'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?

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 attache 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 attache-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.

KBENHAVN.

NINETEEN.

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.

He had no choice now but to contact Marty and tell him the worst. Where Vicky might be he had no idea. What had become of the attache case he did not care to ponder. The situation was about as bad as it could be.

But putting Marty in the calamitous picture was far from straightforward. rhus Kommunehospital did not connect callers with its patients at the caller's say-so. A message would be passed. Hr Hewitson, if he was well enough and if he wanted to, would phone him back. The urgency of the message was noted. But nothing could be guaranteed. Hr Hewitson was, for the record, 'reasonably well'.

Nearly an hour passed, during which Eusden raided the mini-bar, flicked through innumerable brain-rotting TV channels and stared out at the slowly darkening roofscape. Then the telephone rang.

'What gives, Richard?' Marty asked, sounding disconcertingly chirpy.

'She's not here, Marty. I've lost her.'

'I know. Because what you've lost I've found.'

'Sorry?'

'Vicky's here. With me. Well, not with me at the moment, as it happens. She's gone to find a hotel. But she'll be back.' Marty sighed. 'I have her word on it.'

'Vicky's in rhus?'

'When neither of us showed up this morning in Copenhagen, she phoned the Royal again. They told her where I was. As I predicted, she reacted by rushing straight to my bedside. Chairside, I should say. I'm feeling and moving a lot better today.'

'You sound better too.'

'Yeah. Which is quite some achievement, considering I've had to worry all day about what the hell you've been up to. What kept you?'

'Burgaard. He slipped me a Mickey Finn and left me to sleep it off at his flat. I assumed he'd planned to drive here and try to persuade Vicky to hand over the case. Hasn't she seen him?'

'Nope.'

'That doesn't make any sense. He knew she was here and he had a head start on me. What was the point of drugging me otherwise?'

'I don't know. But we'll obviously have to find a new translator. I told you Burgaard was a wrong'un.'

Eusden could not actually recall any such warning, but he was in no mood to argue. He was merely relieved that chance and circumstance had somehow contrived to rescue them. 'What do we do now, Marty?'

'We keep our heads, Coningsby, that's what we do. Everything's under control, thanks to my powers of foresight. Vicky deposited the case, as per my instructions, with a lawyer in Copenhagen I primed before I left. I'll phone him and say you're authorized to collect it on my behalf.'

'Why the hell didn't you tell me that before I set off?'

'Because I reckoned the less there was for you to let slip to Burgaard the better. And I reckoned right, didn't I? Now, listen. The lawyer's name is Kjeldsen. Anders Kjeldsen. He's got an office in Jorcks Passage, off Strget. Y'know? The main pedestrian street through the centre.'

Eusden sighed. 'I know it.'

'Right. Wait till the morning. I might have trouble raising him this afternoon. Then pick up the case and sit tight till I arrive. Book me a room at the Phoenix.'

'You're coming here?'

'Why not? The doc seems to think I should be well enough to leave by tomorrow. Besides, they know there's nothing they can do for me. I'm a model of mobility for someone thirty years older and I'm back elocuting like a BBC announcer. I'll get Bernie to order Vicky home and then I'll train it to Copenhagen. Oh, and I'll ask Kjeldsen to recommend a translator. We need to make up for lost time.'

'Aren't you supposed to be taking it easy?' Marty's buoyant tone was beginning to worry Eusden. He sounded positively exuberant, like a man given a second chance or a last one.

'Don't worry about me, Richard. I'll be fine.'

But Eusden was worried. And not just about Marty. The thrill of the chase was wearing thin. Every step they took to uncover Clem's secret past seemed to leave them just as far from doing so as they had always been. He could not justify extending his absence from the office beyond a week, even to humour a dying friend. Despite Marty's disdain of his Civil Service career, there actually were working commitments he had to honour. It was already Thursday and he could not devote more than another couple of days to Marty's escapade. An end, of some kind, was fast approaching.

Until the next day, however, there was nothing for Eusden to do but wait. He struck out into the Copenhagen dusk on foot, hoping to walk off his fretfulness. He had to maintain a stiff pace just to stay warm. His route took him through the palace square, where Holly had hooted with laughter when he was bawled out by one of the guards for trespassing over the chain round the statue of yet another Danish king on horseback (Frederick V, this time), and out along Amaliegade to the waterside park where the Little Mermaid was to be found, perched on her rock. The fountain at the entrance to the park, where they had lazed in the sun, was frozen solid and the moat round the old citadel further in was iced over. Flecks of snow were drifting down from a darkening sky. It was cold enough to deter all but the hardiest.

A couple of joggers were nonetheless doing circuits of the citadel's protective earth rampart. Eusden set out to walk a circuit himself before returning to the city centre. As he progressed, he noticed another man walking behind him, keeping pace with him more or less exactly. Casting his mind back, he realized he had seen the same man loitering in the palace square while he had read the plaque on the plinth supporting Frederick V's statue. He was a stockily built fellow of thirty-five or so, dressed in jeans, leather jacket and woolly hat. Eusden told himself the idea that he was being followed was absurd, but when he stopped to gaze out over the harbour, so did his shadow. When he moved, the shadow also moved.

Disquieted but still keen to believe it amounted to nothing, Eusden cut short his circuit and hurried back out of the park. On his way in he had spotted a ferry heading across the harbour from a nearby jetty, so he took a hopeful turn in that direction as he left and was rewarded by the sight of another ferry easing in towards the jetty. He quickened his pace.

Turnaround was swift on the 901 harbour bus, destination for Eusden immaterial. He paid his thirty kroner and took a seat. There were only two other passengers aboard, a couple of tourists in day-glo parkas. But a breathless latecomer joined them at the last minute.

The man pulled off his woolly hat as he sat down and glanced round at Eusden. His hair was short-cropped blond, his face wide, eyes blue and watchful, jaw square. He slid a rolled newspaper out from his jacket and began to study a front-page article. It was the same pink business paper Brsen that Burgaard favoured. Eusden glimpsed a familiar name Mjollnir in a headline.

The ferry made two stops on the other side of the harbour in Christianshavn, before crossing back again, to Nyhavn. If Eusden stayed on beyond Nyhavn, it meant a longer walk back to the Phoenix. He debated with himself what to do, then yielded to impulse. 'I'm getting off at the next stop,' he said, tapping his shadow on the shoulder. 'What about you?'

The man turned and looked at him with an ironical tilt of one eyebrow. 'The same,' he said softly.

'You've been following me.'

'Have I?'

'Yes.'