Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - The Silence of the Sea

‘That’s right, I did. And I’m very pleased to hear this news. I’d begun to wonder if something had happened to her, though I didn’t like to mention it.’ Thóra hoped her surprise was not too obvious. She had thought it more than likely that the body purportedly found on board had been that of Karítas, whether because of Bella’s insistence, or because Karítas was the only woman connected to the case apart from Lára. The police had now confirmed that the body which had been washed up was not Lára.

Begga let out a short laugh, almost a giggle. ‘To tell the truth, I was getting a bit worried myself. But it turns out she’s absolutely fine and there’s nothing wrong.’

‘Did you happen to ask if she’d be willing to have a quick chat with me? I can ring her if she’s abroad; I wouldn’t want her to have to pay for the call.’

‘Oh, she wouldn’t mind that.’ Begga’s confidence rang hollow; evidently she no longer knew what her daughter could or could not afford. ‘I did mention it but unfortunately she couldn’t answer because she had to dash. I’ll bring it up next time I hear from her, which should be soon now that she’s got Internet access again.’

‘Internet access?’ Thóra wondered if Karítas was in the same mess as Bella but avoided referring to it, so as to preserve the illusion of a luxurious lifestyle that Begga was keen to maintain. ‘Has she been away from civilisation then?’

‘Yes, she’s been on the move. Trying to get her bearings. You know.’

Thóra didn’t know. When she had problems, she couldn’t afford to take off to the Galapagos to work them out. ‘But she’s home now?’ she said, then added quickly: ‘Which is where?’

Begga tittered again. ‘Oh, I might have known you’d ask that. But, seriously, she’s in Brazil – I think. The subject didn’t actually come up but they own a house there and although it’s autumn now, it’s warmer than here. So I assume that’s where she is.’

‘Do you have her phone number?’

There was no laughter this time. ‘No. She didn’t tell me and I forgot to ask. She changed her number when this whole thing blew up because the Icelandic press wouldn’t leave her alone. She even got rid of her mobile – can you imagine? But unfortunately I didn’t ask and I don’t actually know if she has a mobile now. It was such a brief conversation, as I said.’

‘So you didn’t see what number she was calling from?’

‘Oh, no, she didn’t call. This was on Facebook. Didn’t I explain?’

‘I must have misunderstood.’ This struck Thóra as decidedly odd. If she hadn’t spoken to her mother for weeks she would almost certainly have found the time to have a proper chat with her, on the phone rather than through social media, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. On the other hand, if someone was posing as Karítas to throw dust in her mother’s eyes, the conversation would have to be kept as short as possible and naturally could not have been conducted over the phone. The longer the communication, the more chance there would be of making a mistake – particularly if Google Translate was involved. She longed to ask the woman if they had discussed anything personal, anything that no one else would know. But that would only worry her and it would be a pity to undermine her obvious relief over the Facebook exchange. ‘Did she say anything in particular, apart from that she was okay?’

‘Not really. Just that she was fine and the weather was good. Then she asked about the weather in Iceland. I don’t remember the details.’

‘No, of course not. It’s great that she’s safe and let’s hope she contacts you again soon. When she does, perhaps you’d remember to mention my request?’ Suddenly it dawned on her – if someone was impersonating Karítas, that person must be an Icelander. Google Translate was all right as far as it went, but a foreigner wouldn’t be able to put together so much as two sentences without betraying him- or herself. ‘I forgot to ask last time, does Karítas have any Icelandic friends who visit her abroad?’

‘Well, not many. She’s always so rushed off her feet when she’s abroad that she has no time to socialise with friends from before. She hardly even has time for her old mother.’ Begga laughed again, failing miserably to sound amused. ‘The only Icelanders she associates with when she’s travelling are the ones who work – or used to work – for her. If I recall, there was once an Icelander crewing the yacht, and she had an Icelandic maid or PA or whatever you call them. She’s always been well disposed towards her country and people, which is why all the negative press about her and Gulam since the crash is so unfair.’

‘Do you happen to remember the name of the PA who worked for her? Is she the girl who accompanied her to Portugal?’ Thóra jammed the receiver under her chin and reached for a pen. She turned over the page where she had been writing notes on the case of a family who were about to lose everything they owned. It seemed singularly appropriate as the family’s misfortunes were the result of financial shenanigans by the global super rich – unscrupulous rogues like Karítas’s husband. ‘Since I can’t speak to Karítas directly, I could try to get hold of the PA. Is she with her in Brazil, by any chance?’

‘I don’t think they’re together, though Karítas didn’t say. At least, she said she was alone, but then perhaps she doesn’t count the staff – she’s as used to having help as we are to having dishwashers. And I wouldn’t describe my dishwasher as company.’

Thóra was unlikely to start comparing people to household appliances any time soon, but she checked her impulse to retort as much. ‘If she’s not in Brazil, there’s a good chance she’s here in Iceland. That would be even better, and all the more reason for me to try and track her down.’

‘Well, I don’t know what she’d be able to tell you. The people who work for Karítas and Gulam have to sign a strict confidentiality agreement and I’m sure she wouldn’t want to break it. Mind you, I wouldn’t put it past her . I always found the girl impossible but Karítas couldn’t see it. I even offered to help out myself so she could get rid of her, but Karítas didn’t like to. She didn’t want to take advantage of me or hurt the girl by giving her the sack. She’s always been so kind-hearted.’

Thóra chose to put a different construction on this: Karítas obviously didn’t want her mother tagging along on their trips abroad. ‘You don’t happen to remember her name?’

‘Aldís. I don’t know her patronymic.’ Well, that was a great help.

After Thóra had said goodbye, she discovered that there were 219 women called Aldís in the telephone directory, and no clues to help her identify the right one. At a loss for ideas, she tried logging onto Facebook to see if Karítas would accept a friend request, though Thóra’s own page was neglected and contained little of interest except an album of pictures of her kids that she’d posted when she joined, so there was little reason for Karítas to want to befriend her. With any luck, she would be one of those people who accepted all requests indiscriminately, but if she sifted her friends carefully, Thóra was unlikely to make the grade.

Karítas’s page turned out to be public, so Thóra was able to examine it without hindrance. The first thing she checked was whether Aldís was among the hundreds of friends the owner of the page had deigned to accept, but she was nowhere to be found. That told its own story about their relationship; staff obviously didn’t count as friends – any more than dishwashers would. There was little else of interest on the page apart from the photo albums. They contained such a vast number of images that either the woman must employ someone to upload them for her, or else the busy schedule described by her mother was pure fiction. Thóra decided to scroll through them in the hope of finding a picture of Aldís and any other information about her. After several hundred photos, however, her interest waned. They were generally taken at gatherings of smartly dressed people, the women drooping under the weight of their jewellery, their emaciated figures hardly built to carry such burdens. Despite the silver trays of canapés none of the photos showed any of the women eating, whereas the opposite applied to the men; they came in all shapes and sizes, and were often caught by the photographer in the act of stuffing their faces.