Hanne Wilhelmsen - 01 - The Blind Goddess

by Anne Holt

  Only once or twice had things gone wrong. The runners were caught, but the operation had been so small that the police didn’t suspect a larger outfit behind it. The lads had kept their mouths shut, taken their sentences like men, and had a promise smuggled in of a significant bonus when they came out in the not-too-distant future. Four years was the longest sentence, but they knew they were earning a good salary for every year inside. Even if the runners had chosen to grass, they wouldn’t have had that much to say. At least that’s what he’d thought until a short while ago, before he’d realised that his two crown princes had exceeded their mandate.

  He’d cleaned up a considerable amount of money. On top of a significant legitimate salary, it made him pretty well off. He’d used some of it gradually and circumspectly, but never in a way that couldn’t be justified from his valid finances. The money in the well was his. There was also a corresponding amount hidden away in a Swiss bank account. But the major portion of the surplus was in an account he couldn’t use himself. He could put money in, but not take it out. That account was for the Cause. He felt proud of it. The pleasure of being able to contribute to the Cause had effectively suppressed a lifetime’s conviction of right and wrong, of criminality and legality. He saw himself as chosen, and doing what was right. Fate, which had held its protective hand over their operations for so many years, was on his side. The few mistakes they had made were inevitable, and recent events merely a warning from that same Fate to wind up the business. That could only mean that his task was accomplished. The greying man looked upon Fate as a good friend, and heeded its auguries. He’d earned countless millions; now others could take over.

  The bonuses for the unlucky couriers had depleted the capital somewhat, but it was worth it. Only his two colleagues had known who he was. Olsen was dead. Lavik was keeping quiet. At least for the time being. He would take things slowly—he had plans for all eventualities.

  Hansy Olsen was his first murder victim in peacetime. It had been remarkably easy. And it had been imperative, no different in essence from the occasion when two German soldiers had lain in the snow in front of him, each with a bloody hole in his uniform. He’d been seventeen then, making his way to Sweden. The shots had continued to ring in his ears as he searched them both for valuables and then trudged on full of national fervour to Sweden and freedom. It was just before Christmas 1944, and he knew he was on the winning side. He had killed two of the enemy, and felt no remorse over it.

  Nor had the murder of Hans E. Olsen given him any sense of guilt. It had been a simple necessity. He’d experienced a kind of elation, a joy rather like the feeling of triumph after a raid on his neighbour’s apple orchard over fifty years ago. The weapon was old, unregistered, but in perfect condition, bought from a long-deceased client.

  He’d finished reading through the document. He rolled it up and screwed it round tight like a spill before throwing it on the fire. The twenty-three pages of code went the same way. Ten minutes later there were no documents anywhere in the world that could connect him to anything other than respectable activities. No signatures, no handwriting, no fingerprints. No proof.

  He stood up and fetched some dry clothes from the cupboard. Replacing the box in the well was a more straightforward job than getting it out. He emptied the coffee grounds on the fire before changing back into the clothes he’d come in, hung his wet things in an outside shed, and locked the cottage. It was two o’clock, and he would be back in town in time to have a shower and turn up at the office. Cold and tired, admittedly, but that was acceptable. His secretary thought so, anyway.

  TUESDAY 3 NOVEMBER

  Fredrick Myhreng was in top form. While Hans Olsen was still alive, he had given him a few reasonable three-column articles, in exchange for a couple of beers. He’d sought out journalists with the enthusiasm of a small boy collecting returnable bottles. Even so, Myhreng preferred him dead. He had the full confidence of his editor, had been released from other work to concentrate on the mafia case, and met with encouragement from colleagues, who could see that he was making a niche for himself. “Contacts, you know, contacts,” he grinned when people wondered what he was actually doing.

  He lit a cigarette and the smoke blended with the exhaust fumes that formed a leaden haze to a height of three metres above the road. He leant against a lamppost, turned up the collar of his sheepskin jacket, and imagined himself James Dean. He breathed in a flake of tobacco as he inhaled and it caught in his windpipe, making him cough so violently that tears came to his eyes, his spectacles misted over, and he couldn’t see a thing. Gone was James Dean, and he shook his head vigorously, opening his eyes wide to peer through the lenses.

  On the opposite side of the busy street was Jørgen Ulf Lavik’s office. A solid brass plate announced that Lavik, Saetre & Villesen occupied the second floor of the imposing turn-of-the-century brick building. Very central and very practical, only a stone’s throw from the law courts.

