Found Wanting

TWELVE

Eusden dozed for much of the journey, the late and anxious hours he had kept the previous night catching up with him as soon as the rhythm of the train asserted itself. Marty also slept – the deep sleep of a sick man.

The afternoon had given way to evening as they headed north through flat, snow-patched fields and wraith-pale stands of silver birch. Studying his friend, unconscious in the seat opposite, during one wakeful interlude, Eusden had noticed how much older and weaker and iller Marty seemed when his eyes were not open and twinkling, his voice not rising and falling. The search he had embarked upon was also a flight from his own mortality. In that sense, it could not succeed. At its end lay only a choice of ways to fail. It was a dismal truth to grasp as darkness fell across the Jutland sky.

Another station in another city. It was early evening in Århus, cold, dank and dark. Asked for a hotel recommendation, their taxi driver talked up the Royal on the grounds that it had a casino where he had once finished an evening in profit. They did not argue.

The Royal turned out to have advantages other than in-house roulette: comfortable rooms and a central location adjacent to the cathedral, in the old heart of the city. En route to their rooms aboard the geriatric lift, they agreed to go in search of supper once they had unpacked.

Eusden had observed Marty’s ban on mobile usage, despite regarding it as an excessive precaution. But he did not intend to leave Gemma to imagine the worst. He called her on the phone in his room, was guiltily relieved when neither she nor Monica answered and left a message assuring her all was well and he was spending a few days with Marty before returning home. As far as it went, the message was accurate enough.

Marty had already changed some of his euros into Danish kroner and taken soundings on the local restaurant scene by the time Eusden met up with him in reception. He led the way down to the pedestrianized riverside, where there was a cluster of bars and brasseries, and selected the Argentinsk Bøfhus on the basis of its promise of the fattest steaks this side of Buenos Aires.

‘Good to see you sans the suit, Coningsby,’ he remarked as he sank his fork into a three-inch-thick slab of sirloin. ‘Though, strictly speaking, you’d need an altogether grungier look than you’ve settled on to blend in where we’re going.’

Eusden smiled at him tolerantly. ‘I’ll visit a charity shop in the morning if you’re that bothered.’

‘Too late. I’m talking about tonight. The part of it left after we’ve devoured these mastodons.’

‘You haven’t got some crazy idea of hitting the night spots, have you, Marty? You can count me out if you have. And I’d advise you to count yourself out too.’

‘I’m talking business, not pleasure, Richard. Take a look at this.’

Marty plucked a newspaper cutting from his pocket and unfolded it on the table. Above a splurge of Danish print was a grainy photograph of a young couple emerging from a bar. The young man was tall, thin and narrow-faced, piratically bearded and bandannaed but otherwise kitted out in fashionably ill-fitting military surplus. The young woman, whose posture suggested she might easily fall down if he took his arm from round her waist, was slight and pale, hair spikily blonde, eyes wide and unfocused, clothes black, shining like leather in the flashlight of the camera. Her companion was gesturing angrily at the photographer, but she did not seem to be aware of what was happening – or indeed of much at all.

‘I spotted it while I was in Copenhagen in a tabloid someone left in a coffee shop. The girl’s the daughter of an actor who’s big on Danish TV. He’s in a long-running police series. Their very own Inspector Mørse. Her boyfriend’s the interesting one. That’s Michael Aksden. And the place they’re leaving is here in Århus. So, I thought we might… check it out.’

‘D’you know where it is?’

‘The receptionist at the Royal recognized it right away. And gave me directions.’

‘And you’re planning to… drop in?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, for a start because Michael and the girl probably won’t be there.’

‘Come on, Richard. Get real. Students are creatures of habit. Don’t you remember? When we were at Cambridge, what were the chances, on any given night, that you and/or I could be found propping up the bar in the Champion of the Thames?’

Eusden considered the point, then conceded it. ‘Better than fifty-fifty, I guess.’

‘Exactly. So, shall we try our luck?’

They walked back the way they had come, past the cathedral and a statue of King Christian X on horseback. The cathedral square was empty and silent. There was hardly any traffic on the streets, let alone pedestrians. The night was windless and catacomb-cold.

‘Nice time of year you picked for this jaunt,’ Eusden good-naturedly complained.

‘I’d have waited till summer,’ Marty replied, ‘but there’s a doubt about my availability.’

‘Sorry.’ However often Eusden reminded himself that Marty was dying, the reality never quite stuck. ‘I just-’

‘Don’t worry about it. Gemma always used to say I was too short-term in my thinking. Well, it’s come into its own now.’

Their destination lay a couple of blocks north of the cathedral: a cramped, crowded, smoky street-corner bar that might have looked drab in daylight but had enough candles and mirrors to confer a certain grotto-like glamour by night. Students comprised most of the clientèle, hunched and bunched over hookahs, laptops and games of backgammon. Marty ordered Belgian beer and he and Eusden squeezed themselves into a corner.

There was no immediate sign of Michael Aksden or his girlfriend, but the limited visibility and identikit appearance of most of the patrons meant it took them quite a while to be sure they were not there. Marty insisted patience was required. The night was young in the context of student drinking establishments. They needed to stick with it. He added the smoke of several Camels to the prevailing fug and began a nostalgic description of how much better he would feel if he could resort to something more exotic than alcohol and tobacco.

‘What’s stopping you?’ asked Eusden. ‘I’m sure somebody here’d be willing to help you out.’

‘Doctor’s orders, Richard. The old white stuff might start me fitting, apparently. When you haven’t got a lot of time, it’s amazing how much care you’re prepared to take of it.’

‘Are you sure we’re not wasting a load of it sitting here?’

‘Absolutely. Some of these girls are definitely worth studying at length, wouldn’t you say? And you’ve got to-’ Marty broke off and pointed to the door. ‘Look what’s just walked in.’

The newcomer was Michael Aksden, helpfully sporting the same outfit he had been photographed in. He was alone and looked none too happy about it, twitching and frowning as he surveyed the crowd. Then he caught sight of someone he knew and raised a hand coolly in greeting. He made no immediate move to join them, however, heading straight for the bar instead.

Marty was by his elbow before he had ordered a drink, with Eusden two steps behind. ‘This one’s on me, Michael,’ Marty said, grinning broadly. ‘What’ll you have?’

Michael glared at him with a mixture of suspicion and hostility. ‘Who are you, man?’ He sounded far more American than Danish with his practised drawl.

‘The name’s Hewitson. Marty Hewitson.’

‘Have we met before?’

‘No. But I thought you might know the name. My grandfather was Clem Hewitson. Heard of him?’

‘Never.’

‘Your father probably has. Or your uncle. Good old Lars.’

‘Are you friends of Lars?’

‘Not exactly,’ Eusden replied, drawing a sharp glance from Marty.

‘I don’t want to talk to you, whoever you are.’ Michael shouted a request to the barman, then went on: ‘Get it? Leave me alone.’

‘No need to be like that, Michael,’ said Marty. ‘We’re just trying to be friendly.’

‘I don’t want to be friendly.’ The barman handed him a bottle of Tuborg Grøn. ‘Piss off, will you?’

‘Any idea why Lars pulled that stunt in Roskilde back in the autumn?’

‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’

‘Only, we might know, y’see.’

Michael took a swig from his bottle and stared flintily at Marty. ‘You’re full of shit, man.’

‘Sure of that, are you?’

The shadows around them suddenly deepened. Eusden became aware of a young man, tall and broad and blond enough to have stepped out of a Viking myth, standing at Michael’s shoulder. The straining fit of his denim jacket, over a white T-shirt, implied a formidable quantity of muscle beneath. He and Michael exchanged a few words in Danish between menacing glares at Marty.

‘Who’s this, Michael?’ Marty asked. ‘Your backgammon partner?’

