The Silence of the Sea

Chapter 3

Winter refused to relinquish its grip. Spring kept making fleeting appearances only to vanish again almost immediately, the brief thaws merely serving to kindle false hopes and remind people what they were missing. Thóra shivered as she stood down by the harbour, waiting to meet a representative of the bank’s resolution committee and look around the yacht. Her thin summer coat provided little protection against the north wind, which succeeded now and then, with admirable persistence, in whipping up drops of moisture from the sea, leaving an unpleasant tang of salt on her lips.

‘Oh, why haven’t I been to the hairdresser?’ Thóra’s hair, unusually long for her, kept whipping over her face and plastering itself against the lip-gloss which she now regretted having applied before she got out of the car.

‘How should I know?’ Bella was coping better with the gale than Thóra. No doubt her khaki army jacket was made of thicker fabric than her boss’s coat, and the bulging pockets must have provided good ballast. And her hair was so short that she probably couldn’t mess it up if she tried, even with her hands. Only the enormous baubles dangling from her ears rocked to and fro. ‘When’s this bloke coming, anyway?’

‘Soon.’ It was worse than travelling with her daughter and tiny grandson. Are we there yet? She should never have given in to Bella’s nagging. She was still furious with the secretary about the photocopier, and the fact that Bella couldn’t care less only made her angrier. In point of fact, Thóra herself hadn’t given in; it was Bragi who had insisted that Bella should be allowed to tag along to see the yacht. Thóra had consented with bad grace, aware that this was his revenge for the previous month when she had persuaded him to take Bella to the district court. Thóra had been expecting an important client and the only ploy she could think of to remove the secretary from reception was to ask her to assist Bragi with his case. According to him, far from helping she had contented herself with sitting beside him, alternately fixing the judge and the counsel for the prosecution with a menacing glare. In spite of this they had won, and Bragi, in his modesty, put it down to Bella’s presence, saying that from now on he would always take her along as a mascot when there was a lot riding on a case.

‘There’s something spooky about that boat. Did you hear about it?’ Bella spat in the direction of the yacht, much to Thóra’s disgust, but missed her target and the gobbet of saliva floated briefly in the sea before dissolving.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s something weird about it. I read it on-line. Apparently you shouldn’t even go on board.’ No doubt Bella was referring to the sensationalist article Thóra had also skimmed over. The report, if you could call it that, had implied that the ship was under a curse, which had supposedly originated when one of the shipbuilders had an accident and bled everywhere. From then on the calamities had multiplied during her construction: a welder had lost a hand, an engineer was severely burned, and other such incidents. Just before the yacht was launched the owner of the shipyard had committed suicide, and as if that wasn’t enough, on her maiden voyage one of the passengers fell overboard and drowned. There were no sources cited, though, and Thóra regarded the accounts as dubious, to say the least. Even if the stories contained a grain of truth, it was clear that they had subsequently taken on a life of their own; and, understandably, they had affected the sales value of the yacht. When the last owner bought her with a loan from the bank that had now repossessed her, the price had been fifty per cent lower than at her launch ten years earlier. By then she had passed through four pairs of hands and as many name changes. The most recent owner, not to be outdone, had rechristened her Lady K after his wife, Karítas, which Thóra found a bit naff. She hoped the next purchaser would keep up the tradition and change the name. She didn’t know Karítas personally but the woman was a regular in the gossip columns thanks to her glamorous lifestyle and penchant for designer clothes. Significantly perhaps, as long as all was going well there had been no hint in the Icelandic media of any curse on the yacht; they had simply lavished praise on her magnificence and high price tag.

‘You shouldn’t take any notice of half the stuff you read on-line, Bella. The journalist responsible for that piece was probably just desperate for material because the investigation’s not getting anywhere. He must have googled the yacht and found all sorts of nonsense. Why on earth did you come along if you believe that crap?’

‘Are you kidding? I came because of the curse.’ Bella studied the vessel, her face unreadable. Thóra shook her head; there was no end to the girl’s idiosyncrasies.

