‘Just keep driving. And go on answering my questions. Did Koskinen know what was going to happen as well?’

  ‘Not the details. But he does as he’s told. Like me.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s gone to stay with his brother.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t give me that.’

  ‘I swear I don’t. I could make something up, couldn’t I? How could you tell? Truthfully, I don’t know.’

  A police car swept past them. Then another.

  ‘What about Tolmar? Where’s he?’

  ‘Out of town.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Tonight. Tomorrow. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Where’s his apartment?’

  ‘Mäkinkatu six. But you won’t get to him there. It has state-of-the-art security.’

  ‘Was Birgitte Grøn in on all this?’

  ‘No. She wouldn’t have cooperated if she’d realized what Tolmar had decided to do. She thought he was going to pay as agreed.’

  ‘So, there is someone in Mjollnir with a conscience, is there?’

  They were leaving the centre of Munkkiniemi now and approaching a big interchange. Lund joined the queue at the lights for a left turn on to the main road heading north.

  ‘You have no idea how it works, Eusden. You can’t imagine. The money. The luxuries. The things he sees you want and gives to you . . . in exchange for other things. You’re in too deep to get out before you know it.’

  ‘Is that your excuse?’

  ‘I just do what I’m told to do.’

  ‘In this case, help Tolmar murder his ex-wife.’

  ‘There’s been no murder. The explosion was caused by a gas leak.’

  ‘I know better.’

  ‘I’m only saying what I think the Finnish police will say in the end. A terrible accident. Why Pernille was there . . . Who knows?’ Lund accelerated on to the main road. The light was beginning to fail, the sullen sky filling in from the east. The afternoon was fading fast. ‘You can get away clean, Eusden. Tonight. I won’t tell Tolmar. Truthfully. It would look bad for me if I admitted you got away.’

  ‘You really are a heartless bastard, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m a realist. Pernille’s dead. You’re alive. You should do everything you can to stay that way.’

  ‘What will Birgitte do when she finds out you deceived her?’

  ‘Nothing. She’s a realist also.’

  ‘Where does Lars Aksden come into this?’

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  ‘But he’s here in Helsinki. Why?’

  Lund shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Lars isn’t here.’

  ‘I saw him with my own eyes. Near Matalainen’s office. This morning.’

  ‘Koskinen didn’t say anything about that.’

  ‘He didn’t see him. I did.’

  ‘Maybe you were . . . mistaken.’

  ‘No. It was him.’

  ‘Then, I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. He shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Maybe he wants to find out what the family secret is.’

  ‘He never will.’

  ‘But you could enlighten him, couldn’t you? You and Birgitte read the faxed copies of the letters.’

  ‘No. The number they were faxed to was Tolmar’s. Only he read them. Everything we told you and Pernille . . . he instructed us to tell you.’

  ‘Because we’d have refused to go through with it if we’d known Tolmar was in charge. So, we had to be suckered into believing you were going behind his back.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Throwing me to the wolves was one thing, Lund, but Pernille? How could you do that to her?’

  ‘It was stupid of her to think she could just walk away from Tolmar. She should have known he wouldn’t let her treat him like that.’

  ‘And that’s your rationale, is it? Do what he wants or suffer the consequences.’

  ‘It’s how it is.’

  ‘My God.’

  Silence fell between them. Eusden had no questions left to ask and no words to describe the disbelief he felt that any man could live by such pitiless rules. They had joined a dual carriageway by now, tracking north and east. The airport symbol had appeared on signs beside the road. There were only seven kilometres to go. Eusden’s thoughts drifted to how it must have been at Koskinen’s house, less than an hour ago: Pernille, Matalainen, Brad and Vladimir seated round a table, with Lund’s two security men in the background; the wary discussions; the telephone call; the rotation of the combination cylinder on the case Pernille had brought with her; the release of the—

  Eusden was flung forward as Lund slammed on the brakes. He had forgotten to fasten his seat belt. He got his hands up just in time to prevent his head hitting the windscreen, but the gun slipped from his grasp and clunked to the floor. The car swerved to the side of the road and skidded to a halt a few inches from a crash barrier. Lund made a dive for the gun and had his fingers on the butt when Eusden’s reactions caught up with him. He stamped on the Dane’s outstretched hand. Lund cried out in pain. Then Eusden grabbed him by the nape hair, yanked his head up and punched him hard on the nose. As Lund fell back, Eusden bent forward and retrieved the gun.

