‘Maybe he’s a rally driver.’
‘I doubt it.’ Matthew’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Rally cars have souped-up engines. That’s nothing but a rust-bucket. It wouldn’t make it a hundred metres from the starting line.’
‘Shh. He might hear you.’ Thóra watched as Snævar opened the car door and, after a considerable tussle to pull a plastic bag over his cast, clambered out. They walked over to the yacht together and waited while Thóra dug out the keys. She was struck by how out of place the elegant vessel looked in the dismal rain, as if she should have been protected by covers. The lavishly appointed interior only intensified this impression, especially when Snævar managed to locate the light switch. However, the dim illumination did little to enhance the expensive furnishings, whose sheen was now obscured by a layer of dust. Thóra looked around, wondering what it would be like to be cooped up in here for days at a time. Of course it was impressively spacious in comparison with most yachts, but even so there was not much room; staying here for long periods would probably be like living under house arrest in a small chateau. ‘Is it really much fun cruising on a boat like this?’
Snævar didn’t seem to understand what she was getting at. ‘Oh, yes, I expect so. I mean, I don’t actually know what it’s like to be a passenger, but I bet it’s cool to sail her. Whether you’re crew or passenger, the main thing is that you enjoy sailing in the first place.’
‘You said the crew didn’t mix with the passengers or owners, so where do they hang out? Is there a special deck where the staff can sunbathe and let their hair down?’ Thóra tried to remember how many decks there were but couldn’t picture the layout. She knew there were more than two, though, so it seemed reasonable that the crew would have one to themselves.
Snævar burst out laughing. ‘The crew don’t spend their time sunbathing, if that’s what you think. They work flat out pretty much round the clock and grab sleep whenever they can between watches. The kind of people who’d pay a fortune for a fancy vessel like this aren’t going to fork out for an extra deck for the staff. And who can blame them?’
Matthew seemed more impressed with the yacht than Thóra. Then again, he was seeing her for the first time, unaffected by the sadness that she felt about the fate of the passengers. She couldn’t gush over the design or craftsmanship when everything reminded her of that little girl who was now almost certainly an orphan. ‘How fast does she go?’ Matthew ran his fingers over the window frame, which he seemed, for some inexplicable reason, to find interesting.
‘Around sixteen knots, I imagine. Though she’d rarely cruise at that speed. She’d make around twelve as a rule.’
Thóra allowed her gaze to wander, bored by the talk of knots and certain that any minute the conversation would turn to engines. ‘I’m going to take a look around, see if I can spot anything unusual. It’ll be quicker if we split up, and you’ll be in better hands with Matthew.’ Leaving them in the saloon, she made her way down to the bedroom wing, if that was the right word. No doubt the sleeping quarters should be referred to as cabins but her own term seemed more appropriate for rooms that large. The moment she entered the corridor, she regretted her decision. Turning on the lights made her feel a little less uneasy, though they flickered alarmingly: as they had approached along the dock Snævar had remarked that the yacht’s batteries might be running low since the engine had not been used for a while. The corridor was empty and all the doors were closed, which made it seem all the more sinister, and Thóra couldn’t shake off the fear that the person who broke in might be lurking behind one of the doors. She tried to dismiss this thought as nonsense – the police could hardly have overlooked the presence of a burglar.
Pulling herself together, she started checking the cabins, one by one. She couldn’t remember exactly what they had looked like before this peculiar break-in, but they appeared to be completely untouched. It wasn’t until she opened the door to the master cabin that she realised something was amiss. She stood in the doorway, surveying the scene, before hesitantly stepping inside. The door slammed behind her. Thóra jumped, her heart racing, but forced herself to carry on. She knew the door had only slammed because of the movement of the boat; she had even expected it. This was a perfectly normal ship, she told herself; a terribly smart one, but only built of steel and aluminium. No different from her car, or her toaster; neither of these frightened her, so there was no reason to behave as if this yacht bore her any ill will. Yet even so she couldn’t quite rid herself of the uncomfortable sensation that there was something evil in the air.
