The Fish Kisser (33 page)

A shout from above startled him, “Oy! You there. What'ye doing. Kissing the fish?” Motsom was laughing and even McCrae came close tó breaking his face.

“Save Trudy. Please save Trudy,” was all he managed to say, then he collapsed unconscious into the water.

The old clock in the railway refreshment room clunked its way to 8 p.m. and the lumpy waitress stood by the door and flipped the “closed” sign. She'd had an unusual day and was anxious to get home to see herself on the news. Although the excitement had perked up her flagging energy mid-afternoon; she was now feeling the effects. In addition to interviews and photos, she'd still had to serve the dozens of press and television people who had lined up for endless cups of tea. And everybody had been in a rush, no one wanting to leave the circus at Roger's house for a moment longer than necessary lest they should miss the star attraction.

Walking up Junction Road, a minute later, she briefly joined the knot of sightseers staring expectantly
at Roger's front door. Disappointed when nobody recognized her, she was just moving on when Roger's innocent looking yellow door cracked open a fraction and a man's face searched the crowd. Then the gap widened and a uniformed officer slid out and quickly pulled it shut behind him, heightening the speculation that they had discovered a house of horrors; an excited buzz went around the expectant audience—enough pressmen and rubber-neckers to fill a double-decker bus—this could be BIG!

Standing at the top of the steps, the policeman cleared his throat and flashed a hastily scribbled communiqué. Waiting, just long enough for the cameramen to fire up their machines, he balanced up and down on his toes, coughed a couple of times, then read from the sheet.

“Investigations into the disappearance of Roger LeClarc and Trudy McKenzie, sixteen years, are continuing. At present we have no clear evidence but we cannot rule out foul play.”

A barrage of questions flew toward him but he ducked back into the house leaving the cameras with a picture of the closing door.

Detective Constable Jackson, looking more than ever like Roger Moore in the flattering warmth of the evening light, stood in the hallway with the staff sergeant and a handful of other officers.

“I don't think we can do any more,” said Jackson, addressing the air as his eyes swept around making one last check. Every floor, wall and ceiling in each room had been poked, prodded and tapped; bright lights and pencil thin beams had shone into every crevice; magnifying glasses had magnified everything imaginable—but no one had even considered the floor in the cupboard under the stairs. The cupboard had been searched, almost everyone had poked their nose in at some time, some even fingering
the hook in the ceiling thinking it to be a clothes hook, but no one had tugged at the floor.

“I think you're right lad,” replied the sergeant. “If we have to, we'll get a builder in to take up all the floors, but there's no point until we get the lab tests on the hairs and blood. That won't be until Tuesday or Wednesday next week.”

Jackson stamped his foot on the wooden boards and a quiver ran through the house. “If she is under here she won't be going anywhere in a hurry, so it doesn't matter.”

Trudy was there—directly beneath him, just ten feet away; ten feet that may as well have been a mile, her emaciated little body scrunched into a lifeless ball against the prison door. The computer still bearing her final plea to her mother, humming happily in the corner, while countless little creatures nibbled away at the fabric of the room, and each other, in the moonlight of its screen. The constant struggle for life and death continued unabated.

“Alright lads,” continued the sergeant, “let's call it a day. Make sure you take everything with you and nobody is to blab to the press. Got it?” His eyes scanned each face, waiting to see a nod of agreement before moving on. Satisfied, he opened the front door and heard the buzz of excitement as the remaining reporters pressed forward.

“Last out turn off the lights,” said one of the officers jokingly as he made his exit.

“Wilco,” replied Jackson with a smile, then he glanced at the conveniently placed electricity meter on the wall next to the door.

“There's a light on,” he muttered to himself.

“What d'ye say lad?” enquired the sergeant.

Jackson indicated the meter with a nod, “It's still moving. There must be a light on.”

“Don't think so,” he replied.

Thirty seconds later, the entire house checked, Jackson and the sergeant stood in the hallway watching the tiny hand creep slowly around and around, and around.

“Well something must be on,” said the sergeant.

