The Fish Kisser (26 page)

“I'll wait,” she replied, shooting Bliss a confidence-boosting smile, then slammed the door, cutting off any response.

Edwards took a few moments to compose himself, not knowing which was worse, a thumping from King or insolence from a woman, and he concentrated on plucking some imaginary fluff from his sleeve as he allowed the temperature in the room to simmer.

“King wants to talk to you, Bliss. Why?” No “Good morning, Officer. Did you sleep well.” Nothing pleasant.

“No idea, Sir.”

“I don't know either … but I expect you to report everything he says directly to me and to no one else.”

“Right, Sir.”

“No one. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir. If that's what you want.”

Edwards closed in, locking eyes. “That is what I want,” he said, emphasising each word individually. “Anyway,” he asked again, “why would he want to see you?”

“He wouldn't tell me anything when I spoke to him before … What happened to your face, Sir?”

“Nothing,” Edwards' hand flew to cover the damage, waffled something about an accident, then changed his mind. “Mind your own damn business.”

Bliss' look to Captain Jahnssen asked, “What did I do?” and Edwards jumped all over him. “I saw that look Bliss. You look at me when I'm talking to you. If I tell you to mind your own damn business that's exactly what you do. Do I make myself clear?”

Bliss chose not to answer.

Edwards' voice rose to a fevered pitch. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.” Impudence written all over his face.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Sir.'

The shouting brought Yolanda barrelling back into the room. “Anybody want coffee?” she called cheerily. Captain Jahnssen could have kissed her. “Good idea Yolanda. Let's all go to the dining room for coffee.” Grabbing Bliss around the waist he started to propel him out of the door but Edwards was far from finished. “Wait. I…”

“Come on,” said the captain, ignoring the protest, “we all need some coffee.”

Yolanda caught Bliss' hand and dragged him down the stairs, blatantly taunting Edwards who trailed behind, speechless.

Ex-police Constable Nosmo King, private detective, sometime acquaintance of Superintendent Michael Edwards, and now murder suspect, sat in the interview room waiting for Bliss. Two constables stood guard by the door and the giant sergeant filled the chair opposite him at the desk. They're taking no chances, he concluded, guessing correctly that no one had bought the story of Edwards' fall. Now labelled a violent offender he was not surprised when they'd roughly handcuffed him before dragging him the thirty feet or so from his cell to the interview room.

Bliss entered alone, oblivious to the reason for the heavy security, and waved the guards out. The sergeant hesitated, “I think we should stay.”

“I'm sure Mr. King will behave. Perhaps somebody would like to stand outside the door? I'll call if I need assistance.”

“Well Nosmo, you asked to see me,” he said as soon as the door closed.

“What's the weather like Dave?” he enquired, testing the temperature while deciding his tack.

The coldness of Bliss' stare was enough—
Don't waste my time.
“Start talking or I'm off.”

“Do you know Edwards well?” asked King.

“No—not really,” he replied slumping non-committally into a chair, and quite unprepared to discuss a fellow officer with a member of the public—especially a suspected murderer—even if he was an ex-cop.

“He doesn't me like me very much.”

“So what?” Bliss shrugged, unconcerned, assuming Edwards had given him a hard time the previous evening, then he sat upright with the sudden realization that there was a hint of familiarity in King's tone. “Do you know him?” It was a shot in the dark.

King drew a cigarette butt from his shirt pocket and made a performance of chewing it for several seconds before nodding slowly, “Yeah, I know him … Sergeant Michael Edwards, shit-stirrer extraordinaire, as he was ten years ago.”

Intrigued, Bliss' eyes opened wide as King continued. “Dave … can I trust you?”

“Depends on what you're going to tell me. I can't promise that anything you say won't be given in evidence.”

“I want you to believe me. I didn't push that bloke off the ship.”

“Then why did you lie to me …” he started, but changed tack, curiosity getting the better of him, realizing there was something praying on King's mind. “Wait a minute Nosmo. What do you know about Superintendent Edwards?”

“Have you got a light.”

Bliss shook off the request impatiently. “What do you know?”

