The Dead & The Drowning Read online

  I ran my eyes over his smart business suit, soft manicured hands and fifty quid haircut and I despaired. He was a breed of police that spent as little time as possible dealing with criminals, and as much of it as possible to further his career. Policing itself wasn't really important, he could have sold soup for what it mattered provided he reached top echelon of management. I disliked people like him – butterflies flitting around the organization trying to look pretty, attaching themselves to projects, creating mostly useless initiatives with sexy acronyms – they were never going to get a bar stool across the back of the head. Ah, but could these feelings be tainted by the bitterness of envy, and the inadequacy of stunted ambition – I didn't like to dwell on that, it was more comfortable being a self-righteous martyr of the front line.

  So, I was relocated to the Criminal Justice Unit, a tedious back office job processing case files. I worked eight to four Monday to Friday with civilians, retired officers and serving officers too afraid to get their hands dirty, where the only risk of harm was neck strain and a paper cut – I despised it. All the times I had put myself on the line, the scrapes, the knocks, the grief counted for nothing. The Sergeant I replaced wanted to get back out and he slipped into my job like a favoured son – whilst I felt I had been tossed in a bin. The only upside was I had more opportunity to get out on the mountain with the rifle to hunt. Proper policing is similar in certain respects to hunting, and because I could no longer police I hunted more. My freezer was filled to the brim, and my father's whippet ate like a king.

  ◆◆◆

  After about six weeks I was invited to Queens Road Police Station in Bridgend for a recorded interview, and in a side office was booked into the custody suite as a voluntary attendee. The complaint I was facing was of assaulting Larkin and causing him actual bodily harm. It was a criminal investigation and gross misconduct, which meant that there was double jeopardy – criminal proceedings and disciplinary proceedings where I could be dismissed. I had a Federation Rep with me, and the Inspector had a Detective Sergeant in tow.

  I got grilled for three hours. The Inspector gunned for me, the DS I felt purposely gave me his B game. He had investigated rotten cops and I wasn't one of them, heavy handed maybe, rotten no, and the complainant was a first division shitbag with eighty-four convictions.

  I stuck to my statement, expanding and reinforcing where necessary. Pritchard-Hayes was used to winning, and flickers of frustration appeared on his face when he couldn't nail me as he wanted. The truth of it was the case against me was weak. Hanford wouldn't get involved, there were no other witnesses, and I had not denied my actions so couldn't be trapped in a lie. Yes, my actions contributed to the torn ligaments in Larkin's knee, but I had just been using reasonable force to pull him down from the wall to prevent his escape. Yes, I had punched him to the face but had acted in self-defence because I was in fear of imminent assault. And with of course good reason because of the assault on me in the kitchen. In the end, it was my word against Larkin's, and barring overzealousness or dirty tricks, the Inspector would have to go elsewhere for a trophy.

  ◆◆◆

  In June Larkin was convicted in Court of assault police. In August the case against me was referred to the Crown Prosecution Service, and they decided that no charges should be brought. The disciplinary still hung over me and relied on a lesser burden of proof - that of the balance of probability. The cogs turned slowly, and I felt in limbo. I was climbing the walls in the CJU and needed to get out. It was a soul-destroying job which you didn't need to be a copper to do, but with a live complaint I couldn't go anywhere else. My transfer back to Western Division had been put on hold and would sit gathering dust on the shelf until this debacle was over.

  ◆◆◆

  October came and I fell into a funk. Annabel had returned to University and the house was empty. The 18th was Beth’s birthday and the screws of grief tightened. Work was miserable and my complaint was still unresolved. I had felt confident that it would be found unsubstantiated, although increasingly in my black mood, I envisaged standing in front of the Disciplinary Panel with my head bowed low. Starkly alone, experiencing a feeling of otherness as the word “Dismissal” was said.

  ◆◆◆

  One morning I sat on the side of the bed in my pants and couldn't move. I had to get ready for work, but I just sat there gazing at the chest of draws, a feeling of ennui draining me like an open tap. After what seemed like a while, I picked up the phone and reported sick with stress.

