Robert Goddard - Found Wanting

He immersed his face in a basin of cold water. That seemed to clear some of the fug and enable him to concentrate. He must have been drugged to have slept so long and so soundly, which explained why he still felt woozy. Burgaard had slipped something into his schnapps or his beer. But why? Only one answer sprang to mind: he wanted the letters for himself. Collaboration did not interest him. Eusden had told him where they were and he must have backed himself to be capable of talking Vicky Shadbolt into handing over the attaché case. Eusden checked his coat pocket. The key was still there. He had not mentioned it last night. That was a very small mercy, however. The locks on the case could easily be forced.

Maybe it was not too late to warn Vicky. Eusden raced to the phone and called the Phoenix in Copenhagen. They rang her room, but got no answer. They could not say whether she was in or out. He left a message which he could only hope she would heed: Agree to nothing until I arrive – Richard Eusden. But Burgaard had already had half the morning to implement whatever plan he had cooked up.

The flat comprised a lounge, kitchen, shower room and two bedrooms, one of which Burgaard had converted into a study. It contained his desk and computer, plus half a dozen cardboard boxes crammed with papers. Each box had a word scrawled on the side in felt-tip: Mjollnir, Aksden, Saukko, Nydahl . Eusden wondered if he should look through them or try to access Burgaard’s computer files in search of clues to his intentions. But every minute he remained was a minute lost in reaching Vicky. And Burgaard would surely have taken anything vital with him. There was simply no time to sift through his records.

As Eusden turned to leave the room, he noticed a chart stuck to the back of the door. It was a family tree for the Nydahl/Aksden clan, meticulously drawn up with names and dates. Eusden remembered Burgaard drawing their attention to the lack of birth dates on the Aksden tombstone at Tasdrup church. But here they all were. He must have gone to the registration authorities to obtain them.

‘Is there more to it, Karsten?’

‘Oh, yes. Much more.’

Eusden pulled the chart free of its blobs of Blu-Tack and rolled it up. He would study it later. Then he headed back to the lounge, grabbed his coat and bag and made for the front door. He had no idea of the times of trains to Copenhagen, but he would have to be on the next one. Stopping at the hospital to tell Marty what had happened was not an option. Let him believe his old friend was in control of the situation, at least for a little longer. His recovery was not going to be aided by knowing Burgaard had outwitted them.

Eusden was halfway out of the door when the telephone rang. After a moment’s hesitation, he hurried back to answer it.

‘Hello?’

‘Karsten?’ A male voice, probably Danish, with an edge of suspicion – or anxiety.

‘No. He’s… not here. Who’s calling?’

‘Henning Norvig. Who’s that?’

‘Richard Eusden.’

‘Are you a friend of Karsten’s?’

‘Er… yes.’

‘Do you know where he is? He was supposed to be here an hour ago. I’ve tried his mobile, but it’s switched off.’

‘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.