‘I very much doubt it. You have the same dreams because you’re twins. You think alike even when you’re asleep. It’s not the first time, is it?’ He received no reply because at that moment the door suddenly opened outwards with a crash.
Halli appeared in the gap and pinned the door back with one foot. ‘Take these. They might make you feel better.’ He held out his fist and waited for them to come over. ‘They’re seasickness tablets I found in a cabin. Thráinn says they’re all right. The plasters work better but we couldn’t find any.’
Lára took the pills. ‘Thanks.’ She examined them, before closing her fingers over them. ‘I hope they work fast.’ Halli shrugged, removed his foot and let the door swing to behind him. They heard the catch snap back. ‘Oh, great. Are we locked out now?’ Lára asked.
‘No,’ Ægir reassured her. ‘The catches inside and outside both work on the same hinge. I’ve tested them.’ He had been afraid the girls might be locked in or out; you never knew what they would get up to when they wanted attention. ‘Now, how about grabbing a few more lungfuls of air, then going inside and taking the pills? I’m sure they’ll go down better if we wash them down with a drink.’ He expanded his chest as far as he could and exhaled gustily. As he repeated this, he fixed his gaze on the heaving sea in the hope that it would help. But he couldn’t interpret the movements of the waves and brace himself for what was coming next; their behaviour was too unpredictable. One minute everything appeared calm, the surface of the sea smooth; the next, the ship was tossing about like a cork.
He wondered how deep the water was at this point but couldn’t come up with a plausible figure. They had left the continental shelf behind some time ago, so it might be several kilometres to the ocean floor. Or perhaps not that much. Again he was stymied by his lack of knowledge about the natural world. It was the sort of fact that he should probably have picked up along the way but his mind was blank; perhaps even at its deepest it was only a few hundred metres down to the sea bed. He hadn’t the faintest idea. It had probably never formed part of the school syllabus. In any case, what did the depth of the ocean matter? If you sank, you sank; you would be just as dead whether you ended up a hundred or a thousand metres down.
Such reflections were hardly designed to raise the spirits, so Ægir banished them from his mind. There was no point letting his thoughts run away with him. He knew from experience that if he gave his worries free rein they could take on extremely colourful forms. Like the time he had let himself be talked into scuba diving while on a beach holiday with some university friends, long before he met Lára. The first day’s training had consisted of a short course in the swimming pool. But that night while his friends snored away, oblivious to the danger they were about to expose themselves to (and at considerable expense), Ægir had not got a wink of sleep. Countless possible variations of death in a diving accident passed through his mind as he tossed and turned, until eventually he decided it would be best not to go on the dive. But the following morning, unwilling to lose face in front of his friends, he had agreed to go out on the boat after all.
When it came to it, he had not done badly at all, perhaps because he had already resigned himself to drowning in the clear, aquamarine water. The instructor had even singled him out for praise because he had kept his head and remained relaxed during the dive. The only time he had come close to panic was when they reached the bottom and, viewing the alien surroundings and strange life forms through his goggles, he had experienced a strong aversion to the idea of leaving his bones there. However, by concentrating on taking deep, regular breaths through his mouthpiece, he had managed to master his fear. It was not until his ascent, when he saw the approaching light above him, that he was seized by an uncontrollable urge to breathe through his nose and had to force himself to look down and wait until he had reached the surface. A further shock had come when the instructor swam with them to the place where they could see the sea bed fall away into true darkness and barren depths. It had made his flesh creep. Why was he thinking of that now?
‘Let’s go inside.’ Lára pulled at him. ‘If I inhale any more, my lungs will fill up with salt.’
‘Let’s go, Daddy,’ Bylgja pleaded. ‘I don’t want to stay out here any longer.’ Ægir tried to hide how fervently he agreed with her. Suddenly, he felt a longing to sweep up his daughters in his arms and lock them as deep inside the yacht as possible. Keen as he was to avoid ending up on the sea bed, his fear that his daughters might share the same fate was infinitely stronger.
