The Fish Kisser (10 page)

“What, and then be daft enough to pinch his ruddy car?”

The Dutch inspector didn't wait for Bliss. “Then explain how you got his car key?”

It was true. Motsom had given him keys to the Renault, together with instructions to drive the car ashore if LeClarc failed to turn up. “If he has gone overboard,” Motsom had said, “he's probably long dead, or, if he ain't dead, there's bugger all anybody can do to save him. Plus, if he ain't dead, I want to make sure our people find him, not theirs. So, we've got to get his car off or they'll know he's disappeared. O.K.?”

Nosmo's fervent prayer that LeClarc would turn up when they reached Holland wasn't answered. Now he was being accused of murder, car theft at the very least. And where was Motsom?

Billy Motsom had hidden his own car amongst hundreds of others in the port parking lot, and walked to a bar in town. The bar, a stones throw from the police station, doubled as a meeting place for leather-faced trawlermen—a few, the younger ones, still holding on to all their fingers. The stink of stale fish vied with smoke from a dozen pipes, but the smell of brewed coffee was overweening and Motsom took a cup with him to the payphone in the corner.

“Get me a boat, a big one,” He spat into the mouthpiece. “King's been arrested, but he's safe, he doesn't know the plan … The fat boy? … How should I know? Swimming I hope … Just get the eff'n boat.”

Slamming down the handset, he turned to the room and realized he had brought everything to a halt. Like characters in a still from a forty-year-old black and white movie, everyone was now glaring at him: Cups, pipes, cigarettes, and hands frozen in mid-air. He smiled, a false toothy grin, jerked his
shoulders as if to say, “Oops, sorry,” and the room gradually restarted.

Just two streets away the imposing facade of the police station gave D.I. Bliss and his two colleagues a window on the entire dock area, and the giant slabsided ferry on which they had arrived.

“It's bloody mayhem down there,” said Smythe, with a hint of glee. “I bet they're pretty pissed off. First we're two hours late, then every bloody car and truck gets pulled to pieces. They could riot.”

Bliss continued gazing out of the gargantuan window, captivated by the enormity of the situation. “Nothing else we could do,” he shrugged. “He's either in a car, truck, or container, or he really did go for a swim.”

Wilson stepped in, “What about the vehicles that have already gone? He could have been in one of them.”

“Possible,” mused Bliss. “But the locals have set up road blocks on the two main roads. They're checking everything that could have come off the ship.”

“No point in starting a big sea search until we're sure,” ruminated Wilson, staring at the grey horizon— sea and sky as one, thinking: helicopters, lifeboats, rescue Zodiacs, coastguard cutters.

Bliss was on the point of saying, “Correct,” when a Dutch constable approached. “The captain is ready for you now, Sir.”

Another equally vast room; a hurriedly assembled group of Dutch officers, two women and eight men sitting on long, brown leather, settees—five either side of an enormous low table scattered with coffee cups, cigarette packets, and the debris of some hastily eaten pastries. Each officer, note-pad at the ready, eagerly followed Bliss to the head of the table where Captain Jahnssen met him.

“Call me Jost,” said the captain, ramrod straight, greeting Bliss like a foreign dignitary. Eager to impress,
he continued effusively, “I have been to the headquarters of the British police at Scotland Yard,” as if in doing so he had worshipped at a great shrine—The Vatican or Taj Mahal, perhaps.

Introductions were brief, though Bliss wondered why they bothered. All the men seemed to be called Caas or Jan, and both the woman were Yolanda.

“Right,” Bliss started, feeling it was expected of him, knowing that neither of his officers were in a state fit to talk. “I know some of you have been involved with this case for the last few days but I'll quickly give you a . . “ He stopped, mid-sentence. One Yolanda and a couple of Jans were attempting to write down everything he said. He lowered his tone and made eye contact with the female, a Scandinavian blonde with huge blue eyes that seemed to trap him—snake-like: Kaa captivating Mowgli in the Jungle Book. “I'll tell you when to take notes.”

