“What colour was Roger’s hair?”
“Almost white, sort of straggly and thin.”
“Couldn’t be his then,” he said, dropping them carelessly back on the floor.
Some newly made scratch marks on the hallway walls caught his attention and he traced them. “Probably where they brought in the bed,” he mused. “ There’s not a lot of room.”
Five minutes later they’d searched the entire house, confirmed the bed was not there, and stood in the cramped hallway wondering what to do next. D.C. Jackson expressed his thoughts aloud, seeking ratification from the others. “There’s no phone but the number works; the power’s on; there’s no bed but there should be; there’s no furniture or belongings, yet LeClarc was living here—the Met. Team saw him, so did George.”
“Sort of living here,” corrected his partner.
“Yes. Sort of,” Jackson reiterated. “It’s as if he was living here but he wasn’t. Like he’s in another world, another dimension.”
“You’ve been reading too many weird books,” said George, steadfast in his belief that there was a rational explanation for everything.
“Hello,” shouted Jackson, as loud as he possibly could, startling both his partner and George. “Is there anybody there.”
“Don’t piss about,” hissed the other detective, mindful of the presence of a member of the public.
“I’m not,” he replied, jumping up and down, his size 11 shoes thundering on the bare wooden boards. “C’mon out wherever you are,” he continued, his loud voice filling the entire house. “C’mon—we know you’re here.”
“I shouldn’t do that if I were you,” said George worriedly, recalling the sergeant’s demolition of the old chair.
The raised voices and banging easily penetrated Trudy’s dungeon and, finding a hidden reserve of energy, she rushed the door and tried thumping. Her blistered and bloated hands were like water-filled balloons thwacking a target at a village fête. She screamed, nothing happened. Pulling herself up to the keyhole, pressing her lips hard against the metal plate, she willed her vocal chords into action. A series of squeaky sounds leaked out.
D.C. Jackson, nearest to the cupboard, heard. “Listen,” he said. “What was that?”
“Mouse,” said George, dismissively. “There’s plenty of ’em around here.”
“Or a rat,” suggested his partner, remembering the dead animal outside.
No one thought it was Trudy and the detectives left the house by the front door a few minutes later, deciding that a photograph of the real Roger LeClarc, from his parents, would be useful; George volunteered to clean up the broken glass.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Mitchell, we’ll get someone to mend the window,” said Jackson on his way out. “Not that there’s anything of value in there.”
The voices had stopped for Trudy and she rushed hysterically back to the computer on the other side of the room, some inner strength taking control, her dead nerve endings no longer registering pain. Still panting frantically. her fingers flew across the keyboard.
“MUM I CAN HEAR YOU. I’M DOWN HERE.
MUM PLEASE HURRY.”
Dragging herself back to the door she put her ear to the keyhole and heard nothing. “Please Mum,” she sobbed. “Please Mum.” Then exhaustion took over and she gradually collapsed back to the floor.
chapter eleven
“Detective Constable Bliss,” hollered Superintendent Edwards, his voice booming the length of the station corridor, as Bliss emerged from his meeting with Nosmo King more than two hours later.
Anticipating an ambush from Edwards, Bliss had spent the final five minutes of the meeting mentally preparing himself, yet immediately went to pieces. The relatively diminutive figure at the other end of the corridor, now beckoning with furious hand movements, exuded such an aura of control he felt his willpower being siphoned away. Everyone, and everything, stopped, like a confrontation scene from a wild west movie. Who would be fastest to the draw?
The superintendent fired the first volley, shouting, “Here!”
Adolf Hitler, who, for all Bliss knew, may have walked this same corridor fifty-odd years earlier, could never have commanded such authority in a single word.
Bliss capitulated immediately. Heart thumping and blood rising, he answered, “Yes, Sir,” and started the lonely walk.
Yolanda fell in step—a henchman in a lemon yellow two-piece that would have been more at home on a catwalk. “I could kick him,” she suggested from the corner of her mouth, and probably would have done had he agreed.