  I lounged around all day binging on Netflix documentaries and episodes of Narcos. A little after four o'clock I mustered just enough willpower to workout, though my heart wasn't really in it. I stuck on some tatty, mismatched workout gear and went into the garage. I set the timer for thirty minutes and started off in front of the heavy bag with light, patting flurries to imaginary rib lines and jaw lines. I felt sluggish and it was tough going yet I stuck with it.

  Eight minutes in and I forced myself through the gears and ramped up the intensity. I shelled the bag with heavy guns, slamming my fists into familiar indentations. The barrage was brief, dying off to nothing jabs and empty rights. I glanced at the clock – twenty minutes fourteen seconds remained. It is too long today, too long to go when you are running on fumes. I quit, and what was meant to lift me up drops me further down.

  To preserve a modicum of respect I waited till five o'clock. Then I cracked open a bottle of Old Peculiar ale and got to the business of drinking – that I felt like doing. I ended four bottles and then eyed the whisky. Old Peculiar was a slow conversation, whereas whisky with its abrupt manner got to the point, and I was fond of getting to the point.

  I had a Bulleit Rye Frontier whisky that I had taken a liking to and I poured a large glass. I had the iPad hooked up to the Bose and listened to a Spotify playlist featuring Kasabian, Bryde, The Pixies, U2, Public Enemy, Grinderman, Queens of the Stone Age, Big Black, The Cult and others. With my drink sloshing in my hand I danced badly, sung worse, shadow boxed and paced the length of my kitchen.

  I threw whisky down my throat, made arguments and lamented my mistakes. I ran through ideas, old longings and thwarted ambitions. I thought about quitting the job and starting a business, about becoming a boxing coach at my local amateur club where I worked out, and other fanciful schemes. But what of the moment, what could be done now without any barrier or delay – there was Iceland, the once shared dream of Iceland. The carousel stopped and it became poignantly real – I would go. The following morning ruffled and croaky I went to the travel agents and booked whatever last-minute deal I could get.

  Chapter 5

  I wait for her to ask and consider what I would and wouldn't do. Most of what I imagine has me crossing the line, and even in my wayward mood I begin to have second thoughts. First among them was the fight, and I ran over what had occurred and tried to find lines that led back to me. On the plus side I was anonymous to them, there hadn't been any prior aggravation, and it had been over quick and clean. I had no marks or injuries, and if I washed my hands thoroughly there would be no chance of any blood or other DNA on mine - so forensically I had no worries. There were no witnesses that I saw, and though CCTV was a possibility it would be hard to get identification. However, if there were enough CCTV cameras I could be tracked through the city and perhaps to the hotel. Of course, all that would be an irrelevance if Marcus and Adam choose not to go to the police. And why would they go to the police after they had attacked a woman with the intent of stealing from her? or were they taking back something that belonged to them?

  Then the penny dropped, I could be connected and that was through Toni. They knew Toni and Toni knew my name and where I was staying. The hotel had my full name and my travel company booking reference. If I was unlucky, and one of them didn't get up and was stretchered off to the hospital; if that was the case, and the Reykjavik PD came sniffing around, it would be best to tell the truth and justify what I did.

  I then realized that I had been sta
ring vacantly at my boots for half a minute. I brought my eyes up and Toni is finishing saying something that I hadn't heard. She then asks,

  “Would you see me back to my hotel? I've hired a car and will be heading out onto to the Ring Road tomorrow.”

  “Yeah sure.”

  I eye the airport whisky; it is a perfect honey brown against the bedside light. I grab its neck and stop myself from taking a belt straight from the bottle. I pinch up two hotel coffee mugs with the other hand and place them on the table. I look at Toni and she nods. Not for her to think I am a lush I pour sensible measures and I sip instead of glug.

