'Pigs. Bacon's big business.' Burgaard pointed to a plain, blank-windowed structure on the other side of the road. 'There are probably several hundred pigs in there. Aksdenhj used to be a sheep farm. Not so profitable.'

Another turn-off took them on to a lane that hugged the edge of a birch forest as it climbed into the hills. Aksdenhj appeared ahead of them at the lane's end, a quadrangle of thatch-roofed stone buildings on a shoulder of land close to the crest of the hill, sheltered by the forest.

Burgaard beeped his horn as he drove into the cobbled yard. Smoke was climbing from a chimney in one of the buildings, next to which was parked an old Volvo estate. Someone was at home. And Burgaard evidently wished to give them ample warning of their arrival.

'How well do you know Lars?' asked Eusden.

'As well as he'll let me,' Burgaard replied with measured ambiguity. He pulled up behind the Volvo and climbed out.

The chill of the hilly air hit Eusden as he emerged from the car. It was colder up here than in rhus and the snow had blanketed the world in silence. The farmhouse itself looked to be shut up. The smoking chimney was on one of the barns that formed the rest of the quadrangle. It clearly no longer served as a barn: high dormer windows had been added to its steeply sloping roof; lights, blurred by condensation, glimmered within.

One of the windows opened as Eusden gazed up at them. A man peered out: grey-haired, balding, ruddy-faced. He shouted something in Danish. Burgaard replied in kind. A shepherding gesture appeared to constitute an invitation to enter. They headed for the door.

The barn had been converted into a dwelling, disconcertingly modern in design and layout. A lobby opened into a large, well-appointed kitchen. Burgaard led the way straight up the wide stairs ahead of them to Lars Aksden's studio.

It covered the length and breadth of the building beneath the exposed thatch. A gigantic, rhythmically ticking radiator warmed the air, bringing out the pungent smells of oil paint and turpentine. Dozens of paintings Expressionist nudes and vibrantly hued landscapes were hung or easelled in view. Dozens more were stacked against the walls. There was an area set aside for relaxation, with couches and rugs, and at the far end, beyond a half-drawn curtain, an unmade bed. A voice from Eusden's past was singing softly on a hi-fi somewhere in the jumble: Franoise Hardy. As music will, it plunged him into a memory: a trip to Paris with Gemma and Marty in the long hot summer of 1976. He saw a shadow of the same memory cross Marty's face. Then someone pressed the off-switch.

The floorboards creaked as Lars Aksden moved towards them. He was a big, heavy-footed bear of a man, clad in paint-flecked maroon, with a face like one of his own portraits: deeply scored and passionate. His voice, as he and Burgaard swapped a few more words in Danish, was a fractured growl; his laugh, when it unexpectedly followed, as loud as a roar.

'Karsten, you are a scheming little bastard.' Lars pinched Burgaard's cheek as if he were a naughty child. 'Introduce us.'

Burgaard did the honours. Handshakes were exchanged, a lingering one in Marty's case, as Lars murmured his surname and stared thoughtfully at him.

'Where do you come from, Marty?'

'England. The Isle of Wight. We both do.'

'And what's brought you here?'

'Family history. I've always wanted to know how my grandfather came to have a Danish friend: Hakon Nydahl. Richard's helping me... look into it.'

'Well, I tell you: I've always wanted to know that too.'

'Did you know Clem?' asked Eusden.

'I met him twice. He came to see us here when I was a child, with Great-Uncle Hakon. And again, when I was older, on his own. That would have been around...'

'Spring of 1960?' suggested Marty.

Lars cocked his head and frowned at him. 'Ja. Around then.'

'We know he... was abroad at that time.'

'But I'm not going to be able to tell you how he met my great-uncle. That was never explained to me. Nor were his visits. My grandparents were expecting him, though. It was all... arranged beforehand.'

'Your grandparents? What about your parents?'

'They were dead by then. My mother died giving birth to my sister. My father was killed in an accident on the farm. Hard times, Marty. Did you have them?'

'Not as a child.'

'Lucky for you.'

'You really have no idea what Clem's connection with your great-uncle was?' asked Eusden.

