The Dead & The Drowning Read online

  I relay the whole story and don't spare the details. At points Gudjohnsen interjects and I clarify or go over the segment of the story again. Certain questions I expand upon, others I do not know the answer to, and disappointingly I can't for the life of me remember the name of the old fella in Isafjordur. It is a key piece of information and I am embarrassed to have forgotten it. In the end I'm not sure what he makes of it all, but he has a platform to launch the investigation from: he has names, descriptions, a vehicle and a likely direction of travel.

  Gudjohnsen puts his pen down for a moment and says,

  “I'm going to type this up. At the back of the statement there are some fields I have to fill in. I have your personal details except your occupation.”

  Here goes,

  “Police Sergeant.”

  Gudjohnsen nods and a minor warmth seems to come over an otherwise impassive exterior.

  “When are you planning on returning home?”

  “In a couple of days perhaps, in truth I don't really know the answer to that. It maybe earlier than my planned departure next Wednesday.”

  I mark Gudjohnsen as a fastidious man when he takes the same care and time reversing his desk routine. That type of man is thorough; however, this tends to come at the price of speed because they deliberate and fuss the fuck out of everything. He eventually stands up and says,

  “I will contact you when the statement is ready, and you can sign it at the police station in Reykjavik City Centre.”

  I am relieved that I don't have to wait hours for this guy to painstakingly construct a statement. I lift myself off the chair feeling leaden and stiff as I follow Gudjohnsen out of the room. We stop at an office and he nips inside, returning with my passport, and a contact card. He hands me both and says sheepishly,

  “If you need me or remember anything else I can be reached on that number. There is a bus going to Reykjavik that will be leaving soon and I will drive you to the bus stop. I would take you myself, but I have a lot to do. Your clothes and case are by the door.”

  I'm being hoofed out onto the street. I had hoped for a lift. I guess kindness is in short supply for a fellow cop losing his way. I conceal my disappointment,

  “No worries pal, you crack on.”

  ◆◆◆

  It is an irritable night, starless and grubby black, beset by showers and an unkind wind. I huddle at the bus stop eating a hot sandwich counting the minutes until the bus arrives. I don't have to wait long and a yellow and blue bus pulls into the stop. The doors open with a hush and the driver confirms that the bus is going to Reykjavik. I snag and bang as I climb on board, desperately wanting to get back to the hotel, and for the wretched day to end. I pay two thousand two hundred Krona and would have paid anything he asked. There are plenty of seats, the tourists are in cars and coaches and I make myself comfortable.

  I unzip a section of my case and slip in a hand. I grope around for the neck, and when found I tease it out. I turn from the aisle and slyly take a deep slug of whisky, my reflection a ghost in the window. The Glenlivet Nadurra pleasantly burns and I chug down more anticipating the warm embrace to come. I stare out of the window and the scenery drifts by, a distortion of darkened images, reflection and artificial light.

  The Nadurra is pleasant company, though I'm not a snob, I'll associate with any of the harder boys and even the rough ones have their place at a push. Flick the switch Will and turn off. Don't go down the rabbit hole tonight. I double gulp and feel the reassuring burn in my belly. I take my own advice and conjure harmless thoughts, and if I slip I slug them away.

  The bus pulls into Hlemmur Station and I clatter my way off. I check my phone and it is a six minute walk to the Storm. I um and ah about getting a taxi, the Scrooge in me wins and I force march to the hotel.

  The receptionist cringes like Quasimodo has walked into the building. I am beyond caring and I just drag my stuff towards the lift. Inside the room I strip off, and for some minutes wallow in the shower cleansing myself of the dirt and blood. I dry off, take a final belt of whisky and sink into the bed.

