But the only ticket he bought was back into Copenhagen. He would face down Kjeldsen and offer him a stark choice: surrender the case, or answer to the police. And then… he did not know. But he did know it was time to act.
It was only just gone five when he reached Jorcks Passage. Night was falling, icy cold and cellar-damp. He hurried up the stairs to Kjeldsen’s office, unwilling to wait for the lift. The door was closed and locked. There was no answer to his knock. He was barely late for their appointment. But Kjeldsen was gone – probably long gone.
Eusden hammered on the door and shouted the lawyer’s name. It made no difference. There was no response. He stood on the drab, dully lit landing, breathing heavily, sweating despite the chill of the air. He was enraged as well as frightened. He either fought back now or he fled. It was as simple as that. And for Marty’s sake, if not his own, there was really no choice.
But he stood little chance of accomplishing anything on his own. He needed help. And he needed it fast. He pulled out his phone, squinted at the number written on the scrap of pink newspaper in his hand and stabbed at the buttons.
TWENTY-FOUR
‘Tell me again what’s in the case,’ said Henning Norvig.
They were sitting in Norvig’s car in a quiet residential street in the well-to-do suburb of Hellerup, parked in the deep shadow of a silver birch tree a short distance from the large semi-detached house where Anders Kjeldsen lived alone, following the break-up of his marriage. Norvig was, as Eusden had hoped, very well-informed. Though not quite as well-informed as he would clearly have liked.
‘I’m only helping you because you promised me dirt on Tolmar Aksden, Richard. So, are you sure you can deliver?’
‘Doesn’t the fact that Kjeldsen’s stolen the case prove the contents are hot stuff?’ Eusden responded, coughing in the stale, smoky air. Norvig had worked his way through half a pack of Prince cigarettes since they had stationed themselves outside Kjeldsen’s house. The lights were on and the lawyer’s Volvo was parked in the drive, but of the lawyer himself there had been no sign. His telephone number had been engaged on the two occasions Norvig had dialled it, suggesting he was not passing an idle evening in front of the television. Beyond that, Norvig had nothing to go on but what Eusden had told him. And it was cold, dark and late.
‘Hot stuff,’ he murmured. ‘But can it burn Aksden?’
‘The case contains letters, sent to Marty’s grandfather before the War by Aksden’s great-uncle. Who else but Aksden could such letters damage?’
‘I don’t know. And you don’t know.’
‘But Kjeldsen knows.’
‘Ja. I guess so. And he’s what I’d call… hensynløs. Without scruple.’
‘How in God’s name did Marty come to choose him?’
‘He advertises in the Copenhagen Post – the English-language paper. Plus he’s cheap.’
‘How do you know so much about him?’
‘He works for people I write about.’
‘And what sort of people are they?’
‘Crooks in suits – cheap suits, naturally.’
‘Who hire a lawyer to match?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What’s he up to, do you think?’
‘Agreeing a sale. Negotiating. Fixing a price.’
‘Who with?’
‘Someone who doesn’t like Tolmar Aksden. A rival. An enemy. There’s quite a queue.’
‘What can we do?’
‘Nothing. Until he moves. It could be a long wait.’
‘Why don’t we just knock on his door?’
‘Because if he doesn’t have the case with him, we’re fucked. OK?’
‘OK.’
Eusden sighed and stretched his neck back against the headrest. Fatigue had sucked all the fury and much of the anxiety out of him. There was a chance – a reasonable one, given his track record – that Marty had simply changed his plans without telling him. And there was an even better chance that Norvig could turn the tables on Kjeldsen. Local knowledge was a precious commodity. All that was required to deploy it effectively was patience. He took out his phone and reread the message he had found on it earlier. Phone me asap, timed a few hours ago. It was terse even by Gemma’s standards. Presumably she wanted to rebuke him for keeping her in the dark about what he and Marty were up to. Actually, he thought, she ought to thank him. But putting her right on that, like so much else, would have to wait.
‘What do you know about Mjollnir’s takeover of Saukko Bank, Henning?’ he asked, determined to learn as much from Norvig as he could.