  Blood was welling from the Dane’s nostrils. He was breathing heavily through his mouth and clutching his nose with one hand while he shook the other to ease the pain in his fingers. He cowered away from the gun as Eusden pointed it at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he panted. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Get out of the car.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give me your phone and your wallet and get out of the car.’

  ‘Look, I’ll drive you to the airport. It’s OK. I won’t—’

  ‘Get out!’ Eusden edged the barrel of the gun closer to Lund’s face. ‘Or I swear to God I’ll do the human race a big favour and put an end to your miserable, morally bankrupt life here and now.’

  FORTY-ONE

  Night was falling by the time Eusden reached Vantaa airport. He left the Saab in one of the car parks, with Lund’s wallet locked inside. He had only taken it to slow the man down. He had no faith in Lund’s promise to say nothing to Tolmar Aksden. He tossed the key into some bushes next to the car park. Using the Saab again would be too risky.

  Not that he had any clear idea of what he was going to do from this moment on. How much to tell Regina Celeste was the first problem he had to confront. She would soon realize all was not well with him. He cleaned himself up as best he could in the airport toilets, but his reflection in the mirror told its own story. He looked haggard and distraught. He looked like a man whose resources were failing him.

  They undeniably were. The grief he felt for Pernille Madsen, a woman he scarcely knew by all logical criteria, had shocked as well as sapped him. Her death cut off a future he had just begun to dare to imagine. It had stripped him of hope. What remained was an urge to avenge her. He had come closer to killing Lund than the Dane probably imagined and certainly closer than he himself would ever have expected. If Tolmar Aksden had been in the car instead of Lund, Eusden would have pulled the trigger. He had no doubt of that. And he still had the gun.

  He used a wad of euros from Lund’s wallet to buy a warm coat from one of the airport shops. It had pockets large enough to conceal the gun and made him look rather less like a man who has recently been roughed up by gangsters. He checked the arrivals board for news of Regina’s flight. It was expected in on schedule. Then he noticed another flight due in a quarter of an hour earlier, from Zürich. He remembered Brad’s reference to the Orson Welles jibe about cuckoo clocks and wondered if Bruno the fingerprint expert would be on board. If so, there would be no one waiting to meet him. Unless Eusden did the honours.

  There were several limo-drivers holding up name cards when the first of the Zürich passengers made it to the arrivals hall. Eusden loitered among them, with BRUNO blazoned on the lid of a box he had cadged from a fast-food kiosk.

  The man who approached him was short and tubby, clad in well-cut tweed and a python of cashmere scarf. Groomed dark-brown hair, clipped moustache and tortoiseshell-framed glasses gave him the appearance of a vain and fussy professor.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded in Italian-accented English.

  ‘A friend of Brad’s.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Marty Hewitson.’ Recourse to Marty’s identity as a pseudonym was so instinctive that Eusden was surprised when he heard himself say it.

  ‘Brad’s never mentioned you. Why isn’t he here?’

  ‘Unforeseen circumstances.’

  ‘I should have had a message if there was a change of plan.’

  Eusden shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

  Bruno pulled out his phone with a put-upon harrumph and stabbed in a number with a cocktail-sausage forefinger. The response did not please him. He tried again, with the same result. ‘There’s something wrong. Brad’s phone is dead.’

  ‘Look, Bruno, I—’

  ‘My name is Stammati. I am Bruno to my friends. You I have never met.’

  ‘OK, Mr Stammati. Sorry, I’m sure. Now, as you know, Brad wants you to confirm a match between two sets of fingerprints. I have one set with me. The other’s arriving with a Mrs Celeste on a flight from Copenhagen due in very shortly. Any objection to casting your eye over them while we wait for word from Brad?’

