Fish Tale (Cliffhanger Book 2)

by T. J. Middleton

  ‘Is that where we are?’ I said. ‘In the throes of sexual ecstasy?’

  ‘I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves Mr Greenwood. But a warm-up round the circuit, just to loosen the limbs up a bit? Why not?’ She unzipped her skirt, wriggled out of it, waited until I’d dropped my trousers, then settled me in. ‘Once around the block, please. Nice and steady. Make sure you don’t drop anything on the way. You’re familiar with the route I take it.’

  Round the block it was, nice and steady as she said, the traffic light to begin with, but beginning to build up round the first corner. Then I had to push and shove a bit, make my presence felt, cutting through the crowd, striving for the opening, finally breaking free of the pack on the second bend. Then I shifted up a gear, put in some good leg work, increased the distance between us and the hoi polloi, round the third corner, into the home straight surging forward for the finish. Five minutes. I was surprised I’d lasted this long. Somewhere I could hear a fire engine bell clanging. She was bashing me round the ears with her fists.

  ‘Flush my fork, Nelson!’ she cried. ‘Flush my fork!’

  I wanted to stop, but the brakes wouldn’t come on.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Flush my fork, you bastard! Flush my fork!’

  I shut my eyes. Flushed her fork.

  Afterwards I took another belt at the whiskey. I needed it.

  ‘Who’s Nelson?’ I asked.

  ‘Nelson?’ She didn’t bat an eye.

  ‘You said Nelson. While I was delivering the pizza just now.’

  ‘You must have misheard me. Perhaps I was saying Nielson, the famous Danish composer.’

  ‘Why would you say that?’ She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Why would I say Nelson?’

  Why would she say Nelson? That’s what I was thinking. Maybe there was a third partner in our arrangement who I didn’t know about. Maybe she wasn’t telling me everything. Maybe I should find out.

  She slid off the sofa, put her skirt back on. I don’t know how she had the strength to stand up.

  ‘You going?’

  ‘Looks like it doesn’t it.’

  ‘Only I didn’t hear a car. I can call a taxi if you want, but I don’t think I should drive right now.’ If she got the irony of it, she didn’t show it.

  ‘There’s no need for that. I can walk.’

  ‘Walk? Where you staying then? The Bindon?’

  She zipped up with a flourish. It was her turn to stand over me now.

  ‘I’m renting the bungalow nextdoor Mr Greenwood. A six month lease. That way I can keep an eye on you, and you can keep an eye on me. Who knows, we might even have that game of scrabble. Let’s meet up tomorrow. Plan our campaign.’

  And with that she was gone.

  I sat back, my trousers a puddle round my feet. I looked across to the mantelpiece. Torvill’s lips were turned down in disgust.

  ‘Well what else was I supposed to do?’ I said.

  She wouldn’t even look at me.

  6

  Half way through the night I got up, fixed myself another whiskey, took it out into the garden. It should have felt good, the grass under my feet, the breeze on my arse, but truth be told, it still felt like I was in prison, surrounded by all these women, Michaela, Audrey, Carol, the unknown woman, even Alice, all of them peering at me, goading me, giving me a prod just to make sure I was alive. I was alive all right. I just didn’t quite know why.

  Alice’s house was all dark, Kim Stokie’s, the place Michaela was shacked up in, quiet too. It crossed my mind to jump over the fence, get in through the back door, find out what she was sleeping in, if she was sleeping in anything at all. One round on the sofa with a woman like that doesn’t really hit the mark. Plan of campaign. Plan of campaign. The words kept ringing in my head. I didn’t like the sound of that at all. I’d made a plan of campaign once before and look where that had got me. Act on impulse, that was what I should have done, packed my bags and gone to Rio for a year, like Miranda and me once talked about, or hid up somewhere in the Peak District, become a hermit, living off berries and passing back-packers. But I was suddenly closer than I’d have thought possible. Could this woman have said something that could help identify her? Or was this Rump woman simply winding me up, getting me all entangled. First she’d screwed Audrey and now she was screwing me. No wonder I couldn’t think straight. I mean how was I going to steal Rump’s fish? It was true what I said, they hate being moved, koi. And what would Torvill think, me coming back home one night with something like that in tow? They don’t like it, women, when a rival’s rubbed in their face. If I could get the information about the woman of the cliff without getting caught up in Michaela’s little scheme, all well and good. If not, I better start spying out the land. Either way meant one thing. Adam Rump.