  I give her one of my soft-shell fleeces; it is obviously too big but worn over her own with the sleeves rolled back it could pass. Toni doesn't have a small head, and with thick hair the other woollen hat I had brought fits her. I put a couple of layers on and leave my coat in the room. I figured Marcus hadn't seen much of me and Adam hadn't seen me at all, so I hand Toni my scarf and she wraps her face like an outlaw - northern extremes made it easy to conceal your identity.

  “Where are you staying?” I ask.

  “The Leifur Eiriksson.”

  I get reception to order a taxi and just after midnight we take off for the hotel. It is in the centre of Reykjavik, though in the opposite direction to the route we had walked. I get out of the cab and Toni pays the driver. The night air is harsh and my breath smokes upwards like a chimney. The Leifur Eiriksson is a four storey white building with large panel windows above the entrance, and a dormer extension protruding from the roof. Outside a bare black tree stood stark against the whiteness, its crooked branches like cracks in the building.

  “Come on up,” said as more of an instruction then an ask, her pale blue eyes lingering on mine.

  I waver and then weaken, my legs moving while my mind still wrestles with itself. We get to the second floor and I am still telling myself to turn around, while surges of adrenaline run amok through my body. Outside the door, last chance to retreat, my body haywire with adrenaline. Toni takes my hand, a shiver of electricity shoots down my spine and I feel as weak as a lamb. She slowly leans in and kisses me softly, her ample lips enveloping mine. I tremble with want and sin, the door opens, and I am led in.

  ◆◆◆

  I awake with a muggy head and a momentary dislocation of where I am. I roll over and Toni is asleep on her side next to me. I experience a tinge of guilt, but for what? I hadn't cheated, unless you could cheat your past. I am tired of beating myself up, so it is time I drop my baggage and look forward to the unknown.

  I am struck by her attractiveness. I had been the night before, but this had been caught up in the whirl of booze, intrigue and violence. Now in the sober stillness of the early morning I fully appreciate her beauty. Not conventional beauty, I was never really into that, I like strong features: a prominent nose, a gap in the front teeth, a curl in the lip. Toni has a good Italian nose with a light dusting of dark freckles either side and a kinked, fat lipped mouth – if she had been a redhead she would have ticked all my boxes.

  I dig her figure: it is curvy and firm like she works out hard, but isn't hung up about what she eats, which is a lot like me except I also don’t much care what I drink either. I am definitely older than her, yet not by too much. She is around the forty mark and looks like she has had an eventful life, so she could be a couple of years younger. Like cars It wasn't always the age that mattered but the miles put on the clock, and I had done a few hard miles myself. I'm curious what kind of life she has lived and that I probably will not get to find out. I imagine that it had seen a fair share of turbulence, and for the base of this presumption there is Marcus. Psycho Marcus could be an unpleasant aberration in an otherwise steady existence, but I suspect that he is a bad card in a mixed hand.

  Toni stirs and pulls her right arm from underneath the pillow and I can see what I had only glimpsed the night before. My imagination had not done it justice; I have seen bigger tattoos but nothing resembling this outside of a tattoo magazine. A mighty Kraken breaking the surface of a tempestuous ocean, the terrible tentacles wrapped around a large wooden sailing ship crushing it to pieces. The artistry is magnificent, the choice of permanent depiction fascinating; I mean what does it say about a personality, who they are: something, nothing or everything.

  Toni opens her eyes and I suddenly try to look like I am doing something other than watching her.

  “Good morning,” I say quietly, smiling.

  “Good morning tiger,” she replies with levity.

  I laugh, it had been awhile.

  “I could kill a coffee,” she said with a longing I can relate to and then asks,

  “Do you want one?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Toni rolled out of bed to her feet in one fluid motion and I see more ink on the back of her right shoulder. It is the head of a red faced Japanese style demon with yellow teeth, eyes and horns, its nostrils flared and mouth agape in fury. It glares at me, daring me to fuck with it as Toni gets the kettle going. My eyes are hungry for her and I snatch the opportunity to feed them.

