‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’ Thóra wasn’t sure if it would be appropriate to offer her condolences when they were still clinging to some hope that the family would turn up safe and sound. ‘We don’t specialise in marine claims at this practice, let alone employ an authorised average adjuster. So if that’s what you had in mind, I’m afraid I don’t think there’s much I can do for you.’
The man shook his head. ‘I don’t even know what an average adjuster does.’
‘They’re experts in marine insurance, and can advise on claims arising from marine casualties.’
‘Oh, no, we don’t need anything like that, just general assistance. For example, with writing a letter in English. We’re no linguists, so rather than make a hash of it ourselves, we thought it would be better to hire someone who speaks the language and knows the ropes to act for us. We also need help with talking to social services about our granddaughter as we’re not in any fit state to argue with the authorities at present.’
‘Are they trying to take her away?’
‘Yes, they are. The only thing stopping them is the uncertainty. You see, her parents entrusted her to us before they went abroad, so there’s still a chance we’re just looking after her for them. But the state is gearing up to take action and we’re afraid they may knock on our door any day now armed with a court order.’ The man broke off, distressed. ‘Ægir was our only son. Sigga Dögg is all we have left.’
Thóra steepled her fingers on the desk in front of her. There was no easy way to break it to the couple that they probably wouldn’t be allowed to keep the child. They were too old, and no doubt too badly placed financially. ‘I really don’t want to upset you, but nor do I want to give you any false hope that you’ll be allowed to keep your granddaughter in the event that your son and daughter-in-law are dead. The fact is that it’s extremely unlikely you’d be granted custody. The law isn’t on your side, as the permitted age bracket for family adoptions is very narrow and you fall outside it; I’m afraid I don’t know of any cases in which the child protection service has made an exception to this rule.’ When they opened their mouths to protest, she added hastily: ‘But now’s not the moment to discuss this. Do you live here in Reykjavík?’
‘Yes. Just round the corner. We walked here,’ said Sigrídur. ‘It’s still a bit nippy out, though at least it’s sunny.’
It was extraordinary the details people felt compelled to share when discussing an uncomfortable subject, as if by this they could avoid the topic. Thóra wasn’t about to be sidetracked into talking about the weather. ‘What about your grandchild? Were your son’s family based in Reykjavík too?’ This time they merely nodded. ‘It’s relevant to the question of which local authority will decide the case. If you like, I can assist you in trying to gain access, and – if you really think it’s in the child’s best interests – to obtain full custody. But let me repeat that the latter is highly unlikely. There are countless examples of close relatives being denied custody due to their age – it seems horribly unfair, I know.’
Margeir and Sigrídur sat as if turned to stone.
‘Could I give you a word of advice, ignoring the legal side for a moment? If I was in your shoes I’d try not to worry about this right now. You’ve got more than enough on your plates and it’s important for the little girl’s sake that you bear up. Take it one day at a time.’
‘Of course.’ The man looked up. ‘We’re well aware of that.’
Naturally they knew far more about grief and shock than she did. ‘You mentioned a letter in English. What’s that about?’ Thóra hoped this would prove a less emotive issue.
‘Our son and daughter-in-law had a life insurance policy with an overseas company,’ said Margeir. ‘He gave the papers to us for safekeeping before they set off on their trip and left instructions about what to do in the event of an accident. From the little we can understand, we need to inform the company immediately in the case of death. So we’d like you to write them a letter explaining what’s happened.’
Thóra considered: why the hurry? ‘I wouldn’t have thought any notification would have to be sent until the initial inquiry is complete. Your son and daughter-in-law are officially still only missing.’
‘I know. And I can tell you think we’re motivated by greed, since the first thing we’ve asked about is the insurance money.’ Margeir met Thóra’s gaze unwaveringly and she hoped she had managed to disguise the fact that this was precisely what she had been thinking. ‘But it’s not like that. If we’re to have any chance of keeping Sigga Dögg, we’ll need the financial security that the insurance money would bring. I have nothing but my pension and Sigrídur works part time in a canteen, so it wouldn’t be easy for us to provide for the child. The money would almost certainly improve our bargaining position.’
‘Did you bring the policy documents with you?’
The woman burrowed in her handbag, pulled out a see-through plastic file stuffed with papers and handed it to Thóra. ‘These are the originals, so we’d need them back. Could you take a photocopy?’
‘Not at present, I’m afraid. Our copier’s out of order. Maybe later.’ Thóra hid her blush by bending over the documents. There were two sets: a life insurance policy in the name of their son, Ægir, and another in the name of their daughter-in-law, Lára. The beneficiary would be Lára in the case of Ægir’s death and vice versa, but Ægir’s parents were named if the prime beneficiary was unavailable. The sums insured were the same in both policies and Thóra raised her brows when she saw the figures. The couple had insured their lives for a total of two million Euros. It would be perfectly feasible to raise a child on that amount. She cleared her throat. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, how come your son and daughter-in-law are insured for such a large sum? Were they heavily in debt?’
‘Isn’t everyone?’ Sigrídur looked at her husband. ‘Do you know?’
‘No. They have a sizeable mortgage on their house, I think, but I have no idea exactly how much. I doubt it’s in negative equity, though. They don’t live above their means and it’s only a terraced house. But you never know – perhaps all the life cover would go towards paying off the mortgage if it was sold. We’re living through strange times.’
‘You do realise that two million Euros is equivalent to over three hundred million krónur? It’s highly unlikely they would owe that much on a modest terrace.’
‘What?’ the couple blurted out as one. Margeir stared at Thóra uncomprehendingly, tilting his head on one side as if this would help. Since his world had been turned upside down, this might well have been a more suitable angle at which to view it. ‘Did you say three hundred million? I’d worked it out at thirty something.’
‘You missed a zero.’ Thóra reached for a bulky old calculator and tapped in the numbers, then turned the screen round to show them all the noughts. Perhaps they would leap to their feet and head straight over to one of the big, expensive solicitors. But for the moment these were just numbers on a screen. ‘It’s a substantial sum.’
Little of any interest emerged after this bombshell. Still dazed by the news, the couple went through the formalities of instructing her and, in spite of the potential fortune that could land in their laps, Thóra offered them the lowest rate. The money would be better spent on the little girl’s upbringing or kept safe in the bank until she was older. Besides, the case promised to be rather interesting and at least she would be free of the smell of sick for a few days. Before they rose to leave, Thóra posed a question that she was not sure they would be able to answer. ‘You don’t happen to know why your son and his wife put you as beneficiaries on their insurance policies? You’d have thought it would be more usual to name their daughters.’