A small car pulled up nearby. It was dirty and missing a hub cap. Thóra watched it closely, though she did not for a minute expect it to contain the man from the committee. As the driver’s door was flung open, a Coke can tumbled out and was instantly snatched away by the wind. It was still clattering over the tarmac when the driver himself emerged: a smart young man in a suit, who made a startling contrast to the scruffy vehicle. He strolled over to them. ‘Sorry I’m late. Been waiting long?’ Avoiding their eyes, he busied himself with extracting a bunch of keys from his coat pocket.

Thóra’s innate courtesy kicked in: ‘No, not at all. Don’t worry about it.’ What she should have said was that they had nearly died of exposure during the twenty minutes they had been hanging around out here, but it would be better to keep the man sweet. ‘So you’re Fannar?’

The young man nodded. ‘Wow. This boat is something else. Every time I see her I’m struck by how awesome she is.’ He put a hand on the rail of the gangplank, swung athletically onto the steps and gestured to them to follow suit. ‘Come on. See for yourselves.’ His black coat flapped like a cloak.

Bella scowled as only she knew how, obviously unimpressed by such acrobatics. Thóra, on the other hand, copied his move as if there were nothing to it, then picked her way up the steps and down onto the ship’s deck. A heavy thud on the gangplank behind her indicated that Bella was on her way. The deck was larger than Thóra had expected: it occupied two levels, divided by the pilot house. The upper or foredeck extended to the bows, the lower or aft deck to the stern where there were hatches that looked as if they gave access to the sea. In addition to these main decks, there were two smaller platforms on the upper levels, one just large enough to hold a Jacuzzi. The pictures in the papers had failed to do justice to its opulence, and Thóra felt faintly bemused as she surveyed her surroundings. This was a fairy-tale vessel, yet somehow the glitziness didn’t appeal to her. But then she had no experience of yachts in the circles she moved in, so she couldn’t imagine what life on board was like. Her thoughts automatically turned to the missing passengers. Perhaps that was why she wasn’t blown away by the boat like Fannar; in Thóra’s opinion there were plenty of other things in life that fell into the ‘awesome’ category. If anything, she found the surroundings unsettling; a shiny white setting for pain and misery, like an operating theatre. She hadn’t a clue why that image should have sprung to mind. Perhaps it was because of the events she was now trying to piece together.

‘I’m assuming the police have been over the whole place with a fine-toothed comb.’ She glanced around her but couldn’t see any obvious signs of a recent investigation.

‘The police, the Marine Accident Investigation Board, and a representative of ours as well. I was sent to accompany him, so I know my way about.’ Fannar stuck a key in the lock of a door that presumably led to the pilot house and passenger area. ‘Enough to realise that nobody knows what the hell happened here and I doubt they’ll ever find out. Unless your attempt to solve the mystery for Ægir’s parents uncovers something the others overlooked.’ His grin showed how little confidence he had in that happening.

‘Did you know Ægir at all?’ Thóra didn’t really expect him to say yes. He was so breezily cheerful that it seemed impossible the two men could have been close.

‘Yes, of course I did – we worked in the same office. But we weren’t involved in the same projects, so I can’t say I knew him well. Though well enough to find the whole thing totally bizarre. He wasn’t the type you’d expect this to happen to.’ Fannar made a wry face. ‘He was a family man, you know. He rarely came out for a drink with us; he was always in a hurry to get home.’

Thóra resisted the temptation to point out that there was little correlation between being a responsible family man and suffering an unexplained accident at sea. It seemed inappropriate too to refer to his colleague in the past tense, though she had to admit it was perfectly understandable. ‘Of course there’s still a chance that he and the other people on board will be found alive. It’s faint but we can’t rule it out.’

Fannar gave her a look as if she wasn’t quite right in the head. ‘Maybe,’ he said sceptically, then added: ‘Let’s hope so. Of course, it would be best for everyone if you could solve the mystery and find them alive.’

‘Yes. Though I fear the chances are slim.’ She didn’t need Fannar’s mocking grin to tell her that the prospect was highly unlikely. Where on earth was she to begin, and what was she actually looking for? Her job was to prove to the overseas insurance company that although their bodies had not been recovered, Ægir and his wife Lára were dead. It was unlikely that the proof would turn up on the yacht, and even if it was there she might easily overlook an important piece of evidence. She knew nothing about boats and the answer to the riddle almost certainly lay in conditions at sea: a storm or a leak, for example.

