The Fish Kisser (36 page)

“Come on Yolanda,” called Bliss as instructed, irked at being left in the dark. Smiling provocatively into the businessman's eyes, Yolanda bundled the map.

“Nice talking to you,” she said, with the hint of a kiss, and was still holding his gaze as they got to the door, guessing it would be a long time before he could safely stand up.

“What was that all about?” demanded Bliss gruffly.

“Arranging a replacement car,” she replied mysteriously, then waved a bunch of keys in his face and guided him around the corner to the businessman's Mercedes. Within seconds they were back in the hunt, the truck only a few miles ahead, heading toward Ankara.

“Shit, Yolanda, if we get ten years in jail, I want to share a cell with you. You'd get us out in no time.”

“Mrs.
McKenzie?” the policeman called as he stepped from his car outside Trudy's home. It was nearly two o'clock on Sunday morning, and he and his young partner had been stooging around for nearly three hours outside the empty apartment.

Lisa swivelled questioningly, “Yes?”

“Mrs. Lisa McKenzie?” he asked, seeking confirmation in the dispirited eyes of the woman as she stood at the doorway, key in hand.

“Yes, that's right.” And animation flooded back into her voice. “Is it Trudy? Have you found her?”

“Perhaps we should go inside Mrs. McKenzie.”

The import of the dreaded words, “We should go inside,” was not lost. Her hand flew to her mouth; well-practised tears flowed instantly.

“I'm Peter McKenzie,” Trudy's father stepped in, gathering Lisa in his arms. “I was just dropping my wife …” he stopped, “Just dropping Trudy's mother off.
Is there some news?”

Both frantically searched the seasoned face of the policeman for clues, but, apart from a persistent nervous twitch, there was no message.

“Let's just go inside,” he said with the voice of experience, gently taking the key from her hand and inserting it into the lock. Trudy's cat Marmaduke flew out of the open door with a desperate “Meow.”

“She loved that cat,” said Lisa in the past tense, bursting into body-shaking sobs.

A young red-haired policewoman stepped out of the shadows and helped Peter propel his distraught exwife into the hallway. It was her first week of night duty; only her third week out of training school. The sergeant had said it would be good for her to get some experience delivering dreadful messages.

“It's the worst job,” he had said with a pained look, as he'd flashed through a montage of distraught faces in his mind: Every person whom he'd ever had the misfortune to inform about the death of a close relative, or other equally devastating calamity. “One moment they're happy and smiling, saying, 'What can I do for you Officer?' then you tell them a husband, wife, kid or mother is lying on a stainless steel cart down at the morgue. Suddenly their whole life disintegrates in front of you.” He gazed off into the distance and his voice floated. “It effects you for weeks. You never get them out of your mind.” His bottom lip gave a little quiver, but he quickly straightened himself up. “Of course, some of 'em don't believe you. That's worse, when you have to try to convince someone their life's just been flushed down the pan.”

The sickly smell of a thousand fading blooms struck them as they walked in. “I must get rid of these flowers,” snuffled Lisa through the sobs.

“Kitchen alright?” Peter asked the officer.

“Fine,” he replied, still not giving anything away.

“She's dead isn't she?” Lisa said as she slumped into the old wooden chair, finding neither comfort nor solace in its hard wooden arms.

The policeman hesitated long enough to pull on his most sombre face, and his downcast eyes and shuffling shoes told a dismal tale. “No,” he began, “she's not dead …” leaving the sentence ominously suspended.

“But?” demanded Peter, knowing someone had to ask.

Lisa's face lit up. “Not dead?”

The policeman's solemnity remained, though his persistent nervous blink added a farcical tone, “She is very, very sick.”

“How sick?” she shot back, with pleading eyes. “Tell me,” she screamed, wanting to throttle the words out.

“Shall I put the kettle on Mrs. McKenzie?” said the young W.P.C. remembering her training school days. “I'll make a nice cup of tea.”

“How sick?” shrieked Lisa, blanking the young policewoman out.

Peter McKenzie dropped to the floor at his ex-wife's feet, clasped her hands in his, and looked up. “What's happened?” he implored, seeking clues in the policeman's face.

