His flattery would lead to the inevitable offer so I stopped listening. Instead I drank the beer he had bought me and nodded in the right places. David Vestergaard was the third generation of the publishing house Vestergaard & Co. He was considerably younger than me – in his early thirties – but he spoke like a much older man and used expressions such as ‘airy-fairy’ and ‘not inconsiderably’. His short haircut and trendy horn-rimmed glasses made people wonder if he was sending himself up or if he genuinely spoke like that, but having met him several times and talked to others who knew him, I had concluded that his manner was the product of private education and the literary tradition of the Vestergaard family.
David Vestergaard leaned into me and caught my attention again.
‘Just between us,’ he said. ‘ZeitSign is in serious financial difficulties.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ I replied.
‘I don’t imagine it’s something Mr Gelf acknowledges if he can help it,’ said David Vestergaard, and briefly looked as if he felt genuinely sorry for Finn. ‘Nor does he appreciate the necessity of developing his writers.’
‘Well, I can’t really—’
‘Not that you’re not a good writer,’ David Vestergaard interrupted me, holding up his hand as if swearing an oath. ‘But with the right guidance and publicity, you could sell twice as many books, at least.’ He drank his beer and so did I, mainly to hide my growing irritation. ‘When did he last inspire you?’
‘Inspire me?’
‘Yes, a good editor doesn’t just criticize and correct commas,’ David Vestergaard said.
‘Listen,’ I said, putting down my glass a little too hard on the table. ‘I’m not interested, OK? Whatever you’re offering, I’m staying with ZeitSign, no matter what happens.’
‘Suit yourself,’ David Vestergaard sighed. ‘But when Gelf goes bankrupt, you know where to turn.’
‘What about Tom Winter?’ I said. ‘You already have a crime writer, one who regards me as his biggest rival.’
David Vestergaard’s eyes flickered for a moment. ‘That’s not going to be a problem,’ he replied. ‘It’s simply a question of timing publications properly and, as far as the rivalry goes, that’s just playing to the gallery.’ He smiled and raised his glass.
I refused to join in. He shrugged and emptied his glass in solitude.
‘See you, Frank,’ he said as he left the bar.
His seat was quickly taken by two women with sore feet and plastic bags bulging with books.
I fished out my notebook again. The conversation with David Vestergaard had interrupted my reconstruction of the meeting between Verner and Lulu, the hooker who lured him to room 102, and I tried to pick up my train of thought. Verner had just threatened to arrest her for soliciting in the hotel.
Lulu suddenly becomes more cooperative; perhaps she puts her hand on Verner’s bull neck? There is no need to get angry. Why doesn’t he come up to see for himself?
I knew Verner well enough to know he wouldn’t refuse an offer like that, but there was something in my reconstruction that didn’t hold. It wasn’t the hooker, Lulu, who was out to get me and who had murdered Verner. Her job was simply to deliver him to the room, after which she would have left.
And then I realized that I might have seen her myself. After the meal, on my way into the lift, I had almost knocked over a small, slender woman. Verner frequently held forth about the type of women who turned him on. They had to be petite, slim and most importantly Danish. ‘I don’t mind them being seventeen as long as they look like thirteen,’ he had said once and roared with laughter. Anyone who wanted to ensnare Verner would send a girl like that, I was sure of it. Petite, slim and Nordic; a description that fitted the girl in the lift perfectly.
Someone must have hired her and this person had to be the real killer.
So where was Lulu now?
19
I WAS COMPLETELY shattered after the first day of the book fair.
Every year the hordes of people came as a total surprise to me. After living for so long in the cottage where I could control who I saw, walking through the exhibition hall felt like a constant infringement of my personal space. It was a relief to leave Forum and inhale air that hadn’t already been breathed by tens of thousands of book fair visitors. I hailed a taxi and I may have jumped the queue. I heard someone shout out after me as I flopped down on the back seat.
At the hotel reception, Ferdinan was busy typing on the computer.
‘Arrghh, useless thing,’ he exclaimed, oblivious to my presence. He tapped the keyboard hard and clenched his jaw. ‘Come on, you stupid machine.’
I cleared my throat and he straightened up, startled.
‘I just can’t work these … machines,’ he said and smiled, embarrassed. ‘How can I help you, Mr Føns? A table in the restaurant?’
I shook my head. ‘No, thanks. I’m dining with a friend tonight,’ I replied.
He nodded. ‘Another time perhaps.’
‘Definitely.’
I did a Columbo: I pretended to leave, but turned around when I remembered something.
‘Listen, Ferdinan,’ I said, casually. ‘Do you remember my guest on the first day? Big broad man with thinning hair?’
Ferdinan looked up at the ceiling, but soon lit up in a smile.
‘Oh, yes, a large gentleman, I remember him well. I directed him to the restaurant on his arrival.’
‘Did you see him when he left?’
No,’ Ferdinan replied immediately. ‘The kitchen was busy so I helped out there most of the evening. Sometimes we all have to muck in.’ He smiled. ‘Has your friend gone missing?’
I sighed. ‘He wasn’t entirely sober. I wanted to know if he asked for a taxi or if he drove himself.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ferdinan said. ‘The last time I saw him was in the restaurant with you.’
‘How about a slim woman, petite, wearing a short skirt and puffer jacket?’
Ferdinan shook his head. ‘Not her either.’
I thanked him and went up to my room. I was due at Bjarne and Anne’s in an hour and I had just enough time to kick off my shoes and splash some water on my face. Their flat was less than half an hour’s walk from the hotel and I needed some fresh air so I decided to go on foot. It was windy. Large clouds drifted across the sky and there were crests on the water in the Lakes. Quite a few people had braved the weather; joggers darted between puddles and pedestrians as though they were on an obstacle course.
I wondered how much I should tell Bjarne. I desperately wanted to leave as soon as I had got Mortis’s address and spare Bjarne and Anne my problems, but I also needed support. I couldn’t get that from Finn, that much was obvious, and I had no one else. This realization made me feel very alone. The years in the cottage had protected me to some extent, but also narrowed down my circle of friends to very few people I trusted completely, and I didn’t feel I could burden even them with my troubles.
Bjarne never changed. In the last ten years he had let his hair grow and wore it in a ponytail. Combined with his round, horn-rimmed glasses and casual clothes, he looked like an ageing hippie.
He gave me a bear hug practically before I crossed the threshold and I could feel that he certainly hadn’t lost any weight in the past year. Anne, too, embraced me and we exchanged greetings.
Since giving up his dream of being published, Bjarne had worked as a teacher at a sixth-form college. With Anne’s financial resources and her job as a social worker, they could still afford the large flat overlooking the Lakes, although the area had been greatly gentrified since our Scriptorium days. Inside the flat the second-hand furniture had long since been replaced with Danish design classics and the kitchen extended to include a breakfast bar and a dining area. The bookcases no longer held tattered, dogeared books we had nicked or scrounged; now attractive hardbacks and special editions covered the walls in the two connecting reception rooms. In the absence of children, they had discovered and been able to afford good taste twenty years too early.