‘If it’s any help, the Marine Accident Board were perfectly happy for you to get involved,’ said Fannar encouragingly, which was an improvement on his earlier derision. ‘When I went over to fetch the keys, the guy I talked to even said he hoped you’d spot a new angle that the people who deal with this stuff every day might have missed. He doesn’t believe this was your standard accident and thinks the trouble with the experts is that they’ll try to fit this into a conventional box. He also said that this isn’t a unique case – this kind of thing happens fairly frequently but no one ever manages to find an explanation that satisfies everyone. People come up with all kinds of theories but none that are obviously right.’

This did little to raise Thóra’s morale. Looking round, she saw Bella picking her way gingerly across the deck towards them. ‘Did he happen to mention any theories about this incident?’

The key seemed to have jammed in the lock and the young man jiggled it to and fro until finally it turned. ‘No, and I didn’t like to ask. But the opinion going round the office is that they must have freaked out – thought the boat was sinking and flung themselves overboard, thinking it was their only hope. But nobody can imagine what would have made them crack up like that. Sunstroke, maybe.’

‘Is that plausible?’ Thóra peered around. ‘I doubt people would jump into the sea if there were lifeboats available.’ She couldn’t see them anywhere, though they should still be in place according to the report Fannar had sent that morning. ‘Have they been removed?’

‘No, they’re still here. See the container that looks like a barrel lying on its side?’ Thóra followed his finger and nodded. ‘The life raft’s inside that. There are four of them. One on each side, this one, and then one in the bows. They haven’t been touched, as far as I know. Maybe they panicked and couldn’t work out how to launch them. It seems a bit odd, to say the least, that the yacht should have been deliberately designed to disguise the life-saving equipment. I suppose it didn’t go with the décor. And perhaps the passengers didn’t take the time to study the safety procedures before they left port.’

Thóra turned to Bella. ‘Take some pictures of that barrel, would you? There are three more that you’ll find if you do a circuit of the ship. And photograph the instructions that should be displayed near them, and any lifebelts, that kind of thing.’ The presence of the life rafts on board was the clearest indication that something extraordinary must have happened. Thóra tried to envisage the kind of circumstances that would force her to abandon ship with her children in the knowledge that another child was waiting at home. Her own daughter, Sóley, was a similar age to the twin sisters who had in all likelihood perished with their parents. Her son, Gylfi, was almost twenty but still a child in her eyes, for all that he was a father himself.

She tried to picture herself seizing the two of them by the shoulders, forcing them to the side and urging them to throw themselves into the icy waves with her. No, it didn’t make sense. You didn’t need much knowledge of the sea to realise that there would be little hope of survival. And she doubted sunstroke would make that much difference.

‘Come inside. That’s where things really get spectacular.’ Anyone would have thought Fannar was trying to sell her the yacht. ‘Check this out. Smarter than any hotel, don’t you think?’

Thóra nodded distractedly. Rather than being impressed she was struck by the stale air inside, mingled, she thought, with a faint trace of perfume. ‘Is there a funny smell in here?’

Fannar sniffed. ‘Hm, you may be right. Like soap or something. Maybe they’ve been cleaning in here, though I can’t think who would have arranged that without my knowledge.’ His nostrils flared as he inhaled. ‘Nope, it’s gone. But don’t take any notice of me; I haven’t got much sense of smell.’ He was right; the scent was no longer there.

While she recognised that the interior was extremely stylish and finely crafted, Thóra’s attention was mainly drawn to the signs of human occupancy. An open paperback lying face down on the table beside an armchair upholstered in black leather; a DVD case and some magazines on a coffee table towards the back of the room. Beside them were a wine glass and an open bottle that had rolled over. The dried-up spillage had stained the glass table-top pink. Items of clothing lay in a heap on a chair, presumably placed there by the police during their search. ‘Can I touch this? Are the police coming back to conduct any further examinations?’ No sooner had she spoken than she noticed the white fingerprint powder coating the surfaces.

‘No, they’re not coming back; they spent almost an entire day here. You can poke around wherever you like. At least, nobody warned me not to touch anything. It’s not as if it’s a murder scene. I gather they’re treating it as an accident. Or at most, a missing-persons case.’

