‘How about a Chinese?’ Thóra closed the fridge. ‘We can order a takeaway or have noodles.’
‘Takeaway.’ Matthew started clearing away the knives and forks he had just laid on the table. They had become pretty adept at using chopsticks by now. ‘I can’t eat any more pot noodles. Not this year, anyway.’
‘I could bake something.’ Sóley looked up from the homework she was trying to finish before evening. She was supposed to hand in a page on occupations in India for her social studies class, but the sheet of paper in front of her was blank apart from drawings of elephants, tigers and snakes which had at best a tenuous connection to the topic.
‘No, really, there’s no need.’ When he saw Sóley’s hurt expression, Matthew clearly regretted having jumped in so quickly. ‘All I meant is that you need to finish your homework and that’s more important than supper right now. You can do some baking at the weekend if you’re still in the mood. How about chocolate liquorice whips?’ He knew these were her proudest achievement, though her pride was not necessarily justified by the outcome. ‘How would you like to take a little break and come with me to fetch the food?’
Sóley was quick to push aside her zoologically inclined essay on Indian society, and Thóra felt a warm glow of pleasure at how well these two got on. Gylfi and Matthew were friendly enough but they weren’t especially close. If her children had rejected Matthew, it would have been the end of her relationship with him, at least in its current form; the happiness of Sóley, Gylfi and now Orri took precedence. That’s just the way it was and so far no one had had any cause for complaint, least of all Matthew who entirely respected her priorities. Thóra tried to ensure that their life did not entirely revolve around the younger generation, and she and Matthew were quite good at making private time for themselves, but this had become harder since her ex-husband had taken it into his head to start working alternate months in Norway. She made an effort to be understanding about this since Hannes had been forced to start again after their divorce, and had been saddled with a hefty mortgage as a result of buying in the middle of the housing bubble. Working abroad meant he could pay off some of his debts. The upshot was that the children now spent half as many weekends as before with their father, but this was compensated for by the fact that her parents had moved out at long last. They had finally managed to solve their money troubles by selling their timeshare in Spain, which they had had little use for anyway. With the departure of Thóra’s mother, however, the family had lost the cook they so badly needed.
After Sóley and Matthew had left to fetch the takeaway, Thóra pulled out the file on the yacht. She was filled with a profound desire to solve the mystery, but knew she was unlikely to succeed. The vessel itself had fired up her imagination as much as the unknown fate of those on board. She was fairly down-to-earth by nature, yet she simply could not shake off the image of those little pale legs. It wasn’t that she believed there had been anything supernatural about the vision; on the contrary, she was sure it had been conjured up by her own brain. The passengers may have vanished but the signs of their existence were so ubiquitous on board that it had been easy for her mind to fill in the gaps.
Before Fannar had said goodbye on the dockside, he’d told her Ægir’s boss would do everything in his power to help solve the case. The man felt partly responsible for what had happened since it had been he who sent Ægir on the fateful voyage. Thóra had asked Fannar to find out if his office had any documents that she could have copies of, in addition to the damage report compiled by the committee following the yacht’s arrival in Reykjavík. He had promised to look into the matter but Thóra hadn’t really expected to hear any more. Yet she had hardly sat down at her desk before her mobile rang: Fannar, calling to say they were making up a file for her. She had collected it from the committee offices on her way home.
The sheaf of documents that she pulled out of the envelope was not particularly thick. There were several pages on top containing lists of those who had crewed the yacht at various times. They were in French, so had presumably been acquired from abroad. This figured, since the yacht had been registered in Monaco until the committee repossessed it in Lisbon. As she perused the lists, Thóra could tell from their names that the crew members were of various nationalities, few of them French. She paused at one that had been highlighted: Halldór Thorsteinsson. An Icelander. Clearly she needed to talk to this man.
The Halldór in question had only worked on the boat for three months. It was a short spell of duty compared to others on the list, but he must be well acquainted with the yacht nonetheless. Of course, there was always the possibility that he had either resigned or been sacked, which would be unfortunate since it might affect his testimony if he held a grudge against the former owner or other crew members. Still, he would almost certainly be able to fill her in about safety procedures, life-saving equipment and any other aspects she needed to have straight before she laid the matter before the insurance company. Any gaps in her report would lead to delays: it was a common tactic by insurance companies to reply by questioning a particular item and then, when that query had been answered, to flag up another, and so forth. This could hold up proceedings by months, so it was vital to present a well-argued case from the beginning.
Following the crew lists she found the yacht’s registration certificate, which confirmed what Thóra already knew, that Karítas and her husband had not been the first owners and that they were responsible for christening her Lady K. The name still struck Thóra as crass. She wondered if she would have done the same, but Lady T sounded even more absurd. Turning back to the crew lists, she noticed that Halldór had worked on the vessel while it was owned by Karítas and her husband. It was probably irrelevant, but she made a mental note.
Her attention was also caught by an inventory of the yacht’s furnishings, if that was the correct term for ships’ contents. The letterhead on the document belonged to an overseas ship broker that apparently specialised in the sale of maritime vessels, and the value of all the items was noted over many pages. The document was dated a little over four years ago, so it would not necessarily be representative of the yacht’s present contents. Thóra raised an eyebrow as she read. Never had she imagined that everyday objects could be so expensive: a sofa that cost more than her car; knives that were worth more than the entire contents of her own kitchen, including the table and chairs. The inventory also contained gadgets, instruments and other equipment associated with sea travel, such as jet skis, wetsuits and fishing gear. She had noticed the jet skis, in a storeroom with a hatch that opened to give access to the sea, but she didn’t remember any diving suits or fishing rods. This might not mean anything, as they had made a whistle-stop tour of numerous storerooms and cupboards, and there must be plenty she hadn’t seen. Thóra supposed it was always possible that somebody had walked off with the stuff, since it was certainly valuable enough to tempt a thief. She hadn’t been particularly surprised to discover what the angling gear was worth because Matthew had recently developed an interest in salmon fishing and the price of the equipment he coveted had made her eyes water. She hoped to God he would steer clear of sailing.