The Silence of the Sea

Chapter 5

There were few things Thóra found more tedious than cooking. In this she differed from most of her friends and their husbands, who seemed to have become increasingly interested in food over the years. One had even bought tickets for Thóra and her partner, Matthew, to attend a cookery course as a Christmas present and seemed very pleased with her own idea. They had dutifully attended the course, which was called Middle Eastern Magic, but the instructor had failed to infect them with any enthusiasm. By the end of the classes they were as clueless as they had been at the beginning, apart from having learnt how to prepare a decent couscous. This proved rather embarrassing when the friend in question demanded to be invited to dinner to taste the fruits of her gift. As the only Middle Eastern restaurants in Reykjavík were takeaway kebab shops, they decided to buy an Indian meal, shove it in a pan and serve it with couscous. Then they looked up an appropriately Arabic name for the dish on the Internet. Their friends were impressed, especially with the Al-Jazeera Chicken. Thóra’s only worry was that their deception had succeeded too well and that she and Matthew would receive another cookery course for Christmas next year.

The course had made no more difference than the countless recipe books and magazines they had acquired over the years. Thóra was quite simply a hopeless cook. As a result, the other members of the household – apart from her grandson, Orri – rallied around the task of feeding the family. Sadly, these attempts proved no more successful than her own. Sóley showed the most promise but lacked the patience to cook proper meals. She was mainly into baking muffins, but while the family’s eating habits left a lot to be desired they had not yet sunk so low as to eat cake for supper. Besides, the kitchen always looked like a bombsite after Sóley had been at work. Thóra’s son, Gylfi, and his girlfriend, Sigga, had reached an age when they would soon be setting up home together, so they should have shown more interest in cooking, but no such luck. They were also the fussiest eaters, vegetarians one minute, on a raw food diet the next, if not both at the same time, and everyone had long ago given up trying to remember which craze they were following – they couldn’t always remember themselves. This evening they had taken Orri and their faddy eating habits to supper with Sigga’s parents, so it shouldn’t have been difficult to decide what to make. If only the fridge hadn’t been empty.

‘How about a Chinese?’ Thóra closed the fridge. ‘We can order a takeaway or have noodles.’

‘Takeaway.’ Matthew started clearing away the knives and forks he had just laid on the table. They had become pretty adept at using chopsticks by now. ‘I can’t eat any more pot noodles. Not this year, anyway.’

‘I could bake something.’ Sóley looked up from the homework she was trying to finish before evening. She was supposed to hand in a page on occupations in India for her social studies class, but the sheet of paper in front of her was blank apart from drawings of elephants, tigers and snakes which had at best a tenuous connection to the topic.

‘No, really, there’s no need.’ When he saw Sóley’s hurt expression, Matthew clearly regretted having jumped in so quickly. ‘All I meant is that you need to finish your homework and that’s more important than supper right now. You can do some baking at the weekend if you’re still in the mood. How about chocolate liquorice whips?’ He knew these were her proudest achievement, though her pride was not necessarily justified by the outcome. ‘How would you like to take a little break and come with me to fetch the food?’

Sóley was quick to push aside her zoologically inclined essay on Indian society, and Thóra felt a warm glow of pleasure at how well these two got on. Gylfi and Matthew were friendly enough but they weren’t especially close. If her children had rejected Matthew, it would have been the end of her relationship with him, at least in its current form; the happiness of Sóley, Gylfi and now Orri took precedence. That’s just the way it was and so far no one had had any cause for complaint, least of all Matthew who entirely respected her priorities. Thóra tried to ensure that their life did not entirely revolve around the younger generation, and she and Matthew were quite good at making private time for themselves, but this had become harder since her ex-husband had taken it into his head to start working alternate months in Norway. She made an effort to be understanding about this since Hannes had been forced to start again after their divorce, and had been saddled with a hefty mortgage as a result of buying in the middle of the housing bubble. Working abroad meant he could pay off some of his debts. The upshot was that the children now spent half as many weekends as before with their father, but this was compensated for by the fact that her parents had moved out at long last. They had finally managed to solve their money troubles by selling their timeshare in Spain, which they had had little use for anyway. With the departure of Thóra’s mother, however, the family had lost the cook they so badly needed.

