The Fish Kisser (23 page)

With Margery's hastily packed bag over his shoulder, Peter nudged them through the main doors toward the police car, the policeman urging them to hurry. Peter, grabbing his arm, whispered, “Don't worry constable, it's too late tonight.”

“Not quite,” he replied, looking pleased, explaining that a friend at the
Daily Express
had promised to hold a space as long as they had Roger's picture before midnight.

Peter swung round in his seat as soon as they hit the main highway. “Margery, Luv. What do you know about this Roger bloke?”

Margery distanced herself a little from Lisa. “Trude said he was twenty-seven, I said that were too old. She didn't say a lot about him really.” She paused for effect, as if trying to think of what to say next, though she had thought about nothing else since seeing Trudy's picture in the paper. “He's got a big house in Watford and drives a Jag.”

“That's it. That's where she is,” cried Lisa. “Why didn't you stop her you stupid girl?”

Margery had found a prickly seat and squirmed. “I told her not to go. Honest. I told her that all he wanted was a fu …” she stopped, suddenly aware she was not talking to her peers, “You know?” she finished, with uncharacteristic shyness.

“Have you any idea of the address?” enquired the constable, feeling it was his responsibility to ask the questions.

“I've thought and thought, but she never said.”

“Did she say if she was unhappy at home?” continued the constable, treading on thin ice.

She quickly replied, “No,” then looked sheepish. “I don't know if I should say this …” she paused, fidgeting uncomfortably, her eyes roaming back and forth between Lisa and Peter, then she took the plunge, “Trudy doesn't like her stepmother—reckoned it was her fault her dad left home.”

Peter said nothing but Lisa stepped in quickly. “Come and stay with me Margery, 'til your parents get back.”

“Is that alright Mrs. McKenzie?”

“I want you to,” she pleaded forcefully, then added, “Please.”

“Mum said I should ask if I could. She's worried as well.”

“Anyway, I wouldn't feel happy with you on your own after what's happened to Trudy.” The admission that something had “happened” to Trudy dispelled all remaining optimism and immersed Lisa in macabre thought: Her lips quivered, she squeezed them together tightly; her eyes misted, she shut them; her body started shaking, she clenched her muscles. But the emotion continued building until the pressure became too great and she exploded into a violently sobbing mess.

Peter leaned over and quietly asked the constable to stop the car.

“It's dangerous here.”

“Please.”

He stopped. Peter leapt out and, changing places with Margery, quickly bundled Lisa's jerking body in his arms and pressed her face to his chest.

Nobody spoke for a while, the car was filled with the sound of Lisa's sobs and an occasional breathy, “There, there,” from Peter, who would have added, “Everything will be alright,” had he not known she would immediately see through the lie and weep even more. They were travelling fast, without dramatics. The constant buzz of the engine and the ever-changing hum of the tires, were the only sounds for many miles, as each occupant unsuccessfully tried to come up with something to diffuse a further explosion of grief. Then the constable decided to offer some hope to Lisa, judging it was time to end the silence. “Mrs. McKenzie?” he called, in the rear view mirror.

She responded with a sniffled, “Yes.”

“You don't know anything bad has happened. She might have just gone away with this bloke on holiday and didn't tell you 'cos she knew you'd say no.”

“Trudy wouldn't do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” she snapped, but wouldn't have bet her life on it.

“Were you close?” he continued kindly, hoping to ease the tension.

“Yes, Well …” she wavered—he caught the waver. “Not as close as we used to be. I work evenings, and she's at school all day, so we don't see too much of each other.”

The memories of how life had been were too much: tears started again, quietly this time, tiny droplets dribbling down her cheeks. Tears of guilt, regret, and remorse shed by every imperfect parent; tears for the missed opportunities; tears for things said and unsaid. But Lisa's tears were magnified a thousand fold by the fact that, unlike other parents, she might never have the opportunity to say: “Sorry daughter. I did my best.”