Continuing, he broke the attraction by focussing on D.C. Smythe who'd started snoring, exhausted, at the back of the room. “In the past three years we have lost eight of our top computer experts,” he explained, personally shouldering responsibility for the entire population of the United Kingdom. “Eight of our most valuable assets in the field of computer technology have either been murdered, committed suicide, or simply vanished.” Pausing for effect, he checked the face of each man in turn, skipped the blonde, and ended with the captain. “I won't bore you with unnecessary details,” he added, “but you might want to take a few notes.” Then he looked up, found Yolanda's eyes and lost his momentum. “Um … eight … um … eight computer experts …” he mumbled, froze, then got his act together by carefully checking his thumbnails. “We've lost eight and the Americans have lost some as well …
The first one was …” he paused again and looked at the captain, “Maybe I won't bother with names, they're irrelevant really. The first one disappeared without trace. Brilliant man—just developed a new process for making chips …” He stopped, briefly examining their faces. Did they understand? Unsure, he interpreted: “Computer processors.” Yolanda's wide blue eyes signified comprehension. Damn! Trapped again.

“He went for a ride on his bicycle and was never seen again,” he pushed on, careful to avoid looking to his right, Yolanda's side.

“Number two … It was put down as a suicide. Drove his car straight off a bridge into the front of an express train. Only bits and pieces were ever found and they were burnt to a cinder.”

“Cinder?” she questioned, her voice striking him like a tenor bell—he knew which bell.

“Um, yes. Ashes, nothing left,” he said, struggling to answer without making eye contact. “The body was never properly identified. The car exploded like a bomb when the train hit it—a huge fire, the train driver was burnt to death as well.”

Kidding himself that he'd broken her spell, he risked a quick glance and immediately regretted it. She was waiting for him—her soft eyes drawing him in, holding him, mesmerizing him. I don't need this, he thought, breaking free, but with a quiver in his voice continued. “Number three—encryption specialist, another complete disappearance. Went for a stroll with his dogs one Sunday afternoon. The dogs came back. No trace of him … Number four was different. The only female. She was working on an ultra-high speed system to connect banks around the world. She did kill herself, even left a suicide note. It seems she was being blackmailed but we never found out why … Numbers
five and six were friends. Two of the most seasoned computer boffins …” he paused and translated, “two of the world's top computer experts. Worked for rival companies but were responsible for some major advances in computers. They disappeared on a fishing trip off the south coast. One of them owned a forty-foot cruiser and it just … aah! . . um.” Flipping open his hands he made a “pt” sound with his lips. “Gone,” he said, expressively, expecting everyone to understand they had simply vanished into thin air.

“Seven was a couple of months ago. A major loss to the industry. This guy had just developed an entirely new kind of processor, a complete revolution. He was on his way back from California for a presentation to the company president, but never arrived. His plane blew up over the ocean. His body was never found, neither were his plans or prototypes.”

“I remember that,” said a Caas, “I zink that was the plane crash that killed all those Americans.”

“Correct,” said Bliss. “Two hundred and forty-three—twenty of 'em kids.”

“Do you honestly think they would do that?” demanded the other Yolanda in puritanical outrage, her dour face and lank, chopped, prisoner's hairstyle as austere as her tone.

Bliss shrugged, “I don't know—it's possible. Some people will do anything for money.”

Now, with a sweeping glance around the room, he changed stance and tone. No longer the lecturer, he relaxed to being a fellow cop. “Those are all the one's we're sure are connected. There was an eighth one, a strange man who worked on his own and sold ideas to the highest bidder. He lived in an old farmhouse in the Welsh mountains.”

“What is Welsh?” interrupted one of the Jans.

“Sorry … Wales. You know, the little country stuck on the west of England …” Jan's puzzled frown suggested that geography was not one of his strong points so Bliss tried making it easy, “It's part of England.”

D.C. Wilson, hailing from Cardiff, roused with a start, muttering, “Bloody not part of England,” but Bliss cut him short with a glare. “Anyway, this man disappeared sometime in the past three or four months. No one seems quite sure exactly when.”

He looked around the room, checking the officers one at a time, taking in the fact they nearly all wore glasses, and all but one were smoking. Even Yolanda No.l, as he had decided to call her, had a cigarette in her hand, and he felt himself shudder at the sight of her nicotine stained slender fingers. “Now,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Now to Roger LeClarc.”

Memories of the briefing room at Scotland Yard just three weeks earlier zipped through his mind—the briefing room and the pompous superintendent from Special Ops.

