The Fish Kisser (12 page)

Lisa McKenzie's heart leapt a little. “It's O.K. I'll pay,” she said, remembering the Scotsman's £5,000. “Give me the phone number of the police station and stay there.”

Taking down the number with exaggerated care her mind was telling her she was missing something, that Margery must know more, that she shouldn't let the
girl go without getting more information. Trudy was out there somewhere—Margery must know more.

“Where is she?” she cried angrily.

“I don't know honest Mrs. Mc …”

“I don't believe you …” she started accusingly, then broke down, “I'm sorry Margery … it's just that I'm so worried”

Calming herself, apologizing again and again, she checked the number with Margery three times before ringing off, then instantly regretted putting the phone down on the crying girl. Oh my God, she thought, I don't even know where she is.

Stunned, confused, and overwhelmed by the situation, she vacillated between Peter, an airline, the police, and the bank. Each time she looked up one number she would convince herself to call another. At last, a full two minutes later, she plumped for the police.

“She's in France, eh, Mrs. McKenzie,” a familiar voice responded, “O.K. we'll be round to see you right away. Just stay there.”

“I'm not going anywhere, officer. Please hurry,” she replied, slumping in the chair and finding support, even comfort, in the curved backrest.

Junction Road was quieter now it was mid-morning in Watford. The commuters and children were all safely huddled in their offices and classrooms. In just a week or so Junction Road would become a different place. School holidays would begin and the little street would be turned into the Wild West, Wembley stadium, or a Mighty Morphin adventure park, depending on which group of kids happened to be most active at that time of day or night.

The two Watford police detectives had been given little information about Roger LeClarc.

“Just get down there and make a few door-to-door enquiries,” their sergeant had said, without enthusiasm. “Apparently this bloke disappeared off a ship last night in the middle of the North Sea, right under the nose of a Met. police squad. God knows how they think he might have got back here by now.”

“What are we s'posed to be looking for Serg?”

“Buggered if I know, lad. It seems as though the Met. had him under surveillance for awhile—seen him go to the place a few times … Just as long as you put in some sort of report …” he trailed off. Helping another police force out of an embarrassing spot wasn't a high priority.

They parked opposite Roger's house and sat in the car watching it for awhile—killing time. Like a loaf of bread with the crust sliced off one end, the terrace's architectural equilibrium had been unbalanced by the bombing of the last in the row. It now appeared incomplete, no longer matching the opposing terrace backing onto the railway cutting. The rubble of the amputated end house had been cleared, but, without anyone to care for it, the land had grown wild, and was now the local waste dump—an eyesore or an adventure playground depending on perspective.

“Bit of a shit-hole,” said one of the detectives easing himself out of the car, advancing on the front door of the end house.

The other detective, a forty-something Roger Moore look-alike, scrambled over the bombsite alongside the house, making his way to the rear. He paused, part way, to look up at the wall which now formed the end of the terrace. It had no windows, none being needed for its original purpose, but the outline of three bricked-up fireplaces, one upstairs and two down,
could clearly be seen. Black bitumen had been lathered over the wall, and replenished periodically, to provide a weatherproof coating.

“Can you see anything?” shouted the other detective, poking his head around the corner of the house, his knock on the front door bringing no response.

“Hang on a minute. I've just got stung,” he replied irritably, shaking and rubbing his hand, then lashing out with his foot at the offending nettle.

“The back wall's fallen down, I can get- over the bricks,” he called a few seconds later, after kicking a path through the nettles.

Another voice joined in, “Oy. What are you two doing?” The ever watchful George Mitchell at No. 71, a veteran of the Royal Engineers and frightened of no one, was on his doorstep, ramrod straight and chest puffed out in a no-nonsense stance. “I'm going to call the law,” he continued, his confidence wavering ever so slightly.

“It's O.K., Granddad. We are the law,” said the detective in the street, producing his warrant card and strolling over to George.

“What do you know about the people in the end house,” he asked casually.