After Sóley and Matthew had left to fetch the takeaway, Thóra pulled out the file on the yacht. She was filled with a profound desire to solve the mystery, but knew she was unlikely to succeed. The vessel itself had fired up her imagination as much as the unknown fate of those on board. She was fairly down-to-earth by nature, yet she simply could not shake off the image of those little pale legs. It wasn’t that she believed there had been anything supernatural about the vision; on the contrary, she was sure it had been conjured up by her own brain. The passengers may have vanished but the signs of their existence were so ubiquitous on board that it had been easy for her mind to fill in the gaps.

Before Fannar had said goodbye on the dockside, he’d told her Ægir’s boss would do everything in his power to help solve the case. The man felt partly responsible for what had happened since it had been he who sent Ægir on the fateful voyage. Thóra had asked Fannar to find out if his office had any documents that she could have copies of, in addition to the damage report compiled by the committee following the yacht’s arrival in Reykjavík. He had promised to look into the matter but Thóra hadn’t really expected to hear any more. Yet she had hardly sat down at her desk before her mobile rang: Fannar, calling to say they were making up a file for her. She had collected it from the committee offices on her way home.

The sheaf of documents that she pulled out of the envelope was not particularly thick. There were several pages on top containing lists of those who had crewed the yacht at various times. They were in French, so had presumably been acquired from abroad. This figured, since the yacht had been registered in Monaco until the committee repossessed it in Lisbon. As she perused the lists, Thóra could tell from their names that the crew members were of various nationalities, few of them French. She paused at one that had been highlighted: Halldór Thorsteinsson. An Icelander. Clearly she needed to talk to this man.

The Halldór in question had only worked on the boat for three months. It was a short spell of duty compared to others on the list, but he must be well acquainted with the yacht nonetheless. Of course, there was always the possibility that he had either resigned or been sacked, which would be unfortunate since it might affect his testimony if he held a grudge against the former owner or other crew members. Still, he would almost certainly be able to fill her in about safety procedures, life-saving equipment and any other aspects she needed to have straight before she laid the matter before the insurance company. Any gaps in her report would lead to delays: it was a common tactic by insurance companies to reply by questioning a particular item and then, when that query had been answered, to flag up another, and so forth. This could hold up proceedings by months, so it was vital to present a well-argued case from the beginning.

Following the crew lists she found the yacht’s registration certificate, which confirmed what Thóra already knew, that Karítas and her husband had not been the first owners and that they were responsible for christening her Lady K. The name still struck Thóra as crass. She wondered if she would have done the same, but Lady T sounded even more absurd. Turning back to the crew lists, she noticed that Halldór had worked on the vessel while it was owned by Karítas and her husband. It was probably irrelevant, but she made a mental note.

Her attention was also caught by an inventory of the yacht’s furnishings, if that was the correct term for ships’ contents. The letterhead on the document belonged to an overseas ship broker that apparently specialised in the sale of maritime vessels, and the value of all the items was noted over many pages. The document was dated a little over four years ago, so it would not necessarily be representative of the yacht’s present contents. Thóra raised an eyebrow as she read. Never had she imagined that everyday objects could be so expensive: a sofa that cost more than her car; knives that were worth more than the entire contents of her own kitchen, including the table and chairs. The inventory also contained gadgets, instruments and other equipment associated with sea travel, such as jet skis, wetsuits and fishing gear. She had noticed the jet skis, in a storeroom with a hatch that opened to give access to the sea, but she didn’t remember any diving suits or fishing rods. This might not mean anything, as they had made a whistle-stop tour of numerous storerooms and cupboards, and there must be plenty she hadn’t seen. Thóra supposed it was always possible that somebody had walked off with the stuff, since it was certainly valuable enough to tempt a thief. She hadn’t been particularly surprised to discover what the angling gear was worth because Matthew had recently developed an interest in salmon fishing and the price of the equipment he coveted had made her eyes water. She hoped to God he would steer clear of sailing.

