Found Wanting (25 page)

The sun had set, but its glow was still lighting the western sky when the M/S
Gabriella
eased away from the pier and headed out into the shipping lane that curved ahead of it like a dark grey snake through the matt white expanse of ice. Eusden lingered among the hardy souls on deck, watching the cityscape slowly change as the ship moved across the harbour. Pernille had gone to her cabin. They were to meet later for dinner. He wondered if she felt as he did: that it was better to be two than one on the journey they were taking; better by far.

ÖSTERSJÖN – ITÄMERI

THIRTY-FOUR

Pernille toyed with the salmon on her plate and sipped some wine. She did not seem to have much of an appetite – for food
or
conversation. Eusden suspected uncertainty about what lay ahead of them was a likelier explanation than seasickness. Neither had any way of knowing whether the planned exchange of attaché case for Mjollnir money would really be the swift, simple and above all safe affair others had predicted. Those others would not be there when it happened.

‘For what it’s worth, Pernille,’ he ventured, ‘I think it’ll all go very smoothly.’

She smiled fleetingly. ‘That’s not what you said this afternoon.’

‘I’ve thought it over since.’

‘Have you? Well, so have I. And I’m sure you’re right. The Opposition want money. Mjollnir want the material. We’re just the . . .
mellemmændene
– the middlemen. There won’t be a problem with the handover.’

‘With something else, then?’

‘It’s what you said at the terminal. I’m back in Tolmar’s life, even if he doesn’t know it. But he will know. Eventually. He finds out everything in the end.’

‘Surely it won’t matter by then.’

‘You don’t know him. It always matters.’

‘I get the feeling . . . you’re frightened of him.’

‘That’s what my psychotherapist said.’

‘Is it true?’

‘Oh yes.’ She smiled and shook her head in wonderment at the obviousness of the truth. ‘The question is whether the fear is about something else . . . in me. That’s what my psychotherapist thinks.’

‘I guess that’s the sort of thing they always think.’

She laughed. ‘How would you know? You’ve never had one.’

He was forced to laugh himself, discovering in the process that he had been right: the wound above his eye throbbed painfully. ‘How can you be sure of something like that? You hardly know me.’

‘It’s obvious. Look at yourself, Richard. White, male, middle-aged, well-paid, heterosexual Englishman. Nice family. Good education. Comfortable life. What would you talk to a psychotherapist
about
?’

‘Divorce maybe. You didn’t mention that.’

‘I bet it was very . . . civilized.’

‘Wasn’t yours?’

‘On the surface, yes.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means Tolmar pays me a generous allowance and leaves me alone. And it means I think he might be standing there, with that . . . look on his face I remember so well because I . . . see it in my dreams . . .every time I answer the doorbell.’

‘Is he a violent man, Pernille?’

‘He never hit me. Not once. But I knew . . . if it happened . . . it only ever would be once.’ She swallowed some wine. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I don’t normally . . . open up. Neither do you, I guess.’

‘Maybe there’s nothing for me to open up about.’

‘There’s always something. Plenty, according to my psychotherapist.’

‘Have you ever considered . . . remarrying?’

‘Once. A few years ago. He was a good man. But it didn’t work out.’ A brief silence fell. Then she went on. ‘Are you going to ask me what went wrong?’

‘If you want me to.’

‘He died. In a car crash. At night.’ She looked Eusden in the eye. ‘Remind you of anything?’

‘Are you saying . . .’

‘Tolmar told me, when he agreed to the divorce, that I shouldn’t . . . get into a permanent relationship again. I thought he was . . . giving me advice. But when Paul died, I . . . remembered that Tolmar always means exactly what he says.’

‘Good God.’

‘There’s no evidence it wasn’t an accident. I can’t prove a thing. But I . . . wouldn’t want another death on my conscience.’ She laid her knife and fork neatly down. ‘I can’t eat anything else. We could finish the wine in my cabin if you like. Mjollnir booked me a suite. We may as well use the space.’

Pernille’s suite was an elegant contrast with Eusden’s cramped single cabin. Mjollnir treated their CEO’s ex-wife and an outsider very differently. Sloping windows, across which the curtains had not been drawn, looked out over the bow into the still, cold Baltic night. The comfortably furnished lounge was large enough to hold a party in and came complete with complimentary champagne, the bottle standing forlornly in a bucket of water that had once been ice.

