The Fish Kisser

by James Hawkins

  THE FISH KISSER

  THE FISH KISSER

  James Hawkins

  A Castle Street Mystery

  Copyright © James Hawkins, 2001

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.

  Editor: Barry Jowett

  Copy-Editor: Natalie Barrington

  Design: Bruna Brunelli

  Printer: Webcom

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Hawkins, D. James (Derek James), 1947–

  The fish kisser

  “A Castle Street Mystery.”

  ISBN 0-88882-240-5

  I. Title.

  PS8565.A848F58 2001 C813.’6 C2001-902372-3 PR9199.4.H38F58 2001

  1 2 3 4 5 05 04 03 02 01

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on recycled paper.

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  Terrorism will be the warfare of the twenty-first century, and cyber-weaponry will form a major armament.

  This book is dedicated to all victims of terrorism (especially those who succumbed to the New York attack, September 11, 2001), and to all members of the world’s security services who have given their lives in pursuit of individuals and organisations who wage this insidious war.

  — James Hawkins

  September 12, 2001

  chapter one

  The giant ship was evaporating. Twinkling lights from the Calypso Bar, in the aft, were still clearly visible, but the remainder of the vessel was slowly being sucked into the black hole of night. Roger LeClarc strained to see through the mist, telling himself he was dreaming.

  “Shit!” He was not.

  “Bastards,” he screamed after the ship. “You bastards.”

  With a soft but firm hand the wake of the propeller’s wash lifted him above the surrounding sea, offering a tantalizingly clear view of the departing ship. He considered waving, even did briefly, but self-consciously dropped his arm as the swell gently let him down. Was he trying to summon help or simply waving a final goodbye?

  “God, the water’s cold.”

  An uncontrollable spate of shivering attacked him—presaging the turmoil headed his way. Gasping frantically, forcing mouthfuls of chilly moist air into his constricted lungs, he retched as the salt-laden ozone stung the back of his throat. “Come back,” he yelled. “Come back.” But the waves swallowed his voice.

  Like the closing shot from an old tearjerker movie, the increasing distance gradually washed the colour from the ship’s lights and they faded to grey in the gloom, leaving Roger pondering his chances of being rescued. “Nil,” he figured, but then his analytical mind cut in and offered hope. It’s the North Sea not the Pacific. Twenty miles to land at most. Plenty of coastal shipping. I’m still alive so I must have some chance. Start swimming …

  Which way?

  Home …

  But where is home?

  Treading water, he slowly spun, seeking land, lights, life. Finding none, he returned for a last glimpse of the giant passenger ferry, now barely a smudge of radiance in a sea of black, and paddled, half-heartedly, after it.

  Céline Dion crooning “My heart will go on” provided an inappropriate reminder of the Titanic to the few unperturbed passengers still clustered in the Calypso Bar, despite the late hour. Few were sufficiently sober, or sufficiently interested, to listen. But Len, the barman, a veteran of a thousand similar crossings, couldn’t resist mumbling along with the tune, and three die-hards on capstan chairs at the end of the bar mockingly joined in, then exploded in laughter when he caught on and gave them a nasty look.

  “Bloody cops,” he breathed, sizing them up with a bad taste in his mouth. Three tall, self-confident men travelling together. Too smart for truck drivers: One grey suit; two blue blazers; hair by Anton or Antoinette; decent cologne—not Price-Right. Not holidaymakers either—too relaxed. Salesmen perhaps? But he shook his head. “Cops—definitely.” It was the way they kept constant surveillance, controlled everyone with an inquisitive stare, and sustained a bubble of hostile space around them that kept most at bay during the evening, observing the invisible warning sign: “Dangerous animals—keep back.”

  “Cops,” he breathed again. Not that he cared. His petty pilfering wouldn’t attract the attention of a loss prevention officer in a condom factory, let alone a sizeable undercover squad. If he could get rid of them, and the other stragglers whom he knew from bitter experience would keep him up all night, he’d sleep away most of the voyage to Holland.

  “Another round, gentlemen?” he inquired as the laughter subsided. Could he push them into admitting they’d had enough?

  “Good idea,” shouted one, to his chagrin, and they squabbled over whose turn it was to pay.

  Thwarted, Len substituted a 1940s Vera Lynn for Cé line Dion; The White Cliffs of Dover for Titanic. They’ll hate this. They loved it. “There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,” they caroused, then exploded in laughter at the dismay on his face.

  As Len sullenly pulled the drinks, Vera romanticized about a country which the three London policemen had little knowledge. Shepherds tending sheep and valleys in bloom were not part of their daily landscape. A barren desert of concrete, glass, and steel was nearer the mark; urban chasms of grey flat-fronted buildings, made interesting only by the accidental and unlawful activities of others—at least graffiti and garbage added colour, shape, and dimension.

  “Serg, we’ve got a problem,” an out-of-breath, forty-ish, fourth member was saying as he joined the group.

