Found Wanting (10 page)

‘But if she was raped?’

‘It didn’t matter. A daughter of the Tsar who told that story was by definition no daughter of the Tsar. She should have died rather than endure such shame. Therefore Anastasia must have died.’

‘But you don’t think she did, do you?’

‘I don’t know what to think. The counter-claim was that she was an uppity Polish factory worker who tried to drown herself when she realized her dream of becoming an actress, which had brought her to Berlin, wasn’t going to be fulfilled. Then, ironically, it
was
fulfilled, thanks to the role she artfully assumed while in the asylum. That’s what the DNA says. Mrs Manahan’s DNA and that of a great-nephew of Franziska Schanzkowska are a perfect match. Maybe too perfect, since there’s some evidence the great-nephew’s grandmother was only a half-sister of Franziska, which would make such a close match impossible.’

‘Proving the hospital sample was a fake.’

‘It doesn’t
prove
anything, Richard. Nothing does. I’ve turned myself into a
Mastermind
specialist on Anastasia these past few weeks and the only thing I know for certain about the case is that there
is
no certainty and probably never will be.’ Marty yawned and flexed his arms behind his head, as if bored with the subject. Then he chuckled at some humorous thought that had occurred to him. ‘But I did only say “probably”. You never know your luck, do you?’

ÅRHUS

TWELVE

Eusden dozed for much of the journey, the late and anxious hours he had kept the previous night catching up with him as soon as the rhythm of the train asserted itself. Marty also slept – the deep sleep of a sick man.

The afternoon had given way to evening as they headed north through flat, snow-patched fields and wraith-pale stands of silver birch. Studying his friend, unconscious in the seat opposite, during one wakeful interlude, Eusden had noticed how much older and weaker and iller Marty seemed when his eyes were not open and twinkling, his voice not rising and falling. The search he had embarked upon was also a flight from his own mortality. In that sense, it could not succeed. At its end lay only a choice of ways to fail. It was a dismal truth to grasp as darkness fell across the Jutland sky.

Another station in another city. It was early evening in Århus, cold, dank and dark. Asked for a hotel recommendation, their taxi driver talked up the Royal on the grounds that it had a casino where he had once finished an evening in profit. They did not argue.

The Royal turned out to have advantages other than in-house roulette: comfortable rooms and a central location adjacent to the cathedral, in the old heart of the city. En route to their rooms aboard the geriatric lift, they agreed to go in search of supper once they had unpacked.

Eusden had observed Marty’s ban on mobile usage, despite regarding it as an excessive precaution. But he did not intend to leave Gemma to imagine the worst. He called her on the phone in his room, was guiltily relieved when neither she nor Monica answered and left a message assuring her all was well and he was spending a few days with Marty before returning home. As far as it went, the message was accurate enough.

Marty had already changed some of his euros into Danish kroner and taken soundings on the local restaurant scene by the time Eusden met up with him in reception. He led the way down to the pedestrianized riverside, where there was a cluster of bars and brasseries, and selected the Argentinsk Bøfhus on the basis of its promise of the fattest steaks this side of Buenos Aires.

‘Good to see you
sans
the suit, Coningsby,’ he remarked as he sank his fork into a three-inch-thick slab of sirloin. ‘Though, strictly speaking, you’d need an altogether grungier look than you’ve settled on to blend in where we’re going.’

Eusden smiled at him tolerantly. ‘I’ll visit a charity shop in the morning if you’re that bothered.’

‘Too late. I’m talking about tonight. The part of it left after we’ve devoured these mastodons.’

‘You haven’t got some crazy idea of hitting the night spots, have you, Marty? You can count me out if you have. And I’d advise you to count yourself out too.’

‘I’m talking business, not pleasure, Richard. Take a look at this.’

Marty plucked a newspaper cutting from his pocket and unfolded it on the table. Above a splurge of Danish print was a grainy photograph of a young couple emerging from a bar. The young man was tall, thin and narrow-faced, piratically bearded and bandannaed but otherwise kitted out in fashionably ill-fitting military surplus. The young woman, whose posture suggested she might easily fall down if he took his arm from round her waist, was slight and pale, hair spikily blonde, eyes wide and unfocused, clothes black, shining like leather in the flashlight of the camera. Her companion was gesturing angrily at the photographer, but she did not seem to be aware of what was happening – or indeed of much at all.