Reaching into his pocket, Bliss pulled out King’s handkerchief and slipped it to her. “Thank you,” was all she could think of saying as she grasped it, with puzzled eyes, peeling away just as they reached Edwards.
“In here,” Edwards motioned to an empty room and Bliss fought desperately to get his mind under control in preparation for the string of lies he was about to tell.
Twenty minutes later the white BMW purred restfully as Yolanda concentrated on the face of the figure walking across the car park toward her. She had seen similar expressions before—faces of survivors fleeing the scene of a hostage taking. A vengeful postal worker had been pumping bullets randomly into his colleagues, his supposed tormentors, and the escapees all wore the same mask. Fear, anger, and disbelief combined with just a twinge of relief, producing a deadpan expression that said so little, yet hid so much. Any minute now he’ll break into a little nervous smile, just to prove to me, and himself, that he came through it alive, she thought, and, on cue, Bliss’ mouth widened, his teeth showed briefly, and he shrugged his shoulders lightly as if to say, “That didn’t hurt.”
“Hi,” he said airily, jumping in beside her.
She smiled, genuinely, “Okey dokey Dave?” and dropped the car into gear without adding to his discomfort by asking what happened.
Heading back to her apartment in thoughtful silence she glanced at him a couple of times and recalled how most of the hostage survivors had quickly disintegrated into snivelling, whimpering messes. She guessed he would not.
Yolanda’s expensive and well-travelled suitcase had taken her less than three minutes to pack and stow into the trunk of the car. Bliss had spent considerably longer gathering his few possessions. Deep in thought, he had moved around the apartment in a daze. The words, “Suspended from duty,” were uppermost in his mind. Edwards’ parting admonition, “Get your ass on that ship and be in my office nine o’clock Monday morning with a full report,” also left a nasty sting that wouldn’t go away.
“Have you got everything?” she enquired, creeping unnoticed into the bedroom behind him.
“I think so.”
“What about this?” she held up his toothbrush and made him reach for it. Their fingers met. Neither thought it was an accident. The electric charge that leapt from flesh to flesh was purely imaginary, yet perfectly real. Her heart pounded and she felt an inner tingling sensation. Their eyes locked over their hands and the vivid blueness of her pupils held him prisoner. He couldn’t escape; didn’t want to escape; didn’t even try to escape. Running his fingers along the length of hers, he found the wrist and held it while his other hand took the toothbrush and tossed it onto the bed. Pulling gently, he eased the outstretched hand toward his mouth and pressed the palm to his lips. An instant may have been a minute, or an hour, and neither of them could have guessed with any certainty how long they stood glued together by eye contact alone. Flustered, unsettled, he pulled away, grabbed the toothbrush and shoved it into his suitcase, saying, “I’ve got to go,” with unnecessary harshness. “The ship sails in half an hour.” Then they fumbled uncertainly around each other for a few minutes while Yolanda checked the lights, the taps, the answering machine, then locked the front door behind her.
Bliss’ half-closed eyes took little notice of the route to the port. The coastal fog had thinned a little but after ten minutes he still could not see the ship. Then rows of humped backed greenhouses replaced the little terra
ced houses at the roadside and stretched into the murk.
“Where are we going?” he enquired almost casually.
“Istanbul.”
His eyes went wide and his voice lifted an octave, “Istanbul?”
“Yeah. Istanbul.”
He sat bolt upright and stared at her. “Don’t be silly Yolanda, I’m in enough trouble already. Anyway it would take at least four days.”
“We’re not driving there.”
“We are not going there,” he said firmly.
“Why did you give me the handkerchief then?”
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Stop, or I’ll jump out,” he shouted, undoing his seat belt.
Her eyes stared straight ahead. “Go on then,” she taunted, pulling a “couldn’t-care-less,” face.
“Please stop Yolanda,” he said, trying hard not to get cross.
Her face changed; his seriousness had sunk in and disappointment dragged her down. She parked untidily, without indication, and suffered the angered blast of the following driver’s horn as he barely missed rearending them in the fog. “Dave, What else can we do?” she began, trying to reason with him.
“Contact Interpol.”