'Idea? Oh, I've got several of those. But that's all they are. Ideas. Theories. Dreams.' And a dreamlike state was indeed what Lars seemed briefly to descend into. He moved across to one of the windows and gazed out for a moment, then rounded on them. 'You want a drink? Beer? Schnapps?'

'Why not?' said Marty. And Eusden saw no point in arguing. Beer all round was agreed. At a word from Lars, Burgaard headed down to the kitchen to fetch them.

'Karsten's a clever boy,' Lars confided in an undertone while he was downstairs. 'But not as clever as he thinks he is.'

'Who is?' Marty murmured reflectively.

'Ja. Exactly. Who is? Not me, for sure. Karsten first came to me saying he wanted my memories of Christiania. Y'know? Our little well, not so little flower-power utopia in Copenhagen. There's a famous photograph you see it often of some hairy guys putting a plank through the fence round the disused barracks. Day One of the commune. November thirteenth, 1971. I'm the one whose face you can't see. Tolmar says that's the only good turn I've ever done him: looking away from the camera that day.' He grinned.

'Your brother's a remarkable man,' said Eusden.

'Remarkably successful, for sure. And my brother' Lars raised his voice as Burgaard rejoined them 'is the Aksden my young friend really wants to know about. Isn't that right, Karsten? Tolmar. Not Lars and his paintings and his girlfriends and his dopehead memories.'

Burgaard looked sheepish as he handed round the bottles. Glasses were evidently not part of the deal. He said something in Danish.

'Speak English,' Lars growled, raising his bottle in a toast. 'Skal.' They all joined in. 'Go on, Karsten. Tell them how it is.'

'I've already told them.'

'Only enough to keep them interested, I bet.'

'They think they know why you tried to stop the ceremony in Roskilde.'

'Is that right?' Lars grinned coolly at Eusden and Marty. 'You know, do you?'

'We were just trying it on, Lars,' said Marty. 'We haven't a clue. But why don't you tell us anyway? Put us all out of our misery.'

'Why should you care?'

'Hakon Nydahl administered Dagmar's affairs,' said Eusden. 'And you didn't want her reburied in Russia. Why was that?'

'It had nothing to do with Dagmar. I was protesting against the government's plans to close down Christiania. It was a high-profile event, that's all. An opportunity for an old revolutionary like me to make a point.'

'But you didn't make a point,' Burgaard objected. 'You never mentioned Christiania when you were arrested.'

'They didn't report me mentioning it, you mean. Tolmar got them to keep quiet to avoid embarrassment. He had some big deal going through at the time.'

'The Saukko takeover,' said Burgaard.

'That was it.'

'So,' said Eusden, 'it was just a coincidence that the ceremony involved Dagmar.'

'Ja. Just a coincidence.'

'Wait.' Burgaard looked thunderstruck. 'Coincidence. I should have thought of it. The Saukko takeover.'

'What's Saukko?' asked Marty.

'A Finnish bank. Mjollnir bought it last autumn. You'd call it a strange move by any other company. Banks are bought by other banks, not industrial conglomerates. But Tolmar Aksden always knows what he's doing. That's what they said. That's what they always say.'

'Maybe you should shut your mouth, Karsten,' said Lars, his tone suddenly serious.

Silence fell. The atmosphere in the studio had become tense, almost electric. When the telephone began ringing, piercingly loud, Eusden started with surprise.

For several seconds, Lars made no move to answer it. Eventually, he grunted and lumbered off to the lounge area. The telephone stood atop a slew of newspapers and magazines. He grabbed the receiver. 'Hallo?'

As the conversation proceeded in mumbled Danish, Marty sidled closer to Burgaard. 'What's the big coincidence, Karsten?' he asked in a whisper.

'I'll tell you later.'

'But you think Lars is lying about why he staged his protest?'

'For sure he's taken a long time to explain it.'

'Are we really getting anywhere here?' Eusden put in, reflecting his opinion that they had merely succeeded in antagonizing another member of the Aksden family.

'Maybe we could if you came out with everything you know,' Burgaard hissed.

'That cuts both ways,' Marty responded, smiling humourlessly at him. 'You've obviously been-' He broke off as Lars slammed the phone down and strode back to join them.