‘Not as much as I would if Karsten had made our meeting, I reckon. The deal didn’t seem so big when it happened, but it’s… kind of grown since. Saukko’s St Petersburg subsidiary gives Mjollnir a slice of more Russian companies than anyone realized at the time. That’s partly why their share price has gone up like a rocket. First Scandinavia. Now Russia. They just keep expanding. There’s no stopping the Invisible Man. But anyone can read that in the papers. Every fucking day you can read it. What I need is-’ Norvig broke off. Eusden sensed his sudden tension. ‘Look.’
A pair of headlamps threw their light into the street from the driveway of Anders Kjeldsen’s house. The lawyer’s Volvo eased into view, took a stately right turn and moved away from them. Norvig started up and followed at a cautious distance.
‘He’s heading for the main road. Going back to his office, maybe?’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘To pick up the case. I’m guessing it never left the safe. I doubt he had anywhere so secure at home. The question is: why pick it up now?’
‘Because whoever’s buying it won’t wait until tomorrow?’
‘Has to be. But they’ll meet on neutral ground, for sure, so we should be able to catch Kjeldsen on his own at Jorcks Passage. Easy, no?’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do, Richard, I do. Trust me.’
Eusden had no option but to trust Norvig. Kjeldsen joined the main road, as predicted, then followed a link road to the expressway into Copenhagen. Traffic was thin, visibility good. Keeping the Volvo within sight but hanging far enough back to avoid attracting the driver’s attention was a straightforward task. It became more complicated when they neared the city centre, with its light-controlled junctions. But Norvig knew what he was doing, judging any stops behind Kjeldsen perfectly so as to keep to the shadowy stretches between streetlamps. Besides, as he pointed out, the lawyer had no reason to think he might be followed. He was probably confident he had thoroughly outwitted Eusden.
But confidence can easily become complacency. Kjeldsen steered an undeviating course for Jorcks Passage, driving down past the old university buildings and the cathedral to Skindergade, then turning into the service yard next to the northern entrance to the arcade.
Norvig drove blithely by, glancing into the yard as he went. He pulled over a short distance further on and stopped. ‘Wait here for my signal,’ he ordered, then climbed out and jogged back along the pavement. Eusden turned round to watch him.
Norvig slowed as he neared the turning into the yard. Hugging the wall, he peered cautiously round the corner, then waved for Eusden to follow and vanished from sight.
Norvig was standing with his back against the service door into the building, holding it open, when Eusden caught up with him. The yard was full of shadow and silence, broken only by the tick-tick-tick of the Volvo’s cooling engine. Norvig smiled, his teeth gleaming ghostly pale through the gloom.
‘Kjeldsen was in a hurry,’ he whispered. ‘He left the door to swing shut and didn’t wait to check. Come on.’
They took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The landing was in darkness, but light glimmered at the edges of the lawyer’s office door.
‘I doubt he’s locked himself in.’ Norvig’s fingers curled cautiously round the handle. ‘Shall we join him?’ Without waiting for a response, he jerked the handle down and flung the door open.
Kjeldsen looked
up in alarm from behind his desk. His mouth dropped open. The only light in the room was from a green-shaded reading lamp to his right that turned his face into a pantomime-mask of horror. In front of him, on the desk, stood a battered old leather attaché case. The lid was half-raised, casting towards them a crooked shadow that began to waver in time to the trembling of Kjeldsen’s hand.
‘Skide,’ he said numbly, staring at Eusden. Then he let go of the lid. It fell shut. And on it, revealed by the light from the lamp, Eusden could see the stencilled initials CEH.
TWENTY-FIVE
Kjeldsen flopped down into the chair behind his desk and spread his hands in a gesture of helpless admission. ‘What can I say, Mr Eusden? I know this… looks bad.’
‘It looks what it is,’ said Eusden, advancing across the room. ‘Theft. Which you’re not going to get away with.’
Kjeldsen started to say something to Norvig in Danish, but the journalist cut him short. ‘Speak English.’
‘If you prefer.’ He smiled uneasily. ‘Norvig and I know each other, Mr Eusden. We’ve met… in court.’
‘And we’ll be meeting in court again after this.’ Norvig smiled back at the lawyer. ‘You’re in deep shit, my friend.’
