Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - The Silence of the Sea

‘I assure you it won’t go any further.’

‘Lára’s younger brother is a real dropout, who’s always after money to fund his lifestyle. If the girls came into money, Ægir was afraid he’d hassle them or try to scrounge off them, or even wangle his way into becoming their financial guardian. It might sound far-fetched but that brother of hers is capable of anything – even of cleaning up his act for just long enough to appear reliable. But Ægir knew we could be trusted to look after the money for the girls and that we wouldn’t let that bastard manipulate us. Lára’s parents are another matter. They let him fleece them, so it’s clear they’d never have been suitable.’

‘I see. That does sound like a sensible precaution.’ Thóra accompanied them to the door and asked them to get in touch as soon as there was any news. In the meantime, she would investigate the life insurance situation.

While they were standing in reception, two men appeared with the photocopier on a dolly and tried to manoeuvre it round the corner. The reek was more overpowering than ever. ‘Maybe you could pop into a shop and take a copy of the insurance documents. Our machine is on its way for repairs, as you can see. I could fetch them tomorrow morning, if that would be convenient.’

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Sigrídur. ‘You have our address and phone number. It would be best to ring ahead, though we’re almost always in.’ The couple said goodbye and made their exit before the photocopier blocked their path. Thóra stood there, preoccupied, until she was jerked back to the present by one of the removal men tapping her on the shoulder.

‘You might want this.’ He handed her a sheet of A4. ‘It was in the machine.’ He grinned and winked at her before turning back to assist his colleague. Thóra inspected the piece of paper. Although the image was dark, almost black, there was no question of what the flash had revealed. The culprit had leant on the machine in the act of retching and inadvertently pressed the button. Thóra peered at the dim, blurry outline: Bella. Of course, who else? She turned round to give her a tongue-lashing but the secretary was nowhere to be seen. She could evidently move fast when required.

Triumphant at acquiring this piece of evidence, Thóra marched back to her office. One thing was certain: when Bella came back she would have to be confronted, but until then Thóra needed to get some work done. Thanks to the yacht affair, though, it would be hard to concentrate on mundane matters. It was all very peculiar and the high life insurance policy did nothing to lessen the mystery. Heavy drops of rain began to rattle against the window and gooseflesh prickled her arms as she tried to imagine what it would feel like to be trapped on a boat in a storm, or to fall overboard and struggle to stay afloat, knowing that help was unlikely to arrive. She hoped the passengers would be found alive, adrift in a lifeboat. If not, the odds were that they had met a sudden, tragic end.

She turned to the computer screen. Her current cases could wait half an hour or so; she wanted to refresh her memory of the yacht incident. As she trawled the Internet, it occurred to Thóra that she had failed to ask the couple a crucial question: why had their son gone on the trip in the first place – and taken his family too? It was still winter; hardly ideal cruising season, even on a luxury vessel. And why had the bank’s resolution committee allowed one of its employees to make use of an asset for a family holiday? There must be more to this than met the eye.

Not for the first time on this trip, Ægir felt he had been born in the wrong place; surely he wasn’t meant to go through life bundled up against the cold in Iceland? The weather may have been cool for Lisbon, but it was nothing like the arctic conditions at home and he relished the sensation of walking the streets in light clothes. Underfoot were the white cobblestones from which all the city’s pavements seemed to be made. There was something oddly pleasing about negotiating their uneven surfaces, though his wife, Lára, would probably not have agreed as she teetered along in high heels at his side, barely keeping her balance. They were wandering the steep, narrow lanes of the old city centre, built long before the invention of the motor car. They were a little lost but the square they were looking for was near the riverfront, so they knew they should be heading downhill. Glancing round, Ægir saw that his daughters were lagging behind.

‘Hurry up, girls. We’re going to be late. I’m supposed to meet the man in ten minutes.’

They picked up speed a little, but ten minutes is a lifetime to eight-year-olds, so they saw no need to rush. As usual it was Arna who decided the twins’ pace; she had entered the world first and although the order in which they were born was probably coincidental, Ægir often got the impression that they had worked out their roles in the womb. Arna, daring and extrovert, usually charged ahead, while the comparatively reserved and introverted Bylgja took things more slowly. Where her twin rushed in, she would pause to consider. In appearance, however, they were almost identical; had it not been for Bylgja’s glasses, it would have been virtually impossible for strangers to tell them apart. ‘How many stones are there in this pavement, Daddy?’ Bylgja was walking behind her sister, her eyes fixed on the ground.

‘I don’t know, darling. A million and seven. Something like that.’ Ægir wished he had never mentioned the number of cobbles when they set out from the hotel. He should have known his daughter would become obsessed with the idea, but it hadn’t occurred to him that she would actually try to count them.

‘Hey! There it is.’ Lára pointed down a side street. ‘There can’t be many squares that big in the city.’

As if they had been waiting for this moment, the girls broke into a run. They were extraordinarily like their mother: their dark wavy hair, green eyes and prominent front teeth, their build, even their hands were miniature versions of Lára’s.

A feeling of melancholy stole up on Ægir, though he couldn’t put his finger on the cause; melancholy about what lay ahead, perhaps, in the magnificent square that opened out at the end of the street. It could simply have been the awareness that life was perfect right now, that it couldn’t get any better, and from now on it could only go downhill. He was reluctant to let go of the moment. ‘Do you think we should do this another time?’

‘What?’ Lára looked astonished. ‘What do you mean?’

Ægir was sorry he’d mentioned it. Or was he? ‘I mean, maybe we should just extend our holiday here and forget about the cruise. They don’t really need me and I’m sure the crew problem can be sorted out some other way.’ A strange note had entered his voice; he didn’t know where it had come from. A few minutes ago he had been looking forward to the voyage, seeing it as a godsend, but now he felt reluctant to leave dry land. Despite its opulence, the yacht didn’t actually have much room on board. Besides, they were well off here, with little restaurants and cafés on every corner and no end to the delights on offer. What would they do with themselves all day on the boat? Play cards? He didn’t want to leave this bright city that seemed to radiate light. Everywhere one looked there were vibrant colours to raise the spirits; tiled walls in pastel hues that he couldn’t recall having seen anywhere else. It must be good for the soul to live among them. How could anyone be unhappy here? Whereas at sea they would probably spend the entire voyage hanging over the rail, being wretchedly sick. What had he been thinking of, volunteering when he learnt that one of the crew had dropped out? Why hadn’t he just said no and flown home as planned?