'My sister,' he announced. 'Warning me about two Englishmen asking questions. They tried to frighten our nephew last night.'

'Is asking a few questions so very frightening?' Eusden responded, giving way to irritation despite knowing it would be counter-productive.

'You have family, Richard?' Lars threw back at him.

'Yes.'

'You must know how it is, then. You might think they're all shits. But you defend them against outsiders. Elsa says Tolmar wouldn't want any of us to talk to you. And she's right. She says I should throw you out.' He took a swig of beer and grinned at them, half-apologetically. 'So, I guess that's what I'm doing.'

FIFTEEN.

They drove away from Aksdenhj in a recriminatory silence. Eusden sensed Marty and Burgaard were engaged in a test of nerves: which of them would tell the other what they knew first? In his opinion, it made no difference. They would achieve nothing without collaborating.

A Range Rover was barrelling down the driveway of Marskedal as they passed. The thought occurred to Eusden, as he guessed it must have occurred to his companions, that this was Elsa heading out to confirm her brother had done as she asked. If so, she did not need to worry. Lars Aksden was as efficient an ejector of unwelcome guests as they came.

'Are we just going back to rhus with our tails between our legs?' Marty suddenly snapped.

'No,' Burgaard replied calmly. 'There's something I want to show you in the next village.'

'You could tell us about that coincidence now.'

'Not yet. First the show. Then the tell.'

The village of Tasdrup was consumed in wintry stillness. It gave every impression, despite the smartness of the houses, of being uninhabited. Burgaard parked by the church small and plain, save for some fancy crenellations on the gables of its high, narrow bell-tower. They clambered out and Burgaard struck off into the snowy churchyard, Eusden and Marty slithering after him and rapidly falling behind.

He waited for them at the end of one row of graves, brushing snow off a memorial stone as they approached.

'Lars' parents and grandparents,' he explained, pointing to the inscription. 'Listed in the order of their deaths.'

HANNAH AKSDEN 14.10.1947 PEDER AKSDEN 23.3.1948 GERTRUD AKSDEN 29.8.1963 OLUF AKSDEN 1.9.1967 'Pretty bloody terse,' commented Marty.

'Yes,' said Burgaard. 'Even for Lutherans. And see just the dates of death; no dates of birth; no ages at death.'

'So?'

'It's unusual.'

'Maybe they were paying by the letter.'

'Is there more to it, Karsten?' asked Eusden, confident there had to be.

'Oh, yes. Much more. But shall we talk in the car? It's cold out here.'

There was no argument about that. Eusden sat in the front with Burgaard. Marty took the back seat. Burgaard whirled round when he heard Marty fumbling in his pocket for his matches. There was already a cigarette in his mouth.

'Please don't smoke, Mr Hewitson. I am astmatiker.'

'Pardon me,' groaned Marty, dolefully replacing the cigarette in his pack.

'What are you going to tell us, Karsten?' Eusden prompted.

'One thing. And I expect one other thing in return.'

'We'll see,' said Marty.

'I want all information you have on your grandfather.'

'OK.' Marty's agreement sounded suspiciously airy to Eusden.

'All right. Saukko Bank. The coincidence. I found out everything I could about Hakon Nydahl when I realized he was Tolmar Aksden's great-uncle. As a courtier, I wondered if he'd... done Tolmar any favours. Nothing turned up. But there was a strange event... just before he died. Summer of 1961. He was in hospital by then. He never came out. While he was there, his housekeeper was arrested for stealing money from his apartment. He had a safe and she knew the combination. The papers got interested in the case because what she stole was... very unusual money. Finnish markkaa, nineteen thirties issue. She'd tried to change it for Danish kroner, but the notes were no longer legal tender. Also, she was trying to change a massive amount: several millions in kroner. She didn't realize how much the notes were worth or would have been worth. No one could understand why Nydahl should have had all this out-of-date Finnish money. He was too ill to be asked for an explanation. But during the case they reported that the Bank of Finland had traced the serial numbers on the notes to a batch of currency supplied in 1939 to-'

'Saukko Bank,' said Eusden.

'Yes. Exactly. Saukko. Now owned by Tolmar Aksden.'