilling and dangerous.”

“Like flying?” he suggested.

“Yes,” she agreed happily, “like flying,” then paused to rearrange her face. “But afterwards I would feel guilty and feel sorry for your poor wife, or I would try to take you away from her and that would be bad as well.”

The voice of experience, he thought noticing her pensive expression. “What about you,” he enquired, “Have you ever been married?”

She thought intently, as if the answer required calculation. “I tried it once but it wasn't much fun.”

Almost as if on some pre-arranged cue, Anne arrived with the main course—Beef Bordelaise strewn with plump white asparagus spears—and lifted Yolanda's mood. She teased him unmercifully, taking each juicy stalk of asparagus and sliding it slowly through her pursed lips with her head back, exposing the length of her slender neck.

“Witch,” smirked Bliss knowing exactly what she was doing. Then her hand slipped into his lap under the table and brushed lightly over the bump of his erection.

“You are a naughty boy, Dave.” she said demurely, and he closed his eyes and willed her to keep going but she stopped. A few moments later she slid out of her seat. “Bathroom,” she said.

Ten minutes later, when she hadn't returned, concern clouded Bliss' face and irrational thoughts spun in his mind. What if something awful had happened to her—maybe she's fainted. Feeling slightly foolish he found his way to the solitary cubicle behind the curtain and tapped lightly on the door. “Yolanda,” he whispered, “are you in there?”