The Silence of the Sea (17 page)

‘They refused to say.’ Thóra turned back to her computer and checked in case there was any more news. There wasn’t.

‘Those bloody cops are useless.’ Bella scowled.

‘Oh, I expect they’re just following protocol; no doubt they have to notify the next of kin before they can discuss it with all and sundry.’ Thóra’s thoughts flew to little Sigga Dögg, who probably had a greater interest than anyone in knowing the identity of the body. But then again, the crew members might also have children who were now waiting in fearful suspense. The papers had just published the names of the missing men but not their family circumstances. No doubt those would follow in the next reports, along with the promise of interviews with loved ones desperately waiting for news. She had tried googling their names but they were too common, though one had been familiar: Halldór Thorsteinsson, the sailor who had worked on the yacht for a three-month period while it was owned by Karítas and Gulam. It must be the same man – anything else would be too much of a coincidence – so that ruled out the possibility of picking his brains about the yacht’s life-saving equipment or what he thought had happened.

Thóra was torn between hoping that the body was not from the yacht and praying that it was. At least the recovery of a body would make it easier to secure the insurance money. Presumably it would also be a comfort of sorts for the families if the remains of their loved ones were found. Though what did she know? If it were her children, would she want closure or would she rather cling to hope for years, for the rest of her life even? On balance she’d probably prefer to live with the uncertainty. ‘I can’t put my finger on it, but I get the impression from the news reports that it’s a man. There’s something about the way it’s phrased. Even though it’s the twenty-first century, people still write differently about women – with more delicacy somehow.’

‘Is there a picture?’ Bella’s eagerness struck Thóra as tasteless.

‘No, of course not.’ No on-line media source had published any photos with a direct link to the incident; one showed the crippled yacht moored in Reykjavík harbour; another the coastline where the body had been discovered; the rest made do with vague sea-related visuals. The police had managed to evade the vigilant eyes of photographers while carrying out their duties, helped by the fact that the beach where the body had washed up was well off the beaten track. It was located some way to the south of the village of Sandgerdi, on the western tip of the Reykjanes peninsula, about forty-five kilometres south of Reykjavík. Anyway, even if reporters had stumbled on the scene, it was unthinkable that any news site would publish a picture of the corpse.

‘I reckon it’s a woman.’ Bella slurped her coffee. ‘And I bet I know who.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t take a clairvoyant: Lára was the only woman on board.’

‘I don’t mean her. I think it’s Karítas.’

Thóra looked up from the screen. ‘What on earth makes you say that? That would be really weird.’

‘Well, firstly, I’m sure she must of snuffed it.’

‘Must
have
,’ Thóra corrected her automatically – it came from living with three children. She might get away with it this time but it was excruciating when she caught herself doing the same to clients or colleagues. The worst occasion was the time she had corrected a judge. She was still convinced her client had received a heavier sentence as a result.

‘Must of, must have. Whatever.’

‘Never mind that, why do you think so?’

‘I’ve been combing the Internet for any news or blogs mentioning Karítas. However hard I search, I can’t find a single photo or any other information about her since she left for Portugal to sort out her stuff. Which is kind of suspicious.’

‘She’s hardly big enough news for the papers to go chasing her halfway round the world in hope of a story. Surely she’s simply lying low in Brazil like her mother said? Just because she’s managed to disappear so effectively doesn’t mean there’s any cause for concern. She hasn’t been gone that long.’

‘I have zero concern for her. I couldn’t care less whether she’s lying in a body bag in the morgue or on a sun-lounger somewhere in South America.’ Bella’s tone belied her words. People rarely forgave others for what they did to them when they were children, and the secretary wasn’t exactly the magnanimous type. ‘I’m not just talking about the Icelandic sites – I’m talking about the Internet as a whole. There’s a ton of pictures and websites recording that she attended various parties, but they all pre-date her visit to Portugal. What’s more, there were two fairly recent articles that mentioned her old man and his agreements with his creditors, but not a single word about her. If you ask me, that’s fishy. I can’t believe she’d voluntarily steer clear of the limelight, wherever she is. She gets off on the attention.’ Bella gulped down her coffee with an exaggerated relish that made Thóra green with envy. ‘She’s a goner. Her old man’s killed her.’