King, still deliberating, tried to scratch his ear but the handcuffs made it difficult. “If I tell you about Edwards will you promise not to tell him? It's nothing to do with LeClarc. Nothing at all.”

“O.K.—shoot,” said Bliss, his interest now piqued, “As long as it doesn't affect this case, I'll promise.”

“Edwards was the bastard who got me fired from the force,” King started bitterly. “He'd forgotten all about it. It didn't mean anything to him but he destroyed my life. That's why I hit him.”

Bliss jumped in his seat, amazement all over his face. “You hit him?”

“Yeah,” King laughed, “I smacked him in the gob last night. Then he remembered me. I bet he looks a mess this morning.”

“He does,” agreed Bliss, concealing a smirk.

“Does he still say it was an accident?”

Bliss nodded quickly.

“Thought he would,” continued King. “He's too proud to admit someone bopped him and he wouldn't want to try to explain why.”

“Why did you hit him?”

“Like I said, he ruined my life.”

“But how?”

King thought for a moment, still not sure he should divulge his relationship with Edwards, but then began, telling his story as if he had rehearsed it a hundred times.

“We were on the same force: Thames Valley. He was a sergeant with a bad reputation—battering prisoners, planting evidence, fitting people up—but he led a charmed life. Word was he had a little black book and he kept a record of every bloody thing anybody ever did wrong.”

Bliss interjected, “I've heard he still does.”

King looked up, “I bet he does. Anyway,” he continued with his prepared narration, “If he heard of an inspector screwing a policewoman or having a beer on duty, or a superintendent sloping off for a quick round of golf with his mates, he'd write it all down: Exact time, date, place, etc.” He mimicked the actions of a person writing, as far as the handcuffs would permit, then added, “Anytime he was in the shit he'd pull out his book, flick through the pages, and remind some poor sod what he'd done. It worked like a charm. Everyone was scared to bloody death. He reckoned he had something on every senior officer in the force. That's how he got promotion, nobody wanted to upset him in case he pulled out his book.”

Bliss stopped him, “But you weren't a senior officer, what did he have on you?”

“Nothing,” replied King quickly, annoyed at being interrupted, annoyed that Bliss would think he had a shady past. “He didn't have nothing on me.”

Bliss screwed his eyes in confusion. King explained, “It was a domestic case. Some bloke with handy fists clobbered his wife and Edwards just happened to be in the area. I got there first. The woman had a bloody nose and a cracked tooth—bit messy, hardly fatal. The husband was upstairs bawling his eyes out, couldn't believe what he'd done. Anyway, I was patching the wife up when Edwards arrived. 'Leave her,' he said, 'Go and arrest the bloke.'

“He ain't going anywhere, Serg,' I said.

“You arguing with me?' he said, real nasty. Anyway, before I could do anything, the woman's brother arrived, took one look and said, 'Where is he?' Edwards pointed upstairs and the brother went up like an express train. I tried to go after him but Edwards stopped me. Ten minutes later the brother comes down and chucks three of the husbands fingers and a handful of teeth on the floor. 'He won't do it again,' he said, and stalked out cool as a cucumber.”

King paused for a long time and closed his eyes, reliving the horrific moment when he realised the blood soaked fingers and teeth had been physically wrenched from a living human being. They had rushed up the stairs to find the husband writhing in agony, several pairs of his wife's knickers stuffed into his mouth as a gag; the remains of his crushed fingers hanging limply, some dangling by threads. The bedroom door was awash with blood, lumps of skin, and flesh still stuck to the jamb where the fingers had been mashed to a pulp, or chopped off, as his brother-in-law had thrown his weight against the door, the fingers trapped between it and the frame.

“Didn't you hear anything?” asked Bliss quietly, seeing the sadness in the other man's eyes.

“Yeah, I heard a few shouts and some bangs. I thought he was just smacking him around a bit. Edwards thought it was bloody funny …” He paused, unsmiling, “Until the brother came down with the fingers, then he went as white as a ghost.”

“What happened?” enquired Bliss, expecting to hear how long the brother-in-law spent in prison.

