The Fish Kisser (42 page)

“Yes, Sir,” he replied, flushing the sergeant out with a wave.

“Hold on, I'll transfer you.”

The phone hummed hollowly for fifteen seconds and Edwards began to wonder if he'd been disconnected. Then a click heralded the minister's bouncy voice. “Well
done Edwards, I understand your men did a good job with that LeClarc fellow. What happened by the way?”

“Well, we had a bit of a chase, Sir. The air-sea rescue people dropped one of our chaps onto a trawler off the Dutch coast. We'd tried getting a man aboard from a high speed launch, but the trawler was all over the place with no one at the helm.”

“Sounds like quite a caper old chap.”

Edwards chuckled as demanded. “Anyway, we got LeClarc back, but, unfortunately, the kidnappers had already got away.”

“So you didn't actually catch anyone then?”

“No, Sir, the kidnappers …”

“Superintendent Edwards,” the voice broke in coolly.

“Yes, Sir,”

“Look, we think it might be in everybody's interest to forget all this nonsense about kidnappers.”

“I'm not with you, Sir, there was definitely …”

The minister cut him short, “Superintendent, I'm probably not making myself clear. Let me explain …” he paused, “no I've a better idea, why not meet me in my club for a spot of lunch. Twelve o'clock at Queens'. Is that alright with you?”

“Fine, Sir …” But the phone had already clicked, chopping off his reply.

“Glad you could make it,” said the minister, pretending Edwards had a choice. The table, recessed into an obscure nook, had been specifically requested, and the minister guided him to a chair. “Had a bit of a bump, have we?” he continued, noticing the swelling around Edwards' lip where King had thumped him.

“Walked into a thick plank,” he replied, keeping very close to the truth, as he saw it.

“You order exactly what you'd like,” said the minister, looking over the top of his spectacles. “Personally I shall start with a spot of the Paté Maison, they do it awfully well with just enough truffle to make it interesting—know what I mean?”

Edwards had absolutely no idea. “Of course, Sir, sounds good to me.”

“Then,” he said, scanning the beautiful calligraphy of the menu in its gilt frame, “I think the lobster.” He looked up with a smile, “Although you might not want more fish if you've been in Holland for a few days.”

“No, Sir, the lobster would be fine.”

The headwaiter, hovering obsequiously, swooped in to take the order the moment the decision had been made.

The wine came almost immediately, pre-ordered to give it an opportunity to breathe; a vintage Chateau bottled Burgundy. “Nothing special,” according to the minister, obviously relying on his department's entertainment budget.

“So,” the minister leaned forward conspiratorially, “down to business.” His deeply shadowed eyes roamed the surroundings. “This is completely off the record,” he began, then paused, waiting for an acknowledgement.

Edwards nodded, “Naturally.”

“Good,” he said, beckoning him closer across the table with an almost imperceptible crook of his index finger. “Strictly between you and I,” he paused, ratchetting up Bliss' discomfort. “And if I discover you've repeated any of it, I'll deny every word and cause you an awful lot of problems. Do you understand?”

A tic twitched Edwards' left temple causing a blink. “Yes, Sir,” he gulped.

“Good, good. Well you'll understand our situation better when I've filled you in. More wine?” he enquired, downing most of his first glass in one gulp.

Edwards felt like saying, “For God's sake get on with it man,” but settled for the wine.

With a final check to ensure they were not being overheard, the Minister started. “We've known about these …” he paused, searching for a suitable euphemism for kidnap victims, then started again, “We've known about these chappies for sometime. The Yanks cottoned onto it after they'd lost several of their top people. The trouble was we weren't sure what was happening at first. There was always some plausible explanation; a body would turn up, or they'd be blown to bits in front of witnesses. A couple of them were in that plane that blew up over the Atlantic, one of ours and a Yank. Eventually we put two and two together and realised it was just too much of a coincidence.”

What was too much of a coincidence, wondered Edwards, completely in the dark, and who are, “We:” Special Branch, MI5, MI6 or some other government spy service too secret to even have a designation. “I'm not really with you …” he started but the minister silenced him with a twitch of the head and a warning look. The hors-d'oeuvres had arrived.

