The Dead & The Drowning

by Cameron Bell

  Back in the cell I sleep a little but not much. I drink often trying to flush out the toxins and in between bouts of staring at the ceiling pace the cell. The minutes stretch out and the hours seem stuck. For supper I am given a bowl of lamb cowl with a bread roll, which for jail food isn't bad. I pace up and down the cell racking up steps that a now dead Fitbit can't count. Although I am listless I keep doing circuits of the cell hoping to drive myself to an undeniable sleep.

  In a permanently half lit cell time becomes imperceptible. I envisage solitary confinement with time shapeless and indistinct, as subordinate only to loneliness in the tally of its deprivations. I lay down underneath the blanket and as a diversion think back to the championship bouts I fought. I was good, but not quite good enough to earn a title beyond my backyard. I came within an inch, though in a way it would have been kinder if it were a mile - because I had replayed and replayed that sliver of an error, that hook that had almost salvaged a triumph from the deep maw of defeat - deeper still for three years straight. I drift off with thoughts of past glories and just as many of what could have been.

  ◆◆◆

  I wake sometime during the night or early morning. It is dark outside, so it is one of the two - and I hope it is the latter. They can keep me in custody for twenty-four hours, after which time I must be taken to a judge who will decide whether I am detained or released. A jailer brings a pot of microwaveable porridge that tastes of cardboard, and a small, weak coffee in a Styrofoam cup. I force both down and get back to lapping the cell clockwise, anti-clockwise and figure of eight to mix it up. My shin hurts a lot less than it did, and I even feel up to short spurts of light shadow boxing.

  I am rolling at the waist into a hook when I hear the clack of the hatch dropping on the cell door.

  “If you have finished punching people imaginary or otherwise I need to speak with you,” says Gudjohnsen, his shadowed face only partially visible through the hatch.

  “You have a captive audience Detective Gudjohnsen, go ahead.”

  “Not here, come with me,” and perhaps it is imagined but I swear I detect a warming in his voice.

  I follow Gudjohnsen out of the cell complex and into a small, blue painted office with colour coordinated seats. There is a whiteboard on the far wall and alongside it what I think is a full length calendar. Underneath this a wooden book case: its books interspersed with potted cacti and ceremonial photographs of a policeman receiving honours that aren't Gudjohnsen. Gudjohnsen sits behind a flat pack desk. He pushes the keyboard and monitor to one side so that we can clearly see each other. I notice in proper mugs two steaming coffees and a plate of Danish pastries. He invites me to sit. I grab the end seat against the wall and drag it nearer the desk.

  Gudjohnsen is wearing the same suit as yesterday and has the pallor and sagging eyelids of a man that has worked straight through the night.

  “Help yourself,” he says.

  And still hungry after a paltry breakfast I select a custard Danish from the plate and get right into it. Something is afoot but I wait for him to explain. The coffee is good, and the Icelandic Danish is sublime, so I am in no rush to start talking. Gudjohnsen puts a half-finished pastry down as I am picking up my second. He wipes his mouth and says,

  “We have made significant progress in the case and we are no longer treating you as a suspect in the murder of Jon Einarsson. If you fully cooperate as a prosecuting witness you will face no charges. It means you will have to provide testimony in a criminal trial.”

  “Yes, I understand, and I will,” I reply without a moment's hesitation and huge sense of relief.

  “What has happened since our interview?” I ask, curious as to what had changed.

  Gudjohnsen smiles, loosens his shirt collar and relaxes into the chair.

  “One story gained support, and another fell apart. We found footprints in the house: some were from your Altberg boots, and a couple belonged to the Harkila Trail boots worn by Kyle Banks. The left boot even had the same indent from the sole where a chunk of the grip is missing. We also found several pine needles along the side of both boots. Phone work connected your phones and triangulation off phone masts put Kyle in the Isafjordur area on Monday night. It didn't take much to break Kyle. He was sweating rocks before we began the interview, and when we hit him with a few facts ... he folded like a bad hand of cards.”