Wiping the tears, Lisa leaned forward and touched the constable's shoulder, insisting he should pay attention. “She wouldn't leave her cat, she adores it,” she sniffled.

“What if she was only planning on going for a few days?”

“She wouldn't.”

He uttered, “Ah … hah,” which could have meant anything, but Lisa chose it to mean he didn't believe her.

Why wouldn't they believe her? The first policeman who came to the house had been the same. He'd started off compassionately enough, taking Trudy's description, names and addresses of her friends and relatives, things she took with her—nothing really, just her handbag, places she liked to visit,; hobbies, even the things she liked to eat. Then he started. “Are you sure you didn't have any trouble with her?”

“No.”

“‘No,' you didn't have any trouble or 'no' you're not sure?”

“No trouble.”

“You didn't have a fight?”

“No, we never fought.”

“Never?”

“Hardly ever. Well not physically anyway.”

“But you did have rows?”

“Yes,” she was forced to admit. “We did have disagreements. Doesn't everybody?” She sought confirmation in his face but saw a different look; could see what he was thinking—How do I know you haven't killed her and dumped the body somewhere?

Twenty times at least she felt like saying, “Get out if you're not going to do anything.” But she didn't say it, knowing he would claim that proved her guilt. Then he brought up the drugs, “Was she?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“Does she smoke?”

“Yes. They all do, well most of them anyway.”

His look said, “Hash,” but she carried on before he had a chance to say it. “So what does that prove. I like a drop of Martini, does that make me an alcoholic?”

“No,” he admitted. Then, after a pause, asked, “And what about sex?” Giving her a questioning look, too embarrassed or too sensitive to come clean and ask if Trudy were a virgin.

“I don't know,” replied Lisa, looking away.

“Has she ever …”

God, she thought angrily, this man's a copper and he's frightened to ask me if my daughter's ever been bonked. “No … Yes … Possibly. I don't know. She never told me.”

“Could she be on the game?”

“How dare you?”

“We have to ask.”

“No you don't.”

“Look, I'm sorry but we've got to have some idea where to start looking. I'm not saying she's on the game …”

“She's not,” Lisa shouted straight into his face, her eyes not more than three inches from his.

He remained calm. “Like I said, I'm not suggesting she is …”

“Good!” she yelled.

“All I'm saying is that I need to know … If there were the slightest possi—”

“There's not,” she shot back before he could finish.

“I'm just asking, then we'd know where to start looking, Kings Cross railway station for instance.”

She stared at him coldly. “I'm not going to tell you again. She's not a whore. O.K.”

“O.K.,” he replied, unconvinced.

“Anyway, I don't suppose you'd bother to look if I said she was,” complained Lisa. He glanced sideways at her, doubt written all over his face—she could have throttled him. “I told you, she is not. Got it.”

He got it.

“The Historic Borough of Leyton,” proclaimed the sign proudly as they neared Margery's home. “Asshole of the World,” had been added, unofficially, in fluorescent red, and the artist would have been gratified to know his work reflected well in the headlights of the car. Directed by Margery, the constable pulled up outside the darkened house and looked at the dashboard clock. “Ten-oh-five,” he said, pleased with himself for making good time.

“This is Roger,” Margery said, triumphantly flourishing the folded sheet from the centre of a biology book a few moments later. Lisa grabbed it and the others stared over her shoulder. Peter quickly shook his head, and Lisa said, “No,” but continued staring, surprised by the lack of malevolence in the man's eyes, thinking that she herself might have difficulty resisting his obvious charms.

“You are quite sure this is Roger?” the policeman asked in an official tone, holding the photocopy up for Margery to see. She nodded seriously. And, mindful of the fact the picture could one day become an exhibit in a murder trial, he carefully placed it in a plastic evidence bag and wrote on the label “Roger??? Last known address—Watford.”

Fifteen minutes later he was on his way to the
Daily Express
office with a creased photocopy, and verbal description of someone who might well have come from a different species, or planet, than Roger LeClarc.

