her. No, it didn’t make sense. You didn’t need much knowledge of the sea to realise that there would be little hope of survival. And she doubted sunstroke would make that much difference.
‘Come inside. That’s where things really get spectacular.’ Anyone would have thought Fannar was trying to sell her the yacht. ‘Check this out. Smarter than any hotel, don’t you think?’
Thóra nodded distractedly. Rather than being impressed she was struck by the stale air inside, mingled, she thought, with a faint trace of perfume. ‘Is there a funny smell in here?’
Fannar sniffed. ‘Hm, you may be right. Like soap or something. Maybe they’ve been cleaning in here, though I can’t think who would have arranged that without my knowledge.’ His nostrils flared as he inhaled. ‘Nope, it’s gone. But don’t take any notice of me; I haven’t got much sense of smell.’ He was right; the scent was no longer there.
While she recognised that the interior was extremely stylish and finely crafted, Thóra’s attention was mainly drawn to the signs of human occupancy. An open paperback lying face down on the table beside an armchair upholstered in black leather; a DVD case and some magazines on a coffee table towards the back of the room. Beside them were a wine glass and an open bottle that had rolled over. The dried-up spillage had stained the glass table-top pink. Items of clothing lay in a heap on a chair, presumably placed there by the police during their search. ‘Can I touch this? Are the police coming back to conduct any further examinations?’ No sooner had she spoken than she noticed the white fingerprint powder coating the surfaces.
‘No, they’re not coming back; they spent almost an entire day here. You can poke around wherever you like. At least, nobody warned me not to touch anything. It’s not as if it’s a murder scene. I gather they’re treating it as an accident. Or at most, a missing-persons case.’
The boat kept up a continual gentle movement and Thóra noticed the wine bottle rocking slightly without moving from its place. From the description of the yacht’s collision with the docks one would have expected the bottle to have rolled off the table onto the floor. The police must have replaced it there during their inspection. ‘Wasn’t everything sent flying when the yacht crashed into the jetty?’ Two paintings, one of which looked like it might be of Karítas, hung askew on the walls.
‘Yes, it certainly was. There was stuff littered all over the place. I saw the pictures taken at the beginning of the investigation and it was a real mess in here.’ Looking round, he added: ‘Actually, the yacht’s furnishings are designed to resist fairly heavy seas before they start falling over or being knocked off the walls, but it’s a different story with the passengers’ own belongings.’
Thóra ran her gaze around the room. ‘What happened to the pictures that used to hang here?’ The dark wood panelling on two sides bore traces of missing frames. ‘Might they have fallen off and not been replaced?’
‘No, the former owner took them down and had them valued when his money troubles began. The yacht was on the market with all her contents, but this was at the height of the crash and even the people who could afford expensive toys like this weren’t in the mood for buying. It didn’t help that the boat was mortgaged to the hilt and the bank hadn’t agreed to a sales price. The loan didn’t cover the pictures, though, so the guy was free to sell them and I gather they went for a small fortune. Apparently they included some serious art. But the sale didn’t raise enough cash, so towards the end he must have sold off paintings from his other homes too. It’s unbelievable how quickly even a vast fortune like that can vanish into thin air. Must be a traumatic experience.’
‘No doubt.’ Thóra may have lacked the imagination to visualise the lives of the super-rich but she had
‘Come inside. That’s where things really get spectacular.’ Anyone would have thought Fannar was trying to sell her the yacht. ‘Check this out. Smarter than any hotel, don’t you think?’
Thóra nodded distractedly. Rather than being impressed she was struck by the stale air inside, mingled, she thought, with a faint trace of perfume. ‘Is there a funny smell in here?’
Fannar sniffed. ‘Hm, you may be right. Like soap or something. Maybe they’ve been cleaning in here, though I can’t think who would have arranged that without my knowledge.’ His nostrils flared as he inhaled. ‘Nope, it’s gone. But don’t take any notice of me; I haven’t got much sense of smell.’ He was right; the scent was no longer there.
While she recognised that the interior was extremely stylish and finely crafted, Thóra’s attention was mainly drawn to the signs of human occupancy. An open paperback lying face down on the table beside an armchair upholstered in black leather; a DVD case and some magazines on a coffee table towards the back of the room. Beside them were a wine glass and an open bottle that had rolled over. The dried-up spillage had stained the glass table-top pink. Items of clothing lay in a heap on a chair, presumably placed there by the police during their search. ‘Can I touch this? Are the police coming back to conduct any further examinations?’ No sooner had she spoken than she noticed the white fingerprint powder coating the surfaces.
‘No, they’re not coming back; they spent almost an entire day here. You can poke around wherever you like. At least, nobody warned me not to touch anything. It’s not as if it’s a murder scene. I gather they’re treating it as an accident. Or at most, a missing-persons case.’
The boat kept up a continual gentle movement and Thóra noticed the wine bottle rocking slightly without moving from its place. From the description of the yacht’s collision with the docks one would have expected the bottle to have rolled off the table onto the floor. The police must have replaced it there during their inspection. ‘Wasn’t everything sent flying when the yacht crashed into the jetty?’ Two paintings, one of which looked like it might be of Karítas, hung askew on the walls.
‘Yes, it certainly was. There was stuff littered all over the place. I saw the pictures taken at the beginning of the investigation and it was a real mess in here.’ Looking round, he added: ‘Actually, the yacht’s furnishings are designed to resist fairly heavy seas before they start falling over or being knocked off the walls, but it’s a different story with the passengers’ own belongings.’
Thóra ran her gaze around the room. ‘What happened to the pictures that used to hang here?’ The dark wood panelling on two sides bore traces of missing frames. ‘Might they have fallen off and not been replaced?’
‘No, the former owner took them down and had them valued when his money troubles began. The yacht was on the market with all her contents, but this was at the height of the crash and even the people who could afford expensive toys like this weren’t in the mood for buying. It didn’t help that the boat was mortgaged to the hilt and the bank hadn’t agreed to a sales price. The loan didn’t cover the pictures, though, so the guy was free to sell them and I gather they went for a small fortune. Apparently they included some serious art. But the sale didn’t raise enough cash, so towards the end he must have sold off paintings from his other homes too. It’s unbelievable how quickly even a vast fortune like that can vanish into thin air. Must be a traumatic experience.’
‘No doubt.’ Thóra may have lacked the imagination to visualise the lives of the super-rich but she had
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