Later, Ægir thought the pills had probably helped. They had managed to take them before anyone was sick and that may have made all the difference. The Coke was tepid, and barely drinkable, but Ægir had insisted they each finish a can, if only to have something to throw up if the worst came to the worst.
‘Is that the picture you were talking about?’ Only now had his wooziness receded sufficiently for him to notice his surroundings. He pointed to an offensively ornate gilded frame containing a canvas of a young woman, presumably Karítas. The rather kitsch subject matter was totally out of kilter with the frame, which would have been more appropriate for an old master.
‘Yes. Beautiful, isn’t she?’ Lára was watching him beadily for his reaction.
‘I can’t really tell from here. She’s all right, I suppose.’
Lára reached out a foot from the armchair where she was sprawled and gave him a little kick. ‘Don’t talk rubbish. Take a better look.’
Ægir rose with difficulty. He felt weak, as if after a strenuous effort, perhaps as a result of constantly having to ride the waves. ‘The things I do for you.’ The twins looked up from the colouring books that had been hurriedly purchased for them in Lisbon. They had recovered much quicker than their parents and had soon grown bored of lying on their sofa. Karítas’s eyes seemed to follow Ægir, growing slightly larger once he was close to the painting. Although there was no denying that the young woman was gorgeous, she was not Ægir’s type: too perfect, too manicured, too conscious of her own beauty. Too plastic. Or at least that was the impression she gave. Her hair was what Ægir had chiefly noticed when he leafed past pictures of her in the papers. From what he recalled it was extraordinarily thick and healthy, perhaps the only part of her that hadn’t been artificially enhanced. The artist had clearly been of the same opinion, judging by the painstaking care he had taken over this feature. While the rest of the painting was executed in a rather perfunctory fashion, her blond mane cascaded over her shoulders in perfect waves which may well have been due to artistic licence. Ægir couldn’t remember whether her hair had been straight or wavy in the photos he had seen. The light paint tones were fairly successful in capturing her natural colour, so different from the bleached-out effect that so many young women seemed to favour these days. But the other colours in the painting were cruder and more garish, like the huge red jewel in the necklace Bylgja had mentioned, which looked more like a Christmas-tree decoration than a precious gem. The same applied to her clothes and the matching nail polish on her fingers and toes. Her tanned skin also seemed too uniform and flat, as if her slender limbs had been modelled on those of a Barbie doll, with unnaturally smooth joints. There was a hint of Barbie, too, in the way her bust was completely out of proportion to her slim figure.
He bent closer to examine the necklace, puzzled as to why it should have made such an impact on the women in his family. The chain was a simple affair of gold or white gold and the massive red jewel in its heart-shaped setting nestled between the sitter’s splendid breasts. It was studded all around the edge with white stones that Ægir took to be diamonds. Suspended from the bottom of the heart was a blue teardrop – presumably also precious. ‘What are red gems called again?’
‘Rubies,’ Lára replied, with surprising promptness for one who did not own much jewellery herself and as a rule took little interest in it. She had a few pieces she’d received as Confirmation gifts, as well as a ring and necklace he had given her when they were courting.
Later she’d told him that it was a testament to the strength of her love that their relationship had survived those presents. He had not seen her wear any proper jewellery for years, not since the twins were born by caesarean section, when she had put on the necklace and forced the ring onto her swollen finger in the belief that they would bring good luck. Perhaps she hadn’t needed any luck since then, but Ægir found himself wishing suddenly that she had brought them along on this trip.
‘There was an article on that necklace in The Week. It cost her husband a fortune and she’s never parted from it. He gave it to her as a wedding present.’
‘What?’ Ægir swung round. ‘You mean I was supposed to give you a wedding present? For some reason I thought the guests took care of that.’
