‘How are you?’ she asked sounding overjoyed, and I mumbled that everything was just fine.
‘You look a bit tired,’ she remarked. ‘Late night, was it?’
‘Something like that,’ I replied. ‘How are you?’
Ellen started telling me about her most recent holiday with her husband and two children, who must by now both be close to twenty. I didn’t quite catch where they had been or what they had done, but I went along with her excitement and the joy, all the reassuring and comforting stories of family life. I made appropriate noises to keep her chatting until the telephone rang.
‘I had better …’ she said, nodding towards the telephone. ‘He’s expecting you upstairs … And don’t forget to pick up your post on your way out.’
I thanked her and went to the lift, which took me to the first floor.
In contrast to the light and open space of the lobby, the editorial corridor was narrow and dark. On either side were small offices where editors sat hunched over scripts or keyboards. A few of them looked up as I walked past and one or two even nodded, though I had never seen them before.
Finn’s office lay at the end of the corridor. The door was open and he was just about to go out when I arrived.
‘Frank, good to see you,’ he said and we shook hands.
His hair had turned completely white since I last saw him a year ago. He had been going grey for the last five years, but now his hair had definitively given up and surrendered to the white invasion.
He showed me into his office, which was large enough to house an enormous desk, a meeting table seating six people and an old leather sofa that had followed Finn throughout his career. Framed covers of ZeitSign’s greatest successes, including a couple of my books, hung on the walls. I left my blazer on a coat stand behind the door and sat down at the meeting table where coffee cups and pastries had been laid out. He poured me a cup of coffee without asking. I added a little milk and sipped it. Normally, I never take milk, but Finn made coffee strong enough to give me stomach ache. He sank one cup after another; he must have had his stomach galvanized.
‘So, what do you say to that?’ he asked.
‘To what?’
Finn smiled and picked up something that looked like a sheet of cardboard from the table and held it up in front of me. It was a newspaper cutting, laminated in hard plastic as if he intended to display it on his wall with the other trophies.
The headline read: ‘Young woman mutilated and drowned in Gilleleje Marina.’
9
‘SOUNDS FAMILIAR, DOESN’T it?’ Finn said. He looked at me expectantly while I read the article. It was from a tabloid and revealed nothing beyond what I had already read elsewhere.
I nodded. ‘It is our murder,’ I confirmed. ‘I spoke to Verner yesterday. Everything matches, including the bust and the diving gear, though that information hasn’t been made public.’
Finn snapped his fingers. ‘I knew it!’ he exclaimed, grinning. ‘I said to myself, that murder, that’s Føns. It has to be.’
‘I haven’t got anything to do with it.’
‘No, no,’ Finn said. ‘I know that, but it has your name written all over it.’ He reached out both hands as if to grab my head and place a big kiss on it. ‘Imagine what this will do to the book sales.’
‘Unless it’s banned.’
Finn’s smile froze. ‘What are the police saying?’
‘I’ve only spoken to Verner,’ I replied. ‘So far, we’re the only ones who know about the similarities, but Verner is very keen to tell the Murder Squad.’
‘Oh,’ Finn said. ‘Can’t you get him to hold off for a couple of days? The book is being published tomorrow, for God’s sake.’
‘He said he would contact them last night.’
Finn waved his hand. ‘It’ll be a close call,’ he said. ‘But if we can keep them at bay for twenty-four hours, we can still profit from it.’
Perhaps it was the coffee or the generous breakfast buffet, but I felt a churning sensation in my stomach.
‘Perhaps we should pull the plug on it ourselves?’
‘Are you crazy? This is far too good to miss out on.’ He stared at me as if I had just insulted his closest relative.
‘But … a woman has been murdered … are you sure that—’
Yes,’ he said in a brusque tone. ‘Stopping the book isn’t going to bring her back to life.’
‘Of course not, but what about her family?’
Finn looked annoyed.
‘They might sue you,’ I said.
He blinked at the prospect of spending money on lawyers and damages.
‘We’ll have to deal with that when it happens,’ he said with resignation. ‘We’re not stopping anything until the police ask us to. Christ, Frank, if we’re to base our decision on the information that has been made public, then there is no link.’
‘Except that it has my name “written all over it”,’ I remarked.
Finn rolled his eyes. ‘Only to those who know you,’ he said.
I shrugged. ‘So what do you want me to do? Lie?’
‘No, no. Just act normally, stick to the programme and kindly refrain from going to the police.’
‘That sounds like perverting the course of justice.’
‘Not at all,’ Finn exclaimed. ‘If it wasn’t for your friend Verner, no one would have made the connection until after publication.’
I shook my head. It was obvious that Finn had made up his mind, and somehow that was a relief. There was nothing left for me to do.
‘Besides,’ Finn said. He sliced through the air with both hands. ‘Even without the additional twist, I have a really good feeling about this book.’ He smiled and tapped the table three times. ‘You’ve really hit on something this time. People get the whole phobia and fear theme. I’ve spoken to some of the newspapers today and they’re reviewing it favourably. Weekendavisen wants your head on a plate as always, but otherwise it’s good news across the board. It’ll be a very busy book fair, I promise you. Our people have built a Frank Føns corner on the stand with large banners, “Face your fear” and so on. You’ll love it.’
I was far from sure that I would. The book fair was a necessary evil for me and I was uncomfortable with all this attention. Especially now.
‘Interviews have been arranged.’ Finn’s smile disappeared. ‘TV3 is sending Linda Hvilbjerg.’ He held up his hands. ‘I know you don’t like her, but we’ve no choice and she’s popular.’
I nodded. ‘It’s OK. I’ll just imagine her with a noose around her neck and I’ll be fine.’
Finn laughed. ‘I don’t think she’s forgiven you for Media Whore yet.’
Linda Hvilbjerg had hosted book shows on various TV channels for years and at one point I blamed her for the breakdown of my marriage. That was nonsense, of course. But I was so embittered in the years following the divorce that when I wrote Media Whore I put in so many similarities with Linda Hvilbjerg that any reader could see the character was based on her. In the book, the over-ambitious TV reporter, Vira Lindal, died suspended from a beam in the production suite with a script rammed up her vagina. Linda Hvilbjerg didn’t review the book on her show and has never had a good word to say about my books since, if she even mentions them in the first place.
‘I haven’t put you on the guest list for the party on Saturday,’ Finn continued. ‘But if you want to go, just let me know. We can always get you in.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m busy.’
I wasn’t, but I knew that after a long day at the book fair, going to a party with the same people was the last thing I wanted to do.