The contents of the next page brought her up short. It was blank apart from one line: the name Karítas Karlsdóttir, a telephone number and an e-mail address. She frowned, surprised that this information should have been included, and wondered if it was by accident or design. Reaching for the phone, she tried the number – but it had been disconnected. Similarly, when she tried to send an e-mail it bounced straight back. The details must have been included in error.

She was still thoughtfully contemplating the pile of documents when Matthew and Sóley got home with the food. Throughout supper her mind kept returning to the yacht and the papers and she responded automatically to Sóley’s comments without taking in what she said.

After supper, Thóra resumed her reading. She was longing to discuss the case with Matthew out of earshot of Sóley, but had to wait until they left the table and her daughter returned to her homework. For all she knew the little girl might be turned off boats for life if she got wind of the yacht affair. Ever since seeing a news item about a flight attendant who saved a child from choking on a gobstopper, Sóley had refused to touch boiled sweets – and that had been three years ago. ‘What do you know about boats, Matthew?’

‘Next to nothing. They’re used to catch fish, carry freight and travel by sea or on inland waterways.’ He smiled. ‘Any help?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I’ve taken on a case connected to the mystery yacht. I was allowed on board this morning, and the atmosphere was really eerie. Maybe it was just because I’m unused to boats in general, let alone luxury yachts. But that’s not the main point. The case involves a life insurance claim and it’s bound to be trickier to pursue than it would be for a death in normal circumstances.’

‘I imagine you’d need to know quite a bit about boats.’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Thóra fetched her laptop. As it was early in the month, Gylfi had not yet managed to use up all their foreign download credit, which meant they were not restricted to browsing Icelandic pages. ‘Do you think it’s common for people to vanish from a boat and never be seen again?’

Matthew shrugged. ‘It’s not unheard of but I’ve no idea how common it is. I remember one story that had a big impact on me as a boy, though I can’t vouch for it. It was about a ghost ship that went on sailing the seas long after her crew disappeared. I can’t remember her name, though. Why don’t you try searching on-line? If nothing comes up, presumably that’ll mean this type of incident is unusual or a one-off. Though I don’t really see how that’ll help you.’

‘I’m just curious. I can’t get that creepy atmosphere out of my mind.’ She paused before adding: ‘I can’t really describe it but I felt as if the people were still there, as if they didn’t realise they were supposed to have vanished. Silly, isn’t it?’

‘Yes and no.’ Matthew didn’t smile, clearly not finding the idea all that ludicrous. ‘There can be an odd feeling associated with a place where someone has recently died. In my experience it can muddle your thoughts and give you odd fancies. When I visited a murder scene for the first time, in the police, I caught myself hearing non-existent noises and thinking someone was touching me. It was only because I was new to the horror of it all.’

Thóra felt comforted. It sounded sensible; although she had seen a few scary things – including dead bodies – in her line of work, she was hardly an old hand and her mind simply hadn’t been able to process the unfamiliar situation in a rational manner. In other words, she wasn’t going mad – or hopefully not. It was a pity she couldn’t ask Bella if she’d had a similar experience, but that was out of the question: Thóra was not prepared to expose any weakness that Bella might exploit.

She searched for information about Karítas’s foreign husband, Gulam. It was unlikely to help, but she wanted to know more about the background to the case. The Icelandic papers had carried reports of his bankruptcy because of his links to the local banking crisis, but business news bored her so she had only skimmed the headlines at the time. When she tapped his name into the search engine, remarkably few results came up considering the scope of his activities. Presumably he was keen to keep a low profile. It seemed he was a major investor in other people’s companies rather than an empire-builder on his own account, and this allowed him to operate largely under the radar.