Although the possibility had already occurred to Thóra, it sounded implausible when spoken aloud. Indeed, she now understood Matthew’s sceptical reaction when she had voiced a similar idea. ‘We know nothing for certain about this woman apart from one thing: it’s not her body. It just doesn’t fit. For one thing, if her husband had killed her, how could she have been on board?’

‘Maybe he’d hidden her body on the yacht and the passengers found it, freaked out and threw it overboard. Then maybe they regretted it and tried to recover her body but something went wrong and they ended up in the sea themselves.’

Thóra bit back a mocking riposte. Ever since she had started working on this case, Bella’s attitude towards her had been unusually mellow. Their relationship had been strained for a while, and this armistice made a welcome change. It felt like ages since Thóra had been able to relax at the office without worrying about what the secretary might be plotting behind her back, so she had everything to gain by keeping the peace. She had even refrained from giving Bella too much of a bollocking about the photocopier, which they were having no success in recovering from the workshop. ‘Who knows? Maybe.’

Bella frowned. ‘Or maybe an alien swallowed her whole and puked her up in the sea just off Reykjanes – by total coincidence.’ Her gaze was fixed provocatively on Thóra’s. ‘I know when you mean what you say and when you don’t. I’m not a total idiot. If you think my idea about Karítas is bullshit, just say so.’

‘I don’t know what’s bullshit in this case, Bella. That’s the trouble. I’d be surprised if you were right, but then I’d probably be surprised by all the possible alternatives. The explanation’s bound to be extraordinary, so there’s no need to take offence.’

‘I’m not offended.’ Clearly, she was. Her coffee was no longer steaming and the delicious aroma had gone, to be replaced by the familiar smell of stale vomit. Though it had faded, the miasma still seemed to linger and Thóra was beginning to wonder if it was in her imagination. If so, she would never be rid of it. She wrinkled her nose.

‘Could you give the workshop a ring about the photocopier? I’ve tried calling but they seem very relaxed about the parts that are supposedly on their way. If we keep bugging them maybe they’ll make more of an effort to chase them up.’ It went without saying that Bella was better qualified for that role than anyone else in the office. ‘If you can get the copier back by the end of the week, I’ll install that high-speed broadband you keep going on about.’

Bella screwed up her eyes, apparently regarding this as an unfair exchange. But in that she was wrong; they’d had no plans to upgrade their connection, so Bella only stood to gain by making an effort. After all, she was the only employee who complained about the current connection speed and download capacity, and they all knew that the secretary’s desire for an upgrade had nothing to do with work. Indeed, that was why Thóra and Bragi had been dragging their feet: it would be extremely embarrassing if the firm ended up being investigated by the police for illegal downloads on an industrial scale.

‘Okay. Deal. But I haven’t been going on about it – only asking.’ Glowering, Bella took herself off, no doubt to seek out the most powerful upgrade on offer but hopefully also to launch a major campaign of harassment against the repair shop.

Thóra had difficulty concentrating after Bella had gone. She still had to collate a lot of documents to enclose with the notification to the insurance provider but simply didn’t know where to begin. It didn’t help that if the newly recovered corpse turned out to be Lára or Ægir, this would render some of the paperwork unnecessary. There was a possibility the postmortem might reveal the cause of death to have been a disease, as it wasn’t out of the question that the crew had fallen ill or been poisoned. She picked up the phone to dial the number of her ex-husband, Hannes, then changed her mind. This was not because she thought he would take her request badly – on the contrary, he was usually helpful on the rare occasions she sought his advice on medical matters. Since the divorce this was about the only subject they could discuss without constantly having to watch their words as if negotiating a minefield. No, she was afraid of losing her temper with him over his ridiculous notion of sending Gylfi to an oil rig in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. Even if she had deliberately sat down and made a list of all the ways Hannes could possibly screw up as a parent, this would never have crossed her mind. An oil rig. She sighed aloud and replaced the receiver. The conversation would only descend into a slanging match and she would never get round to asking about infectious diseases. Besides, it was unclear what good a list of them would achieve. They would still be left with the problem of why the passengers were unaccounted for, since surely there was no illness that triggered a longing to fling oneself into the sea.