  ◆◆◆

  I wake earlier than I would want and know there is no more sleep to be had. I crawl out of bed like an arthritic old man leaving a blotch of dried blood on the pillow. After freshening up and getting dressed I go downstairs and gorge on the breakfast buffet. I start with coffee, then make a thick cheese and ham sandwich with fresh cut bread. After that there is a plate of rollmops, boiled eggs, and baloney pate on crusty bread washed down with another coffee. Finally, I have a large helping of wonderful Danish pastries with a side order of berries, and a third coffee. I finish as most people are drifting in and wander over to the lounge where there is Wi Fi. I lower myself onto a soft sofa and let the breakfast settle.

  I restlessly browse my phone with little interest, and occasionally look up at residents congregating in the foyer for excursions. I sit up, tap my foot and rub my hand across my mouth. I'm revisiting the car and our last moment together and I am bothered by it. There was a connection, a playful spark and a sexual sizzle that could have perhaps gone somewhere, and now is being thought of in the past tense. Alongside of that there is a profound sense of failing to discharge a duty, of abrogating a responsibility that had been assumed, of unfinished business and dashed pride. I have the need to search for her, so I enter tattooists in North Tonawanda into the search engine and three pop up. I dismiss the first called Carl's Tattooing and the second named American Skin Art by Dead Ed for obvious reasons. The third is called Kraken Ink on Main Street and I smile at the double meaning, knowing this is the one.

  I click on the link to the website and see a photograph of her sitting at a work table wearing a black cut off t-shirt with her inked arms on show. She has on black latex gloves and is pushing a needle into a woman's back – this much is true then. I pinch a bit of my beard and twist it until there is a mild sensation of pain. I don't want to walk away, even though I know it to be a fool's errand to continue. I realize that not doing anything would plague me, and in doing something I would be kicking up a nest of vipers. What to do when between the devil and the deep blue sea?

  ◆◆◆

  Get Carter plays off the phone and it is a foreign number that I'm not going to answer. I listen to the music and imagine what Jack Carter would do. Jack would go north, he'd poke around until he got answers, then sort it out with a shotgun. Of course, in the end he is killed for his interference by a sniper's bullet he doesn't see - a bad augury then.

  Chapter 12

  I check the departure screen and it has changed to boarding. I hook my bag over my shoulder and make for the terminal, far from convinced that this is even remotely sane. It was a mad dash once the decision was made. I found a seat on a domestic flight to Isafjordur flying out out of Reykjavik City Airport at 12:15 and booked a taxi from the hotel to the airport immediately after.

  It is an improbable looking aircraft. It is sleek bodied with comparatively stubby wings and a single propeller each side. On the white fuselage Flugfelag Islands is written in blue and there is a Pegasus emblem on the blue fin. I cross the tarmac with a small group of passengers and board the plane. I settle in my allocated seat and shortly after the safety brief the plane begins to taxi onto the runway. The take-off speed is slower than a jet-propelled plane, yet the take-off itself seems quicker and smoother.

  We ascend to a cruising altitude and the pilot announces over the tannoy that it is a forty minute flight. I decide to use the time to formulate a plan of attack. I open a notepad application on my phone and write: SCHEME – something to do with Ron and the promise of money. The name doesn't ring true, although I don't have the right name to replace it – it is like trying to find a wisp of smoke in the mist. Of course, it could randomly come to me, or perhaps be revealed through an unseen connection, or then again not.

  The facts I know and could deduce about Ron Somethingsson are: he is or was into metal detecting and Viking history, is probably on account of his friendship
with Toni's father aged between fifty-five and seventy-five, lives in Isafjordur and is currently being visited by a couple of unsavoury Americans. With a population of roughly two and a half thousand it is enough to go on, and I think I have a shot of finding him with some old fashion leg-work and door knocking. If not him, Marcus would stick out like a sore thumb, and there is also the Defender to look out for.

