‘Mr Eusden?’ His voice was gravel mixed with treacle.

‘Yes. Hr Kjeldsen?’

‘Yes. I am Kjeldsen. Come in.’ He moved to a desk piled high with paperwork, propped his cigarette in an ashtray and turned to offer his hand. They shook. ‘Sit down. Please.’

Eusden sat as directed. Kjeldsen flopped into the chair on the other side of the desk and shaped an awkward smile. His manner suggested they were meeting to discuss a divorce or the death of a close relative. Eusden smiled himself, seeking to lighten the mood. ‘Marty spoke to you yesterday?’

‘Yes.’ Kjeldsen gave an exaggerated, donkeyish nod. ‘He did.’

‘So, can I have the case, please?’

‘Do you have ID?’

‘Sure.’ Eusden pulled out his passport.

‘Tak.’ Kjeldsen examined it briefly. Then his face crumpled into an apologetic grimace. ‘There is a problem, Mr Eusden.’

‘What kind of problem?’

‘A serious one. I do not have the case.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I am sorry.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Last night…’ Kjeldsen broke off for a drag on his cigarette, then began again. ‘Last night, someone came in here, opened the safe’ – he waved a hand towards the safe in question, which stood, stout and apparently secure, in a corner – ‘and stole some money, some jewellery I was storing for another client… and Mr Hewitson’s case.’

Eusden was at first too shocked to respond. Apart from anything else, there was no sign of a break-in or of any damage to the safe. For this at least Kjeldsen was swift to supply an explanation.

‘As I told the police, it is obvious who is responsible. I had to dismiss my secretary last week. She had become… unreliable. She knew the combination of the safe. She must have made a copy of the keys. So, she stole the money and the jewellery and took the case… hoping it contained something valuable. I did not mention the case to the police. I wanted to speak to you or Mr Hewitson first. Did it, in fact, contain something valuable – something easily converted into cash, I mean?’

‘Not easily, no.’ Eusden shook his head at the thought of how he was going to break this to Marty.

‘Then, she will probably get rid of it. She has probably already got rid of it. She knows I will send the police after her. Do you want me to tell them about it?’

‘Why not?’ Eusden threw the question at Kjeldsen like an accusation, though technically the only thing he could accuse him of was poor choice of secretarial staff.

‘There are sometimes reasons why people do not wish such things to be told to the authorities. But I will make sure the police know about the case, now that you have… cleared up the matter.’ Kjeldsen shrugged helplessly. ‘Though, as I say, she will almost certainly have thrown it away by this time. A canal; a skip: anywhere. There is nothing to say who owns it, so-’

‘How do you know that?’ The Foreign Office had honed Eusden’s analytical nature even if it had stifled his soul. There was a flaw in Kjeldsen’s logic. And he sensed it might be significant.

‘Know what… Mr Eusden?’ Kjeldsen asked, blatantly prevaricating.

‘How do you know there’s nothing to say who owns the case? Your former secretary will have broken it open before discarding it, won’t she? How do you know Marty’s name and address aren’t inside?’

‘I believe…’ Kjeldsen resorted to his cigarette to win further thinking time, but it had burned down nearly to the filter and he was obliged to content himself with a protracted stubbing-out. Then: ‘I believe Mr Hewitson said so. Or perhaps it was… Ms Shadbolt.’

The man was lying. That was clear. But just how big was the lie? ‘Where does your ex-secretary live, Hr Kjeldsen?’

‘I cannot tell you that, Mr Eusden. It is… a police matter. But they have promised to be in touch. And I will contact you as soon as I hear from them. You are staying at the Phoenix, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, wait for news, then, Mr Eusden. I am sorry. I am… professionally embarrassed. For such a thing to happen is… awful. I blame drugs. I suspect my secretary had… an expensive habit. Employing the right people… is so difficult.’

‘That’s certainly true.’ Eusden looked Kjeldsen in the eye, letting him understand exactly what he meant.

‘Please give my… personal apologies… to Mr Hewitson. All we can do now is… hope the police get lucky.’

‘You’ll let them know about the case?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘What’s the name of the officer handling the inquiry? I’d like to speak to him myself.’

Kjeldsen smiled unreassuringly. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘To make sure every effort to find the case is being made.’

‘You can leave that to me, Mr Eusden. I am sorry to say many of our police officers speak rather poor English. There would be confusion, miscommunication. I will ensure they do everything they need to do. And I will keep you informed of progress.’

‘If there is any.’

‘Let us say when there is any.’ Kjeldsen’s smile remained fixed in place. ‘We must try to be positive.’

TWENTY-THREE

Eusden was angry and frustrated. Angry because he was convinced it was Kjeldsen, not his phantom former secretary, who had stolen the case. Frustrated because he could hardly go straight to the police and confirm they had received no report of a burglary in Jorcks Passage, then lodge a complaint against Kjeldsen, since Marty had made it very clear police involvement in his activities was something he wished to avoid at all costs. Kjeldsen probably knew that and was trading on it. He must have broken into the case and judged he could make a lot of money out of the contents. How was an open question; how soon the more pressing issue.

Eusden had to speak to Marty. That at least was certain. But he would not be able to do so for several hours. A message was waiting for him at the Phoenix. Catching 11.54 train. Meet you at the hotel 4 p.m. Marty. Marty had been phoneless since Straub had stolen his mobile and would probably have kept it switched off even if he still had one. It would be mid-afternoon before Eusden could speak to him, out at the airport Hilton, a long way from Jorcks Passage.

That could not be helped. Or could it? Eusden suddenly realized there was a way to bring forward their meeting by an hour or so. Marty would have to change trains at Copenhagen central station and Eusden could be waiting for him when he stepped off the 11.54 from Århus.

That still left him with time to kill, which he resolved to put to good purpose by harassing Kjeldsen. He returned to Jorcks Passage and phoned the slippery lawyer on his mobile while loitering in the entrance to the arcade.

‘Any news from the police, Hr Kjeldsen?’

‘I regret not, Mr Eusden. But it is only… just over an hour… since we met. These things take time. Have you spoken with Mr Hewitson?’

‘Not yet. He’s arriving in Copenhagen later today. I’m sure he’ll want to hear your explanation of what happened in person.’

‘Bring him to see me, then. What time will he be arriving?’

‘We could be with you by five.’

I will expect you then.’

Eusden continued to loiter and was rewarded, twenty minutes later, by the sight of Kjeldsen emerging from the entrance to his office’s stairway at the other end of the arcade, muffled up in loden coat and scarf. He ambled off along Skindergade and Eusden followed at a discreet distance. There were enough shoppers about, and office workers taking their lunch breaks, for him to blend into the background. Kjeldsen appeared wholly unconcerned about the possibility of being tailed. An Italian restaurant in a small square nearby turned out to be his destination.

There was a café opposite, where Eusden nabbed a table with a suitable eyeline and washed a toasted sandwich down with a couple of Tuborg Grøns while monitoring Kjeldsen’s activities. He emerged from the restaurant after forty minutes or so, patting his stomach contentedly like someone who had put away a table d’hôte lunch with expeditious relish. Eusden had already settled up and exited with the lawyer still in view. Kjeldsen popped into a secondhand bookshop for a few minutes on his way back to Jorcks Passage, rounding off an entirely convincing performance in the role of a man going about his customary lunchtime routine.