‘Seriously ill,’ the receptionist had said. And seriously ill was exactly what Marty looked, propped up in bed in a side ward of Århus Kommunehospital, attached to various drips, drains and monitors. According to the nursing staff, he had had a stroke, the severity of which only time could determine. He managed a smile when he saw Eusden, but it was a lopsided effort. The right side of his face was slack and it was his left hand he raised in greeting.

‘Hello, Richard,’ he said, his voice slurred as if he was drunk. ‘Good to see you.’

‘What the hell happened, Marty?’

‘A stroke, but not of luck. I was crossing the road to the bus stop after leaving that pizza parlour and I suddenly had to bolt for it when some bloke in a van nearly ran me over. Don’t let anyone ever tell you the Scandinavians are careful drivers. That one certainly wasn’t. Anyway, I made it to the bus stop, but then this splitting headache came on. Literally blinding. Next thing I know, I’m on the deck. Somebody took pity on me and called an ambulance. I can’t remember much about arriving here. They did a CT scan and found the tumour. The poor buggers assumed I didn’t know about it. I got the full breaking-bad-news works. They’ve lost interest now they know I was expecting something like this to happen.’

‘How bad is it?’

‘Too soon to say. The paralysis is only partial.’ Marty flexed his right arm feebly from the elbow. ‘And there’s a good chance it’s temporary. I might be back in fair working order within twenty-four hours. Then again… I might not.’

Eusden sighed. ‘I’m sorry we… parted the way we did, Marty.’

‘Don’t worry about it. You were right. I should’ve levelled with you. But better late than never, hey? I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘Would it involve Vicky Shadbolt, by any chance?’

‘Ah.’ Another half of a grin. ‘You know.’

‘The hotel asked me to bring you this message.’ Eusden handed Marty a sheet of paper on which was printed: Mr Hewitson – Vicky rang. She has arrived safely and will wait for you to contact her. ‘Where is she?’

‘Copenhagen.’

‘Doing?’

‘Me a favour. She has the attaché case, Richard. The real one, I mean. The one you took to Brussels was a ringer.’

‘What?’

‘Keep your voice down or they’ll chuck you out for upsetting me. It was like this. I felt pretty certain Werner was planning to double-cross me, so I set a trap for him. Bernie mocked up an old case with Clem’s initials on it. I’d never seen the original till Aunt Lily showed it to me, so I knew neither you nor Gemma were going to spot the difference. As for the contents, Bernie arranged with a Danish VAT fraudster he knows to have some letters written in old enough ink on old enough paper to pass muster. I don’t know what’s in them. The text of a few Hans Christian Andersen fairytales, I expect. Werner will have had the pleasure of reading them by now, so he’ll be on the warpath. Which means we have to move quickly. Or, rather, you do. I’m obviously not going anywhere for the moment.’

‘What exactly do you expect me to do?’

‘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.