There was no obvious sign of any illegal entry in the master bedroom. The bed had been made in a perfunctory manner, and a large bath towel hung from the back of the chair by the dressing table, but apart from that everything looked the same. Only the couple’s belongings had been removed, which may have accounted for the change she sensed. She turned a slow circle in the middle of the room but could detect no difference. The yacht must have sent her imagination into overdrive again. She refused to let her mind stray to the child’s feet she thought she had seen last time. Instead, she went over to the imposing wardrobe and forced herself to open it. She could have spared herself the effort. Everything looked exactly the same as before. The other closets also turned out to be packed with clothes, elegantly displayed on citrus-wood shelves and in compartments, or suspended from substantial hangers on rails that she would not have been surprised to learn were made of silver. The feminine garments emitted an overpowering floral fragrance that made her feel slightly queasy. A single unused hanger formed an odd contrast to all the rest. If Karítas had really gone to retrieve her clothes from the yacht when it was berthed in Lisbon, she had either abandoned the effort or only coveted one particular garment.
In the double wardrobe that had evidently belonged to Karítas’s husband, Thóra caught sight of a dial behind a row of shirts. Pushing the shirts aside, she discovered a sturdy-looking safe built into the back of the cupboard. Naturally it was locked and Thóra knew better than to turn the dial on the off-chance. But this did not prevent her from speculating about what it might contain; cufflinks sporting diamonds the size of cherries perhaps, or bundles of banknotes. Since neither Ægir nor his family were likely to have been able to open the safe, it could not possibly be concealing any evidence of relevance to the inquiry, but Thóra suspected that its contents, rather than any clothes or personal effects, were what had drawn Karítas to Portugal. No doubt it was empty now. After checking the remaining drawers, which contained rolled-up ties, socks and belts, she turned her back on the closets.
As she was berating herself for her own foolishness, she realised what had been niggling at her. It was nothing remarkable: the wooden box on the dressing table was missing. It had contained nothing but photographs and bits of paper that Karítas had wanted to keep for whatever reason, perhaps as mementos of the high life, and who would be interested in that? Hardly the police. Thóra went over to the dressing table and peered in the drawers and cupboards, in case the box had been tidied away. It was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would break into a luxury yacht to steal an item like that with all these other valuables lying about. The only people who could possibly be interested in its contents were tabloid journalists, and she doubted that even they would resort to burglary.
There was nothing much to see in the corridor, so Thóra felt she had done her duty there. She hurried out, switching off the light with her back to the darkness, then hastily climbed the stairs in search of Matthew and Snævar. She finally tracked them down in the bowels of the ship, where they were investigating a garage-like storeroom, which housed jet skis, fishing tackle and other equipment she could not identify. On the wall there was a large hatch that could presumably be opened outwards when people wanted to use these toys. Judging from the interest with which Matthew was examining the jet ski, they were no longer searching for signs of the break-in, or had at least allowed themselves to be sidetracked. Though, to be fair, Snæva
r was standing by the hatch, resting his injured leg and apparently inspecting the catch. As Thóra stepped in, the yacht rocked without warning and she had to grab the door frame to prevent herself from falling. Her palm came away smeared with thick grease.
‘How are you getting on?’ She walked past Matthew, barely glancing at the jet ski, and headed for the large sink on the wall behind him. ‘It looks to me as if there’s a box missing from Karítas’s dressing table. It contained nothing of obvious interest, so I don’t understand what the thief was up to. Perhaps he thought it was a jewellery case, but I checked inside the first time we came on board and found only personal papers.’ She rubbed her hand under the freezing jet of water and watched the sink fill as if the plug was down.
‘Perhaps he thought it was a jewellery case and grabbed it. All the same, it’s strange that he didn’t open it.’ Matthew frowned. ‘It doesn’t sound very convincing. Surely the police must have taken it when they were here this morning? Perhaps they wanted to empty the yacht of valuables in case of further break-ins.’
