'FISH'

I pushed the front door open and switched on the light. “I must have a thousand messages on my phone and even more E mails.”

Jessica had made me promise we would carry no phones or computers with us. The holiday meant rest, not work. While she fussed over the luggage I went up to the office and unplugged my phone. I must have sat listening for over ten minutes. My previous editor, Max Winters, was trying to convince me he had a great assignment for me, and there were several other personal callers. Near the end of the queue my ears pricked up. A distinctly German voice started to tell me about a delivery of some kind. I rewound and listened.

“As per our conversation…”

I listened several times, curious that the caller left no name, and nearly deleted the call as being a wrong number. But something in the message nagged at me. I kept playing the message back until I remembered. It was the address in Berlin. I knew the address from somewhere.

 Fish would be the man to find out for me. I dialed a number and hoped he would answer.  Jonathan ‘Fish’ McFadden was an unusual little man. I first met him several years beforehand at Bow Street Magistrates Court. He was a scruffy little man with bad breath and yellow nicotine fingers on his right hand. He was in his late fifties and as I was to find out later, always wore the same jeans, same raincoat, same dirty white sneakers and same flat cap. His face was weather-beaten and the nose had been adjusted a couple of times. Yet despite his appearance, I found he had a great sense of humor and plenty of chat. Caught shoplifting, he stated in court that he suffered a temporary loss of concentration due to ‘the bit of shrapnel still floatin’ around in me head, your honor.”  The woman magistrate took pity on him and let him off with a caution.

I was writing an article on plans Whitehall had drawn up to modernize the criminal justice system. Sometimes an article comes alive when you talk to the right people. Fish proved invaluable as we talked over a cup of tea. Being on the receiving end of the justice system, he pointed out where the government’s new bill wouldn’t work; increasing the amount of hours a prisoner was ‘banged up’ would increase tension and the possibility of violence. It would also mean less money for the inmates who worked and earned a few shillings a week. Less money meant less ‘ciggy’s’ to smoke or barter with and more tension. Tension was the one thing in prison that no-one liked. ‘The government had their heads up their arse.’  The man was a mine of information and gave me enough ammunition to blast Whitehall for not thinking things through.

As I got to know the man I realized how useful he would be. After bartering we came to an agreement that I would pay him one hundred pounds a week plus expenses and little bonuses along the way. He knew an incredible number of people, mostly crooks, prostitutes, fences or bent cops and where he could find them or their associates. Over the last two years he became part of the team and I got to like him. Jessica wasn’t too keen.

“Hi guvnor, you and the missus have a good time?”

“Hi Fish, yes we just got back. Listen, I want you to check out a couple of addresses for me.”

Jessica walked into the office and put her arms around my neck. “What’s going on?”

I put a finger to my lips as Fish replied.

“Okay, let me have them.”

I gave him the two addresses. “I want you to go take a look at the Chelsea address first…tonight. It’s important, Fish. Then let me know who owns the other property and anything else you can find out. I’m sure I’ve heard or had something to do with it in the past. I can’t put my finger on it.”

He promised to ring back. I turned to Jessica. She had already showered, changed into pink silk pajamas, and unpinned her long black hair. Unlike me, she managed to look smart and beautiful all the time, something her West Indian parents made sure was part of her strict upbringing within the British diplomatic corps. Her retired father had served in the Crown colonies for most of his life and managed to rise to Deputy Commissioner in the Cayman Islands. Apart from being my beautiful wife, Jessica was highly educated especially in the arts, and well-connected within high society. Between her and Fish I had access to an immense encyclopedia of knowledge.

Jessica inclined her head sideways and looked at me with big brown eyes. “What’s going on?” She took the phone offered and listened. “Someone called the wrong number. Just phone them back and let them know.”

“I intend to,” I answered. “The address puzzles me though.”

“Enda, we just got back. Please don’t start digging something up. You have an article for Max on next month’s by-elections and a follow up on the new Education Bill going through the House of Lords in two days’ time.” She frowned and pointed to the bedroom . “Can we get some sleep? I’ve got Max to deal with first thing and an interview with Lord Summerfield at Parrington Hall in the afternoon.”

I nodded. “Yes, he’s selling a Renoir to the Americans, isn’t he?”

“Not if the National Trust has anything to do with it,” she replied. “Now can we get some sleep?”

I tried ringing the courier service cell phone number but the line was dead. 

***

One thing about Fish is he never hung around, especially when he was earning money. A lot of the information he gathered for me came by word of mouth. He also had a natural talent for surfing through library systems, something he acquired during his ‘homeless phase.’ A library was a warm spot where newspapers could be read free of charge and as long as someone was researching, they could spend the day there.

I awoke as soon as my phone buzzed. It also stirred Jessica, who looked at me through half open eyes after I popped the bedside lamp on.

‘It’s Fish,” she said, rolling over. She pulled the cover up over her head and went back to sleep.

I padded out of the room and across the landing to the office. “Okay, what did you find out?”

“I found out some interesting stuff, guv, very interesting.”  Fish sniffed loudly.

There was some shouting in the background and I guessed he was in some derelict building on an old trading estate in the EastEnd. I reached for a pen and small pad on the desk. “Okay, what did you get?”

“Well the house is empty and it’s up for sale. Bit of a dump. Garden needs doing up. Anyway, the agent is Graham Pope. He’s got an office in Winchelsea Road about a mile away from the house in Drinkwater Road. I got the office number for you as well.”

After passing on the number I asked him, “So what is the interesting stuff you found out?”

Fish recognized the name and went to see a friend who recently left Chelmsford jail. The friend served with Fish at Chelmsford when Pope moved there from Pankhurst high security prison on the Isle of White. He was serving his last year before release. Pope had served eleven years for a gruesome rape and burglary. 

“Well that is interesting Fish, but not really helpful to my enquiry. Did you find out who owned the property?”

“Yes, it belongs to a Mrs. Jenson.”

My curiosity got the better of me. “Fish, how did you find that out? It’s two in the morning.”

“Dabbing, governor, dabbing. You take three or four coat hangers and straighten them out before joining them up. Then you bend one end and sharpen it. Then you poke it through the letterbox and bend the wire a little as you push it in. When it’s at the right angle you shine your flash through and dab the mail on the floor. When you stick one or two you turn the hook so it faces up. Then you slowly draw the letters back to the letter box. You always look for the little envelope with the window. That’s always a bill…or a check. Anyway, whoever’s on the bill is the owner, right?”

I was amazed.

“Anyway, guv, I’m going to get back to the fire. My feet are killing me at the moment. The bloody snow has got into my trainers. I’ll call you tomorrow when I check out that kraut address.”

Ray Stone (MA)