'Let us say when there is any.' Kjeldsen's smile remained fixed in place. 'We must try to be positive.'

TWENTY-THREE.

Eusden was angry and frustrated. Angry because he was convinced it was Kjeldsen, not his phantom former secretary, who had stolen the case. Frustrated because he could hardly go straight to the police and confirm they had received no report of a burglary in Jorcks Passage, then lodge a complaint against Kjeldsen, since Marty had made it very clear police involvement in his activities was something he wished to avoid at all costs. Kjeldsen probably knew that and was trading on it. He must have broken into the case and judged he could make a lot of money out of the contents. How was an open question; how soon the more pressing issue.

Eusden had to speak to Marty. That at least was certain. But he would not be able to do so for several hours. A message was waiting for him at the Phoenix. Catching 11.54 train. Meet you at the hotel 4 p.m. Marty. Marty had been phoneless since Straub had stolen his mobile and would probably have kept it switched off even if he still had one. It would be mid-afternoon before Eusden could speak to him, out at the airport Hilton, a long way from Jorcks Passage.

That could not be helped. Or could it? Eusden suddenly realized there was a way to bring forward their meeting by an hour or so. Marty would have to change trains at Copenhagen central station and Eusden could be waiting for him when he stepped off the 11.54 from rhus.

That still left him with time to kill, which he resolved to put to good purpose by harassing Kjeldsen. He returned to Jorcks Passage and phoned the slippery lawyer on his mobile while loitering in the entrance to the arcade.

'Any news from the police, Hr Kjeldsen?'

'I regret not, Mr Eusden. But it is only... just over an hour... since we met. These things take time. Have you spoken with Mr Hewitson?'

'Not yet. He's arriving in Copenhagen later today. I'm sure he'll want to hear your explanation of what happened in person.'

'Bring him to see me, then. What time will he be arriving?'

'We could be with you by five.'

I will expect you then.'

Eusden continued to loiter and was rewarded, twenty minutes later, by the sight of Kjeldsen emerging from the entrance to his office's stairway at the other end of the arcade, muffled up in loden coat and scarf. He ambled off along Skindergade and Eusden followed at a discreet distance. There were enough shoppers about, and office workers taking their lunch breaks, for him to blend into the background. Kjeldsen appeared wholly unconcerned about the possibility of being tailed. An Italian restaurant in a small square nearby turned out to be his destination.

There was a cafe opposite, where Eusden nabbed a table with a suitable eyeline and washed a toasted sandwich down with a couple of Tuborg Grns while monitoring Kjeldsen's activities. He emerged from the restaurant after forty minutes or so, patting his stomach contentedly like someone who had put away a table d'hte lunch with expeditious relish. Eusden had already settled up and exited with the lawyer still in view. Kjeldsen popped into a secondhand bookshop for a few minutes on his way back to Jorcks Passage, rounding off an entirely convincing performance in the role of a man going about his customary lunchtime routine.

Eusden had learnt nothing of the remotest value. He decided to head for the station.

The 11.54 from rhus, it transpired, ran through to the airport. Marty would not be getting off; Eusden would be getting on. He eked out an hour sipping Americanos in a coffee shop, watching the sky darken over Radhuspladsen. Sleety rain began to fall. Eventually, the time came for him to return to the station.

He bought his ticket and went down to the platform. The Kbenhavns Lufthavn train rolled in on schedule at 3.20. He did not catch sight of Marty as the carriages decelerated past him, but there were lots of people rising from their seats to disembark. He would find him soon enough.

The train had an eight-minute lay-over before proceeding. Eusden waited to see if Marty would get off for a smoke. He did not. Eusden boarded at the front and started working his way through the carriages. He reached the other end before the eight minutes were up. Marty was nowhere to be seen. He started retracing his steps. The train left the station. Still he could not find Marty.

It was a twelve-minute run to the airport. Long before the train arrived, Eusden knew what he could not quite bring himself to believe: Marty was not aboard.

He lingered in the foyer of the airport Hilton until gone four o'clock, clinging to the frail hope that Marty would still turn up. He did not. And it became bleakly obvious to Eusden that he was never going to. He phoned rhus Kommunehospital, who confirmed Marty had discharged himself earlier in the day; he was no longer any concern of theirs.

But he remained of great concern to Eusden, who could think only of sinister explanations for his friend's failure to make it to Copenhagen. He phoned the Phoenix. There was no message for him, from Marty or anyone else. But Marty's earlier message had been clear. Catching 11.54 train. Yet he had not caught it. Or if he had, he had got off somewhere along the way. Why would he have done that? He had been intent on reaching Copenhagen that day. Hence his insistence on leaving the hospital. He would surely not have got off the train unless compelled to do so.

Eusden thought about the van that had nearly run Marty down and the car crash that had killed Burgaard. He wondered, chillingly, if he had made it to Copenhagen himself only because whoever had run Burgaard off the road thought he was in the car as well. That made his survival an oversight, a discrepancy to be corrected as soon as it was deemed convenient.

