The Fish Kisser (11 page)

Just like the hammer, he could see what was coming and stood, transfixed. Although not déjà-vu, the feeling was certainly similar as blue-eyed, blondehaired, Yolanda No.1 slunk alongside and zapped him full force with her gaze. “Ze captain says I must do everything you would like, Sir,” she said, and he felt a lump rising in his throat. Christ, he thought, this is bloody ridiculous, this sort of thing only happens in trashy novels and second rate TV movies. He swallowed hard, saying, “Dave, um, please call me Dave.”

“Okey dokey, Dave,” she replied, her English learned from CNN.

Bliss found himself staring again, but then realized he was on a two-way street. You must be almost old enough to be her father, he scoffed to himself; anyway don't be ridiculous—you're in enough trouble already; not to mention that you're still sinking in emotional quagmire from your last imbroglio—
O.K … You win— don't rub it in.

Quickly burying his head in Roger's subject profile, he sought an escape route in professionalism.

“I need a secure phone line to England right away,” he said coolly, keeping his head down, “and a set of radios on the same frequency as your captain. And coffee, lots of coffee.”

She didn't hesitate, “The coffee's over zhere, help yourself,” she pointed, then headed off. “I'll get telephone and radios.”

He watched as she left, her pert backside swishing elegantly from side to side, wishing he wasn't quite so curled round the edges, that his hair wasn't greying and tousled, that he had taken more care of skin, and that he'd put on a fresh shirt. No matter; some women still prefer the slightly wrinkled older man look—providing they're tall and reasonably slim, he thought, slicking back his hair, sucking in his stomach, pulling himself upright.

By the time he had poured coffee she was back with the radios. “Come with me please,” she said leading him to a phone.

The, ex-R.A.F superintendent, Michael Edwards, was in a foul mood on the phone. “What an effing balls up, Bliss,” he bawled, leaving no room for explanation or excuse. All he knew was what the Ops room had told him—that the team had lost their target—but the worst was yet to come. He still knew nothing of the possibility that LeClarc had jumped ship, or of King being arrested in possession of his car. “And where the hell is Jones?” shouted the voice in London. He didn't know about the sergeant's accident either.

Ten minutes later he had the answers, didn't like any of them, and was ruining what was left of Bliss' awful day. Finally, Bliss had taken all the abuse he could handle—it wasn't his fault, he told himself; Jones and the other two had screwed things up and let him down.

“Sir,” he shouted down the phone, halting the superintendent mid-flight. “I am doing my best. I've
been on duty for more than twenty-four hours. I'm too tired to argue. I need back up and co-operation. The Dutch are very helpful, but until we've searched every inch of the ship and every vehicle we just don't know where he is. I'll call you back in fifteen minutes;, I have to go now, Captain Jahnssen wants me urgently.”

Edwards was still winding himself up when Bliss slammed down the phone.

“Ze captain doesn't want you,” Yolanda corrected him naively, handing back his coffee.

“I know that,” he sighed, slumping his backside against a desk.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, catching on, waiving a finger in his face, “I zink you are a naughty boy.”

“Ah shit, Yolanda, where the hell is he? The fat slob has probably found some bloody warm hidey-hole on the ship and overslept. Either that or he's playing a trick on us and he'll suddenly pop up and shout, 'April Fool.'”

“What is this April Fool?”

“Oh, never mind. Come on let's go and help search. The first thing I want to do is to go through King's possessions. There has to be a clue there somewhere.”

Yolanda walked to the window and stuck her nose against it as she screwed up her eyes and stared down at the port. “Zair is zee Renault, by the port police office,” she said, stabbing the glass with an index finger. “Mr. King's bags must still be in zair.”

Bliss peered over her shoulder, his eyes following her finger, and he recognised the little green car though the fuzzy mist of her hot breath on the windowpane.

“Let's go back to the port then,” he murmured, his mouth no more than two inches from her ear.

Activity at the port was simultaneously at a fevered pitch and a standstill. Customs, police, and Koninklijke Marechaussee officers were frantically searching each and every vehicle, while drivers and passengers idly stood around wondering what on earth was happening.