“Me and Edwards were charged with conspiracy to cause grievous bodily harm,” King continued, dealing with the side of the story which affected him the most. “I didn't know what to do. Everybody said keep quiet. Don't say anything—deny, deny, deny. Say you never saw the bloke go up the stairs. But that was wrong. It was Edwards' fault, so I went to my chief inspector and told him.”

“What did he say?” enquired Bliss, helping the story along.

“He says, 'Go with your conscience. Tell the truth.' So I did. I stood in the dock, put my hand on the Bible, and told them exactly what happened. Then Edwards got in the witness box and came out with the biggest load of bull … reckoned he arrived as the brother was coming down the stairs, when it was all over. Then the chief inspector pulled out the station log book and backed him up—calling me a bloody liar.” He paused to cool down, then added the obvious, “Someone had fixed the log book.”

Bliss raised his eyebrows—it could be done.

“I got six months in jail and Edwards got promotion,” King concluded with a hint of irony.

“Why did the chief inspector lie?” enquired Bliss, guessing the answer but preferring to hear it from King.

“He must have been in Edwards' little black book,” said King, his tone saying, “As if you didn't know.”

Detective Inspector Bliss was at a loss, his loyalty trapped between a disagreeable fellow officer, and a man who was only a convict because his conscience had been stabbed by a betrayer's stiletto.

“I would tell you about LeClarc, but I'm scared I'm going to get shit on again,” King said eventually, staring at the desk between them.

“I wouldn't do that to you Nosmo.”

“I know you wouldn't. At least I don't think you would, but Edwards would.” Studying his hands for several moments he found an answer. “There's no evidence I threw LeClarc overboard, and if 1 stick to my story about being paid to drive the car off the ship, they'll have to let me go.” He searched Bliss' face. “Am I right?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no.”

“C'mon Dave, you can do better than that.”

“O.K., you're probably right.”

“But then you won't find LeClarc or the others.”

Bliss nearly leapt over the table. “You know where he is?”

“Slow down Dave …”

Bliss couldn't control his excitement. “Are the others still alive?”

King nodded slowly, letting his eyes speak for him.

“Where are they?”

“Not so fast. I'm saying nothing until you promise Edwards won't know where the information came from.”

It wasn't a difficult decision. “O.K., I won't tell Edwards.”

King buried his face as if making one final attempt to keep his secret to himself, then opened his hands and let it all out. “I was the informer Dave,” he started, “I
called Scotland Yard and told them about the plan to kidnap LeClarc.”

“You knew?” breathed Bliss with incredulity.

“Yeah. I discovered the plan was to kidnap him, but I wasn't supposed to know, and I wasn't involved … not in the kidnap anyway, I swear to you.” He sought re-assurance in Bliss' face, but found only cynicism. “Motsom hired me to follow LeClarc and find out where he was going,” he continued. “I thought it was above board—straightforward surveillance. One of the girls from his office let slip about his trip to Holland and when I told Motsom he was chuffed— even gave me a bonus. I thought that was the end of the job, then he asked if I fancied a trip to Holland. I said, 'Sure. Why not. What do you want?' 'Just follow him, make sure he gets on the ship safely,' he said, and offered me five hundred quid plus expenses, so I took it. I've struggled ever since I got booted out of the force so I needed the money.”

Bliss was confused. “So why the anonymous tip? Don't tell me you've still got a conscience.”

Still got a conscience? queried King to himself, stung by the implication he may have lost it. “Yes, I still have a conscience,” he wanted to scream, but didn't, fearing Bliss would cast a sardonic eye. Why else would I have tipped off Scotland Yard? I owed them nothing— they owed me everything. They stood by and cheered as Edwards robbed me of my reputation; family; friends and liberty. But yes, I've still got a conscience.

“Why anonymous, Dave?” he answered after a few seconds. “Because if I'd strolled into the Yard with this story I would have got the kid gloves and bum's rush combined. 'Thank you, Sir,' some snotty sergeant with two weeks service would have said, and filed my report in the nearest waste bin, mumbling, “Bloody informants.”