The Fish Kisser (9 page)

Her stepmother had fussed around them all afternoon like an over-attentive ward Sister, insisting they do nothing. “You two have a nice little chat,” she had said, bustling in and out with cups of tea, finicky sandwiches, and fancy cakes from Marks & Spencer's on a silly little silver coloured cake stand, that, Trudy thought, looked as though it had been pinched from a
one-star hotel. Her stepmother, the “Sister” was determined Trudy would go home to tell her mother how much better her father was being cared for now. But, beyond the smiles, and the seemingly kind words, there was a coldness, a distance, a chasm, and her father was being slowly drawn across it. Trudy was left standing on one side of the ravine as her father was being led by his new wife to the other, and by five o'clock her stepmother had had enough, repeatedly checking her watch, hinting about the bus times, anxious to ring the bell to mark the end of visiting time.

“Remember the time we caught him?” her mother was saying now. Though Trudy, only ten at the time, didn't feel she'd been personally involved in catching her father—although she'd certainly been there when he was caught.

“You should have seen his face,” her mother continued, dreamily, forgetting for a moment that Trudy had.

He had been sitting at a corner table in a little Indian restaurant; she, her stepmother-to-be, stroking one of his hands with both of hers. The flame from the flickering pink candle warmed both their faces as they held each others' gaze, unwilling, or unable to let go; neither of them bothering to examine the plates of sizzling food the waiter was carefully placing on the pink tablecloth in front of them.

“Please be careful, Sir. It is very hot,” warned the waiter, wondering why he was wasting his breath, before retreating. Trudy's mother wasn't retreating. She'd watched from across the room and now marched to attack. “So this is 'working nights,' is it?” she accused, her mouth taught with emotion. Then she swung on the other woman, biting out the words, “I'm his wife—I'm his day shift. I bet he hasn't told you about me.” Without leaving any opportunity for a
reply, she continued, in a sort of singsong voice. “And this is Trudy his little girl. Say hello to Daddy, Trudy.”

Trudy, confused, upset, alarmed by her mother's uncharacteristically powerful performance, mumbled, “Hello Dad.” Then, watched, terrified, as her mother reached out with both hands and tipped the plates of sizzling food into their laps. The startled lovebirds shot backwards, and the woman's chair tipped over, her legs spread-eagled and flailing in the air as her head hit the floor with a noticeable “thud.” Panicking, she screamed, and scrabbled at the table in an effort to pull herself up. Catching only the tablecloth, she pulled hard and sank under a deluge of crockery, cutlery, and the single red rose, which he had so lovingly given her ten minutes earlier. Trudy's father rushed to rescue his new love and, as the waiters came running, Trudy's mother caught her hand, instructing calmly, “Say goodbye to Daddy,” as if nothing had happened.

Pink was how Trudy would best remember that event. Everything seemed pink. Even her father's girlfriend's dress had been pink, although it had clashed with the pink of the tablecloth and the pink of the wallpaper. Her father's face had been the pinkest of all as she looked up at him and snivelled, “Goodbye Dad,” then felt the tug of her mother's hand, dragging her from the devastation.

A spider, one of many in the tiny room, climbed onto Trudy's left leg. She twitched involuntarily to dislodge it, and woke sufficiently from her daydream to remind herself it was Roger she was trying to recall, not her father. It was Roger's password she needed now.

“Roger,” she called forlornly into the gloom, “what's the password?”

They'd started dating almost immediately—meeting daily through the electronic wizardry of their computer modems. His wit and repartee were puerile—funny, she thought—and his crudeness gave him a slightly dangerous edge, adding to his mystique while re-enforcing her self-perceived adulthood.

“It's your own fault, Trude. You shouldn't have told him you were nineteen.” Margery warned her, when she bragged of his sexual innuendos.

“But you always lie about your age, Marg,” riposted Trudy. “You told that bloke in the pub the other night you were twenty-one and he believed you.”

“That's 'cos he wanted to believe it, Trude. Anyhow, it's different when you're talking to someone. They can see when you're lying. Roger doesn't even know what you look like for certain.”

