Free The Touch of Death by John Creasey Page A

always in the air. He was also getting used to the dark faces of the Maoris in the streets, but he couldn’t get his mind free of Rita and Palfrey’s warning.
    He was driven out of town, towards Taupo, then off the road where a sign read: “Trout Pools”.
    The private road was narrow. It was broad daylight, and warm but not overpowering. The colouring of the trees was beautiful. At the end of the road they came to a small log hut, where two or three men stood about.
    Palfrey was there.
    They walked very quietly, until they came to a pool of crystal-clear water which reflected the perfect blue of the sky, and reflected the tops of trees – reflected their faces, too, as they looked down into it. Thirty or forty fully grown rainbow trout swam about lazily. The picture was so different from anything Banister had seen before that he felt tension easing. He watched the trout swimming in their endless circles.
    Palfrey brought him back to the present, with a stab.
    â€œThey’re going to introduce the killer fish soon.”
    â€œKiller? ”
    Palfrey’s look said: “You know what I mean.”
    Another man came carrying a large galvanised bucket. He had a long untidy moustache and looked miserable; melancholy. He stood watching the trout for a moment, then shrugged and tipped the bucket up and poured its contents into the pool.
    The fish already there began to thrash the water and turn and dart and swerve, as if anxious to get away from some unknown threat. One fish joined them, sliding with the stream of water out of the bucket. The man with the moustache stood looking down; other men appeared. Banister heard the whirl of a cine camera, but didn’t glance round. The pool was a reflection of the sky and the sun’s brightness, and the spotted fish gave it beauty as they twisted and turned, gliding more slowly now as their alarm subsided.
    There was a flash.
    It wasn’t bright or blinding, nothing like the flashes which Banister had seen before – but a moment later, one of the fish floated to the surface.
    Banister felt his hands clenching unseen steel.
    There was another flash; another fish rose.
    â€œIt’s murder, that’s what it is, plain murder!” growled the man who had brought the bucket with the killer fish. “It oughtn’t to be allowed. I won’t do it again, I—”
    He turned and flung himself along the path leading away from the pool; they could hear the thud of his footsteps.
    The camera went on whirring.
    Fish after fish floated to the surface.
    Ten minutes later, the surface of the pool was covered with the dead fish, their mouths and eyes open. The sun shone down upon them, and the water of the pool was as clear as it had been – rippling as one, the killer, fish swam round and round, looking for fresh victims.
    â€œAll those had been treated with what we hoped would be a form of insulation,” Palfrey said. “It didn’t work.”
    Banister made himself speak: “Who handles the killer fish?”
    â€œAnyone – with a net and bucket. There’s no contact. The people who own the pools, which are spawning grounds of course, discovered what was happening. There were several killer fish. They were isolated, and they had no effect on one another, but killed any other fish with whom they came in contact. Mike – my driver – knew what we were looking for, and heard of this. That’s one reason why we concentrated. We found Rita, and evidence of insulated fish – insulated or immune. But there’s nothing to suggest any peculiar qualities in the uranium ore anywhere near Rotorua. We’re wondering if it’s a different form of phenomenon – there are sting rays and electric fish which can kill. But trout—”
    He began to twist a few strands of hair round his forefinger.
    â€œHas anything else been found?”
    â€œNot a thing.” Palfrey patted the strands of hair