Robert Goddard - Found Wanting

‘It was stupid of her to think she could just walk away from Tolmar. She should have known he wouldn’t let her treat him like that.’

‘And that’s your rationale, is it? Do what he wants or suffer the consequences.’

‘It’s how it is.’

‘My God.’

Silence fell between them. Eusden had no questions left to ask and no words to describe the disbelief he felt that any man could live by such pitiless rules. They had joined a dual carriageway by now, tracking north and east. The airport symbol had appeared on signs beside the road. There were only seven kilometres to go. Eusden’s thoughts drifted to how it must have been at Koskinen’s house, less than an hour ago: Pernille, Matalainen, Brad and Vladimir seated round a table, with Lund’s two security men in the background; the wary discussions; the telephone call; the rotation of the combination cylinder on the case Pernille had brought with her; the release of the-

Eusden was flung forward as Lund slammed on the brakes. He had forgotten to fasten his seat belt. He got his hands up just in time to prevent his head hitting the windscreen, but the gun slipped from his grasp and clunked to the floor. The car swerved to the side of the road and skidded to a halt a few inches from a crash barrier. Lund made a dive for the gun and had his fingers on the butt when Eusden’s reactions caught up with him. He stamped on the Dane’s outstretched hand. Lund cried out in pain. Then Eusden grabbed him by the nape hair, yanked his head up and punched him hard on the nose. As Lund fell back, Eusden bent forward and retrieved the gun.

Blood was welling from the Dane’s nostrils. He was breathing heavily through his mouth and clutching his nose with one hand while he shook the other to ease the pain in his fingers. He cowered away from the gun as Eusden pointed it at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he panted. ‘Sorry.’

‘Get out of the car.’

‘What?’

‘Give me your phone and your wallet and get out of the car.’

‘Look, I’ll drive you to the airport. It’s OK. I won’t-’

‘Get out!’ Eusden edged the barrel of the gun closer to Lund’s face. ‘Or I swear to God I’ll do the human race a big favour and put an end to your miserable, morally bankrupt life here and now.’

Night was falling by the time Eusden reached Vantaa airport. He left the Saab in one of the car parks, with Lund’s wallet locked inside. He had only taken it to slow the man down. He had no faith in Lund’s promise to say nothing to Tolmar Aksden. He tossed the key into some bushes next to the car park. Using the Saab again would be too risky.

Not that he had any clear idea of what he was going to do from this moment on. How much to tell Regina Celeste was the first problem he had to confront. She would soon realize all was not well with him. He cleaned himself up as best he could in the airport toilets, but his reflection in the mirror told its own story. He looked haggard and distraught. He looked like a man whose resources were failing him.

They undeniably were. The grief he felt for Pernille Madsen, a woman he scarcely knew by all logical criteria, had shocked as well as sapped him. Her death cut off a future he had just begun to dare to imagine. It had stripped him of hope. What remained was an urge to avenge her. He had come closer to killing Lund than the Dane probably imagined and certainly closer than he himself would ever have expected. If Tolmar Aksden had been in the car instead of Lund, Eusden would have pulled the trigger. He had no doubt of that. And he still had the gun.

He used a wad of euros from Lund’s wallet to buy a warm coat from one of the airport shops. It had pockets large enough to conceal the gun and made him look rather less like a man who has recently been roughed up by gangsters. He checked the arrivals board for news of Regina’s flight. It was expected in on schedule. Then he noticed another flight due in a quarter of an hour earlier, from Zürich. He remembered Brad’s reference to the Orson Welles jibe about cuckoo clocks and wondered if Bruno the fingerprint expert would be on board. If so, there would be no one waiting to meet him. Unless Eusden did the honours.

There were several limo-drivers holding up name cards when the first of the Zürich passengers made it to the arrivals hall. Eusden loitered among them, with BRUNO blazoned on the lid of a box he had cadged from a fast-food kiosk.

The man who approached him was short and tubby, clad in well-cut tweed and a python of cashmere scarf. Groomed dark-brown hair, clipped moustache and tortoiseshell-framed glasses gave him the appearance of a vain and fussy professor.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded in Italian-accented English.

‘A friend of Brad’s.’

‘Name?’

‘Marty Hewitson.’ Recourse to Marty’s identity as a pseudonym was so instinctive that Eusden was surprised when he heard himself say it.

‘Brad’s never mentioned you. Why isn’t he here?’

‘Unforeseen circumstances.’

‘I should have had a message if there was a change of plan.’

Eusden shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

Bruno pulled out his phone with a put-upon harrumph and stabbed in a number with a cocktail-sausage forefinger. The response did not please him. He tried again, with the same result. ‘There’s something wrong. Brad’s phone is dead.’

‘Look, Bruno, I-’

‘My name is Stammati. I am Bruno to my friends. You I have never met.’

‘OK, Mr Stammati. Sorry, I’m sure. Now, as you know, Brad wants you to confirm a match between two sets of fingerprints. I have one set with me. The other’s arriving with a Mrs Celeste on a flight from Copenhagen due in very shortly. Any objection to casting your eye over them while we wait for word from Brad?’

Stammati looked as if he did object, but was constrained by his obligation to Brad. His moustache twitched querulously, then he said, ‘I will wait in that café’ – he pointed to a coffee-bean logo in the middle distance – ‘for one half-hour.’ And with that he bustled off.

Eusden decided against following Stammati. He suspected attempts to charm the man would prove disastrous and was not equal to making the effort anyway. He did not have to stick it out long in the arrivals hall, although Regina was not among the first clutch of Copenhagen passengers to emerge from Customs. Delayed by collection and trolleying of a gigantic suitcase, she finally appeared with only five minutes of Stammati’s allotted half-hour remaining.

‘I expected a triumphant greeting, Richard,’ she said, looking him up and down. ‘What in the world’s happened to you?’

‘It’s been a stressful day.’

‘So I see.’

‘I have a not-so-tame fingerprint expert parked nearby, Regina. He’s liable to walk out on us if we don’t step on it.’

‘Who needs an expert? You and I are perfectly capable of judging whether two sets of fingerprints match. And match I’m confident they will.’

‘Me too. But we may as well get a neutral opinion while it’s available.’

‘All right, all right. Just let me catch my breath. And steer this for me, would you?’ She swung the handle of the trolley towards him. ‘Then we’ll go see this so-called expert. Where’d you find him?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Can I at least take a peek at what you have before we meet him?’

Eusden took the envelope from his pocket and showed it to her. At the sight of the double-headed eagle of the Romanovs, her eyes rolled.

‘Be still, my beating heart,’ she gasped.

The pastelly plasticated decor of the Café Quick appeared to have done nothing to soften Stammati’s temper. He broke off from glaring grumpily at his pseudo-espresso to announce, ‘Brad has not phoned me.’