Once the waiter had moved away the minister busied himself picking out the bits of truffle. “Why do they insist on overdoing the fungus?” he complained rhetorically. Suddenly aware of Edwards' presence he looked up from his task and started talking again, still dissecting the paté, still hunting truffle. “We're pretty certain that the other side have got them,” he said in a doom-laden tone. Then, concentrating furiously, he scraped de-truffled paté onto a sliver of toast, took a bite, and closed his eyes. A rapturous
expression worked its way over his face as the aroma flooded his mouth and he relaxed with a long, satisfied, “Mmmm.”

Edwards' impatience got the better of him, “Sir.”

The minister pulled himself sharply back. “The point is we need to keep the whole thing under our hats. We can't afford to let word leak out that these …” he paused and looked up, “that these chappies are still around.”

Edwards was no wiser and his puzzled frown clearly gave him away.

“I can see you're not quite with me, Superintendent. Let me put it another way. If word got out that any of these chappies were actually working for the other side, it would cause chaos. Every system they've ever worked on would be vulnerable.”

Edwards was catching on. “But surely, all we have to do is change passwords and alter the systems.”

“I know that Superintendent, and so do you, but Joe Public doesn't know that. If the man-in-the-street got wind their bloody piggy banks might not be safe, or the other side might be listening to their phones or reading their e-mails, all hell would break loose. God knows what would happen to the stock markets and oil prices.”

“I see,” said Edwards. “You believe public confidence would be jeopardized if they knew top people were missing, even if they weren't in a position to do anything.”

The minister gave a smile that said, “Good boy,” then replied, “Actually we think that's precisely what the other side's playing at. You see, it might be difficult for these chappies to break into our systems, even though they are top people. But once we admit that the other side even have them, the damage is done.”

The waiter interrupted, “Everything to your liking, Sirs?”

“Too much truffle in the paté again, Phillips,” whinged the minister. Phillips was waiting; he got the same complaint every week. “I shall have a word with the chef, Sir.”

“Thank you, Phillips.”

The lobster, smothered in a thick cream sauce with a crust of Stilton cheese was, according to the smiling minister, pure cholesterol. “It's alright as long as you eat plenty of veggies,” he said, sliding the broccoli off to one side, pulling a face.

“Sir,” enquired Edwards, leaning forward, “Can I ask how many they have?”

“No idea,” he replied succinctly. “But between you and me we believe they've got at least twenty—maybe more. The Yanks have lost quite a few, but they've managed to keep it quiet. The widows have all been happy— as happy as widows can be I suppose. We've smoothed things over with the odd awkward coroner. If that King fellow hadn't tipped us off about LeClarc, he would have been grabbed and it would have just been put down as someone missing at sea.” He stopped long enough for a couple of mouthfuls of lobster, then carefully scrutinized the august room before canting across the table with a serious eye. “Tell me Superintendent: Does LeClarc have any idea he was going to be kidnapped?”

“No, Sir …” started Edwards, but the minister silenced him with a finger.

“Think carefully before answering, Superintendent. Lives hang in the balance.”

Edwards obligingly put on a thoughtful face for a second before confirming, “I'm certain he knows nothing, Sir. He did ask about the strange men on the trawler, but we didn't let on who they Were.”

“Perfect, perfect. And what about King? Can you keep him quiet about all of this—national interest,
that sort of thing? Maybe we could give him some sort of award.”

“Um … um,” Edwards tried to butt in.

The minister warmed to his idea. “I like it. I'll get someone to work on that right away. Nothing too fancy, give him an O.B.E. or something for unspecified services. Anybody asks, just lower your tone and tell 'em it's all hush hush.”

Edwards swallowed hard, keeping his mouth shut.

“You could probably find him a job somewhere, if he wants it. Sounds a bright sort of chap. Got a police background, hasn't he?”

“I believe so, Sir,” said Edwards giving nothing away, thinking: Fat chance.

“Good, good. Well, like I say, I'll get someone working on it. The main thing is to keep it all under our hats.”

“Sir, can I ask a question, Sir?”

