Thóra’s mobile bleeped in her bag; a pale blue light was visible through the opening. Profoundly grateful for the interruption, she fished for it apologetically. The office number flashed up. She put it on silent, though the screen continued to glow. ‘It doesn’t sound as if she’s repeating anything that adults would say.’
‘Well, who else could she have got it from? She hasn’t met any other children since…’ Sigrídur clutched her granddaughter tight as if she was afraid Thóra would snatch her away. Her voice was shrill and she placed her hands solicitously over the little girl’s ears to protect her from hearing her agitation.
‘Is it possible she could have heard someone discussing the family’s fate and is trying to understand it in her own way?’ The big water must surely mean the sea and water in mouth could be a child’s understanding of drowning, though a two-year-old couldn’t be expected to comprehend such a word.
‘I wouldn’t know; as far as I’m aware no one’s discussed it in front of her. But whatever’s behind it, it’s terribly distressing. She woke up crying last night, stammering these words between sobs and calling for her mother. The same thing happened this morning. She’s quiet now, but last night she was out of her mind with terror. What can you say to a child who calls for her mother, when no one knows what’s happened to her?’
‘I can’t begin to imagine.’ Thóra realised it was time to call a halt. These people were seething with suppressed rage and grief over what had happened and with anxiety about the future. It must be a terrible strain to live with such uncertainty. She pitied the psychologist and social worker who had to advise them. ‘Look, I know it’s naive of me, but I really hope they’re found drifting in a lifeboat somewhere and that everything will soon be back to normal.’
They regarded her suspiciously at first, then seemed to accept that she was sincere. Margeir stretched. ‘So do we.’ He clenched his fists until the knuckles whitened. ‘As you can no doubt imagine.’
The phone on Thóra’s lap had gone dark. When she darted a glance at it, it flashed once to indicate a text message. ‘Excuse me.’ It might be Bragi or one of her other colleagues needing to get hold of her urgently. But the message was from Bella: Saw online body turned up – prob from yacht.
Instantly all hope of finding them adrift in a lifeboat vanished.
Chapter 10
Thóra was far from satisfied when she hung up. It wasn’t that she had expected to be supplied with exhaustive detail about the body that had been washed ashore but she had hoped to get a little more for her trouble. In the event, the news websites proved more informative. The police had stonewalled all her enquiries with: I’m afraid we can’t reveal any information at present. She was still in the dark about the gender and age of the deceased, and could receive no confirmation that the body was even connected with the yacht.
‘Who is it? Do you know?’ Bella appeared in the doorway and leant against the frame, holding a steaming mug of coffee. The aroma wafted across the room, and Thóra realised she was in dire need of caffeine. For a split second it crossed her mind to ask Bella for a sip, but she was not that desperate.
‘They refused to say.’ Thóra turned back to her computer and checked in case there was any more news. There wasn’t.
‘Those bloody cops are useless.’ Bella scowled.
‘Oh, I expect they’re just following protocol; no doubt they have to notify the next of kin before they can discuss it with all and sundry.’ Thóra’s thoughts flew to little Sigga Dögg, who probably had a greater interest than anyone in knowing the identity of the body. But then again, the crew members might also have children who were now waiting in fearful suspense. The papers had just published the names of the missing men but not their family circumstances. No doubt those would follow in the next reports, along with the promise of interviews with loved ones desperately waiting for news. She had tried googling their names but they were too common, though one had been familiar: Halldór Thorsteinsson, the sailor who had worked on the yacht for a three-month period while it was owned by Karítas and Gulam. It must be the same man – anything else would be too much of a coincidence – so that ruled out the possibility of picking his brains about the yacht’s life-saving equipment or what he thought had happened.
Thóra was torn between hoping that the body was not from the yacht and praying that it was. At least the recovery of a body would make it easier to secure the insurance money. Presumably it would also be a comfort of sorts for the families if the remains of their loved ones were found. Though what did she know? If it were her children, would she want closure or would she rather cling to hope for years, for the rest of her life even? On balance she’d probably prefer to live with the uncertainty. ‘I can’t put my finger on it, but I get the impression from the news reports that it’s a man. There’s something about the way it’s phrased. Even though it’s the twenty-first century, people still write differently about women – with more delicacy somehow.’
‘Is there a picture?’ Bella’s eagerness struck Thóra as tasteless.
‘No, of course not.’ No on-line media source had published any photos with a direct link to the incident; one showed the crippled yacht moored in Reykjavík harbour; another the coastline where the body had been discovered; the rest made do with vague sea-related visuals. The police had managed to evade the vigilant eyes of photographers while carrying out their duties, helped by the fact that the beach where the body had washed up was well off the beaten track. It was located some way to the south of the village of Sandgerdi, on the western tip of the Reykjanes peninsula, about forty-five kilometres south of Reykjavík. Anyway, even if reporters had stumbled on the scene, it was unthinkable that any news site would publish a picture of the corpse.
‘I reckon it’s a woman.’ Bella slurped her coffee. ‘And I bet I know who.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t take a clairvoyant: Lára was the only woman on board.’
‘I don’t mean her. I think it’s Karítas.’
Thóra looked up from the screen. ‘What on earth makes you say that? That would be really weird.’
‘Well, firstly, I’m sure she must of snuffed it.’
‘Must have,’ Thóra corrected her automatically – it came from living with three children. She might get away with it this time but it was excruciating when she caught herself doing the same to clients or colleagues. The worst occasion was the time she had corrected a judge. She was still convinced her client had received a heavier sentence as a result.
‘Must of, must have. Whatever.’
‘Never mind that, why do you think so?’
‘I’ve been combing the Internet for any news or blogs mentioning Karítas. However hard I search, I can’t find a single photo or any other information about her since she left for Portugal to sort out her stuff. Which is kind of suspicious.’
‘She’s hardly big enough news for the papers to go chasing her halfway round the world in hope of a story. Surely she’s simply lying low in Brazil like her mother said? Just because she’s managed to disappear so effectively doesn’t mean there’s any cause for concern. She hasn’t been gone that long.’
‘I have zero concern for her. I couldn’t care less whether she’s lying in a body bag in the morgue or on a sun-lounger somewhere in South America.’ Bella’s tone belied her words. People rarely forgave others for what they did to them when they were children, and the secretary wasn’t exactly the magnanimous type. ‘I’m not just talking about the Icelandic sites – I’m talking about the Internet as a whole. There’s a ton of pictures and websites recording that she attended various parties, but they all pre-date her visit to Portugal. What’s more, there were two fairly recent articles that mentioned her old man and his agreements with his creditors, but not a single word about her. If you ask me, that’s fishy. I can’t believe she’d voluntarily steer clear of the limelight, wherever she is. She gets off on the attention.’ Bella gulped down her coffee with an exaggerated relish that made Thóra green with envy. ‘She’s a goner. Her old man’s killed her.’