‘He’s a friend,’ Michael replied, speaking slowly for the sake of emphasis. ‘He wants to know if I’ve got a problem. I said no. ’Cos you and your friend are leaving. Right?’

‘Wrong, actually. I was thinking of having another beer. Richard?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Eusden, nodding meaningfully towards the door, currently hidden from view by the muscleman’s massive shoulderline. ‘I think we ought to be going.’

‘Really?’

‘Definitely.’

‘OK.’ Marty grinned at Michael. ‘We’ll obviously have to do this another time.’

‘Fuck off, man.’

‘What exactly did that accomplish?’ asked Eusden as they headed back to the Royal.

Marty chuckled. ‘It’s got the introductions out of the way.’

THIRTEEN

Eusden was woken the following morning by the insistent ringing of the telephone. His first thought was that the caller must be Gemma. Then he remembered he had not told her where they were. By that time, he had picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Eusden. Reception here. Will you take a call from a Mr Burgaard?’

He was too fuddled by sleep to consider refusing. ‘OK. Put him through.’ Burgaard? Who the hell was he?

‘Mr Eusden?’

‘Yeah.’

‘My name’s Karsten Burgaard.’ His English had less of an American accent than Michael Aksden’s, though he did not sound much older. ‘Can you meet me?’

‘What?’

‘Now, I mean. I’m in the Baresso coffee bar. By the bridge in Sankt Clemens Torv.’

‘Where?’

‘Ask at the desk. It’s not far.’

‘But… who are you?’

‘I overheard your… conversation with Michael Aksden… last night. Then I… followed you back to your hotel.’

‘You followed us?’

‘Yes. But come alone, hey? Your friend is… rather loud.’

‘I don’t understand. What d’you want?’

‘Come and find out.’

‘Hold on. I-’ But Burgaard had not held on. The line was dead.

Eusden struggled to order his thoughts as he washed and dressed. Marty would insist on going along if he alerted him to what had happened. And Burgaard had a point. He could be loud. Eusden was still irritated by how blithely Marty had provoked Michael Aksden. Perhaps the time had come to demonstrate the merits of diplomacy and restraint. He headed out as instructed – alone.

Århusers were making their way to work in scarfed and muffled silence, exhaled breath pluming around them in the frigid dawn air. Eusden hurried the short distance to the Baresso Kaffebar and spotted Burgaard before he even entered, watching him through the window as he approached.

Burgaard was one of only two customers. The other was buying latte and a muffin to go. Several others had arrived, with the same to-go look about them, by the time Eusden had bought his coffee and joined Burgaard by the window.

‘Thanks for coming, Mr Eusden,’ said Burgaard, smiling nervously. He was a thin, slightly built, prematurely balding young man with a round, boyish face and a skittering, uncertain gaze. His fingernails, Eusden noticed, were chewed to the quick. He was dressed anonymously in shades of brown and grey.

‘Well, like you said, it wasn’t far.’

‘No. It’s a small city.’ Burgaard seemed to be scanning the queue at the counter over Eusden’s shoulder. ‘Too small, maybe.’

‘Your home town?’

‘No. I’m from Falster. I came here… to study. At the University.’

‘What’s your subject?’

‘Economics.’ As if to prove the point, Burgaard had a pink business paper folded open at his elbow.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You probably don’t remember seeing me last night.’

‘You’re right. I don’t.’

‘People generally… don’t notice me.’

‘How well d’you know Michael Aksden?’

‘Better than he’d like.’

‘What’s his subject?’

‘Economics also. Michael and I… started together. But I have my degree. I’m studying for a doctorate. Michael is… drifting.’ Burgaard shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter how long you take for a degree – or if you ever get one – when your father is Tolmar Aksden.’ He swivelled the paper round and tapped a headline. Eusden noticed the word Mjollnir. ‘It says “Mjollnir shares break through new barrier”.’

‘Own any?’

‘Some. But not enough. Anyway, I’m not interested in Mjollnir for investment, though maybe I should be. I’m interested in finding out why they do so well.’

‘The secret of their success?’

‘Exactly.’ Burgaard lowered his voice. ‘The secret.’

‘Why don’t you ask Michael?’

‘I have. He tells me nothing. I think he knows nothing. I ask him to arrange for me to meet his father. No. I ask him to arrange for me to meet someone who works with his father. Again, no. This is for my thesis, Mr Eusden. I have worked on this nearly two years. Mjollnir is… a phenomenon. But no one understands it. I have tried. But, you see, they do not want anyone to understand. Tolmar Aksden does not give interviews. He does not… give anything.’

‘Perhaps he’s just a gifted entrepreneur.’

‘His sort of entrepreneur normally likes to tell everyone how gifted he is. Not Tolmar Aksden. This paper calls him Den Usynlige Mand: the Invisible Man. Everyone admires him. But also everyone… distrusts him.’

‘Do they?’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Eusden. Just like you and your friend. What was that about last night? Mr Hewitson mentioned his grandfather… and Lars Aksden’s arrest in Roskilde. You and Mr Hewitson… know something. And I…’ Burgaard’s head twitched in a slight but palpable nervous convulsion. This was clearly the stage of their encounter he had been steeling himself for. ‘I would be grateful if you told me what it is.’

Eusden took a sip of coffee to camouflage a tactical pause, then smiled and said, ‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because I know things you don’t.’

‘Maybe we know it all.’

‘No. If you did, you wouldn’t have challenged Michael. And also… you wouldn’t have agreed to meet me this morning.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yes. I think it is.’ Burgaard’s calculations were sound, even though he projected little confidence in them. ‘I propose… a trade.’

Another pause; another sip. ‘Propose away.’

‘I guess you’ve come to Århus because Lars is here. Near here, I mean. He has been ever since the… incident… in Roskilde. You’ve come to see him, haven’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I want to be with you when you do.’

‘And you propose to buy your ringside seat with… information.’

‘Yes.’ Burgaard nodded. ‘A lot of information.’

Tolmar Aksden was born at the family farm, Aksdenhøj, in 1939. He trained as an engineer, but worked on the farm for some years before setting up Mjollnir in the early 1970s. Mjollnir’s ostensible business was plant hire, but from the very start, according to Burgaard, it seemed to be more of a general investment vehicle. Aksden began buying up disused industrial land in the Århus area and regenerating it as housing complexes and high-tech business parks. He was always one step ahead of the economic trend. By the 1980s he had taken over a shipyard and an electronics factory, which both appeared defunct but were transformed under Mjollnir into leaders in the fields of containerization and micro-processing. In the 1990s came the big leap for the company: acquisition of a Swedish hotel chain, a large Norwegian fish-farming operation and a Finnish timber producer. Mjollnir’s headquarters moved to Copenhagen and its reign as a pan-Scandinavian economic powerhouse began. Burgaard emphasized the shock element in this development. Aksden kept such a low profile that his competitors never saw him coming. His far-sightedness was envied, his ruthlessness feared. He was considered by many to be positively un-Danish in this regard, although ignorance of his true personality and the rarity of his sightings in public ensured criticism gave way to awe at his achievements and a certain mystique that attached itself to the Invisible Man of the Nordic business world.

His family life was similarly low-key. He married Pernille Madsen, a Mjollnir employee nineteen years his junior, when he was forty-two. Their only child, Michael, was born in 1983. They had subsequently divorced. His sister, Elsa, married a neighbouring landowner in Jutland, and seldom stirred from rural obscurity. His brother, Lars, was the odd one out, cultivating a larger-than-life image as an artist, womanizer and dabbler in politics. As a young man, he had participated in the establishment of the Christiania hippy commune in Copenhagen and had sedulously maintained his anti-Establishment credentials ever since. About the only thing he had in common with Tolmar was that they were both divorced.