“Right, listen up chaps,” the superintendent had begun, imagining himself still in the RAF where he had been nothing more than a corporal. “This is a big one. Screw this up and you'll all be back in uniform.” He stopped and glowered at Sergeant Jones, “Name?” he demanded with a nod.

“Jones, Sir. Serious Crime Squad.”

“Well Sergeant Jones,” he started, almost conversationally, “smoking is a serious crime when I'm in the room.” Then he boomed, “So put it out—this isn't a bloody bar.”

Jones sheepishly stubbed out the cigarette amid the jeers of his colleagues and someone flicked a remote control, unveiling a monster television. “Watch this,” commanded the superintendent.

“Roger LeClarc, 31 years.” said a caption under an unflattering close-up of a bloated face with unruly hair. “Senior I.T. Consultant, ACT Telecommunications 1999,” appeared under the heading, “Occupation.”

A series of mug shots followed—family album types mainly: holidays, weddings, birthdays, and people doing stupid things; then a short section of home movie—Brighton beach in front of the Grand Hotel, Roger's distended white belly and folds of flab flopping up and down as he hopped in and out of the surf.

Then a more sinister collection, including a couple of video clips bearing the hallmarks of police surveillance cameras: Roger squeezing himself into his Renault; Roger on a train—asleep, snoring; Roger in his office— through a window; Roger eating; Roger's parents house in Watford; Roger coming out of the old terraced house near Watford station; Roger fumbling with his flies in a public toilet—“Don't ask,” said the superintendent as a giggle rippled round the room. “O.K. Chaps,” he added, as the video wound down, “everything points to this fat git as the target—in fact we've good info. he's next on the list. We've reason to believe that sometime in the next few weeks he will be snatched, and it's your job to prevent it—any questions?”

A youngish female voice piped up from the back. “Is he married, Sir?”

“Why … Do you fancy him?” brought a hail of laughter.

“Have we got a full description, Sir. Address, date of birth, that sort of thing?” asked a young detective leaning forward in the front row.

“Naturally, Officer,” he said, turning to his staff sergeant. “Pass out the portfolios, Sergeant, there's a good chap.” He paused long enough for most people to get a blue folder with CONFIDENTIAL typed in the
top right hand corner, then studied his copy. “You'll find everything you need in here, including rotas. Three teams of four—Inspector, sergeant, and two constables. Anything else?”

“Yes, Sir,” queried one of the sergeants. “What's happening to them, the missing whiz kids—Do we know?”

Superintendent Edwards slumped in his chair and massaged his face in thought, taking time to decide how much to reveal. “We know for sure this isn't some two-bit ransom job,” he began after a few moments. “Whoever's doing this ain't after their piggy banks. But, at this particular moment in time …” He paused, still undecided, and finished by saying, “At this moment in time we have absolutely no idea.

“Dismissed,” he shouted, above the buzz of speculation, stifling further questions.

“Wait,” he commanded, stilling the crescendo of shuffling feet. “One last thing …” then he paused while a couple of fleet footed officers were motioned back into the room. “LeClarc must not find out he is being watched under any circumstances. According to his boss he's a strange character. There's no telling what he might do if he thinks he's a target. So keep your heads down and jolly good luck chaps.”

“Bombs away,” shouted one of the officers, keeping his back to the superintendent.

Bliss, cautiously evading eye contact with Yolanda, completed his briefing, then reeled off a list of tasks for Captain Jahnssen and his officers. “You're already searching the cars as they come off but you'll need to search the trucks and containers. We'll need a complete search of the ship; interview crewmembers; photograph the possible crime scene—the railings on the aft boat
deck; check LeClarc's car and all his belongings for clues; talk to as many passengers as possible—someone must have seen something.” He looked up, had he missed anything? “Perhaps you could assign an officer to help me with translation and liaison duties,” he said, then immediately realized what was about to happen. His mind raced back to the annual police sports day the previous August. Marty McLean, complete with kilt, threw the 20 lb hammer high into the air and totally in the wrong direction. He saw it coming as he stood on the track, warming up for the half-marathon. Rooted to the spot, not knowing which way to jump, he had watched with fascination as it hit the ground in front of him, bounced, and tapped his leg with little force.