The boat kept up a continual gentle movement and Thóra noticed the wine bottle rocking slightly without moving from its place. From the description of the yacht’s collision with the docks one would have expected the bottle to have rolled off the table onto the floor. The police must have replaced it there during their inspection. ‘Wasn’t everything sent flying when the yacht crashed into the jetty?’ Two paintings, one of which looked like it might be of Karítas, hung askew on the walls.

‘Yes, it certainly was. There was stuff littered all over the place. I saw the pictures taken at the beginning of the investigation and it was a real mess in here.’ Looking round, he added: ‘Actually, the yacht’s furnishings are designed to resist fairly heavy seas before they start falling over or being knocked off the walls, but it’s a different story with the passengers’ own belongings.’

Thóra ran her gaze around the room. ‘What happened to the pictures that used to hang here?’ The dark wood panelling on two sides bore traces of missing frames. ‘Might they have fallen off and not been replaced?’

‘No, the former owner took them down and had them valued when his money troubles began. The yacht was on the market with all her contents, but this was at the height of the crash and even the people who could afford expensive toys like this weren’t in the mood for buying. It didn’t help that the boat was mortgaged to the hilt and the bank hadn’t agreed to a sales price. The loan didn’t cover the pictures, though, so the guy was free to sell them and I gather they went for a small fortune. Apparently they included some serious art. But the sale didn’t raise enough cash, so towards the end he must have sold off paintings from his other homes too. It’s unbelievable how quickly even a vast fortune like that can vanish into thin air. Must be a traumatic experience.’

‘No doubt.’ Thóra may have lacked the imagination to visualise the lives of the super-rich but she had no trouble guessing what it would feel like to lose a fortune. It was easy to grow accustomed to money; quite another matter to lower your standard of living. One didn’t have to be rich to know that.

‘I took the pictures you wanted.’ Bella reappeared, her cheeks ruddy. She glanced round, evidently unimpressed. ‘God, this is tacky. I thought this boat was meant to be classy.’ She examined the portrait of Karítas. ‘Look at that bimbo. I went to school with her, she was a total moron.’

Thóra couldn’t suppress a grin when she saw the indignant expression on Fannar’s face. But experience had taught her that it wouldn’t pay to allow Bella to make any further comments; she had a tendency to be foul-mouthed, especially when least appropriate, and Fannar didn’t seem the type to appreciate it. ‘Where are the guest quarters? Should we maybe look at them next? Bella, could you take some pictures in here, including the belongings left behind by the passengers?’

Thóra and Fannar descended below decks to the cabin area. As he had pointed out, the bedrooms were more lavishly appointed than in any hotel, at least the type of place Thóra frequented. According to him there were four luxury staterooms, as well as five cabins for the crew and chambermaid, and another adjoining the engine room for the engineer. There had been no maid along on this trip, since it wasn’t a conventional cruise, so her cabin hadn’t been used. However, two of the staff cabins did show signs of occupancy, and Fannar told her the engineer’s quarters had also been slept in. Two of the guestrooms had clearly been used, while the other two had not been touched. Fannar confirmed that the married couple had occupied the master suite; not that Thóra had really needed to ask, since the clothes overflowing from the suitcase on the floor could only have belonged to Lára.

Two identical colouring books and a jumble of wax crayons littered the unmade bed. Picking up the books, Thóra flicked rapidly through them. The girls had managed to colour in a fair amount. The first page of each was labelled with their names, Arna in one, Bylgja in the other, and both girls had taken a great deal of trouble over this mark of ownership. From what Thóra could tell, they had each begun with the first picture and progressed in order through the book, and both had finished twelve and embarked on the thirteenth. When the books were compared, it transpired that all the pictures had been coloured in almost exactly the same. The thirteenth stood out as neither girl had had time to complete it. It showed a jolly elephant balancing a large ball on his extended trunk, his childish appearance in shocking contrast to the unknown fate of the little girls who had begun to bring him so vividly to life. They had each coloured in the ball and half the cloth on the elephant’s back.