In Norse mythology, Mjollnir was Thor’s magical hammer, an instrument of destruction and creation. Tolmar Aksden had chosen the name for his company well. He had specialized in eliminating competitors and turning their failures into his successes. Nor was he finished yet. At sixty-eight, he gave no sign of slowing down. The consensus was that he had a strategy for further expansion, though where, and into what, was, as ever with the man, an open question. And it would remain so, until he chose to reveal the answer.

‘What did you tell the guy?’ Marty demanded as soon as Eusden had finished relaying what he had learnt from Burgaard about the life and times of Tolmar Aksden. They were in the hotel restaurant, where Eusden had found Marty having breakfast when he returned from the coffee bar.

‘I told him I was helping you research your grandfather’s mysterious dealings with Aksden’s great-uncle, Hakon Nydahl. That was it. I said nothing about Anastasia – or Clem’s attaché case.’

‘How did he react?’

‘I think he suspected I wasn’t giving him the full story. But I think he also sensed I suspected the same of him.’

‘What’s he after?’

‘Something to spice up his analysis of Mjollnir’s success.’

‘Which he reckons we can deliver?’

‘He’s betting on it. And I’m happy to let him. He knows where Lars is hanging out and he’s willing to take us to see him. Today.’

‘Mmm.’ Marty frowned sceptically. ‘How can we be sure he’s not getting more out of us than we’re getting out of him?’

‘We can’t. You think I should’ve turned him down?’

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘What are you saying, then?’

‘Why did he insist on meeting you alone?’

‘He’s the shy, retiring type. He described you as “rather loud”.’

‘Bloody nerve.’

‘I promised him you’d be on your best behaviour when we went to see Lars.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘It means don’t pick a fight with the man.’

‘As if I would.’

‘As if.’

‘All right, all right. I’ll be nice. But don’t forget’ – Marty pointed his fork at Eusden for emphasis – ‘I’m in charge.’

FOURTEEN

Burgaard called for them at eleven o’clock, as agreed. He was clearly wary of Marty and the feeling was just as clearly mutual. They set off in Burgaard’s battered old Skoda and little was said until they had left the city and were driving south through a snow-veiled landscape of farms and forests and empty roads.

‘How many generations of Aksdens have farmed here?’ Eusden asked, as much to break the silence as out of genuine curiosity.

‘Many, I guess,’ Burgaard replied. ‘But Aksdenhøj was never a rich farm. Høj means hill. The ones with names ending in dal – valley – are where the best land is. So, we know why Tolmar did not stay on the farm.’

‘But his sister stuck with it,’ said Marty.

‘Not exactly. She married Henrik Støvring. He owns Marskedal, one of the largest manor farms in east Jutland.’

‘So, what’s happened to Aksdenhøj?’

‘They say Tolmar stays there occasionally. And Lars uses it as a studio.’

‘Is that where we’re going, then?’

‘Yes. With luck, we’ll find Lars there.’

After about ten miles on a main road, they turned off on to a narrower, winding side road. The going was rougher over compacted ice, the snowbanks at the fields’ edges higher as they entered rolling, hillier countryside. Off to one side, down a tree-lined drive, a large, half-timbered, terracotta-roofed manor house came into view.

‘Marskedal,’ Burgaard announced. ‘Nice, yes?’

‘Looks like Elsa Aksden married money,’ said Marty.

‘Or Henrik Støvring did. They say Tolmar’s pumped a lot of cash into the estate.’

‘What do they farm?’

‘Pigs. Bacon’s big business.’ Burgaard pointed to a plain, blank-windowed structure on the other side of the road. ‘There are probably several hundred pigs in there. Aksdenhøj used to be a sheep farm. Not so profitable.’

Another turn-off took them on to a lane that hugged the edge of a birch forest as it climbed into the hills. Aksdenhøj appeared ahead of them at the lane’s end, a quadrangle of thatch-roofed stone buildings on a shoulder of land close to the crest of the hill, sheltered by the forest.

Burgaard beeped his horn as he drove into the cobbled yard. Smoke was climbing from a chimney in one of the buildings, next to which was parked an old Volvo estate. Someone was at home. And Burgaard evidently wished to give them ample warning of their arrival.

‘How well do you know Lars?’ asked Eusden.

‘As well as he’ll let me,’ Burgaard replied with measured ambiguity. He pulled up behind the Volvo and climbed out.

The chill of the hilly air hit Eusden as he emerged from the car. It was colder up here than in Århus and the snow had blanketed the world in silence. The farmhouse itself looked to be shut up. The smoking chimney was on one of the barns that formed the rest of the quadrangle. It clearly no longer served as a barn: high dormer windows had been added to its steeply sloping roof; lights, blurred by condensation, glimmered within.

One of the windows opened as Eusden gazed up at them. A man peered out: grey-haired, balding, ruddy-faced. He shouted something in Danish. Burgaard replied in kind. A shepherding gesture appeared to constitute an invitation to enter. They headed for the door.

The barn had been converted into a dwelling, disconcertingly modern in design and layout. A lobby opened into a large, well-appointed kitchen. Burgaard led the way straight up the wide stairs ahead of them to Lars Aksden’s studio.

It covered the length and breadth of the building beneath the exposed thatch. A gigantic, rhythmically ticking radiator warmed the air, bringing out the pungent smells of oil paint and turpentine. Dozens of paintings – Expressionist nudes and vibrantly hued landscapes – were hung or easelled in view. Dozens more were stacked against the walls. There was an area set aside for relaxation, with couches and rugs, and at the far end, beyond a half-drawn curtain, an unmade bed. A voice from Eusden’s past was singing softly on a hi-fi somewhere in the jumble: Françoise Hardy. As music will, it plunged him into a memory: a trip to Paris with Gemma and Marty in the long hot summer of 1976. He saw a shadow of the same memory cross Marty’s face. Then someone pressed the off-switch.

The floorboards creaked as Lars Aksden moved towards them. He was a big, heavy-footed bear of a man, clad in paint-flecked maroon, with a face like one of his own portraits: deeply scored and passionate. His voice, as he and Burgaard swapped a few more words in Danish, was a fractured growl; his laugh, when it unexpectedly followed, as loud as a roar.

‘Karsten, you are a scheming little bastard.’ Lars pinched Burgaard’s cheek as if he were a naughty child. ‘Introduce us.’

Burgaard did the honours. Handshakes were exchanged, a lingering one in Marty’s case, as Lars murmured his surname and stared thoughtfully at him.

‘Where do you come from, Marty?’

‘England. The Isle of Wight. We both do.’

‘And what’s brought you here?’

‘Family history. I’ve always wanted to know how my grandfather came to have a Danish friend: Hakon Nydahl. Richard’s helping me… look into it.’

‘Well, I tell you: I’ve always wanted to know that too.’

‘Did you know Clem?’ asked Eusden.

‘I met him twice. He came to see us here when I was a child, with Great-Uncle Hakon. And again, when I was older, on his own. That would have been around…’

‘Spring of 1960?’ suggested Marty.

Lars cocked his head and frowned at him. ‘Ja. Around then.’

‘We know he… was abroad at that time.’

‘But I’m not going to be able to tell you how he met my great-uncle. That was never explained to me. Nor were his visits. My grandparents were expecting him, though. It was all… arranged beforehand.’

‘Your grandparents? What about your parents?’

‘They were dead by then. My mother died giving birth to my sister. My father was killed in an accident on the farm. Hard times, Marty. Did you have them?’

‘Not as a child.’

‘Lucky for you.’

‘You really have no idea what Clem’s connection with your great-uncle was?’ asked Eusden.