  Stammati looked as if he did object, but was constrained by his obligation to Brad. His moustache twitched querulously, then he said, ‘I will wait in that café’ – he pointed to a coffee-bean logo in the middle distance – ‘for one half-hour.’ And with that he bustled off.

  Eusden decided against following Stammati. He suspected attempts to charm the man would prove disastrous and was not equal to making the effort anyway. He did not have to stick it out long in the arrivals hall, although Regina was not among the first clutch of Copenhagen passengers to emerge from Customs. Delayed by collection and trolleying of a gigantic suitcase, she finally appeared with only five minutes of Stammati’s allotted half-hour remaining.

  ‘I expected a triumphant greeting, Richard,’ she said, looking him up and down. ‘What in the world’s happened to you?’

  ‘It’s been a stressful day.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘I have a not-so-tame fingerprint expert parked nearby, Regina. He’s liable to walk out on us if we don’t step on it.’

  ‘Who needs an expert? You and I are perfectly capable of judging whether two sets of fingerprints match. And match I’m confident they will.’

  ‘Me too. But we may as well get a neutral opinion while it’s available.’

  ‘All right, all right. Just let me catch my breath. And steer this for me, would you?’ She swung the handle of the trolley towards him. ‘Then we’ll go see this so-called expert. Where’d you find him?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Can I at least take a peek at what you have before we meet him?’

  Eusden took the envelope from his pocket and showed it to her. At the sight of the double-headed eagle of the Romanovs, her eyes rolled.

  ‘Be still, my beating heart,’ she gasped.

  The pastelly plasticated decor of the Café Quick appeared to have done nothing to soften Stammati’s temper. He broke off from glaring grumpily at his pseudo-espresso to announce, ‘Brad has not phoned me.’

  Eusden synthesized a smile. ‘Mr Stammati, this is Regina Celeste.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,’ trilled Regina, extending a hand.

  Stammati’s Italian genes belatedly kicked in. He rose and clasped her hand in both of his. ‘Buonasera, signora.’

  ‘Which part of Italy are you from, Mr Stammati?’ Regina asked as they settled at his table.

  ‘The Swiss part, signora.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘How, may I ask, do you know Brad?’

  ‘Who’s Brad?’

  ‘A mutual acquaintance,’ Eusden cut in. ‘Why don’t we look at what we’ve got?’

  ‘This is an exciting moment for me, Mr Stammati,’ Regina enthused, opening her handbag and pulling out a square brown board-backed envelope.

  ‘Please, signora, call me Bruno.’ The southern belle was evidently chiming with him. ‘Two sets of fingerprints require matching, I believe.’

  ‘Oh, they match, Bruno. You can rely on that.’ She opened the envelope and slid the contents out on to the table: two record cards, yellowing at the edges, one headed RECHTE HAND and the other LINKE HAND. There were squares filled with the prints of each finger and thumb and a larger square below where the palm and fingers had been pressed down together.

  Stammati peered at the details typed at the base of the cards. ‘Prints of a Frau Tschaikovsky, taken in Hanover, ninth July 1938. A long time ago. Is this lady still living?’

  ‘Sadly, no. She passed away more than twenty years ago. But we’re about to restore her to life in a sense, aren’t we, Richard?’

  ‘Richard?’ Stammati frowned suspiciously at Eusden. ‘I thought your name was Marty.’

  ‘Marty’s a nickname,’ said Eusden, pressing his knee against Regina’s under the table.

  ‘And a silly one too,’ Regina laughed, casting him an intrigued sidelong glance. ‘I never use it.’

  ‘The other set of prints,’ Eusden hurried on, taking the sheet of paper out of the double-headed-eagle envelope and placing it next to the two cards.

  Stammati looked at it closely. ‘Fourth of August 1909,’ he murmured. ‘Even longer ago.’

  ‘When she was a child.’ Regina’s tone suggested she had a vision of the child in her mind’s eye as she spoke.