“Have you ever dealt with Interpol?” she asked in a way that made it clear she had.
“No,” he admitted.
“Look at your watch Dave.”
He looked
“What’s the time?”
“Eleven-thirty.”
With a confused look she quickly checked hers. “It’s twelve-thirty, Dave. You’ve still got English time.”
“Oh, right.”
“So,” she continued, “It’s twelve-thirty Friday. If we work hard the request will be ready for Interpol by five o’clock. With any luck they’ll deal with it first on Monday morning. They might have a Turkish translation by next Tuesday and by next Wednesday hundreds of Turkish police will go the address.”
“That’s useless,” he cried, “They’ll have cleared out long before then. They might have left already.”
Bliss gnawed on a knuckle, deep in thought, for a few seconds. Istanbul sounded good; Istanbul with Yolanda sounded … “Sorry,” he said eventually, shaking his head from side to side, his speculations soured by malignant thoughts of Edwards. “I have to go back. I would lose my job. Edwards is determined to nail me.” Putting his hand lightly on her arm he looked deeply into her face. “I really am sorry. You don’t know how much I’d like to say yes, but I can’t. Please take me to the ship or I’ll miss it.”
The roar of the ship’s siren sounded a final warning as they drove into the port. Yolanda expertly navigated a maze of plastic traffic bollards, snubbed a “no entry” sign, and came alongside the ship. Slinging his suitcase onto the end of the gangway, Bliss caught her up in his arms and their lips smacked together and refused to let go. A parting peck turned into a full-blown smooch. Her body swung limply in his arms, her mouth moved frantically against his, and his hands swam up and down her body.
The crewmember at the top of the gangway was waiting to give the order to lift, and yelled, “Oy! Get on with it mate. We’re bloody late already.”
Bliss broke away, grabbed his suitcase, jumped onto the bottom step and peered wistfully at her. “Sorry,” was all he could say, and he really meant it.
Then she threw him a curve. “It’s Okey dokey, I’ll go on my own.” Her face clearly said she meant it. “Goodbye Dave.” Was there a crack in her voice? Her bottom lip quivered. He was sure he saw it quiver.
“Bye,” he mumbled.
She tried a smile. He recognized a false smile when he saw one.
“Damn,” he shouted, jumped off the gangway, marched back to the car and slung his suitcase on the back seat.
“Make up your bloody mind mate,” shouted the crewman, giving the thumbs-up to lift.
Yolanda talked on her car’s mobile phone with the same alacrity and excitement as she drove. Bliss sulked, his arms folded tightly across his chest. The fog had thinned a few miles inland and the powerful car negotiated the sweeping curves of the highway at more than double the speed limit.
“We’ll have to drive,” she had said as soon as they left the port, “It’s too foggy to fly.”
“All the way?” he’d asked, expressionless.
“No,” she’d laughed, “only to Schiphol.”
With a final burst of chatter she flipped the phone into its holder. “They’ll hold the plane.”
He tried to sound uninterested, “What plane?”
“To Istanbul.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said frostily. “Why would they do that?”
The deep crescents on either side of her mouth accentuated her smile. “I told them a very important British police officer was pursuing an international terrorist and there would be a lot of trouble if they let it leave.”
Bliss tried hard not to, but couldn’t help smiling. Slowly unfolding his arms he enquired, “Does Captain Jahnssen know what you …” he stopped and corrected himself, “What we are doing?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean—sort of?”
“I said that as I was flying to Istanbul for the weekend anyway, I might as well snoop around a bit. He didn’t believe me. He just said be careful.”
A large truck in front of them was proving to be an obstinate obstruction. Yolanda blasted her horn several times although Bliss had no idea what she expected the driver to do. Finally she took an outrageous chance coming out of a bend, slamming her foot to the floor so hard the tires spun as they leapt ahead. Fishtailing, they shot pass the truck and forced an on-coming car onto the verge. “Weekend drivers,” she shouted, forging ahead, another truck in her sights.