‘I spotted it while I was in Copenhagen in a tabloid someone left in a coffee shop. The girl’s the daughter of an actor who’s big on Danish TV. He’s in a long-running police series. Their very own Inspector Mørse. Her boyfriend’s the interesting one. That’s Michael Aksden. And the place they’re leaving is here in Århus. So, I thought we might . . . check it out.’

‘D’you know where it is?’

‘The receptionist at the Royal recognized it right away. And gave me directions.’

‘And you’re planning to . . . drop in?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, for a start because Michael and the girl probably won’t be there.’

‘Come on, Richard. Get real. Students are creatures of habit. Don’t you remember? When we were at Cambridge, what were the chances, on any given night, that you and/or I could be found propping up the bar in the Champion of the Thames?’

Eusden considered the point, then conceded it. ‘Better than fifty-fifty, I guess.’

‘Exactly. So, shall we try our luck?’

They walked back the way they had come, past the cathedral and a statue of King Christian X on horseback. The cathedral square was empty and silent. There was hardly any traffic on the streets, let alone pedestrians. The night was windless and catacomb-cold.

‘Nice time of year you picked for this jaunt,’ Eusden good-naturedly complained.

‘I’d have waited till summer,’ Marty replied, ‘but there’s a doubt about my availability.’

‘Sorry.’ However often Eusden reminded himself that Marty was dying, the reality never quite stuck. ‘I just—’

‘Don’t worry about it. Gemma always used to say I was too short-term in my thinking. Well, it’s come into its own now.’

Their destination lay a couple of blocks north of the cathedral: a cramped, crowded, smoky street-corner bar that might have looked drab in daylight but had enough candles and mirrors to confer a certain grotto-like glamour by night. Students comprised most of the clientèle, hunched and bunched over hookahs, laptops and games of backgammon. Marty ordered Belgian beer and he and Eusden squeezed themselves into a corner.

There was no immediate sign of Michael Aksden or his girlfriend, but the limited visibility and identikit appearance of most of the patrons meant it took them quite a while to be sure they were not there. Marty insisted patience was required. The night was young in the context of student drinking establishments. They needed to stick with it. He added the smoke of several Camels to the prevailing fug and began a nostalgic description of how much better he would feel if he could resort to something more exotic than alcohol and tobacco.

‘What’s stopping you?’ asked Eusden. ‘I’m sure somebody here’d be willing to help you out.’

‘Doctor’s orders, Richard. The old white stuff might start me fitting, apparently. When you haven’t got a lot of time, it’s amazing how much care you’re prepared to take of it.’

‘Are you sure we’re not wasting a load of it sitting here?’

‘Absolutely. Some of these girls are definitely worth studying at length, wouldn’t you say? And you’ve got to—’ Marty broke off and pointed to the door. ‘Look what’s just walked in.’

The newcomer was Michael Aksden, helpfully sporting the same outfit he had been photographed in. He was alone and looked none too happy about it, twitching and frowning as he surveyed the crowd. Then he caught sight of someone he knew and raised a hand coolly in greeting. He made no immediate move to join them, however, heading straight for the bar instead.

Marty was by his elbow before he had ordered a drink, with Eusden two steps behind. ‘This one’s on me, Michael,’ Marty said, grinning broadly. ‘What’ll you have?’

Michael glared at him with a mixture of suspicion and hostility. ‘Who are you, man?’ He sounded far more American than Danish with his practised drawl.

‘The name’s Hewitson. Marty Hewitson.’

‘Have we met before?’

‘No. But I thought you might know the name. My grandfather was Clem Hewitson. Heard of him?’

‘Never.’

‘Your father probably has. Or your uncle. Good old Lars.’

‘Are you friends of Lars?’

‘Not exactly,’ Eusden replied, drawing a sharp glance from Marty.

‘I don’t want to talk to you, whoever you are.’ Michael shouted a request to the barman, then went on: ‘Get it? Leave me alone.’

‘No need to be like that, Michael,’ said Marty. ‘We’re just trying to be friendly.’

