need to explain.’
‘I’ll have to explain eventually.’ Somewhere deep in Eusden’s brain, a series of calculations was under way. He had to find out what Clem Hewitson’s secret was. He knew himself well enough to understand that he would regret failing to do so for a long time, possibly for ever. Too much of his own past was tied to his memory of the old man for him simply to walk away. He was also aware that part of him had been excited by the intrigue and uncertainty of the previous twenty-four hours. He had felt more alive during them than he had in months – if not years. Creeping back timidly to his desk in Whitehall was in truth not even an option. ‘OK. I’ll make the call.’ He rose and headed for the spare bedroom. ‘My phone’s in my bag.’
‘No.’ Marty grabbed his arm as he passed. ‘Use the land line.’
‘What?’
‘I’m serious. Turn your mobile off and leave it that way. We need to be untraceable from now on.’
Eusden looked at his friend disbelievingly. ‘Come off it, Marty. It can’t be—’
‘But it is.’
‘This had better be good.’
‘Or bad. Oh, yes. It is. One of those. Or both. You can be the judge.’
‘Lorraine, this is Richard. More apologies for you to make on my behalf, I’m afraid. I’m dealing with a . . . family crisis. I’m going to be away until the end of the week. I have unused leave, so it should be no problem. I’ll call you when the situation’s clearer. ’Bye.’ Eusden put the phone down and returned to the kitchen. ‘It’s done,’ he announced.
‘Unused leave? That sounds sad.’
‘Can we get on with it?’
‘Actually, no. This flat gives me the creeps. I’ve spent far too long staring at its puce-coloured walls. Why don’t we pack up and clear out? There’s a café round the corner that was just opening when I went past in the taxi. We can get some breakfast there and much better coffee than this stuff you scraped out of a jar.’
‘When are you going to stop stringing me along, Marty?’
‘When I’ve lit my first postprandial cigarette. Which, if you shift yourself, won’t be long.’
Eusden washed and shaved in short order. When it came down to it, he had no more wish to linger in the flat than Marty. They made no effort to clear up after themselves. (‘That’s Werner’s problem,’ declared Marty. ‘He’s got a week or more before Mutter gets back from Majorca.’) They slammed the door behind them and strode away without a backward glance, studiously avoiding eye contact with a neighbour walking her dog.
There was a broad, paved square a few minutes away. The Café Sizilien stood in one corner. Assorted Hamburgers bound for work were bracing themselves for the experience with coffee and croissants and certainly the morning was cold enough to warrant a good deal of bracing. Marty opted for two boiled eggs and several thickly jammed and buttered bread rolls. Eusden joined him, surprised by how hungry he felt. The coffee, as Marty had promised, was a vast improvement on Frau Straub’s instant.
‘No sign of Werner’s heavy,’ said Marty, scanning the customers from their window table as he licked raspberry jam off his fingers. ‘He’s betting I’ll take the money and run.’
‘Instead of which . . . you’re just taking the money.’
‘You’ll get your share.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘No, I guess not. Sorry.’ Marty lit his second Camel of the day. ‘So, where to begin?’
‘How about the beginning?’
‘Easier said than done. But I’ll try.’ Marty pulled out his wallet and fished something small and flimsy from its depths. He laid it in front of Eusden. ‘What do you make of that?’
It was a fragment of an envelope with two stamps stuck to it. The smaller had a king’s head on it beneath the word D ANMARK . The larger depicted a ploughman struggling to control his horse as a plane flew overhead. Beneath the ploughman appeared the words D ANMARK LUFTPOST . A single
‘I’ll have to explain eventually.’ Somewhere deep in Eusden’s brain, a series of calculations was under way. He had to find out what Clem Hewitson’s secret was. He knew himself well enough to understand that he would regret failing to do so for a long time, possibly for ever. Too much of his own past was tied to his memory of the old man for him simply to walk away. He was also aware that part of him had been excited by the intrigue and uncertainty of the previous twenty-four hours. He had felt more alive during them than he had in months – if not years. Creeping back timidly to his desk in Whitehall was in truth not even an option. ‘OK. I’ll make the call.’ He rose and headed for the spare bedroom. ‘My phone’s in my bag.’
‘No.’ Marty grabbed his arm as he passed. ‘Use the land line.’
‘What?’
‘I’m serious. Turn your mobile off and leave it that way. We need to be untraceable from now on.’
Eusden looked at his friend disbelievingly. ‘Come off it, Marty. It can’t be—’
‘But it is.’
‘This had better be good.’
‘Or bad. Oh, yes. It is. One of those. Or both. You can be the judge.’
‘Lorraine, this is Richard. More apologies for you to make on my behalf, I’m afraid. I’m dealing with a . . . family crisis. I’m going to be away until the end of the week. I have unused leave, so it should be no problem. I’ll call you when the situation’s clearer. ’Bye.’ Eusden put the phone down and returned to the kitchen. ‘It’s done,’ he announced.
‘Unused leave? That sounds sad.’
‘Can we get on with it?’
‘Actually, no. This flat gives me the creeps. I’ve spent far too long staring at its puce-coloured walls. Why don’t we pack up and clear out? There’s a café round the corner that was just opening when I went past in the taxi. We can get some breakfast there and much better coffee than this stuff you scraped out of a jar.’
‘When are you going to stop stringing me along, Marty?’
‘When I’ve lit my first postprandial cigarette. Which, if you shift yourself, won’t be long.’
Eusden washed and shaved in short order. When it came down to it, he had no more wish to linger in the flat than Marty. They made no effort to clear up after themselves. (‘That’s Werner’s problem,’ declared Marty. ‘He’s got a week or more before Mutter gets back from Majorca.’) They slammed the door behind them and strode away without a backward glance, studiously avoiding eye contact with a neighbour walking her dog.
There was a broad, paved square a few minutes away. The Café Sizilien stood in one corner. Assorted Hamburgers bound for work were bracing themselves for the experience with coffee and croissants and certainly the morning was cold enough to warrant a good deal of bracing. Marty opted for two boiled eggs and several thickly jammed and buttered bread rolls. Eusden joined him, surprised by how hungry he felt. The coffee, as Marty had promised, was a vast improvement on Frau Straub’s instant.
‘No sign of Werner’s heavy,’ said Marty, scanning the customers from their window table as he licked raspberry jam off his fingers. ‘He’s betting I’ll take the money and run.’
‘Instead of which . . . you’re just taking the money.’
‘You’ll get your share.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘No, I guess not. Sorry.’ Marty lit his second Camel of the day. ‘So, where to begin?’
‘How about the beginning?’
‘Easier said than done. But I’ll try.’ Marty pulled out his wallet and fished something small and flimsy from its depths. He laid it in front of Eusden. ‘What do you make of that?’
It was a fragment of an envelope with two stamps stuck to it. The smaller had a king’s head on it beneath the word D ANMARK . The larger depicted a ploughman struggling to control his horse as a plane flew overhead. Beneath the ploughman appeared the words D ANMARK LUFTPOST . A single
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