  There is now a satisfied smile raising normally straight set lips, and he seems altogether less uptight.

  “Kyle's lawyer asked for a deal: a plea bargain offering admission to theft of valuables and obstruction of justice for misrepresenting your murder as suicide. Kyle is providing full cooperation for a reduced sentence. He has told us Antonia approached him around six months ago at a bar and grill outside Albany airport called J.T. Maxies. She told him she worked in sales for a pharmaceutical company and travelled a lot. They began seeing each other and as he describes - things got serious quick. Four months in she confides in him about the gold and recruits him to fly it back to the States in return for a half share. Even though he suspected he was being used he didn’t care - he was too far in and would take her however he could get her - do pretty much whatever she asked. Kyle had quite a journey. He flew his little Cessna from Albany to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and from there over the border to Quebec City. He then headed to Iqaluit in the eastern province of Nunavut before flying onto Nuuk in Greenland and eventually to Bildudalur … where you smashed his plane into the sea.”

  Gudjohnsen pauses, his hands forming a low steeple above his chest and awaits a reaction he doesn't receive.

  “We looked at the bigger picture Will; do you play chess?”

  “Badly, yeah.”

  “Well if this is chess: Banks is merely a pawn, and you a knight. Both pieces to be sacrificed to reach the end game ... which is the capture of the king.”

  “Toni!” I chime in, playing along with a fitting analogy.

  Gudjohnsen nods and leans to the table to pick up his coffee.

  “What have you agreed on?” I ask.

  “Six years and with his testimony she will go away for twenty. We considered pushing for attempted murder, however he maintains that he thought you were dead already, which is plausible … this way both of them will get punished.”

  I slowly and subtly nod – it was the right call leading to the right outcome.

  “You have a strong case against her?”

  “We didn't at first, but now we do, and it is getting stronger the more we find out about her. We have been speaking with New York State Police who have been most helpful. For instance, in 2008 she was tried but acquitted of embezzling large quantities of drugs from the hospital where she worked. In the summer of 2013, her husband Brandon Zingano was found dead in his hot tub: the cause of death accidental drowning due to drug and alcohol consumption. The Coroner's report lists alcohol, cannabis and a moderate amount of Oxycodone - a prescription opioid commonly and illegally misused as being in his system at the time of death. Antonia Zingano as she was then had frolicked in the hot tub with her husband that fateful night. According to the report she went to bed leaving Brandon drinking and listening to music.”

  I listen transfixed, my mind racing ahead to join the dots. I conjure a scene with a steamy, bubbling hot tub and a tattooed Brandon with his arms over the rim dozing into his shoulder. Empty bottles of beer on the apron of the tub. One down to the dregs laced with GHB. Toni sitting the other side patiently waiting for the deepness of sleep. When certain she edges around and carefully lowers an arm into the water. Brandon starts to sink into the water and Toni manipulates the motion, steadying the head to partially submerge it, causing restful, accidental death – fuck! she is a piece of work.

  “Lightning has struck twice would you agree. Antonia inherited a tattoo shop, a house and twenty thousand dollars from a savings account. Zingano’s family were unhappy with the circumstances of his death and called for a review. There was no basis to re-open the case and it was shelved. Anto
nia had some trouble with the family so sold the shop on and moved to North Tonawanda. From what I know now I think she got away with murder,” says Gudjohnsen shrugging his eyebrows.

  Her words come back to me “Our relationship cooled … and I felt it was time to go it alone” - a casual lie or a gross euphemism for what she had done.

  “We have her buying chewing gum, hot chocolate and two peanut butter and chocolate bars at the gas station. It seems she left an impression on the cashier who remembers her clearly. The autopsy shows that Jon ingested peanut butter and chocolate, and that Anaphylaxis is a probable cause of death. A mug was found in the kitchen containing traces of chocolate. We are working on the assumption that she melted the bars in the microwave and mixed it in with the hot chocolate. We assigned a detective to build a picture of Jon Einarsson. He was a local character, a well liked man and by all accounts dedicated to discovering and preserving Icelandic heritage. Several local historians will attest to Jon's ambition to find Gorm Thorsen's gold for the people of Iceland. And for his place in history as the man who found it.”