The articles that did come up divided roughly into three categories: Icelandic schadenfreude over his financial collapse, passing references to his investments in international business news items, and finally foreign gossip columns about the jet set in which he featured more or less as an extra. Thanks to Karítas’s presence, these stories tended to find their way into the Icelandic news, where the couple’s importance was inevitably exaggerated. Icelanders were fascinated by any of their countrymen who moved in exalted circles abroad, especially if they had done well for themselves, and that was certainly true of this young woman who seemed, moreover, to enjoy basking in the limelight.

It was this third category that drew Thóra’s attention most; she had felt a certain curiosity about the woman since Karítas had indirectly entered her life. These articles made no mention of the stock market or share prices, focusing instead on gala dinners and glitzy parties, largely from the point of view of which designer labels the guests were wearing. Gulam was not a big enough fish to earn the couple a starring role; when they appeared in a picture it was almost invariably as a filler at the end of a series of photos. Gulam never appeared without Karítas on his arm and Thóra suspected that without her the photos wouldn’t have been published at all. His Icelandic wife was unusually glamorous, but where she could easily have been a model with her statuesque physique, her husband was short and squat with a fleshy face and a comb-over that must have been the first thing she saw every time she looked down at him. Nevertheless, one would have thought he was a fairy-tale prince by the way she clung to him in all the pictures; her slender arm, in a succession of expensive dresses, crooked round his plump, black-sleeved elbow. The contrast was striking: where he was pallid and invariably dressed like an undertaker, she was perma-tanned and clothed in vibrant hues; where he was balding, she had a long, thick mane of blond hair, generally worn loose. His jowls were flabby, her cheekbones high. He shunned all ornament, she was adorned with jewels on every available part of her body. Where his teeth were small and not particularly well cared for, hers were large, straight and a brilliant white, as if ordered from a catalogue. It was hardly surprising that she was always baring them in a grin for the photographer, while her husband scowled. Their union was a true marriage of opposites.

When it became clear that her trawl through the celebrity news was not throwing up any leads, Thóra abandoned this tack and started searching instead for information about Karítas herself. A stub article in the Icelandic media revealed that she was nearly thirty years younger than her husband and had met him while she was working for a Reykjavík hotel where he had been a guest. Her exact position was not specified, but three months later they were married; he for the third time, she for the first. She had no children from this marriage or any other relationship. Another article claimed that when her husband was threatened with bankruptcy, Karítas had demanded a divorce. Thóra vaguely recalled having seen a headline about this when she was at the supermarket. The divorce can hardly have come out of the blue since it was painfully obvious what had attracted her to her husband in the first place. It was the same old story, and all talk of love at first sight rang rather hollow; strange how Thóra had never heard of any marriages between beautiful young women and penniless older men. Still, what did it matter? People were attracted to different things; as long as the arrangement made both parties happy it didn’t do any harm, whatever their motivation. But in this case their happiness had been short-lived: Karítas had sued for divorce after only four years of marriage.

However, further searches indicated that the couple must have sorted out their differences since they had not apparently separated after all. Thóra suspected that the fact there was nothing left in the coffers for Karítas’s settlement had played its part, though it was rumoured that her husband had concealed a considerable sum from his creditors, including the Icelandic bank’s resolution committee. No doubt sticking with him had seemed preferable to going back to her job at the hotel. The narrowness of Iceland’s social circle was its main drawback: after featuring in the celebrity gossip columns it can hardly have been a tempting prospect for a young woman to return home so ignominiously. Initial reports that Karítas intended to cooperate with the bank had proved unfounded, but when the media subsequently asked questions, they received few answers. Karítas had been uncontactable when the yacht story broke; in fact, she seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. A representative of her husband had announced that she was staying in Brazil to avoid the press furore, but her mother, who lived in Iceland, was unable to confirm this.