George Mitchell, eyed the card critically, saying, “Don't know much 'bout 'em mate, to be honest. Used to be a family of Greeks or Turks there …” he paused, concentration furrowing his brow, “I think they was Greeks, nice family. Papadropolis or some such name. Moved out about a year ago …” he paused, spotting Mrs. Ramchuran out of the corner of his eye, the voices drawing her to inspect the sheen on her front doorstep, and he dragged her in. “I was just saying, Mrs. R., the people over the road, Greeks, nice people, you remember?”

She looked up at the suit-clad detectives in feigned surprise, thinking: Mormons, encyclopaedias or debt
collectors. “Yes I remember the Greeks, Mr. Mitchell,” she began defensively. “But they been gone a long time. There's a new man there now. I don't know him; hardly ever seen him.”

George took up the conversation again, sticking rigidly to facts, but twisting each into a complaint. “Young bloke, funny looking bugger, works odd hours, never does nuvving to the place, comes and goes all times of the night but he's not there now. His car's not here.” He searched the street. “Little green foreign thing.” Another complaint. “It were here yesterday.”

Roger Moore's double had fought his way back to the street and came alongside his partner. “Can't see anyone in there,” he said, nodding back over his shoulder. “If I'd banged any harder on the back door it would have caved in.”

George Mitchell,
Neighbourhood Watch
personified, beamed .
See, I told you he weren't there.
“I could've have saved you mucking up your suit if you'd asked,” he said, inspecting the detective's trousers.

“Oh shit,” moaned the officer, backing away, scrubbing at a greasy mess with a handkerchief, spreading the stain even further. “This is the second suit I've ruined in a week, my missus'll kill me.”

“If I could get a few details,” said the remaining detective, attempting to restore professional integrity by pulling out his notebook. “Perhaps you would call if you see anyone go in. Would you mind?”

“Not at all, Officer,” said George, beaming with importance—
this is the life … helping the police with their enquiries.
“But, ah, what's he s'posed to have done?”

“Oh nothing, Sir, it's just routine enquiries. We're not too sure where he is, that's all.”

“Roger Wilco,” said George Mitchell, thinking: You expect me to believe that? Fifty-five million people in the
country and you're worried about the odd fat freak—I don't think so. But he shrugged off the snub. “It's none of my business, but he ain't in there I can assure you of that. There ain't nobody in there that's for definite.”

Trudy would have disagreed had she been awake. And had she been awake she would have cried out to the detectives to rescue her, but, although less than twenty feet away, they would have heard nothing.

As the men drove away, one still engrossed in his trousers, muttering, “She'll bloody murder me,” another police car was headed in their direction from across town. The driver, the “ex-RAF” superintendent's staff sergeant, had his boss on the radio. “I've seen LeClarc's parents, they're as much in the dark as us. His mum reckons he's never been in any sort of trouble, believe it or not she actually called him “A good little boy.” Shit Guv! You've seen the size of him and he's thirty-odd. Anyhow, he lives at home; no close friends, so far as they know; goes to work, comes home, usual crap. We went through his stuff and, as far as they could tell, nothing's missing, only the stuff he took with him. He told 'em about the thing in Holland but sort of played it down. Oh … this is a bit weird … they reckoned they knew nothing about the house on Junction Road—you know the place … I'm on my way to there now to take a shufty.”

Roger's mother did know the house on Junction Road, had even been there with him, one Saturday afternoon, though he'd made her stay in the car. “It's a friend of mine,” he'd told her as he parked outside, the Renault loaded with groceries. “I won't be a minute.”

He'd waited ten minutes, spying on her from an upstairs window, letting her stew in the stifling afternoon heat with the ice-cream, butter, and frozen peas. Curiosity and impatience finally forced open the car door and Roger flew down the front steps. “Sorry,
Mum,” he said bundling her back into the Renault and driving off.

“Who were it?” she demanded, craning to peer into the blank windows, suspecting a female; suspecting she was being cheated on.

“Just a friend,” he repeated, knowing it would drive her insane.

“Sergeant 247639, Mitchell,” George introduced himself to the sergeant at his door, thinking—“Quite a day.” “I've just been talking to your lads, Serg. Nasty stain one of 'em had. Doubt if it'll come out.”

