‘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.’