The Fish Kisser by James Hawkins Page A

with a start, muttering, “Bloody not part of England,” but Bliss cut him short with a glare. “Anyway, this man disappeared sometime in the past three or four months. No one seems quite sure exactly when.”
    He looked around the room, checking the officers one at a time, taking in the fact they nearly all wore glasses, and all but one were smoking. Even Yolanda No.l, as he had decided to call her, had a cigarette in her hand, and he felt himself shudder at the sight of her nicotine stained slender fingers. “Now,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Now to Roger LeClarc.”
    Memories of the briefing room at Scotland Yard just three weeks earlier zipped through his mind—the briefing room and the pompous superintendent from Special Ops.
    â€œRight, listen up chaps,” the superintendent had begun, imagining himself still in the RAF where he had been nothing more than a corporal. “This is a big one. Screw this up and you’ll all be back in uniform.” He stopped and glowered at Sergeant Jones, “Name?” he demanded with a nod.
    â€œJones, Sir. Serious Crime Squad.”
    â€œWell Sergeant Jones,” he started, almost conversationally, “smoking is a serious crime when I’m in the room.” Then he boomed, “So put it out—this isn’t a bloody bar.”
    Jones sheepishly stubbed out the cigarette amid the jeers of his colleagues and someone flicked a remote control, unveiling a monster television. “Watch this,” commanded the superintendent.
    â€œRoger LeClarc, 31 years.” said a caption under an unflattering close-up of a bloated face with unruly hair. “Senior I.T. Consultant, ACT Telecommunications 1999,” appeared under the heading, “Occupation.”
    A series of mug shots followed—family album types mainly: holidays, weddings, birthdays, and people doing stupid things; then a short section of home movie—Brighton beach in front of the Grand Hotel, Roger’s distended white belly and folds of flab flopping up and down as he hopped in and out of the surf.
    Then a more sinister collection, including a couple of video clips bearing the hallmarks of police surveillance cameras: Roger squeezing himself into his Renault; Roger on a train—asleep, snoring; Roger in his office— through a window; Roger eating; Roger’s parents house in Watford; Roger coming out of the old terraced house near Watford station; Roger fumbling with his flies in a public toilet—“Don’t ask,” said the superintendent as a giggle rippled round the room. “O.K. Chaps,” he added, as the video wound down, “everything points to this fat git as the target—in fact we’ve good info. he’s next on the list. We’ve reason to believe that sometime in the next few weeks he will be snatched, and it’s your job to prevent it—any questions?”
    A youngish female voice piped up from the back. “Is he married, Sir?”
    â€œWhy … Do you fancy him?” brought a hail of laughter.
    â€œHave we got a full description, Sir. Address, date of birth, that sort of thing?” asked a young detective leaning forward in the front row.
    â€œNaturally, Officer,” he said, turning to his staff sergeant. “Pass out the portfolios, Sergeant, there’s a good chap.” He paused long enough for most people to get a blue folder with CONFIDENTIAL typed in thetop right hand corner, then studied his copy. “You’ll find everything you need in here, including rotas. Three teams of four—Inspector, sergeant, and two constables. Anything else?”
    â€œYes, Sir,” queried one of the sergeants. “What’s happening to them, the missing whiz kids—Do we know?”
    Superintendent Edwards slumped in his chair and massaged his face in thought, taking time to decide how much to reveal. “We know for sure this isn’t some two-bit