The Fish Kisser by James Hawkins Read Free Book Online Page B

the bar. King eventually conceded he’d been in the bar just before he went on deck to throw the life raft. “I forgot,” he added lamely, “what with all the commotion—the bloke falling overboard and all.”
    â€œAnd the other man?” continued Bliss, pushing King into a tight spot.
    â€œNo one … a stranger.”
    â€œDidn’t look like a stranger to me.”
    King took a few seconds, his mind racing, then came out with a rambling explanation, putting Motsom down as a quidam he’d mistaken as an old school chum. Their “tiff,” he claimed, had been nothing more than a heated denial by the other man, annoyed at being disturbed.
    Entering the SS
Rotterdam’s
bridge twenty minutes later, Bliss walked into the same black wall that startles everyone the first time they visit a ship’s wheelhouse at night. The captain spotted him immediately and beckoned, unseen, in the darkness. “Ah, Inspector, if you’d like to come over here, I’m about twenty feet to your right.”
    Bliss turned, started walking, shuffling each foot forward a few inches at a time.
    â€œMind the …”
    The warning came too late. He’d collided with a slender pole then reddened as a giggle ran round the bridge. Thank God it’s dark, he thought as he side-stepped the pole and continued blindly, but his eyes gradually brought fuzzy shapes into view until he made out the pale sphere of the captain’s face.
    â€œWell, what do you make of our Mr. King?” asked a set of teeth, glowing like the Cheshire cat’s grin.
    â€œI’m not sure, Captain, to be honest. Although the good news from my point of view is that the man over-board isn’t my man—at least I’m pretty sure it isn’t.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œIt’s a question of timing, Sir,” replied Bliss recalling his interview of King. “I don’t know why he’s lying, but I can vouch for the fact he was with someone in the bar for at least two minutes before he went on deck and saw the guy jump, or fall … Anyway, that pretty well lets my man out. It must’ve been someone else,” he concluded. “Assuming King hasn’t made the whole thing up.”
    â€œWhoever it is,” the captain responded, “I don’t fancy his chances. Thirty minutes in this water is about all anyone can take. It’s been well over an hour now.”
    The chief officer, with an ear to the conversation, was anxious to continue the voyage. It would be his job, along with the purser, to deal with the complaints of passengers angry at missed train connections and delayed business meetings. “Should we call it off, Captain?” he asked, hopefully.
    â€œWe’ll give it another fifteen minutes, Chief. One last sweep, and then we’ll just pray no one’s missing when we dock.”
    Fifteen minutes later, the SS
Rotterdam
resumed her voyage and the pale glow of the sun, still far below the eastern horizon, started to lighten the sky, but no sun would shine that day, or the following two days—not on that part of the North Sea. The storm headed north, its sights set on the offshore oilfields and the coast of Norway, leaving in its wake a large bank of cloud, and a confused and jumbled sea. Roger unconsciously rode his inflated chariot, like a thrill-seeker on an inner tube behind a speedboat, face down, arms flung forward grasping the rope. He was on the canvas roof, his great weight forcing it down. Beneath him the raft was full of water, and had he scrambled inside, he would certainly have drowned.
    He stirred, briefly, long enough to assess his predicament. Fearing he might tumble off, he gathered together several ropes and lashed himself into position as firmly as his frozen fingers would allow. Now, feeling safer, he let exhaustion take over, started to doze, and began thinking of his other life, the one he’d left behind just