He walked out of the hotel into the airport, his legs rubbery, his mind scrambled. He felt like a ghost, drifting through the bustling crowds of travellers: the businessmen, the tourists, the family groups. Everyone was going somewhere, except him. He gazed up at the departures board. Every destination offered him an escape route. He could return to London. He could jet off to Bangkok or New York or... anywhere he chose. He had the means. He had the opportunity. And he had the reason. All he needed to do now was walk up to one of the airline desks, flash his credit card... and fly away from all this.

But the only ticket he bought was back into Copenhagen. He would face down Kjeldsen and offer him a stark choice: surrender the case, or answer to the police. And then... he did not know. But he did know it was time to act.

It was only just gone five when he reached Jorcks Passage. Night was falling, icy cold and cellar-damp. He hurried up the stairs to Kjeldsen's office, unwilling to wait for the lift. The door was closed and locked. There was no answer to his knock. He was barely late for their appointment. But Kjeldsen was gone probably long gone.

Eusden hammered on the door and shouted the lawyer's name. It made no difference. There was no response. He stood on the drab, dully lit landing, breathing heavily, sweating despite the chill of the air. He was enraged as well as frightened. He either fought back now or he fled. It was as simple as that. And for Marty's sake, if not his own, there was really no choice.

But he stood little chance of accomplishing anything on his own. He needed help. And he needed it fast. He pulled out his phone, squinted at the number written on the scrap of pink newspaper in his hand and stabbed at the buttons.

TWENTY-FOUR.

'Tell me again what's in the case,' said Henning Norvig.

They were sitting in Norvig's car in a quiet residential street in the well-to-do suburb of Hellerup, parked in the deep shadow of a silver birch tree a short distance from the large semi-detached house where Anders Kjeldsen lived alone, following the break-up of his marriage. Norvig was, as Eusden had hoped, very well-informed. Though not quite as well-informed as he would clearly have liked.

'I'm only helping you because you promised me dirt on Tolmar Aksden, Richard. So, are you sure you can deliver?'

'Doesn't the fact that Kjeldsen's stolen the case prove the contents are hot stuff?' Eusden responded, coughing in the stale, smoky air. Norvig had worked his way through half a pack of Prince cigarettes since they had stationed themselves outside Kjeldsen's house. The lights were on and the lawyer's Volvo was parked in the drive, but of the lawyer himself there had been no sign. His telephone number had been engaged on the two occasions Norvig had dialled it, suggesting he was not passing an idle evening in front of the television. Beyond that, Norvig had nothing to go on but what Eusden had told him. And it was cold, dark and late.

'Hot stuff,' he murmured. 'But can it burn Aksden?'

'The case contains letters, sent to Marty's grandfather before the War by Aksden's great-uncle. Who else but Aksden could such letters damage?'

'I don't know. And you don't know.'

'But Kjeldsen knows.'

'Ja. I guess so. And he's what I'd call... hensynls. Without scruple.'

'How in God's name did Marty come to choose him?'

'He advertises in the Copenhagen Post the English-language paper. Plus he's cheap.'

'How do you know so much about him?'

'He works for people I write about.'

'And what sort of people are they?'

'Crooks in suits cheap suits, naturally.'

'Who hire a lawyer to match?'

'Exactly.'

'What's he up to, do you think?'

'Agreeing a sale. Negotiating. Fixing a price.'

'Who with?'

'Someone who doesn't like Tolmar Aksden. A rival. An enemy. There's quite a queue.'

'What can we do?'

'Nothing. Until he moves. It could be a long wait.'

'Why don't we just knock on his door?'

'Because if he doesn't have the case with him, we're fucked. OK?'

'OK.'

Eusden sighed and stretched his neck back against the headrest. Fatigue had sucked all the fury and much of the anxiety out of him. There was a chance a reasonable one, given his track record that Marty had simply changed his plans without telling him. And there was an even better chance that Norvig could turn the tables on Kjeldsen. Local knowledge was a precious commodity. All that was required to deploy it effectively was patience. He took out his phone and reread the message he had found on it earlier. Phone me asap, timed a few hours ago. It was terse even by Gemma's standards. Presumably she wanted to rebuke him for keeping her in the dark about what he and Marty were up to. Actually, he thought, she ought to thank him. But putting her right on that, like so much else, would have to wait.

'What do you know about Mjollnir's takeover of Saukko Bank, Henning?' he asked, determined to learn as much from Norvig as he could.

'Not as much as I would if Karsten had made our meeting, I reckon. The deal didn't seem so big when it happened, but it's... kind of grown since. Saukko's St Petersburg subsidiary gives Mjollnir a slice of more Russian companies than anyone realized at the time. That's partly why their share price has gone up like a rocket. First Scandinavia. Now Russia. They just keep expanding. There's no stopping the Invisible Man. But anyone can read that in the papers. Every fucking day you can read it. What I need is-' Norvig broke off. Eusden sensed his sudden tension. 'Look.'

