Found Wanting

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Speak English,’ Lars growled, raising his bottle in a toast. ‘Skål.’ 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 Aksdenhøj 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 Århus 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.’

  ‘You think that’s why he bought it?’

  ‘Somehow, yes. There’s a connection. I just can’t… work it out. But maybe I ca
n… if I know all there is to know about Clem Hewitson.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Marty. ‘But here’s the deal, Karsten. I’m expecting a call later today. I’m hoping it’ll join up the dots in what we know about Clem’s relationship with Nydahl.’

  ‘Join up the dots?’ Burgaard frowned dubiously at Marty over his shoulder. So did Eusden. What call? What the hell was Marty playing at?

  ‘Once that’s done, we should be in business. Know what I mean?’

  ‘No. Just give me all you have so far.’

  ‘No point. I don’t want to run the risk of… unintentionally misleading you.’ Marty’s smile, doubtless intended to be reassuring, looked patently disingenuous to Eusden. ‘By tonight, everything should be clearer. And I’ll be happy to share it with you. Now, what about that gravestone?’

  Burgaard’s mouth tightened. ‘Do you think I’m a fool, Mr Hewitson?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You get nothing more till I get something.’

  ‘No need to be like that.’

  ‘Yes, there is. You’ve cheated me. You promised me information.’

  ‘And you’ll get it.’ Marty leant forward and looked Burgaard in the eye. ‘Tonight.’

  The journey back to Århus was a wordless ordeal. Burgaard drove fast and tensely, like a man simmering with resentment, as Eusden had no doubt he was. Eusden was feeling pretty resentful himself. Marty was stringing him along as well as Burgaard. This had always been the way of it, of course. Marty had never been able to resist playing the role of smart arse. Several of the more infuriating passages of their friendship replayed themselves in Eusden’s memory as they sped through the Jutland countryside.

  Eusden had assumed Burgaard would drop them at their hotel, but he noticed after they had entered the city that they were on a ring road, skirting the centre, and soon the university campus appeared to their right. Soon after that, they pulled into a car park behind a cluster of multi-storey red-brick accommodation blocks.

  ‘I’ll expect to see you tonight, then,’ said Burgaard as they climbed out, his voice flat and expressionless. ‘I’ll be waiting for your call.’ With that he plodded off towards the entrance of the nearest block.

  ‘How are we supposed to get back to the Royal?’ Marty called after him.

  ‘Take the bus. Or walk. I don’t care.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  Burgaard’s answer to that was a V-sign, delivered without a backward glance. Eusden could hardly blame him. And even Marty seemed to consider further protest pointless. He lit a cigarette as they watched Burgaard vanish indoors.

  ‘Why don’t we try to track down a restaurant over there?’ Marty nodded in the direction of the shopping street they had turned off a few minutes previously. ‘We’ll feel better after we’ve had something to eat and drink.’

  Eusden looked at him unsmilingly. ‘Why not?’

  A dismal pizza parlour was the best they could find so far from the city centre. Eusden contained himself while food was ordered and beer delivered to their table, then let Marty have it.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, giving Burgaard the runaround like that? The poor bloke’s offering to help you.’

  ‘It couldn’t be avoided,’ Marty replied, beaming at Eusden over his glass of Carlsberg.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Like I told him: I’m waiting for a phone call.’

  ‘That was true?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘You never mentioned any call to me.’

  ‘You never mentioned your rendezvous with clever clogs Karsten until after the event.’

  ‘And that’s how I’d have got to hear about the call?’

  ‘Yeah. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Who’s the call from?’

  ‘You don’t need to know just yet. I’m hoping for… some good news. Let’s leave it like that.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me?’

  ‘I’d rather not. It’d be tempting fate.’

  ‘Well, I’d rather you did. It’s bad enough keeping Burgaard in the dark. I’m supposed to be your friend.’

  ‘Calm down, Richard. You’re ranting.’

  It was true, in the sense that Eusden’s voice had risen steadily during their exchanges. He noticed the waiter peering apprehensively round the kitchen blind. He tried to stifle some of the anger he felt.

  ‘You reckon I’m handling Burgaard badly, do you?’ Marty asked.

  ‘Yes. There was more he’d have told us if you’d offered him something in return.’

  ‘More of the same, in all likelihood. That stuff about Nydahl’s cache of Finnish currency? Old news, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You already knew?’

  ‘Sure. It was about the only interesting fact I dug up on the man.’

  ‘When were you planning to tell me about it?’

  ‘I thought I had. In fact, I meant to congratulate you on acting dumb so convincingly.’

  ‘You said you found out nothing about him.’

  ‘Did I? Sorry. It must have… slipped my mind.’

  ‘Slipped your mind?’

  Marty shrugged. ‘I’m not firing on all synapses.’

