The Silence of the Sea (23 page)

This was the weakest link in the entire case. It would have been better, from Thóra’s point of view, if Ægir had been given no choice in the matter. As it was, his decision raised the possibility that the family’s disappearance had been premeditated. If she subsequently discovered that their debts were sky high, there was a risk the circumstances would appear even more dubious, so she had better find out the worst as soon as possible. Sitting down again, she picked up the phone to Ægir’s parents and asked them if they could discover how much their son and daughter-in-law owed the bank, as well as any other financial institutions and the tax authorities. The old couple baulked at this, pleading ignorance and raising so many potential objections that in the end Thóra extracted their permission to dig out the information herself. She was unlikely to succeed as they still needed a court order to declare Ægir and Lára dead before the family would be permitted to administer their estate. As a last resort, they might have to search their house for receipts or paying-in slips. Sigrídur, who had answered the phone, received this suggestion with even less enthusiasm, and the upshot was that once again they agreed that Thóra should undertake the task. If it did come to that, Sigrídur asked Thóra to fetch more clothes and toys for Sigga Dögg because she and her husband still couldn’t bring themselves to set foot in their son’s house.

Thóra was about to fetch herself a coffee and check on the results of the eBay auction when the phone rang. ‘Some old woman for you.’ Bella’s voice was replaced by that of an older lady who introduced herself as Begga, Karítas’s mother. ‘You came round to see me, remember? You left your card in case I needed to get in touch.’

‘Of course. Hello. How are you?’ Thóra asked.

‘Oh, fine,’ the woman replied, sounding falsely hearty. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I heard from Karítas yesterday.’ Unable to think of an immediate response, Thóra allowed a silence to develop, which the woman obviously found uncomfortable. ‘You asked after her? I just thought you’d like to know.’

‘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.

A few photos featured Karítas either alone or with her husband in more informal surroundings. What they all had in common was that they were carefully posed to show off her figure to the best advantage. She never had a hair out of place or appeared in casual clothes. Even stranger was the fact that although it was clear from the background to many of the pictures that Karítas had travelled all over the world, the photographer apparently had no interest in anything but people. People, people, people and more people.

Just as Thóra was about to give up, she came across a picture of Karítas getting dressed with the help of a young woman who was carefully zipping the evening gown up her employer’s long, slender back. Only part of her face was visible but there was no mistaking the fact that the girl looked as if she wished she were elsewhere. The caption read: ‘Late for the charity ball in Vienna – Aldís saves the day!’ Her second name was missing but at least Thóra now knew what the girl looked like. Perhaps her full name would emerge if she checked through the rest of the photos. The prospect wasn’t exactly tempting; she’d had quite enough of this display of narcissism, so she picked up the phone and put a call through to Bella. As an Internet addict, the secretary should be grateful for the assignment. Before raising the subject, Thóra asked about the Lego set but learnt that some bastard had jumped in at the last minute and massively outbid Bella.

‘Oh, dear. Better luck next time.’ Thóra hoped this was what Bella wanted to hear. All she got back was a grunt that was impossible to interpret. Thóra received the same reaction to her request that Bella trawl through Karítas’s Facebook page. When she hung up, Thóra still wasn’t sure whether the secretary had agreed to the task, but then that was par for the course.

The photo of Karítas dressing with Aldís’s assistance was still up on her screen when Thóra turned back. She stared at it, sighing in exasperation and slowly shaking her head over the whole affair. Although she might have been reading too much into what she had seen and heard, she had come to the conclusion that Karítas was a nasty, social-climbing snob. She had risen from rags to unimaginable riches and handled the transition badly – unless she had always been a bit of a bitch, which was certainly the impression Bella gave. On closer inspection, Thóra found the expression of the girl who was taking care not to pinch her employer’s skin in the zip even more informative. At first glance her face betrayed irritation and suppressed anger at having to fuss over this spoilt princess. When Thóra zoomed in on the image, however, she saw something more telling: Aldís’s expression revealed not just anger but hatred.

Visibility in the depths was minimal. The beam of Ægir’s diving torch swung around wildly as he juggled it in his inexpert hands. The constant motion of the surrounding water seemed menacing, as if anything could happen. His one experience of sea diving had had nothing in common with this sense of infinite vastness; on that occasion he had felt fine and succeeded for the most part in forgetting the fragility of his existence. But now his heart was hammering in his chest and he had to focus on every breath he took, on remembering to inhale sufficient air through the mouthpiece and telling himself that everything would be fine as long as he kept his head. But he couldn’t make himself relax. With every loud breath, impregnated with the taste of plastic, he grew increasingly panicky.

He hoped the sight of the surface just above his head would have a calming effect, but the light aroused in him an uncontrollable desire to breathe through his nose. He looked down again so quickly that he felt the bones of his neck creak in the numbing cold. The sound was muffled, and seemed to travel through the water at a snail’s pace. Why hurry? No one was listening. The yacht too emitted a constant creaking, perhaps caused by tension in the aluminium, and this was even less likely to soothe Ægir’s taut nerves. What if there was a problem with the ship’s hull? Would they insist that he went down again with tools to repair the damage? He pushed away this thought by squeezing his eyes shut and inhaling three times. As the air bubbles rose past his ears he envied them for being on their way to the surface. Then he opened his eyes wide and steeled himself. The sooner he set to work, the sooner he would escape this hell.