  Next morning, I dressed for the part, a sober tie and new brown shoes, nothing flash. Prison material, me? It took about an hour to get to the Water Gardens. I could have got there quicker but I took the Citroën along the coast first. I was enjoying getting used to it.

  Rump was waiting for me when I got there, standing in front of this lump of smooth stone they had outside on the grass. He had the same hat on his head as he’d had when he’d come over to interview Alice Blackstock after Miranda’s disappearance, the same suit by the looks of it. Four years in prison, four years in the nick, I knew who’d come out looking better. We shook hands. He seemed pleased to see me.

  ‘Look at this load of rubbish,’ he said. ‘To think someone paid good money for it.’

  ‘It’s a Henry Moore,’ I said. I recognised it from a photo in the book Miss Prosser had given me. ‘Perhaps it was a gift.’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t want it on my lawn. Did he ever make any sculptures of fish, do you think?’

  ‘Not unless they had bloody great holes in them.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with modern art see. Where’s the reality? It just struck me wandering around, that fish are the last great untreated subject matters left to the artist. They’ve done horses and dogs, they’ve done naked women, too often in my opinion, but no one's done fish. Rembrandt, Gauguin, Dick van Dyke, where’s their piscatorial representation? There must be a reason.’ He looked at me like it was a serious question. I gave as good as I got.

  ‘Well I suppose one drawback would be that fish live underwater. Must be difficult to paint. And of course while you can get a dog to lie in his basket, and tell Miss April to stop scratching herself, fish don’t keep still, however quick you are with a pencil.’

  We went into the café. I ordered a cup of tea and a slice of sponge cake. He had coffee and a chocolate brownie. It was the first time I’d sat amongst ordinary people, people who weren’t villains, or relatives of villains handing over fags and lumps of dope, reassuring their man that everything was tickety-boo on the outside, the whole room sweating with suspicion and unrequited end-away. Everyone here looked different, acted different, like they had no worries in the world, like everything was tickety-boo. Everyone except me. I didn’t feel like that at all. Everything wasn’t tickety-boo. I’d pushed a woman off a cliff. Carol had come over to get me for what I’d done to Robin. And now I had to steal this pillock’s fish. I still felt as if I was inside, that anyone here who looked across their table would know that I’d been inside. It was writ on everything, the way I sat, the way I looked at people, even those poxy new clothes, like I’d just been unwrapped. It wasn’t a good feeling.

  The cake came. I’d always had a thing about sponge cakes, the light texture, the raspberry jam in the middle, the dusting of icing sugar on the top, the whole thing kind of dreamy, like it had slid off a rainbow. My mum made brilliant sponge cakes, the best in the world. I always hoped that one day I might come across one half as good, take me back a bit, but it hadn’t happened yet. Audrey had made one once, a birthday surprise. One week later I was still using it as Monty’s Frisbee. I bit into this. Not bad, if you like rubber. Rump pulled over the sugar bowl and pou
red in six sachets of Demerara.

  ‘We got married here you know,’ he said, stirring it in, ‘Michaela and me, in the Gazebo over there. I got the idea for my own pond that day, took down notes while everyone was listening to the speeches.’ He tested the temperature of his coffee with his finger. ‘Michaela. If I knew then what I know now.’ I nodded, grabbing the opportunity.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s a funny old world. My missus and your wife. What did they have in common – apart from the obvious?’

  ‘You mean their blind hatred of fish?’

  ‘Not exactly, more the part they’ve played in the mess we got caught up in–not just how they ended up together, but before that. I mean, fancy Michaela going up to the Beacon the very same day Audrey killed Miranda. That’s why you were up there wasn’t it, not looking for your wife, but looking for evidence. You thought I might have pushed her off the cliff there, Miranda I mean, not your wife.’

  ‘You could have pushed Michaela off for all I care, though I’d have had to arrest you afterwards. Do you know I once caught her trying to feed my koi slug pellets?’

