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.’