Trudy lay thinking about her conversations with Roger, realizing that, after what had happened, nothing he'd said could be relied upon. They'd even discussed passwords once. She'd told him her's in a flash. “IT'S MARMY,” she wrote. “THAT'S OUR CAT. HIS NAME IS MARMADUKE REALLY BUT WE CALL HIM MARMY, LIKE MARMALADE, 'COS THATS WHAT COLOUR HE IS. SORT OF ORANGEY, GINGER. WHAT'S YOUR PASSWORD ROGER?” She sat back, staring at the blank screen, until she worried he'd logged off without warning, and sent him another message. “U DONT HAVE TO TELL ME IF U DONT WANT 2. I DONT MIND, HONEST.”

Her screen flicked back to an incoming message almost immediately. “I DON'T MIND TRUDE. IT'S JUST THAT I USE LOTS OF PASSWORDS AND SOME R A BIT RUDE. I'LL TELL U IF U WANT.”

She typed back. “GO ON. IM AN ADULT REMEMBER. NOT A KID.”

Instantly, her screen scrolled as a long list of words appeared. Beginning with “ass” and ending in “wank”; he'd included every crudity she knew, and several she didn't. She'd giggled as she saved the file, naming it “password@roger,” and sending it to her
Wordperfect
directory.

“It's disgusting, Trude,” said Margery. “Better not let your mum see it.”

“Don't worry,” she replied, “Mum doesn't know what I do on the computer.”

Willing herself back to the present she posed the question, “What if he was telling the truth?” Completely awake now, her mind raced with hope as she started the painful process to raise herself off the bed. “What if one or more of those words were right after all?”

It was 8:30 a.m. in Watford as Trudy tried to reconstruct Roger's list from memory. The damp streets were alive with the noise of traffic and the sounds of children going to school, though Trudy heard none of it. The railway station, at the end of Junction Road, was still crowded with commuters lucky enough to start work in the city after the nine o'clock rush hour, or unlucky enough to have overslept. A discarded newspaper lay next to a litterbin on platform 4 and a young bank clerk—a late starter—held it in place with his foot as he idly read the headlines. “No trace of missing 16 yr-old. Police are still mystified over the total disappearance last week of Leyton schoolgirl Trudy McKenzie.” He moved his foot an inch or two and examined the accompanying photograph. “Not bad,” he said under his breath.

At precisely the same moment it was nine thirty in Holland, and D.I. Bliss, with his two constables, set off
past the lines of waiting cars as they tagged along behind the Dutch police Saab. Custom's formalities had been waived for the visiting officers, and they found themselves being guided through a gate in the security fence, emerging directly at the exit lanes.

Bliss glanced to his left—there, just as he expected, was the little green Renault leaving the Custom's shed; a blue Ford with two Dutch detectives tucking in neatly behind it. There was Roger on his way to The Hague. Roger LeClarc—computer expert; Roger LeClarc—the man who'd unwittingly caused such a commotion on the ship; Roger LeClarc—safe and sound. Bliss let out a self-congratulatory sigh, gave his front seat companion a thumbs-up and took one last confirming glance at the Renault's driver.

“Oh Fuck! Stop, stop.”

Bliss didn't wait, couldn't wait. Leaping from the still moving car, arms waiving madly, he dashed across the road, leapt the fence and almost threw himself onto the bonnet of Roger's Renault. Dutch police officers came running from all directions. And in the driver's seat, terrified beyond speechlessness, sat Nosmo King.

“Zo, Mr. King. I wish you to tell me once again, your story about the missing man,” said the Dutch inspector, straight-backed—no-nonsense, his nationality barely discernable from his accent.

Nosmo sighed, “Look I've told you and told you. I've never seen him before. I don't know his name. He paid me two hundred pounds to drive his car off the ship. Then I got arrested. That's all I know.”

“And you met this man in ze ship's bar. Is zhat what you said?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“And somebody stole the money from …”

Nosmo interrupted, “Not all the money. I've still got a hundred.”

“Oh yes,” continued the inspector with a sarcastic sneer, “I forgot. Somebody must have stolen some of the money because now you have only one hundred and seventeen pounds and four pence. Is zhat correct Sergeant?”

“Correct, Inspector,” barked the sergeant, taking notes across the desk from King, a role that seemed a complete waste of his enormous physical attributes.