Kjeldsen shrugged, as if he regarded that as an open question. ‘You know what the case contains, Mr Eusden?’
‘Letters from Hakon Nydahl to Clem Hewitson, written in the nineteen twenties and thirties.’
‘Ever seen them?’
‘Not till now.’ Eusden raised the lid. There they were in a slewed stack, resting on the faded green baize lining of the case: cream notepaper, filled with black-inked writing in a copperplate hand, the separate sheets of each letter held together with old paper clips that had begun to rust. Eusden picked up the topmost letter. There was an address: Skt Annæ Plads 39, København K, Danmark; a date: den 8. marts 1940; and a salutation: Kære Clem. Beneath, sentences in Danish swam across his gaze. It was bizarre but self-evidently true. Clem could read Danish.
‘That’s the most recent,’ said Kjeldsen. ‘The first one’s at the bottom. They cover fourteen years.’
Eusden shuffled through the stack to check. He glimpsed dates in receding order through the thirties and twenties until he came to the first: den 3. januar 1926. The handwriting was slightly more precise than fourteen years later, the strokes of the pen slightly stronger. But Nydahl and Clem had been on first-name terms from the start. That had not changed. Kære Clem…
‘You’ve read them?’ asked Norvig.
‘Ja.’ Kjeldsen nodded. ‘The whole lot.’
‘What are they about?’
‘Who are they about, you mean.’
‘OK. Who?’
‘Peder Aksden. Tolmar’s father. The letters are a record of his life, from sixteen to thirty.’
‘A record?’
‘Ja. Everything about him. What work he did on his parents’ farm. The girls he dated. The books he read. His hobbies. His opinions. His health. His… personality.’
‘That’s crazy. Why would Peder Aksden’s uncle write letters about all that to a retired British policeman?’
‘They’re not really letters to a friend, Henning. They’re reports. For posterity.’
‘Why should… posterity… be interested in Peder Aksden?’
‘Good question. Listen to this.’ Kjeldsen gestured to Eusden for permission to handle the letters. He was behaving meekly and contritely, like someone who accepted that the game was up – or like someone secure in the knowledge that he had the ace of trumps up his sleeve. ‘Is it OK… if I read to you from one?’
‘Go ahead.’
Kjeldsen eased out a letter from the stack, checked the date, then pulled it free. ‘November, 1938. Nydahl is worried about Peder’s engagement to a local girl. This is what he says. Henning can translate for you, Mr Eusden.’
Kjeldsen read the words in Danish, pausing at intervals to allow Norvig to catch up in English. ‘He is determined… to marry Hannah Friis… in the spring… Oluf and Gertrud are worried… and want me to decide…if I should stop him…I remember you and I discussed… the problems a family might cause… and whether we should ever allow him… to have one.’ At that Kjeldsen stopped reading and slid the letter back into place.
‘What “problems” is he talking about?’ asked Eusden.
Kjeldsen smiled thinly. He seemed to be growing more confident, despite the lack of obvious cause.
‘They emerge when you work your way through the letters,’ he replied enigmatically.
‘Why don’t you just tell us?’ demanded Norvig.
‘There’s not enough time.’
‘Bullshit.’ Norvig leant across the desk and looked Kjeldsen in the eye. ‘We’ve got all night.’
‘No. I’m supposed to meet the buyer in less than an hour. I’m already supposed to have phoned him to find out where.’
‘Bad luck.’
‘For you also, Henning. And for you, Mr Eusden. Very bad luck. I’d be willing in the circumstances to share the proceeds with you.’
‘There’s not going to be a sale,’ Eusden declared, reaching for the case.
But Kjeldsen was quicker. He grasped the handle tightly and declared bluntly, ‘Twenty million kroner.’
For a second, no one moved or spoke. Kjeldsen looked at Norvig, then at Eusden. He moistened his lips with his tongue.
‘Twenty million kroner,’ he said softly. ‘A little over two million pounds at the current exchange rate. That’s the price I’ve agreed. So, what do you say, gentlemen? Is it still no sale?’
‘Who’s your millionaire buyer?’ demanded Norvig.
‘It’s safer if you don’t know.’
