Hanne Wilhelmsen - 01 - The Blind Goddess Page 9

  “She mustn’t let herself be influenced by either side. She has to exercise blind justice, impartially,” the commissioner explained.

  “But it’s difficult to see when you’re blindfolded,” said Håkon, without eliciting a reply. The king, however, hanging with his wife in a gold frame behind the commissioner’s shoulder, seemed to agree with him. Håkon chose to interpret His Majesty’s inscrutable smile as support for his own observations, and got up and left the sixth-floor office. He felt even more bad-tempered than when he’d arrived.

  * * *

  Hanne was glad to see him. Even with the bandage above her eye and her hair shorn on one side, he couldn’t help noticing how beautiful she was. Her pallor accentuated her large eyes, and for the first time since he’d learnt about the attack he recognised how worried he’d been. He didn’t dare give her a hug. Perhaps it was the bandages that frightened him off, but on thinking about it he realised that it wouldn’t have seemed natural anyway. Hanne had never invited intimacy beyond the professional loyalty she’d always shown him. But she was clearly pleased that he’d come. He wasn’t sure what he should do with the bouquet of flowers, and after a moment’s hesitation laid them on the floor. Her bedside table was over-full already. He drew up a tubular steel chair to the edge of the bed.

  “I’m okay,” said Hanne before he’d had time to ask. “I’ll be back at work as soon as I can. If nothing else, this is proof positive that it’s something big we’ve stumbled on!”

  The gallows humour didn’t suit her, and he could see that it hurt when she tried to smile.

  “You’re not to come back till you’re completely well. That’s an order.”

  He started to grin, but checked himself. It would tempt her to do the same, despite the pain. Her entire jaw was turning a blueish yellow.

  “The original file has gone from your office. There wasn’t anything in it we didn’t have a copy of, was there?”

  The question was meant as a hopeful statement, but she disappointed him.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “I’d written a memo, just for myself really. I know what it said, so we haven’t actually lost anything in itself. But it’s a bit of a bugger that someone else will read it.”

  Håkon felt himself growing hot, and knew from experience that his cheeks would be turning a rather unbecoming pink.

  “I’m horribly afraid that I’ll have made Karen Borg an object of interest to the attacker. We’ve already discussed my view that she knows more than she’s letting on. I made a few written comments to that effect. I also jotted down one or two words about the links we’ve made.”

  She looked at him with a grimace, and put her hand gently to her head.

  “Not very good, is it?”

  Håkon agreed. It certainly wasn’t very good.

  * * *

  Fredrick Myhreng was rather demanding. On the other hand, he was right when he insisted that he had kept to his side of the bargain. He sat now like an eager swot noting down everything Håkon could tell him. The thought of being the first to run the story that the police were confronted not with two random murders in the increasing series of apparently motiveless killings, but with a double homicide linked to the drugs trade and possibly to organised crime—this thought made him sweat so much that his pantomime glasses kept sliding down his nose, despite the practical frames hooked behind his ears. As before, ink was going everywhere as he wrote. Håkon thought to himself that the journalist ought to be wearing oilskins, the way he handled his writing implements. He offered him a pencil as a replacement for the ball-point pen he’d just wrecked.

  “How do you rate your chances of solving it?” Myhreng asked after listening to Håkon’s carefully censored but nevertheless quite fascinating account. The bridge of his nose had turned blue from his continual adjustments to his spectacles. Håkon wondered if he ought to draw the man’s attention to his odd appearance, but concluded that it would do him good to make a fool of himself, so restricted himself to the matter in hand.

  “We certainly believe we’ll solve it. But it may take some time. We’ve got a lot to follow up. You can quote me on that.”

  Which was all Fredrick Myhreng got out of Håkon Sand that day. But he was more than happy.

  TUESDAY 13 OCTOBER

  The headline was dramatic. The editorial desk had produced one of the pictures of Ludvig Sandersen’s corpse they had used before, and mounted it beside an old archive photograph of Hans Olsen. It must have been taken more than ten years earlier, rather fuzzy and presumably an enlargement from what had originally been a group photograph. The lawyer had a surprised expression on his face, and was on the point of blinking, which gave his eyes a tired and vacant look. The caption was in bright red ink and covered part of the photomontage.

  “Mafia Behind Two Murders” it announced in trenchant terms. Håkon Sand found the story barely recognisable. He read the front page and the two full inside pages that the newspaper had devoted to the subject. Across the top of each page was a black strip with a white text: “The Mafia Affair.” He ground his teeth in annoyance at the exaggerations, but on closer reading he could see that Myhreng hadn’t promulgated any actual untruths. The facts were stretched, the speculations far-fetched and so well camouflaged that they could easily be taken for truth. But Håkon himself had been quoted accurately and so couldn’t really complain.

  “Well, it could have been worse,” he said, passing the paper to Karen Borg, who was now sufficiently at home in his office to collect what passed for coffee from the anteroom herself.

  “It’s time you told me something about this client of yours,” he demanded. “The man’s still sitting around in his underpants refusing to talk. Now we know as much as we do, you ought in all decency to help us along a bit.”