In one place Bylgja had drawn something in the margin, perhaps while waiting for her sister to catch up. Thóra had trouble working out what the girl had intended to depict; she seemed to have drawn a ring around a long-haired woman with a gaping mouth and sprawling limbs. The lines were black but the woman’s dress was green and she was surrounded by blue. Giving free rein to her imagination, Thóra saw it as a person falling, viewed through a lifebelt. But no doubt she would have interpreted it quite differently if she had come across the book in other circumstances. Closing it, she laid it back on the bed with the other one.

The door of one of the closets stood open, revealing a densely packed row of dresses. Thóra couldn’t resist a closer look, although the clothes could hardly have belonged to Lára. They were all designer pieces that probably cost more per garment than Thóra’s entire wardrobe. She thought about all the hassle involved in owning clothes like that; the endless trips to the dry cleaner and constant fear of damaging the expensive fabrics. Indeed, she noticed some stains on the skirt of one of the dresses; clearly even these exclusive garments were not immune to accidents. She thanked her lucky stars that she didn’t have to lug around a suitcase full of designer gear, however much she enjoyed looking at it.

Something shiny caught her eye in the murky depths of the closet. Thóra removed a long dress from its hanger and saw that a pair of glasses was tangled in the fringe on the hem and hung from the skirt like an abstract ornament. The lenses appeared intact, but the glasses looked rather small to have been worn by the boat’s former mistress. ‘Do you know who these belonged to?’ She held up the dress to show Fannar her discovery.

He shook his head. ‘Not a clue. Maybe Karítas wore reading glasses.’

‘They don’t seem quite her style.’ Thóra inspected the small red frames. She thought she had better return the dress to its place and leave the glasses where they were. They couldn’t be very important: people didn’t jump ship en masse on account of a lost pair of glasses. They had probably been dangling there long before the missing family even came on board. She shut the wardrobe door and continued her exploration.

Again she came across an empty wine bottle, this time lying on the floor beside the bed. It appeared that someone had been drinking during the trip. Apart from that, the contents of the bedroom were very ordinary, at least those that belonged to the missing couple. The interior design was another matter, as imposing and ostentatious as the rest of the ship’s furnishings. The dark, polished mahogany gleamed in the glow of the spotlights recessed into the ceiling.

The en-suite bathroom was in chaos, with cosmetics, towels, bathrobes and bars of soap scattered all over the place, presumably as a result of the collision. She made do with peering inside but saw no point in picking her way through the mess just to admire the bathroom suite and mixer taps. The cabin told her nothing except that the couple had been comfortably accommodated on board, at least for most of the time. Personally, however, she wouldn’t have chosen to sleep in the bedroom of a woman she knew, if only by repute. It felt uncomfortable, especially when the closets were still full of her clothes and there was a box on the pretty dressing table that could only have belonged to her. Ordinary people like Ægir and Lára did not carry heavy, elegant jewellery cases with them on holiday. But when Thóra took a quick look inside, it turned out that Karítas had filled it with photos, postcards and other mementos of her life and travels rather than valuables. Thóra closed the case again. The former owner’s young wife could hardly be implicated in the mystery, and while she may have been a favourite of the tabloids, Thóra did not have the stomach to snoop around in her private affairs. Even so, on her way out of the bedroom she couldn’t help staring at the giant mirror that covered most of the wall and picturing Karítas admiring herself in it. This was unfair, given that Thóra had no idea what she was really like, and she resolved to make an effort to be more impartial next time the young woman entered her thoughts.

The two girls had slept in the smallest of the guest cabins, next to their parents. The instant Fannar opened the door they were struck by a pungent smell of strawberries, so sickly sweet that Thóra had to turn away. ‘A shampoo bottle burst in here,’ he explained. ‘I can’t imagine why anyone would want their hair to smell like that but maybe it’s not as overpowering once it’s been rinsed out.’

The girls had shared a double bed. Two cuddly toy rabbits lay abandoned amidst the tangle of bedclothes. Thóra was overwhelmed with sadness at the sight. To enhance the poignancy still further, it appeared that the twins had stuck a photo of their little sister on the headboard; a child who would one day grow up to thank her lucky stars that she hadn’t been old enough to accompany them on the voyage. Lifting the corner of the picture, Thóra saw that it had been fixed up with blu-tack, which suggested her guess was right. Karítas did not seem the blu-tack type. She picked up a pink Hello Kitty sock and put it on the bed. ‘God, this is harrowing.’