An impromptu press conference was taking place in the port manager's office. News of the situation was spreading quickly throughout the community where almost every household survived on the wages of at least one port employee. The reporter for the local paper and stringers for two dailies were hounding the ship's captain for more information, but he could offer little. “No … We don't know for sure if anyone's fallen overboard.”

“Why not?”

“Because there were no witnesses. Just one good citizen, an ex-policeman, who said he thought someone had fallen.” The captain, unaware of King's arrest, knowing nothing about the stolen car, was happy to give him the credit. “He raised the alarm, even managed to launch a life raft, but in the rough seas it would have been difficult, almost impossible, for a swimmer to get into it without help.”

“And his chances?”

“Without a life jacket, rough seas, middle of the night—he might have survived thirty to forty minutes, possibly an hour, no more …” He shook his head from side to side just once as he finished his reply, “A thousand to one against—no chance really.”

“And this person,” queried the local reporter, a sombre beaky-looking man who spent most of his time nosing out obituaries, “He had no life jacket?”

“We don't know. I told you. We don't know if anyone actually went overboard.”

A female stringer jumped at him, her deep masculine voice loaded with criticism as she did her best to
lay the groundwork for a juicy controversy. “What would you say to people who might suggest you should have done more, Captain. After all, two hours searching was not very long.”

He gave her a critical stare. Scheming witch, he thought, trying to make a catastrophe out of a disaster, trying to stir shit —wasn't the unfortunate death of a human being in itself enough to make the front page.

“Miss, as I have already explained,” he began firmly, as if lecturing a fractious child, “firstly, we don't know for sure that anyone is missing. Secondly, if, and I stress the 'if,' if someone fell overboard, they could not have survived more than an hour, and,” his voice rose in crescendo, “thirdly, two thousand passengers would have been greatly inconvenienced and upset if we had wasted any more time.”

The stringer sat back with a satisfied smirk. Now she had her story, and with it would have great delight in bringing this arrogant Englishman down a peg or two. The headline was already buzzing around in her head, the story already written, all she needed now was to top it with a few quotes from the local police, a few facts from the shipping company, and she would be ready to e-mail her editor—Priority: “Man sacrificed to please passengers.”

Roger had not been sacrificed, not yet anyway. Alive, but not well, he was still bouncing along on top of his personal watercraft, waking from time to time, but never managing to achieve full awareness. Each time his mind neared the surface his eyes would float around, checking the ropes and peering in search of a rescue vessel. One sweep was all he could manage on most occasions, but as he drifted back into a coma-like
state, he would always think of Trudy and mentally cry out for her.

Trudy's mother, Lisa McKenzie, had been crying for Trudy for seven days, four hours, and thirty minutes. She had counted every one as she sat on an old wooden chair in her apartment kitchen, surrounded by goodwill cards from relatives, friends, and people she'd never met, never even heard of. One, from a complete stranger in Scotland, had even contained a cheque for £5,000 with a wish she should spend it to find her little lassie. The signatory had added a postscript: “I lost my lassie twenty years ago and hope you don't suffer the same way as I.” She'd cried for hours, holding it in her hands, feeling the heartache in the words. Crying for the man and his suffering; not for Trudy—Trudy would come home.

The chair had become her universe. She rarely left it, rising only to use the toilet or, occasionally, to relieve the unbearable cramp in her legs. Even then she would wait, deliberately punishing herself with excruciating pain as her limbs were starved of blood and oxygen. The chair was her whip—she a flagellant. Suffering so her Trudy would not have to. Suffering so she would not forget Trudy, even for a moment. Suffering because she loved her daughter so much she wanted to suffer for her. Suffering because she was a mother.

The chair had also become the symbol of her determination, as well as a tangible reminder of the past and of normality. The dependable little chair: a variety of small Windsor with graceful arms, and a seat hand carved to accept a pair of buttocks, had been her father's, and possibly his father's before him. It was a depository of unforgettable memories: Bouncing on Daddy's knees in front of the fire; Father
Christmas sitting to eat his mince-pie and drink his milk; a ladder to reach the cookie jar. Upside down, covered with a sheet, it had become a tent, a playhouse, even a rocketship. And at least two daddies, her's and Trudy's, had used it as a bed, falling asleep, exhausted after supper, too worn out to make it as far as the couch.

