FIFTY-ONE
Forty-eight hours had vanished into a black hole.
They existed as a memory, but one too dark and dense for Eusden to
access: a singularity in more ways than one, since being alive
confounded his last recollected expectation.
He had been lucky, according to the quietly spoken
doctor who succeeded the nurses who were the first to greet him
when he resumed meaningful engagement with the world. He had lost
consciousness in the car and, thanks to the angle it was resting
at, had slumped forward across the steering-wheel, setting off the
horn again. The noise had failed to rouse him, but, in the absence
of much other noise, had attracted the attention of an engineer
repairing a power line half a kilometre away, who had recognized it
for what it was. Eusden had been brought to the Central Hospital in
Jyväskylä, the regional capital, where he now was, with smashed
ankle reset and broken ribs realigned, wounds cleaned and stitched,
lost blood replaced, vital organs checked. Neither of the bullets
had lodged in his body or caused irreparable damage. And the tube
in his chest denoted nothing more sinister than a minor
pneumothorax in his right lung, caused by one of the fractured
ribs. The doctor’s prognosis was that he should make a full
recovery, though not necessarily a speedy one. ‘Your body has been
through a lot, Mr Eusden. It will tell you how long it needs to get
over it.’
The doctor’s tone altered when he went on to inform
him of the police’s interest in his condition. There was an officer
sitting outside the room whose superior was anxious to talk to
Eusden at the earliest opportunity. ‘I will have to inform him that
in my opinion you are now well enough to be questioned.’
That seemed undeniable, though Eusden soon had
cause to doubt it. ‘We have the media in the car park,’ the doctor
added. ‘The death of Tolmar Aksden . . .in these
circumstances . . . is very big news.’ Then he said
something which Eusden had to ask him to repeat and even then could
not quite believe he had heard, something so joyously unexpected
and wholly astounding that he thought it must be a delusion on his
part, until the doctor assured him it was not. ‘It has been
difficult for Ms Madsen to come to the hospital. The reporters and
photographers will not leave her alone.’
Pernille was not dead. The doctor, of course, did
not know why Eusden was so overwhelmed by his reference to her. Nor
was he able to answer the seemingly obtuse question, ‘How can she
be alive?’ The simple fact, self-evident to him, was that she was.
And she was just as anxious to see Eusden as Inspector
Ahlroos.
It was Ahlroos, however, who arrived first. A
slightly built, dark-haired man with a professionally guarded
expression and the apparent ability never to blink, he was
accompanied by a burly junior who prowled round the room and did a
lot of gum-chewing and window-gazing while his boss asked the
questions. And he had a lot of questions to ask.
The inspector might have anticipated caution or
evasion from his interviewee. It was clear to Eusden that he must
be an actual or potential murder suspect. He supposed the most
prudent course of action would be to say nothing at all until he
had taken legal advice. As it was, however, he was so euphoric at
the news that Pernille was not dead that he told Ahlroos everything
he wanted to know and probably more, which even so was less than
the whole and multi-faceted truth. All he sought in return was an
answer to the question he had put to the doctor in vain: ‘How can
she be alive?’
His persistence eventually won him an explanation
of sorts. ‘Ms Madsen was never at the house in Munkkiniemi, Mr
Eusden. She told us she let Lars Aksden take her place. He was
killed in the explosion. For why they swapped, you must ask
her.’
Eusden’s chance to do that came a couple of hours
later. When Pernille entered the room, she stopped in the doorway
and they smiled disbelievingly at each other. Then she walked
across and kissed him on the cheek and sat down on the chair beside
the bed. She was dressed in the same black outfit she had worn when
they first met in Stockholm. She looked tired and stressed – and
wonderfully alive.
‘I thought you’d run away,’ she said, still smiling
at him.
‘And I thought you were dead.’
‘I’m happy we were both wrong.’
‘The police said Lars took your place.’
‘Someone inside Mjollnir tipped him off about what
was happening. He refused to tell me who it was and now I suppose
we may never know. He saw his chance to find out what the family
secret really was and I was so . . . disappointed
. . .you’d quit on me I . . . didn’t try
to talk him out of it. We met halfway to Koskinen’s house. I got
out of the car and he got in. Matalainen had no choice about going
along with it. There wasn’t time for him to argue. They drove away
– to their deaths. When I heard about the explosion, I realized
Tolmar had doublecrossed us – and killed his brother by mistake in
the process. I moved to a different hotel so no one would know
where I was and tried to decide what to do. In the end, I went to
the police. They didn’t believe me, of course. Then the news came
from here that Tolmar and Arto Falenius and another man had been
found dead – and that you were in hospital. It was the last news I
was expecting.’
‘The Opposition sent a hit man after Tolmar, who
shot Falenius by mistake. Then Tolmar shot the hit man. And
then . . .’ Eusden searched Pernille’s face for some
clue to what she thought he had done. ‘It was him or me.’
‘I’m glad it wasn’t you.’
‘I don’t suppose Michael will be. How is he?’
‘Not good. He’s lost his uncle as well as his
father. He’s . . .’ She shrugged. ‘You can
imagine.’
‘I’m trying to.’
‘I left him in Helsinki with Elsa.’
‘Thanks for coming to see me.
It . . . can’t have been easy to get away.’
‘I’ve been several times.’
‘So I gather. And you’ve had to fend off reporters
to do it, apparently.’
‘I can handle them. I’m more worried about the
police. What did they want to know?’
‘Everything. And that’s what I told them. Now I
should tell you everything as well. About what happened by the
lake.’
‘It can wait. The doctor says you need plenty of
rest. You also need a lawyer. I can help with that.’
‘I’m just going to keep on telling the truth,
Pernille. It’s about all I feel capable of doing.’
‘They’ve arrested Erik Lund.’
‘Good.’
‘And poor Osmo Koskinen. But I expect they’ll let
him go soon. I think it’s going to be all right. But still you
should have a lawyer.’
‘OK. If you say so.’
A silence fell briefly between them, strangely
lacking in awkwardness. Then Pernille said, ‘I met your American
friend, Regina Celeste, in Helsinki. She asked me to tell you that
Werner Straub has turned up there.’
‘He’s wasting his time. Sooner or later, he’ll
realize that and go home.’
‘She also asked me to tell you that you owe her an
apology.’
‘I seem to owe quite a lot of people one of
those.’
Another fleeting silence was broken this time by
Eusden.
‘I’m sorry about Lars, Pernille. He seemed a decent
man.’
‘He was. I never should have let him
go . . . instead of me.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
She sighed. ‘It’s not going to be
easy . . . to find a way through this. Michael is so
angry. He doesn’t believe what I’ve told him about his father.
He’ll have to in the end. But then . . .’
‘Maybe I can help.’ Eusden reached out towards her
and she took his hand.
‘Maybe we can help each other,’ she said
softly.
Lying in bed that night, gazing up at the shadows
on the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the hospital around
him, Eusden wondered if he and Pernille really were alive, or if
this frailly hopeful future that seemed now to be possible was
merely a consoling fantasy devised by his brain to render the
process of freezing to death in a Finnish forest more tolerable.
Maybe it was, he decided. But as consolations went, it was mightily
effective. There was nothing to be gained by fighting against it.
Time would tell whether it was real or not. He closed his eyes. And
the darkness received him like a loyal friend.