Mikkel Birkegaard: The Library of Shadows

When Iversen finished his speech, a few people spontaneously applauded until they remembered where they were and fell silent. The priest once again appeared in the pulpit and insisted on singing one last hymn before they said goodbye. Jon followed the text in his hymnal but didn't participate in the song, unlike Iversen, who droned along unembarrassed at his side. For a moment Jon wondered whether he ought to feel guilty about not taking a greater part in the ceremony, but he shook off the thought by directing his gaze at the ceiling. Undoubtedly some of those present were surprised; they might even think he was arrogant, but that was their problem. They didn't know anything. For his part, it was just a matter of getting through the funeral and escaping into the fresh air.

When the hymn was over, Jon was one of the first to stand up.

Outside, those in attendance divided themselves into two groups, and Jon kept close to Iversen, who was the only person he knew. They were quickly joined by several others who praised Iversen for his speech and offered their condolences to Jon. Apparently everyone knew who he was, but at the same time he sensed a certain astonishment from those he greeted, as if they hadn't expected him to show up.

'You look exactly like him,' a middle-aged man in a wheelchair said bluntly. He introduced himself as William Kortmann, and Jon noticed that the wheelchair he was sitting in was completely black; even the spokes of the wheels were black. 'How strange that he didn't say anything,' Kortmann went on, but abruptly fell silent when he noticed Jon's surprised expression. 'Well, we need to be going,' he said, turning to a dark-clad man who stood alone a couple of metres away. As if by telepathy, the man turned around at once and came walking towards them.

'But of course we'll be seeing each other,' said the man in the wheelchair. 'I'm very much looking forward to working with a Campelli again.'

Before Jon had time to reply, Kortmann's wheelchair turned and he was pushed away from the chapel by his attendant.

'What was that all about?' Jon asked Iversen.

Iversen made a wry face. 'Er, hmm, he's from the… Reading Group.'

'But what kind of work did he mean?' Jon insisted.

'Let's take a walk,' said Iversen, drawing Jon away.

They left the gravel path and went into the cemetery. The autumn sun hung low in the sky, sending knife-sharp rays through the tree branches and making wavy patterns on the path in front of them. They walked for a while in silence. It was quiet in the older part of the cemetery, where the shrubs were so thick it was impossible to see through them, even though the leaves had begun to fall.

'Your father loved walking here.'

Jon nodded. 'I know. I once followed him on one of his walks. I must have been about nine; in any case it was before…' Jon paused and bent down to pick up an acorn from the ground. He turned it over in his fingers before he went on. 'I pretended I was a secret agent and sneaked after him. I tailed him, imagining he was meeting other spies and passing on information.' Jon cleared his throat and tossed away the acorn. 'Maybe I was a bit disappointed. He didn't do anything except walk among the graves. Occasionally he would stop, and a few times he sat down to read from a book he'd brought along, as if he were reading aloud for the dead.'

'That sounds just like him,' said Iversen with a chuckle. 'Always looking for an audience.'

'I wouldn't know,' said Jon.

They had reached the wall bordering Nшrrebrogade, where the ivy grew in abundance, covering the graves along the wall like a green snowfall.

'You realize you're going to inherit the bookshop, don't you?' said Iversen, keeping his eyes on the path in front of them.

Jon stopped and glanced at Iversen, who managed to take a couple more steps before he too came to a halt and turned round.

'There was no will, and as his only relative, you're the sole heir,' said Iversen, fixing his gaze on Jon. There wasn't a trace of bitterness or envy in the old man's eyes; instead, they seemed filled with concern or anxiety.

'I hadn't given it a thought,' said Jon. 'Was that what Kortmann meant when he said we'd be seeing each other again?'

Iversen nodded. 'Something like that, yes.'

Jon looked away. They continued walking.

'I was sure that Luca had left everything to you,' said Jon.

'Maybe your father hoped you would find your way back,' he suggested.

'ThatI would find my way back?' exclaimed Jon. 'As far as I recall, he was the one who didn't want anything to do with me the last time I contacted him.'

'I think… no, I'mcertain he had a good reason for that.'

They had reached the end of the wall and exited the cemetery through the gate to Jagtvej, where they turned right towards Runddelen. The traffic was a welcome contrast to the silence of the cemetery.

'I don't want anything to do with it,' said Jon firmly as they turned down Nшrrebrogade and headed back to the chapel. 'There won't be any problems. I have good legal contacts who can take care of this sort of thing. You've always been the right person to take over the place.'

Iversen cleared his throat so he could speak over the traffic noise. 'That's terribly nice of you, Jon. But I can't accept.'

'Of course you can,' said Jon. 'Luca owes it to you, and to me.'

'Perhaps,' Iversen admitted. 'But the bookshop isn't the whole thing. Your father's estate is more than a room full of old books.'

'Debts?'

'No, no, it's nothing like that, I can assure you.'

'Come on, Iversen. Let's not play a guessing game at the man's funeral,' said Jon, unable to hide his annoyance.

Iversen stopped and placed his hand on Jon's shoulder. 'I'm sorry, Jon. But I can't say anything more right now. You see, it's not my decision alone.'

Jon studied the man facing him. The expression in his eyes was both serious and sympathetic behind the sturdy frames of his steel-rimmed spectacles.

'That's okay, Iversen. Whatever the two of you have got yourselves mixed up in, it can wait until a more suitable moment. I suppose it's rather bad form to be discussing an inheritance at a funeral, isn't it?'

Iversen nodded with relief and gave Jon's shoulder an affectionate pat. 'You're right, of course. I just wanted to make sure that you're aware this isn't the end of the matter. Let's meet at the shop in the next few days so we can settle things.'

They had reached the intersection of Nшrrebrogade and Kapelvej, and Iversen made a move to turn back towards the chapel. Jon stopped and pointed to a bar on the other side of the street.

'I'm going to have a drink. Want to join me?' he asked. 'Isn't that part of going to a funeral?'

'No, thanks,' said Iversen. 'We're having a little get-together at the Society. You're welcome to come too, of course.'

Jon shook his head. 'Thanks anyway. See you later, Iversen.'

They shook hands, then Jon crossed the street and went inside the Clean Glass pub.

It was no more than two in the afternoon but the air was thick with smoke and the regular customers had already taken their places. They gave him a brief glance but clearly decided he was of no interest and went back to their beers.

Jon ordered a draught beer and sat down at a heavy wooden table, marred by beer rings and lit by a hanging copper lamp attached somewhere above the clouds of smoke. At a table opposite him sat a scrawny old man with pale skin, a crooked nose and wispy hair. The jacket he was wearing had patches on the sleeves, and the shirt underneath was wrinkled and far from clean. On the table in front of him stood a bottle of stout.

Jon offered the man a curt nod in greeting, but then he pulled out the Remer file from his briefcase so as not to invite further conversation. He sipped his beer as he studied the anonymous ring-binder. It was three days ago that he'd gone to Frank Halbech's office and officially received control of the Remer case. Halbech had to know what a reputation it had, but he ignored that and handed over the case almost as if it were a matter of a bicycle theft or a dispute between neighbours. The actual transfer consisted of Halbech tossing a bunch of keys on the table in front of Jon. The keys were attached to a ring adorned with a Smurf figure – Clever Smurf – and among them were the keys that provided access to the office set aside for the case, along with a number of filing cabinets. Jon would have to review the files on his own. Otherwise Halbech was more interested in which teachers Jon had studied with in law school and whether his father's death was going to affect his work. Jon assured him that Luca's death would have no impact on his work performance.