‘I’m sorry if I rushed you out of the restaurant,’ Pernille said as she topped up their wine glasses. ‘I suddenly thought I was . . . saying too much . . . in a public place.’

‘Afraid someone might’ve recognized you?’

‘No. But . . .’ She cradled the glass against her throat and gazed out into the darkness. ‘One of the reasons I drove to Stockholm was to make sure I wasn’t followed. I know the signs. I know them well. Tolmar has no spies aboard. He doesn’t know what we’re doing. Even so . . .’

‘How long have you been taking such precautions?’

‘Since Paul died.’

‘And how long’s that?’

‘Seven years.’

‘Sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘Your loss. Your . . . anxiety. Being divorced from Tolmar Aksden doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.’

‘It’s better than being married to him. You can take my word for that.’

‘When did it end?’

‘When he sent Michael away to a . . .
kostskole
. You know? A school where the children live as well as learn.’

‘Boarding school.’

‘That’s it. Michael was twelve years old. The school was near Aalborg, up in the north of Jutland. We’d only just moved from Århus to Copenhagen. Everything changed around then. Tolmar got . . . harder.’ She smiled. ‘I think he finally decided what he wanted to do. And I was . . . irrelevant.’

‘What
did
he want to do?’

‘I don’t know. He has a lot of secrets, Richard. He collects them. He
enjoys
them.’

‘Everyone seems to think what we’re buying is . . . the biggest secret of all.’

‘Maybe it is.’

‘You must know it involves his father.’

‘Yes. There’s always been a . . . mystery about the family. Only Tolmar knows what it is. Lars would like to. Elsa would prefer not to. But only Tolmar knows. Though one day, I imagine, he’ll tell Michael.’

‘As his son and heir.’

‘Yes. And that frightens me also. Michael becoming . . . the next keeper of the family secret.’

‘There’s a Russian connection. You must know that too.’

‘Of course,’ she said sadly. ‘The last house I lived in with Tolmar was at Klampenborg. From the garden, you could see across to Hvidøre. Lars said Tolmar had chosen the house
because
you could see Hvidøre from it. He told me stories about his great-uncle, Hakon Nydahl, the courtier. He thought I could get more out of Tolmar than he was able to. But I wouldn’t have, even if I’d tried. No one gets more out of Tolmar than he wants to give. And that isn’t much.’ She drained her glass and set it down on the table. ‘Would you like to go on deck? I need some fresh air after all this . . . talk about the past.’

‘It’ll be freezing up there.’

She smiled and nodded at him. ‘Good. That’ll be how I like it.’

It
was
freezing. And no one else was braving the conditions. The sky above them was scattered with more stars than Eusden could ever recall seeing. The cold was intense, almost tangible. The ship’s engine rumbled below their feet. And sea ice stretched away, blue-grey and ghostly, on every side.

‘It all seems so simple out here,’ said Pernille, her breath frosting in the air as she gazed upwards. ‘The stars and the sea and the moving ship. But it can’t stay like this, can it? Tomorrow, we
will
reach Helsinki.’

‘Have you ever been there before?’ Eusden asked.

‘No. Tolmar often went to Helsinki for business. But he never took me with him. He has an apartment there. It’s his only base outside of Denmark.’

‘Does he still have the house in Klampenborg?’

‘No. He moved out to the country after the divorce. He bought himself an estate near Helsingør. A lovely place – they tell me. I could have been . . . lady of the manor . . . if I’d stayed with him.’

‘You don’t wish you had, though.’

‘Never. I like my . . . small apartment in the city. It’s close to the shops. And to where I work.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘I’m HR director of a charity called Uddanne Afrika. We ship educational equipment to . . . wherever it’s needed in Africa. Which is all over, really. Have you ever been there, Richard?’

‘Does Cape Town count?’

‘No.’

‘Then, I haven’t.’

‘You should. I’ve stood in schoolrooms in Burkina Faso and looked at the children’s faces and realized . . . I was doing something really worth doing . . . at last.’

‘It sounds like a good feeling.’

‘It is. You ought to try it. Birgitte said you work at the Foreign Ministry in London, yes?’