The atmosphere in the bustling terminal at Istanbul's Atatürk airport had all the qualities of a Turkish bath, forcing Bliss and Yolanda to fight their way out of the scruffy building through a smelly smog of sticky air. Attempts to mask the stench had failed, and the atmosphere suffered as much from the cure as the malaise. Sickly sweet antiperspirants, as nauseous as body odour, and ammonia disinfectants more noxious than the stinking toilets, competed for air space with exhaust fumes and the odour of roast goat.

“Taxi,” shouted Yolanda at the snappily dressed chauffer of a sleek limousine, a dainty flag dangling limply from a little staff on the roof. The driver's half closed eyes ignored her as he jerked his head in a backwards nod and clicked his tongue.

“Tack … see?” she mouthed, pronouncing both syllables, assuming he had misunderstood the universal word.

With a look of disdain, he lifted his nose in the air and flicked a finger toward a line of yellow cabs, the apparent losers in a recent demolition derby.

“I'd rather take this one,” she said, determined not to be fobbed off.

“Sir,” he replied, smiling directly at Bliss. “Please tell your wife this car is for the Minister of Antiquities.”

“She's not my wife …” he started, then stopped himself, noticing the phoney smile on the driver's face, recalling Anne's warning on their flight from Vienna. “You'll be alright as long as they don't smile,” she had said, adding, “The only thing more dangerous than a growling Grisly is a smiling Turk.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled and dragged Yolanda away.

“Always some excuse,” she moaned, as they lugged their bags toward the line-up of write-offs on the other side of the road.

The first cab reeked badly of garlic and, no sooner had they sat down than Bliss retched, and they shot back out. The driver of the second didn't speak English, Dutch, or Bliss' schoolboyish variation on the theme of French. Yolanda tried a few words of her native tongue and would have been stunned had they understood.

“Was that Swedish?” he asked, as they headed to cab number three.

“Nearly … It's Danish—they're similar. We moved to Holland when I was two.”

Well that explains the hair and eyes, he thought, with a glance.

“I speak Englees,” said number three, addressing Bliss. “My name is Abdul.”

Yolanda gave him an affirmative nod—the taxi and Abdul would not have been out of place in Amsterdam or London.

“Hotel first,” she whispered, as Bliss reached forward with the address Nosmo King had given. “I need a shower,” she added with uncharacteristic diffidence.

“Oh, I'm sorry—of course. I should have thought,” he replied, reflecting on their exploit in the plane.

“Which hotel, Sir?”

Bliss, stumped, was readying to say, “Somewhere cheap,” when Yolanda came to his rescue. “The Yesil Ev, please,” she said, confidence restored. “I've stayed there before,” she explained. “You'll love it, they have huge beds with beautiful brass bedsteads.” Her eyes smiled. “We may as well enjoy ourselves now we are here.”

And, in celebration, their lips crushed together.

“Sir. Sir. Sir. Please, Sir.”

Bliss broke away reluctantly, “What is it, Abdul?”

“You must not do that, Sir. It is a crime.”

“To kiss my wife is a crime?” he asked loftily, hoping his presumption wouldn't offend Yolanda.

“Yes, Sir, in public it is a crime. In private it is O.K. but it is forbidden in public in our country.”

He leaned to whisper in Yolanda's ear.

“Sir, Sir,” the driver warned, fearing another kiss.

“It's O.K.,” said Bliss with a placatory wave, then continued sarcastically, “Would it be alright if I speak to her?”

“Oh yes, Sir, that is alright.”

He didn't bother—he had caught a glimpse of Abdul's malicious smile in the rear view mirror.

The shanty-like suburbs of single story houses quickly gave way to modern apartments and office towers, and they sneaked glances at each other while Abdul gave a spirited impression of a tour guide.

“This the famous Topkapi Palace,” he said with a wide sweep of his hand taking in four downtown blocks.

“Wow,” said Bliss. “That's huge. Who was it built for?”

Abdul scrutinized the building carefully, seeking inspiration or a sign, and the car wandered hazardously until an irate bus driver caught his attention with a horn blast.

“It was built for very important man,” he replied eventually, as if he had known the answer all along.

“Mehmet the Conqueror,” explained Yolanda quietly. “It is where he kept his harem and eunuchs.”

