‘Where’s “here”?’

‘I’m in a coffee shop. The one he said.’

‘In Copenhagen?’

‘Of course in Copenhagen.’

‘What are you hoping to discuss with Karsten?’

There was a pensive pause before Norvig replied. ‘Who did you say you were?’

‘Richard Eusden. A friend… from England.’

‘Where’s Karsten?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What are you doing in his flat?’

‘I’ve… been staying with him. But listen. Were you hoping Karsten could give you some information about… Tolmar Aksden?’

Norvig’s tone suddenly became flat and defensive. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Ask Karsten to call me if you hear from him.’

‘You’d better give me your number.’

‘He’s got my number.’

‘Give it to me anyway. Just in-’

But Norvig was giving nothing. He had rung off.

Eusden could not decide if Burgaard’s no-show for his rendezvous with Norvig was good news or bad. It suggested his plans had misfired in some way. Maybe Vicky had proved a tougher nut to crack than he had anticipated. Maybe- But all speculation was idle. He had to get to Copenhagen pronto and head off whatever Burgaard had in mind. There was nothing else he could do.

He struck lucky with the buses on the main road and made it to the railway station with ten minutes to spare before the next train to Copenhagen. He managed one payphone call to the Phoenix before boarding and this time Vicky’s number was engaged. He did confirm his message had been delivered, however. And clearly she was there. He consoled himself that his effort had not been entirely in vain.

As the train eased out of the station, Eusden unrolled Burgaard’s family tree of the Nydahls and Aksdens. It was nothing if not precise, printed out, presumably, from one of his computer files.

So, there had been two Peder Aksdens. One had died in infancy. Then the new child had been given his dead brother’s name. There was nothing particularly unusual in that. But the first Peder did not feature on the Tasdrup gravestone, which was odd. He must have a separate grave, which Burgaard had not shown them. Eusden stared long and hard at the chart. Nothing else of significance leapt out at him. Eventually, he rolled it up again and stowed it in his bag.

Then he checked his coat pocket to confirm the attaché-case key was still there, which of course it was. He sat back and tried to calm himself. Vicky Shadbolt was a level-headed young woman. There was no reason why she should fall for whatever story Burgaard had cooked up. There was no reason, in short, why the day should end as badly as it had begun. Once he was in Copenhagen, he could put everything back on track. And in three hours he would be there.

Copenhagen central station was the disorientating mix of stairways, walkways, neon-lit signs and swirling crowds to which Eusden was now becoming inured. He had been to the city once before, in the summer of 1989, with Gemma and her niece, Holly, who had begged to be taken to see the Little Mermaid on her home turf (or surf) after repeated viewings of the Disney film. Holly had enjoyed herself, undismayed by the modest scale of the Mermaid’s statue and revelling in the carnival delights of Tivoli Gardens. Unfortunately, she was the only one who had a good time, Gemma and Richard’s relationship having entered a fractious phase which wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen had proved powerless to resist.

At least, however, it had been warm and sunny. The afternoon into which Eusden emerged from the station was bleak and grey and sleety. An entrance to Tivoli met his gaze on the other side of the street, but the park was closed for winter. He was alone. Squabbling with Gemma did not seem such a bad memory when set against his problems of recent days. And the queue for a taxi looked long and cold.

The Phoenix was at the smart, sophisticated end of town, near Kongens Nytorv and the royal palace. Gleaming marble and glittering chandeliers greeted the weary traveller. Eusden supposed Marty had stayed there during his research visit, true to his policy of dying in comfort. It was hard to imagine Vicky Shadbolt feeling at ease in such opulent surroundings, but love, especially the hopeless, unrequited kind, works many a wonder, as Eusden well knew.

Nor, as it dismayingly transpired, had Vicky lingered long in four-star luxury. ‘Ms Shadbolt checked out earlier, sir,’ the receptionist announced.

Eusden booked himself in because he was, for the moment, too frustrated and confused to know what else to do. His top-floor room, set in the mansarded roof, gave him a wide-ranging view of numerous other roofs, but nothing else. The panorama of louring sky, domes, gables, slates, gutters, chimneys and fire-escapes was a metaphor for his plight. He could see a lot, but none of what really mattered.

He had no choice now but to contact Marty and tell him the worst. Where Vicky might be he had no idea. What had become of the attaché case he did not care to ponder. The situation was about as bad as it could be.

But putting Marty in the calamitous picture was far from straightforward. Århus Kommunehospital did not connect callers with its patients at the caller’s say-so. A message would be passed. Hr Hewitson, if he was well enough and if he wanted to, would phone him back. The urgency of the message was noted. But nothing could be guaranteed. Hr Hewitson was, for the record, ‘reasonably well’.

Nearly an hour passed, during which Eusden raided the mini-bar, flicked through innumerable brain-rotting TV channels and stared out at the slowly darkening roofscape. Then the telephone rang.

‘What gives, Richard?’ Marty asked, sounding disconcertingly chirpy.

‘She’s not here, Marty. I’ve lost her.’

‘I know. Because what you’ve lost I’ve found.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Vicky’s here. With me. Well, not with me at the moment, as it happens. She’s gone to find a hotel. But she’ll be back.’ Marty sighed. ‘I have her word on it.’

‘Vicky’s in Århus?’

‘When neither of us showed up this morning in Copenhagen, she phoned the Royal again. They told her where I was. As I predicted, she reacted by rushing straight to my bedside. Chairside, I should say. I’m feeling – and moving – a lot better today.’

‘You sound better too.’

‘Yeah. Which is quite some achievement, considering I’ve had to worry all day about what the hell you’ve been up to. What kept you?’

‘Burgaard. He slipped me a Mickey Finn and left me to sleep it off at his flat. I assumed he’d planned to drive here and try to persuade Vicky to hand over the case. Hasn’t she seen him?’

‘Nope.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense. He knew she was here and he had a head start on me. What was the point of drugging me otherwise?’

‘I don’t know. But we’ll obviously have to find a new translator. I told you Burgaard was a wrong’un.’

Eusden could not actually recall any such warning, but he was in no mood to argue. He was merely relieved that chance and circumstance had somehow contrived to rescue them. ‘What do we do now, Marty?’

‘We keep our heads, Coningsby, that’s what we do. Everything’s under control, thanks to my powers of foresight. Vicky deposited the case, as per my instructions, with a lawyer in Copenhagen I primed before I left. I’ll phone him and say you’re authorized to collect it on my behalf.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me that before I set off?’

‘Because I reckoned the less there was for you to let slip to Burgaard the better. And I reckoned right, didn’t I? Now, listen. The lawyer’s name is Kjeldsen. Anders Kjeldsen. He’s got an office in Jorcks Passage, off Strøget. Y’know? The main pedestrian street through the centre.’

Eusden sighed. ‘I know it.’

‘Right. Wait till the morning. I might have trouble raising him this afternoon. Then pick up the case and sit tight till I arrive. Book me a room at the Phoenix.’