  “What about Marcus, Adam and Marta?” I ask half wishing I hadn't.

  “Ah! Marcus Rocher, Adam Kucera and Marta Rodriguez.”

  “Kyle doesn't know anything about them, didn't know anything about you until the last hour and Antonia denies their involvement. We know that Kucera discharged himself from Isafjordur Medical Centre on Monday evening. We are checking the passenger manifest with the airport this morning. We have now placed markers on them and if they try to fly out of the country at Akureyri or Keflavik, they will be stopped and arrested.”

  “So, I am I free to go?”

  “Yes, after you sign my statements,” he says half-jokingly, displaying an edged smile.

  Chapter 32

  It is late as the police car pulls up outside the Storm Hotel. I ease out the passenger side and thank the driver Ari for the lift. It had been a long drive and one which I am sorry the affable, young cop would now have to repeat. Gudjohnsen was keen that I did not wander and come to more grief, so had me delivered to the door.

  I enter the hotel and slalom through a huddle of tourists going the other way. I hear snippets of their idle conversation and feel a world away. I get to a room that by now I should be familiar with and yet is still a novelty. I kick off the custody slops and linger in a hot shower. I turn my face into the jets wanting the powerful streams to blast clean, to blast it all away. I wonder at the countless people that had tried to scrub the dirt from their souls - vainly scouring their skin of an internal sin.

  Clean but not cleansed I dry off and go to bed. The room clock ticks and regret nags. I had done little wrong and put what I had right. It had worked out, nonetheless there is a ring of defeat to the whole saga. I had come through the fire, although not without getting burnt - betrayal burns like a red hot poker through the heart.

  I hit breakfast like a starved man then go and get the case from the room. I hand the key over to the receptionist and see a computer monitor displaying a news story. On the screen is a photograph of the Cessna being winched out of the water. I hadn't given thought to the impact the story would have and the coverage it would generate. I roll the thought around my head for a minute. Iceland had a tiny population and one of the lowest crime rates in the world – it would headline for days.

  I wait in the foyer for the bus to the airport. It is unpleasantly cold outside, and my coat and gloves are in an evidence room in Isafjordur. I am wearing a grey Berghaus fleece that is roomy enough to accommodate underneath a thick woollen jumper and long-sleeved thermal top. Blue jeans and grey Sketchers complete a casual outfit. After a restless twenty minutes the bus arrives, and I am on my way home - home to a career in tatters and a place in the unemployment line. This fiasco would nail the coffin lid shut and drop a ton of soil over the top. The Job hated reputational harm or bringing discredit to the police service as it is officially titled in the Code of Conduct. Being mixed up in murder, theft and an assortment of other offences more than met the definition.

  The bus docks at a bay and I shuffle out with the other passengers. I collect my case and carry it towards a grubby grey terminal with a front of outward angled glass. Some passengers push baggage trolleys, while mostly the young travel light. I see a female Tui Rep in a cyan soft-shell jacket herding a party of fresh tourists to a waiting coach. I manoeuvre around them and come face to face with Marcus Rocher.

  ◆◆◆

  Marcus sitting against a concrete security bollard has an unlit cigarette poised on his lips. The top lip appearing neatly cut like it had been snipped by a scissors, and not by my crude left fist. He looks up at me through his brow, his right arm in a sling, the left hand torching the tip of the cigarette. Adam Kucera is standing next to him facing away; puffs of smoke dispersing around him. Marta is knelt behind Marcus attaching a label to a holdall.

  I drop my case – round fucking four. Marcus straightens up. The expression on his face akin to the wary curiosity of an alerted fox.

  “Ad,” he says in warning.