‘I know.’ Fannar sounded sincere. ‘It would be best if they were found alive. Adrift at sea. Or maybe they’ve done a bunk to another country.’

‘Done a bunk?’ The possibility hadn’t even occurred to Thóra. ‘Has anyone seriously suggested that?’

Fannar turned pink, obviously regretting having blurted it out. ‘No, not really. I’ve heard whispering at the office but it’s nothing. Someone was talking crap about Ægir, saying maybe he’d been embezzling funds from the committee and had done a runner. That he’d faked his own death and was living it up abroad.’

‘Is that likely? I’d have thought you kept strict tabs on the assets the committee repossesses or has at its disposal.’

‘Of course we do. It’s just gossip. Ægir didn’t embezzle any money, that’s for sure. The management will have carried out a thorough check, and if any misconduct had come to light it would have been all over the office. It would be impossible to hush it up – it would have leaked out somehow.’

Thóra looked back at the photo of the little girl on the headboard. ‘Irrespective of the money, I would stake my life on the fact that they didn’t deliberately disappear. People don’t leave a child behind – they either take all or none of them. And what about the crew? Is he supposed to have dragged three men into exile with them?’

‘It was just a stupid theory, as I said. Firstly, Ægir didn’t steal anything and secondly, as you say, it doesn’t make sense.’

Thóra peered under the bed and, spotting the other sock, felt an impulse to pair them. As she bent down, she took the opportunity to change the subject. She didn’t want to discuss the family’s tragic fate with a big-mouth like Fannar. ‘What’s the committee going to do with the yacht? Won’t the repairs cost a fortune?’ The sock was just out of reach, so she had to contort herself still further.

‘Yes.’ From where she was kneeling, Thóra saw Fannar come two steps closer. ‘The way things have turned out, it would have been better to leave her berthed in Portugal. They’d get a better price for her on the other side of the Atlantic these days, but even so the amount wouldn’t be enough to cover the repairs.’

‘Why do you think you’d get more for her in America than Europe?’ Thóra glanced round in search of a pen or some other implement.

‘There’s a chance her reputation won’t follow her over there. Most European brokers know her history and that affects the price. In their eyes what’s wrong with her can’t be mended. Whereas in the US and Central or South America, she’d have a clean slate.’

‘I don’t suppose this latest incident has helped at all.’ Having failed to find anything with which to hook the sock, Thóra almost wrenched her arm out of its socket stretching under the bed. She brushed the sock with two fingers. Now all she needed was to reach a tiny bit further and pinch it between them.

‘No, that’s clear enough. And now that Ægir’s not here, the problem’s landed on my desk. I should be grateful really, as it represents something of a promotion for me.’

Thóra stretched her fingers out in vain. ‘Did you take over from him, then?’ She was now so obsessed by the idea of retrieving the sock that she couldn’t give a damn what Fannar thought of her crawling around on the floor. She had to pair those socks and wouldn’t leave until she’d succeeded.

‘Yes. I’d just finished a sale, so it was perfect timing. At least it’ll be interesting. The curse may sound ridiculous to us but sailors are notoriously superstitious and if her reputation carries across the Atlantic, I’m in deep trouble.’

At last Thóra got hold of the sock. The muscles in her armpit were burning but she didn’t want to lose it again, so she looked under the bed to make sure of her grip.

What she saw caused her to start back so violently that she bashed her head. The pain was excruciating but her attention was distracted by the pounding of her heart, which felt as if it would burst its ventricles. ‘Christ.’ She rubbed the sore spot.

‘Did you bang your head?’ Fannar sounded concerned. ‘Can I see? Are you bleeding?’

Thóra showed him the back of her head and felt him parting her hair in search of a wound. ‘What happened?’

‘I misjudged the space.’ She wasn’t going to tell him what she thought she’d seen. Especially not now that Bella had appeared in the doorway. No doubt the hallucination was the result of all Fannar and Bella’s talk about a curse. That was all. There was no denying that the atmosphere on board was a little creepy, but that was only natural given recent events. Unsolved mysteries were grist to the imagination’s mill, she knew that. It had been nothing but her mind playing tricks on her. What else could explain the little feet she thought she’d seen on the other side of the bed, in Hello Kitty socks?