So Eygló was right: Rósa hadn’t been stupid enough to arrange to meet Beccari alone in the valley. ‘Was that really necessary?’
‘I think so. Besides, she was going to die anyway. I just made it quicker. And once you have killed twice, it’s kind of easier to kill again.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’
Beccari sighed. He looked up at Magnus, tears in his eyes. Magnus had the feeling that Beccari was very sorry — sorry for himself.
‘So what happens now?’ Beccari asked.
‘Inspector Paulsen arrests you. You get tried for murder in two countries; we get to fight with the Greenlanders about who goes first. You spend a long time in jail.’
Beccari nodded.
‘You know, Marco,’ said Magnus. ‘It is a shame that your father never knew what you are really like.’
Anger flashed through the tears. Magnus didn’t care. Beccari deserved to be locked away for a long, long time. Magnus’s only regret was that he would be tried in Greenland or Iceland: he really needed to spend the rest of his life in a US penitentiary.
Magnus stood up, turned away from Beccari towards the airport, and called Paulsen, telling her he had found Beccari by the playground and she should come and arrest him.
He heard the scrabble of falling stones behind him, and saw Beccari slide down the rocks to the road below.
Magnus yelled as Beccari bounded across the road and leaped into the air.
It was only ten or fifteen feet to the sea below. Magnus heard the splash as he followed Beccari down the rocks and over the narrow road.
He could still see the ripples where Beccari had hit the water below him, but no sign of the man himself. Magnus stared at the slow swirl of the sea. Beccari didn’t look like much of a swimmer, but perhaps he had struck out under water. The surface broke as the long neck of a cormorant bobbed up. The bird looked around for a couple of seconds and then dived down.
People usually floated, didn’t they? Could Beccari have got stuck down there somewhere?
Then, slowly, the hump of Beccari’s light brown jacket broke the surface, his pink hooped scarf training behind it. He was face down.
His body was only a few yards from the rocky shore line.
Magnus couldn’t understand why Beccari hadn’t broken the surface face up.
Magnus was a good swimmer. He knew CPR; he knew mouth-to-mouth. If he got to Beccari quickly, he had a good chance of saving him.
But the water was cold, dangerously cold. He had no idea how long a healthy body could survive in water that cold before hypothermia kicked in, but he thought it must be at least ten minutes. Probably half an hour. Paulsen was on her way and there were helicopters and motorboats galore close by.
Was it worth risking his own life for Beccari? Eight years before Magnus had watched as a murderer had drowned in the waters of a powerful waterfall. Even though there was nothing he could reasonably have done to save the man once he had fallen in, he had relived the moment with regret: no, with guilt.
He could save Beccari.
He laid his phone on the rock, took off his coat and his shoes, paused for a moment and jumped.
Fifty-One
As he was in mid-air the realization hit Magnus he had no idea how deep the water was. Perhaps Beccari had banged his head on a rock just below the surface. Too late to do anything about that now, except to resolve to bunch his legs as soon as he hit the water to slow his descent.
Impact was like a giant fist smashing against his body, clutching him and squeezing. It wasn’t the resistance, it was the cold: cold like nothing he had ever felt before. All the nerves, all the muscles in his body seemed to convulse. He could feel his mouth attempting to open in an involuntary gasp; somehow he managed to keep it closed. His lungs exploded.
He did pull up his legs but he had no idea where he was, or even which way up. He opened his eyes. The sea was green; white bubbles from his splash surrounded him. His lungs demanded air immediately — holding his breath was not an option. He hadn’t quite managed to keep his mouth completely closed in the moment after impact; some water had trickled in, stimulating a coughing reflex. A surge of panic overwhelmed him, and a compulsion to flap his arms and legs. But which way?
He told himself to stay still, just for a couple of seconds so that he could tell which way was up. The bubbles cleared, slipping off together. Up. Sand, rock and seaweed appeared in one direction, a lighter shade of green and blue in another. He pushed with his arms to change his attitude so that his head was towards the surface and kicked and flapped.
Ordinarily, Magnus could hold his breath under water for a minute or more. Now he only had a few seconds. His chest was exploding. His clothes were dragging him down.
He couldn’t keep his mouth shut any more. It opened just as he broke the surface, he took two lungs full of air and then he was under again. He resisted the insistent messages from his body to flail wildly and took a couple of deliberate strokes upwards.
Once again, his face broke the surface and he kicked and flapped with arms and legs to keep his face above the surface.
The explosion in his lungs was joined by his heart. His heartbeat galloped, the blood roaring in his ears. Despite his face being above water and free to gasp air, his lungs were telling him that he didn’t have enough oxygen. He seemed to be breathing in without having time to breathe out.
Panic was tugging at his heels, pulling him down towards the bottom.
Hyperventilation.
Slow down. Calm down.
He held his breath. Froze his limbs. Let his body sink and his head go underwater just for a couple of seconds before kicking back to the surface.
It worked. He was still gasping, his pulse felt like it had hit two hundred, but a steady flow of oxygen was reaching his lungs.
He looked around him. Beccari was floating face down about ten yards away. The rocky shore was close, but there seemed nowhere to cling on safely. A better bet was the motorboat a little further out to sea. Maybe Magnus would be able to climb on board. If not, he could at least hang on to the mooring line.
He began to take some tentative strokes towards Beccari. After the initial shock, where the cold had felt like a blow, now it was painful. Magnus could see why Beccari had surfaced face down; he must have gasped for air as he had plunged beneath the surface, and filled his lungs with seawater. Magnus had been foolish to jump after him, but now he was in, he would do his best to extricate Beccari.
It was difficult to swim or to make any forward progress at all. He found himself making swift, useless strokes; once again he tried to calm himself, to swim slowly and deliberately.
After what seemed like an age, he reached Beccari. He was exhausted. He reached out to grab Beccari’s clothes to try and turn him face up, but his fingers wouldn’t grasp him. He got closer, reached out again. Beccari sank underwater. Surfaced. Magnus just couldn’t grip; his fingers wouldn’t obey instructions from his brain. His body was shutting down, extremities first.
He gave up trying to get a hold of Beccari, and instead pushed Beccari’s side upwards, trying to flip him over on to his back.
It took him four attempts, but eventually he succeeded.
Beccari wasn’t breathing. He had drowned; it was probably too late to resuscitate him, but Magnus was in the water now, he may as well try. It wasn’t far to the motorboat.
Off Duxbury Beach in Massachusetts, Magnus could have grabbed Beccari under the chin and pulled him the distance in less than a minute. But here, in Greenland, with both of them fully clothed, Magnus was making no progress.
Not just that, but his limbs were beginning to ignore messages from his brain. It was only with the greatest of difficulty that he could move his arms and his legs at all. It was bad.