Greater than my anger, however, was my frustrating realization that I needed him.
My hands were trembling slightly. I grabbed my glass and downed its contents. With my other hand, I took the bottle and refilled my glass. Across the table, Verner was calmly drinking his beer. He placed his knife and fork together to indicate he had finished, though half his steak was left.
‘Shit,’ he said, exhaling heavily. ‘Now how do I explain my involvement?’ He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I think it’s best if I contact the Murder Squad right away.’
All I could do was nod.
‘I’ll take this,’ he said, rapping the book with his knuckles. He stood up. ‘How long are you in town?’
‘I’m going back on Monday.’
‘They’ll want a word with you,’ he said.
I nodded. I think we both knew this would be the last time we saw each other.
‘Take care of yourself, Frank,’ he said as he left.
I didn’t reply, but pushed the rest of my food away and drank the wine while I wondered when they would come for me. Tonight? No matter when it was, it would be inconvenient.
When the bottle was empty, I got up and left the restaurant. As I staggered towards the lift I became aware of how much alcohol I had consumed. It took for ever before the lift arrived and when the doors opened I practically tumbled inside, nearly crashing into a young woman in a short skirt and a puffer jacket.
‘Watch where you’re going, idiot,’ she said in a broad Copenhagen accent. She shoved me out of the way with surprising strength.
I started to apologize, but she had already left. The scent of her perfume lingered in the lift, a cheap smell of lilac. It was suffocating to be trapped with it during the ride up to the fifth floor.
My conversation with Verner churned inside my head. I was angry, but also relieved.
It was in his hands now.
I had told him what I knew and all I had to do was to wait.
Thursday
8
THE POLICE DIDN’T show up at the hotel that night.
I slept badly. Not because I feared a bunch of uniformed officers might kick down the door at any moment; I always sleep badly in a new place. The first night in a strange bed I barely sleep a wink and tonight was no different. In my dozing state the thoughts whirled around my head and I kept seeing Mona Weis’s blue eyes staring at me through the muddy seawater. When I finally nodded off, I had disturbing dreams about apes and cats.
Though I had little sleep, I felt surprisingly relaxed the next morning. It was as if my dopey state dulled the fear I had experienced the day before and I decided to carry out the new day’s programme as if nothing had happened. That soon proved to be impossible, but I could always pretend. What other option did I have?
The day’s programme included a hearty breakfast and I was starving. My discussion with Verner had ruined my appetite last night so there was plenty of room for an extra helping of eggs and bacon from the breakfast buffet. The thought that I might get picked up by the police at any moment undoubtedly hovered at the back of my mind and perhaps it contributed to my ravenous appetite. At any rate, I spent almost an hour at breakfast, reading the paper as plates from the buffet piled up on my table.
There was nothing new about the Gilleleje murder in the paper. It was now three days since the body of Mona Weis had been discovered and the novelty value had clearly worn off.
First on my agenda was a meeting with my editor, Finn Gelf. Finn published my first book, In the Dead Angle, and I had been with ZeitSign ever since. In those days, it was a very small firm and Finn was both managing director and editor. Since then the company had grown dramatically and Finn had increasingly delegated the editorial work to others, but not on my books. He insisted he was and always would be my editor. In a way, a great part of ZeitSign’s success is down to me, so he owes me. My breakthrough novel, when it finally came, proved to be a goldmine for them and my subsequent books have provided both parties with a regular income.
In time, a friendship developed. Finn Gelf took a chance on In the Dead Angle and The Walls Have Ears and he continued to believe in me, despite the losses his company suffered in the early years. He later told me, once we knew each other better, that he saw in me a stubbornness and a hunger for recognition. Those two traits combined provided fuel; all I needed was direction. He judged I would discover the right formula at some point and he wanted to be there when it happened. Besides, the age difference between us – ten years – wasn’t too big so he found it easy to empathize with the idealism I radiated the first time we met. Perhaps he saw himself in me a decade younger, or the man he hoped he once was.
My breakthrough novel also signalled the breakthrough for our friendship. Together, we travelled around Denmark and abroad and it was on these trips that we grew closer and started talking about other subjects than literature and the publishing industry.
Finn Gelf was the son of the travel publisher Gustav Gelf. Even as a boy, Finn was part of his father’s business. When he was old enough he started packing books for mail order, a job that earned him extra pocket money and his father’s respect. He was later apprenticed to a printer, but the printing works were owned by a brewery and he ended up producing beer labels, day in and day out. Finn, soon bored out of his mind, quit his apprenticeship and returned to his father’s business. He was given an office job on the condition that he continued his education. He managed both some A levels and a business degree and soon became an invaluable part of the company.
The ageing Gustav had imagined that his business would be carried on by his son, but when Finn introduced plans to expand their list to include other types of books, such as fiction, they fell out to such an extent that Finn left and started ZeitSign.
Despite his young age, Finn had built up a reliable network within the industry and he managed to get his publishing house up and running through solid agreements with printers and buyers. It wasn’t a highly profitable business, but he survived and was even able to make small investments in new writers. In the Dead Angle was one such gamble, and had it not been for Finn Gelf, I might never have been published at all.
I took a taxi from the hotel to Gammel Mønt. On the way, I wondered if I should tell Finn about the murder in Gilleleje. It would be right thing to do, but if the police hadn’t turned up yet, it might mean they had already solved the crime. Perhaps there was no link to the book after all; ultimately I only had Verner’s word that the details matched.
ZeitSign’s reception lay behind toned glass doors. The floor and walls were covered with pale sandstone and a polished black counter lay like an overturned monolith in the lobby. The 45-year-old receptionist, Ellen, a noble-looking woman who never lost her composure, sat behind the counter. On the wall behind her, the name ‘ZeitSign’ was displayed in large black letters.
‘Frank!’ she exclaimed when I pushed open the heavy glass doors and entered. She got up, came towards me and gave me a big hug. I returned it with gratitude. It was a long time since a woman had hugged me, possibly not since last year’s book fair, and that had probably been Ellen too.