The phone rang for the thousandth time and disappointment struck for the thousandth time—Trudy's father. Her racing heart sank.

“No news Peter. Nothing,” she replied to his query, the fifth today as far as she could remember. He sounds worried to death, she thought, strange, considering the way he abandoned her; abandoned us.

“Of course I'll call you,” she continued, answering his plea. “I'm sure she's alright …” she began, then wished she hadn't as her voice cracked and the tears flowed.

Is he crying too? she wondered, hearing the hollow silence as he held his hand over the mouthpiece. “Peter, don't worry …” she started, then paused, questioning: Why shouldn't he? I'm scared shitless; why shouldn't he worry?

“Peter I'll call you—the moment I hear anything.”

He made her promise, as he had done at the end of every call.

“I promise, Love,” she said, then questioned—Why did I say that? Why did I say “Love” like that? It's just a an old habit, she told herself, a very old habit; but something deep inside her told her to straighten it out, that it wasn't right, that she still hated him, that he didn't deserve niceness—certainly not from her. “I promise I'll call you, Peter,” she added coolly then replaced the receiver without awaiting a response. It rang again before she could remove her hand.

Damn! she thought, picking it up straight away. It's him again, wanting to know what I meant. What did I mean—why the hell did I say it?

“Yes?”

“Mrs. McKenzie?” queried a strangled far-off voice. “This is Margery, Trude's friend. What's happening?”

It took a second to sink in as she struggled to clear away the notion that it was Peter, then a flashbulb went off in her mind. “Margery!” A dozen questions flooded her thoughts and she started three of them all at the same time. “What …? When …? Where …?” she stammered, then started again, taking a deep breath; slowing herself down. “Where are you? The police have been trying to find you for a week.”

“Holidays with Mum and Dad—camping in France. What's happened to Trude?”

“She gone missing. It's in all the papers.”

“I know, I saw her picture,” she screeched, breathlessly, a well-thumbed copy of
The Daily Telegraph,
nearly a week old, in her hand. “I'm in a phone box and my token thingies are running out,” cried Margery, in a panic.

“Where is she?” exploded Lisa, fearing they would be cut off, or Margery would somehow be struck dead without revealing Trudy's whereabouts.

“I don't know, Mrs. McKenzie. I've no idea …” she started, then hesitated in thought for the briefest second. “What about Roger?”

“Roger who?” responded Lisa, having forgotten all about Trudy's computer contacts.

“My money's almo—” was all Margery could say before a metallic clunk and a continuous buzz chopped her off.

An hour later (a lifetime for Lisa, sitting motionless in agony, screaming inwardly for the phone to ring,
unable to call anyone for fear of tying up the line), Margery phoned back, this time from a police station.

“Who's Roger? Where does he live?” she screeched into the phone.

“He's some computer guy she's always going on about; reckons he loves her; say's he's got a …”

Lisa had heard enough. “Where does he live? What's his phone number? Who is he?” Anxiety and hope intermingled as she reeled off the questions.

“I don't really know,” replied Margery, vaguely, not sure which of the questions she was answering. “But he lives in Watford somewhere and works in London.” She paused, “I've got a picture of him …”

“Where?” she cut in, desperate for information.

“Probably at home. It's only a photocopy. Trudy's got the photo. We was just mucking around on the school photocopier …”

“How can I get it?” she shot back, uninterested in technicalities. “When are you coming back?”

“Hang on a minute, I'll ask Dad.”

The line went quiet and she panicked fearing another disconnection, but by ramming the handset tight against her ear caught the echoes of an altercation. “Don't argue. Please don't argue,” she pleaded uselessly, then Margery took her hand off the mouthpiece and sobbed, “I want to come and help, but Dad say's he can't afford a plane ticket. It'll take three days to drive back.”