  ‘Unnatural. You talked to Mickey Travers’ daughter didn’t you, the one in charge of the parking tickets that afternoon. Didn’t she see someone going up the path that afternoon? Your wife most likely.’

  Rump shook his head.

  ‘No, it wasn’t Michaela. She said the woman she saw walked as if she had one leg shorter than the other, like your nymph with the bad knee. Michaela’s legs are the same length.’

  He was right there. They’d stuck out a bit over the arm of the sofa, but in equal measure.

  ‘So not her, and not Miranda. Her legs were pretty well near perfect.’

  ‘That’s what we thought at first. Then we found one of those shoes down on the beach, the high heel jobs, remember? Well, if she’d just been hopping up the path just wearing the other one, then it could have been her.’

  ‘Or Michaela too. She could have lost a heel.’ He shook his head again

  ‘She has big feet, Michaela. Don’t ask what size but they’re bigger than the shoe we found down by the beach. Anyway we weren’t looking for Michaela. Only Miranda. And Miss Travers was certain it wasn’t her. She knew her from the gym, Michaela too probably. The woman was too short for Miranda, she said. Besides she heard her speak. She was sure it wasn’t Miranda. The woman was hurrying past the kiosk window, holding the hood of her oilskin down against the rain. She had something in her other hand, a mobile Mary thought, she wasn’t certain.’ He looked at the rest of his cake, broke it in two.

  ‘That was it?’

  ‘That was it.’ He put one piece in his mouth, one in his pocket..

  ‘She saw her come down again I suppose, Mary Travers.’

  ‘No, she’d shut up shop almost straight after. There were no tourists coming in that afternoon, not in that weather.’

  ‘Was she driving a car or something, this woman?’

  ‘Mary reckoned she’d walked down from the camp maybe.’

  That made sense to her, to Rump too, but not to me. She’d not come back, but no one had noticed. That meant no car and no army camp. She lived far away probably. Come in on the bus. But why?

  ‘So you never found out who she was.’ He shook his head.

  ‘No, and didn’t need to, not after we found Miranda. Not after…’ he coughed, changed the subject. ‘But enough of that. Let’s talk about something that really matters. Your future. Your fish.’ He pulled out an envelope from his inside pocket. Pushed it across the table. All we needed were shades to look like a couple of spooks.

  ‘There’s your new membership and a new badge, just in case you mislaid your previous one. If you’re thinking of restocking your pond, our new treasurer, Colonel Grace, has some very fine koi for sale, even Asagis.’

  ‘Is that him who runs the gunnery school?’

  ‘Yes. He’d be only too happy to oblige. He’s a very keen carp fancier. Do you know him?’

  I did not. I’d known his wife though. Used to drive her and her friend, Alicia Marmaduke back from art classes every Friday.

  ‘To be frank, I’m not sure if I’m quite ready for it yet, Inspector. Carp are such sensitive creatures as you know. Audrey filled the pond in, can you believe it, trashed the pumps and air filters. All that nymph of mine can see is grass. I’d have to start from scratch.’

  ‘Women,’ he said. ‘Do you visit her much?’

  ‘Audrey?’

  ‘The nymph. Only if you’re not restoring the pond I could always find a place for her in my new Japanese extravaganza. I’m expanding in a big way Al, another pond, waterfalls, pagodas. She’d look good coming out of the Mount Fuji I’m having in the middle. A bit of cement and I could make her eyes go all slanty. That’ll give Colonel Grace something to think about. He’s been quite put out, after I’d won the trophy. Did I tell you, Mini Ha Ha and I won a gold medal. God, what a koi! Look at her!’

  He pulled out his mobile. There she was staring out at me. She was all right, but not a patch on Torvill. Nice enough markings but a bit po-faced to my way of thinking, like she thought she was better than the rest.

  ‘That is one eye-popper of a fish Inspector. I’d love to see her in the flesh, when you have the time. It’s not every day you get to look at a beauty like that close up. Must be like having Sigourney Weaver sunbathing in the nuddie in your back garden.’ He jiggled his leg, all excited.

