‘I really don’t think—’
‘Yes, yes, it all fits.’ He leaned into me. ‘And linking it to the murder in Gilleleje … it’s going to be massive,’ he whispered and nodded conspiratorially. ‘And when they’ve read all your books, we’ll launch the biography.’
‘Biography?’
‘Yes, we’ll have no choice,’ he carried on, now in a normal voice. ‘The true story of your life in murder and mutilation.’
‘Sounds like a death sentence,’ I declared.
Finn Gelf snapped his fingers. ‘That could be the title – Death Sentence!’ He nodded, pleased with himself. ‘Bloody hell, it’ll be brilliant.’
We were interrupted by a middle-aged woman pressing a book in between us with a request for an autograph. I grabbed my pen and signed the book without looking at it, but kept my eyes fixed on Finn Gelf.
He looked like he really meant it. His eyes shone with a passion I hadn’t seen in him for a long time. Once he got that look in his eyes, it was hard to talk sense to him. I remembered what Ellen had told me about the company’s finances. ZeitSign was Finn’s life. There was nothing he wouldn’t do, and – in many cases – hadn’t already done to keep the company afloat, and when there was money at stake, he could be very convincing.
‘I’ll think about it, Finn,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘Super,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s going to be great, just you wait.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to go, but I’ll be seeing you tomorrow as arranged.’
I nodded and we said goodbye.
I wanted to tell Finn about Verner, but I didn’t want to do it at the book fair, and Finn was the book fair. He breathed it for the three days it lasted, moving between the stands and the crowds such that no one could keep up with him and he heard everything, despite the noise level. He seemed indefatigable. Everyone knew him and he knew them, but he wasn’t there for the small talk. His brain was set on business, making new contacts and nurturing his existing network. I was tempted to believe he had a filter that would remove Verner’s murder, if I tried to talk to him. Everything but publishing would be white noise to Finn.
To some extent that was why I had indulged his idea of a biography, but part of me was just as excited as he was. I wasn’t keen on exposing my private life, but I was intrigued by the premise, and I discovered that my brain was already working on possible angles for the story, not least – I’m ashamed to admit – how I could use the murders of Mona Weis and Verner to spice up the narrative. They might have been murdered to harm me, but now it looked like it could have the opposite effect. However, it would only work if I could play the hero, the detective who uncovers the plot and catches the killer at the end.
Now that would be a biography I’d want to read.
18
AFTER FINN HAD left, I stood there for a moment not knowing what to do with myself. The idea of the biography refused to leave me alone and everything else faded into a distant humming.
I wandered around aimlessly. I skimmed books and back-cover blurbs without really registering what I read. I stopped at some of the small makeshift platforms where authors answered questions with clenched fists and shaking voices, mercilessly amplified by microphones and speakers. But I didn’t listen to what they were saying and I didn’t notice where I was going. Eventually I found myself in a corner of the exhibition hall with a small bar in the style of an old English pub, quite unlike the other refreshment outlets at the book fair, which consisted mainly of plastic chairs and canteen tables.
I ordered a dark beer, which was drawn from a brass tap, and sat down in a corner on a bench upholstered in red velvet. It was the last free seat and I had to share the table with two raucous men in their fifties discussing the bookseller trade. Judging from their accents, they were from Jutland. This was probably their annual trip to the capital, which was spent on books, beers and hookers. One of them nodded to me as if he recognized me. I nodded back, but took out my notebook in order not to encourage further conversation.
I had to rein in the ideas buzzing around my head, write them down while I still remembered them. In a short space of time I had written four pages of notes without having drunk my beer. To reward myself, I raised the glass to my lips and drank half the contents in one go.
‘Someone’s thirsty,’ one of the booksellers remarked, but I ignored him, picked up my pen and carried on writing.
The murders would form an important part of the biography, but that required that they were solved, and what would be better than if I myself contributed to the detection? The possibilities made my head spin. For years I had written about ordinary people who found themselves in extreme situations where they were forced to act. Sometimes they took on the role of detective to solve the mystery. I could easily imagine the resulting publicity if somehow I helped capture the killer of Mona Weis and Verner. In the past few days I had been a paranoid nervous wreck, but now it was the thrill of having a mission that made my heart beat faster.
The only real clue I had was the name Martin Kragh in which room 102 had been booked, and it raised more questions than it answered. Nevertheless it was a start. It meant something – to me at least – and, I had to presume, to the killer. Mortis might be involved, he might even be in danger, but as I couldn’t get hold of his address until later tonight, I couldn’t progress any further down this route.
The image of Verner’s body in the hotel bed haunted me, but I forced myself to imagine what had preceded it, what he had done after leaving me at the restaurant.
He was probably worried about our conversation, knowing that he would get a dressing down when he told his colleagues he had withheld information from them. Perhaps they would freeze him out? Or he might be transferred to another department, a station in the provinces where nothing ever happened? He leaves the restaurant, walking briskly. In the lobby he spots a familiar face. It’s Lulu, or whatever they call themselves in that profession, and a smile forms at the corners of his mouth. He tells her she must have got lost, that this is a respectable hotel which doesn’t rent out rooms by the hour. Lulu looks frightened or she pretends to be and shows Verner the key. She isn’t doing anything wrong and has a right to be here, she says. Verner doesn’t believe her, mainly because he sees a chance to get into her knickers, and he threatens to take her down to the station.
‘Frank!’
The voice shattered my reconstruction of the meeting at the Marieborg Hotel. The booksellers had gone and David Vestergaard, editor-in-chief of the publishing house Vestergaard & Co., sat down next to me with a broad smile and two freshly drawn beers. He pushed one in my direction.
‘Good to see you again, Frank.’
We had spoken a couple of times before; in fact, he inflicted himself on me every year at the book fair, but I always ignored his ill-concealed offer to jump ship. Now I found myself trapped between him and a column of imitation mahogany. Besides, my glass was empty and I was in need of a refill.
I nodded by way of a thank you and we drank.
‘Have you started your next novel?’ he asked, glancing at the notebook in front of me.
There was no risk that he could read my handwriting, but I shut my notebook all the same and put it in my pocket.
‘Something like that,’ I replied and attempted a smile.
David Vestergaard grinned. ‘That’s just like you,’ he said. ‘Always busy, always productive.’ He nodded to himself. ‘That’s what I like about you, Frank. You’re a proper grafter. Nothing airy-fairy about you. No, it’s the product …’