‘It’s never safer for me not to know something.’
‘In this-’
The burbling of Kjeldsen’s mobile, which lay on the desk next to the case and began circling on its axis as it rang, cut him off. He looked enquiringly at Norvig and Eusden.
‘My buyer must’ve got tired of waiting for me to call.’
‘Let him go on waiting,’ said Eusden. He pushed the lid of the case down and let his hand rest on the rim, a few inches from Kjeldsen’s grip on the handle.
‘If I don’t answer, he’ll send his people to look for me.’
‘Answer it,’ said Norvig.
Eusden glanced round at him suspiciously, wondering for the first time whose side the journalist was on. Norvig shrugged.
Kjeldsen picked up the phone. ‘Ja?… No, there’s nothing wrong.’ He was speaking English, Eusden noticed, not Danish. Perhaps that meant his buyer was not Danish. ‘OK.’ Kjeldsen let go of the case, grabbed a pencil and scrawled something – a single word – on a notepad. ‘OK… Yes, I can find it… I understand… See you there.’ He rang off and glanced at his watch. ‘I’m due to meet them in half an hour.’
‘You can meet them whenever you like,’ said Eusden. ‘But you’re not taking this with you.’ He swung the case round and grasped the handle.
‘Hold on.’ Norvig slammed the flat of his hand down on the lid of the case. ‘Let’s all just… take a moment.’
‘Good idea,’ said Kjeldsen, sounding like the very embodiment of honey-toned reason. ‘Twenty million kroner in cash is something to take a moment to think about, no? A lot of problems solved. A lot of pleasures bought. Ours to share three ways.’ He glanced at Norvig. ‘Or two.’
‘This case belongs to Marty Hewitson,’ Eusden declared. ‘There’s no-’
‘What do the letters tell us, Anders?’ put in Norvig. ‘What exactly do they tell us?’
‘A secret. With a twenty million kroner price tag on it. Ten for you. Ten for me. The clock’s ticking, Henning.’
‘I’m taking this,’ said Eusden, tugging at the case. ‘Don’t try to-’
The blow took him unawares. Norvig’s fist landed sideways under his jaw, jerking his head back. He staggered away from the desk, the case no longer in his grasp. Before he had recovered, Norvig was between him and the desk.
‘I can’t let you fuck this up for me, Richard,’ he shouted, pushing him against the wall. ‘Twenty million’s too much to say no to.’
‘The case isn’t yours to sell,’ Eusden gasped. He was pinned by the shoulders and unable to move. Norvig was evidently stronger than he looked. ‘You agreed to help me.’
‘I am helping you. Give it up, Richard. Take your share.’
‘I don’t want a share of anything.’
‘Then take nothing. It’s up to you.’
‘You bastard.’
‘Karsten’s dead. Your friend Marty’s probably dead too. It’s time to get smart. Time to cash in.’
‘Let go of me.’
‘OK.’ Norvig released him. ‘OK.’ The journalist took a step back. He was breathing through gritted teeth. A rivulet of sweat was trickling down his temple. There was sorrow in his gaze. But it was not enough. Every man has his price. And Norvig’s was on the table. ‘Like you say, Richard, I agreed to help you. But now I’m helping myself. Don’t try to stop me.’
‘Give me that case.’ All Eusden could cling to was a stubborn assertion of his rights as Marty’s representative. He lunged towards the desk. Kjeldsen grabbed the case and jumped up from his chair.
Suddenly, Eusden’s leading foot was whipped from under him. Norvig added a shoulder barge to the trip. Caught off-balance, Eusden fell. He glimpsed the shadow-etched rim of the desk, closing fast, as he pitched sideways. Then… nothing.
TWENTY-SIX
Eusden was swinging gently in a hammock. His head ached. A glaring sun threatened to dazzle him if he opened his eyes. He did not know where he was, except that it was pleasanter by far than the alternative he sensed he would become aware of if he roused himself. Something was pushing him, setting off the sway of the hammock. His head throbbed. The threatening sun turned cold. His recent memories began to reassemble themselves into a more or less coherent knowledge of time and place. Then full recollection flooded into his mind like blood into a starved limb. He opened his eyes.
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