The Library of Shadows (8 page)

Maybe the sibling comparison was more apt than she wanted to admit. In a sense she had been an only child in the shop with Luca and Iversen until Pau turned up like an unwanted little brother. It hadn't been easy for her to cede territory, and deep inside she felt a bit guilty about not giving him a warmer welcome.

In the area around Elmegade she rode the wrong way along a one-way street, keeping close to the parked cars or moving onto the pavement when a vehicle appeared, heading in the opposite direction. Several times she cast a glance over her shoulder, but she couldn't see anyone following her. At Sankt Hans Torv she cut across the square in front of the cafés and tuned off Blegdamsvej down Nørre Allé.

No doubt their squabbles also had something to do with age. Pau was seven years younger than she was, but mentally he was even younger, in her opinion. Everything centred around him and his needs. His training came before everything else. She shook her head again. Maybe she was just jealous.

Katherina swerved onto the pavement and stopped a couple of metres further along, in front of a grey building with white window frames. There were lights on in only two of the flats; in one the curtains were drawn, but through the other windows she could catch a glimpse of a white plaster ceiling from which hung a big chandelier with real candles.

The fact was that a lot had changed since Pau had started coming to Libri di Luca. The balance had shifted. Now
he
was the baby of the family while she, not without some pride, had become someone they could count on, and someone who could take care of herself. But the balance would shift again with Jon's return – the question was: to which side?

After parking her bike in the entryway, she checked once again that she wasn't being observed before she pushed open the front door and disappeared into the stairwell. Without switching on the light she headed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. On the fifth floor she stopped outside a panelled door painted grey. The brass plate was clearly legible in spite of the dark, and even though she was unable to read it, she knew what it said: Centre for Dyslexia Studies (By Appointment Only).

Katherina pressed the bell twice, the first time longer than the second, and waited. In a moment she heard footsteps behind the door, and then the sound of a bolt being slid back. The door opened slightly and a strip of light shot out into the hall, capturing her in its glare. The light seemed especially bright since her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark in the stairwell and she blinked, holding her hand up to her face.

'Come in,' said a woman's voice, and the door opened wide.

Katherina stepped into a long, beige-coloured hallway with rows of brass hooks lining the walls. They were almost all taken by jackets and other outdoor garments, but she found an empty hook for her coat.

The woman who had let her in closed the door and turned to face her. She was in her mid-forties and a bit stout around the waist, which she tried to hide under a black dress. Her face was dominated by a pair of sturdy glasses and framed by light-brown hair which seemed a little artificial in the sharp glare coming from a row of halogen spotlights.

'Well?'

Katherina caught the other woman's glance and nodded. 'He's going to be good – better than his father.'

Jon woke a few seconds before the clock radio switched on.

At first he wasn't sure where he was. The bedroom's bare white walls and ceiling merged into one, looking like a dome of snow as he lay on his back inside an igloo. It was cold too. The duvet had slid off onto the floor during the night, and the crumpled sheet bore witness to a night of uneasy slumber. He remembered he'd had trouble calming down. For a long time he had lain in bed pondering what had happened in the antiquarian bookshop. Right now Iversen's explanation, the demonstration and the visions that had overwhelmed him when he was alone in the library all seemed unreal and far away. At one point he'd got up to find the book,
Fahrenheit 451,
which was in his jacket pocket. Tangible proof that it had all happened, but it was just an ordinary book that didn't presume to be anything else.

It was a long time since he'd read stories in bed. As a child he had loved it, an experience surpassed only by having Luca read a goodnight story to him – preferably
Pinocchio,
and preferably in Italian. This copy of
Fahrenheit 451
was a Danish translation, and when he read through the first chapter again, he discovered that the text was significantly more choppy and jolting than was his impression during the demonstration. The colour of the girl's hair wasn't mentioned at all; it wasn't red, as he had so vividly pictured it.

Jon turned his head towards the nightstand where he had placed the book. It was still there, bulging a bit because of the worn pages. The time on the clock radio next to the book shifted at that moment to 7:00, and the voice of a tired DJ seeped out of the speaker, reciting the latest news. Unrest in Israel, absurd political arguments in the debate about immigrants, a post office robbery. Not until the monotone voice began summarizing the results of a study about children's reading abilities did Jon raise himself up on his elbows to listen. Danish children were apparently worse readers than children in neighbouring countries – a development that the Minister of Education found worrisome and unacceptable. Jon sank down onto his back and closed his eyes with a sigh. Next week they would come out with another study proving just the opposite.

The DJ was replaced by another, a cheerful morning-type who started spewing inanities that roused Jon to get out of bed. He turned on the coffee-maker and went through his morning routine: showering, shaving, drinking coffee, ironing a shirt, knotting his tie, and more coffee. The habitual tasks calmed him, and on his way out it was the day ahead of him that preoccupied his thoughts rather than what had happened the night before.