‘Idea? Oh, I’ve got several of those. But that’s all they are. Ideas. Theories. Dreams.’ And a dreamlike state was indeed what Lars seemed briefly to descend into. He moved across to one of the windows and gazed out for a moment, then rounded on them. ‘You want a drink? Beer? Schnapps?’

‘Why not?’ said Marty. And Eusden saw no point in arguing. Beer all round was agreed. At a word from Lars, Burgaard headed down to the kitchen to fetch them.

‘Karsten’s a clever boy,’ Lars confided in an undertone while he was downstairs. ‘But not as clever as he thinks he is.’

‘Who is?’ Marty murmured reflectively.

‘Ja. Exactly. Who is? Not me, for sure. Karsten first came to me saying he wanted my memories of Christiania. Y’know? Our little – well, not so little – flower-power utopia in Copenhagen. There’s a famous photograph – you see it often – of some hairy guys putting a plank through the fence round the disused barracks. Day One of the commune. November thirteenth, 1971. I’m the one whose face you can’t see. Tolmar says that’s the only good turn I’ve ever done him: looking away from the camera that day.’ He grinned.

‘Your brother’s a remarkable man,’ said Eusden.

‘Remarkably successful, for sure. And my brother’ – Lars raised his voice as Burgaard rejoined them – ‘is the Aksden my young friend really wants to know about. Isn’t that right, Karsten? Tolmar. Not Lars and his paintings and his girlfriends and his dopehead memories.’

Burgaard looked sheepish as he handed round the bottles. Glasses were evidently not part of the deal. He said something in Danish.

‘Speak English,’ Lars growled, raising his bottle in a toast. ‘Skål.’ They all joined in. ‘Go on, Karsten. Tell them how it is.’

‘I’ve already told them.’

‘Only enough to keep them interested, I bet.’

‘They think they know why you tried to stop the ceremony in Roskilde.’

‘Is that right?’ Lars grinned coolly at Eusden and Marty. ‘You know, do you?’

‘We were just trying it on, Lars,’ said Marty. ‘We haven’t a clue. But why don’t you tell us anyway? Put us all out of our misery.’

‘Why should you care?’

‘Hakon Nydahl administered Dagmar’s affairs,’ said Eusden. ‘And you didn’t want her reburied in Russia. Why was that?’

‘It had nothing to do with Dagmar. I was protesting against the government’s plans to close down Christiania. It was a high-profile event, that’s all. An opportunity for an old revolutionary like me to make a point.’

‘But you didn’t make a point,’ Burgaard objected. ‘You never mentioned Christiania when you were arrested.’

‘They didn’t report me mentioning it, you mean. Tolmar got them to keep quiet to avoid embarrassment. He had some big deal going through at the time.’

‘The Saukko takeover,’ said Burgaard.

‘That was it.’

‘So,’ said Eusden, ‘it was just a coincidence that the ceremony involved Dagmar.’

‘Ja. Just a coincidence.’

‘Wait.’ Burgaard looked thunderstruck. ‘Coincidence. I should have thought of it. The Saukko takeover.’

‘What’s Saukko?’ asked Marty.

‘A Finnish bank. Mjollnir bought it last autumn. You’d call it a strange move by any other company. Banks are bought by other banks, not industrial conglomerates. But Tolmar Aksden always knows what he’s doing. That’s what they said. That’s what they always say.’

‘Maybe you should shut your mouth, Karsten,’ said Lars, his tone suddenly serious.

Silence fell. The atmosphere in the studio had become tense, almost electric. When the telephone began ringing, piercingly loud, Eusden started with surprise.

For several seconds, Lars made no move to answer it. Eventually, he grunted and lumbered off to the lounge area. The telephone stood atop a slew of newspapers and magazines. He grabbed the receiver. ‘Hallo?’

As the conversation proceeded in mumbled Danish, Marty sidled closer to Burgaard. ‘What’s the big coincidence, Karsten?’ he asked in a whisper.

‘I’ll tell you later.’

‘But you think Lars is lying about why he staged his protest?’

‘For sure he’s taken a long time to explain it.’

‘Are we really getting anywhere here?’ Eusden put in, reflecting his opinion that they had merely succeeded in antagonizing another member of the Aksden family.

‘Maybe we could if you came out with everything you know,’ Burgaard hissed.

‘That cuts both ways,’ Marty responded, smiling humourlessly at him. ‘You’ve obviously been-’ He broke off as Lars slammed the phone down and strode back to join them.

‘My sister,’ he announced. ‘Warning me about two Englishmen asking questions. They tried to frighten our nephew last night.’

‘Is asking a few questions so very frightening?’ Eusden responded, giving way to irritation despite knowing it would be counter-productive.

‘You have family, Richard?’ Lars threw back at him.

‘Yes.’

‘You must know how it is, then. You might think they’re all shits. But you defend them against outsiders. Elsa says Tolmar wouldn’t want any of us to talk to you. And she’s right. She says I should throw you out.’ He took a swig of beer and grinned at them, half-apologetically. ‘So, I guess that’s what I’m doing.’

FIFTEEN

They drove away from Aksdenhøj in a recriminatory silence. Eusden sensed Marty and Burgaard were engaged in a test of nerves: which of them would tell the other what they knew first? In his opinion, it made no difference. They would achieve nothing without collaborating.

A Range Rover was barrelling down the driveway of Marskedal as they passed. The thought occurred to Eusden, as he guessed it must have occurred to his companions, that this was Elsa heading out to confirm her brother had done as she asked. If so, she did not need to worry. Lars Aksden was as efficient an ejector of unwelcome guests as they came.

‘Are we just going back to Århus with our tails between our legs?’ Marty suddenly snapped.

‘No,’ Burgaard replied calmly. ‘There’s something I want to show you in the next village.’

‘You could tell us about that coincidence now.’

‘Not yet. First the show. Then the tell.’

The village of Tasdrup was consumed in wintry stillness. It gave every impression, despite the smartness of the houses, of being uninhabited. Burgaard parked by the church – small and plain, save for some fancy crenellations on the gables of its high, narrow bell-tower. They clambered out and Burgaard struck off into the snowy churchyard, Eusden and Marty slithering after him and rapidly falling behind.

He waited for them at the end of one row of graves, brushing snow off a memorial stone as they approached.

‘Lars’ parents and grandparents,’ he explained, pointing to the inscription. ‘Listed in the order of their deaths.’

HANNAH AKSDEN † 14.10.1947

PEDER AKSDEN † 23.3.1948

GERTRUD AKSDEN † 29.8.1963

OLUF AKSDEN † 1.9.1967

‘Pretty bloody terse,’ commented Marty.

‘Yes,’ said Burgaard. ‘Even for Lutherans. And see – just the dates of death; no dates of birth; no ages at death.’

‘So?’

‘It’s unusual.’

‘Maybe they were paying by the letter.’

‘Is there more to it, Karsten?’ asked Eusden, confident there had to be.

‘Oh, yes. Much more. But shall we talk in the car? It’s cold out here.’

There was no argument about that. Eusden sat in the front with Burgaard. Marty took the back seat. Burgaard whirled round when he heard Marty fumbling in his pocket for his matches. There was already a cigarette in his mouth.

‘Please don’t smoke, Mr Hewitson. I am astmatiker.’

‘Pardon me,’ groaned Marty, dolefully replacing the cigarette in his pack.

‘What are you going to tell us, Karsten?’ Eusden prompted.

‘One thing. And I expect one other thing in return.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Marty.

‘I want all information you have on your grandfather.’

‘OK.’ Marty’s agreement sounded suspiciously airy to Eusden.

