Robert Goddard - Found Wanting

‘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.

‘So, are you in?’

It was Eusden’s concluding question after he had told Burgaard what they wanted him to do. The letters were waiting for them in Copenhagen: the letters that might reveal the secrets Hakon Nydahl and his friend Clem Hewitson had taken to their graves. It was unthinkable that Burgaard would spurn the chance to read them, but Eusden needed his explicit agreement. They were sitting in Burgaard’s stuffy, overheated, under-furnished lounge, drinking coffee and eyeing each other uncertainly.

‘I need a yes or a no, Karsten.’

‘You’re still not telling me everything, Mr Eusden.’

This was true. Eusden had omitted the Anastasia dimension altogether. If the letters touched on the subject, so be it. If not, it was an unnecessary complication. And he sensed simplicity was the key to securing Burgaard’s assistance. He either wanted to read the letters or not. Everything else could wait.

‘But I guess that doesn’t matter. These letters could be the breakthrough I need.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Then I’m in, of course.’

‘Good.’

‘When do you want to leave?’

‘Right away?’

‘We don’t need to do that. It’s three hours to Copenhagen, whether you drive or take the train. If we leave now, we’ll arrive in the middle of the night. This friend of Mr Hewitson…’

‘Vicky.’

‘Yes. Vicky. She’ll wait till morning, won’t she?’

‘Well… yes.’

‘OK, then. We’ll leave at four. Catch her early. I’ll drive us if you like. But I need to sleep first. You’re welcome to use the couch. It folds out.’

This was not as Eusden had envisaged. But he could not push matters without revealing Straub might be on their trail. ‘Thanks very much,’ he sighed.

‘Hold on.’

Burgaard rose and marched out to the kitchen with something decisive evidently in mind. Eusden glanced around the lounge. Apart from one framed print of a flat, wintry landscape – Burgaard’s native Falster, perhaps – there was nothing in the way of decoration. The flat felt sterile and impersonal: a place to sleep and little else, its tenant a solitary obsessive, his existence pared down to the thesis that would give it meaning. Eusden was really not sure he wanted such a man for a travelling companion. But his wants were far from paramount.

Then Burgaard was back, with a bottle and two shot glasses. ‘Schnapps, to toast our… collaboration.’

The schnapps was poured, the toast drunk, the glasses refilled. Eusden sipped the second. It was a heavy, bitter concoction.

‘I’m sorry Mr Hewitson is ill.’ Burgaard’s tone was singularly lacking in conviction.

‘Me too.’

‘Perhaps that’s why he was so… abrupt.’

‘Perhaps so.’

‘When I told you about all that Finnish currency Nydahl had in his apartment, I got the feeling… Mr Hewitson already knew.’

‘I’m impressed.’ Eusden smiled. ‘He did.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘So, he doesn’t trust you with everything.’

‘He does now he’s in hospital. He’s got no option.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure enough. The important thing is he’s trusting me – us – with the letters.’

‘Yes. The letters.’ Burgaard moved to the uncurtained window and gazed out at the nightscape of the university: lights gleaming in laboratories and seminar rooms and halls of residence, scattered between gulfs of darkness. ‘The letters must hold the answer, I suppose. Men kan det nu have sin rigtighed?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Excuse me. I said, “Can that really be true?” ’

‘Only one way to find out.’

‘Yes.’ Burgaard drained his glass. ‘Only one way.’

After a frugal supper of pickled herring and cheese washed down with beer, Burgaard headed for bed, promising to set his alarm for 3.30. Eusden could hardly keep his eyes open by then. The couch was more comfortable than it looked and he plunged at once into a deep sleep.

He woke several times only to relapse into slumber before his dulled senses registered that daylight was streaming greyly through the window. Then he started violently awake, aware that it had to be a good deal later than 3.30. A glance at his watch told him a story he could not at first believe. It was nearly half past ten in the morning. He and Burgaard should by rights have arrived in Copenhagen several hours previously. Instead-

He was alone in the flat. His instincts told him as much even before he checked. Burgaard’s bed had not been slept in. His coat, which had been hanging on a peg inside the front door, was missing. He had gone. Eusden’s brain was still struggling to engage a functioning gear. A residuum of drowsiness was sapping his thought processes. He could not understand what had happened. Where was Burgaard? What was going on?