But where was Hammelgaard? It was surely one o’clock by now. As if on cue, some distant church clock struck the hour. Harry shivered and decided to walk to the middle of the bridge in the hope of seeing Hammelgaard approaching from the other side. The still night magnified his footfalls as he moved. The steam of his breath made him think longingly of cigarette smoke. His thumb began to throb.
Then he saw a huddled shape on the pavement ahead of him, at the Christianshavn end of the bridge. He broke into a run. It was a man, dressed in black, lying face down close to the railings. His cap had slipped off, revealing the pale crown of a bald head, but the collar of his coat was turned up, obscuring his features. There was still just a chance, as Harry stooped over him, that he might be a stranger. A slim fading ghost of a chance. Harry reached out and grasped the edge of the collar, then pulled it back to expose … Torben Hammelgaard. Eyes staring. Mouth sagging. And no breath frosting on the air. There was no pool of blood, no sign of violence. But the unblinking eyes and crumpled limbs told their story. Before Harry could feel at his wrist for a pulse or turn him over and listen for a heartbeat, he knew what he would find. Torben Hammelgaard was dead.
NINETEEN
Fear is a winged chariot. Harry ran farther and faster than he ever had in his life before from that unmarked corpse on Knippelsbro. He ran until his chest was a tightening hoop of pain and he could run no more. Until he staggered into some dark doorway in Christianshavn and sank down on his haunches among the dog-ends and burger cartons, wondering if at any moment the shadow of his pursuers would fall across him.
Pursuers there surely had to be. They had killed again, in their unique undetectable way. They had killed the man Harry had led them to. And now it must be his turn. At any moment, from any direction, they were bound to come for him.
But they did not come. As the minutes passed and Harry slowly recovered, the hope formed in his mind that somehow he had evaded them. He struggled to his feet and peered out from the doorway. Nothing was moving anywhere. Nothing was waiting for him to emerge.
He set off again, this time at no more than a fast walk, glancing around and behind him as he went, clinging to the shadows, heading wherever the next turning took him. He badly wanted a drink and a cigarette. He was not absolutely sure which he wanted more. But it hardly mattered, since his chances of getting either seemed for the present remote.
What to do. Where to go. How to deal with what had happened. The need to be decisive wrestled in his mind with the impossibility of deciding. Hammelgaard was dead. Harry had a message to carry for him, but no way of delivering it. And he was in peril of his life. Or was he? Perhaps they had been following Hammelgaard for some time. Perhaps it was just a coincidence they had chosen to strike when he was on his way to meet Harry. If so
But he could not take the chance. He could not afford to assume anything. He should leave Copenhagen as soon as possible. But leave it to go where? And leave it how? The airport and the railway station could easily be watched. And his passport was still in his room at the Kong Knud. That too could be watched.
Yet flight was his only sane choice. Hammelgaard’s body would be found by morning. If he had any identification on him, the police would soon trace his sister. And she would tell them about Harry. Harry could end up wanted for murder, with no alibi and a lot of suspicious behaviour to explain. That made one decision at least easier to take. He could not go to the police.
Who could he turn to, then? Without help, he was finished. He might as well turn himself in to the police and hope they believed him. At least he would be safe in their custody. But what about Hammelgaard’s surviving friends in America? What about the message he had sworn to take to them?
Margrethe Hammelgaard. Of course. She was the answer. She might know how to contact Donna Trangam and the others. She might believe Harry where nobody else would. But how was he to find her? Her shop on Stroget was a conspicuous place to wait. It would not open for another seven hours or more. And there was no guarantee she would be there when it did. It was better by far to go to her home, wherever that might be.
Spotting a telephone kiosk ahead, he headed straight for it and rang directory enquiries. The person on the other end spoke English and did her best to help, but no M. Hammelgaard was listed. Maybe she lived out of town. Maybe the number was in her husband’s name. If she had a husband. Harry did not know. But he knew she had a brother. He might have a diary or pocket-book on him, with his sister’s address recorded in it.