‘Matthew.’ He was glued to his laptop. ‘Have you heard any talk at the bank about the couple who owned the yacht? I know the guy didn’t do business with you directly, but is there any water-cooler gossip about them? About where Karítas might be living at the moment, or whether she’s intending to shed any light on her husband’s business arrangements?’

It took Matthew a while to work out what Thóra was talking about. Although he had made great strides in the language, it sometimes took him a moment or two to switch from German to Icelandic mode. ‘Yes, I’ve heard things, though nothing worth repeating. The women tend to gossip about her; the men, about him.’

‘What do they say?’

‘Nothing very interesting. He’s supposed to have squirrelled away a fortune in assets, which no one’s managed to trace despite an exhaustive search, and apparently she doesn’t want to come home because she won’t be able to flaunt her wealth any more if they have to keep a low profile. The word is that she’s afraid of being questioned by the financial authorities or special prosecutor. I don’t know how seriously to take that, though. It’s probably just speculation.’

Thóra considered. ‘I’m going to try and contact her parents or siblings. They may know how I can get hold of her. I bet she’d be able to provide some useful background on the yacht. Maybe there was a problem the crew weren’t aware of when they set out. Karítas and her husband hadn’t used the boat for a while before she was confiscated – perhaps because of a fault.’

‘Or because a boat like that costs millions of krónur a day to run. They’ve had to tighten their belts in the recession like everyone else.’ Matthew yawned. ‘Why on earth would she talk to you, anyway?’

Thóra closed her laptop. ‘I doubt she’ll have the slightest interest in doing so. But it’s worth trying.’ She stretched lazily. ‘Is her husband a criminal?’

‘What do you mean? The kind with a gun or the kind with a credit rating?’

‘A gun.’

‘I doubt it. What makes you think that?’

‘I just find it incredibly convenient that she should disappear completely at the time most convenient for her husband. One minute she’s on her way home to testify against him; the next, she’s vanished. I started wondering if she might actually be dead. Supposing they’ve bumped her off? It’s quite a while since the press last managed to take any pictures of her, though they’ve been pulling out all the stops over the last few days. Whatever her financial woes, it’s unlike her to lie low – she’s usually so eager to be seen in the media. So maybe it’s all connected. The documents from the resolution committee included a piece of paper with her name and an out-of-date phone number and e-mail address, which started me thinking. Perhaps they’re onto something that they can’t reveal for reasons of bank confidentiality, and her details were a hint to steer me in the right direction.’

‘I find that highly unlikely.’ Matthew looked incredulous. ‘Just because you’re given a piece of paper with a woman’s name and contact details, it doesn’t mean she’s dead. Anyway, you’d be a fool to speak to her family if you do believe she’s been murdered. What are you going to do? Ask her relatives to pass on a message, and assume she’s dead if you don’t hear back?’ He smirked. ‘Not exactly brilliant, is it?’

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. It would be enough to meet one close relative for a chat. If it turns out the family hasn’t heard from her, then that would support the idea that there’s something wrong. After all, it’s one thing not to talk to the press, but quite another to leave your loved ones in the dark. If there’s any truth in the quotes from her mother in the papers, she doesn’t have a clue where Karítas is. On the other hand, it’s perfectly possible that they know exactly where she is and will be able to put me in touch with her. Which is what I’m hoping for.’

Matthew shook his head, still unconvinced, but at that moment Gylfi and Sigga appeared with Orri asleep in his father’s arms. Sigga took the little boy from him and carried him into the bedroom, but Gylfi hovered. It was obvious that he was bursting with news. ‘Dad rang from Norway.’

‘Oh?’ said Thóra. ‘How’s he?’

‘He’s had an idea. A brainwave, actually.’ Gylfi perched on the arm of Thóra’s sofa. Recently he had shot up to his full height, though he had yet to fill out. Before she knew it, he would be an adult. ‘He’s met a guy in Norway who works for an oil company and apparently he could sort out a job for me if I wanted.’

