Found Wanting (14 page)

‘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.