by Cameron Bell
“Your knife Toni, where is it?”
“Breast pocket,” she pants, her breathing rapid and shallow, the cold water shock taking her.
The water now against her right ear and slicing across her chin. I brace off the roof and leaning down put a hand on her head rest to steady myself. I quell the sickness that she gave me and unzip the pocket. Shaking, I slip my hand in and carefully retrieve the lock knife. I put it between my teeth and step down over her, placing my foot on the submerged cockpit window. I feel the chill of the water as it seeps through my boot and circles my lower leg. The knife opens with a snap and with my left hand I grab a fistful of the belt and lift. The water rises, entering the corner of her mouth causing her to spit and splutter for breath. The knife slides under the space, and with a tugging and sawing motion it is cut. I hold up the shoulder straps and pull her from under them.
I hear a voice from outside and see a man in a lemon overall with grey reflective strips leaning over and looking in. The man is burly with a broad face and fair, crew cut hair. He has hooded eyes that make him look sleepy, or otherwise disinterested and a small turned up nose that sits incongruously with the rest of his face. He has a florid complexion and appears to be around thirty. He flattens against the doorway and extends a thick arm through, and with a raised voice barks “Quick, take my hand.”
The aircraft groans and the sea pours in. I am squashing Toni in, so I must exit first. I clasp the meaty hand above me and use the tension in the arm to spring up onto the lip of the door. I get both hands on and heave myself out. I then mimic the crewman's position on the other side of the door so that two arms dangle into the cockpit.
It is impossible to separate the sheer horror of a creeping death inching towards you, from the distress of facing someone you believed you had murdered, and Toni's face is an amalgamation of alarm. She flinches from my outstretched arm and takes the crewman's hand. He lifts her part of the way up and then I grip her by the jacket, and we lift her half out. I switch grip to her belt and see the old nautical compass tattoo at the base of her back. It is beautiful piece of work, but a tramp stamp, nonetheless.
Chapter 28
Messily, we get down from the plane and ascend the rocks. The front doors of the grey Toyota Hilux are swung open and the amber light revolves and flashes in the dimness of the dawn. Another airport guy in a voluminous orange work coat with a phone in his hand is kneeling next to a still unconscious Kyle. The man pinching the phone between ear and shoulder rolls Kyle onto his side into the recovery position.
“You crash into the plane,” states the crewman warily watching me, and the half-drowned rat jumps in,
“He tried to kill us, he's crazy!”
The guy in the open orange coat stands up and moves four o'clock to my position. Shortish and slim, he has a full head of black hair neatly combed in a side parting, is older than the crewman and underneath the coat is dressed more for management than maintenance. I'm not having any of it, I'll allow her no more twists and turns. Pointing, I channel the authority of twenty-three years of telling people how it is,
“This man, this woman have murdered Jon Einarsson in Isafjordur, attempted to murder me, and on that plane is stolen gold. I have stopped them leaving the country and you are to hold them until the police arrive. I have phoned the police and they are on their way.”
“Lies! He is the criminal, you've just seen what he did with your own eyes,” protests Toni shivering like a shitting dog, strands of wet hair stuck to the left side of her face like the oily, black tentacles of her Kraken tattoo.
“What I say is true. There is gold in that plane and a dead man in Isafjordur named Jon Einarsson. These are facts that can be known,” I declare with conviction.
“I don't know anything about a murdered man, but you do so perhaps you killed him,” she responds rankled.
The crewman rubs the side of his face and runs the point of his tongue along the bottom lip. He is about to say something when I interrupt.
“The gold Toni, explain the five million dollars worth of Viking gold on your plane, explain it! You can't, or maybe you can, put the blame on Kyle here, get him to take the fall. Just another man scrunched up and tossed in the bin. You picked the wrong man for a stooge Toni, I'm taking you down, you cold blooded bitch.”
