The Fish Kisser (27 page)

Bliss nodded sympathetically, knowing there was respect in anonymity, that both sides treat informants as scum. Anyway, the proverbial, “anonymous tip,” could be more useful than a cold-blooded informant. The motives of the anonymous were incontestable—not so with informants who always wanted something.

“Conscience,” mused King, “I suppose it was. When I went to Motsom's place a few weeks ago to pick up my bonus I heard two of his goons bragging about how they'd chopped up a woman and fed her to some dogs.”

“The Mitchell case?”

“Yeah,” replied King, impressed with Bliss' memory. “I'd read about it in the paper and remembered she was involved with computers, so I did some digging and found out about the others. It was obvious LeClarc was next—that's when I tipped you off.”

Bliss interrupted, agitated. “Where are they?”

“I'm coming to that, but I want you to know what happened to LeClarc.”

“Hurry up then, I haven't got all day.”

“After I'd lost him, Motsom told me he'd been hired by an Arab to get him. I saw some papers in his cabin with Istanbul on them and said, 'Is that where he was going?' He said, 'Yeah,' and we'd better get him there or there would be trouble. He was in a state. Whoever hired him has got some clout. Mind you, Motsom is no pansy. He had two shooters that I could see, one of them looked like a machine pistol. He wanted me to see them—giving me a message. That's the other reason why I don't want anyone to know about this chat. Motsom'll kill me if he finds out.”

“Why didn't you tell me all this on the ship?”

“I didn't know you were following LeClarc. When I saw the four of you propping up the bar I thought you
were on a piss-taking junket at the tax-payers expense. I thought somebody would be watching him but I assumed they'd be more professional—no offence Dave.”

Bliss meditated on King's admission for a few seconds. Finally conceding, “You're right. But it wasn't me at the bar.”

King began, “I saw …”

Bliss headed him off. “I was only there to get the others to help me find LeClarc. Anyway I don't have to explain myself to you.”

“You see why Edwards mustn't find out,” continued King his mind racing and his voice rising in a panic. “It was my fault he drowned. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure he'd fallen overboard. I thought I saw him in the water, I just wasn't sure. I panicked, told Motsom, and he said stop the ship, so I chucked the life raft over, but the bloody crewman saw me and didn't believe me. It was all my fault…”

“O.K., O.K. Calm down. It wasn't all your fault, we should have been watching him better. Anyway it's too late now. But where have they taken the others?”

King pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and spread it on the table. Neatly scribbled in one corner was an address in Istanbul.

Saturday's dawn had broken in Watford, England. The bustle of weekday rail commuters along Junction Road was replaced by families with noisy children off to the seaside, amusement park, or a day's shopping expedition, but Trudy still lay in the silent gloom of her underground tomb. Away from the foggy coast the brilliant July sunshine started to turn the milk left standing on doorsteps. And, across town, Roger's father, still wearing yesterday's shirt, felt the warmth on his arm as he fumbled
around the partially opened front door, sweeping up the milk bottle with the daily newspaper in one go.

“Who is it?” bellowed Mrs. LeClarc from the sanctuary of her bedroom, anxiously anticipating a visit from a policeman to say Roger had been found alive and well, and that the two straight-faced constables who had called the evening before had made a horrible mistake.

“Only me dear, just getting the milk,” he called up the stairs. “Do you want some tea?”

“Anything about our Roger in the paper?” she enquired.

He flopped the
Daily Express
open on the hall table and scanned the headlines. “Can't see anything.”

Ten minutes later, after delivering tea and sympathy to his distraught, though still demanding, wife, Mr. LeClarc's eyes hit upon a single paragraph on page three of the paper. He read it twice before going on to page four. Halfway through page five he lost concentration and found himself thinking about the earlier article. Flipping back, he looked again at the poorly reproduced photocopy with its caption. “Do you recognize Roger?”

He drifted up the stairs, the newspaper held in front of him like an offering, re-reading the paragraph aloud.