Lára grinned, looking much brighter. ‘No. Anyway, don’t ask me. Maybe it’s a custom among the super-rich abroad. Don’t worry, you didn’t commit any faux pas. Though, strictly speaking, according to Icelandic tradition you should have given me a bridal gift the morning after. Still, it’s not as if the wedding night was our first time and I needed some sort of reward.’ She sat up properly. ‘So, what do you think of her? Be honest.’
‘Nice looking, but not my type.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Lára’s disbelief was obvious. The girls looked from one to the other, waiting eagerly for their father’s reaction.
‘No, I mean it. She looks too perfect to be any fun. Besides, beautiful people tend to be a bit odd; everyone treats them differently, so they never develop their inner self.’ As he turned away from the painting he felt the woman’s eyes boring into his back. ‘I’m not saying it applies to everyone and it’s not based on any kind of scientific evidence, but I’m sure it’s true. She lacks some quality.’
Lára looked delighted. ‘You’re a pretty good judge of character. From what I can gather she’s a complete airhead. In interviews she comes across as really shallow and conceited.’
Arna was reproachful. ‘You’re always saying we’re beautiful, Daddy. Does that make us bad?’
His daughters’ little faces under their soft, fine hair were the most beautiful he had ever laid eyes on. But that beauty lay in their small imperfections: the slightly too-big teeth, the crooked smiles, the freckles and uneven eyebrows; Bylgja’s smeary glasses that she had wiped with her fingers after coming inside.
‘As I said, the rule’s not infallible. Far from it. But people who think about nothing but their appearance soon lose their charm. Not you, though. Never you.’
‘Good.’ Arna seemed satisfied.
Bylgja was pensive. She was holding a red wax crayon, which lay quite still in her unusually steady hand. ‘The woman in my dream wasn’t bad, just unhappy. Maybe it wasn’t her.’
‘Or I’ve got it all wrong and she’s actually a really nice person.’ Ægir grinned. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time I was mistaken.’
The red crayon sank towards the half-completed picture. ‘I hope so, Daddy. I hope she’s nice.’ Bylgja began colouring again. The red wax covered an ever-larger area of the page; from where Ægir was standing it looked as if the crayon was slowly bleeding to death.
Chapter 7
It turned out that it was far from unheard-of for people to vanish without trace at sea. The stories Thóra discovered on-line kept her glued to the screen for ages, so it was not only exasperation with her menfolk that kept her up long after everyone else had gone to bed. The fascination of the stories lay in the very aspect that presented the greatest problem for her: without exception they remained unexplained. The fate of the Lady K’s crew and passengers would no doubt be the same: to live on as characters in a tale of mystery, their names and the other facts of the case gradually forgotten.
The most famous example she came across was the disappearance of the crew and passengers of the Mary Celeste. In 1872, a month after leaving New York bound for Genoa in Italy, the brigantine was found abandoned and adrift under full sail in the Atlantic. One of the lifeboats was missing but the ship was still seaworthy and contained six months’ supply of food and water. Neither the cargo nor the personal belongings of the eight-man crew and two passengers had been touched, but the ships’ papers were missing, with the exception of the captain’s log, though unfortunately this shed no light on what had happened. The story of the Mary Celeste was uncomfortably similar to that of the Lady K, not least because the captain’s wife and one-year-old daughter had been on board. It was as if the crew and family had vanished into thin air. No reason for this had ever been found and the mystery remained one of the most perplexing in seafaring history.
But the stories Thóra unearthed were not only historical; there were also more recent cases, including five in the last ten years. The most striking was the disappearance of three people from the yacht Kaz II off the coast of Australia in 2007: the boat had been in perfect condition when found and everything looked normal on board, apart from the absence of the crew. There was food on the table, a laptop was switched on and the engine was still running. Moreover, the life jackets and other safety equipment were all in place and there were no signs of violence or robbery. The only real difference from the situation on the Lady K was the discovery of a video camera on the Kaz II, containing films taken of the crew before they vanished. Of course, now that Thóra came to think of it, it was quite possible that a similar find had been made on the Icelandic yacht, since at least one of the passengers must surely have had a camera or camera phone. She would have to ask the police. Admittedly, the films from the Kaz II had not helped to solve the riddle but it might be a different story with the Lady K.