And so, reluctantly and uncertainly, Harry began to retrace his steps towards Knippelsbro. He knew what he was doing made sense, but he also knew he was asking a lot of his threadbare nerves. Added to which, he was completely disorientated. The road he thought led to Knippelsbro in fact ended in an apartment complex at the edge of the harbour. As he reached the waterfront and looked to his left, he could see the bridge no more than a quarter of a mile away. But there were blue and red lights now as well as white marking its span across the harbour. There was a ghostly wail of a siren in the air and a faint crackle of radio static. Uniformed figures were moving in headlamp beams at the Christianshavn end of the bridge. Torben Hammelgaard had been found. Along with whatever he was carrying.
TWENTY
The Pussy Cat night club in Helgolandsgade at half past four on Saturday morning was a smoky den filled with electronic music and stale lechery. On the small floodlit stage, three girls wearing nothing beyond tasselled G-strings and bored expressions were dutifully playing out some pseudo-lesbian routine. At the table next to Harry’s, an over-tired businessman had fallen asleep in his chair, leaving his topless hostess to sip champagne in grateful silence. In private rooms around him, Harry supposed, the night was reaching a more energetic climax. But out here the only cause of wide-eyed wonderment was the bill he had just been handed. Should he telephone the Guinness Book of Records and ask if such a charge for four beers, two coffees and a box of matches warranted inclusion in the next edition? Or should he just pay up politely on the grounds that for a man in his position it was actually a bargain? Where else would have offered him refuge at such an hour with no questions asked? Where else in all of Copenhagen could he have taken shelter?
Ruefully, he stacked the requisite number of hundred kroner notes on the tray and signalled to the frilly-aproned waitress at the bar. She came across and took the money, smiling stiffly, then minced away with a desultory wiggle of her exposed bottom. There was nothing like fear, Harry reflected as he watched her go, to sap the sexual appetite. Somebody should have marketed it as a contraceptive long ago.
But even fear has its limits. And fatigue has a way of finding them. Too weary to think, Harry rose and made for the door. The Kong Knud was just round the corner. It was too soon for the police to have tracked him there and so late that anybody else watching the place would surely have given up and gone home to bed. This, on a balance of doubtful probabilities, was the time for Harry to collect his belongings especially his precious passport
and go. He still had no idea where he would or should be going, but in his present condition one step was all he could take at a time.
He mounted the basement steps, footsore from the circuitous route he had followed from Christianshavn in order to avoid using Knippelsbro. The street was still and cold and empty, a bass rumble floating up behind him from the Pussy Cat. He lit a Danish cigarette and started walking. Helgolandsgade led straight into Istedgade. In five minutes he would be at the Kong Knud. And in another five he could be away again.
He paused at the junction and peered along Istedgade towards the hotel. Everything looked all right. No figures moving. No bulky shapes in kerb side cars. No sinister profiles in shadowy doorways. He started along the street, moving at a steady pace, glancing across to the opposite pavement as he went. Then, as the familiar unlit frontage of the Kong Knud came into view, he took his pass-key from his pocket, threw away his cigarette and darted abruptly across to the door, only to spoil the effect by trying to
jam the key in upside down. A moment later, he had the door open. A moment after that, it was closed behind him.
The foyer was in darkness, save for a feeble night-light behind the desk. Harry navigated by it to the key-board, took the key to his room and made for the stairs. They creaked to his tread, but no other sounds broke the reassuring silence.
His room was as he had left it, his few belongings scattered amidst the meagre furnishings. The bedspread was still pulled back from the pillows on the spare bed. And still they were un dented
It took him no more than a few minutes to pack. Then and only then did he feel capable of deciding what to do next. It was nearly five o’clock and something was bound to start moving on the rail network soon. Something that could take him out of Copenhagen
and Denmark before the police traced him to the Kong Knud. Yes, that was it. He would go to the railway station and buy a ticket for the first train out. Patting his chest to confirm his passport was now safely stowed in his pocket, he picked up his holdall and left the room.