“She's on a life support machine,” he replied, his uplifted intonation managing to put a positive spin to the news. “They haven't told me much but I understand she was found in some sort of cellar and couldn't breath very well.”

“Where is she?” exploded Lisa.

“Watford General Hospital.”

“We'll go right away,” Peter said, standing up.

“Will you be alright, Sir. Can you find it?”

“Yes, we've only just got back from there,” he said, easing Lisa out of the chair.

They had been in Watford all day, copies of the picture they believed to be Roger, clasped in their hands. Touring the suburban streets, scrutinizing startled strangers, enquiring in a hundred pubs, shops and restaurants. “Do you know him? Have you seen him?” Some had recognized him, they claimed, but no one came up with a surname or address. They had even been to the railway station refreshment room in the morning before the commotion caused by the detectives' visit. The dumpy waitress had not recognized Roger's boss, there was no reason why she should. He lived in Croydon and had never been to Watford.

Lisa wasn't finished. “What about Roger?”

The policeman shuffled again, holding back the details, protecting his backside. “It seems he may have locked her in a cellar,” he said, then totally absolved himself from responsibility by adding, “but don't take my word for it. That's only what I was told.”

“What sort of animal could do that?” spat Peter McKenzie. “And where is he?” Leaving unspoken, “I'll kill him.”

The animal in question was still asleep in the cabin of the trawler, his limp carcass flopped untidily onto the bench. On the floor beneath him was the trussed body of the deck hand. Although somewhere on the North Sea, his exact geographic location was difficult to determine, thanks to the skipper's quick thinking earlier in the evening, at the time he was being dragged from the sea.

“He's smashed the bloody compass,” McCrae had shouted, diving into the wheelhouse to investigate the
sound of a crash. Then the back of his hand had lashed across the old skipper's face.

“We'll deal with him later, give us a hand with this fat lump now,” called Motsom, struggling to manoeuvre Roger's heavy body from the deck down the narrow companionway into the cabin.

With Roger dumped in the cabin, Motsom, McCrae, and Boyd returned to the wheelhouse. The skipper's drawn face had lost its ruddiness, though the red welt of McCrae's hand was beginning to blossom on his left cheek; but at least he'd ensured his survival, for awhile. Without a compass the three hoodlums could never reach land, and they knew it. But the old skipper didn't need a compass. He'd fished the same waters for more than fifty years and could pinpoint his location by the stars, the run of the tide, the smell of the air, and the direction of the breeze.

“I should shoot you, Granddad,” said Motsom, the barrel of his gun lodged in the skipper's left nostril. The old sea dog half smiled but said nothing. Then his face clouded as Motsom continued solemnly, “But I think I'll shoot the kid first.”

“No. He's only a boy. Please don't …”

“O.K. Granddad, let's do a deal. You get us back to Holland in two hours …” he paused, sensing the alarm on the old man's face, “O.K. make that three hours, and I won't shoot the boy. Alright?”

“I … I can't,” he stumbled, frantically searching for a plausible reason.

“Fine,” said Motsom making a move, “then I may as well shoot him now.”

Motsom was half out of the door before the skipper stopped him with a pleading look. “I can't … because we don't have enough fuel,” he said, his voice quavering with fear.

“He's lying,” said McCrae, idly picking at the shattered remnants of the compass.

Motsom scanned the utilitarian instrument panel. “Where's the fuel gauge?” he said, more to himself than either of the others. There wasn't one. A long dipstick on the engine room bulkhead was all the skipper needed to test the depth of oil in the tank, and he had no intention of telling Motsom about it.

The cold hard nozzle of Motsom's gun jabbed into the side of the skipper's head. “Which is the fuel gauge?”

“I don't have one. I know how much fuel I have and we can't get back to Holland.”

“Where can we get to?”

“England … maybe,” he replied with deliberate vagueness.

“Get the boy,” shouted Motsom, making them all jump.

A few seconds later Boyd dragged the deck hand into the wheelhouse and propped him against the chart table.

“I was just telling the skipper,” started Motsom conversationally, “I want to get back to Holland in three hours.”