  Adam turns as slowly as a rusted tap. The movement is painful and laboured and punctuated with grunts. The left arm below the elbow is in a cast and the right hand holds a four toed cane. The left side of the jaw is bloated and a palette of dark purple and emerging jaundice. I've had my fill of fighting. Showing my palms, I say,

  “No trouble; I want to talk.”

  “Jump in front of a bus you cunt!” mutters Adam through the right side of a wired mouth.

  “Not to you. You’re only good for smacking around and I’m bored of that. I want to talk to you Marcus.”

  Marcus's eyes search about and beyond me.

  “She's fucked you off hasn't she?” and a satisfied smirk occupies his lips - a prophecy coming to pass.

  I ignored my intuition and deserved a chorus of I told you so's.

  “If it were only that,” I lament on the tragic coupling of treachery and folly.

  “Oh! she screwed you over good did she? Well I did tell you didn't I, you dumb fuck.”

  The words a blend of three quarters spite with a smattering of sympathy.

  “Yes, you did, albeit at the time you were preparing to take my head off with a bat. Look two minutes and we are out of each other’s lives.”

  “Don't trust him Marcus,” urges Marta.

  “It's all right Marta, if he had wanted to he could have finished me on the mountain. Besides I have a couple of questions of my own. Fire away fella.”

  “Who is she?” I ask wanting to get to the bare bones.

  Marcus takes a moment to consider, as if it is unknowing and can’t be compiled. Then switching between being spiteful and wistful, and sometimes a hybrid of the two takes a stab at describing Antoni Brookes.

  “What can I tell you that you probably haven't figured out already? She is a wonderful liar, an ace manipulator of men and occasional women if it suits. A talented tattooist, hot as hell and destructive as an Oklahoma twister. Man, that woman is dangerous in a fight. And afterwards when you think it is over - I wasn't kidding about sleeping with one eye open. I got scalded when I didn't and got my shoulder broke when I did. Loves to party, snorting lines, popping pills; she sells a hell of a lot of them from the shop too. Got a thing going with a bunch of crooked Doctors where she gets fake prescriptions. She likes to steal for the fun of it. Spontaneous shit like lifting a wallet off a bar table or pocketing a tip left for a waitress. Makes a habit of defrauding insurance companies and gets a buzz from gambling and adrenaline sports like me. That's Toni and I don't know all of it.”

  My face must have communicated something he enjoyed because he continued to piss over an already wet parade – shit talking is evidently in his blood.

  “I rode that lightning bolt for two years and what ... she left you broke and broken hearted in four days! What did she do ... what did she do to you bud?”

  Marcus looks like a salivating dog already savouring the treat he is going to get.
I decide not to give to it him. I know, and what I don't I can assume – and assume the worst. I give a peeved smile and say,

  “Something she is going to pay twenty years for. So long Marcus have a good trip.”

  I pick up my case and pass them with sneers and curses on their lips.

  Chapter 33

  11:04am Monday 28th November 2017.

  The sand shifts from beneath my feet as I scramble up the dune. Running up the side and over the crest on a track hedged by needle point grass. My lungs working like bellows operating at the edge of capacity. Then down in splashing leaps and bounds desperately repaying a debt of oxygen owed. Back up another, trainers scooping sand and shelves of it falling away. Momentum stolen by the cold, damp sand slipping me to a moving stop. I dig my hands into the grassy sand and fight my way up the stubborn giant. At its crown, thighs burn, and lungs burst bloody as I lope forward in a lightheaded delirium. From here the ground undulates over the back of smaller dunes, and I am able to recover and branch off on the many forks and circuits.

  The first run back is the hardest and feels like a punishment a Drill Sergeant would dish out to a failing recruit. I slice a line up a low dune and run its narrow brow glimpsing the estuary to the River Neath where I will turn back. At a fork I pick a track that leads me inward past a fish bait farm and the old BP site. The plant long levelled to concrete slab and rusting perimeter fence. I plod on, the needle grass piercing my legs through the tight black leggings and leaving wet licks. The light breeze salty, but with an element of something the nearby paper mill is adding to the air.