‘The lock can’t have been much good if someone’s managed to break in.’ Matthew backed into a parking space to give them a view over the harbour. ‘And it’s asking for trouble, leaving the ship unguarded at night over the weekend.’ Fannar had rung Thóra to tell her that a port security officer had reported a break-in on board the previous night. The police had found no sign of any theft or vandalism, and after performing his own inspection Fannar had concurred with their findings. Yet from his tone it was evident that he was concerned about this burglary in which nothing had been stolen. Thóra was pleased he had rung her and even happier when he offered her the keys in case she wanted to survey the scene for herself. She accepted with alacrity and asked if he would mind her taking along Snævar, the crew member with the broken leg, who might well notice some detail that those unfamiliar with the vessel had overlooked. After the briefest pause, Fannar had given his consent and told her where to pick up the keys.
‘Do you think it’s all right for me to come too?’ Matthew asked. The water streaming down the windscreen blurred their view of the yacht, making it look as if she was moving.
‘Of course. You’re here as my assistant.’ Thóra turned on the windscreen-wipers. ‘I’m sure it’ll be good to have you there if Snævar needs help. I tend to forget about things like that and would probably charge off without thinking and leave him behind.’
Condensation crept up the glass and Thóra was about to ask Matthew to switch on the heater when Snævar appeared in an old banger that could have done with a clean. ‘I thought fishermen were well paid.’ Matthew couldn’t disguise his disgust as the car drove up. It was covered in dents, some of them rusty.
‘Maybe he’s a rally driver.’
‘I doubt it.’ Matthew’s expression didn’t alter. ‘Rally cars have souped-up engines. That’s nothing but a rust-bucket. It wouldn’t make it a hundred metres from the starting line.’
‘Shh. He might hear you.’ Thóra watched as Snævar opened the car door and, after a considerable tussle to pull a plastic bag over his cast, clambered out. They walked over to the yacht together and waited while Thóra dug out the keys. She was struck by how out of place the elegant vessel looked in the dismal rain, as if she should have been protected by covers. The lavishly appointed interior only intensified this impression, especially when Snævar managed to locate the light switch. However, the dim illumination did little to enhance the expensive furnishings, whose sheen was now obscured by a layer of dust. Thóra looked around, wondering what it would be like to be cooped up in here for days at a time. Of course it was impressively spacious in comparison with most yachts, but even so there was not much room; staying here for long periods would probably be like living under house arrest in a small chateau. ‘Is it really much fun cruising on a boat like this?’
Snævar didn’t seem to understand what she was getting at. ‘Oh, yes, I expect so. I mean, I don’t actually know what it’s like to be a passenger, but I bet it’s cool to sail her. Whether you’re crew or passenger, the main thing is that you enjoy sailing in the first place.’
‘You said the crew didn’t mix with the passengers or owners, so where do they hang out? Is there a special deck where the staff can sunbathe and let their hair down?’ Thóra tried to remember how many decks there were but couldn’t picture the layout. She knew there were more than two, though, so it seemed reasonable that the crew would have one to themselves.
Snævar burst out laughing. ‘The crew don’t spend their time sunbathing, if that’s what you think. They work flat out pretty much round the clock and grab sleep whenever they can between watches. The kind of people who’d pay a fortune for a fancy vessel like this aren’t going to fork out for an extra deck for the staff. And who can blame them?’
Matthew seemed more impressed with the yacht than Thóra. Then again, he was seeing her for the first time, unaffected by the sadness that she felt about the fate of the passengers. She couldn’t gush over the design or craftsmanship when everything reminded her of that little girl who was now almost certainly an orphan. ‘How fast does she go?’ Matthew ran his fingers over the window frame, which he seemed, for some inexplicable reason, to find interesting.
‘Around sixteen knots, I imagine. Though she’d rarely cruise at that speed. She’d make around twelve as a rule.’
Thóra allowed her gaze to wander, bored by the talk of knots and certain that any minute the conversation would turn to engines. ‘I’m going to take a look around, see if I can spot anything unusual. It’ll be quicker if we split up, and you’ll be in better hands with Matthew.’ Leaving them in the saloon, she made her way down to the bedroom wing, if that was the right word. No doubt the sleeping quarters should be referred to as cabins but her own term seemed more appropriate for rooms that large. The moment she entered the corridor, she regretted her decision. Turning on the lights made her feel a little less uneasy, though they flickered alarmingly: as they had approached along the dock Snævar had remarked that the yacht’s batteries might be running low since the engine had not been used for a while. The corridor was empty and all the doors were closed, which made it seem all the more sinister, and Thóra couldn’t shake off the fear that the person who broke in might be lurking behind one of the doors. She tried to dismiss this thought as nonsense – the police could hardly have overlooked the presence of a burglar.
Pulling herself together, she started checking the cabins, one by one. She couldn’t remember exactly what they had looked like before this peculiar break-in, but they appeared to be completely untouched. It wasn’t until she opened the door to the master cabin that she realised something was amiss. She stood in the doorway, surveying the scene, before hesitantly stepping inside. The door slammed behind her. Thóra jumped, her heart racing, but forced herself to carry on. She knew the door had only slammed because of the movement of the boat; she had even expected it. This was a perfectly normal ship, she told herself; a terribly smart one, but only built of steel and aluminium. No different from her car, or her toaster; neither of these frightened her, so there was no reason to behave as if this yacht bore her any ill will. Yet even so she couldn’t quite rid herself of the uncomfortable sensation that there was something evil in the air.
There was no obvious sign of any illegal entry in the master bedroom. The bed had been made in a perfunctory manner, and a large bath towel hung from the back of the chair by the dressing table, but apart from that everything looked the same. Only the couple’s belongings had been removed, which may have accounted for the change she sensed. She turned a slow circle in the middle of the room but could detect no difference. The yacht must have sent her imagination into overdrive again. She refused to let her mind stray to the child’s feet she thought she had seen last time. Instead, she went over to the imposing wardrobe and forced herself to open it. She could have spared herself the effort. Everything looked exactly the same as before. The other closets also turned out to be packed with clothes, elegantly displayed on citrus-wood shelves and in compartments, or suspended from substantial hangers on rails that she would not have been surprised to learn were made of silver. The feminine garments emitted an overpowering floral fragrance that made her feel slightly queasy. A single unused hanger formed an odd contrast to all the rest. If Karítas had really gone to retrieve her clothes from the yacht when it was berthed in Lisbon, she had either abandoned the effort or only coveted one particular garment.