‘All right. Saukko Bank. The coincidence. I found out everything I could about Hakon Nydahl when I realized he was Tolmar Aksden’s great-uncle. As a courtier, I wondered if he’d… done Tolmar any favours. Nothing turned up. But there was a strange event… just before he died. Summer of 1961. He was in hospital by then. He never came out. While he was there, his housekeeper was arrested for stealing money from his apartment. He had a safe and she knew the combination. The papers got interested in the case because what she stole was… very unusual money. Finnish markkaa, nineteen thirties issue. She’d tried to change it for Danish kroner, but the notes were no longer legal tender. Also, she was trying to change a massive amount: several millions in kroner. She didn’t realize how much the notes were worth – or would have been worth. No one could understand why Nydahl should have had all this out-of-date Finnish money. He was too ill to be asked for an explanation. But during the case they reported that the Bank of Finland had traced the serial numbers on the notes to a batch of currency supplied in 1939 to-’

‘Saukko Bank,’ said Eusden.

‘Yes. Exactly. Saukko. Now owned by Tolmar Aksden.’

‘You think that’s why he bought it?’

‘Somehow, yes. There’s a connection. I just can’t… work it out. But maybe I can… if I know all there is to know about Clem Hewitson.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Marty. ‘But here’s the deal, Karsten. I’m expecting a call later today. I’m hoping it’ll join up the dots in what we know about Clem’s relationship with Nydahl.’

‘Join up the dots?’ Burgaard frowned dubiously at Marty over his shoulder. So did Eusden. What call? What the hell was Marty playing at?

‘Once that’s done, we should be in business. Know what I mean?’

‘No. Just give me all you have so far.’

‘No point. I don’t want to run the risk of… unintentionally misleading you.’ Marty’s smile, doubtless intended to be reassuring, looked patently disingenuous to Eusden. ‘By tonight, everything should be clearer. And I’ll be happy to share it with you. Now, what about that gravestone?’

Burgaard’s mouth tightened. ‘Do you think I’m a fool, Mr Hewitson?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You get nothing more till I get something.’

‘No need to be like that.’

‘Yes, there is. You’ve cheated me. You promised me information.’

‘And you’ll get it.’ Marty leant forward and looked Burgaard in the eye. ‘Tonight.’

The journey back to Århus was a wordless ordeal. Burgaard drove fast and tensely, like a man simmering with resentment, as Eusden had no doubt he was. Eusden was feeling pretty resentful himself. Marty was stringing him along as well as Burgaard. This had always been the way of it, of course. Marty had never been able to resist playing the role of smart arse. Several of the more infuriating passages of their friendship replayed themselves in Eusden’s memory as they sped through the Jutland countryside.

Eusden had assumed Burgaard would drop them at their hotel, but he noticed after they had entered the city that they were on a ring road, skirting the centre, and soon the university campus appeared to their right. Soon after that, they pulled into a car park behind a cluster of multi-storey red-brick accommodation blocks.

‘I’ll expect to see you tonight, then,’ said Burgaard as they climbed out, his voice flat and expressionless. ‘I’ll be waiting for your call.’ With that he plodded off towards the entrance of the nearest block.

‘How are we supposed to get back to the Royal?’ Marty called after him.

‘Take the bus. Or walk. I don’t care.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

Burgaard’s answer to that was a V-sign, delivered without a backward glance. Eusden could hardly blame him. And even Marty seemed to consider further protest pointless. He lit a cigarette as they watched Burgaard vanish indoors.

‘Why don’t we try to track down a restaurant over there?’ Marty nodded in the direction of the shopping street they had turned off a few minutes previously. ‘We’ll feel better after we’ve had something to eat and drink.’

Eusden looked at him unsmilingly. ‘Why not?’

A dismal pizza parlour was the best they could find so far from the city centre. Eusden contained himself while food was ordered and beer delivered to their table, then let Marty have it.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, giving Burgaard the runaround like that? The poor bloke’s offering to help you.’

‘It couldn’t be avoided,’ Marty replied, beaming at Eusden over his glass of Carlsberg.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Like I told him: I’m waiting for a phone call.’

‘That was true?’

‘Certainly.’

‘You never mentioned any call to me.’

‘You never mentioned your rendezvous with clever clogs Karsten until after the event.’

‘And that’s how I’d have got to hear about the call?’

‘Yeah. What’s the problem?’

‘Who’s the call from?’

‘You don’t need to know just yet. I’m hoping for… some good news. Let’s leave it like that.’

‘You’re not going to tell me?’

‘I’d rather not. It’d be tempting fate.’

‘Well, I’d rather you did. It’s bad enough keeping Burgaard in the dark. I’m supposed to be your friend.’

‘Calm down, Richard. You’re ranting.’

It was true, in the sense that Eusden’s voice had risen steadily during their exchanges. He noticed the waiter peering apprehensively round the kitchen blind. He tried to stifle some of the anger he felt.

‘You reckon I’m handling Burgaard badly, do you?’ Marty asked.

‘Yes. There was more he’d have told us if you’d offered him something in return.’

‘More of the same, in all likelihood. That stuff about Nydahl’s cache of Finnish currency? Old news, I’m afraid.’

‘You already knew?’

‘Sure. It was about the only interesting fact I dug up on the man.’

‘When were you planning to tell me about it?’

‘I thought I had. In fact, I meant to congratulate you on acting dumb so convincingly.’

‘You said you found out nothing about him.’

‘Did I? Sorry. It must have… slipped my mind.’

‘Slipped your mind?’

Marty shrugged. ‘I’m not firing on all synapses.’

The blatant bid for sympathy was the last straw for Eusden. He should have remembered: there always came a time when Marty drove him beyond endurance. He shook his head ruefully and stood up.

‘Going somewhere?’

‘For a walk. I’ll see you back at the hotel.’

‘What about your pizza?’

‘The way I feel at the moment, I think it might choke me.’

‘Hold on. There’s no-’

‘Save it, Marty, OK?’ Eusden held up a hand in solemn warning. ‘Whatever you’ve got to say, I don’t want to hear it.’

SIXTEEN

They had planned to potter round Bembridge Harbour and The Duver before tea with Aunt Lily at her cottage in St Helens. It was a hot, windless day towards the end of August, 1971. The tide was exceptionally low – low enough, according to Marty, who claimed to have studied the tables, for them to walk out through the shallows to St Helens Fort. It was one of Palmerston’s Follies, a ring of forts on sea and land around Portsmouth, built to defend the home of the Royal Navy from attack by the French. All had long since been abandoned. The expedition was too tempting an idea to resist. And they made it out there with some ease. But a futile attempt to penetrate the fort delayed their return journey and Marty tardily admitted that he did not actually know when the tide was due to turn. Beaten back by the inrushing sea and lucky not to be drowned, they were eventually rescued by a passing yachtsman as darkness was falling.

It was an important lesson in a subject Richard Eusden was to become an expert on: the inherent unreliability of Marty Hewitson. Marty was generous, but seldom repaid a debt unless reminded of it. He was game for anything, but often failed to turn up when the time came. He was confident in everything he asserted or proposed, but the confidence he inspired in others was frequently misplaced. In short, he possessed charm in abundance. But even abundance can be exhausted.

The exasperation Eusden felt as he trudged down past the campus of Århus University towards the city centre was thus all too familiar to him. Burgaard had asked Marty if he thought him a fool and Eusden could well have asked the same question of himself. Except that he knew the answer, as Burgaard did not. Marty treated everyone in the same way, whether he thought them a fool, or a friend, or both. He was never going to change. Believing everything he said – or believing he had told you everything: that was foolishness.

Eusden went into a bar down by the riverside, where he ate a club sandwich, drank several beers and considered what he should do. Suspicion is a progressive disorder and he had started to wonder just how deceitful Marty was being. He could not have invented the whole thing. Werner Straub was real enough, as was Karsten Burgaard. They were on to something. But was it really connected with Anastasia? And was Marty really dying? Doubt had begun to weevil into Eusden’s mind on every count.

