‘There’s something spooky about that boat. Did you hear about it?’ Bella spat in the direction of the yacht, much to Thóra’s disgust, but missed her target and the gobbet of saliva floated briefly in the sea before dissolving.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s something weird about it. I read it on-line. Apparently you shouldn’t even go on board.’ No doubt Bella was referring to the sensationalist article Thóra had also skimmed over. The report, if you could call it that, had implied that the ship was under a curse, which had supposedly originated when one of the shipbuilders had an accident and bled everywhere. From then on the calamities had multiplied during her construction: a welder had lost a hand, an engineer was severely burned, and other such incidents. Just before the yacht was launched the owner of the shipyard had committed suicide, and as if that wasn’t enough, on her maiden voyage one of the passengers fell overboard and drowned. There were no sources cited, though, and Thóra regarded the accounts as dubious, to say the least. Even if the stories contained a grain of truth, it was clear that they had subsequently taken on a life of their own; and, understandably, they had affected the sales value of the yacht. When the last owner bought her with a loan from the bank that had now repossessed her, the price had been fifty per cent lower than at her launch ten years earlier. By then she had passed through four pairs of hands and as many name changes. The most recent owner, not to be outdone, had rechristened her Lady K after his wife, Karítas, which Thóra found a bit naff. She hoped the next purchaser would keep up the tradition and change the name. She didn’t know Karítas personally but the woman was a regular in the gossip columns thanks to her glamorous lifestyle and penchant for designer clothes. Significantly perhaps, as long as all was going well there had been no hint in the Icelandic media of any curse on the yacht; they had simply lavished praise on her magnificence and high price tag.
‘You shouldn’t take any notice of half the stuff you read on-line, Bella. The journalist responsible for that piece was probably just desperate for material because the investigation’s not getting anywhere. He must have googled the yacht and found all sorts of nonsense. Why on earth did you come along if you believe that crap?’
‘Are you kidding? I came because of the curse.’ Bella studied the vessel, her face unreadable. Thóra shook her head; there was no end to the girl’s idiosyncrasies.
A small car pulled up nearby. It was dirty and missing a hub cap. Thóra watched it closely, though she did not for a minute expect it to contain the man from the committee. As the driver’s door was flung open, a Coke can tumbled out and was instantly snatched away by the wind. It was still clattering over the tarmac when the driver himself emerged: a smart young man in a suit, who made a startling contrast to the scruffy vehicle. He strolled over to them. ‘Sorry I’m late. Been waiting long?’ Avoiding their eyes, he busied himself with extracting a bunch of keys from his coat pocket.
Thóra’s innate courtesy kicked in: ‘No, not at all. Don’t worry about it.’ What she should have said was that they had nearly died of exposure during the twenty minutes they had been hanging around out here, but it would be better to keep the man sweet. ‘So you’re Fannar?’
The young man nodded. ‘Wow. This boat is something else. Every time I see her I’m struck by how awesome she is.’ He put a hand on the rail of the gangplank, swung athletically onto the steps and gestured to them to follow suit. ‘Come on. See for yourselves.’ His black coat flapped like a cloak.
Bella scowled as only she knew how, obviously unimpressed by such acrobatics. Thóra, on the other hand, copied his move as if there were nothing to it, then picked her way up the steps and down onto the ship’s deck. A heavy thud on the gangplank behind her indicated that Bella was on her way. The deck was larger than Thóra had expected: it occupied two levels, divided by the pilot house. The upper or foredeck extended to the bows, the lower or aft deck to the stern where there were hatches that looked as if they gave access to the sea. In addition to these main decks, there were two smaller platforms on the upper levels, one just large enough to hold a Jacuzzi. The pictures in the papers had failed to do justice to its opulence, and Thóra felt faintly bemused as she surveyed her surroundings. This was a fairy-tale vessel, yet somehow the glitziness didn’t appeal to her. But then she had no experience of yachts in the circles she moved in, so she couldn’t imagine what life on board was like. Her thoughts automatically turned to the missing passengers. Perhaps that was why she wasn’t blown away by the boat like Fannar; in Thóra’s opinion there were plenty of other things in life that fell into the ‘awesome’ category. If anything, she found the surroundings unsettling; a shiny white setting for pain and misery, like an operating theatre. She hadn’t a clue why that image should have sprung to mind. Perhaps it was because of the events she was now trying to piece together.
‘I’m assuming the police have been over the whole place with a fine-toothed comb.’ She glanced around her but couldn’t see any obvious signs of a recent investigation.
‘The police, the Marine Accident Investigation Board, and a representative of ours as well. I was sent to accompany him, so I know my way about.’ Fannar stuck a key in the lock of a door that presumably led to the pilot house and passenger area. ‘Enough to realise that nobody knows what the hell happened here and I doubt they’ll ever find out. Unless your attempt to solve the mystery for Ægir’s parents uncovers something the others overlooked.’ His grin showed how little confidence he had in that happening.
‘Did you know Ægir at all?’ Thóra didn’t really expect him to say yes. He was so breezily cheerful that it seemed impossible the two men could have been close.
‘Yes, of course I did – we worked in the same office. But we weren’t involved in the same projects, so I can’t say I knew him well. Though well enough to find the whole thing totally bizarre. He wasn’t the type you’d expect this to happen to.’ Fannar made a wry face. ‘He was a family man, you know. He rarely came out for a drink with us; he was always in a hurry to get home.’
Thóra resisted the temptation to point out that there was little correlation between being a responsible family man and suffering an unexplained accident at sea. It seemed inappropriate too to refer to his colleague in the past tense, though she had to admit it was perfectly understandable. ‘Of course there’s still a chance that he and the other people on board will be found alive. It’s faint but we can’t rule it out.’
Fannar gave her a look as if she wasn’t quite right in the head. ‘Maybe,’ he said sceptically, then added: ‘Let’s hope so. Of course, it would be best for everyone if you could solve the mystery and find them alive.’
‘Yes. Though I fear the chances are slim.’ She didn’t need Fannar’s mocking grin to tell her that the prospect was highly unlikely. Where on earth was she to begin, and what was she actually looking for? Her job was to prove to the overseas insurance company that although their bodies had not been recovered, Ægir and his wife Lára were dead. It was unlikely that the proof would turn up on the yacht, and even if it was there she might easily overlook an important piece of evidence. She knew nothing about boats and the answer to the riddle almost certainly lay in conditions at sea: a storm or a leak, for example.