Roger would have recognised the man in the picture, although his swollen eyelids would have made the vision somewhat blurry. In any case he was submerged in darkness, darker even than his first night as a castaway, the sky completely shut out by a cold wet blanket of fog.

Things had brightened just a little by late morning, the great globs of black and slate-grey cloud rushing northwards, leaving a wash of translucent white with the brush strokes clearly visible. But, just as the heavens were being re-painted sky-blue, a swirling mist began wafting around the life raft, shutting out the horizon and coating Roger with tiny beads of water.

Several ships had slipped by in the fog, only the penetrating tones of their foghorns signalling their presence
and, by late afternoon, he had convinced himself that a particularly close horn was that of a lighthouse. It must be a bay or inlet, he thought, deceived by the calmness of the water, and dreamed of a wide sandy beach garnished with bare-breasted nymphets and a hundred hamburger joints. The prospect of hamburgers jerked him awake—food, I need food, must have food. “There must be food inside,” he mused and sat on the edge of the giant rubber ring with his feet dangling speculatively into the opening, weighing the pros and cons of venturing inside, into a water-filled paddling pool.

His stomach won, and a minute later he was floundering helplessly as his bulk dented the flimsy bottom and a deluge of water knocked his feet from under him. His thrashing flushed him further from the inflated rim and, within seconds, he was drowning again: His weight, sodden coat, the water, and gravity, conspiring to drag him under the canopy toward the centre. He sank to his chest and sat forlornly in the middle with only his head and shoulders above the water, the canopy draped over him like a huge deflated parachute.

Once the water, and his mind, had calmed, he used his hands as flippers to inch back toward the opening, then his right hand collided with the box of emergency rations and he clung to it thankfully as he clambered back onto the roof and collapsed, exhausted.

The blanket of fog hanging motionless above the sea intensified hour by hour. By early evening the cold white swirling mist of the morning had become a uniform grey wall. Night appeared to fall several hours earlier than it should otherwise have done and Roger slept.

Night was also falling in the Dutch port where preparations were being made to keep tabs on the truck bound
for Istanbul. A knot of officers, English and Dutch, stood around the rear of the trailer receiving instructions, then Detective Constable Wilson dropped a bombshell. “Sorry, Guv,” he said, “but I'm not volunteering to go in that.” He hesitated momentarily, adding, “With all due respect,” a fraction too late to have any sincerity, and he kept his eyes on the ground, away from Superintendent Edwards.

“I wasn't asking for volunteers,” snarled Edwards, his clenched teeth chattering in anger as he hissed, “Come with me.”

Turning his back, he strode smartly away, leaving Wilson looking to his colleague for support. D.C. Smythe pulled a face—
you're on your own mate,
and an embarrassed silence built with the possibility of a showdown. Edwards broke the spell. “Wilson,” he barked, the single word somehow encompassing the phrase, “Come here you bastard.”

“Yes, Sir,” Wilson replied, half running to catch up with his senior officer.

Edwards turned on him as soon as they were out of the group's earshot. Making eye contact he flew at him, “You will go in the truck you little snot,” he spat. “How dare you show me up in front of the captain.”

“But, Sir …” Wilson tried to explain.

“Don't you 'but' me you little runt.”

“Sir, I have an important engagement,” he managed, before Edwards could stop him.

“Nothing, I repeat, nothing is more important than this case to you, and your career, at this moment,” he said, adding with venom. “Do I make myself abundantly clear?”

Wilson wouldn't give up; couldn't afford to give up, “Sir, I promised my wife …”

Edwards cut in with a sneer, “You promised your wife what? I bet you promised you wouldn't get pissed, or wouldn't get a dose of AIDS from a whore in Amsterdam. Wouldn't have stopped you though would it?” He paused for breath and a change of tone. “That reminds me, I still haven't found out what you and the others were doing when Bliss lost LeClarc on the bloody ship. Where were you? How come Bliss was the only one on deck? What was Sergeant Jones doing when he fell over? Trying to hold up the bar was he? Or, do you expect me to believe Bliss lost him all on his own?”