The Fish Kisser

by James Hawkins

  “It could last a week or more,” added the captain, with the voice of experience. “Sometimes we don’t see across the river for two or three weeks.”

  “Is there any chance of finding him alive?”

  “No—impossible. He could survive a few hours at the most, but in a rough sea without a life jacket he would be dead in thirty minutes. He probably died straight away.”

  “What about the life-raft?”

  “King threw it over the side. He probably thought the crewman had seen him push LeClarc overboard, so he pretended he was trying to save him. Quick thinking, but too late for LeClarc.”

  The first course arrived—prawn cocktails in delicate glass tureens shrouded with plastic. The co-opted waitress dumped them on them table, still wrapped, and stomped off without a word.

  “What about the truck?” enquired Edwards.

  “Yugoslavian registered, or it was, before Yugoslavia broke up. Impossible to trace the owners now … could be Serbian but we’re not sure. The paperwork looks O.K. but there’s at least four different official governments issuing documents, and several unofficial ones.”

  “The driver?”

  “Austrian—says he knows nothing about it. We’ll have to let him go unless we can link him to Motsom or LeClarc. He’s scared. Claims he just picked up the truck and was paid cash to deliver it. There was nothing to prove LeClarc was going to be put into that truck—just a hunch. The fresh food and water suggests there was going to be a passenger, and we think the truck was designed to get refugees out of Bosnia or Croatia, but someone hired it for this special job. It has certainly been used before. Mr. Bliss found the compartment. He is a very good detective, I think.”

  “He shouldn’t have lost LeClarc in the first place. It’s all his bloody fault,” Edwards shot back, his face immediately reddening. This was one hook Bliss wasn’t going to wriggle off. Edwards needed a scapegoat. Word had already filtered back to him that he was being personally blamed. The assistant commissioner, according to the rumour picked up by his secretary in the lunchroom, had called the deputy commissioner to discuss a charge of neglect. There were several old scores to be settled and the rumour had followed an acrimonious 9 a.m. meeting with the A.C., which had lasted all of thirty seconds.

  “What’s happened?” the Assistant Commissioner had enquired blackly, without inviting Edwards to sit down.

  “We seem to have temporarily lost LeClarc, Sir,” he had said with false bravado.

  “Well I suggest you temporarily find him again, Mr. Edwards.”

  “We are trying, Sir.”

  “Try harder Mr. Edwards and, just for the record, how did eight detectives manage to lose one fat man on a ship?”

  Flustered, he mumbled “Ah … I’ll get onto it right away, Sir.”

  “You do that Mr. Edwards. I shall expect your report in twenty-four hours. Good morning.”

  The waitress returned noisily with the main course, her heavy boots clumping halfway across the room. The captain yelled they were not ready so she plunked the tray of food on the nearest table and clumped back out. Despite the noise Edwards didn’t notice her, his mind still stuck on the morning’s meeting and, with mounting fury, his fists clenched, his muscles tensed, and the blood pumped in his temples.

  “Bugger. You’d think four of them would be enough on board one bloody ship,” he exploded, slamming a fist onto the table and catching Captain Jahnssen completely off guard.

  “I. Um …,” started the captain, but was immediately cut short by Edwards violently smashing his right fist into the palm of his left hand as if stabbing himself.

  “What could go wrong, eh?” he yelled, but gave no time for an answer. “How could they have been so stupid?” Then the tension abated and he looked across the table at the captain, “Sorry,” he said, “I wonder if I could have a drop more whisky.” He spoke as if nothing had happened and the captain poured him a generous shot before rising to fetch the dinner plates.

  They ate silently for more than five minutes—an explanation brewing. “There was a second team,” Edwards began eventually, “back- up—but Bliss and the others didn’t know about them. It was just a safety measure in case anything went wrong.”

  “Something did go wrong,” interjected the captain, then wished he hadn’t.

  “I know,” screamed Edwards, “I pulled the second group off when LeClarc got safely on board. I didn’t want to lose two teams for forty-eight four hours. What could happen on a ship? It was only an eight hour crossing for Christ sake.” He paused for a second, then pleaded with Jahnssenn. “I was just trying to keep expenses down.”