‘Then why only take that box?’ Thóra inspected her hand and decided it was clean. She watched the water slowly drain away and when the sink was almost empty, tried to pull out the plug to speed things up. The filter underneath was clogged with blond hairs. She showed it to the others. ‘Who on earth would have been shaving or cutting their hair down here?’
Snævar looked round and shrugged. ‘Anyone. One of the crew, maybe. It’s probably been there for ages. I doubt the guys who sailed her home would have come down here to use the sink. It’s not as if there’s any shortage of basins or bathrooms elsewhere.’
Matthew made a face; he was fastidious about hair in plugholes. ‘Put it back. It can hardly have anything to do with the burglar.’
Thóra did so, then dried her wet hands on her trousers. Her attention shifted to Snævar, who was attentively examining the hatch again. He unfastened the heavy steel catch, reached for the handle and eased the door out with a creaking sound. ‘What are you doing?’ For a split second Thóra almost thought he and Matthew were planning to go for a jet-ski ride.
‘I can’t quite work this out.’ Snævar pointed at a slender nylon rope, one end of which was tied to a ring on the wall, while the other ran out through the hatch. ‘This line can hardly have been hanging outside while the yacht was moving. I’m just going to check it out. Perhaps it’s attached to a float, or something connected to these jet skis.’ He waited until the hatch was almost horizontal, giving them a view out over the harbour where the surface of the sea was jumping under the relentless pelting of the raindrops. There was no float visible; the rope simply disappeared into the dark water. ‘Could you help me a sec?’ Snævar said to Matthew. ‘I’m having trouble bending. Let’s haul it in.’
Matthew hurried over and took a firm grip on the rope. A look of surprise crossed his face. ‘Either it’s stuck or there’s something heavy on the end.’
Snævar scowled. ‘There can’t be.’ He stooped, with difficulty, and gave the rope an experimental tug. ‘You’re right.’ He straightened up. ‘I don’t know what the hell it could be. The line must have been left outside the hatch by mistake and snagged on the keel or something.’ He scratched his chin. ‘We’d better not try and sort it out ourselves. They’ll find out what’s going on when they take the yacht to the shipyard for repairs.’
Matthew jerked the rope. ‘It’s not fixed. There’s something on the other end.’
Thóra craned her head out and stared down to where the line vanished into the water. ‘Could it be a net? Perhaps they were trying to fish.’
Snævar’s expression showed what he thought of this theory.
‘I think I’ve got it.’ Matthew heaved, coiling the slack around a low steel post as they hauled in the wet rope. Finally, they glimpsed a bundle of pale-green canvas attached to the nylon line with a steel hook.
‘What the hell is that?’ Snævar asked. Once Matthew had managed to drag it up to the hatch, Snævar reached out and seized the tarpaulin. With a concerted effort they swung the load on board and stood there panting, surveying their catch.
‘Do you think it’s advisable to open it?’ Thóra had taken two steps backwards when the entire bundle came into view. Of course, she could be wrong but all the signs pointed to its containing a body. As the seawater poured from the waterproof surface onto the gleaming metal hatch the canvas moulded more and more closely to its contents and the shape bore an ominous resemblance to the last thing they wanted to find.
Neither Snævar nor Matthew answered her. Instead they stared in shock at the dripping tarpaulin. Then Snævar broke the silence. ‘I’m going to take a look.’ He bent down, slowly and carefully, and tackled the rope and clasp with practised ease. Now nothing remained except to pull the folds of canvas apart. ‘Shit.’ He looked at them, exhaling. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing. Do we want to see this?’ Neither Thóra nor Matthew replied. Snævar lowered his eyes to the bundle and breathed out again with determination. Then he whipped the canvas aside, only to throw up all over the body of his dead friend.