“Yes, Sergeant Mitchell,” he started, then changed his tone and added conspiratorially, “Mind if I call you George?”

He hadn't minded, placing the policeman from London as a peer, and they sat in his kitchen like a couple of old soldiers, chin-wagging over a cuppa for fifteen minutes before getting around to Roger.

“Like I told the others,” he said, “Funny looking bloke—he looked like the snowmen we made as kids; just two balls, one big'un for the body and a little'un for the head; no neck to speak of and stubby little arms and legs.”

That's our man, thought the staff sergeant, nodding in the direction of the house on the other side of the road. “Who does it belong to George— who owns the place?”

“It's his of course, as far as I know. I saw him talking to the real estate bloke the day it were put up for sale.”

What's going on? puzzled the policeman; his mother would have known surely …“Are you sure it's his?”

George, affronted, went on the offensive. “It's his I'm telling you. I can even give you the name of the estate agents if you like,” and, without waiting
for a response, he did. “It were Jefferson's up the High Street.”

“Interesting,” the staff sergeant mused, mulling over Roger's motives, wondering why he'd never told his parents. “What do you know about the place George?”

George Mitchell knew a great deal, most of his knowledge first hand, the wartime holding his most vivid memories. “It were August 1940, in the Blitz, the end 'ouse got bombed,” he recounted. “A lot of people round here reckoned it was one of our own. See, there weren't no real air raid that night, not so far as we knew anyhow. Oh the sirens went off all right, dronin' on and on, but no one heard nuvving else until, 'Bang!' Bloody near shook me old mum's false teeth out it did.” He paused long enough for a chuckle at his joke—and the memory. “Then we looked out and the 'ouse were gone. Just like that. 'Course it were the blackout so we couldn't do nowt 'til the morning. Then they found 'em hiding under the stairs, only the stairs were right on top of 'em.” Clapping his hands in emphasis he added, “Flat as pancake.”

“It was never rebuilt?”

“Nah. The son had been sent to Australia,” said George, his strong cockney accent turning the country into something sounding more like a horse-trailer. “ 'Course the big tragedy were next door, where that bloke of yours lives.”

Ears pricked, the sergeant leant forward.

“Oh yes,” George continued, now deeply lost in the past. “The poor bastards,” he said slowly. “The whole family went. Trampled to death in that underground disaster. You remember?” he said, as if it were an order.

“No, I don't actually.”

George, puzzled, gave him a look, then smiled, more to himself than the sergeant. “Silly me, 'course not—you
ain't old enough. Anyhow it were about a year later, maybe more.” He paused, searching the floor for the exact date, “I dunno. Anyhow it ain't important,” he said finally, giving up. Then continued, “Anyhow, after what happened to the couple on the end—flat as a pancake … under the stairs—the family next door were petrified. They had three kids and they was worried to death the kids would get killed. So they took 'em down to 'is brother's in Hampshire for a holiday, to get away from it, the bombing that is, and they was all coming back by Tube. Brother, wife, and all.” He stopped, took a long swig of tea and swilled it noisily around his mouth, puffing out his cheeks, as if deliberately allowing the tension to rise, then gulped it down and finished his story. “They was just coming up the stairs to change platforms when a bomb, a big 'un, dropped straight down the hole. It didn't go off, but everyone panicked and they all got crushed to death. Hundreds of 'em were killed, maybe thousands. They never got the bodies out you know, just buried 'em all together … Tragedy … Poor bastards.”

Closing his eyes for a second, he sat back, breathing deeply, recalling every macabre detail as if he had been there. A notion he dispelled with his next words. “I was in Africa at the time. Rommel and El Alamein, you know.” A faraway look glazed his eyes and the crease of a smile warmed his mouth for a few seconds, then he straightened up. “It were a tragedy—poor bastards.”

“And after the war?”

“Oh, there's been eight or ten different families since then. Most of 'em foreigners.” He hesitated, “Not that I've got anything against them you understand. Nice enough, most of 'em anyhow. Take Mrs. R. next door, good as gold she is, she'll do me washing …”