  “Oh,” was all the captain could muster.

  “So,” continued Edwards in a lighter tone, “what’s our plan now?”

  Captain Jahnssen really didn’t have a plan, the events of the day had taken their own course and he, like everybody else, had simply reacted. Thinking for a second he ad-libbed, “I thought you would want to interview King and the driver yourself,” he began, then paused hoping Edwards would say something to give him more time to think.

  “And …?” said Edwards expectantly, then had an idea of his own. “What about the truck, do we know where it was going?”

  “Istanbul according to the documents, but that would take three or four days by road, maybe more.”

  “Perhaps we should contact the Turkish police, although I doubt if LeClarc would have been taken there. They would probably have stopped the truck en route and hauled him out into a car.”

  An idea seized the captain. “What if I put a couple of men into the truck and let it go, he might lead us to the kidnappers.”

  Enthusiasm brightened Edwards’ face as he envisaged the scheme. “I could send two of my men with two of yours in the back of the truck. We’ll have to hope the kidnappers have no way of knowing LeClarc isn’t inside.”

  Jahnssen frowned, “It might be dangerous. I think we should send a car as well, another two officers.” He paused for thought, “Maybe four, these men have already murdered two innocent people if what you say is correct.”

  “I’ve only got two men here.”

  “And Detective Bliss?”

  Edwards felt his blood rising—Bliss had twice put the phone down on him in one day, in addition to losing LeClarc. “Mr. Bliss will return to England first thing tomorrow,” he replied firmly—further discussion unwelcome. “We will make do with the men we have.”

  The chocolate gâteau had been excellent. “A definite cut above the canteen at Scotland Yard,” Edwards was saying when an officer crashed into the room and blasted the captain with a volley of Dutch.

  “They’ve spotted the Saab,” translated the captain excitedly, “near Rotterdam.”

  “And Motsom?”

  “Quick. We’ll go to the communications room and find out.”

  They half ran down the long corridor, round a corner. Run up a staircase or wait for the elevator? They chose the stairs, climbed six and heard the ping of the elevator behind them. They kept going, the decision already made. Two steps at a time they made it to the next floor, turned left and flew into the control room. Stopping for a second Edwards familiarized himself with his surroundings—no different from any other police control room: A jumble of telephones, radios and computer terminals; walls covered with banks of alarm panels and enormous maps; desks strewn with scratch pads, instruction manuals and coffee cups.

  The loudspeakers were alive with unintelligible words, shooting back and forth with the rapidity of a foreign TV quiz show. He couldn’t understand a word yet knew exactly what they were saying.

  “They’re chasing the Saab,” the captain said rapidly in English, not wasting time for fear of missing something important. “We’ve got two cars behind him.”

  Edwards pictured the chase in his mind. The tension of the police drivers and co-drivers: adrenalin pumping, muscles taught with anticipation, breathing heavily, hearts beating loud enough to hear. Each man speaking in one-word commands: R
ight. Left. Faster. Stop. The controlled power and emotion—two highly charged men and more than two hundred horsepower in one car. The excitement; the exhilaration; the thrill. And the risks: Cornering too fast; braking too late; jumping lights; squeezing through impossible gaps.

  Captain Jahnssen listened intently, interpreting what he could, the important bits. “They’re driving fast—two hundred kilometres an hour.”

  There’s nothing like it, thought Edwards, exhilarated by the excited babble on the radio, nothing compares to the thrill of a police chase: Seat of the pants driving; controlled skids, sudden direction changes. The risk taking. Guessing—no, not guessing—calculating the way the target will turn. The rush; the sheer speed; the way everything flashes past in a blur. Total concentration on the target and the road to the exclusion of everything. Mind and machine in perfect harmony.

  The voices on the radio bubbled with excitement as they. closed in. “Big intersection ahead,” explained the captain.

