The Fish Kisser by James Hawkins Page B

ransom job,” he began after a few moments. “Whoever’s doing this ain’t after their piggy banks. But, at this particular moment in time …” He paused, still undecided, and finished by saying, “At this moment in time we have absolutely no idea.
    â€œDismissed,” he shouted, above the buzz of speculation, stifling further questions.
    â€œWait,” he commanded, stilling the crescendo of shuffling feet. “One last thing …” then he paused while a couple of fleet footed officers were motioned back into the room. “LeClarc must not find out he is being watched under any circumstances. According to his boss he’s a strange character. There’s no telling what he might do if he thinks he’s a target. So keep your heads down and jolly good luck chaps.”
    â€œBombs away,” shouted one of the officers, keeping his back to the superintendent.
    Bliss, cautiously evading eye contact with Yolanda, completed his briefing, then reeled off a list of tasks for Captain Jahnssen and his officers. “You’re already searching the cars as they come off but you’ll need to search the trucks and containers. We’ll need a complete search of the ship; interview crewmembers; photograph the possible crime scene—the railings on the aft boatdeck; check LeClarc’s car and all his belongings for clues; talk to as many passengers as possible—someone must have seen something.” He looked up, had he missed anything? “Perhaps you could assign an officer to help me with translation and liaison duties,” he said, then immediately realized what was about to happen. His mind raced back to the annual police sports day the previous August. Marty McLean, complete with kilt, threw the 20 lb hammer high into the air and totally in the wrong direction. He saw it coming as he stood on the track, warming up for the half-marathon. Rooted to the spot, not knowing which way to jump, he had watched with fascination as it hit the ground in front of him, bounced, and tapped his leg with little force.
    Just like the hammer, he could see what was coming and stood, transfixed. Although not déjà-vu, the feeling was certainly similar as blue-eyed, blondehaired, Yolanda No.1 slunk alongside and zapped him full force with her gaze. “Ze captain says I must do everything you would like, Sir,” she said, and he felt a lump rising in his throat. Christ, he thought, this is bloody ridiculous, this sort of thing only happens in trashy novels and second rate TV movies. He swallowed hard, saying, “Dave, um, please call me Dave.”
    â€œOkey dokey, Dave,” she replied, her English learned from CNN.
    Bliss found himself staring again, but then realized he was on a two-way street. You must be almost old enough to be her father, he scoffed to himself; anyway don’t be ridiculous—you’re in enough trouble already; not to mention that you’re still sinking in emotional quagmire from your last imbroglio—
O.K … You win— don’t rub it in.
    Quickly burying his head in Roger’s subject profile, he sought an escape route in professionalism.
    â€œI need a secure phone line to England right away,” he said coolly, keeping his head down, “and a set of radios on the same frequency as your captain. And coffee, lots of coffee.”
    She didn’t hesitate, “The coffee’s over zhere, help yourself,” she pointed, then headed off. “I’ll get telephone and radios.”
    He watched as she left, her pert backside swishing elegantly from side to side, wishing he wasn’t quite so curled round the edges, that his hair wasn’t greying and tousled, that he had taken more care of skin, and that he’d put on a fresh shirt. No matter; some women still prefer the slightly wrinkled older man look—providing they’re tall and reasonably slim, he thought, slicking back his hair,