Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - The Silence of the Sea

Arna and Bylgja stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Did what?’

‘Nothing.’ Ægir watched Thráinn walk over and open the door. He caught a quick glimpse as the captain slipped inside and gasped when he saw the state the larder was in. The freezer lid was open and the food that had been in the top of the chest was scattered all over the floor. Ægir had no need to see inside the freezer to realise that the body was missing. The captain’s expression was enough.

What the hell was going on? Actually, he knew where the body had ended up; the woman in the sea had been no hallucination. What an idiot he was not to have mentioned it immediately; now his story would seem both unconvincing and suspicious. Who could have thrown the body overboard and why? It wasn’t him, and presumably neither Thráinn nor Halli could have done it without the other noticing. Which did not leave many people. He stared at Loftur, who immediately averted his eyes.

The dog-eared bundle of photocopies on the desk in front of her showed evidence of rough handling. When she unfolded them she discovered flakes of tobacco and fluff that suggested they had been stuffed into a less than pristine anorak pocket. ‘Thanks for bringing these. It must be difficult getting around in weather like this with your leg in plaster.’ She smoothed out the papers and had a quick leaf through them. At first sight everything appeared to be present. She looked up at Snævar and smiled. ‘Did you have much trouble getting hold of them?’

‘Oh, no, not really. I looked through my junk and found these hospital forms. Halli must have chucked them in my bag when he packed it for me. I fetched some documents from the Social Insurance office too, in case you needed something official. I’ve nothing better to do at the moment. They probably won’t be much use to you; they’re just payments linked to my European Health Insurance card, but there’s also a bit about what they did at the hospital and so on. Anyway, you’ve got them now. Give me a shout if there’s anything else I can do for you. It makes a nice change to be busy.’

‘You obviously won’t be going to sea for a while. Do you have any idea when your leg will have healed?’

‘No, but hopefully in a couple of weeks.’ Snævar shrugged, and the stretched-out neckline of his garish jumper gaped to reveal a white T-shirt. He was wearing dirty tracksuit bottoms that in no way matched the shapeless, bobbly acrylic jumper. His dark hair, though shaven to within a millimetre of his scalp, smelt as though it was in need of a wash, and a close encounter with a razor around the jawline wouldn’t have hurt him either. Thóra tried to avert her attention from the young man’s slovenly appearance. After all, the way he looked now was probably not habitual. It must be difficult to find trousers with bottoms wide enough to fit over the plaster cast, and taking a shower couldn’t be easy either. ‘I go to sea every other month. The accident happened during my time off, so I’d better be mobile again before my next tour or I’ll be off work for another two months. Unless I can make a deal with the bloke who works opposite me.’

Peering under the desk, Thóra noticed that his plaster cast was wrapped in a plastic bag from Ríkid, the state-run off-licence. ‘Well, you certainly won’t get far like that.’

‘No.’ He smiled briefly without showing his teeth. ‘Do you know whose body it was on the beach?’ Evidently he did not have much time for small talk. Thóra understood his concern; his friend Halldór was one of the few likely candidates.

‘Yes. It wasn’t your friend.’ Earlier that morning Ægir’s father had rung to let her know that the police had told him the body was not that of his son or any other family member. The postmortem had confirmed this and the person in question’s next of kin had been notified. Since a statement would be issued to the press at midday, Thóra thought it wouldn’t matter if she revealed the man’s name to Snævar. ‘It was the mate, Loftur.’ She observed his relief, followed almost instantly by apparent shame at his selfishness; naturally it was still a tragedy, whoever was involved.

‘You didn’t know him?’ Thóra asked, though the answer was obvious from his reaction.

‘No. Never met him, as far as I know. But I’m not very good with faces. We may have worked on a short tour together, though I don’t think so.’

‘So you didn’t see him in Lisbon?’

‘No. Nor the captain either. I had my accident before they arrived, though of course I’d have met them if things had gone according to plan. I think I know who Loftur was, though. At least, I’ve heard people talk about him.’

‘Oh? What have you heard?’

‘Nothing bad, far from it. I forget exactly what it was but nothing like that. Just that he was a bloody good ship’s mate. He passed his certificate quite young, if I remember right.’ Snævar raised his eyes to the ceiling in an effort to recall. ‘That was it – they said it was a pity he turned his back on the fishing industry because he was very promising. He used to work on the same trawler as me but quit just before I started. He got on the wrong side of the first mate or something stupid like that, and people were wondering what he’d do instead. That’s all, I think.’

‘Did your friend Halli know him?’

Snævar shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so, though I can’t be sure.’ He craned his head so far back that Thóra had a momentary fear that his Adam’s apple would pop out of his neck. ‘God, it’s all so awful.’

‘It certainly is.’ Thóra watched him return his head to its normal position, wondering if people like him coped better with grief than those who wore their hearts on their sleeves. But going by Snævar’s expression, she thought maybe the silent type found it harder. ‘I suppose you realise that this greatly reduces the chances of finding the others alive.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘None of them are alive. I don’t know how anyone could believe they were.’

Thóra folded her arms. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you, but it’s incredible what people can endure.’

Snævar shook his head. ‘There’s no chance they’re drifting somewhere in a lifeboat, if that’s what you think. It would have capsized long ago.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ Although she did not say as much, Thóra thought Snævar’s response to the news that the dead man was Loftur indicated that he too was holding out hope that Halli was alive. But he had a point; they must all be dead by now. The official search had been called off; there were no more helicopters hovering over the sea where the yacht had passed. Instead they were combing the beaches – in search of the dead, not the living. ‘When did you last hear from your friend Halldór? Ægir and his family called Iceland as the yacht was leaving port in Lisbon, but nothing was heard from them after that. Did Halli get in touch with you after the voyage had begun?’

‘No,’ Snævar said without hesitating. ‘Before he left he brought me painkillers, Coke, sweets, and so on. Then we said goodbye at the hotel the day he was supposed to sail. I didn’t hear from him again after that. He was great; bought me a plane ticket home and all that. We didn’t have our laptops with us so I couldn’t do it myself but luckily there was a computer in the hotel lobby. I really don’t know how I’m supposed to repay him; I don’t like to get in touch with his family yet in case they’re still hoping he’ll be found alive. I’d rather wait a bit. But I’m afraid I’ll forget and then they won’t understand what’s going on when his credit card bill arrives.’

Thóra had noticed the travel documents as she leafed through the pile of papers, and quickly turned back to them. She found a receipt from Expedia for a flight to London and another onwards to Iceland. The name of the card holder was Halldór Thorsteinsson. She showed it to him. ‘I’ll return this when I’ve taken a copy and then you’ll have the receipt to remind you.’ She put the papers down again. ‘One question that might sound a bit daft. Did Halldór have a mobile phone? Or a camera?’