  There is a spot of turbulence and the plane dips and rises and vibrates. I hear an involuntary gasp from someone in front, and in an opposite seat I see a young man look to the heavens and cross himself in prayer. I have tensed up without realizing and my breathing is shallow. I chastise myself for being a wuss and breathe out. I don't enjoy flying and used to be quite anxious with take-offs and landings. Over time I had improved but scrape the surface and the fear is still there. Beth used to say that I didn't like being out of control and that is true, because I hate the really big thrill rides at amusement parks as well. It made my story of being a firefighter ridiculous because I can't stand heights either.

  The Pilot, in Icelandic and English reassures the passengers that the turbulence will pass and there is nothing to worry about. It lasts long enough for me to feel I'm going to see my breakfast again, but then subsides into a staccato rumbling that is more irritating than concerning. After a few minutes it ceases completely, and the pilot announces that we are approaching Isafjordur.

  I peer out of the window and the plane descends over mountains into a horseshoe shaped inlet. The mountains are truncated and deeply wrinkled with vertical lines giving the overall appearance of a basin. Jutting out on the left side of the fjord is a scimitar shaped peninsula crowded with colourful, commercial buildings. The peninsula then clearing at the end to a dock. Snaking around the rim of the cobalt blue water is a road. Attached to this at the back of the fjord there is a round shaped cluster of road connected buildings, set in a treeless greenery of shrub and grass.

  The pilot tracks the road as it skirts around the mountain and banks right; and in a short distance the runway is visible. It is rudimentary: a thick strip of white lined road laid upon a larger section of light grey concrete, which in turn is constructed upon a spit of land in the water. The airport is three buildings and a fire truck with a short track joining at ninety degrees with the main road.

  The dramatic mountains, rugged terrain and sparseness of population conjure in my in mind a romantic notion of entering a wild frontier town - even if in reality it couldn't be more civilized with its museums, mud soccer and music festivals.

  We touch down and taxi around to the control tower. I grab my bag and file off the plane and the cold stings like a slap in the face. I nuzzle into my coat and follow the other passengers to the terminal. Having left my case at the Storm I leave the others to wait for their luggage and head outside. Next to the door I stop at a display of flyers and leaflets advertising what Isafjordur has to offer the tourist. A couple take my interest: The Westfjords Heritage Museum and The Osvor Maritime Museum. I slip the leaflets in my pocket and continue outside.

  There are several taxis waiting and I make eye contact with the driver of the first in line. He is a middle-aged man with unruly grey hair and a down-turned mouth that made him look displeased with his lot. He is driving a white Kia saloon and I jump in the front. I tell him that I want to go to the Heritage Museum, and he drops his head, which I infer as a sign of agreement. He spins the car around and we cruise along the coastal road. The radio plays an Icelandic folk song while the driver puffs away on an e-cigarette - the vapour like honey and almonds. Gazing out from all the windows I suck in the stunning landscape like a drowning man would air – it is truly a remarkable place to live.

  The taxi travels at a sedate pace to the other side of the fjord. Then into the peninsula to where it fattens out into dockyard warehouses and a patch of waste ground behind. The driver pulls in front of a low, brown wood building with a disproportionately high black roof, that is one of four historic buildings from another century. It flies a blue flag from a flagpole fixed to the left apex and has a windowed cupola in the centre of the roof line. If not for the skylight roof it would resemble a cabin from the wild west. I pay the fare but don't extend to a tip - that down-turned mouth can stay that way.

  The entrance is a long wooden gangplank leading to an open double doorway of darkness and dim light. On washed grey pebbles to the right is an A frame made of weathered logs, that by the rusted hooks dangling from the centre pole would have hung chunks of meat and fish to be cured. I have a hunch that this could be a good place to start enquiries. I shell out the admission fee with a tinge of resentment at how much money is flying out of my hands. Beth had been careful with money and over the years it had rubbed off on me. It is funny and inevitable how people in long, happy relationships blended their characters.