The skipper tried to interrupt, “I told …”

“Shut up,” snapped Motsom, with a crooked snarl. “Like I was saying,” he continued to the boy, his pleasantness instantly restored, “I want to get back in three hours or …” he paused, “I will have to shoot you.”

Motsom grasped the bundle of dirty rags that McCrae had stuffed into the boy's mouth, and wrenched them out. The boy coughed and spluttered and Motsom gave him a few seconds, then he seized him hard around the neck and stared him straight in the eyes. “Your friend doesn't think I'll shoot you.”

The skipper tried again, “Leave …”

McCrae smashed his gun into the old man's ribs. “Belt up.”

Without breaking his stare Motsom continued, “Tell him you don't want to die, boy.”

“I don't want to die,” the boy whispered obediently.

Motsom stamped his foot, shouting, “Louder.”

“I don't want to die.”

“Louder,” screamed Motsom, his face not an inch from the boy's.

“I don't want to die,” he squealed as loudly as he could.

“Did you hear that old man?” Motsom said without taking his eyes off the boy.

“Yes,” said the skipper calmly, his spirit apparently broken.

“Good. Now take him below,” he said, as his hand on the back of the boy's neck propelled him toward Boyd. “Hurt him if you want to.”

The skipper scowled.

“Only joking, Granddad. Right let's get going. Holland—three hours.”

Boyd was half out of the door with the deck hand when Motsom added, “Call me if that fat turd LeClarc wakes up.”

“O.K. Billy.”

Temporarily out-flanked, the skipper eased the throttles ahead and spun the heavy wheel. Responding with a shudder, the trawler slowly picked up speed, and the last light of the day faded from blue to mauve behind them as they steered into the approaching night.

An hour later, now surrounded by darkness, the skipper glanced at the radar screen watching for the approach of familiar landmarks. A small blip, directly astern, caught his attention. Ten minutes later it was still there, closer if anything. Motsom, gun dangling,
stared expectantly into the night ahead, searching for the first signs of land.

Fifteen minutes later a plethora of bright blips dotted the edge of the screen twenty miles ahead. The skipper recognized the cluster, not yet the low undulating coast, but ships lying at sea anchor awaiting cargoes, their owners saving money by not having them tied up in expensive berths. And the single blip of a small ship was still there, tagging behind, closer if anything.

“What are you staring at?” said Motsom, looking over his shoulder.

“Just checking we're going in the right direction,” he replied with controlled nonchalance. And, turning back to the controls, did a song and dance routine with the wheel, spinning it first one way then the other with exaggerated gusto. The little ship corkscrewed through the water for a few minutes before resuming its previous course.

Motsom was none the wiser. “Can't we go any faster?”

“Not if you want to get there. The faster we go the more fuel we use. It's up to you.”

Motsom tried to look at his watch in the darkness but couldn't make out the figures, so held it over the radar screen. “You've got an hour and a half left or the boy will die,” he said, making it clear he had every intention of carrying out the threat. “What's that?” he questioned, his eye drawn to the single dot behind them.

“Nothing,” the skipper shrugged, without bothering to look. “Just a coastal freighter I expect, heading for port same as us.”

“How far away?”

“Couple of miles.”

The wheelhouse door slid open and the cool night air crept in ahead of Boyd. “The Fish Kisser's coming round,” he said with a smirk.

“Keep an eye on him,” replied Motsom, wagging his gun at the skipper. “I wanna have a word with the slug.”

Roger LeClarc drowsed as Motsom descended the ladder into the cabin. A full bladder had driven him to consciousness but his mind was still adrift. “Where am I?” he asked vaguely, his painfully swollen eyelids refusing to open properly.

“Get the boy out of here,” Motsom hissed to McCrae and, as the deck-hand was being dragged up the ladder. He affected a snooty accent. “So, my dear Mr. LeClarc. How are you feeling?”

“I need a piss,” said LeClarc indelicately, putting first things first.

There was no toilet on the boat, few skippers saw little need when they were already floating on the world's biggest cesspool. Roger tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't carry his weight, and he crumpled to the floor and wet himself where he lay, the warm liquid dribbling into a puddle at Motsom's feet. Stepping carefully to avoid the steaming fluid, Motsom shoved him back onto the bench.