The Blind Goddess

by Anne Holt

  “How are you liking it as a defence counsel?” he asked with a smile over the port, after three courses and cheesecake.

  “All right,” she replied, not giving anything away.

  “Is your client still in the same psychotic state?”

  How did he know about the Dutchman’s state of health? But the question slipped from her mind as fast as it had occurred to her.

  “Yes. It’s a shame for the poor chap. It really is. They haven’t even arranged the medical for the court yet—he’s too far gone for them to do it! He ought to be put away. But you know how it is . . . Frustrating. There’s not much I can do for him.”

  “Do you visit him?”

  “Yes, I do. Every Friday. It seems as if somewhere deep inside his disturbed brain he sets store by it. Strange.”

  “No, it’s not that strange,” said Peter Strup, gently wafting away the smoke of Karen’s cigarette.

  “Sorry, is that troubling you?” she asked apologetically, stubbing it out half-smoked.

  “No, not in the slightest,” he assured her, picking up her pack and shaking out another one to offer her. “It’s not troubling me at all.”

  She declined the cigarette anyway, and put the pack in her handbag.

  “It’s not surprising that he welcomes your visits. They always do. You’re probably the only one who calls. It’s a glimmer of light in his existence, something to look forward to beforehand, and something to keep him going till the next time. However psychotic he is, he still registers what’s going on. Does he talk?”

  It was a totally innocent question, quite natural in the context. But it put her immediately on the alert, cutting right through the genial atmosphere and the comfortable mild intoxication induced by three glasses of wine.

  “Only meaningless mumbling,” she said in an offhand tone. “But he smiles when I go in. Or at least he makes a grimace that could be taken for a smile.”

  “So he doesn’t say anything,” Peter Strup continued casually, looking at her over the top of his glass of port. “What does he actually mumble about?”

  Karen’s jaw tightened. She could feel she was under interrogation, and didn’t like it. Up to that point she’d been enjoying the meal, and felt at ease in the company of a courteous, knowledgeable, and charming man. He’d been recounting anecdotes from legal and sporting life, telling her jokes with triple layers of meaning, and spicing the whole with an attentiveness that would have made more attractive women than Karen feel flattered. She had opened up too, more than she usually did, and confided some of her misgivings about life as a lawyer for the rich and powerful.

  Now he was cross-examining her. She wouldn’t let herself be drawn.

  “I don’t want to talk about a specific case. Least of all about this particular one. I have my duty to my client to think of. Anyway it seems to me you owe me an explanation for your so patently obvious curiosity.”

  She had folded her arms, as she always did when she felt annoyed or vulnerable. Now she felt both.

  Peter Strup put down his glass and sat like a male mirror image with arms folded and his gaze fixed on hers.

  “I’m interested because I think I have an inkling of something that concerns me. As a lawyer, as a person. There’s a possibility I could protect you, from something that could be dangerous. Let me take over the defence.”

  He unfolded his arms and leant towards her. His face was too close to hers, and involuntarily she tried to back away—in vain, as it happened, because her head was soon pressing against the wall.

  “You can regard this as a warning. Either you let me take over the Dutchman, or you’ll have to accept the consequences. I can assure you of one thing: you’d definitely do yourself a service by withdrawing. It’s probably not too late.”

  It had become very hot in the room. Karen could feel her cheeks reddening and a rash starting on her neck from her slight allergy to red wine. The underwiring in her bra dug into the damp flesh beneath her breasts. She rose abruptly to get away from it all.

  “And I can assure you of one thing,” she said in a low voice as she reached for her handbag without taking her eyes off him. “I won’t hand this man over for any amount of persuasion. He’s asked for my services; I’ve been appointed by the Court; I’m going to help him. Regardless of any threats, whether from criminals or from high court barristers.”

  Even though she had spoken in subdued tones the scene had drawn a certain amount of attention. The few customers in the other half of the room had fallen silent and were openly watching the two lawyers. She lowered her voice even further, and said almost in a whisper, “Many thanks for the meal. It was very good. I don’t expect to hear from you again. If I do hear a single word from you about this case, I’ll report you to the Lawyers’ Association.”

  “I’m not a member,” he smiled, wiping his lips with the large white napkin.

  Karen Borg stomped out to the cloakroom, threw on her coat, and got home in one minute and forty-five seconds. She was furious.

  The night was still young when she woke up. The digital numerals on the clock radio shone the time at her in their fiery red glow: 02:11. Nils’s breathing was slow and even, with funny little snores on every fourth breath. She tried to join in the rhythm, to link herself in rest to the big sleeping figure by her side, to breathe in unison, to force her smaller-capacity lungs to the same tempo as his. They protested by making her feel dizzy, but she knew from experience that after the dizziness sleep would usually return from its nocturnal elusiveness.

  But not tonight. Her heart flatly refused to decrease its speed, and her lungs wheezed in protest against the change of rhythm. What had she been dreaming? She couldn’t recall, but the feelings of grief and impotence and indefinable anxiety were so overwhelming that it must have been something quite sinister.