‘A job?’ Thóra sat bolt upright. ‘This summer, you mean?’

‘Yes. And winter. It’s insanely well paid.’

‘Just hang on a minute.’ There were so many questions racing round Thóra’s head that she didn’t know where to start. ‘I thought you were going straight to university after you’d finished school. This is a crazy idea, isn’t it? And what about Sigga? She’s got a year left of sixth form – are she and Orri supposed to go with you or stay behind?’

‘Sigga can take her final year by distance learning. And I’d be up for taking a gap year. It would give me time to work out what I really want to study. We’d save some money too. I said the pay was unbelievable, didn’t I?’ There was no mistaking his elation; he looked ready to go on-line and buy his ticket right away.

‘Wages may be high in Norway, but the cost of living is astronomical. All your money would go on day-to-day expenses. I mean, what do you think it costs to rent a flat there?’ Thóra racked her brain for a way of dampening his enthusiasm, of making him wake up to the fact that this was an appalling idea. The last thing she wanted was to lose them to a foreign country, though she had been aware for some time that it would not be long before he, Sigga and Orri moved out to set up their own home. She had even assumed it would happen soon after he started university that autumn, but it had never crossed her mind that they might take Orri to live abroad.

‘That’s what’s so fantastic. Dad’s got this big flat, which he only uses every other month. We could share it with him when he’s there and the rest of the time we’d have it to ourselves.’ Gylfi beamed. ‘It’s a brilliant arrangement. And the job’s awesome. I’d work for two weeks, then have three weeks off.’

Thóra exclaimed: ‘That can’t be right. What kind of job is it anyway?

‘On an oil rig. They fly you out there by helicopter.’ He couldn’t stop grinning at the thought.

‘I see.’ She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Of all her ex’s idiotic ideas, this took the biscuit. Gylfi on an oil rig. He had hardly ever left Reykjavík, let alone experienced the sort of conditions he could expect on a floating steel platform in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, or wherever this oil rig happened to be. ‘You know, Gylfi, this is a terrible idea.’ She looked to Matthew for support but he didn’t say a word, and his face was unreadable. ‘The reason it’s well paid is that it’s incredibly dangerous, and anyway you’re far too young and inexperienced. The journey alone would be too risky. It’s out of the question.’

The smile fell from Gylfi’s face. ‘It’s not “out of the question”.’ He stood up. ‘Anyway, it’s not up to you. I’m going to put together a CV and send it to Dad to pass on to the guy. There’s no guarantee he’ll agree to take me on, but if he does, I want to do it.’ Gylfi’s eyes sought out Matthew but he encountered the same shuttered expression. He turned back to his mother: ‘You’ll just have to get used to the idea. Why are you always so negative?’ He stomped into his room.

Thóra sat in silence, trying to bring her emotions under control before she spoke. ‘What the hell’s he going to do on an oil rig? He can’t even fill up the car with petrol; he always gets the attendant to do it.’

Matthew shrugged. ‘I expect there are plenty of jobs for lads like him. I think it might do him good.’

Thóra glared at him. ‘You can’t be serious?’ But he clearly was. It looked as if she was the only person opposed to the plan. She would have to find some way of stopping it on her own – prevent her son from taking on a job that could well be the death of him and would, moreover, rob Orri of the stability Thóra believed she herself represented in his life. Although Gylfi and Sigga were good parents and keen to take proper care of their son, they lacked the necessary maturity to raise a child. She was brought up short by the realisation that she had become a mother at about the same age. That had worked out all right. Great, now even her own brain had turned against her.

She opened her laptop again, angry with everyone and everything. She didn’t want to waste any more energy thinking about it now, since the chances were that Gylfi would have changed his mind by morning. To distract herself, she started searching for instances of abandoned ships.

The results turned out to be quite a mixed bag.