The Fish Kisser (18 page)

“Let me see,” she said, grabbing his wrist.

Oh no! A nightmare—a scratched supermarket special; its vinyl strap shedding threads—damn!

“That's English time Dave. It's five-thirty here.”

He let out a squeal.
Had she noticed?

“Don't worry. We'll be there in time.”

“You said it would take an hour.”
Maybe she'd not seen his chronically challenged timepiece.

“Quicker than that,” she said, thrusting him hurriedly toward the BMW, adding, “Your watchstrap's falling apart.”

Shit!

They sped in silence for awhile. Yolanda, driving fast, concentrated furiously as she snaked along a narrow road, which twined itself along the banks of a canal, green with algae. Several cyclists leapt off their machines in response to the blare of the BMW's klaxon, and a lone fisherman angrily aimed a wooden clog at them as they passed. Bliss watched her with a dozen questions on his tongue but decided against saying anything. She clearly knew what she was doing and was totally absorbed in controlling the car. Woman and machine in complete unison, yet it was obvious which was in charge. The questions could wait.

“Radio?” he suggested, reaching for the control, then burst into laughter as a familiar melody washed over them.

“Recognize it?” he asked.

Her shrug said, “No,” but the touch of a smile suggested otherwise.

“It's Wagner's Flying Dutchman overture,” he laughed, then exhaled in surprise, “phew—that was less than five minutes.” A sign which clearly meant “airport” in Dutch had caught his eye as she stood on the brake, skidded toward a six-foot mesh fence, and slid to a halt inches from a gate. Sliding a magnetic card through a slot, she punched in a security code, and scooted through the gap as the gate opened with a metallic whine.

“We are not there yet, Dave,” she said, stamping her foot back on the accelerator and roaring along a perimeter road toward a cluster of hangars at the other end of the runway.

“Let's go,” she said, expecting him to work out what was happening for himself, as she stopped amid a cluster of small planes.

“Yours?” he asked, staring in awe at the twinengine four seater.

“My father's,” she said as she flicked open the door, slid into the cockpit and pulled him up into the plane with a powerful hand.

Donning a headset, she jabbered into a microphone while simultaneously checking meters, flicking switches, punching buttons, wiggling controls, and watching bits of the aircraft stir into life. Her head and eyes moved at lightning speed as she tore through the pre-flight routine then, satisfied, she gunned the engines and the whole plane danced noisily to life.

“Okey dokey, Dave?” A question?

He nodded and, with a slight jerk, the plane gathered speed then juddered to a stop at the end of the concrete strip.

“Waiting for clearance to land at Schiphol,” she commented casually, as if sitting in a car at an intersection waiting for the lights to change.

“What does your father do?” he forced himself to say, attempting to control the wobble in his voice— telling himself that it was just excitement, like the start of a roller coaster ride.

“Glasshouses,” she replied with a shudder.

“Glasshouses,” he repeated, surprised, having expected tulips or cheese.

“Are you O.K.?” she asked, noticing his pallid complexion, wondering if his wound was still causing lightheadedness.

“First time,” he admitted, meaning: in a small plane. Idiot, he thought, why tell her that?

“There's a first time for everything, Dave,” she said, mischievously, and caught the edge of his smile as her light turned green. Playing the throttles like a virtuoso on a rare instrument, Yolanda increased the power to fever pitch. Then, with a quick check left and right, she released the brake.

Aloft, a minute or two later, Bliss squeezed his eyes shut them popped them open. It's really happening, he concluded, trying to keep his feet on the ground while having a hard time escaping from the notion that the bump on his head had made him delusional. The land was dropping away and, within seconds, they were skimming over the little town. The dock was empty apart from a couple of tugboats. The giant cranes stood idle, their jibs erect awaiting the arrival of the next ferry. And the car parks around the port were beginning to fill with continental holidaymakers en route to England and Englishmen on their way home from the Continent.

Climbing slowly brought more and more of the North Sea into view, and the white-topped breakers crashing onto the beaches were easily visible for several miles up and down the coast.