‘For my sins.’

‘How long for?’

‘Nearly thirty years.’

‘We could use someone with your experience at Uddanne Afrika.’

‘Are you offering me a job?’

‘I’m offering you the chance to change your life. But maybe . . . you don’t want to change it.’

‘I think I do, actually. I think I want to quite badly.’

‘Then, you should give me a call . . . when this is over.’

They parted at the door to Pernille’s suite with subdued goodnights. Eusden headed down to his lower-deck cabin light-headed with fatigue and fragile hopefulness. Pernille Madsen was, as she had made clear to him, a dangerous woman to become emotionally attached to. There was no reason to regard her proposition as anything more than an opportunity to switch career paths. But the elation he felt at knowing that their acquaintance need not end tomorrow was undeniable. He doubted it was shared. But that made it no easier to stifle.

HELSINKI

THIRTY-FIVE

Helsinki was white from recent snowfall, the shoreline dividing the city from the snow-carpeted sea ice hard to discern. The sky was a featureless dome of bruised cloud. There were no shadows in the thin winter light. Even sounds were subdued in the Finnish winter morning. The
Gabriella
docked at ten. By 10.30 Eusden and Pernille Madsen had checked into the Grand Marina Hotel, a stylishly converted warehouse a short distance from the Viking Line terminal. Waiting for them there was Mjollnir’s man on the scene, Osmo Koskinen.

He was seventy or so, with a sad, drooping face and rheumy eyes offset by an eager smile. He had grey, slicked-down hair and a bowed air of lifelong dutifulness. His flapping brown suit appeared to date from a time when he had carried more weight. This, his pasty complexion and a faint tremor in his hands and voice implied he might not be in the best of health. Nevertheless, as a former senior employee of Mjollnir’s Finnish subsidiary, he was, Eusden assumed, deemed to be the perfect combination of detachment and reliability required for the job in hand.

Koskinen lightly acknowledged as much over coffee in Pernille’s harbour-facing suite. ‘Birgitte Grøn has asked me to look after you, Ms Madsen. And you also, Mr Eusden. I am retired now, but Mjollnir still use me for . . . special business . . . from time to time. I do not know what dealings they have had with the people you will meet later. I do not need to know. But I have made all the arrangements Birgitte asked me to make. First, though, my apologies. You should be staying at the Kämp. It is Helsinki’s finest and most historic hotel. And I should be showing you the sights of the city. I have lived here all my life. But they tell me we must be . . . discreet. A hotel near the ferry terminal and no unnecessary movement. Those were my instructions. So, I am sorry. But I fixed it like I was told.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Hr Koskinen,’ said Pernille, gazing past him through the window. ‘We’re not here to enjoy ourselves.’

‘No. It’s a pity. But I understand.’

‘What are the arrangements?’ asked Eusden.

‘Of course. The arrangements. The payment will be made in US dollar bearer bonds. I do not know the value. Again, I do not need to know. I will collect them from the bank Birgitte is using at two this afternoon. I will deliver them to you here at two thirty. They will be in a secure combination-locked case. The exchange will take place at three thirty at my house in Munkkiniemi. The address is Luumitie twenty-seven. I have marked it for you.’ Koskinen spread out a street map of Helsinki on the table between them. A red X marked the spot in a north-western suburb. ‘This is where we are now.’ He pointed to the location of the hotel, out on the Katajanokka peninsula, on the other side of the city. ‘Erik Lund is supplying security and a lawyer to supervise the exchange. His name is Juha Matalainen. He will travel with you. The combination of the case will be phoned through to him when you have inspected the material delivered by the other side, Mr Eusden. Ms Madsen will take charge of the material. The other side will take their money. The exchange will be complete. Everyone leaves.’ He smiled. ‘Then I will return home and cook my dinner.’

‘It’s kind of you to let your house be used for this,’ said Pernille.

‘Oh, I am pleased to help. It is really Mjollnir’s house, to tell the truth. I would probably be in a one-room apartment if they had not been so . . . generous to me. A good employer is as important as a good wife, they . . .’ Koskinen broke off, apparently reflecting on Pernille’s status as his former boss’s former spouse. He coughed awkwardly. ‘Well, there it is. Everything should be . . . very straightforward.’