“Roger sought in missing girl case. Police have released this photograph of a man they are seeking in relation to last week's disappearance of 16 yr. old Trudy McKenzie. “He is not a suspect,” stressed Detective Sergeant Malcolm Kite, (43 yrs.), but may be able to assist with enquiries. Roger, (surname unknown) is described as 5'10” medium build, 27 yrs. Known as a computer whiz he is believed to live in the Watford area. If you know this man etcetera, etcetera.”

“Maybe they've run away together,” said Mrs. LeClarc, grasping at straws. “Give it to me,” she ordered, snatching the paper from his hands. “Let me look.”

She scanned the piece. “Our Roger ain't twenty seven,” she whined immediately.

“Maybe the paper's got it wrong. They're always getting things wrong.”

“He's not five-foot ten neither.”

“I think we should call. You never know,” replied his father, feeling the need to do something constructive.

“But look at the photo,” she commanded, thrusting the paper back at him.

The grainy monochrome picture bore no resemblance to Roger, but he wouldn't admit it, even to himself. “Could be,” he said, angling the paper against the window for better light.

“No it ain't,” she shot back, offended anyone would suggest she couldn't recognize her own son.

“I think it could be,” he continued vaguely, rubbing his forehead and leaving a dark smear of printer's ink, unwilling to let go of the thread of hope.

“Don't be an idiot,” she hissed, and buried her head in the pillow.

“I still think we should call.”

Her muffled words barely reached him. “Do what you like.”

Detective Constable Jackson, the Roger Moore look-alike with stained trousers, strolled into the C.I.D. office at Watford police station with two paper cups of brown liquid strongly suspected of being coffee, despite having pressed the “Tea” button on the machine. “Is that the Junction Road case?” he asked, as his partner replaced the phone.

“Yeah, that was LeClarc's father. They saw the picture in the paper.”

“It's a bit of a coincidence—two missing people called
Roger both from Watford,” he. said, placing one cup in front of his partner, still eyeing his own suspiciously.

“The descriptions don't match at all. I've already spoken to a D.C. in Leyton. Nothing fits, only the name. Anyway that team from Scotland Yard had LeClarc under surveillance. They would have seen if he was with a woman.”

“I still reckon it's odd that a bloke called Roger from Watford goes missing in the middle of the North Sea and a girl from Leyton goes missing with a bloke called Roger from Watford.

“They don't know she went off with this bloke. It's only what her friend thinks. Anyway nothing else fits. The friend said he lived in a big house. She said he drove a Jaguar. He's 27, he's 5'10' … Shall I go on?”

“She also say's he's a computer whiz.”

His partner took a quick swig from the cup, screwed his face and spat the whole lot into a wire wastebasket. “Ugh. Sugar!”

“Sorry, I forgot. Anyway I still think it might be worth having another look at that place on Junction Road.

The phone rang. “Criminal Investigation Department,” Jackson said augustly, hitting the “hands-free” key, speaking to the ceiling.

“Switchboard,” yawned a female operator. “Bloke from ACT Telecommunications, whatever that is, wants to speak to someone about a missing person.”

“Get uniform branch to deal with it, Luv; we're busy,” he snapped.

“I'm getting pissed about here. I already tried— they said it were your case. I wish somebody'd make up there bloody mind.”

“PMS,” he mouthed across the desk to his partner. “O.K. put him on,” he said, tiredly, no idea what missing
person she was talking about, and switched to the handset. “D.C. Jackson, can I help you.”

A polished Oxbridge accent jumped down the phone at him. “What the devil's going on Officer?”

Two can play at that game, he thought, replying snottily, “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Sir.”

“Have you got the
Daily Express?”

What is this—twenty questions with attitude?

“That's my photograph on page three but my name is definitely not Roger and I am certainly not involved with the disappearance of any schoolgirl,” continued the voice, not giving Jackson an opportunity to respond.

Grabbing the paper from his partner, Jackson came close to knocking over his drink. “Watch out!” shouted the other man, as Jackson stared at the picture.

“What do you mean, it's your photo?” he said into the phone as he scrutinized the face.

“Officer,” the voice continued, “I do know my own face and so do a lot of other people. This is very embarrassing. My wife is very upset; so am I. I've called the
Express.
They say someone at your police station gave them the photograph and claimed it was this Roger fellow.”

