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THE FISH KISSER
James Hawkins
A Castle Street Mystery
Copyright © James Hawkins, 2001
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.
Editor: Barry Jowett
Copy-Editor: Natalie Barrington
Design: Bruna Brunelli
Printer: Webcom
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Hawkins, D. James (Derek James), 1947–
The fish kisser
“A Castle Street Mystery.”
ISBN 0-88882-240-5
I. Title.
PS8565.A848F58 2001 C813.’6 C2001-902372-3 PR9199.4.H38F58 2001
1 2 3 4 5 05 04 03 02 01
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on recycled paper.
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Terrorism will be the warfare of the twenty-first century, and cyber-weaponry will form a major armament.
This book is dedicated to all victims of terrorism (especially those who succumbed to the New York attack, September 11, 2001), and to all members of the world’s security services who have given their lives in pursuit of individuals and organisations who wage this insidious war.
— James Hawkins September 12, 2001
chapter one
The giant ship was evaporating. Twinkling lights from the Calypso Bar, in the aft, were still clearly visible, but the remainder of the vessel was slowly being sucked into the black hole of night. Roger LeClarc strained to see through the mist, telling himself he was dreaming.
“Shit!” He was not.
“Bastards,” he screamed after the ship. “You bastards.”
With a soft but firm hand the wake of the propeller’s wash lifted him above the surrounding sea, offering a tantalizingly clear view of the departing ship. He considered waving, even did briefly, but self-consciously dropped his arm as the swell gently let him down. Was he trying to summon help or simply waving a final goodbye?
“God, the water’s cold.”
An uncontrollable spate of shivering attacked him—presaging the turmoil headed his way. Gasping frantically, forcing mouthfuls of chilly moist air into his constricted lungs, he retched as the salt-laden ozone stung the back of his throat. “Come back,” he yelled. “Come back.” But the waves swallowed his voice.
Like the closing shot from an old tearjerker movie, the increasing distance gradually washed the colour from the ship’s lights and they faded to grey in the gloom, leaving Roger pondering his chances of being rescued. “Nil,” he figured, but then his analytical mind cut in and offered hope. It’s the North Sea not the Pacific. Twenty miles to land at most. Plenty of coastal shipping. I’m still alive so I must have some chance. Start swimming …
Which way?
Home …
But where is home?
Treading water, he slowly spun, seeking land, lights, life. Finding none, he returned for a last glimpse of the giant passenger ferry, now barely a smudge of radiance in a sea of black, and paddled, half-heartedly, after it.
Céline Dion crooning “My heart will go on” provided an inappropriate reminder of the Titanic to the few unperturbed passengers still clustered in the Calypso Bar, despite the late hour. Few were sufficiently sober, or sufficiently interested, to listen. But Len, the barman, a veteran of a thousand similar crossings, couldn’t resist mumbling along with the tune, and three die-hards on capstan chairs at the end of the bar mockingly joined in, then exploded in laughter when he caught on and gave them a nasty look.
“Bloody cops,” he breathed, sizing them up with a bad taste in his mouth. Three tall, self-confident men travelling together. Too smart for truck drivers: One grey suit; two blue blazers; hair by Anton or Antoinette; decent cologne—not Price-Right. Not holidaymakers either—too relaxed. Salesmen perhaps? But he shook his head. “Cops—definitely.” It was the way they kept constant surveillance, controlled everyone with an inquisitive stare, and sustained a bubble of hostile space around them that kept most at bay during the evening, observing the invisible warning sign: “Dangerous animals—keep back.”
“Cops,” he breathed again. Not that he cared. His petty pilfering wouldn’t attract the attention of a loss prevention officer in a condom factory, let alone a sizeable undercover squad. If he could get rid of them, and the other stragglers whom he knew from bitter experience would keep him up all night, he’d sleep away most of the voyage to Holland.
“Another round, gentlemen?” he inquired as the laughter subsided. Could he push them into admitting they’d had enough?
“Good idea,” shouted one, to his chagrin, and they squabbled over whose turn it was to pay.
Thwarted, Len substituted a 1940s Vera Lynn for Cé line Dion; The White Cliffs of Dover for Titanic. They’ll hate this. They loved it. “There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,” they caroused, then exploded in laughter at the dismay on his face.
As Len sullenly pulled the drinks, Vera romanticized about a country which the three London policemen had little knowledge. Shepherds tending sheep and valleys in bloom were not part of their daily landscape. A barren desert of concrete, glass, and steel was nearer the mark; urban chasms of grey flat-fronted buildings, made interesting only by the accidental and unlawful activities of others—at least graffiti and garbage added colour, shape, and dimension.
“Serg, we’ve got a problem,” an out-of-breath, forty-ish, fourth member was saying as he joined the group.
His statement, intended for the leader, Detective Sergeant Barry Jones, was pounced on by one of the others, who mumbled into his beer, “You’ve always got a problem.”
A look of warning from the sergeant straightened him up. “Sorry, Sir,”