Chapter 18
‘Did you always want to go to sea?’ Still furious with Ægir, Lára was ignoring him and focusing her attention instead on the young man who was sitting in the saloon with them, playing a game of patience. Thráinn had gone to find out if Loftur knew anything about the disappearance of the woman’s body, and Ægir suspected that Halli had been ordered to keep an eye on them in the meantime, in case Lára was implicated. Nobody had informed her of the woman’s fate as yet. It had been tacitly agreed that this should be Ægir’s job, but there was little he could do when she wouldn’t even look at him. He knew her well enough to understand that she was not angry so much as upset, as Bylgja had said, which was harder to deal with. What made it worse was that he knew she was in the right; he should never have taken a risk like that without consulting her. Even so, he felt it was unnecessary to kick up such a fuss about what might have happened, given that everything had turned out all right. As so often when they quarrelled, he had no idea how to behave; whether to try and bring her round or obey her command to leave her alone. On occasions like this she sometimes said one thing and meant another, but at other times she meant exactly what she said. He still hadn’t learnt to read the signs. Generally, whatever he said only made matters worse, so the best course was to hold his tongue and wait out the storm. Consequently, he was keeping unusually quiet now while Lára focused on Halli, who did not seem to be enjoying the unexpected attention. The conversation limped along, since all Lára actually knew about Halli was that he was a sailor and this imposed strict limits on her search for a suitable topic.
‘To sea? Uh, I don’t know.’ The hectic colour in the young man’s cheeks owed nothing to the temperature in the saloon, which was on the chilly side, though none of them had remarked on the fact or dared ask Thráinn to turn up the heating. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Are you from the countryside?’ Lára smiled, pretending not to notice his reluctance to engage with her.
‘Nope. Kópavogur.’
‘Oh.’ Lára fiddled with her hair and racked her brains for something else to say. ‘Are you a family man?’
‘No, not yet.’ Halli sneaked a look under one of the piles and risked taking off the top card. ‘It’d be difficult, what with me spending so much time at sea.’
Lára seized on the fact that his answers had become less monosyllabic, spying an opening to penetrate his shell. ‘Wouldn’t you like to change job then?’
Halli made a dismissive noise. ‘And do what?’ He gave Lára a puzzled glance. ‘It’s perfectly possible to work at sea without being away as much as I am.’ He immersed himself in his game of patience again, once more stealing glimpses under the piles. ‘The big trawlers pay better but then the tours are longer. And it depends what the catch is like too, of course; you can be lucky or unlucky. That’s true whatever the size of vessel.’
‘Are you saving up for so
mething?’ Lára smiled encouragingly, though he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Are you maybe thinking of putting a roof over your head?’
‘What? What for?’ The colour in Halli’s cheeks deepened. ‘No. I’m saving up for something else.’
Ægir felt an urge to come to his rescue by changing the subject but all that came to mind was the question that had been consuming him ever since he had found the body. ‘If the British ship has reported the discovery of the woman’s body, won’t there be a big furore when we get home? Police interviews and all that?’
‘Probably.’ Apparently Halli wasn’t going to take advantage of this conversational lifebelt. ‘I guess we’ll soon find out.’
Ægir hastily interjected again, before Lára could pounce from the sidelines with further personal questions. ‘How can we let them know when we’re arriving in port if the radiotelephone can’t be repaired?’
‘We’ll show up on their radar as soon as we approach land. If they received the message I expect they’ll have a reception committee waiting. We won’t be allowed to go straight home, that’s for certain. So you can forget about smuggling your wine ashore.’
Ægir’s heart sank. This was not what he wanted to hear. He could think of nothing he wanted less than a homecoming marred by police interrogations and a customs clampdown. His dream of being greeted on the threshold by the familiar smell of home, of sleeping in their own bed, faded. Why the hell hadn’t they simply flown back? Taking advantage of his silence, Lára leapt in and returned to her line of questioning. ‘Anyway, what were you saying – what are you saving up for?’
From Halli’s expression one would have thought Lára had asked him to strip off. Ægir was astonished that she should be oblivious to the fact that this diffident young man had no wish to talk to her at all, let alone answer such personal questions. Usually she was much more adept than Ægir at reading social situations. Perhaps her fury with him had blunted her instincts.
The Silence of the Sea Page 22