  Edwards pictured it: Red lights rushing toward them—stab the brakes; jab the clutch; wrench the gear stick; thrust the throttle to the floor; twist the wheel; feel the tires sliding and bouncing, losing grip. Pedestrians and cyclists out for a jaunt suddenly caught in the midst of a life and death struggle. Blast the horn; hear the siren screaming overhead, your siren; other sirens joining in. Take the corner; pray the truck can stop; hope the pedestrian isn’t deaf or stupid. Feel the car protesting; shaking; vibrating, over-revving. Hit the wrong gear in a panic; slam it back into second, ram the throttle to the floor, hear the engine’s screaming; feel the acceleration as the tires bite. Look ahead: is he turning; stopping; shooting?

  Edwards listened—one guttural voice after another; fast talking in a foreign language reminding him of fighter pilots in war movies—fear and tension released by shouting single words or staccato sentences. The captain translated, his words becoming as crisp as the chasers.

  “Lights are red. They’ve gone through.”

  “Who?” asked Edwards.

  “The Saab.” He held up his hand, “Wait,” he commanded, they’ve hit a car.” He listened intently, “They’re still going.” A moment’s silence. “They’re turning left, they won’t make it.” He paused. “They did.” A second later, “They’ve hit another car.” He turned to Edwards with a quick explanation, “They’re on a busy street, we’ve got three cars behind and we’re setting up a road block ahead.”

  Edwards imagined the speeding cars weaving in and out of traffic; pedestrians running into doorways; terrified parents dragging fascinated kids off footpaths; cars sliding to a halt. Hunted and hunters skidding on two wheels, fishtailing around corners and bouncing off parked cars.

  The voices on the loudspeaker became louder, tension increasing and the captain almost whispered, “The road block’s coming up.”

  Edwards saw it—two cars blocking the road— amazing how fast they came toward you.

  “He’s not slowing.”

  Five hundred metres, guessed Edwards, plenty of time.

  “Still going.”

  Edwards knew the fear, the panic. Passengers and co-drivers praying silently, even aloud. “Oh Christ! Stop you, bastard. Stop!”

  “Not stopping.”

  Two hundred metres. The swearing, “Oh Fuck! For fuck’s sake stop. STOP!”

  “They’re shooting.”

  The worst. Don’t panic. Don’t lose control. Decide quickly: If you weave you lose control; drive straight and you hit a bullet at 100 miles an hour.

  Jahnssen barked an order.

  The loudspeaker reverberated with the sound of shots then fell silent. Edwards held his breath. The control room hushed.

  The loudspeaker rattled back to life, the captain translated. “They hit the road block, they’re still going.”

  Edwards imagined the scene: The Saab ramming first into one police car, bouncing off into the second, scattering policemen and sending debris in all directions.

  A barrage of voices sprung from the loudspeaker. The captain looked relieved. “No one killed. We are still after them.”

  Edwards’ mind was racing, thinking of the co-drivers and the fear of not being in control, the fear he felt when flying. Too frightened to look, too scared not to. Unable to do anything but pray, trust the driver, and occasionally swear out loud to release the tension. “Bastard. Get out the bloody way,” or “Fuck—that was close.” Wanting to scream, “Slow down. Stop! Stop! Let me out.” Breathing a sigh of relief as each danger passes then immediately worrying about the next.

  Jahnssen was translating again. “It’s a bridge.”

  “A bridge?”

  “A canal bridge, it’s lifting.”

  Excitement mounted in the voices on the radio, like derby commentators near the finishing post.

  “Not stopping.”

  “The bridge’s still going up.”

  “They won’t make it.”

  “STOP! STOP!”

  The whole room held its breath. The radio went dead. Twenty seconds later it chattered back to life. The captain turned to Edwards with a look of dismay, “They’ve got away. They jumped the gap.”

  Disappointment filtered through the room. Policemen and civilians drifted back to their duties, or slunk quietly away with the disillusioned expression of footballer players losing the Cup by a single last minute goal. Some passed a few words as if commenting on strategy or team spirit, most remained silent.

  Edwards looked at the captain, “Well Jost, what happens now?”

  “We’ll keep looking for them but I think we should go ahead with our plan. I’ll arrange for the men to go in the truck and the back-up car. Perhaps you would interview King and the driver. You had better start with the driver so we can release him as soon as the truck is prepared. Two hours should be enough.”