  She has sexy arched feet with black polished toenails, and a chain and rose tattoo on top on her right foot. Her calves are sculpted, and on the back of the left one there is a vivid green hand grenade with a skull imposed on it. She possesses the sturdy thighs and ass of a sprinter leading to an archaic compass tattoo at the base of her back. Her waist has a bit to spare and this adds a womanly softness to an otherwise taut physique. Her arms and shoulders are nicely toned though less developed than the legs; and covering the left upper arm is a tattoo of two flaming dice tumbling from a shot glass. I toy with the images and what they mean together. Intuitively it speaks to me of vice, risk, chance and the thrill of the three; that life is a gamble with an ambivalence to what is good and bad for us.

  The kettle reaches a noisy boil.

  “How do you take it?”

  “Strong, plenty of milk, no sugar.”

  Beth knew how I liked it, and for her I used to scoop up the sugar and tap it back to get it just under half a spoon. Would she learn about me and I her, or does it fizzle out this morning in a few uncomfortable exchanges? It would be fine as it is – a great one-night stand, a true novelty for me after my swan like relationship with Beth. There is I sense something else in play, a shift from the old me, from my heavily regulated life towards something else. I get out of bed and take a coffee off Toni trying to recall the last time I had drunk coffee naked. I feel a little self-conscious about it and suck in my padded out six pack. The feeling is relegated by the sight of her augmented breasts in light and I am dumbstruck by their rounded perfection. And now I see what I had felt last night - a gold bar piercing through the left cherry that she had encouraged me to tweak.

  “So! … are you up for continuing our holiday romance?” she solicits in a voice sounding like Kathleen Turner on heat.

  “Yeah ... I'm up! for it,” I reply flirtatiously.

  “I can see that.”

  Her eyes dropping low and then back to mine, her left hand tantalizingly poised on her hip like a sultry gunfighter. Above the coal polished nails, the base of a winter tree rising up her side, its ink black branches reaching like skeletal fingers for two ravens circling above. I don't have tattoos, but these made want to get some.

  “Pretty inked aren't I?”

  “Your tattoos are spectacular, a cut above the ordinary,” I say appreciatively thinking about all the cheap, ghastly botch jobs I'd seen on the sink estates back home.

  “I told you last night I wasn't like most people,” she smiled and flicked an eyebrow again.

  “I thought that you were joking, but I guess you were right.” I pause a second, “If you are going on a trip around the island I'd like to come with you.”

  She doesn't skip a beat,

  “Good if I get stuck in the mud you can push me out.”

  “I'll do some pushing now,” I said with a wolf's grin and putting my coffee down I sweep her up and o
nto the bed.

  Chapter 6

  We set out in the Toyota RAV4 a little after 8 o'clock. The night faint and ebbing to a grey woollen sky. Toni has smuggled some Danish pastries from the buffet, and we eat them on the move. Toni drives with a pastry in hand, flakes falling into her fleece, and I eating mine grease up the screen of my phone navigating back to the Storm. Traffic is light, and the tall cranes dotted around the city are idle; there is building work everywhere - Reykjavik is city on the up.

  Toni parks outside of the hotel and I run out and up to my room. I hastily pack my travel case and entertain the notion that Toni might not be there when I get back down. I have a bad dose of occupational suspicion which bleeds out into other areas of my life. I expected lies and assumed the worst of people. I know I am jaded, though I hope not irrevocably so. I brush my teeth and the bathroom mirror tells its tale. My eyes droop wearily and are underscored by darkness. My hair dark brown and wavy and always a fraction longer than most coppers has strands of white, the short beard too is flecked and uneven. I had seen a lot worse for my age, but I am not one of the better ones – a self-pampering metrosexual I am not.

  I spit out and finish up. I check the room over for missed stuff, sling my light travel bag over my shoulder, pick up the case and exit the room. I hurry down the stairs anticipating an empty parking bay and see a taxi where she had been parked. I drop my case and feel a deluge of disappointment. Oh well, a player will play I thought. A car horn sounds from across the street and Toni is waving to me out the window. I pick up my case, the breath of relief a portent of trouble ahead.