  ‘You’re telling me.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Tell you what. There’s an armed robbery I’m meant to be investigating, but the witness can wait for an hour or two. It’s not as if she’s going anywhere, with her leg all strapped up in the hospital bed. Why don’t we drive over and I show her to you right now? I’ve hardly seen her today as it is.’

  I climbed into the Citroën and followed him home. He wasn’t difficult to follow. He had this spotted red fish, all puffy and spiky, dangling in the window, another one, twice the size, hanging from his mirror. I could see it banging into his head every time we went round a corner. If it had been possible to have a fish tank slopping about in the back seat, he’d have had that there too. For some reason I thought he’d lived in Dorchester or Wareham. Perhaps he had. Not any longer. He lived in this place just off Weymouth, close to the sea, probably a proper village once with a post office and a butchers and a farm that sold proper milk, but now had been eaten up by a sprawl of modern houses all too close together, with straight roads and little brick walls that kept out nothing, not even dog shit. His house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, a gauntlet of eight other houses on either side, looking straight at us as we drove down. Just what you’re looking for in a spot of burglary, twitching curtains looking out on the crime scene. It had a run-down feel to it, his gaff, paint peeling at the window, scraggy weeds on the path, a lawn like a starved cat with the mange. A couple of brown envelopes were sticking out the letterbox. It looked like they’d been there for some time. Michaela wouldn’t have put up with this for a second. Me neither actually. It didn’t seem to bother him though. He just waved his arm, like to dismiss it, and took me down the side path, where a tall wooden door with barbed wire stuck around the top stood between the house and the garden wall. Not a good sign I thought.

  ‘You got this place well protected,’ I said. ‘Friendly neighbours?’

  ‘Police mostly,’ he said. He brought out a bunch of keys as big as my fist. ‘We tend to live in enclaves. It’s better that way. Didn’t you know?’ He unlocked the door. We stepped through.

  It was like we’d walked into a film set. There was this half moon flagged area at the back with palm trees and plant pots ranged round, tapering down to a sandstone path. As we stepped on it, I could hear the sound of rippling water and wobbly music, like someone hadn’t tuned their violin properly.

  ‘Japanese,’ he said proudly. ‘It sets off automatically as soon as someone triggers the laser.’

  He led me down the path, giant bamboo canes lining its sides, brushing against u
s as we walked down. And then we burst into it, this pond, a good fifteen-foot across, wooden staves holding up the sides, a little landing sticking out, like it was a setting off point to Shangri-la. He led me onto it. In the middle there was this glass window set in the floor, looking straight down into the water, koi, all shapes and colours gliding in and out of view. It set me off all right. Made my old pond look like a fucking puddle. It was all wrong. Torvill and Dean would have loved a place like this, ducking and diving to their hearts’ content. Compared to this, they’d barely had the space to turn around. And yet here sat Rump twiddling his thumbs, gazing at his fish all day when he should be out catching blaggers and toe-rags, making the world a safer place. If I’d had any doubts about stealing his poxy fish-queen, they’d gone in the flip of a tail. I took a look around, to weigh up the lie of the land. On the other side of the water beside the housing for the pumps and filters sat a dirty great Buddha, with his legs crossed, as Buddhas do. Behind that lay clumps of rhododendron bushes and willow trees, beyond that, a fence.

  ‘Quite a set up,’ I said. ‘What’s on the other side?’

  ‘A scramble down to the beach. Not that you’d ever want to go there, when you’ve got a miracle like Mini to wonder at.’ He put his hand to his eyes, like he was searching for her.

  ‘It must be hard to find her when you want her, in amongst all this lot.’ I tried not to sound too inquisitive. He smiled, pleased with himself.

  ‘You’d think so wouldn’t you.’

  He starting banging his hand against his mouth, making that whooping noise that kids make playing cowboys and Indians. There was a flurry and a sudden lick of water, and there she was, swimming alongside. She was bigger than I thought, bigger and better looking, long and sleek, with a shine to her like a woman’s skin fresh out the bath, all sparkling, ready to be wrapped up. He was right. She was fucking beautiful. I wouldn’t mind having a fish like that, even for a week or two. Torvill need never know.