A wide stretch of dual carriageway with sparse traffic relieved Bliss’ anxiety and he felt it safe to break Yolanda’s concentration. “What’s Istanbul like?” he asked, excitement getting the better of him. “Have you been there before?”
She had, several times, and talked animatedly for several minutes about the fabulous Blue Mosque; the sun rising over the majestic Bosphorus bridge; the bustling bazaars; and the mounds of deep purple figs and heaps of sugar dusted Turkish delight hawked by vendors at almost every street corner. “We might even try some of the famous bluefish,” she added, as if they were a couple planning an adventurous holiday.
“I hope it’s better than herring,” he said, with the makings of a smile.
Now, only a few miles from the airport, Yolanda thought Bliss had relaxed sufficiently to answer a few questions. “What did Nosmo say about Edwards?” she enquired innocently.
He reflected, just for a moment, then recounted the salient parts of King’s story without embellishment, though sparing her none of the macabre’ detail. “Eleven teeth smashed as he kept ramming his brother-in-law’s mouth into the metal door knob at full force,” he said, and noticed her contemplatively running her tongue along the top of her teeth as he spoke. She shuddered thinking of the excruciating pain as the solid brass ball had smashed its way into the poor man’s mouth. With the worst yet to come he considered keeping quiet about the chopped fingers, then perversely decided to punish her for forcing him to go to Istanbul. She swallowed hard and drove silently for a short while, staring intently at the road ahead. “That’s horrible Dave,” she said quietly just as they reached the airport.
Dumping the car across a pedestrian walkway, Yolanda leaned on the horn and caught the attention of a passing porter. Bliss grabbed his case from the back seat. “Mine’s in the trunk,” she shouted over her shoulder as she threw the car keys at the porter, flashed her badge and shouted a load of Dutch. The porter gave a weird sort of smile which caused Bliss to ask, “What did you say?” as they ran together across the concourse.
“Told him to take it to the airport police office,” she liberally translated, totally ignoring the warning that, if she found the slightest scratch on her return, she would break his legs.
Although
Bliss had certainly flown before he’d amassed few frequent flyer points, and felt an exhilarating rush of adrenalin as the giant plane stood on its tail and roared eastward. Settling back in the comfortable first-class seat—“Don’t worry,” Yolanda had said, “I’m paying.”—he watched, fascinated, as Europe floated beneath him. Tiny blobs of cotton wool cloud drifted into view, seeming to keep pace with the plane, and Yolanda gabbled away, ten to the dozen, in Dutch with her stewardess friend. “We went to school together,” she’d confided, as they scuttled to their seats. He sensed they were talking about him, and felt like a pedigree dog being discussed by a couple of trendies. “Glossy hair, nice teeth, well groomed, good proportions.”
Something Anne said made them both giggle. “Is he house trained?” thought Bliss laughing to himself. Occasionally Yolanda dragged him into the conversation. “Anne says, would you like to go to the flight deck and meet the pilot.”
He nodded, “Yes,” he would like that.
“We’ve got plenty of time,” she added, “It’s about three and half hours to Istanbul.”
Prettily arranged plates of hors d’oeuvres, together with a couple of miniatures of Mouton Cadet, appeared on the little tables in front of each of them, and they began toying with each other. Yolanda started it, playfully sneaking titbits from his plate, trying not to get caught. He grabbed her hand on the third occasion, the little caviar and smoked salmon roll still between her thumb and finger. Bending down, he forced her hand to his mouth and slowly crammed the whole lot straight in, food and fingers together, and wouldn’t release them until he had licked the fingers clean. Still holding her hand, his eyes sought hers, they met and locked. Then he slid her fingers back to his mouth.
“Tell me about yourself, Dave,” she said in a soft voice, retrieving her fingers, maintaining the gaze.
He picked at his plate and started slowly, almost shyly. “I don’t know where to begin … I ‘m forty-two. I’m a cop, but you know that.” He hesitated. “I don’t really know what to say.” But then added, “I’m not really dedicated to any particular sports or hobbies. I like to do lots of different things. I like to try everything at least once.”
The Fish Kisser Page 22