“Maybe we should go and look for him,” said Bliss peering out to the horizon.

“Not in this,” she answered, smoothly manipulating the controls so that the plane banked around and straightened up parallel to the coast.

The plane banked again without any apparent effort on Yolanda's part, and headed inland. “We should be there in about twenty minutes. Do you want a drink Dave?” she asked, taking her eyes off the esoteric pathway she had been following. His eyes urged her to look where she was going but, unperturbed, she reached behind to open a minute refrigerator.

“Coke or pop?” she said pulling out a can dusted with ice mist.

“No thanks,” he replied, a slight burning sensation in his groin painfully reminding him he hadn't found time for a pee since leaving the SS
Rotterdam
at breakfast-time. Resolving to keep his mind off the subject of liquids until they reached Schiphol, if he could, he asked, “Why are you in the police, Yolanda?”

“For the excitement; for adventure. My father wanted me to go into his business, but I hate it. I have no brothers or sisters. I am, how you say … A lonely child.”

“An
only
child,” he corrected, although, being a singleton himself, couldn't help thinking she may have been correct.

“Okey dokey—
only
child. Anyway my father gave me everything to make me want to be a glasshouse builder—it's boring. Every glasshouse is the same—there's no soul in a glasshouse; no passion, no excitement—just metal and glass; it doesn't even have an engine.”

“Not like a BMW.”

She glanced out of the corner of her eye, pleased he had caught on, “Yeah—nothing like a BMW … So,
what would I do Dave—the same as my father: Meetings with farmers, salesmen, engineers …?”

“But,” he interrupted, “your father must have made a lot of money.”

“Yes, and now he is too old to spend it… and what has he done all his life? Pah,” she spat derisively, “Glasshouses. Now my mother has died he is lonely; wants me to join the business, but I won't … Glass,” she spat, as if it were a dirty word.

All this and an inheritance—interesting, he thought, studying the slender manicured fingers of her left hand as she deftly flipped open a Coke, finding a confusing assortment of rings—none looking particularly binding.

Keep your mind on work, he thought, asking, “Will he leave you the business?”

“Yes,” or “No,” would have sufficed, but she flicked switches—on/off, up/down—checked meters and craned her head around the sky as if searching for the answer. “He already has,” she confessed eventually, sounding like someone admitting to having a sexually transmitted disease. “Technically it is already mine, but I don't tell many people. I like being a cop, especially a detective.”

“And you'd have to leave if they knew?”

“No, but it might be difficult,” she answered without elaboration, and they flew in silence for a almost a minute while Yolanda pondered the wisdom of her decision.

“What about you …” she started, but he quickly interrupted. “Yolanda,” he said, the pain in his groin becoming unbearable, “I've just thought—in the truck, we found plenty of food and water, but what about a toilet?”

“There was one, on the floor in the corner.”

“Really,” he said, kicking himself for being so unobservant.

She understood, and excused. “It's O.K. You had a nasty bump on your head. How is it now?”

“Okey dokey,” he said, and they laughed together, again.

“Shut your eyes if you are scared of landing; I always do,” she teased as they touched down on a short runway, well away from the colossal passenger jets and giant freighters. They took a cab from the group of shabby huts reserved for owners and pilots of private planes, arriving at the glossy marble floored main terminal at Schiphol in time to pick up Superintendent Edwards from the arrival gate.

“Perfect,” Bliss mouthed to Yolanda as he moved forward to greet the senior officer. “Detective Inspector …”

“Bliss … Yes, I remember,” Edwards said stonily, adding, “Get that bag. Where's the car?”

Tote that barge, muttered Bliss
sotto voce,
saying, “The car's just outside, Sir.”

“Thank Christ for that. I hate fucking flying. I'm getting the ship back even if it does take all bloody night.”

They marched toward the exit, falling in step behind the superintendent, then he abruptly stopped and spun round, “Excuse me, Miss. What…”

“Sir,” Bliss jumped in, just in time to prevent the superintendent from making a fool of himself, “this is Detective Constable …ah …” The realization that he had no idea of her surname caused him to fumble for a second until she rushed to his aid.

