The bewilderment on the faces of the three customs men was probably mirrored on his own as they made their way warily along the jetty. ‘What’s going on?’ Brynjar grabbed the shoulder of the man bringing up the rear.
‘How the hell should I know?’ Though the man’s reply was curt, his voice sounded shaky. ‘The crew’s probably drunk. Or stoned.’
They reached the end of the jetty where it had been splintered by the ship’s bows, which were no longer streamlined and glossy but scratched and splintered. The shouts of the customs officials had gone unanswered and their leader was now on the phone, conversing in harsh tones with the police. Breaking off the call, he peered up at the bows looming over them. ‘I suggest we board her. The police are on their way and there’s no reason to wait. I don’t like the look of this. Fetch the ladder, Stebbi.’
The Stebbi in question didn’t look too thrilled, but turned and ran back to the vehicle. Nobody spoke. Every now and then they called out to the crew, but to no avail. Brynjar felt increasingly uneasy about the silence that met their shouts and was relieved when the man returned with the ladder. The eldest, who was evidently in charge, led the boarding party. Brynjar was given the role of steadying the ladder while the other three scrambled on board, and was still standing there alone when the police arrived. He identified himself while the officers shook their heads over the situation. Then one of the customs men appeared and leant over the rail again, looking even more incredulous than before. ‘There’s nobody on board.’
‘What?’ The police officer who had spoken now prepared to climb the ladder. ‘Bullshit.’
‘I’m telling you. There’s no one on board. Not a soul.’
The policeman paused on the fourth rung, craning his head back to see the customs official’s face. ‘How’s that possible?’
‘Search me. But there’s nobody here. The yacht’s deserted.’
No one spoke for a moment. Brynjar looked back down the jetty at the old couple, the little girl and the man on crutches standing at the landward end. Unsurprisingly, they had ignored his order to stay put. Realising that the police hadn’t noticed them and were otherwise occupied, he decided to handle the matter himself. He started to walk towards them, picking up speed when he saw they were coming to meet him. Though of all those present they had the most to lose, they had no business approaching the yacht. The police must be allowed to carry out their investigation unhindered. ‘Don’t come any closer, the jetty could give way,’ he called. This was highly unlikely but it was all he could think of on the spur of the moment.
‘What’s going on? Why did that man say there was no one on board?’ The old woman’s voice quavered. ‘Of course they’re on board. Ægir, Lára and the twins. They must be there. They just haven’t looked properly.’
‘Come on.’ Brynjar didn’t know where to take them but plainly they couldn’t stay here. ‘I expect it’s a mistake. Let’s just stay calm.’ He wondered if they would all fit into his hut. It would be a squeeze, but at least he could offer them coffee. ‘I’m sure they’re all fine.’
The young man met Brynjar’s eye. When he spoke his voice shook as badly as the old woman’s. ‘I was supposed to be on board.’ He was about to say more when he noticed the little girl following his every word. But he couldn’t stop himself from adding: ‘Jesus!’
The old man was staring blankly at the smashed bows yawning mockingly over their heads, and Brynjar had to take hold of his shoulder and physically pull him round. ‘Come on. Think of the little girl.’ He jerked his head towards the man’s grandchild. ‘This is no place for her. The main thing is to get her out of here. We’ll soon find out what’s going on.’ But he was too late; the damage had been done.
‘Mummy dead.’ The child’s pure treble was uncomfortably clear. It was the last thing Brynjar – and doubtless the others – wanted to hear at that moment. ‘Daddy dead.’ And it got worse. ‘Adda dead. Bygga dead.’ The child sighed and clutched her grandmother’s leg. ‘All dead,’ she concluded, and began to sob quietly.
Chapter 1
The repairman scratched his neck, his expression a mixture of exasperation and astonishment. ‘Tell me again exactly how it happened.’ He tapped a small spanner on the lid of the photocopier. ‘I can’t count how many of these I’ve dealt with, but this is a new one on me.’
Thóra’s smile was devoid of amusement. ‘I know. So you said. Look, can you mend it or not?’ She resisted the temptation to hold her nose in spite of the stench rising from the machine. In hindsight it had been an extremely bad idea to hold a staff party in the office but it had never occurred to her that someone might vomit on the glass of the photocopier, then close the lid neatly on the mess. ‘Maybe it would be best if you took it to your workshop and carried out the repairs there.’
‘You could have limited the damage by calling me out straight away instead of leaving it over the weekend.’
Thóra lost her temper. It was bad enough having to put up with this disgusting smell without enduring a ticking-off from a repairman as well. ‘I assure you the delay wasn’t deliberate.’ She immediately regretted replying; the longer they stood around talking, the longer it would take him to get on with the job. ‘Couldn’t you just take it away and repair it somewhere else? We can hardly work for the smell.’
On entering the office that grey Monday morning they had been met by a foul stench. It was surprising no one had noticed it during the festivities on Friday evening, but perhaps that was some indication of the state everyone had been in, Thóra included.
‘That would be best for us,’ she continued. ‘We can manage without it for a day or two.’ This was not strictly accurate; it was the only photocopier in the office and the main printer to boot, but right now Thóra was prepared to sacrifice a great deal to be rid of the machine and the accompanying miasma. Not to mention the engineer himself.
‘You’ll be lucky. It’ll take more than a couple of days. I might have to order in new parts and then we could be talking weeks.’
‘Parts?’ Thóra wanted to scream. ‘Why does it need new parts? There’s nothing wrong with the workings. It just needs cleaning.’
‘That’s what you think, sweetheart.’ The man turned back to the machine and poked at the dried crust with his spanner. ‘There’s no telling what damage the stomach acid may have caused. The vomit has dripped inside, and this is a delicate mechanism.’
Thóra mentally reviewed the books, wondering if the firm should simply shell out for a new copier. They had been on a roll recently thanks to the economic downturn, which meant plenty of work for lawyers. Indeed, this had happened while they had been celebrating their success with their staff, who now numbered five in addition to herself and her business partner, Bragi. ‘How much would a new one cost?’ The repairman mentioned a figure that was surely a quote for a share in his company, not a new photocopier. Despite their recent success, she wasn’t prepared to splash out on such an expensive piece of equipment simply to avoid a slight inconvenience.
Reading her expression, the engineer came to her rescue. ‘It would be ridiculous to have to fork out for a whole new machine just because of a little accident like this.’ He put the spanner back in his toolbox. ‘If you have home contents insurance, it may well cover the cost of the repairs.’