  His statement, intended for the leader, Detective Sergeant Barry Jones, was pounced on by one of the others, who mumbled into his beer, “You’ve always got a problem.”

  A look of warning from the sergeant straightened him up. “Sorry, Sir,” he said, pulling himself together with a fixed smile.

  “But why not give it a rest. Relax and have a drink. It’s your round anyway.”

  “Sergeant, it’s urgent,” the newcomer implored, shutting out the other two, his mouth taut with earnestness, his blue eyes wide—pleading to be taken seriously.

  “O.K., Inspector Bliss, shoot. What’s your problem?”

  The others spluttered into stupid laughter, “Problems, problems.”

  “In private,” he added, catching the sergeant’s sleeve.

  Sergeant Jones shook him off and puckered his lips for a drink. “Oh come on, Sir. Spit it out, I haven’t got all night. We’ve got serious work to do.”

  Bliss h
esitated, pivoting around, checking for eavesdroppers. Len had made himself scarce, washing glasses further along the bar, hoping they’d get the message. No one else was close, though two men arguing at a small table set into an alcove caught his eye. Instinct and twenty years experience alerted his senses. When he’d wandered through the bar earlier the alcove tables, with room for two or three at a squeeze, had been the preserve of courting couples, some, he assumed by the tartness of the women, being paid for their services. Now, as he watched, the two men huddled together, quarrelling face to face. Putting it down to a lover’s tiff, he turned back to the sergeant with a sobering stare. “I’ve lost him,” he said forcefully.

  Sergeant Jones critically examined the clarity of his beer against an ornamental bar lamp—an art nouveau knock-off masquerading as Lalique—then shrugged. “So what. We’re on a ship, aren’t we? He couldn’t get off … unless he’s decided to swim to Amsterdam.”

  The other two roared.

  “Have a drink Guv’nor and stop worrying,” continued the sergeant, drawing the barman toward him with a crook of a finger.

  “No, thank you, Sergeant. I’m on duty,” Bliss countered pointedly, and stood in silence for a second as he contemplated pulling rank. Then, realizing the men would be of little use, decided to let it go. “I’m going to look for him myself,” he said, moving toward the door.

  “Miserable git,” mumbled one of the others. “No wonder yer missus left yer.”

  “She didn’t leave …” he turned defensively, annoyed that he was still defined by a relationship that had sunk years ago; then decided not to waste his breath, not to salt his own wounds. Anyway, there had been others.

  The argument between the two “lovers” in the alcove was briefly put on hold as Bliss passed. The second he was out of the way, Billy Motsom, a stubby, forty-something, professional enforcer, slinking behind the manicured facade of a mutual fund salesman, stabbed a finger at the other man, spitting, “The Arab wants this guy’s head on a plate. You’d better deliver, or it’ll be your f’kin head.”

  The other, Nosmo King, taller and decidedly unmanicured, rose determinedly, seeking a way out when Motsom slammed his fist on the table. “You lost him, so you’d better stop this ship and get him picked up damn quick. Understand?” King mopped his forehead with his sleeve desperate to gain thinking time, but Motsom’s stare pierced painfully into his skull.

  “O.K. I’ll stop the bloody ship,” he replied at last, shifting back into gear, telling himself his decision had nothing to do with Motsom’s threat, that his only concern was LeClarc … knowing he was lying.

  Nosmo King, disgraced ex-cop turned private detective, jogged from the alcove, caught a glimpse of the three men at the bar and instantly summed them up. Scotland Yard detectives—probably on a taxpayer-funded goodwill junket to some unsuspecting foreign force. Memories of his days as a detective on such trips flashed to mind. Pissed most of the time, he recalled. The bloody foreigners were always so hospitable, and were used to drinking the local booze. Blurred memories of blurred visits—one boozy encounter followed by another—shot through his mind, alcohol greasing the flow of conversation between people of different nationalities.

  They’ll regret it, he thought, rushing the stairs to the upper deck three at a time. His mind was racing ahead. How the hell do you stop a ship? Shout, “Man overboard!,” or is that only in the movies? Then a frigid blast of night sea air sharpened his senses as he forced open the heavy steel door to the deck. What the hell am I doing? I’m not even sure the poor bastard went overboard.

  It was less than five minutes—five terrifying minutes— that Roger had been in the sea. Hope and despair had edged each other out a million times. The biting chill had numbed his body but stung his brain. How can it be this cold? It’s the end of July—I think?

  Death had visited him in the first few minutes as he’d struggled for breath against the iron hand clamped around his chest, but he’d fought off the spectre and his breathing had gradually eased. Who had claimed drowning was the least painful of all deaths? he wondered, recalling reading it somewhere— Reader’s Digest probably. What did they know? Who had come back from drowning to tell their story?

  He stopped swimming. “Why struggle?” said the small voice in his head. “You’re drowning. Why prolong the agony?”

