Eusden had learnt nothing of the remotest value. He decided to head for the station.

The 11.54 from Århus, it transpired, ran through to the airport. Marty would not be getting off; Eusden would be getting on. He eked out an hour sipping Americanos in a coffee shop, watching the sky darken over Rådhuspladsen. Sleety rain began to fall. Eventually, the time came for him to return to the station.

He bought his ticket and went down to the platform. The Københavns Lufthavn train rolled in on schedule at 3.20. He did not catch sight of Marty as the carriages decelerated past him, but there were lots of people rising from their seats to disembark. He would find him soon enough.

The train had an eight-minute lay-over before proceeding. Eusden waited to see if Marty would get off for a smoke. He did not. Eusden boarded at the front and started working his way through the carriages. He reached the other end before the eight minutes were up. Marty was nowhere to be seen. He started retracing his steps. The train left the station. Still he could not find Marty.

It was a twelve-minute run to the airport. Long before the train arrived, Eusden knew what he could not quite bring himself to believe: Marty was not aboard.

He lingered in the foyer of the airport Hilton until gone four o’clock, clinging to the frail hope that Marty would still turn up. He did not. And it became bleakly obvious to Eusden that he was never going to. He phoned Århus Kommunehospital, who confirmed Marty had discharged himself earlier in the day; he was no longer any concern of theirs.

But he remained of great concern to Eusden, who could think only of sinister explanations for his friend’s failure to make it to Copenhagen. He phoned the Phoenix. There was no message for him, from Marty or anyone else. But Marty’s earlier message had been clear. Catching 11.54 train. Yet he had not caught it. Or if he had, he had got off somewhere along the way. Why would he have done that? He had been intent on reaching Copenhagen that day. Hence his insistence on leaving the hospital. He would surely not have got off the train unless compelled to do so.

Eusden thought about the van that had nearly run Marty down and the car crash that had killed Burgaard. He wondered, chillingly, if he had made it to Copenhagen himself only because whoever had run Burgaard off the road thought he was in the car as well. That made his survival an oversight, a discrepancy to be corrected as soon as it was deemed convenient.

He walked out of the hotel into the airport, his legs rubbery, his mind scrambled. He felt like a ghost, drifting through the bustling crowds of travellers: the businessmen, the tourists, the family groups. Everyone was going somewhere, except him. He gazed up at the departures board. Every destination offered him an escape route. He could return to London. He could jet off to Bangkok or New York or… anywhere he chose. He had the means. He had the opportunity. And he had the reason. All he needed to do now was walk up to one of the airline desks, flash his credit card… and fly away from all this.

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.

‘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.’