  “What’s the time now?” Edwards asked of himself, checking his watch which still read 9:05 p.m. Glancing up he saw the control room’s illuminated digital clock blink from 22:05 to 22:06 and he reset his watch to Dutch time.

  9:06 p.m., said the flight information board clock at Stanstead airport as Margery, bottle-bronzed, still in beach shorts with her breasts bubbling out of a skimpy T-shirt, walked through the arrivals gate, saw Trudy’s mother, stopped dead, and erupted in a torrent of tears. The accompanying stewardess, unaware of the situation, tried to comfort her, but Margery twisted out of her grasp and flew toward Lisa.

  For several minutes they moved back and forth in a slow dance, blocking the narrow exit, neither wanting to be the first to break away in case the other should accuse them of caring less about Trudy. The constable, with a tremulous voice, suggested moving out of the way, but the joint outpouring of pent-up emotions made them deaf. Trudy would have found it strange, even amusing, to see her mother and Margery locked together this way. How many times had her mother trashed Margery? “That girl’s bad news. I wish you’d find a nice friend” she would say.

  With Margery’s hastily packed bag over his shoulder, Peter nudged them through the main doors toward the police car, the policeman urging them to hurry. Peter, grabbing his arm, whispered, “Don’t worry constable, it’s too late tonight.”

  “Not quite,” he replied, looking pleased, explaining that a friend at the Daily Express had promised to hold a space as long as they had Roger’s picture before midnight.

  Peter swung round in his seat as soon as they hit the main highway. “Margery, Luv. What do you know about this Roger bloke?”

  Margery distanced herself a little from Lisa. “Trude said he was twenty-seven, I said that were too old. She didn’t say a lot about him really.” She paused for effect, as if trying to think of what to say next, though she had thought about nothing else since seeing Trudy’s picture in the paper. “He’s got a big house in Watford and drives a Jag.”

  “That’s it. That’s where she is,” cried Lisa. “Why didn’t you stop her you stupid girl?”

  Margery had found a prickly seat and squirmed. “I told her
not to go. Honest. I told her that all he wanted was a fu …” she stopped, suddenly aware she was not talking to her peers, “You know?” she finished, with uncharacteristic shyness.

  “Have you any idea of the address?” enquired the constable, feeling it was his responsibility to ask the questions.

  “I’ve thought and thought, but she never said.”

  “Did she say if she was unhappy at home?” continued the constable, treading on thin ice.

  She quickly replied, “No,” then looked sheepish. “I don’t know if I should say this …” she paused, fidgeting uncomfortably, her eyes roaming back and forth between Lisa and Peter, then she took the plunge, “Trudy doesn’t like her stepmother—reckoned it was her fault her dad left home.”

  Peter said nothing but Lisa stepped in quickly. “Come and stay with me Margery, ’til your parents get back.”

  “Is that alright Mrs. McKenzie?”

  “I want you to,” she pleaded forcefully, then added, “Please.”

  “Mum said I should ask if I could. She’s worried as well.”

  “Anyway, I wouldn’t feel happy with you on your own after what’s happened to Trudy.” The admission that something had “happened” to Trudy dispelled all remaining optimism and immersed Lisa in macabre thought: Her lips quivered, she squeezed them together tightly; her eyes misted, she shut them; her body started shaking, she clenched her muscles. But the emotion continued building until the pressure became too great and she exploded into a violently sobbing mess.

  Peter leaned over and quietly asked the constable to stop the car.

  “It’s dangerous here.”

  “Please.”

  He stopped. Peter leapt out and, changing places with Margery, quickly bundled Lisa’s jerking body in his arms and pressed her face to his chest.

  Nobody spoke for a while, the car was filled with the sound of Lisa’s sobs and an occasional breathy, “There, there,” from Peter, who would have added, “Everything will be alright,” had he not known she would immediately see through the lie and weep even more. They were travelling fast, without dramatics. The constant buzz of the engine and the ever-changing hum of the tires, were the only sounds for many miles, as each occupant unsuccessfully tried to come up with something to diffuse a further explosion of grief. Then the constable decided to offer some hope to Lisa, judging it was time to end the silence. “Mrs. McKenzie?” he called, in the rear view mirror.