  She gradually eased herself over to the edge of the bed, and reached down to the plug of the extension phone on the bedside table and extracted it. Then she slipped out of bed as gently as she could, without waking Nils—she had had countless nights of practice—and tiptoed from the bedroom, pausing at the door to take her dressing gown.

  Only a little lamp above the telephone table made it possible to see anything at all in the corridor. Karen felt round the cordless phone and lifted it gingerly off its base. Then she went straight through the door on the other side of the living room into what they called the office. The light was on; books on psychology covered the large thick pine desktop that was attached to two square supports descending from the sloping ceiling. Bookshelves lined the room from floor to ceiling. But they weren’t sufficient; in various places piles of books a metre high stood on the floor. This room was the snuggest in the house, and there was an armchair with a footstool and a good reading lamp in one corner. Karen sat down.

  She knew his number by heart, despite having rung it only once in her life, just over two weeks ago. She still remembered the number he’d had as a student, having rung it at least once a day for six years. For some reason it seemed a greater act of betrayal to telephone him with Nils asleep three rooms away than to make love with him on the living-room floor with Nils out of town. She sat staring at the phone for several minutes before her fingers eventually, almost of their own accord, picked out the right digits.

  After two and a half rings she heard a muffled hello.

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  She couldn’t think of anything more original.

  “Karen! What’s the matter?”

  He suddenly sounded wide awake.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  A rustling noise indicated that he was sitting up in bed.

  “But even so, that’s no excuse for waking you,” she said apologetically.

  “Yes, it’s perfectly all right. Honestly, I’m glad you’re phoning. You know that. You must always ring me if you feel the need. Anytime. Where are you?”

  “At home.”

  There was silence.

  “Nils is asleep,” she expl
ained, anticipating his question. “I pulled out the plug on the bedroom extension. Anyway he always sleeps like a log at this hour of the night. He’s used to me waking up and wandering about. I don’t think he’ll be worried.”

  “How did the dinner go?”

  “It was pleasant up till coffee. Then he started to go on and on. I don’t understand why he’s so interested in the boy. He was quite pushy, so I had to put him in his place. I don’t think I’ll be hearing from him again.”

  “Yes, you seemed pretty livid when you left.”

  “When I left? How do you know?”

  “You left the restaurant at 22:04 precisely and virtually ran home, looking fairly irate.”

  He gave a little laugh, almost apologetic.

  “You beast! Were you spying on me?”

  Karen was both indignant and gratified.

  “No, I wasn’t spying on you, just taking care of you. It was a chilly way of passing the time. Three hours in a doorway in Grünerløkka isn’t exactly enjoyable.”

  He had to stop and sneeze twice.

  “Damn, I seem to have caught a cold. You ought to be grateful.”

  “Why didn’t you show yourself when I came out?”

  Håkon made no response.

  “Did you think I’d be cross?”

  “There was that possibility, yes. As you were yesterday, on the phone.”

  “You’re sweet. You’re really sweet. I definitely would have been hopping mad. But I’m very touched to think that you were standing there all that time keeping an eye on me. Were you being Håkon then, or a policeman?”

  There was a subtle invitation in the question. Had it been daylight he would have given a clever and diplomatic answer, as he knew she would prefer. But it was the dead of night. Without really deciding, he said what he actually thought.

  “A prosecuting attorney doesn’t do bodyguard duties, Karen. A police lawyer sits in the office and doesn’t bother with anything except documents and legal cases. It was me myself on watch. I was jealous, and I was concerned. I love you. That was why.”

  He felt satisfied and calm. Whatever her reaction might be. It came as something of a shock, and knocked him completely off balance.

  “I’m probably a little in love with you, too, Håkon.”

  Suddenly she burst into tears. Håkon didn’t know what to say.

  “Don’t cry!”

  “I’ll cry if I like,” she sniffed. “I’m crying because I don’t know what to do.”

  She began to sob convulsively. Håkon had difficulty catching what she said, so he waited till she’d stopped.

  It took ten minutes.

  “I shouldn’t have wasted my phone bill on that,” she sighed at last.

  “You can talk forever for the price of one unit at night. You can afford it.”

  She was more tranquil now.

  “I’m planning to go away,” she said. “To the cottage by myself. I’ll take the dog and a few books. It feels as if I can’t think here in the city. At least not here in the flat, and at the office all I’ve got time for is the battle to get through my work. Can hardly even manage that.”

  She started snuffling again.

  “When are you going?”

  “I don’t know. I promise I’ll phone before I go. It might be a week or two yet. But you must promise not to ring me. You’ve been so patient.”

  “I promise. Word of honour. But—could you say it just once more?”

  After a short pause, she did.

  “I may be a little bit in love with you, Håkon. Maybe. Good night.”

  TUESDAY 10 NOVEMBER

  Talk about a waste of effort.”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen had sensibly put two thick elastic bands round the documents on the case. They looked like a rather attractive Christmas present. A package that would stand up to anything, even being thrown. She put it to the test. Thud.