Down in the foyer, he deposited his keys where they could not be missed, spared a mournful thought for the unexpired portion of the week he had been obliged to pay for in advance, then slipped the latch on the street door and stepped out into what remained of the night.
He had covered about twenty uneventful yards and begun to contemplate lighting a cigarette when he heard the ticking of a cooling engine close by. Suddenly and silently, the rear door of a parked car swung open across the pavement directly in front of him, blocking his path. Before he could react, he sensed a presence at his shoulder and heard a voice whisper in his ear: “What are you waiting for? Get into the car.”
TWENTY-ONE
The sight of a bearded man had never given Harry such pleasure, even in the days when he smoked Senior Service cigarettes. Olaf Jensen looked immensely and encouragingly tall in a long grey coat and hat, his ginger beard just about level with the top of Harry’s head. “Go on,” he hissed, glancing along the pavement. “Move, will you?”
“Sorry. It’s just … I wasn’t…”
“We must go. Now!”
“Right. Sorry.” Harry scrambled into the car and made fleeting eye contact with the driver in the rear-view mirror. The look conveyed neither warmth nor menace, merely relief that he was finally aboard. Jensen slammed the door behind him and, a second later, climbed into the front passenger seat. He muttered something to the driver in Danish and they started away. “You are… er… Olaf Jensen, aren’t you?” Harry asked nervously.
“No,” said Jensen glancing back at him. “I’m Soren Kierkegaard. What’s the matter with you? Torben told you the plan, didn’t he?”
“Noter … exactly.”
“He must have done. You came out at five, as agreed.”
“Yes, but…” They did not know. That was obvious. And it was equally obvious Harry would have to tell them. But would they believe him? Somebody had murdered Torben Hammelgaard. And there was a chance his friends might suspect that somebody was Harry. “You ought to know I… er… went to the rendezvous as agreed, but… er…”
“But what?”
“I found Torben on the bridge. Knippelsbro. He was … dead.”
“Hvad?”
Torben’s dead. They’ve killed him.”
“How?” There was shock but no great surprise in Jensen’s tone. Dismay but not disbelief.
“I don’t know. There didn’t seem to be a mark on him. No signs of a struggle. Nothing.”
“That’s not possible. Torben would not allow it to be easy.”
“I can only tell you what I saw.”
Jensen’s chin fell onto his shoulder where he was resting it on the back of his seat. They were moving fast now, along empty residential streets, the lamplight strobing across Jensen’s mournful face. Harry thought he could see a glistening of tears in the man’s eyes.
The police were there when I left. Do you think they’ll be able to identify him? I mean, should you … or somebody… contact them?”
“Maske, maske. But we must be … very careful. You saw the police on the bridge?”
“Yes.”
“Did they see you?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Nobody saw me.”
“Unless it was somebody you did not see.”
“Well, I ‘
“Like Torben. He hid good. He ran fast. But they caught him and killed him. Without a struggle. Who are these people?”
“I’m not sure. Torben thought ‘
“Nej.” Jensen made a sudden slashing gesture with his hand. “His words were true. Knowledge kills. He told me to stay out. To help you, but to stay out. I will keep my promise. That is enough. The rest…” He shook his head. “I don’t want to know.”
“I need to contact some friends of his in America.”
“Ja, ja. Amerika? Jensen sighed. “You are a lucky man. Torben and I grew up together. Then we grew different. But a friend is a friend. You want to understand the universe, like Torben? Beklager. I can’t help you. You want to leave the country with no fuss and a new identity? Different story. That’s what I do. Arrange things. Normally for big money. This will be free. You are one rabbit among a lot of foxes. But I think we’ll get you through.”
“How?”
“We are going to my house. A man is waiting for us there. He takes photographs. Sometimes he puts them on passports. So, you are about to change your name. Choose one you like. Then I give you breakfast and put you on the road.”
