‘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?
Chapter 4
‘I want to stick the picture of Sigga Dögg here. Then we’ll see her every time we go to bed and can kiss her good night.’ Arna held the photo of their sister up to the headboard. ‘Is that in the middle?’
Lára came over to the foot of the bed. ‘Yes, that’s perfect.’ She sat down beside her daughters. ‘Lift it off so I can fix it.’ She stuck small greyish lumps of blu-tack under the corners and pressed them firmly down. ‘There.’ She put the packet of blu-tack back in Bylgja’s school bag and closed it. ‘You must do some homework tomorrow. I promised your teacher you’d keep up while you were on holiday, and this extra cruise is no exception.’ She leant back a little to see how the photo looked. Her two-year-old daughter beamed back at them, happy and carefree, sitting on the swing Ægir had installed in the back garden. Gazing as if hypnotised by her little daughter’s round face, Lára felt suddenly sad. It was probably the after-effects of the unsatisfactory phone call to her in-laws, who were looking after the child. She had rung them from on deck just after the yacht left port so they could all say goodbye to Sigga Dögg before they lost reception. But, as was only to be expected, the little girl hadn’t grasped what was happening. Now Lára wished she had said more and made a greater effort to help the child understand. She should have told her how much they all loved her and that she should be a good girl. A good person.
Lára shook herself. She was being melodramatic, and besides it was too late to start having regrets now as, according to the captain, they wouldn’t have reception again until they were within a few nautical miles of the Icelandic coast. And since Ægir hadn’t managed to organise a satellite phone connection on board, there would be no more conversations with Sigga Dögg on this trip.
‘Mummy, I’ve got a tummy ache.’ Bylgja was lying beside her sister, her glasses perched crookedly on her small nose, looking even paler than usual. Lára only had to compare her with her sister to realise that this was not down to the mood lighting in the cabin.
‘You’re seasick.’ Arna gave her sister a disgusted look. ‘You’re going to puke your guts up.’
Lára laid her hand on Bylgja’s forehead: it was damp. She had no idea if there was a cure for seasickness. They should have read up on it before setting off, but the voyage had been sprung on them with so little notice. Doubtless this would not be the only such problem to arise but it couldn’t be helped. Surely the captain must know how to deal with all kinds of contingencies, including nausea? ‘Just because you feel queasy it doesn’t mean you’re going to throw up, darling.’ Bylgja looked relieved at this piece of spurious wisdom. ‘Now, wait here and I’ll bring a wet flannel to put on your forehead. Maybe you should drink a little Coke too. It can help when you’re feeling sick.’
‘No, thanks.’ Bylgja grimaced; she didn’t like the idea of swallowing anything. ‘My tummy feels strange.’ She met her mother’s eyes imploringly. ‘I don’t want to puke my guts up.’
‘No one likes being sick, darling. If you stay lying down, I’m sure it won’t happen.’ She fetched a flannel from the bathroom, grabbing the small bin just in case. She wasn’t feeling too well herself; the drone of the engine and the rolling of the ship caused a sensation not unlike breathing in cigarette smoke when one had a hangover.
‘Bylgja thinks we’re going to sink.’ Arna’s voice held the aggrieved note that both resorted to when complaining about each other to their parents, though, to be fair, Arna did this rarely and Bylgja almost never.