The Fish Kisser by James Hawkins

at the captain, “Maybe I won’t bother with names, they’re irrelevant really. The first one disappeared without trace. Brilliant man—just developed a new process for making chips …” He stopped, briefly examining their faces. Did they understand? Unsure, he interpreted: “Computer processors.” Yolanda’s wide blue eyes signified comprehension. Damn! Trapped again.
    â€œHe went for a ride on his bicycle and was never seen again,” he pushed on, careful to avoid looking to his right, Yolanda’s side.
    â€œNumber two … It was put down as a suicide. Drove his car straight off a bridge into the front of an express train. Only bits and pieces were ever found and they were burnt to a cinder.”
    â€œCinder?” she questioned, her voice striking him like a tenor bell—he knew which bell.
    â€œUm, yes. Ashes, nothing left,” he said, struggling to answer without making eye contact. “The body was never properly identified. The car exploded like a bomb when the train hit it—a huge fire, the train driver was burnt to death as well.”
    Kidding himself that he’d broken her spell, he risked a quick glance and immediately regretted it. She was waiting for him—her soft eyes drawing him in, holding him, mesmerizing him. I don’t need this, he thought, breaking free, but with a quiver in his voice continued. “Number three—encryption specialist, another complete disappearance. Went for a stroll with his dogs one Sunday afternoon. The dogs came back. No trace of him … Number four was different. The only female. She was working on an ultra-high speed system to connect banks around the world. She did kill herself, even left a suicide note. It seems she was being blackmailed but we never found out why … Numbersfive and six were friends. Two of the most seasoned computer boffins …” he paused and translated, “two of the world’s top computer experts. Worked for rival companies but were responsible for some major advances in computers. They disappeared on a fishing trip off the south coast. One of them owned a forty-foot cruiser and it just … aah! . . um.” Flipping open his hands he made a “pt” sound with his lips. “Gone,” he said, expressively, expecting everyone to understand they had simply vanished into thin air.
    â€œSeven was a couple of months ago. A major loss to the industry. This guy had just developed an entirely new kind of processor, a complete revolution. He was on his way back from California for a presentation to the company president, but never arrived. His plane blew up over the ocean. His body was never found, neither were his plans or prototypes.”
    â€œI remember that,” said a Caas, “I zink that was the plane crash that killed all those Americans.”
    â€œCorrect,” said Bliss. “Two hundred and forty-three—twenty of ’em kids.”
    â€œDo you honestly think they would do that?” demanded the other Yolanda in puritanical outrage, her dour face and lank, chopped, prisoner’s hairstyle as austere as her tone.
    Bliss shrugged, “I don’t know—it’s possible. Some people will do anything for money.”
    Now, with a sweeping glance around the room, he changed stance and tone. No longer the lecturer, he relaxed to being a fellow cop. “Those are all the one’s we’re sure are connected. There was an eighth one, a strange man who worked on his own and sold ideas to the highest bidder. He lived in an old farmhouse in the Welsh mountains.”
    â€œWhat is Welsh?” interrupted one of the Jans.
    â€œSorry … Wales. You know, the little country stuck on the west of England …” Jan’s puzzled frown suggested that geography was not one of his strong points so Bliss tried making it easy, “It’s part of England.”
    D.C. Wilson, hailing from Cardiff, roused