In the distance I hear the long wail of a siren. I listen to it become louder and alternate to a rapid two tone. It is coming from the direction of Bildudalur the other side of the bay. The siren blares as the white police car rounds the promontory and drops off the coastal road into the airport. It speeds along the runway with spinning blue lights, then dramatically brakes to a skidding halt. Doors spring open and two male uniformed cops alight from the Volvo Crossover SUV. The driver is tall and blonde, lean and young with a face that could be described as pretty and somewhat feminine. The passenger is his opposite, worldly mid-thirties, average height, lantern jawed and densely muscled with a bearing that said he took no shit.
The hardnosed cop eyed everyone then gave an instruction in Icelandic. The fresh face cop responds and jogs over to the still stricken pilot. Kyle had been a sitting duck and the left hook vicious. I had wanted to knock him out, out cold over several ten counts; now it is looking like there could have been too much heat on that hook.
Hard Nose takes the centre and questions the airport crew in Icelandic. For a minute a conversation went back and forth and at the end Hard Nose says brusquely,
“What is your name?”
“William Cutter.”
“You are reporting homicide?” he asks in a heavy accent of clipped English.
“Yes, last night that woman Antonia Brookes and that man Kyle Banks poisoned a man from Isafjordur called Jon Einarsson. His body is on the living room floor at twenty-two Hildevargur. They murdered him for the gold on that plane.”
I listen to how I am talking my way into becoming a murder suspect, but there is no other way. I have got to keep digging that hole and hope I come out of the other side of it, because it is all too late now to climb back out.
I hear more sirens, a blend of two or more closing in. The airport man in the orange coat takes it off and drapes it over Toni's shoulders. She smiles at him, gorgeous to the unsuspecting, unyieldingly gorgeous still to those that should know better. Toni steps in front of Hard Nose lasering him with her cold blue eyes. Sassy, tough Toni disappears, and little girl lost Toni with an upset voice comes to the fore.
“He crashed into our plane, almost killed us. He's obsessed with me, he's a madman who's been stalking me since I got here.”
Hard Nose breaks her gaze and looks down at the toe of his left boot like he's about to kick a penalty. He touches the earpiece and speaks into the radio on the jacket's lapel. Kyle wakes with a start on queer street, and with glazed over eyes groggily paws at some imaginary handle that he thinks will help him to his feet. Hard Nose sidesteps to align himself with a view of the Ranger's registration plate. I don't understand what he is saying over the radio but I know he's running the registration through a database. Another police patrol car followed by a red fire engine and a red and yellow lined ambulance drop onto the airport road and make their way across the strip.
Hard Nose says to me,
“I'm arresting you under article 165 for causing danger to the public and damage to property. I am also arresting you under article 211 on suspicion of taking the life of another person. You are being detained to prevent any further loss of life. I am handcuffing you, turn around and place your hands behind your back.”
I comply, it was to be expected. He snaps the rigid handcuffs on, and the broadness of my shoulders pulls my wrists against the metal bracelets – it would be a long uncomfortable ride. He leads me to the Volvo and angling my head I see a touch of smugness on those lips. She catches herself and a smile is subdued to the better affectation of victimhood. The tears, the stunned, choking shock, the gentle collapse - and the rat slips down the drain. A paramedic tends to her, another Kyle, and
I'm the bad guy being bent into the back of the Volvo. Confidence deserts me like a wronged man, a condemned man being moved to his place in the tale. I rail against the shadow of the noose,
“Detain them too, there are stolen gold coins on that plane, which they killed Jon Einarsson for. I can prove it, don't let them go.”
Stern and stoic like the mountains he seems indifferent. I shift in the seat to alleviate the discomfort and look anxiously out the windows. Kyle is stretchered into the ambulance, and Toni now covered with a foil blanket is ushered on board another ambulance that has just arrived. The ambulances leave followed by a patrol car.
