The Fish Kisser (32 page)

“Did they?” Boyd asked with a lift in his voice.

“Och no. 'Course they didn't you pratt, but they wasn't around to deny it, wuz they?”

Boyd laughed. “Nice one,” and lashed out to kick the deck hand who was lying on the floor of the cabin. “Laugh son,” he said, and laughed again.

The deck hand couldn't laugh, he had been bound and gagged by someone who'd had more experience in his field than many professionals in more traditional occupations.

“What are you going to do with this?” Boyd enquired, sweeping his hand around to indicate the boat. “And him,” pointing down at the trussed deck hand.

“Och. I dunno yet, I havn'a decided.”

“What about doing the same as you did with the other boat?”

“What do you know about that?” demanded the Scotsman, alarmed that details had leaked.

“I heard a rumour.”

“Motsom told ya I bet.”

“So.”

“He should keep his bloody mouth shut.”

“He said it were real funny.”

McCrae's face relaxed, coming as near to a smile as it was ever likely. “It was one of these computer snatch jobs,” he reminisced, “a couple of months ago.”

“There were two of 'em weren't there,” added Boyd helpfully, as if McCrae might have forgotten.

“Yeah, that's right—two birds with one stone. Motsom had the contract for both of 'em and it just so 'appens they go fishing together in one of them's boat.”

“Were it a big 'un?” enquired Boyd with the excitement of a wide-eyed kid.

“Och. No. But it were very fast. Anyhow,” he continued, “the idea was to snatch 'em afore they got on the boat, then take it out to sea and sink it. But it had to look like an accident in case anybody ever found the bloody thing.”

“What about the bodies? You'd need bodies.”

“Och aye, you'd need bodies,” agreed McCrae. “But the plan was to ditch the boat in really deep water so by the time anybody found it, if they ever did, there'd only be skeletons left.”

Boyd began to smile, he'd heard the outcome from Motsom, but didn't want to spoil its re-telling by the master.

“So,” McCrae continued, “I figured why waste two good bodies, why not use skeletons.” The distinct twist to his face could have been mistaken for an attempt at a smile. “Motsom and me snatched the two computer blokes and sent 'em on their way. Then we stuck the skeletons in the driver's seats and went out miles.” He paused, the memory of the sight of the two skeletons dressed in the kidnapped men's clothes, including their caps, was too much for him. He almost laughed. Boyd was laughing already.

“Anyhow,” he went on, exaggerating wildly, “there they was, two f'kin skeletons driving the f'kin boat a hundred miles an hour then 'boom!'” he slapped his hands together. “The f'kin thing explodes.”

Boyd was laughing uncontrollably, having difficulty hearing what McCrae was saying.

“Then …” McCrae stopped and started again, “then, 'Whoomph,' one of the f'kin skulls comes flying through the f'kin air and missed Motsom by a f'kin inch … Whoomph,” he shouted again for effect and tittered just a little. “Came flying right passed us, and we was a long way off …

Whoomph,” he said finally, making sure Boyd had missed nothing. “Whizzed right passed Motsom's head.”

Boyd almost wet his pants.

Above them, the afternoon sun was shining on the wheelhouse. The skipper and Billy Motsom could see ahead for miles, but nothing of the water just twenty feet below. A dense crust of fog remained glued to the sea's surface like a thick cotton-wool blanket and the wheelhouse of the fishing trawler gave them a ghostly outlook. An amputated mast, complete with rigging and sails, could be seen gliding along in the distance as if unattached to the yacht sailing in the murk below; the upper decks of a small freighter drifted across the horizon without the benefit of a hull; seagulls wheeled hungrily above them.

“I have to go to engine room,” the skipper said as the afternoon wore on. “I must check the engine.”

“O.K.,” responded Motsom leerily, “I'll come with you.”

The skipper had his answer prepared. “No,” he said quickly. “Someone must stay and keep watch.”

Motsom smelled a rat. The little ship had puttered along for hour after hour without any apparent assistance of the skipper, other than an occasional tweak of the wheel. A quick trip to the engine-room for a splash of grease was unlikely to make much difference. He put his hand on his gun, “I said, I'll come.”

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 heart, 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.