  “Now we’ve been through both Olsen and Lavik. Zilch.”

  “Nothing? Nothing at all?”

  Håkon Sand was quite astonished. It was more extraordinary that there was nothing of interest than if they’d found the odd little nugget. Few people would withstand the critical scrutiny of the police without something crawling out of the woodwork.

  “But there is one thing that puzzles me,” said Hanne. “We haven’t got access to Lavik’s bank account, since we haven’t charged him. But look at his tax returns for the last few years.”

  She put a sheet of meaningless figures in front of Håkon. They told him nothing—except that the guy had an annual income that would turn every employee of the prosecution service green with envy.

  “It seems as if the money just disappears,” said Hanne in explanation.

  “Disappears?”

  “Yes, there’s simply no correlation between the amount he declares and his wealth. Either his normal living expenditure is prodigious, or he’s salted the money away somewhere.”

  “But why should he salt away money honestly acquired?”

  “There’s only one good reason for it: avoidance of wealth tax. But with the level of wealth tax we have in this country it seems both silly and unlikely. It doesn’t make sense to me that he would risk tax irregularities for the sake of a few miserable kroner. His accounts are in order and approved by an auditor every single year. But there’s something here I don’t understand.”

  They sat and looked at one another. Håkon put a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth.

  “Have you started that filthy habit?” said Hanne in disgust.

  “Just to stop myself succumbing to cigarettes again. Purely a temporary measure,” he said in excuse, spitting out the old tobacco into the room.

  “It’ll spoil your teeth. Anyway, it smells foul.”

  “There’s no one to smell me,” he retorted. “Let’s bounce a few ideas around. What would make you hide money away?”

  “I would do it with money earned from the black economy or illegally. Switzerland, probably. As in crime stories. We’re powerless with Swiss banks. The accounts don’t even have to be registered in a name, a number will do.”

  “Have we noted any trips to Switzerland?”

  “No, but he doesn’t need to go there. Swiss banks have branches in masses of the countries he’s visited. And I can’t get away from the idea that there may be something in his connections with the Far East. Drugs. That would fit in with our theory. It’s a pity he’s got a valid reason for his trips there—his hotels.”

  There was knock at the door, and a fair-haired constable opened it without waiting for a response. This annoyed Håkon, but he didn’t comment.

  “Here are the papers you asked for,” he said to the inspector, and handed her five sheets of computer printout, leaving again without closing the door. Håkon got up and did it for him.

  “No manners, the youth of today.”

  “Håkon, listen: if I had large sums of unlawfully gained money and were using a Swiss bank account, and if I were miserly, wouldn’t I take my own legitimate surplus and send it the same way?”

  “Miserly? Yes, you could call him that!”

  “See what a spartan life he leads! People like that take delight in having a complete record of their money. I bet he’s put it all in the same account!”

  It wasn’t a very convincing theory. But for the want of anything better it would do. A lust for money makes even the cleverest people commit blunders. Though blunder was hardly the word—it would be difficult to show anything illegal in having less money than appeared in the accounts.

  “From now on we’ll assume that Lavik has money stashed away in Switzerland. We’ll see where that gets us. Not much further, I’m afraid. What about Peter Strup? Have you made any progress on him since the mysterious meeting in Sofienberg Park?”

  She handed him a slim envelope of her own. Håkon noticed that there was no case number written on it.

  “My private file,” she explained. “That’s a copy for you. Take it home with you, and keep it in a
safe place.”

  He glanced through the papers. Strup’s CV was impressive. Active in the Resistance during the War, despite being only just eighteen when peace came. Member of the Labour Party even then, but didn’t rise to any prominent role during the years that followed. However, he’d kept in contact with the lads from the wartime forests and now had a circle of acquaintances in influential positions. Close friend of several former party leaders, on good terms with the king, with whom he had sailed in his time (God knows how he’d fitted it all in), and met up with the parliamentary under secretary in the Ministry of Justice once a week, having worked with him at an earlier stage of his life. Freemason of the tenth degree, thus with access to most of the corridors of power. Had married a former client, a woman who had killed her husband after two years of hell, and who had then served an eighteen-month sentence before coming out to wedding bells and life on the sunny side of the street. The marriage was apparently a happy one, and no one had ever been able to pin an extramarital affair on him. His earnings were large, despite the fact that his fees were paid largely from the public purse. He paid his taxes willingly, according to his own repeated assurances in the newspapers, and they were no small sums.

  “Not exactly the picture of a major criminal,” said Håkon, closing the file.

  “No, but it hardly looks law-abiding to rendezvous with people in murky parks late at night.”

  “Nighttime appointments with clients seem to be quite a feature of this case,” he commented ironically, nudging the tobacco into place with his tongue.

  “We must be careful. Peter Strup has friends in the Special Branch.”

  “Careful? We’re being so careful it feels like total inertia.”

  With that he gave up the struggle with the recalcitrant tobacco and spat it into the bin. He was out of practice.