A third police vehicle arrives, and three cops get out. The one that got out of the front passenger seat puts on a yellow braided flat cap and has a bar on his epaulettes. I guess that he is an Inspector or some equivalent and is in charge of this incident. Hard Nose approaches within intimate speaking distance with the senior cop and words are exchanged. Hard Nose calls over the fresh faced cop who jumps into the driver's seat. Hard Nose gets in the back with me and sits behind the driver. Before we leave I see the cops taking photographs and the fire crew about to do something with the plane.
Chapter 29
I languish in a police cell and lament how I got here. Self-pity could be an insistent foe and over the last seven hours had laid into me pretty good. The journey back to Isafjordur had been grim and interminable with hardly a word said; and with long periods where I felt as rough as a badger's arse. It was only made bearable by the handcuffs being moved to the front in a stacked position, which with one wrist on top of another made it impossible to straighten the arms. Still, it was a darn sight more comfortable than any rear position and I was grateful for it. Hard Nose had been unmoved, however Fresh Face had a nice streak and switched them round.
At the station I had been examined by a Police Doctor who documented my injuries. The Doctor declared that I was fit to be detained. My clothes were seized, and I was issued with a cheap grey sweatshirt, jogging bottoms and single use slippers. I was permitted a phone call. I called Annabel assuring her that I was fine and would get out of the mess that I had got myself into. I ended the call telling her I loved her - fearing I might not see her for a very long time.
Alongside the self-pity I dwell on my case, gathering the evidence to vindicate me and damn her. I line up the bullets I will fire to shoot her down in flames, then test for weaknesses in my defence. Gamekeeper and poacher are two faces of the same coin and I could flip from one to the other to suit. It is useful to do this to try and poke holes in your own case, to play the other side and to sabotage it with what ifs. If you can find those holes you can try to plug them and keep the case afloat. Though often a split was too wide to fix, or there were other leaks too. Then you had to stop bailing out the water and allow a sinking ship to sink.
The cell door opens and Gudjohnsen is there with a blue notebook tucked underneath his left arm. He is attired in a sharp, graphite grey suite and is sucking a sweet. I am somewhat glad to see him and that it made sense for him to be in on this.
“You look worse than the last time I saw you. Your face Mr. Cutter tells a story of woe,” he comments drolly.
True without a doubt, though the humour if it is that from him, catches me off guard.
“Trials and tribulations Detective Gudjohnsen … I'm wearing them.”
He smiles half-heartedly and says,
“It is time for an interrogation. If you would like to follow me.”
I nod and get up off the thin waterproof, anti-rip mattress that on top of the ten inch raise of concrete qualifies as a bed. I am led along a gloomy cell wing out through a set of key card secured doors, into a long carpeted corridor with a CCTV camera the other end. Along each side of the corridor there are pine coloured doors and Detective Gudjohnsen pushes and holds the third door on the right open. I step inside an interview room painted in a mellow green. There is a short, solid pine table with a spongy black top and two bolted down chairs either side. The table is pushed against the far wall and on it against the wall is a CD-ROM recording device. In the top corner of the opposite wall is a CCTV camera with a glowing red sensor. I take a seat facing the door like I'm supposed to, leaving the cop the ability to withdraw should the suspect become violent.
I hear a female voice in the corridor say something in Icelandic and Gudjohnsen continues to hold the door. A woman in a black suit with soft, white shirt underneath enters carrying a tray of coffees. She is slim to the point of thin and has chiselled cheek bones and bony hands. Her skin a translucent white and seemingly bloodless is complimented by stylishly severe auburn hair. It is difficult to tell how old she is, but I hazard a guess that she is in her mid-forties.
“Would you like a coffee Mr. Cutter, or may I call you Will?” she asks in flawless English.
“Yes, and yes,” I reply.
I take a coffee from the tray and wrap my hands around the warmth. She picks up a notebook from the side of the chair next to the recorder and places it on the table. She takes a seat nearest to the machine and Gudjohnsen joins her on the adjacent seat.
