part0013

EVAN’S HEAD EXPLODED out of the water as if a depth charge had gone off under the boat, a stream of water droplets flicking in a graceful arc high into the air, glittering in the sunlight. He ripped off the mask. Heaved air into his lungs like he’d been underwater a couple of minutes or maybe hours, not a few measly seconds. The sun was in his eyes, the salty water running into them, blinding him. It didn’t stop him from seeing the image of George Winter’s face staring back at him, what little there was of his thin wispy silver hair moving gently in the currents like delicate seaweed stretching towards the light above.

He allowed himself a minute to get over the initial shock, his breath ragged and rasping like he’d swum a circuit of the marina with a weight belt around his own waist. Then he pulled the mask back on, got himself back into position on the gunwale. He heaved air deep into his lungs, expanding them, forced it out again. Over and over until he felt he could hold his breath for a week. Then filled them to bursting, lowered his face back into the water, water that was no longer cool and fresh and inviting, but cold and soul-numbing, nothing more than one big watery open grave.

Winter was directly under the boat. Unlike his neighbor Segal and most of the other men and women Evan had seen on the other boats or walking around the marina who favored shorts and T-shirts, Winter was dressed all in black. Long black pants and long-sleeved black shirt. The weight belt was clipped around his waist, the dull gray lead weights resting on his hips. His body was upright although he appeared to be thrusting his pelvis forwards as the intestinal putrefactive gases concentrated in his belly tried to lift him towards the surface. Under the bulging stomach the legs were bent at the knees from the weight of the belt, the inflexibility of his leg muscles preventing them from collapsing entirely.

Above the black clothes, his face was startlingly white. There was no trace of lividity. Because blood after death adheres to the laws of gravity and, his body being upright, it had drained from his face and neck. His mouth was wide open. As were his sightless eyes. Small, inquisitive fish made tentative forays into his hair, nipped at his skin and hunted even smaller creatures that had already colonized the new arrival in their domain.

But the thing that struck Evan more than anything else was his hands and arms. They floated freely at his sides. Made him look as if he’d been crucified, not drowned. Cadaveric spasm had turned the fingers into claws, and maceration, the skin change which characterizes immersion, had begun. The skin on the tips of his fingers and his palms was whitened and sodden, thickened and wrinkled like an old washerwoman’s, not yet to the point where the epidermis becomes loose and peels, the nails and hair detaching.

It wasn’t the physiological effects of Winter’s time in the water on his hands and arms, fascinating as they might be, that demanded Evan’s attention. It was the fact that they weren’t tied behind his back or constrained in any way. He could have unclipped the belt at any time. He’d either gone in of his own free will or he’d been unconscious. There were no obvious cuts or wounds on the front or the top of his head, visible through his thin hair. Time would tell whether he’d been hit from behind.

Or maybe the unexplained empty whisky bottle was now unexplained no longer. A pint of whisky either drunk voluntarily or administered forcefully would render most people unconscious. Certainly a man not accustomed to hard liquor.

He’d seen enough. More than enough.

He pulled his face out of the water, less violently than last time, maneuvered himself back into the boat. Looking down into the gap between the boat and the jetty, Winter’s body was invisible, even to someone looking for it. Totally inappropriate for the climate, the black long-sleeved top and long pants did a great job of making him almost invisible in the shadows under the boat.

He, or somebody else, hadn’t wanted his body found too quickly.

The half-empty can of warm beer was still in the drinks holder behind the fighting chair. He downed it in one, belched loudly, wished he hadn’t bothered. Then he dressed again quickly which did nothing to lessen the shivers that had taken hold of his body despite only his head having gotten wet. Sinking into the fighting chair, he angled his face towards the sun and closed his eyes.

Then opened them again. Fast. Just not fast enough to stop him from seeing Winter’s face staring at him from the back of his eyelids. There would be no peace or rest for him, not for a while yet. So he pulled out his phone and made a call. Crow answered immediately as if he’d been expecting it. His opening words confirmed it, not even a hello .

He told him what he’d found, kept it brief. Then he backed up, ran through the events leading up to the discovery. Crow was silent for a long while. Evan gave him time, leaned back in the chair. Almost forgot himself and closed his eyes again. Around him the everyday sounds of the marina as people went about their business and their pleasures seemed too loud, too intrusive, a stark, rude contrast to his brief visit to Winter’s silent underwater world.

When Crow eventually spoke, Evan would not have been surprised if he’d heard the voice that came down the line coming from Winter’s own mouth.

‘It’s not suicide.’

‘I knew you’d say that.’

‘That’s because it’s obvious. And because you think so too.’

‘You want to tell me why you’re so sure?’

In the background he heard the clink of ice in a glass. Then the sound of a generous measure of liquid poured over it. Unlike his friend George, Crow was not averse to a drop of the hard stuff. It made Evan wish there were some cold beers left. He had a feeling a long night lay ahead.

‘Because he wasn’t the type,’ Crow said.

Evan didn’t say anything. He knew what would happen if he tried to get away with something as wishy-washy as that. Crow knew it too.

‘If you knew what we went through together, you’d know it too.’

Wishy-washy times two, Evan thought to himself. He felt as if his head was underwater again and it was Winter talking to him. He could see the mouth moving, hear strange indistinct sounds resonating in the water all around him. And he was supposed to make sense of them.

‘Seeing as I don’t know what you went through together but I do know that you’re not going to tell me, how about giving me some concrete reasons? Because the police are going to be asking me the same things very soon—’

‘Did you call them yet?’

‘No. I called you first.’

‘Good boy. There’s hope for you yet.’

‘So. Some reasons?’

‘I told you how excited he was about getting this job. Some real work for a change, he said. Why would he suddenly kill himself when his life’s just taken a turn for the better.’

Evan shook his head even though Crow couldn’t see him.

Crow thought for a while, the sound of him slurping his drink loud in Evan’s ear. If it went on too long, Evan would be hopping onto Segal’s boat, asking him if he had any beers in the fridge as well as all the wine.

‘That wasn’t his diving equipment, for one,’ Crow said.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because he couldn’t swim.’

‘What? A man who spends his life on the water can’t swim?’

Crow said there was nothing strange about that. Floating around on top of the water was better than getting in it, certainly preferable to going under it. Assuming you’ve forsaken the even more sensible option of not going anywhere near it in the first place.

‘I take it you can’t swim either.’

Crow ignored the question which was confirmation enough.

‘And he didn’t drink hard liquor. So that wasn’t his whisky.’

They both knew that the autopsy was likely to show that George was full of it nonetheless. The point they were arguing was how it had gotten into him. They also knew there was no point in them trying to convince each other. Because, despite playing devil’s advocate, Evan was of the same opinion as Crow. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Crow who was going to have to convince the police.

‘I know you have to call the police now,’ Crow said, ‘but see if you can have a quick look around before they get there.’

Evan bit his tongue. Didn’t ask what the hell Crow thought he’d been doing all afternoon. If Crow had been there with him, he’d have been taking his first involuntary swimming lesson right about now. In his clothes, like his old friend George.

He couldn’t say what made him ask the question. Maybe it was the way that it mirrored the task Crow had asked him to perform. Find George . . .

Whatever it was, it would turn out to be the most pertinent thing he’d asked Crow the whole conversation.

‘I never asked him,’ Crow said. ‘But he did a lot of work as a bounty hunter at one point. I suppose he thought it seemed appropriate.’ He chuckled, a sound that had more than a hint of fond reminiscence about it. ‘Not that you’re allowed to bring them in dead these days, of course.’