“Pieters, Sir, Yolanda Pieters.”

“Delighted to meet you, Miss Pieters. I am Edwards,” he said with a weak smile and an implausibly strong aristocratic accent. “Bliss,” he hissed, pulling
him to one side with a glare and dropping the accent, “You're in enough shit already—I hope you're not pissing around with a bloody woman.”

“Sir, Miss Pieters is their top detective; she was assigned to me.” He lowered his voice, “I can assure you we are not pissing about.”

“Better not be,” spat Edwards, as he marched off expecting them to catch up.

The cab was still waiting at the curb as Yolanda had instructed, and the superintendent's bag and briefcase were loaded in the trunk before he realized it was not a police car.

“What's this?” he queried, as if he'd discovered a lump of dog turd on his parade square.

“A taxi, Sir. We, um …” Bliss stalled, realizing that he still had to break the news about Yolanda's plane.

Yolanda stepped in magnificently. “A police aircraft is waiting to take us directly to the port. Our captain knew you would be anxious to take command, so he personally ordered it for you.”

Edwards beamed, then spun on Bliss. “Why the devil didn't you say so Inspector?”

“Sorry, Sir,” he mumbled, opening the cab's front passenger door before slipping in the back with Yolanda.

“I hope you won't mind flying again so soon?” Yolanda asked, keeping a perfectly straight face, nudging Bliss in the ribs.

“No. I won't mind,” he replied with a slight wobble in his voice. “Good pilot is he?”

Bliss suddenly had a thought. “You were in the air force weren't you, Sir?”

“That's right Bliss. That's why I hate flying. I've seen so many of them so-called hotshot pilots. Couldn't fly a fuck'n … Oh sorry, Miss … Couldn't fly a kite.”

“Well I can assure you we have an excellent pilot, Sir.”

“Glad to hear it. Now tell me what the bloody hell's happening. Where's LeClarc?”

Roger might have wished he had an answer. Steep choppy seas had replaced the violent breakers left in the wake of the storm, so, instead of riding up and down each huge swell he was now being jiggled about, constantly changing direction. There was no longer any danger of being thrown bodily off the raft, but the jerky flip-flop motion made it impossible to stand, even for a second, without being bowled over. The wind had died completely, not even the whisper of a breeze ruffled the wave-tops, and a blanket of water vapour hung heavily above the surface and was quickly arranging itself into a cold impenetrable fog.

The memory of Trudy was the only thing keeping his will to survive alive. For the first time in his life he had been happy, really happy, then everything had gone awry. A few vivid memories of the past week played constantly in his mind, like a movie collated from clips off the cutting room floor: The expectation, the thrill of their meeting, the look of disgust on her face, the struggle in the hallway, her “dead” body, the nightmare task of getting her down the steep ladder, the temptation to touch her bottom when her skirt had ridden up as she hung over his shoulder … a temptation he had succumbed to, thrusting a finger inside her knickers to feel the baby soft flesh in the crease of her buttocks. Then he'd recoiled, feeling the sting of his mother's palm across his face and the sound of her voice rampaging in his brain—but it was an old memory coming back to haunt him. “Stop that you dirty little
bugger,” she had yelled. “I told you never to touch girls there.”

“Sorry, Mum,” he had cried, an eleven-year-old schoolboy exploring the meaning of life with the little girl who lived three doors away. She was ten, and quite willing, but his mother had surprised them in the garden shed. His father, when he came home from work early—summonsed by his mother—had taken a powerful stand; words were not enough—his mother had said. Ten lashes with a leather belt on his expansive bare backside had stung for days and he had seen the red welts in the mirror a full week later.

The movie continued: Trudy crying—it was her crying which disturbed him the most.

“Don't cry, Trude; I love you. I'll look after you,” he had told her over and over. Through the tears, she'd plead for him to call her mother;. he'd promise—anything to stop her crying—but he always found an excuse … “I tried Trude, honest. She must've been out.”

“Stop crying and tell me you love me, Trude,” he would often say, “then I'll take you home.”