‘I don’t want to be friendly.’ The barman handed him a bottle of Tuborg Grøn. ‘Piss off, will you?’

‘Any idea why Lars pulled that stunt in Roskilde back in the autumn?’

‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’

‘Only, we might know, y’see.’

Michael took a swig from his bottle and stared flintily at Marty. ‘You’re full of shit, man.’

‘Sure of that, are you?’

The shadows around them suddenly deepened. Eusden became aware of a young man, tall and broad and blond enough to have stepped out of a Viking myth, standing at Michael’s shoulder. The straining fit of his denim jacket, over a white T-shirt, implied a formidable quantity of muscle beneath. He and Michael exchanged a few words in Danish between menacing glares at Marty.

‘Who’s this, Michael?’ Marty asked. ‘Your backgammon partner?’

‘He’s a friend,’ Michael replied, speaking slowly for the sake of emphasis. ‘He wants to know if I’ve got a problem. I said no. ’Cos you and
your
friend are leaving. Right?’

‘Wrong, actually. I was thinking of having another beer. Richard?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Eusden, nodding meaningfully towards the door, currently hidden from view by the muscleman’s massive shoulderline. ‘I think we ought to be going.’

‘Really?’

‘Definitely.’

‘OK.’ Marty grinned at Michael. ‘We’ll obviously have to do this another time.’

‘Fuck off, man.’

‘What exactly did that accomplish?’ asked Eusden as they headed back to the Royal.

Marty chuckled. ‘It’s got the introductions out of the way.’

THIRTEEN

Eusden was woken the following morning by the insistent ringing of the telephone. His first thought was that the caller must be Gemma. Then he remembered he had not told her where they were. By that time, he had picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Eusden. Reception here. Will you take a call from a Mr Burgaard?’

He was too fuddled by sleep to consider refusing. ‘OK. Put him through.’ Burgaard?
Who the hell was he?

‘Mr Eusden?’

‘Yeah.’

‘My name’s Karsten Burgaard.’ His English had less of an American accent than Michael Aksden’s, though he did not sound much older. ‘Can you meet me?’

‘What?’

‘Now, I mean. I’m in the Baresso coffee bar. By the bridge in Sankt Clemens Torv.’

‘
Where?
’

‘Ask at the desk. It’s not far.’

‘But . . . who are you?’

‘I overheard your . . . conversation with Michael Aksden . . . last night. Then I . . . followed you back to your hotel.’

‘You followed us?’

‘Yes. But come alone, hey? Your friend is . . . rather loud.’

‘I don’t understand. What d’you want?’

‘Come and find out.’

‘Hold on. I—’ But Burgaard had not held on. The line was dead.

Eusden struggled to order his thoughts as he washed and dressed. Marty would insist on going along if he alerted him to what had happened. And Burgaard had a point. He could be loud. Eusden was still irritated by how blithely Marty had provoked Michael Aksden. Perhaps the time had come to demonstrate the merits of diplomacy and restraint. He headed out as instructed – alone.

Århusers were making their way to work in scarfed and muffled silence, exhaled breath pluming around them in the frigid dawn air. Eusden hurried the short distance to the Baresso Kaffebar and spotted Burgaard before he even entered, watching him through the window as he approached.

Burgaard was one of only two customers. The other was buying
latte
and a muffin to go. Several others had arrived, with the same to-go look about them, by the time Eusden had bought his coffee and joined Burgaard by the window.

‘Thanks for coming, Mr Eusden,’ said Burgaard, smiling nervously. He was a thin, slightly built, prematurely balding young man with a round, boyish face and a skittering, uncertain gaze. His fingernails, Eusden noticed, were chewed to the quick. He was dressed anonymously in shades of brown and grey.

‘Well, like you said, it wasn’t far.’

‘No. It’s a small city.’ Burgaard seemed to be scanning the queue at the counter over Eusden’s shoulder. ‘Too small, maybe.’

‘Your home town?’

‘No. I’m from Falster. I came here . . . to study. At the University.’

‘What’s your subject?’

‘Economics.’ As if to prove the point, Burgaard had a pink business paper folded open at his elbow.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You probably don’t remember seeing me last night.’