Found Wanting (30 page)

‘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.’

‘Well, I suppose—’

‘But Werner’s slipped on his own trail of slime, hasn’t he? Because now we have the 1909 record. Which means he’s going to have to do business with us whether he likes it or not. And I can personally assure you that the first item in our negotiations will be reimbursement of the substantial sum of money I paid over to his counterfeiting co-conspirator in Hanover. With interest – at a punitive rate.’

Regina had convinced herself Anna Anderson’s fingerprints did not match Anastasia’s because they were not her fingerprints. Eusden remained sceptical, though he did not bother saying so. He believed Straub had used Regina’s deposit to bribe Marty. Grenscher, grotesque or not, was probably a genuine dealer. The fingerprints were a dead end.

For clues to what the truth really was – and a way to strike back at Tolmar Aksden – he had to look elsewhere. When they reached the quietly opulent Hotel Kämp, Regina headed up to her room to ‘unpack a few things and shower away three airports’ worth of grime’ before they met for a council of war in the bar. And Eusden did not propose to waste the hour or more this sounded as if it would take.

The man on the desk readily lent him a copy of the Helsinki phone book. He sat in reception and started ringing his way through all the Koskinens listed, using Lund’s mobile. It was a laborious exercise. Koskinen was not an uncommon name. Only with the thirteenth who actually answered did he strike lucky.

‘
Hei?
’

‘Can I speak to Osmo Koskinen, please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Are you his brother?’

‘Yes. I am Timo Koskinen. Who—’

Eusden pressed the red button and scribbled down the address, then went back to the desk. ‘Thanks,’ he said, returning the phone book. ‘Can you tell me where this is?’ He held out the note.

‘Certainly, sir.’ A map of the city was produced and the index consulted. Then: ‘Here it is. In Kulosaari.’ It was clearly a taxi ride away.

‘Thanks again.’

Eusden wandered off towards the bar, then stopped and looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. Time, as Marty would have reminded him, was of the essence. And there was one sure way to solve the problem of what to tell Regina. He turned and headed for the door to the street.

FORTY-THREE

The temperature had plummeted with nightfall. The cold was an invisible and hostile presence surrounding Eusden in the stillness and silence of the Kulosaari side street. He pressed the button beside the name
KOSKINEN
on the panel in the entrance porch of the anonymous apartment block where the taxi had delivered him and stamped his feet for warmth as he waited for a response.

A minute or so passed. Then there was a click from the entryphone grille. And a voice: ‘
Hei?
’

‘Timo Koskinen?’

‘
Kyllä
.’

‘We spoke earlier. My name’s Richard Eusden. Your brother knows me. We need to talk.’

‘
Who
are you?’

‘I’m sure Osmo’s told you all about me. So, why don’t you let me in? If you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to go to the police.’

There was a laden pause. Then: ‘Wait, please.’

Another, longer pause followed. Eusden imagined an anxious conference between the two brothers. It ended in a loud buzz abruptly signalling the release of the entrance lock.

The apartment was a functionally furnished and faintly dowdy bachelor residence. Timo Koskinen was a thinner, older, grimmer version of his brother, guardedly inexpressive. Osmo himself had imploded from affable ease into anguished distraction, his hair awry, his clothes crumpled, the tremor in his hands more pronounced. There was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and a slack-mouthed, blank-eyed look of helplessness about him. A bottle of vodka stood prominently on the coffee table in the cheerless lounge, with just the one tumbler beside it, cloudy with finger smears.

‘Got anything to say to me, Osmo?’ Eusden asked, taking off his coat and hanging it up carefully in the hall before entering the lounge. Timo followed him in.

Osmo squirmed in his armchair and avoided Eusden’s gaze. ‘I . . . didn’t know . . . what they were going to do.’

‘But you knew Pernille and I were being set up.’

‘Yes. But . . . killing people? I never . . . imagined . . .’

‘Did you think I was dead too?’

Osmo rubbed his face, as if trying to force some clarity into his thoughts. ‘Yes.’

‘And maybe you reckoned that was best. No one left to come after you. Well, here I am. And I want answers.’

‘There’s nothing . . .I can tell you.’

‘You’re going to have to come up with something. I won’t be leaving until you do.’

‘Please, Richard, I . . .’ Osmo looked at him for the first time. ‘You have to understand . . . He can destroy any of us . . . if he wants to.’

‘Or if you let him. He’s gone too far. I mean to stop him. And I need your help.’

‘I can’t—’

‘Go and make some coffee, Osmo,’ Timo cut in, stepping between them. ‘We’ll talk to this man. We have to. You know we do.’

Osmo struggled to his feet. ‘Timo,’ he began, ‘we should . . .’ He switched suddenly to Finnish, lowering his voice as he did so.

Timo’s response was a decisive shake of the head. ‘The coffee,’ he repeated.

With a defeated shrug, Osmo headed unsteadily for the kitchen.

Timo watched him go, then gestured for Eusden to sit down on the sofa. He took the other armchair, opposite him. ‘He really didn’t know what they planned, Mr Eusden. He didn’t ask. He will tell you that’s the way to do well at Mjollnir: ask no questions. Have you met Erik Lund?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Lund gave Osmo the case. It was already locked. It was supposed to contain bearer bonds, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, Osmo took the case to Ms Madsen at the Grand Marina Hotel. Then she and the lawyer, Matalainen, drove away, heading for Osmo’s house. He came here, as instructed. About an hour after he arrived, he got a call from the police. They told him about the explosion. They wanted to know who was in the house when it happened. He said Ms Madsen had asked him if she could use it for a meeting. Who with and what about . . . he didn’t know.’

‘Did they buy that?’

‘Probably. Why not? They’ve no reason to suspect he was lying. My brother is a respectable man.’

‘Yeah. Like all the other people I’ve met who do Tolmar Aksden’s bidding.’

‘He doesn’t like what’s happened, Mr Eusden. And not just because his house has been destroyed. Mjollnir will compensate him for that. They’ll probably buy him a bigger and better one. No, the problem is Osmo’s conscience. He’s tried to drown it.’ Timo nodded towards the vodka bottle. ‘But it keeps coming to the surface.’

‘Then, he should go to the police and tell them the truth.’

‘Would you be willing to go with him?’

‘Of course I would.’

‘You’d be making a big mistake. It’s probably just what Tolmar Aksden wants you to do.’