  ‘That does not matter,’ said Stammati, his gaze switching from the sheet of paper to the cards and back again. ‘The prints acquire their uniqueness in the womb. They never change.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. It is. Now . . .’ Stammati glanced reproachfully at the ceiling. ‘The light is not good. Tuttavia . . .’ He opened the briefcase that appeared to be his only luggage and removed a small leather pouch, from which he slid a magnifying glass. He squinted through it at the fingerprints and a couple of minutes slowly elapsed. Then he sighed and laid the magnifying glass down on the table. ‘Who is A.N., may I ask?’

  ‘They’re Frau Tschaikovsky’s maiden initials,’ Regina replied.

  ‘I think not, signora.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean that these are not matching prints. A full ridge count is unnecessary. One set is looped, the other whorled. They are, obviously and undoubtedly, the fingerprints of two different people.’

  FORTY-TWO

  Regina had been forced to accept Stammati’s verdict after examining the contrasting loops and whorls of the two sets of prints through his magnifying glass for herself. Eusden needed less convincing. Even to his naked eye the differences were clear once they had been pointed out to him. He replaced the sheet of paper in the envelope and put it back in his pocket while Stammati made further futile efforts to contact Brad by phone and Regina sat staring into space with an expression of undisguised stupefaction on her face.

  ‘I am sorry if I have disappointed you, signora,’ said Stammati, when he had given up again. ‘I assure you I also am disappointed to travel so far for so little.’ He glared at Eusden. ‘Since no one is able or willing to explain this . . . fiasco . . .I shall check into whatever the Finns have supplied in the way of an airport hotel after booking a seat on the first flight back to Zürich tomorrow morning.’ He closed his briefcase and rose to his feet with a grunt. ‘Buonanotte to you both.’

  ‘How in the name of sweet reason can this be?’ Regina asked after Stammati had bustled off.

  ‘Anna Anderson wasn’t Anastasia,’ Eusden listlessly replied. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘But she was. I know she was.’

  ‘The fingerprints say otherwise.’

  ‘There’s got to be some mistake.’

  That was a considerable understatement. If Anastasia’s survival of the Ekaterinburg massacre was not part of Tolmar Aksden’s secret, then what had Hakon Nydahl’s letters been about? And why had Clem stored Anastasia’s fingerprints with them? Marty must have discovered the envelope when he first examined the attaché case. Otherwise how could Straub have known it contained prints that could be compared with the Hanover set? Why had Marty never told Eusden about them? Why had he kept the secret back? What game had he really been playing when death interrupted him? Eusden’s thoughts reeled as the unanswered questions swirled in his mind.

  ‘We’re both tired, I guess,’ Regina continued. ‘I need to think this through when I’m properly rested. You look bushed yourself.’

  ‘That I am.’

  ‘Let’s get out of this place. Where are you staying?’

  ‘The Grand Marina.’

  ‘I booked myself into the Kämp. They tell me it’s Helsinki’s finest. And I need all the comfort I can get after the day I’ve had. Shall we share a taxi? You promised me a full explanation of how you came by those fingerprints, remember. Well, you can deliver over a drink in the hotel bar.’

  Regina was silent for the first mile or so of the taxi ride, immersed in her own dejected thoughts. Then, suddenly, she declared, ‘I believe I’ve seen through it,’ and grasped Eusden’s forearm. ‘They aren’t Anastasia’s fingerprints, Richard. Don’t you see? Grenscher tricked me.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do see,’ Eusden responded wearily.

  ‘Werner must have guessed I’d try to deal direct with Grenscher and primed the grotesque little man to sell me a forgery. It was the date that convinced me the record cards were genuine. July ninth 1938 was the day Anastasia was summoned to police headquarters in Hanover to meet the brother and sisters of Franziska Schanzkowska. Typically, they disagreed among themselves about whether she might be their missing sister. But it’s still much the likeliest occasion for the police to have fingerprinted her.’

  ‘Are you saying you doubt now they ever did?’

  ‘No. I’m saying Grenscher still has the real record cards. He denied receiving a deposit from Werner, you know. A deposit I paid. But the more I think about it the more certain I become he had been paid. It’s just that sending me off with a smile on my face and a set of fake prints in my purse is what he’d been paid to do.’