By the time he returned to the Royal, he had half-decided to tell Marty he was bailing out and heading back to London by the first available flight. As it was, he never got the chance. A woman was waiting for him in the lobby. With her iron-grey hair, raw-boned, weathered face and faintly old-fashioned outfit of loden and tweed, she looked like a well-to-do countrywoman of sixty or so on a shopping expedition to the city. And that did not turn out to be a misleading impression, although shopping was not high on her agenda.

‘Mr Eusden? I’m Elsa Støvring. I wanted to speak to Mr Hewitson, but he’s not here.’ This was slightly surprising. Eusden would have expected Marty to take a bus back into the centre and be at the hotel long before him. But there was, as he well knew, no legislating for Marty’s movements. ‘Could you spare me a few minutes? I need to speak to one of you. It really is rather urgent.’

Elsa Støvring was not a woman to be fobbed off and Eusden did not try. They walked across the square to a café for the urgent discussion she was clearly intent on having.

‘I’m not sure what you and Mr Hewitson are trying to achieve, Mr Eusden, but you’ve certainly succeeded in upsetting several members of my family,’ she began. ‘My brother Tolmar is a very private person and I hope you’ll agree he has a right to his privacy.’

‘We haven’t breached it as far as I know,’ said Eusden. He could not decide whether to be defensive or conciliatory. He badly needed to establish where he stood with Marty, but he was going to have to see off Elsa first.

‘You harassed my nephew in a bar.’

‘We spoke to him.’

‘You imposed on my brother Lars.’

‘We paid him a visit and left when he asked us to.’

‘Yes, well…’ Her dogmatic tone faltered slightly. ‘Lars is not the best judge of his own interests.’

‘But you are, no doubt.’

Elsa gave him a sharp look over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘The world changes, Mr Eusden. I’d never met a Lithuanian until about ten years ago. Now my husband employs six of them to manage his pigs. My brother Tolmar probably employs many more, in Lithuania as well as Denmark. Oh yes, the world changes. But we have the past inside us. And that doesn’t change. I never knew my parents. My mother died a few days after I was born. Blood poisoning. Five months later, my father died also. He cut an artery in an accident with a segl. What is it in English? A curved blade… with a handle.’ She finger-painted a question mark in the air, minus the dot.

‘A sickle?’ Eusden suggested.

‘Yes. A sickle. He was working alone a long way from the farm. He bled to death. So, blood killed both of them. I sometimes wonder if it really was an accident. Perhaps he couldn’t live without my mother. We’ll never know. Before I was six months old, they were both gone.’

‘We saw the eloquently inscribed tombstone at Tasdrup church.’

The hint of sarcasm caused a pursing of Elsa’s lips and a stiffening of her tone. ‘I want you to understand us, Mr Eusden. My grandfather was nearly seventy when my father died. He had to start running the farm again. Tolmar helped him as soon as he was able to. By the time he was sixteen, he was in charge. He has been ever since. The farm, the company, the family. He never really had a childhood. He’s always had… responsibilities. He got his engineering qualifications through evening classes. Life was easier for Lars and me. Tolmar made sure it was. We owe him a lot. More than we can ever repay.’

‘Do you remember Clem Hewitson visiting you at Aksdenhøj?’

‘Yes. He was a friend of Great-Uncle Hakon. That’s all I know.’

‘Maybe Tolmar knows more. As head of the family.’

‘Maybe he does.’

‘About that load of pre-war Finnish currency Great-Uncle Hakon’s housekeeper stole from him, for instance.’

‘You shouldn’t listen to Karsten Burgaard, Mr Eusden. He has no… sense of proportion. He had a nervous breakdown last year. Did he mention that to you?’

‘No. But the story about the Finnish currency’s true, isn’t it?’

‘I believe so.’

‘So, why do you think your great-uncle had millions of markkaa stashed away?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘And why did Lars try to stop the disinterment ceremony at Roskilde?’

‘It was a silly protest about Christiania. He can be very silly.’

‘Karsten doesn’t think that explanation stacks up.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Frankly, neither do I.’

‘Why are you so interested? Mr Hewitson claims to be researching the history of his family. What are you doing?’

‘Helping him.’

‘And does that explanation… “stack up”?’

It did not, of course, as Eusden was painfully well aware. What he said next was a reflex attempt to deflect the question. He regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. ‘I expect you and Lars – and Michael too – all have substantial share-holdings in Mjollnir. You must be pleased how well they’re doing. I suppose that means Tolmar effectively employs you too – along with all those Lithuanians.’

Elsa carefully replaced her cup in its saucer. She treated Eusden to a contemptuous frown. ‘You should advise Karsten Burgaard to drop his campaign against Tolmar. And I’d advise you to have nothing to do with it. If family history really is Mr Hewitson’s motive, you should ask him how much it matters to him. Michael’s probably told his father about you by now. Tolmar will phone me, asking what you’re doing. I’d like to be able to tell him you’re already on your way home.’

‘You can say that if you want.’

‘But will it be true?’

‘I don’t know. It’s up to Marty.’

‘Don’t try to push Tolmar, Mr Eusden. He doesn’t like being pushed.’

‘What will he do if he is?’

‘Push back. Harder.’

‘He sounds a tough customer.’

‘As tough as he needs to be.’

‘But would asking a few questions about Great-Uncle Hakon’s friendship with Marty’s grandfather really count as “pushing”?’

‘He wouldn’t welcome your questions, Mr Eusden. I can assure you of that. You appear to be a sensible man. Listen to what I’m saying. Don’t try to contact my brother. Or any of us again. Leave us alone. And persuade your friend to do the same.’

‘Well…’ Eusden cobbled together a noncommittal smile. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

They parted outside. After watching Elsa stride away across the square towards the shopping centre, Eusden wandered listlessly into the cathedral and sat down in the nave to think. According to the leaflet he had picked up at the entrance, the walls of the cathedral had been covered with frescoes until the Reformation, when they had been whitewashed over. Parts of several had been uncovered since and restored. He gazed around at the colourful scenes that had been exposed – fragments of illustrated tales, pieces of a greater whole. It was human nature to want the full story, the picture complete. But sometimes human nature had to give way to worldly wisdom. And this, he sensed, was such an occasion.

The afternoon was growing colder as it faded towards evening. Eusden went back to the hotel and was told Marty had still not returned. He did not know what to make of his friend’s continued absence, but there was nothing he could do about it. He went up to his room and lay on the bed, watching the sky darken over the cathedral. He rehearsed the argument he would present to Marty for heeding Elsa Støvring’s advice. He convinced himself Marty would be forced to agree. And then, at some point, he fell asleep.

For the second time that day, he was woken by the telephone. His guess, as he picked up the receiver, was that Marty was calling him from his room. He was unsure of the time, but night had fallen outside. Marty surely had to be back by now.

But he was not. ‘Reception here, Mr Eusden. We’ve had a call from the hospital. Your friend Mr Hewitson was taken there this afternoon after collapsing in the street. They say he’s seriously ill.’

SEVENTEEN

‘Seriously ill,’ the receptionist had said. And seriously ill was exactly what Marty looked, propped up in bed in a side ward of Århus Kommunehospital, attached to various drips, drains and monitors. According to the nursing staff, he had had a stroke, the severity of which only time could determine. He managed a smile when he saw Eusden, but it was a lopsided effort. The right side of his face was slack and it was his left hand he raised in greeting.

‘Hello, Richard,’ he said, his voice slurred as if he was drunk. ‘Good to see you.’

‘What the hell happened, Marty?’