  The blatant bid for sympathy was the last straw for Eusden. He should have remembered: there always came a time when Marty drove him beyond endurance. He shook his head ruefully and stood up.

  ‘Going somewhere?’

  ‘For a walk. I’ll see you back at the hotel.’

  ‘What about your pizza?’

  ‘The way I feel at the moment, I think it might choke me.’

  ‘Hold on. There’s no-’

  ‘Save it, Marty, OK?’ Eusden held up a hand in solemn warning. ‘Whatever you’ve got to say, I don’t want to hear it.’

  SIXTEEN

  They had planned to potter round Bembridge Harbour and The Duver before tea with Aunt Lily at her cottage in St Helens. It was a hot, windless day towards the end of August, 1971. The tide was exceptionally low – low enough, according to Marty, who claimed to have studied the tables, for them to walk out through the shallows to St Helens Fort. It was one of Palmerston’s Follies, a ring of forts on sea and land around Portsmouth, built to defend the home of the Royal Navy from attack by the French. All had long since been abandoned. The expedition was too tempting an idea to resist. And they made it out there with some ease. But a futile attempt to penetrate the fort delayed their return journey and Marty tardily admitted that he did not actually know when the tide was due to turn. Beaten back by the inrushing sea and lucky not to be drowned, they were eventually rescued by a passing yachtsman as darkness was falling.

  It was an important lesson in a subject Richard Eusden was to become an expert on: the inherent unreliability of Marty Hewitson. Marty was generous, but seldom repaid a debt unless reminded of it. He was game for anything, but often failed to turn up when the time came. He was confident in everything he asserted or proposed, but the confidence he inspired in others was frequently misplaced. In short, he possessed charm in abundance. But even abundance can be exhausted.

  The exasperation Eusden felt as he trudged down past the campus of Århus University towards the city centre was thus all too familiar to him. Burgaard had asked Marty if he thought him a fool and Eusden could well have asked the same question of himself. Except that he knew the answer, as Burgaard did not. Marty treated everyone in the same way, whether he thought them a fool, or a friend, or both. He was never going to change. Believing everything he said – or believing he had told you everything: that was foolishness.

  Eusden went into a bar down by the riverside, where he ate a club sandwich, drank several beers and considered what he should do. Suspicion is a progressive disorder and he had started to wonder just how deceitful Marty was being. He could not have invented the whole thing. Werner Straub was real enough, as was Karsten Burgaard. They were on to something. But was it really connected with Anastasia? And was Marty really dying? D
oubt had begun to weevil into Eusden’s mind on every count.

  By the time he returned to the Royal, he had half-decided to tell Marty he was bailing out and heading back to London by the first available flight. As it was, he never got the chance. A woman was waiting for him in the lobby. With her iron-grey hair, raw-boned, weathered face and faintly old-fashioned outfit of loden and tweed, she looked like a well-to-do countrywoman of sixty or so on a shopping expedition to the city. And that did not turn out to be a misleading impression, although shopping was not high on her agenda.

  ‘Mr Eusden? I’m Elsa Støvring. I wanted to speak to Mr Hewitson, but he’s not here.’ This was slightly surprising. Eusden would have expected Marty to take a bus back into the centre and be at the hotel long before him. But there was, as he well knew, no legislating for Marty’s movements. ‘Could you spare me a few minutes? I need to speak to one of you. It really is rather urgent.’

  Elsa Støvring was not a woman to be fobbed off and Eusden did not try. They walked across the square to a café for the urgent discussion she was clearly intent on having.

  ‘I’m not sure what you and Mr Hewitson are trying to achieve, Mr Eusden, but you’ve certainly succeeded in upsetting several members of my family,’ she began. ‘My brother Tolmar is a very private person and I hope you’ll agree he has a right to his privacy.’

  ‘We haven’t breached it as far as I know,’ said Eusden. He could not decide whether to be defensive or conciliatory. He badly needed to establish where he stood with Marty, but he was going to have to see off Elsa first.

  ‘You harassed my nephew in a bar.’

  ‘We spoke to him.’

  ‘You imposed on my brother Lars.’

  ‘We paid him a visit and left when he asked us to.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ Her dogmatic tone faltered slightly. ‘Lars is not the best judge of his own interests.’

  ‘But you are, no doubt.’

  Elsa gave him a sharp look over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘The world changes, Mr Eusden. I’d never met a Lithuanian until about ten years ago. Now my husband employs six of them to manage his pigs. My brother Tolmar probably employs many more, in Lithuania as well as Denmark. Oh yes, the world changes. But we have the past inside us. And that doesn’t change. I never knew my parents. My mother died a few days after I was born. Blood poisoning. Five months later, my father died also. He cut an artery in an accident with a segl. What is it in English? A curved blade… with a handle.’ She finger-painted a question mark in the air, minus the dot.