  Twice he let go, allowing himself to sink slowly, but his will to survive brought him flailing, coughing, and spluttering back to the surface. So much for it being painless, he thought, as he re-fought the chest cramps. This isn’t a hot bath or a Jacuzzi; this isn’t the Caribbean or Hawaii. This is the North Sea: Cold, bleak, and tempestuous. Nothing lives or dies comfortably here.

  “Anyway,” said the inner voice, rationalizing, “what about your parents? Maybe you should try for their sake.”

  His salt-stung eyes closed as he tried to conjure up images of them. A couple of featureless old people watching television in the sitting room of a three-bed-room semi-detached house in Watford was the closest he could get. Does Dad still have a moustache? he worried, becoming obsessed, convinced that failure to remember was evidence of death.

  Pinch yourself.

  He did … Nothing. Total numbness.

  Panic!

  “Calm down,” said the voice. “You can prove you’re alive. Just remember what they look like.”

  Noises and smells rather than images sprang to mind. Old people’s noises and smells—belches and farts, clicking false teeth, diarrhoea and disinfectant, and his mother’s voice, grating, and demanding.

  “Is that you, our Roger?” she’d sing out as he arrived home from the office each evening, her eyes glued to the television.

  “No, it’s a fucking maniac come to slice off yer head,” he’d mumble sotto voce. “Only me,” he’d call cheerfully, already halfway upstairs to his room.

  “Yer late; yer dinner’s cold,” she’d whine.

  “I’ve eaten,” he’d shout, slam his door, and slump in front of his computer, safe and secure in his own world.

  They won’t remember me; won’t even miss me, he thought and for a moment had a feeling of total freedom—thirty-one years old, finally escaping their clutches—even perversely revelling in the knowledge that his mother wouldn’t have any say over his demise, and wouldn’t be able to bask in the spotlight of sympathy. Drowning at sea wasn’t the same as being hit by a truck on the High Street. No disfigured body in intensive care for her and her bingo friends to cluck over; no fearsome array of life support machines for her to shake her head at; no parade of weeping relatives commiserating over her impending loss. “Oh you poor dear— he was such a nice boy.” And there would be no prognosis of survival given by an over-optimistic doctor, unable, or unwilling, to commit himself to the terrible truth. Without a body to view, weep over and bury, there would always be a question mark, a faint hope, a possibility. “Maybe he’s run off with a bird—or a bloke—to get away from her,” neighbours would tittle-tattle behind her back. And she’d hear them … sniggering as she shuffled to the corner store wearing her loss in her downcast eyes. Instead of mourning a lost son for a few weeks, or months, her mourning would last forever. “Serves her bloody right,” he said to himself.

  Memories, however hazy, of his mother kindled thoughts of his room and the techno-shrine he had built there. And her jealous admonition: “You think more of that damn computer than you do of me.” True, he thought, and promised himself the pleasure of telling her so—one day. It was an easy promise, now knowing he never would.

  Thoughts of his beloved computer stirred images of his stubby fingers flitting across the keyboard. “My fingers!” he screamed and stopped swimming, just for a second, bringing both hands together, fingertip-to-fingertip. Feeling nothing, he whipped them out of the water, sank like a stone, and had to fight his way back to the surface. Catching his breath, he gingerly lifted his right hand to his face and peered closely. The total darkness that initially surrounded him had faded as his eyes had grown a
ccustomed. His pallid fingers were silhouetted against the blackness of the sea, but their outline and colour blended into a grey miasma and, feeling himself sinking again, he dropped his hand back into the water to resume paddling. He hoped his fingers would be alright—prayed they would be.

  A light flickered above the horizon then quickly disappeared. A few seconds later it was back, then out again. I’m hallucinating, he thought, and stared, intently, determined not to let it fade, but just as he concluded it was real, it went out again.

  “It could be a lighthouse,” he mused and headed in that direction.

  Two minutes later, his mind, working in slow motion, caught on to the fact it was a distant ship. The light, flickering on and off like a dysfunctional advertising sign, was in rhythm to the lazy swell. Now identified, it held his attention. Is it coming or going? he wondered. His hopes leapt. They’re coming back for me. Yes, that’s it. Someone saw me go overboard and now they’re searching.

  Instinct overcame logic. “Help! Help!” he screeched. The ship was miles away. “Help! Help!” He had more chance of being heard by a passing jumbo jet. His contracted vocal chords barely squeaked, his lungs pained with the effort, and the sounds that did escape were instantly grabbed by the breeze and scattered so quickly he wasn’t sure he had made any noise at all.

  Exhausted by the effort, he shut out the distant light, sank inside his mind, and found a procession of embarrassing memories parading past him: A ten-year-old with his head firmly jammed in the wrought iron banister—sore ears for a week; one from the fireman as he fought to free him, and the other from his mother’s heavy hand. Plummeting out of the old oak tree on the common. “So not everyone can climb trees.”

  “Anyone can climb that one. My kid sister can climb that one.” And that from a girl!

  Then there was the goal post falling down during the school soccer finals—the saw marks clearly visible. Never picked, not even as a substitute, not for any team, both captains saying, “You can have the fatso.” He’d shown them.