It was only when he was sitting in his car, rolling along with the morning traffic slowly flowing through the city, that he noticed how many people around him were reading. Passengers on the buses were reading books, people sitting on benches were immersed in the morning paper, schoolchildren on the pavement were reading through their lessons as they moved cautiously along like tightrope walkers, placing one foot in front of the other. Signs in the shop windows were read by passers-by, bus adverts were glimpsed by drivers, flyers were scanned and tossed aside by mothers with prams. It seemed to him that everywhere words and sentences had invaded the facades, windows, signs and buses for the purpose of enticing him to decipher their messages, a decoding process he could no longer be sure he controlled.

Jon drove the rest of the way to the office with his eyes fixed straight ahead on the road in front of him.

He had barely opened the glass doors to the reception area before Jenny, the secretary, came running towards him with a newspaper in her hand. She was a blonde and what might be called a cheerful, plump young woman.

'Listen to this,' she said merrily, waving the newspaper.

Jenny arrived at the office significantly earlier than he did, and they had worked out a routine: she found articles in the daily papers that were either relevant to their work or were simply funny. Then she would present what she'd found to him, often reading them aloud over a first cup of coffee. Frequently he didn't even need to bother looking through the papers himself.

Jon glanced at the newspaper and then at Jenny. He saw how her eyes, full of anticipation, looked down at the paper as her lips began forming the first sentence.

'I'll read it later.' Jon abruptly cut her off and continued on towards his office.

'Okay,' murmured Jenny, clearly disappointed, letting her arms fall to her sides.

Jon stopped and turned around. 'Sorry, but I didn't sleep well last night. Give me half an hour.'

Jenny nodded and slowly folded up the paper.

'Nice tie,' she said and retreated to her desk.

Jon waved his hand in thanks as he continued through the open-plan room towards the Remer office. At the door he fished out the keys with the Smurf figure and let himself in. Safe inside, he leaned his back against the closed door.

He took a couple of deep breaths before an annoyed grimace appeared on his face. It wouldn't do him any good to go about in a constant state of paranoia. It was impossible to do his job without reading, and it wasn't realistic to think he could move around freely without anyone else reading in his presence. He shook his head. If Lectors had ever used him before, he hadn't noticed it, and considering his present position, they couldn't very well have put obstacles in his way – on the contrary.

There was a knock on the door, and he hastily took a few steps forward before it opened.

Jenny stuck her head inside. 'Halbech wants to talk to you,' she said in a businesslike tone. 'In his office in ten minutes.'

Jon nodded. 'Okay. Thanks, Jenny.'

She closed the door without making a sound.

'Of all days,' he muttered to himself.

He'd been expecting this conversation. A week had passed since the Remer case had been transferred to him, and he knew that at some point he would have to present his plan as to how the defence should be carried out. Even though one week was an inhumanly short amount of time to familiarize himself with the extensive case files, he really hadn't expected to be given much more time before he was tested.

Jon opened his briefcase and took out a thin dossier containing five or six typed pages, which he hurriedly skimmed. The pages held his proposal for a strategy regarding the Remer case in accordance with all the rules. But he knew that Halbech wanted creative solutions which, without being directly illegal, would simplify the defence. The short cut in this instance was to win a two-month postponement, which would mean that two of the initial charges in the case would fall outside the statute of limitations. Not a particularly brilliant solution, but it would spare them from the most vulnerable sections in the defence, which was the status of the first companies that Remer had purchased. On the other hand, they would have to find a reason for having the case postponed, or even better, persuade the prosecutor himself to request a postponement. But that meant they needed to toss new information onto the table.

Jon put the documents back in the dossier and left his office with the plan under his arm.

'Campelli,' said Halbech from his chair as Jon entered his office. 'Have a seat.' He pointed towards one of the Chesterfield armchairs that stood in front of his desk.

Jon nodded and sat down with the dossier in his lap.

'Things going well?' asked Halbech routinely.

'Fine, thanks.'

'And what about all that business with your father? Has everything been resolved?'

'More or less. There are still a couple of loose ends to tie up.'

Halbech nodded. 'So tie them up, Campelli.' He smiled. 'There's nothing more distracting than loose ends. "One touch" – that's my motto. Finish a task immediately instead of postponing it. Having to deal with the same issue over and over is a waste of time, and it affects the rest of your work.'

'Right,' Jon remarked.

'What about Remer?'

'Things are in full swing,' replied Jon, patting the dossier. 'I've got—'

'He'll be here at nine o'clock.' Halbech gave Jon a searching look. 'He wants to talk to you.'

'Okay,' said Jon, astonished, automatically casting a glance at his watch. It was 8:45.

'Yes, well, undoubtedly he wants to have a look at his new barrister. Grill him a bit,' said Halbech with a glint in his eye.

Jon shrugged. 'It's his money.'

'Precisely,' said Halbech, leaning towards Jon. 'But try to make the most of the meeting. It's not often we have access to him, and if I know the man, he's on his way to a skiing holiday or something of that sort.'

He stood up and began putting on his jacket, which hung from the back of his chair.