“And finally, Mr. King, just for our records please, the man who fell overboard, the man whose car you were driving, the man who is now missing—who is he?”

“I told you, I don't know. I didn't even know if it was his car. He paid me to take the car, and then he must have jumped off the ship.”

The sergeant threw up his eyebrows and gave a one-nostrilled snort, as if to say, “A likely story.”

But the inspector's straight face gave nothing away. “Well Mr. King, I think you are in a lot of trouble. I cannot believe a man would pay you to take his car because he is going to die. It is not sensible.”

“Well that's what happened. You'd better ask him if you don't believe me.”

Impatience took its toll; the desk took a pounding. “Tell me where he is, Mr. King. Tell me where he is and I will ask him.”

King started to smile, regretted it, and straightened his face, “I guess he's out at sea somewhere. Let me know if you find the poor bastard.” He started to rise, “Can I go now please?”

A fierce look from the monstrous sergeant intimidated him back into the chair, but he kept a bold eye on the inspector.

Getting nowhere, unsure if anyone was actually missing from the ship, and handicapped by the absence of witnesses, the inspector played for time. “We have enquiries to make zo you will stay with us in prison …”

King tried protesting, “But I didn't…” then he let it go and slumped into the chair, washing his face in his hands in frustration. Twenty-four tension-filled, sleepless hours had taken their toll. Then he had an idea.
“Can I speak to the English detective, the one who stopped me?”

The inspector picked up the phone and prattled in Dutch, leaving King to wonder whether he was ordering lunch, a firing squad or Bliss' presence. Leaning menacingly over the back of King's chair, he said, “I have asked for the detective to come. Perhaps you will tell him the truth, Mr. King.”

Nosmo snapped his head back, looked the inspector straight in the eye and lied, deliberately, “I am telling you the truth.”

Seconds later a muffled knock brought the sergeant to his feet and his boots clunked across the flagstone floor with a noise familiar to King: Steel tipped toes and heels—an old army trick—much more impressive than leather hitting the parade ground. And the sharp toe-piece could make a nasty mess of an uncooperative prisoner's shins.

“This police station's huge,” said D.I. Bliss, standing in the doorway, stunned by the height of the ceiling and the enormousness of the windows. “How old is it?”

“The Bosch built it,” spat the sergeant, inflating himself to full size, making it clear the Nazis would have thought twice if he'd been around at the time.

“Thanks for coming, Dave,” said King.

Bliss continued his inspection of the ceiling.

“It was a military barracks,” added the sergeant, “Defences for the Rhine.”

King tried again, “What's happening, Dave?”

The sergeant, in full historical flight, glared at King and finished his lecture. “When the British came in 1944 they made it their headquarters.”

“Very nice,” said King, applauding, “Now can you tell me what the hell is going on, Dave?”

Bliss snubbed him—
don't get familiar with me sonny.
“You asked for me, Inspector. Can I help?”

“Mr. King actually asked to speak to you but you can help, yes. Perhaps you can explain to him that our laws are very strict in Holland. He can go to prison for life for murder. Would you explain that to him please.”

“I didn't do it,” yelled King, leaping to his own defence. “I haven't killed anyone.” He turned to Bliss, eyes pleading, voice cracking. “You know it wasn't me, Dave. It couldn't have been me that threw him overboard, could it?”

“How do I know? You're the only one who claims to have seen him go, and you certainly stole his car. Right now I'm not about to believe anything you say.”

King was miles away, malignant thoughts of Motsom burning into his brain—
the bastard set me up.

“Nosmo—are you listening?” said Bliss, prodding him.

“Sorry, Dave …”

“I said, why should I believe you?”

“Because I told you what happened. I told you I didn't see who went over.” Dropping his face into his hands in exasperation, he pleaded innocence, “I wouldn't have been stupid enough to push the guy over, then try to save him, would I?”

“You might have …” started Bliss, pausing to think of countless analogies: Firemen setting fires then dashing heroically to the rescue; masked bandits ripping off their disguises and joining the pursuit; child abductors painstakingly searching the back woods and, most appropriately, murderers leading the hunt …
“See, it couldn't be me … I wouldn't be helping if it was me …”
“You might have,” he repeated without explanation.