Thóra was less interested in the articles that dealt with the disappearance of entire ships’ crews than she was in the large number of articles and reports about individuals who had vanished without trace from cruise-liners. Apparently, this occurred on average about ten times a year, which was not really that often considering the enormous volume of cruise passengers, but it was striking nonetheless. The statistics were of secondary importance to Thóra, though, compared to the fact that the missing people’s relatives tended to hit a brick wall when it came to payment of their life cover. The insurance providers refused to pay out on the grounds that it was impossible to prove the insured party’s demise, and this argument seemed to satisfy the courts. This did not bode well for Ægir’s parents, though with any luck the fates of Ægir and his wife would be deemed sufficiently different to avoid the same outcome. Where one person might conceivably have absconded to start a new life abroad, it would seem far-fetched to claim a conspiracy involving seven people. In addition to which, it was unthinkable that anyone could have jumped ship and survived since the yacht had been a long way from land for most of the voyage, unlike cruise ships, which tended to call at a string of ports.
‘What time are you meeting the old couple about the life insurance case?’ Bragi came over to join Thóra by the coffee machine where she was helping herself to her second cup of the day.
‘Two. Why do you ask?’ She added a splash of milk.
‘Oh, I was wondering if you could take a look at some correspondence I’ve entered into in relation to a case that looks as if it’s heading to court. You might be able to see a way to soften up the litigants. I’ve run out of ideas and would welcome your insight.’ He pushed the button to release a stream of black liquid into his cup. ‘I’d have copied it for you but … well … and I’ll need to review it myself before lunch.’
‘I’ll take a quick peek now.’
Bragi nodded, pleased. ‘By the way, any idea when we can expect the photocopier back? The situation’s driving me spare. I almost went down to the stationery shop to buy carbon paper, then realised it probably wouldn’t work in the printer.’
‘Hasn’t it occurred to you to print out two copies?’ Thóra grinned and took a sip of coffee. ‘But I agree. The situation’s intolerable; I’ll check what’s happening. In the meantime, why don’t you get Bella to pop out to the copy shop for you? Preferably with one sh
eet at a time. The whole thing’s her fault, so it would be only what she deserved.’
She went back to her office to ring the workshop. As she picked up the receiver, she decided to call Karítas’s mother too on the off-chance that, in spite of Matthew’s dire predictions, the woman might prove amenable. It couldn’t hurt to try.
Bella slammed the door so hard Thóra thought the car would fall apart. It was still cold outside; on the news that morning they had forecast snow in the north, though spring was supposed to be just around the corner. For some unaccountable reason Thóra had been anticipating a good winter followed by an early spring, though this had not been based on any meteorological evidence or gift of prophecy. The bitter wind now blowing her hair in all directions reminded her yet again how wrong she had been. She could hardly see a thing but managed with difficulty to drag her hood over her head, which considerably improved visibility. They had succeeded in arranging this meeting with surprising ease and were now standing outside Karítas’s mother’s house in the suburb of Arnarnes, south of Reykjavík. Thóra had tracked down the woman’s name on-line, then looked her up in the telephone directory and tried calling her. She had drawn a blank, however, when it came to Karítas’s father. Her patronymic was Karlsdóttir but there was no Karl registered on her mother’s phone number. Perhaps her parents were divorced or her father was dead. At any rate, her mother was evidently lonely enough to view a meeting with a lawyer as a welcome diversion.
‘God, what a hideous house.’ Once again, Bella seemed unaffected by the wind as she stood on the pavement, critically surveying the property in question. It was a Spanish-style villa and Thóra had to agree that it looked totally incongruous in the Icelandic climate.
‘Shh!’ Thóra made a face at the secretary. ‘She might hear us.’
The Silence of the Sea Page 9