  They stared at one another intently. Karen reverted to the type of silent contest they used to have when they were students. She held his gaze, held it so focused that everything except her grey-green eyes diffused in a mist. He could see the tiny brown specks in the iris, more in the right eye than the left; he couldn’t blink, didn’t dare to for fear that his own gaze would drop when his eyes reopened. Hell, he’d never managed to win this game. She always managed to outstare him until he lowered his eyes in embarrassment, the loser, the lesser of the two.

  But this time she was the one who had to give in. He could see her eyes filling with water, she had to blink, and her gaze slid to the side as if nudged by the faint flush that had begun to spread over her left cheek. He was astonished at his own tenacity; she was exposed on the flank. But the victor did not exult; instead he took both her hands in his.

  “I’m actually rather apprehensive,” he admitted. “We don’t know much about this gang, or mafia as they’ve now been called, but we do know they’re not choirboys. The newspaper probably has some evidence for saying they’d go to any lengths to defend themselves and their own interests. We have reason to believe that they know that you know something. Or anyway that they suspect you do.”

  He told her about Hanne Wilhelmsen’s memo, that must now be in the wrong hands. He could see that this made an impact on her. Her whole bearing was transformed as he’d never seen it before, as if she were looking to him for some kind of protection, to Håkon, whom she had protected and bullied through all their student years.

  “We’ll have no chance of protecting you unless you tell us what you know!”

  He realised he was gripping her hands too hard. They’d gone white, with crimson indentations where he’d held her. He let go of them.

  “Han van der Kerch has told me a little. Not much. He doesn’t want it to go any further, but there is one thing I’ve got his permission to tell you. I don’t know whether it’s any use.”

  She had pulled herself together now. She was sitting up straight again, and her suit hung neatly in place.

  “He was collecting the money for a delivery. As he counted the bundle of notes, he saw that one had been written on in ink. A telephone numbe
r. Which he’s forgotten. But next to the number were three letters. He had the impression they might have been initials; they had full stops between them. He remembers the initials, because they were pronounceable: J. U. L.”

  “JUL?”

  “Yes, with full stops. He had joked to the man who was giving him the money that he didn’t want defaced notes. The man had snatched it back and been quite brusque with him.”

  “Have you thought about what it could mean?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  There was silence for a moment, and they fell back into a familiar set pattern.

  “What have you thought, then, Karen?” Håkon asked softly.

  “It’s occurred to me that there’s a lawyer in Oslo with exactly those initials. And only one—I checked through the Lawyers’ Association membership list.”

  “Jørgen Ulf Lavik.”

  Håkon’s guess was not as impressive as it sounded. They’d both been students at the same time as Lavik, who was even then a popular character. Gifted, loads of friends, and politically committed. Håkon had thought for ages that Karen was in love with him, which she had dismissed at the merest hint. Lavik was fairly conservative, and Karen Borg had been the Socialist Front representative on the Faculty Committee. In those days such barriers were virtually insurmountable, and Karen had often described her fellow student as a reactionary shit in front of others and even Lavik himself. They’d only been on speaking terms a few times, once when they’d made common cause against restrictions on student numbers. He’d actually been to her parents’ summer cottage out at Ula for what was intended as a student political seminar, but had turned into purely a pleasure jaunt. She hadn’t liked him any better after that.

  “I don’t understand what all this is about, but the newspaper insinuated that there might be lawyers behind some kind of gang. I can’t really see Jørgen Lavik as a gang leader, but you’re welcome to the information for what it’s worth.”

  The information was worth quite a bit to Håkon. Its value rose when Karen added a few moments later, “You’ll find this out for yourself, but to save you the trouble: Jørgen began his career as a lawyer’s clerk with one of the big names. Can you guess who?”

  “Peter Strup,” said Håkon immediately, and his face relaxed into a huge grin.

  Before Karen Borg left police headquarters that afternoon she was given a two-way radio on loan. She thought it resembled an old-fashioned walkie-talkie, larger and more awkward than a mobile phone. She had to twist a button, and it would rasp and scrape as in an American detective film. Then press another button and she would be in direct contact with the police operations room. She was BB 04, the ops room was 01.

  “Keep it with you at all times,” Håkon commanded. “Don’t hesitate to use it. The ops room knows about you. The police will be with you in five minutes.”

  A lot can happen in five minutes, thought Karen Borg.

  THURSDAY 15 OCTOBER

  Once, a long, long time ago, she had flirted with him shamelessly. She was not commissioner then, but an inspector in the minor offences unit, and newly appointed to the prosecution service. They were travelling to Spain to gather evidence for an alcohol smuggling case, her very first foreign trip on official business. The man sitting in front of her now in the visitors’ chair had been there as defence counsel. Gathering the evidence had taken three hours. The visit had lasted three days. There had been lots of good food, and even more good wine. He had been everything she admired: significantly older than herself, rolling in money, considerate, and successful. Now he was parliamentary under secretary in the Ministry of Justice. Not bad. During their trip ten years previously things had gone no further than a kiss and a cuddle. Which had not been her choice. So she felt slightly bashful now.

  “A cup of coffee? Tea?”

  He accepted the former, and declined a cigarette.