“'Course you can old chap.”

“Who is the other side, Sir. Do we know?”

“No idea. Thought it was the Ruskies at first, but they couldn't afford it. Christ, did you see their last rocket launch? They all sat around in their woolly coats 'cos they couldn't afford to put the heating on. It could be the Chinks, they're years behind us. Could even be some crazy African country that fancies itself. The Yanks reckon it could be the Iraqis, but they're paranoid about the Iraqis—if Saddam Hussein breaks wind they say he's' developing toxic gas—and they freaked out about the Iraqis getting their hands on a ton of those computer game things.”

Edwards choked. “Iraq, Sir?”

“Precisely, Superintendent. That's what I said. Apparently they bought a few thousand kiddie computer toys for Christmas, but the Yanks reckon they could
turn 'em into guided missiles … Humph!” he snorted his disdain, though Bliss was unsure of the target of the minister's disapproval—Iraqis, Americans, or guided missiles, he wondered.

“The Yanks reckoned they were onto something when the Iraqis booted out the U.N. Inspectors. You know, the chaps looking for Bubonic Plague and chemical weapons after the Kuwait affair.”

Edwards nodded, not trusting himself to speak, but he remembered.

“But keeping a load of foreign computer boffins under wraps is much more difficult. I don't reckon they're up to it myself. What do you say?”

“Well, Sir …”

“Quite, Superintendent, my views exactly.” Then he sat back, relaxed and changed the topic. “So, you got all men back safe and sound?”

“A sergeant broke his wrist on the ship.”

“Clumsy—that all?”

Edwards poised, a large piece of lobster hovering in front of his face, kept his face blank in thought. “That's all, Sir.”

“Well done, Superintendent, I'll even have a word with someone at the Home Office. See what we can do about your promotion—must be due.”

Edwards swallowed hard, saying nothing, changing his expression to one of modest gratitude.

“Excellent, excellent,” said the minister. “Now for dessert I can recommend the crème bruleè.” Then he leaned across the table, glanced suspiciously left and right, and whispered, “Steer clear of the fruit salad, half of it comes out of a bloody can.”

“Roger Francis LeClarc.” The court usher's voice boomed around the packed courtroom. An expectant hush fell over the crowd. Experienced spectators swivelled into position for a clearer view of Roger. First-timers, lured by the media—
“Internet sex-slave chained in dungeon,”
—craned like kids at a monkey house, hoping to glimpse something bestial. Out of the public's view, a door, at the bottom of the stairs leading to the prisoner's dock, clicked open. A large white figure was prodded into motion by a smartly uniformed officer. “Wait,” he commanded as he turned and locked the door behind him, then he nudged the listless figure up the stairs. Roger, wearing a one-piece, white paper coverall, rose like a voluminous spectre into the dock.

The hospital had been unable to supply anything more suitable than the disposable paper suit because of his bulk; the police didn't care—the appearance of weirdness only strengthened their case. His parents, on the
downhill slope of an emotional roller-coaster, would have brought him some decent clothes had they thought, but their elation at his rescue had swung from despair to disgust, and their concern had sunk in confusion.

“Stand up please, Mr. LeClarc,” the court clerk instructed.

Roger was already standing, doubled over with heart-rending sobs, and the crisp suit rustled alarmingly as he pulled himself upright, his head still deeply buried in his hands. Then the guard roughly pulled the hands away, leaving the tears to dribble down the bloated face.

The clerk raised his eyebrows and put the inflection of a question into his voice. “Roger Francis LeClarc?”

Roger dumbly looked across the courtroom to his mother, head down, face in her handbag, and sought guidance and comfort.—
“Never mind our Roger. Here's a bar of chocolate, you'll soon be better.”

She didn't look up—
How could you do this to me you little bugger?

“Are you Roger Francis LeClarc?” the clerk tried again, knowing very well the man in the prisoner's box could be no other.

A dozen journalist's pens doodled as he considered his reply, but Roger's full name, address, and date of birth had already been circulated to the twenty reporters crammed into the press box, the twenty or so others in the public gallery, and the tail-end-charlies barred to the street with their cameras and camera crews.