A pair of headlamps threw their light into the street from the driveway of Anders Kjeldsen's house. The lawyer's Volvo eased into view, took a stately right turn and moved away from them. Norvig started up and followed at a cautious distance.

'He's heading for the main road. Going back to his office, maybe?'

'Why would he do that?'

'To pick up the case. I'm guessing it never left the safe. I doubt he had anywhere so secure at home. The question is: why pick it up now?'

'Because whoever's buying it won't wait until tomorrow?'

'Has to be. But they'll meet on neutral ground, for sure, so we should be able to catch Kjeldsen on his own at Jorcks Passage. Easy, no?'

'If you say so.'

'I do, Richard, I do. Trust me.'

Eusden had no option but to trust Norvig. Kjeldsen joined the main road, as predicted, then followed a link road to the expressway into Copenhagen. Traffic was thin, visibility good. Keeping the Volvo within sight but hanging far enough back to avoid attracting the driver's attention was a straightforward task. It became more complicated when they neared the city centre, with its light-controlled junctions. But Norvig knew what he was doing, judging any stops behind Kjeldsen perfectly so as to keep to the shadowy stretches between streetlamps. Besides, as he pointed out, the lawyer had no reason to think he might be followed. He was probably confident he had thoroughly outwitted Eusden.

But confidence can easily become complacency. Kjeldsen steered an undeviating course for Jorcks Passage, driving down past the old university buildings and the cathedral to Skindergade, then turning into the service yard next to the northern entrance to the arcade.

Norvig drove blithely by, glancing into the yard as he went. He pulled over a short distance further on and stopped. 'Wait here for my signal,' he ordered, then climbed out and jogged back along the pavement. Eusden turned round to watch him.

Norvig slowed as he neared the turning into the yard. Hugging the wall, he peered cautiously round the corner, then waved for Eusden to follow and vanished from sight.

Norvig was standing with his back against the service door into the building, holding it open, when Eusden caught up with him. The yard was full of shadow and silence, broken only by the tick-tick-tick of the Volvo's cooling engine. Norvig smiled, his teeth gleaming ghostly pale through the gloom.

'Kjeldsen was in a hurry,' he whispered. 'He left the door to swing shut and didn't wait to check. Come on.'

They took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The landing was in darkness, but light glimmered at the edges of the lawyer's office door.

'I doubt he's locked himself in.' Norvig's fingers curled cautiously round the handle. 'Shall we join him?' Without waiting for a response, he jerked the handle down and flung the door open.

Kjeldsen looked up in alarm from behind his desk. His mouth dropped open. The only light in the room was from a green-shaded reading lamp to his right that turned his face into a pantomime-mask of horror. In front of him, on the desk, stood a battered old leather attache case. The lid was half-raised, casting towards them a crooked shadow that began to waver in time to the trembling of Kjeldsen's hand.

'Skide,' he said numbly, staring at Eusden. Then he let go of the lid. It fell shut. And on it, revealed by the light from the lamp, Eusden could see the stencilled initials CEH.

TWENTY-FIVE.

Kjeldsen flopped down into the chair behind his desk and spread his hands in a gesture of helpless admission. 'What can I say, Mr Eusden? I know this... looks bad.'

'It looks what it is,' said Eusden, advancing across the room. 'Theft. Which you're not going to get away with.'

Kjeldsen started to say something to Norvig in Danish, but the journalist cut him short. 'Speak English.'

'If you prefer.' He smiled uneasily. 'Norvig and I know each other, Mr Eusden. We've met... in court.'

'And we'll be meeting in court again after this.' Norvig smiled back at the lawyer. 'You're in deep shit, my friend.'

Kjeldsen shrugged, as if he regarded that as an open question. 'You know what the case contains, Mr Eusden?'

'Letters from Hakon Nydahl to Clem Hewitson, written in the nineteen twenties and thirties.'

'Ever seen them?'

'Not till now.' Eusden raised the lid. There they were in a slewed stack, resting on the faded green baize lining of the case: cream notepaper, filled with black-inked writing in a copperplate hand, the separate sheets of each letter held together with old paper clips that had begun to rust. Eusden picked up the topmost letter. There was an address: Skt Ann Plads 39, Kbenhavn K, Danmark; a date: den 8. marts 1940; and a salutation: Kre Clem. Beneath, sentences in Danish swam across his gaze. It was bizarre but self-evidently true. Clem could read Danish.

'That's the most recent,' said Kjeldsen. 'The first one's at the bottom. They cover fourteen years.'

Eusden shuffled through the stack to check. He glimpsed dates in receding order through the thirties and twenties until he came to the first: den 3. januar 1926. The handwriting was slightly more precise than fourteen years later, the strokes of the pen slightly stronger. But Nydahl and Clem had been on first-name terms from the start. That had not changed. Kre Clem...

'You've read them?' asked Norvig.

'Ja.' Kjeldsen nodded. 'The whole lot.'

'What are they about?'

'Who are they about, you mean.'