‘A stroke, but not of luck. I was crossing the road to the bus stop after leaving that pizza parlour and I suddenly had to bolt for it when some bloke in a van nearly ran me over. Don’t let anyone ever tell you the Scandinavians are careful drivers. That one certainly wasn’t. Anyway, I made it to the bus stop, but then this splitting headache came on. Literally blinding. Next thing I know, I’m on the deck. Somebody took pity on me and called an ambulance. I can’t remember much about arriving here. They did a CT scan and found the tumour. The poor buggers assumed I didn’t know about it. I got the full breaking-bad-news works. They’ve lost interest now they know I was expecting something like this to happen.’

‘How bad is it?’

‘Too soon to say. The paralysis is only partial.’ Marty flexed his right arm feebly from the elbow. ‘And there’s a good chance it’s temporary. I might be back in fair working order within twenty-four hours. Then again… I might not.’

Eusden sighed. ‘I’m sorry we… parted the way we did, Marty.’

‘Don’t worry about it. You were right. I should’ve levelled with you. But better late than never, hey? I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘Would it involve Vicky Shadbolt, by any chance?’

‘Ah.’ Another half of a grin. ‘You know.’

‘The hotel asked me to bring you this message.’ Eusden handed Marty a sheet of paper on which was printed: Mr Hewitson – Vicky rang. She has arrived safely and will wait for you to contact her. ‘Where is she?’

‘Copenhagen.’

‘Doing?’

‘Me a favour. She has the attaché case, Richard. The real one, I mean. The one you took to Brussels was a ringer.’

‘What?’

‘Keep your voice down or they’ll chuck you out for upsetting me. It was like this. I felt pretty certain Werner was planning to double-cross me, so I set a trap for him. Bernie mocked up an old case with Clem’s initials on it. I’d never seen the original till Aunt Lily showed it to me, so I knew neither you nor Gemma were going to spot the difference. As for the contents, Bernie arranged with a Danish VAT fraudster he knows to have some letters written in old enough ink on old enough paper to pass muster. I don’t know what’s in them. The text of a few Hans Christian Andersen fairytales, I expect. Werner will have had the pleasure of reading them by now, so he’ll be on the warpath. Which means we have to move quickly. Or, rather, you do. I’m obviously not going anywhere for the moment.’

‘What exactly do you expect me to do?’

‘Go to Copenhagen and collect the case from Vicky. She’ll be staying at the Phoenix Hotel. Take Burgaard with you. Better still, get him to drive you there. He can translate the letters. It won’t take much to persuade him. I wasn’t sure about roping him in, but I haven’t got much choice now.’

‘Why didn’t you get Bernie’s Danish friend to translate them?’

‘Because I don’t know what’s in them. Bernie’s a good mate, but if he got the idea there was serious money to be made, he might be tempted to cut me out. He is a crook, after all. Tell Vicky I’ve gone back to Amsterdam. Don’t tell her I’m languishing here or she’ll be on the next train. I’ve been the man of her dreams since we first met in the visiting room at Guys Marsh Prison. Terminal illness seems only to have added to my romantic aura.’

‘Not as far as I’m concerned, Marty. You’ve been stringing me along the whole time. It’s only because you’re a sick man I’m not holding you up against a wall and demanding an apology.’

‘You can have the apology. I am sorry.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me what was going on – what was really going on?’

‘I was afraid you’d be so pissed off if you found out I’d used you as a decoy that you’d leave me in the lurch and jet back to your desk in Whitehall.’

‘For the record, I’d decided to do just that this afternoon. We had a visit from Elsa. She gave me a sob story about how Tolmar held the family together after their parents died. She also gave me a stark warning against prying into his affairs.’

Marty closed his eyes and leant his head back against the pillow. He let out a long sigh. He had aged another few years in the course of the day. He was fading almost visibly and Eusden knew he was clinging to the mystery Clem had left behind him as he would to a life raft in a cold, cold sea.

‘Are you all right, Marty?’

‘Yeah. Just thinking.’

‘She said I should ask you how much this really matters to you.’

‘Nice one.’ Marty opened his eyes, the lid on his right eye sagging pitifully. ‘She doesn’t know about the letters, though, does she?’

‘No.’

‘It’s good to have an ace up our sleeve. I always preferred poker to bridge. Whereas you…’ He rubbed his face like someone waking from a deep, dream-laden sleep. ‘Sorry. Rambling. Which I mustn’t do. How much does this matter? You tell me, Coningsby. If you want to walk away from it, you can. But wouldn’t you like to find out what’s in those letters?’

‘Of course I would. But-’

‘And we have to get Vicky out from under. So…’

‘I’ll go, OK?’ Eusden shook his head in wonderment at his own foolhardiness. ‘I’ll go to Copenhagen.’

‘Good man.’

‘And I’ll get Burgaard to translate the letters. Beyond that…’

‘No promises?’

‘None.’

‘It’s a deal. Fetch my bag from the hotel. There’s a sunglasses pouch in it. The key’s inside.’

‘The key?’

‘To the attaché case. Try to keep up, Richard, please. Help yourself to Werner’s money and drop the bag off here. I’ll need a few things from it. Then get yourself and Burgaard on the road to Copenhagen. Time, as you mandarins no doubt say on a Friday afternoon, is of the essence.’

Eusden called Burgaard from a hospital pay-phone. Marty’s ban on using mobiles now seemed worryingly sensible. The conversation was brief and guarded.

‘Hallo.’

‘Richard Eusden here, Karsten. I have a proposal for you.’

‘Don’t say any more, Mr Eusden. Come round.’

‘I’ll be there in about an hour.’

‘OK. Just you? What about Mr Hewitson?’

‘He won’t be coming.’

‘Good. He makes me uncomfortable. See you later.’

Eusden had a lot to accomplish in the hour he had set aside. He travelled to the hotel by taxi and kept the cab waiting while he packed and checked out, then doubled back to the hospital to drop off Marty’s bag. He had another question he wanted to put to Marty, but the duty nurse said he was asleep and not to be disturbed, so Eusden left the bag with her and headed for Burgaard’s flat. He knew the answer to his question, anyway. Marty had sent Vicky Shadbolt to Copenhagen because that was where Mjollnir had its headquarters. He had had Tolmar Aksden in his sights from the very start.

EIGHTEEN

‘So, are you in?’

It was Eusden’s concluding question after he had told Burgaard what they wanted him to do. The letters were waiting for them in Copenhagen: the letters that might reveal the secrets Hakon Nydahl and his friend Clem Hewitson had taken to their graves. It was unthinkable that Burgaard would spurn the chance to read them, but Eusden needed his explicit agreement. They were sitting in Burgaard’s stuffy, overheated, under-furnished lounge, drinking coffee and eyeing each other uncertainly.

‘I need a yes or a no, Karsten.’

‘You’re still not telling me everything, Mr Eusden.’

This was true. Eusden had omitted the Anastasia dimension altogether. If the letters touched on the subject, so be it. If not, it was an unnecessary complication. And he sensed simplicity was the key to securing Burgaard’s assistance. He either wanted to read the letters or not. Everything else could wait.

‘But I guess that doesn’t matter. These letters could be the breakthrough I need.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Then I’m in, of course.’

‘Good.’

‘When do you want to leave?’

‘Right away?’

‘We don’t need to do that. It’s three hours to Copenhagen, whether you drive or take the train. If we leave now, we’ll arrive in the middle of the night. This friend of Mr Hewitson…’

‘Vicky.’

‘Yes. Vicky. She’ll wait till morning, won’t she?’

‘Well… yes.’

‘OK, then. We’ll leave at four. Catch her early. I’ll drive us if you like. But I need to sleep first. You’re welcome to use the couch. It folds out.’

This was not as Eusden had envisaged. But he could not push matters without revealing Straub might be on their trail. ‘Thanks very much,’ he sighed.