  “Given up,” he smiled, waving it away.

  She could feel that her hands were damp, and regretted that she hadn’t got out a few documents or something else to occupy them. Instead, she sat there twiddling her thumbs and rocking nervously back and forth in her enormous chair.

  “Congratulations on your appointment!” he exclaimed. “Not bad, eh?”

  “It was completely unexpected,” she lied.

  The fact was that she had been invited to apply. By the former commissioner. So it was no surprise to anyone when she got the job.

  The under secretary looked at the clock, and came straight to the point.

  “The minister is very concerned about this lawyer affair,” he explained. “Very concerned indeed. What’s it actually all about?”

  She may have made blatant advances to the man many years ago, and still be very enamoured of him, a feeling in no way diminished by his rank, but she was a professional to her fingertips.

  “It’s a difficult case, and still rather unclear,” she replied vaguely. “There’s not much I can say. Beyond what’s in the newspapers. Some of which is correct.”

  He adjusted his silk tie. He cleared his throat meaningfully, as if to let her know that he, as the minister’s closest political subordinate, had a right to better information than appeared in the more or less (principally the former) unreliable tabloid press. But it was no use.

  “Investigations are at a very early stage, and the police aren’t yet ready to issue any information. If anything emerges during the course of the investigations that we think the Ministry’s political office ought to know about, you’ll hear from me immediately of course. I promise.”

  That was all he would get out of her. He was old enough to realise the fact. So he didn’t persist. As he left the office, she observed that the extra kilos made his backside a lot less appealing. When the door had closed, she smiled, very pleased with herself. The ample bottom apart, he was still attractive. There would be other opportunities. A grey hair drifted silently down onto the desk, and she hastily pounced on it. Then she rang her secretary’s number.

  “Make an appointment for me at the hairdresser’s,” she said peremptorily. “As soon as possible, please.”

  * * *

  Han van der Kerch was beginning to lose track of time. The lights were switched off to let the remand prisoners know when it was night, and the unappetising plastic-packed food was served punctually, dividing their lives into segments that fitted together to make a day. But without a glimpse of sun or rain, wind or cloud, and with far too much time that could only be used for sleeping, the young Dutchman had sunk into an apathetic state of semiexistence. One night, when five hours’ sleep during the day resulted in unbearable nocturnal wakefulness, having to listen to painful sobbing from a young lad in the adjoining cell and piercing screams from a Moroccan with withdrawal symptoms further down the corridor, he thought he would soon go mad. He prayed to a God he hadn’t believed in since he used to go to Sunday school as a child, prayed for daybreak and the bright ceiling light. God had obviously forgotten him, just as Han van der Kerch had forgotten God, because morning never came. In his desperation he had flung his recently returned wristwatch against the wall and smashed it. Now he couldn’t even follow the passage of time on its painful and relentless march towards a blank future without content.

  The sturdy, myopic woman who brought the trolley of prison food round would occasionally give him a piece of chocolate. It made it feel like Christmas. He broke it up into tiny fragments and let them melt on his tongue one after another. The chocolate hadn’t prevented him from losing weight; after three weeks’ incarceration he was seven kilos lighter. His clothes no longer fitted him, but that was of little significance in his present circumstances, where he sat sometimes in his underpants, sometimes stark naked.

  He was also afraid. The fear that had taken hold of him like an expanding cactus in his stomach as he stood over Ludvig Sandersen’s disfigured body had spread to his limbs. His hands and arms were trembling and he was spilling all his drinks. At the beginning he’d managed to read the books he was
allowed to borrow, but gradually his powers of concentration waned. The letters danced and leapt about on the page. He’d been given pills. That’s to say, the warders had been given the pills, and they were handed to him one by one according to the doctor’s instructions, with a plastic mug of tepid water. Tiny bright blue pills in the evening which helped him along the road to dreamland. Three times a day he had bigger white pills. They gave him a sort of breathing space as the cactus temporarily retracted its needles. But the certainty that they would return, stronger and sharper, was almost as bad. Han van der Kerch was starting to lose his grip on his own existence.

  He thought it was day. He couldn’t be certain of it, but the light was on, and there were noises going on all around him. A meal had just been served, though he wasn’t sure whether it was meant to be lunch or dinner. Perhaps it was a late supper. No, it was too early, too much noise.

  At first he couldn’t see what it was. When the piece of paper dropped in through the bars it took him a while to work it out. He followed its progress; it was small and almost weightless and took ages to reach the floor. It fluttered like a butterfly, from side to side, as it bobbed down towards the concrete. He smiled, the motion was pleasing, and he felt it had nothing to do with him.

  There it lay. Han van der Kerch left it where it was and raised his eyes again to follow the shadows of movement from the corridor. He’d just taken one of the white pills, and felt better than he had an hour ago. He made a laborious effort to stand up. He was dizzy, and had been lying for so long in the same place that his limbs had gone to sleep. They tingled uncomfortably as he hobbled the few steps to the door. He bent and picked up the piece of paper without looking at it. It took several minutes to get himself into a normal sitting position, without his legs complaining too much.

  It was the size of a postcard, folded twice. He opened it up on his lap.