  There are no surprises inside. The interior is as you would expect it to be from the outside - pared down to bare utility. There are a party of tourists milling around the exhibits busy clicking away with cameras and smartphones. An overly made up young woman with a duck's bill for a top lip and fake lashes that could bat a fly, strikes a provocative pose next to an old fisherman's oilskin. She pouts glossed lips and sticks out her ass like it were a shelf for a drink. She manoeuvres the selfie-stick into position and gurns her way through several shots.

  I'm fascinated by the rampant vanity and how some young women are turning themselves into freaks with filler and Botox – and how the men are following suit. I stop short of gawping at the incongruity of old and new and move under a low ceiling propped up by heavy wood struts. The ground floor is dedicated to the fishing industry. There are many grainy black and white photographs of fishing trawlers and fishermen's wives gutting fish, along with compasses, model ships, a whaling harpoon and an old brass porthole helmet diving suit with weighted shoes.

  There is a guide in what I assume is traditional female dress for the region. She is a large lady in a full black swishy dress that reaches the ankles, with a plaid pinafore worn over the top and adorned with a huge bow on her chest. She is busy giving a talk to a group of tourists, so I leave her alone. I look for another guide and there isn't one. I see a steep wooden staircase and climb it hoping to find someone to speak to. There are fewer people wandering around the exhibits of regional flora and fauna and I find a tour guide. She is slighter and older and dressed the same, except I now notice that the traditional dress includes a black woollen skullcap. The tag on her chest informs me her name is Agatha.

  On the ride over I had contemplated how best to go about it, and whichever way it was phrased I sounded like an idiot with only half of an idea of what I was talking about. I stand in front of her and wing it,

  “Hi, I wonder if you can help me?”

  “I will if I can,” she replies, the small features of her face posing in anticipation.

  “I'm looking for a local man who is into Viking history and metal detecting. I guess he would be around fifty-five to seventy-five years of age. I think his name is … Ron or something similar,” I say waveringly and with a hint of embarrassment. I smile awkwardly like you do when you wing something, and you don't expect it to turn out well.

  “Perhaps you mean Jon, he volunteers here.”

  It strikes me like a lightning bolt, and I leap at it,

  “Yes, Jon.”

  “Why are you looking for him?” her dainty features crinkling with suspicion.

  I scramble into prevarication and reach for an answer.

  “Because … because I read about him on Trip Advisor, but can’t remember his name, the … the reviews said he was a great guide. My mistake I got mixed up … Osvor, Maritime, Heritage.”

  I tapped my head and goofed like a fool.

  She nods, and a lightness returns to her face,

  “Yes, Jon Einarsson is very good, but he is not working today. The Heritage and Maritime are the same. We get this all the time but the Osvor is separate and just outside of town.”

  I've pa
inted myself into a corner with this gal, but at least I now have the right name.

  “Thank you, you've been a great help,” and as I say this I can almost hear her mind ticking as it doubles back on itself.

  I turn and make for the stairs before what I told her doesn't add up - it didn't to me.

  Outside the sky is a dirty, sunless white already signalling surrender to the coming darkness. I lean against the bow of a grounded rowing boat and ponder my next move. I must convince a local to tell me where he lives. I also have to think about where I will stay the night. I return to the museum entrance and loiter at the door. The cashier is wrapped up speaking with a girl and I bide my time until the girl's parents call her way.

  “Excuse me I wonder if you can help me. I am supposed to be meeting Jon Einarsson at two o’clock and he is not here. I would message him, but I lost my phone in the sea when I tripped and banged my head whale watching. We've been emailing and messaging each other for a couple of months, and he offered to put me up for the night. Could you tell me where he lives, I'm going to be stuck otherwise?”

  The cashier is a young bespectacled man with a leaf size wine birthmark on the side of his neck. He opens his mouth to speak but does not say anything. I can tell that he knows but doesn't know what to say so I labour the point some more. I try to look harmless and pathetic by huffing and shrugging and smiling inanely like I am too stupid to be a danger. I say despondently,

  “I really am going to be stuck if I can't find Jon.”

  The cashier lifts his eyes as if the right answer has come to him and says,