“That is correct, Sir,” said Abdul, basking in Yolanda's glory. “And this, Sir,” he added, introducing an enormous building topped by a crescendo of domes with the aplomb of the architect, “this is the Blue Mosque.”

“It looks grey,” responded Bliss as he stared in awe at the multi-layered building sporting a mass of towering minarets. “How old is it?”

“It is very, very, very old,” said Abdul gravely, with little calculation.

“It's blue inside Dave. We'll go there tomorrow,” said Yolanda with a little excited squeeze of his hand as they drove alongside the turquoise waters of the Bosphorus.

The hotel, was, “as stuffed as a pig,” explained the desk clerk colourfully, scanning an incomprehensible ledger while wildly scratching his head. Yolanda slid a crisp twenty-dollar bill between the book's leaves and a miracle occurred. Apparently a cancellation had just been phoned in, and he had overlooked it. He was, he said, immensely sorry for the misunderstanding, then hinted that the cancellation of a more desirable suite could be arranged for another twenty. Bliss clicked his tongue in disapproval but stopped when the clerk broke into a smile. “It is just my little joke, Sir.” Bliss didn't laugh.

A hire car had proved more difficult and Bliss gave up easily. “Taxi it is then,” he said, with relief, having
studied the driving habits of the locals for the past twenty minutes.

They quickly showered, dried, and dressed, and he made a stab at a kiss as they readied to leave, but she turned a hard face and spun away.

“Sorry …” he mumbled confused.

She turned back with a mischievous grin. “It is a crime, Dave.” Then laughed as she pushed him onto the huge soft bed and mauled his mouth until he cried, “I can't breathe.”

“Get a cab. I'm ready,” she called, disappearing into the bathroom to repair her lips.

Bliss stepped into the hot evening, sniffing the potent aroma of hibiscus, mimosa and diesel, and found that Abdul had anticipated their requirements.

“I say to myself. This nice man he needs Abdul, so I stay,” he explained, obviously sensing the possibility of a landing a weekend's work.

Of course he could find the address Nosmo King had written on the handkerchief, but as to how far, and how long, his eyes took on a faraway look. “Ten minutes, maybe an hour,” he said, his vacant expression adding, “Who cares.”

Fortunately, it took only twenty minutes and they arrived while it was still daylight. The address was a warehouse, a windowless white concrete block, like an iceberg rising out of a jumbled sea of rocky pack-ice.

“Earthquake,” explained Abdul, excusing the ramshackle industrial complex, where only a handful of small factories and the warehouse remained. A twelve-foot perimeter fence surrounded the warehouse and Abdul slowed at the gate. “It is closed,” he said with hardly a glance, and was driving off when Yolanda shouted, “Stop!” He eased back on the accelerator and turned to Bliss. “Do you wish for me to stop, Sir?”

“I wish you to do whatever the lady says,” Bliss shot back, infuriated by the driver's treatment of Yolanda.

“Yes, Sir. If that is your wish, Sir,” replied Abdul with a vicious smile.

Two minutes later they were back in the car. The high mesh fence topped with razor wire and the conspicuously padlocked gates had dispelled any notion of breaking in for a quick sneak around.

“I told you,” said Abdul. “Everywhere closed, I bring you back Monday.”

“Maybe,” replied Yolanda coolly. “But now we would like some dinner,” and sought Bliss' agreement.

Abdul said, “I have excellent number one place. Trust me.”

Bliss toyed with the idea of refusing, just to test Abdul's hunger, but the young Turk was already warming to a smile so he thought better of it.

As a tourist guide Abdul had been less useful than a local telephone directory, but he'd hit the spot with the restaurant.

“It's Russian,” explained the maitre d'hotel, as they were led to an intimate alcove surrounded on three sides by intricately pierced screens. The atmosphere, heady with the smoke of a dozen ornate hookah pipes, was enriched by the scent of a hundred perfumed candles; the breathy cry of a reed flute added to the aura with exotic Arabian music, the sound barely fluttering the air. The shimmering candlelight, softened by smoke, shifted time, and the two detectives drifted into an ambience of nineteenth century romanticism.

“This is real gold,” exclaimed Yolanda, fingering a piece of cutlery.