The road to where?”
“Sweden. First rule of travel. Never start in the direction you want to go.”
They reached Jensen’s house about twenty minutes later. Harry had an impression of well-to-do suburban spaciousness in the setting, but it was still dark and not much traffic was moving. As to whether they were north, west or south of the centre, he had not the vaguest notion. They drove straight into a vast garage, parked between a Porsche and some sort of land cruiser and entered the house by a communicating door. Harry glimpsed a huge pine-panelled kitchen and a broad airy hallway, then he was ushered down into a strip-lit basement. There, a small bald moustachioed man with the clipped manner of a minor government official transcribed some details from his passport and made a careful note of his chosen nom de voyage: Norman John Page. He positioned Harry in front of a screen, took some photographs, then told him to wait upstairs.
The driver was drinking coffee and munching a croissant in some sort of ante-room to the kitchen. He nodded Harry through to where Jensen was standing by the kitchen window, one hand holding a telephone to his ear, the other cradling a coffee-cup. Harry studied his own reflection in the glass as Jensen’s conversation wound up. Even by the standards of passport mug shots Norman Page’s likeness was going to be a grim sight for immigration officers.
“Done?” said Jensen, putting down the telephone. “Good. Want some breakfast?”
“What I’d really like is some information.”
“Ah. Yes, it is time, I suppose. OK.” He lit a cigarette, lit another for Harry, walked up and down a few times, scratched his beard, then said: “We’ll drive you to Helsing0r. It’s about thirty-five kilometres north of here. You can take the ferry from there across to Sweden.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s one just after eight. You take a train from the other side through to Stockholm. You get in about four. Plenty of time to catch the overnight ferry to Helsinki. It sails at six.”
“Helsinki?”
The capital of Finland.”
“I know where it is, for God’s sake. What I mean is ‘
Torben wanted you out of Copenhagen. On the move, he said. For a few days. Till his friends in America could make arrangements. So, that’s what I do. Get you going. On a route nobody will guess. Now listen. The ferry gets to Helsinki at nine tomorrow morning. Go straight to the airport. There’s a flight to New York at eleven twenty. Be on it. It’s due into JFK at one thirty. When you get there, c
all this number.” Jensen handed him a box of matches on which a seven-figure number had been written in red biro. “The person who answers will tell you what to do next.”
“What’s this person’s name?”
“I don’t know. And you don’t need to know. Just call when you get in. They’ll be waiting by the phone.”
“Yes, but ‘
“And this.” Jensen held out a bulging envelope for Harry to take. Twenty thousand kroner, mostly in hundred kroner notes. For your ferry, train and air tickets. Plus unscheduled expenses. But don’t spend too much on beer and cigarettes. You can’t use cheques or credit cards now. They can be traced too easily. Cash only.”
In other circumstances, Harry might have been amused by Jensen’s overestimation of his credit-worthiness. The truth was that his foray into cash less economics had ended in the forced surrender of his flexible friend nearly three years before, poignantly quartered with Mrs. Tandy’s embroidery scissors. He was about to proffer his thanks for the money, incapable though he currently felt of calculating its sterling equivalent, when the man from the basement slipped into the room and attracted their attention with a clearance of the throat.
“Your passport, Mr. Page.”
Harry took the flimsy burgundy-covered booklet and glanced at the photograph and personal details. His bleary-eyed doppelganger stared un consolingly back at him. “Looks fine,” he said. Thanks.”
“You should sign it.”
“Oh, of course. I… er…”
“Pen?”
Thanks.” He leant forward to rest the passport open on the work top and signed his new name as fluently as he could.
“Mange tak, Herre Boel’ said Jensen, with a polite hint of dismissal. It was a hint Hr Boel promptly took.
“Look, about the money,” said Harry. “I’m very grateful. Really. God knows how I’ll pay it back, but ‘
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