‘Hold on.’

Burgaard rose and marched out to the kitchen with something decisive evidently in mind. Eusden glanced around the lounge. Apart from one framed print of a flat, wintry landscape – Burgaard’s native Falster, perhaps – there was nothing in the way of decoration. The flat felt sterile and impersonal: a place to sleep and little else, its tenant a solitary obsessive, his existence pared down to the thesis that would give it meaning. Eusden was really not sure he wanted such a man for a travelling companion. But his wants were far from paramount.

Then Burgaard was back, with a bottle and two shot glasses. ‘Schnapps, to toast our… collaboration.’

The schnapps was poured, the toast drunk, the glasses refilled. Eusden sipped the second. It was a heavy, bitter concoction.

‘I’m sorry Mr Hewitson is ill.’ Burgaard’s tone was singularly lacking in conviction.

‘Me too.’

‘Perhaps that’s why he was so… abrupt.’

‘Perhaps so.’

‘When I told you about all that Finnish currency Nydahl had in his apartment, I got the feeling… Mr Hewitson already knew.’

‘I’m impressed.’ Eusden smiled. ‘He did.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘So, he doesn’t trust you with everything.’

‘He does now he’s in hospital. He’s got no option.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure enough. The important thing is he’s trusting me – us – with the letters.’

‘Yes. The letters.’ Burgaard moved to the uncurtained window and gazed out at the nightscape of the university: lights gleaming in laboratories and seminar rooms and halls of residence, scattered between gulfs of darkness. ‘The letters must hold the answer, I suppose. Men kan det nu have sin rigtighed?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Excuse me. I said, “Can that really be true?” ’

‘Only one way to find out.’

‘Yes.’ Burgaard drained his glass. ‘Only one way.’

After a frugal supper of pickled herring and cheese washed down with beer, Burgaard headed for bed, promising to set his alarm for 3.30. Eusden could hardly keep his eyes open by then. The couch was more comfortable than it looked and he plunged at once into a deep sleep.

He woke several times only to relapse into slumber before his dulled senses registered that daylight was streaming greyly through the window. Then he started violently awake, aware that it had to be a good deal later than 3.30. A glance at his watch told him a story he could not at first believe. It was nearly half past ten in the morning. He and Burgaard should by rights have arrived in Copenhagen several hours previously. Instead-

He was alone in the flat. His instincts told him as much even before he checked. Burgaard’s bed had not been slept in. His coat, which had been hanging on a peg inside the front door, was missing. He had gone. Eusden’s brain was still struggling to engage a functioning gear. A residuum of drowsiness was sapping his thought processes. He could not understand what had happened. Where was Burgaard? What was going on?

He immersed his face in a basin of cold water. That seemed to clear some of the fug and enable him to concentrate. He must have been drugged to have slept so long and so soundly, which explained why he still felt woozy. Burgaard had slipped something into his schnapps or his beer. But why? Only one answer sprang to mind: he wanted the letters for himself. Collaboration did not interest him. Eusden had told him where they were and he must have backed himself to be capable of talking Vicky Shadbolt into handing over the attaché case. Eusden checked his coat pocket. The key was still there. He had not mentioned it last night. That was a very small mercy, however. The locks on the case could easily be forced.

Maybe it was not too late to warn Vicky. Eusden raced to the phone and called the Phoenix in Copenhagen. They rang her room, but got no answer. They could not say whether she was in or out. He left a message which he could only hope she would heed: Agree to nothing until I arrive – Richard Eusden. But Burgaard had already had half the morning to implement whatever plan he had cooked up.

The flat comprised a lounge, kitchen, shower room and two bedrooms, one of which Burgaard had converted into a study. It contained his desk and computer, plus half a dozen cardboard boxes crammed with papers. Each box had a word scrawled on the side in felt-tip: Mjollnir, Aksden, Saukko, Nydahl. Eusden wondered if he should look through them or try to access Burgaard’s computer files in search of clues to his intentions. But every minute he remained was a minute lost in reaching Vicky. And Burgaard would surely have taken anything vital with him. There was simply no time to sift through his records.

As Eusden turned to leave the room, he noticed a chart stuck to the back of the door. It was a family tree for the Nydahl/Aksden clan, meticulously drawn up with names and dates. Eusden remembered Burgaard drawing their attention to the lack of birth dates on the Aksden tombstone at Tasdrup church. But here they all were. He must have gone to the registration authorities to obtain them.

‘Is there more to it, Karsten?’

‘Oh, yes. Much more.’

Eusden pulled the chart free of its blobs of Blu-Tack and rolled it up. He would study it later. Then he headed back to the lounge, grabbed his coat and bag and made for the front door. He had no idea of the times of trains to Copenhagen, but he would have to be on the next one. Stopping at the hospital to tell Marty what had happened was not an option. Let him believe his old friend was in control of the situation, at least for a little longer. His recovery was not going to be aided by knowing Burgaard had outwitted them.

Eusden was halfway out of the door when the telephone rang. After a moment’s hesitation, he hurried back to answer it.

‘Hello?’

‘Karsten?’ A male voice, probably Danish, with an edge of suspicion – or anxiety.

‘No. He’s… not here. Who’s calling?’

‘Henning Norvig. Who’s that?’

‘Richard Eusden.’

‘Are you a friend of Karsten’s?’

‘Er… yes.’

‘Do you know where he is? He was supposed to be here an hour ago. I’ve tried his mobile, but it’s switched off.’

‘Where’s “here”?’

‘I’m in a coffee shop. The one he said.’

‘In Copenhagen?’

‘Of course in Copenhagen.’

‘What are you hoping to discuss with Karsten?’

There was a pensive pause before Norvig replied. ‘Who did you say you were?’

‘Richard Eusden. A friend… from England.’

‘Where’s Karsten?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What are you doing in his flat?’

‘I’ve… been staying with him. But listen. Were you hoping Karsten could give you some information about… Tolmar Aksden?’

Norvig’s tone suddenly became flat and defensive. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Ask Karsten to call me if you hear from him.’

‘You’d better give me your number.’

‘He’s got my number.’

‘Give it to me anyway. Just in-’

But Norvig was giving nothing. He had rung off.

Eusden could not decide if Burgaard’s no-show for his rendezvous with Norvig was good news or bad. It suggested his plans had misfired in some way. Maybe Vicky had proved a tougher nut to crack than he had anticipated. Maybe- But all speculation was idle. He had to get to Copenhagen pronto and head off whatever Burgaard had in mind. There was nothing else he could do.

He struck lucky with the buses on the main road and made it to the railway station with ten minutes to spare before the next train to Copenhagen. He managed one payphone call to the Phoenix before boarding and this time Vicky’s number was engaged. He did confirm his message had been delivered, however. And clearly she was there. He consoled himself that his effort had not been entirely in vain.

As the train eased out of the station, Eusden unrolled Burgaard’s family tree of the Nydahls and Aksdens. It was nothing if not precise, printed out, presumably, from one of his computer files.

So, there had been two Peder Aksdens. One had died in infancy. Then the new child had been given his dead brother’s name. There was nothing particularly unusual in that. But the first Peder did not feature on the Tasdrup gravestone, which was odd. He must have a separate grave, which Burgaard had not shown them. Eusden stared long and hard at the chart. Nothing else of significance leapt out at him. Eventually, he rolled it up again and stowed it in his bag.

Then he checked his coat pocket to confirm the attaché-case key was still there, which of course it was. He sat back and tried to calm himself. Vicky Shadbolt was a level-headed young woman. There was no reason why she should fall for whatever story Burgaard had cooked up. There was no reason, in short, why the day should end as badly as it had begun. Once he was in Copenhagen, he could put everything back on track. And in three hours he would be there.