“Let me get this straight, Sir,” he said, stalling as he jotted a few notes. “The picture in today's paper of the man we are looking for in the Trudy McKenzie case is you.”

“That's right, and I'm not Roger. I haven't kidnapped any girl and I'm not very happy. In fact I shall be talking to my lawyers about suing someone for defamation of character.”

“Lawyers,” mused Jackson with his hand over the mouthpiece, feeling the weight of the plural, deciding it was time to take cover. “It wasn't us who gave
Express
the photo, it came from Leyton. I suggest you give them a call.”

“Oh,” he floundered for a second, “I thought it was you.”

“Sorry, that case is nothing to do with us.”

“But the paper says this Roger lives in Watford.”

“That's correct, Sir, but the girl's missing from Leyton—it's their case.”

A few moments silence left Jackson wondering if the caller had slammed the phone down. “Sir ?” he enquired.

“Yes,” replied the voice, thoughtful, less angry.

“Have you any idea how someone got your photograph?”

“Oh yes. Someone stole it a few weeks ago from the showcase at our head office. We knew it was missing—assumed it was a staff member's prank.”

“Sorry I can't help you, Sir,” Jackson said as he put the phone down. Then he looked at his partner. “There's something funny here. Let's take another look at that place of LeClarc's. I'm beginning to wonder if the two Rogers are connected.”

He laid out his theory driving to Junction Road. “If the photo ain't Roger's, then the description's prob'ly wrong as well. What if LeClarc has run off with this girl.” He thought for a second, going over the evidence in his mind, then reconstructed the case out loud. “This McKenzie girl deliberately gave her friend a photo of the wrong guy; gave a false description, and didn't tell her mum where she was going.” He paused long enough to negotiate an absurdly parked truck, then triumphantly solved the case, “I bet Roger and this McKenzie girl have eloped. I bet her mum wouldn't have him in the house, so she came up with a dodgy excuse and sloped off to Holland with him. Now they're sunning themselves on the Costa
Bravo or a beach in Florida and laughing their pants off at us silly sods.”

“Maybe,” replied his partner, unconvinced.

George Mitchell was just leaving home for High Street, scouting for something interesting for his dinner, when the two detectives returned.

“Mr. Mitchell,” Jackson called, as the sprightly eighty-three year old marched along Junction Road like he was still in command.

He halted and peered down into the car. “Good morning officer,” he responded crisply, proving the strength of his eyesight matched his legs; then he bent and enquired seriously, “Did you manage to get the stain out?”

Jackson blushed as his partner jumped out and greeted the old soldier with a wide grin. “Morning Mr. Mitchell, lovely day.”

“G'morning. Any news of your young man?” he nodded toward Roger's house.

“We were hoping you might know something.”

“Only what I told you yesterday. He's not come back s'far as I know. I ain't seen 'is car for best part of a week.”

Jackson, spotting a parking space, headed off as his partner and Mitchell wandered across the road into the warmth of the sun.

“Did he ever bring a girl here?” asked the detective, getting to the point as he scrutinized Roger's doorstep.

George Mitchell shook his head. “I never saw no one, but he kept funny hours like I told you. He'd come and go at all times.”

“How did you know when he was here?”

“Sometimes he'd put the front room light on. Other times I'd see him go in.”

“Mr. Mitchell never saw a woman here,” called the detective as Jackson returned, then he ran up the two steps to the old yellow door and banged hard. “Just in case,” he explained to George who was eyeing him as if he were deranged.

“I told you …There's no one there,” said George, visibly offended.

Trudy woke with a start. Her ears, sensitized by two days of total silence, had picked up the faint sound of the thump. For a moment she lay disorientated on the damp stone floor in the darkness wondering what had woken her. Then she slowly pulled herself up, carefully testing each joint and limb for pain, and stuck her ear to the keyhole—nothing. A few seconds later she fastened her mouth over the hole—like a baby sucking its mother's life-giving breast, and drank in the refreshingly oxygenated air.