Thóra refreshed her browser and realised a new article had been posted about the body.

It was high time Brynjar changed jobs, and no one knew this better than him. He was finding the night shifts no easier now than when he had started work as a port security officer five years ago, back when he still believed he would get used to them. It had never been his plan to get stuck in this job; he’d only meant to bridge the gap after dropping out of university, earn a little money before enrolling in a course that suited him better. He’d intended to use the nights to ponder his future, but now, some thousand night shifts later, the only conclusion he’d reached was that he didn’t want to work here any longer. The arrival of the yacht had opened his eyes: no doubt the people on board had believed, like him, that they had their whole lives before them, but they were wrong. He didn’t want the life he was living now to be his lot forever, but only he had the power to change it. He’d become socially isolated, as if he lived in a different time zone from his friends, and if he didn’t take action soon he would end up a lonely old weirdo, interacting only with the undesirables who roamed Reykjavík’s streets by night.

Like these two. ‘You shouldn’t be here. This area is restricted.’ He walked briskly towards a couple who were staggering along the quay. The girl was wearing high heels, hopelessly inappropriate to the terrain, which made her walk like a zombie, at least when viewed from behind. Her companion was little better, though he couldn’t blame his footwear. Brynjar hoped he wasn’t the type who became violent when drunk. He’d had enough of those.

The girl turned, bleary-eyed, her lipstick smeared. ‘Eh?’ She called to her companion who had continued walking. ‘Lolli! Talk to this bloke.’ Her tongue sounded thick and swollen in her mouth.

‘You what?’ The man appeared older than the girl, probably around Brynjar’s own age. He swayed as he tried to get his bearings. ‘Who are you?’ He paused to do battle with the forces of gravity. ‘Wanna party?’

‘Sure, why not.’ Brynjar beckoned them over. ‘Come on, or you’ll end up in the sea.’

‘The sea?’ The girl didn’t seem to know where she was. ‘Whaddya mean?’ she slurred. ‘We’re going to a party.’

‘There’s no party here. If that’s what you’re looking for, you’ll have to head back into town – or home.’

‘No. There’s a party. We saw it.’ The man had reached the girl’s side and was leaning on her. They seemed steadier like that than separately.

‘Then you must be seeing things. There are no buildings here, just boats. And no parties.’

The man smiled idiotically. ‘Yes, there is. We could see it.’ He turned and pointed into the air. ‘On that posh boat over there.’

Brynjar realised at once which vessel he meant; the couple would hardly describe the fishing boats or trawlers as ‘posh’. He must be referring to the yacht that was berthed in the Coast Guard area. ‘There’s no party there. You’ll have to leave. Come back tomorrow when you’re in a better state.’

‘There
is
a party. I saw it. One of the guests was on deck.’ The girl sounded like a spoilt child who had got hold of an idea and wouldn’t let go. ‘You can’t ban us from going to a party.’

‘You’re mistaken. There’s no one on board and no party. That ship is damaged; no one would throw a party on board.’ Brynjar felt his heart begin to pound, pumping the blood round his body in readiness for danger. ‘I repeat, you’ll have to leave.’

‘There
is
someone there.’ The girl swung her head clumsily to her companion, stumbling as she did so. Brynjar put out a hand to prevent her from falling flat on her back, but the man didn’t notice. He seemed in an even worse state than when Brynjar had first spotted them. Initially he had contented himself with watching them from his hut, hoping they’d turn back and spare him the bother of dealing with them. He didn’t recall noticing any movement on the yacht, though come to think of it the couple had stopped and stared at it when they first entered the harbour area. The girl had nudged the man and pointed, but Brynjar had assumed she recognised it from the news. It went without saying that he would have shot out of the hut the instant he spotted an unauthorised visitor on board. It must have been an illusion.

‘I think I’d better go home.’ The man’s face had turned grey. ‘I don’t feel well. I reckon I’m seasick. Is the dock moving?’ Brynjar couldn’t be bothered to point out that they were standing on solid concrete. The man was leaning most of his weight on the skinny girl, who was not amused. ‘Thanks, mate, it was cool – be seeing you.’ He had forgotten who Brynjar was. They tottered away, in spite of the girl’s protests that they were missing out on a ‘wicked boat party’.