'I can't stay, unfortunately. But it's not me he wants to see, anyway.'

Jon got up. 'I'll ask Jenny to take notes,' he said.

'Take them yourself, Campelli,' Halbech commanded. 'Remer doesn't care for having too many extraneous people at his meetings. And after all, it's ...'

'His money,' Jon chimed in.

They walked through the door together and continued out to the receptionist's area.

'One touch,' Halbech repeated, giving Jon a parting slap on the back before he made his way out of the front door.

Jon asked Jenny to arrange for a meeting room and refreshments before he locked himself in the Remer office to collect the things he would need.

The rumours about Remer were both plentiful and harrowing, but Jon assumed that most of them were probably urban myths intended to scare law students. Remer didn't care for lawyers, that much was certain, and the fact that he often disagreed with how the case should be handled was a recurrent theme of the stories, but from there it was a big step to throwing himself into a fistfight. One of the stories circulating the corridors described how Remer, in a heated moment, had grabbed his barrister by the tie to give him a good shaking. Afterwards he cut off the tie, right below the knot. A real horror story, not so much because of the physical assault but because of the vandalizing of the expensive tie.

The pile of essential folders and documents grew, and Jon had to use a trolley to transport all of them to the meeting room. As Halbech had emphasized, it was important to make use of his time with Remer, so he didn't want to be missing anything. He had a long list of questions for the main player in the case. There were creative appendices, dates and sequences of events that didn't match up, as well as depositions that later turned out to have been either illegal or improbably lucky. It was a hairline distinction.

There was a knock on the open door and Jenny appeared with coffee and mineral water, which she set down on the table without saying a word. A moment later she returned, this time accompanied by Remer.

The man was about fifty, his grey hair in a crew-cut, which made him look like a stern colonel. If it weren't for his lively, genial eyes, the stories about him might have stemmed from his appearance alone, but his eyes softened the harsh face, and a broad smile with strikingly white teeth also had its effect.

'Remer,' he said, holding out his hand towards Jon.

'Jon Campelli,' said Jon, grasping his hand.

Remer had a firm grip, and he kept his eyes fixed on Jon as they shook hands. 'Campelli?' he said. 'Is that Italian?'

'Correct,' replied Jon. 'My father was Italian. Please have a seat.'

'I prefer to stand,' said Remer casually. 'Lovely place, Italy. I've just come from there. Or rather from Sicily, to be more precise.'

'Would you care for something to drink?' asked Jon, gesturing towards the refreshments on the meeting table.

'No, thanks,' replied Remer. 'I can't stay long.'

'Then we'd better get down to business ...' suggested Jon amiably as he sat down at the table.

'Campelli,' Remer repeated to himself, glancing up at the ceiling. 'I've heard that name recently.'

Jon cleared his throat and leafed through the documents in front of him. 'I have a number of questions, especially regarding the purchase of Vestjysk Piping in '92—'

'Books!' exclaimed Remer, snapping his fingers. 'It was the man with the books. Luca was his name.' He turned to look at Jon. 'Is Luca someone in your family?'

'Yes, Luca was my father,' replied Jon. 'He died a week ago.'

Remer opened his eyes wide. 'I'm sorry to hear that,' he said, sounding sincere. 'What a sad coincidence. He owned a bookshop, didn't he?'

Jon nodded. 'Libri di Luca in Vesterbro.'

'I've never been there myself,' Remer admitted as he walked around the room. 'It was one of my business associates who happened to mention your father's name.'

Jon studied Remer as he moved along the walls, peering at the paintings. He wore a black jacket, a white shirt without a tie and a pair of dark jeans. His attire sent a rather confusing signal for a business meeting, but that was clearly not the reason he was here. Whether he had a genuine interest in Jon's familial relationships or was just testing him, only Remer himself knew for sure.

'He owns a couple of bookshops, my business associate,' he went on. 'Hugely successful, as I understand it. Something of a book empire, with Internet shops, book clubs and catalogues.' He gave a short laugh. 'Considering the fact that books have frequently been declared dead, there's surprisingly good money to be made.'

He stopped his roaming and rested his hands on the back of the chair across from Jon. Then he leaned forward.

'Well, Jon. What do you have in mind?'

For an instant his expression changed, his eyes shifting from sparkling and friendly to scrutinizing. Jon instinctively reached up to straighten his tie.

'I'd like to start with—' he began, but Remer once again interrupted him.

'May I ask you a personal question, Jon?' He didn't wait for an answer but pulled himself upright and crossed his arms before he went on. 'What's going to happen to the shop?'

'Er, the bookshop?' asked Jon in surprise. 'I haven't decided yet.'

'But it's yours? Luca left the business to you?'

'As the sole family member, yes.'

'Allow me to make a suggestion.' Remer unfolded his arms. 'I can put you in contact with my friend, the bookseller. I'm positive he'd give you a good price for Libri di Luca.' He broke out in a big smile. 'Unless you're planning to set yourself up as a bookmonger, that is?'