The Fish Kisser (50 page)

The ambulance man's expression was a study in professional detachment as he started for the injured men who might benefit from his administrations. Bliss grabbed him roughly. “Give her oxygen,” he yelled, his face no more than an inch from the mans'. “Oxygen you cretin.” Then he searched frantically: Wouldn't anybody help. People were still walking around … why didn't they stop? Why was that fireman still spraying foam? One of the freed prisoners was having a pee, another was vomiting with shock; the flashing lights on the emergency vehicles were still spinning. She can't be dead, he reasoned, the lights are still working. Then he pulled the gun and pointed it at the ambulance man. “Do something. Do something,” he screamed.

One of the hard-faced men who'd flown in with Edwards swooped unseen, tackled him harshly to the ground and had a hypodermic in his backside, while Bliss was still wondering if the plane had exploded behind him. Then the lights went out.

Bliss opened his eyes to the bright little room where he'd awoken once the sedative had worn off, and searched around for another box of Kleenex as the tears streamed. Giving up, he went to the tiny neat bathroom for toilet paper, and was still drying his face as Edwards slipped back in, uninvited.

“What do you want?” Bliss sneered, turning away, even the pretence of politeness lost in the turmoil of grief.

“Just a few words, Dave.”

“You've had everything you're getting out of me.”

“I know it's hard, but I would strongly advise you to do what you're told, Inspector,” said Edwards, his iron fist barely concealed by a touch of compassion.

“Get stuffed,” replied Bliss, but Edwards knew how to ratchet up the heat and quickly scattered a few sections from the
Official Secrets Act
in Bliss' future, like a minefield. Failure to answer questions and any attempt to communicate information about C.I.D., he said, would bring instant incarceration—the kid gloves were off.

“And this is not incarceration?” Bliss queried glibly, scanning the starkly furnished room, only to catch another rebuke. “Careful Inspector—you don't realize how deep you're getting.”

He knew how deep; had seen enough tight-lipped shady men in loose fitting leather jackets to know he was way out of his depth. “What about LeClarc? How do you propose to keep him quiet?” asked Bliss with a sneer.

Realising that Bliss was oblivious to LeClarc's predicament, Edwards dropped his confrontational tone and became chatty. “You remember that house you were watching in Junction Road?”

“Where LeClarc went morning and evening?”

Edwards nodded. “What you didn't know was that he had a sixteen-year-old bint locked in the basement. He'd kidnapped her.”

“Dirty bastard,” mouthed Bliss.

“Anyway, on the ship he twigged he was being followed; put two and two together—came up with five. Thinking you were about to nick him for kidnapping the girl, he hoisted his fat ass over the rail and clung on.” Edwards stopped for a quick laugh, adding, “He was so bloody heavy he lost his grip eventually and fell.”

Bliss wasn't in the mood to laugh, especially at the plight of a child abductor who'd caused him considerable personal grief. “No wonder I couldn't find him,” he mused, realising immediately why the time of LeClarc's disappearance hadn't coincided with King's account. LeClarc had been clinging to the rail for several minutes before dropping into the sea, at roughly the moment King released the life raft.

“He just fell,” repeated Edwards, still bemused by the coincidence, “'cos he thought you were trying to catch him, when actually you were trying to save him.”

“And what about the others?” asked Bliss, meaning the released computer experts, and having had enough about LeClarc.

“They'll be taken care of,” said Edwards, instantly losing his smile.

“Taken care of,” parroted Bliss, thinking: That's a Godfatherly euphemism if I ever heard one. And Yolanda—who's taking care of her? Every mention of her had elicited an officially blank face. Funeral arrangements; personal possessions; the plane: her aging father; her son? Who would take care of the details?

“Captain Jahnssen will deal with everything,” said Edwards, the Godfather again—but hadn't he always been?

Bliss' enquiry about Nosmo King brought a different reaction.

“What about him?” demanded Edwards through clamped swollen lips.

Go for the jugular, thought Bliss, with a sudden feeling of overweening power. “He told me what you did to him.”

“King's a liar,” spat Edwards, reddening. “You know that. He even lied to you about LeClarc and Motsom.”

“I would have lied to me in the circumstances— that proves nothing.”

“He's a villain, Dave—forget him. He'll get what he deserves.”

Not the O.B.E. for services rendered and a cushy job at the Home Office if Edwards has his way.

“So I guess you've charged him with assault then,” said Bliss, suspecting that Edwards was close to exploding and hoping to push him.

Edwards bristled, “It was an accident—as if it's any of your damn business,” but he kept control.

Deny, deny, deny, thought Bliss, realizing that Owain had been right: None of this would ever reach the courts, or the press and, if he wasn't careful, none of them would ever reach home.

Six hard faced men in suits that had never been near Trendy Tailors, sat around the base conference room and were having a similar debate, as Edwards crept in a few minutes later.

“If this weasel ever gets out …” a shrew-eyed, clean-cut thirty-year-old was saying, then waited as Edwards took his seat. “So how's our hero now?” he asked sarcastically.

“The idiot'll survive,” said Edwards with political savvy, torn between defending Bliss, a peon of his own who had left the big boys with their pants round their ankles, and appeasing the opposition whom, he suspected, were authorized to do things that would make a civil libertarian pretty uncivil.

“We gotta be certain everyone's tight on this,” the speaker continued, his implication clear. But his implication had been clear from the moment he'd taken command: This was not a police matter, and nothing
could be less desirable than some heavy footed plod from the Grand Metropolitan Police Force balzing up their operation.

“But you'd never have found them if it hadn't been for us,” Edwards had said, defending himself, his force, and Bliss, in that order.

The weasel's look was enough to tell Edwards to back off, and thereafter all responses from the group gave the impression that they knew all along what was happening—true to type, thought Edwards, having put a handle of the identity of the hard-faced shady men, and knowing well the oxymoron of Military Intelligence.

“There are other ways of dealing with this kind of situation,” said one of the men euphemistically, leaving no doubt as to his final solution.

“That won't be necessary at the moment,” said the leader, “as long as they are made to understand the gravity of the situation.”

“But they can't just go home,” said Edwards, realizing the impossibility of allowing them to carry on as if nothing had happened. “Sorry, love—long day at the office—and the traffic!” would hardly mollify a grieving widow who'd been struggling to pay off the funeral expenses, while bringing up three screaming kids. And what of any of the widows who had found it easier to grieve in someone else's arms?”

“I don't think anyone's considering allowing them to be repatriated at present, Superintendent,” said the leader snottily, leaving Edwards shrinking in his chair. “Until they've found the anti-virus, they will be our guests,” he added, with another euphemism.

“And if they don't come up with the solution?” asked Edwards.

“Not your worry old chap,” he replied, adding, “I'm sure you've got important things to do Superintendent…”

Edwards recognized the bum's rush and was tempted to be annoying, but thought better of it. “One more thing, Superintendent,” said the leader, catching Edwards at the door. “I shouldn't have to remind you but… I trust you will conduct yourself accordingly.”

“Fucking cheek,” muttered Edwards sotto voce, then swung on the man with a final thought. “And Detective Pieters—what will happen to her?”

There was more than a moments silence until the leader decided to clear the air. “She's still critical—but they think she'll pull through,” he said, adding, “Though Bliss must never find out.”

“Why?” demanded Edwards, finding his way back to the table.

“Superintendent, if either of them were to speak to the press we could shut them down. If they collaborated … well, let's just say it's easier if they're kept in the dark.”

Edwards nodded, knowingly. “That's not a problem. He thinks she's dead anyway.”

“Good—let's keep it that way for everybody's sake.”

The End