“I am Detective Inspector Karlsdóttir and this as you know is Detective Gudjohnsen. In the next few seconds I will start the recording of this interview.”
She presses the red record button and there is a five second beep as the seconds count forward on the blue digital display.
“This interview is being recorded at Isafjordur Police Station. The time is 16:39 hours on Tuesday 8th November 2017. I am interviewing ...” and she extends an open hand to prompt.
“William Jon Cutter born 12th of November 1971.”
“Can you confirm that you are fit and well?” she continues.
“I've been a hell of a lot better. I was given GHB last night and you need to take a blood sample from me before it clears my system. But to answer your question I'm good to go.”
“GHB?” she repeats in query.
“It is a sedative often used as a date rape drug.”
“Okay, we'll have the Doctor see you again after the interview, but first I need to ask you again if you wish to have legal advice?”
“No, I'm just going to tell you everything so I don't need one. They are only of use if you plan to lie.”
There is a flicker of amusement on Gudjohnsen's lips; then he says,
“You do understand the seriousness of the crimes which you have been detained for: homicide, causing danger to the public and causing substantial damage to property?”
“Of course.”
“In this interview we will cover topics and the first topic I want to cover is you. Why have you come to Iceland?” Karlsdottir asks.
“Because my wife and I wanted to come here for a long time, and she died before we did. So … so on the spur of the moment … on a loose end I thought I'd go. Booked what I could get as soon as I could get it, and five days later I was on a plane to Keflavik.”
“To do what?”
“The usual tourist stuff with some drinking thrown in.”
The room is warm, and I am worn – frazzled and becoming flippant with it.
“You drink a lot?” she probes.
“A bit of late ... it helps take my mind off things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Grief, uncertainty, frustration – the meat of life.”
Gudjohnsen scribbles in his book and Karlsdottir poses another question.
“At present you are ill and not in work as a Police Sergeant is that correct?”
“I am off sick with stress,” I reply with a tinge of embarrassment.
“You are suspended and under investigation for assaulting a suspect?”
I sit forward placing both palms on the table and looking her directly in the eye assert slowly,
“Not suspended – restricted and it was lawful use of force to effect an arrest. Did my Force mention the three commendations for bravery, or are you only worth the last piece of shit you were made to step in?”
“Would you describe yourself as a violent man?”
“Only when I need to be.”
“When did you arrive and when were you due to return?”
“Last Tuesday and this Wednesday,” and then I realize how she had just phrased return in the past tense.
“Let us talk about Antonia Brookes,” says Karlsdottir.
“Good, I've a lot to say about her.”
“How did you meet?”
“I met her at the Gaukurinn Bar in Reykjavik last Friday night. I was at the bar listening to a band when she came over to me. She started a conversation and bought me a drink. We talked and I bought her a drink in return. She seemed a little nervous and asked me to walk her back to her hotel. She said it was near to where I was staying.”
“What hotel were you staying at?”
“The Storm.”
“What hotel was Antonia staying at?”
I cant my head to the ceiling and open mouthed wait for the answer.
“The Leifur Eiriksson … yeah. And if walking from the Gaukurinn it is in the opposite direction to The Storm – nowhere near. That was her first lie.”
“What happened next?”
“Well I've told Detective Gudjohnsen all this before.”
“I want you to tell me,” she says with effortless assertion.
“We get to an alley and she says she is good from here. We say our farewells and I remember that I have to text my daughter, so I stop to send a text. I hear a scream from the alley and go to investigate. I see Toni being attacked by two men. I decide to defend her and punch one of the men unconscious. I then get into a bit of a fight with the other guy and punch him unconscious too. We head back to my hotel and I ask her why the men had attacked her. She initially told me she didn't know why, but when I said I didn't believe her she came up with another story. Marcus her ex-partner and Adam his cousin were stalking her. Like I'm now supposed to be. So basically, she used me to deter Marcus and Adam from attacking her.”