  Lavik was interesting. Myhreng had checked on quite a number of people now. Phoned around a bit, checked through old tax records, visited a few watering holes, and generally made himself amenable. He had started with twenty names on his pad; now there were five. It had not been easy sorting them out, and he had done it principally by instinct. Lavik became increasingly prominent, eventually heading the list. With a thick line underneath. He spent suspiciously little money. Perhaps he was just very frugal, but there were limits. His house and cars could have belonged to an average-income legal assistant rather than a partner in the firm. He didn’t own a boat or a country cottage either, despite the fact that his tax returns for the last few years showed that the firm was flourishing. He’d done well out of a hotel project in Bangkok that he was still involved in. It looked as if it was going to be a sound investment for his Norwegian clients, and had led to further projects abroad, most of which had produced handsome dividends both for the investors and for Lavik himself.

  As a defence lawyer it seemed he was quite successful. His reputation among colleagues was good, his statistics for acquittals were impressive, and it was difficult to find anyone who spoke ill of him.

  Myhreng was not exceptionally intelligent, but he was clever enough to know it. He was also inventive and intuitive. He’d had a thorough training from a wily old fox of an editor on a local paper, and knew that investigative journalism consisted mainly of hard graft and failed leads.

  “The truth is always well hidden, Fredrick, always well hidden,” the old newspaperman had cautioned him. “There’s a lot of muckraking before you get to it. Dress smartly, never give up, and have a thorough wash when you’ve finished.”

  It couldn’t do any harm to have a chat with Lavik. It would be best not to have an appointment. Catch him on the hop. He stubbed out his cigarette, spat into the gutter, and zigzagged across the road between hooting cars and a stationary lorry.

  The woman in reception was surprisingly plain. She was getting on in years, and reminded him of a librarian from an American children’s movie. Receptionists were supposed to be attractive and friendly—not this one. She looked as if she was going to tell him to be quiet as he tripped on the threshold and stumbled into the waiting room. But equally unexpectedly, she smiled. Her teeth were dull and unnaturally even. Obviously dentures.

  “The door sill is too high,” she apologised. “I’m always telling them. It’s a wonder there hasn‘t been a real accident. Can I help you?”

  Myhreng put on his flattering-old-ladies smile, which she immediately saw through, and her mouth contracted into a pattern of stern wrinkles like angry little darts.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Lavik,” he said without discarding his ineffectual smile. She consulted the book, but obviously couldn’t find his name there.

  “No appointment?”

  “No, but it’s rather important.”

  Fredrick Myhreng said who he was, and she pursed her lips even more. Without a word she pressed a button on her telephone and conveyed his message, presum
ably to the man in question.

  She didn’t come off the line immediately, but then with a quaint gesture she motioned him towards a row of chairs and asked him to wait. Mr. Lavik would see him, but he wouldn’t be free for a few minutes.

  It was actually half an hour.

  Lavik’s office was bright and spacious. The room had parquet flooring and just three pictures on the walls. The acoustics were poor, and more wall decoration might have helped. The desk was remarkably clear and tidy, with just three or four files on it. There was a solid wooden filing cabinet in one corner beside a small safe. The chair for clients was comfortable, but Myhreng could see that it was from a well-known furniture chain and cheaper than it appeared. He had the same kind himself. The bookcase contained very little, and Myhreng assumed the office must have its own library. He found it slightly bizarre that one shelf was full of old children’s books, in enviably good condition, to judge from the spines.

  He introduced himself again. Lavik gave him an enquiring look; the sweat on his upper lip was presumably caused by the malfunctioning room thermostat. Myhreng felt hot himself, and tugged at the neck of his sweater.

  “Is this an interview?” the lawyer asked amiably.

  “No, it’s more a matter of a few preliminary queries.”

  “What about?”

  “About your connection with Hans Olsen and the drugs case the police think he was involved in.”

  He could swear he saw a reaction. A slight, barely perceptible reddening of the throat and a movement of his lower lip to suck a few beads of sweat from the upper one.

  “My connection?”

  There was a smile on his face, but it looked rather forced.

  “Yes, your connection.”

  “I had nothing to do with Olsen! Was he involved with drugs? Your newspaper gave the impression that he was the victim of criminals involved in drugs, not that he himself…”

  “We can’t say anything other than that yet, but we have our own theories. So have the police, I believe.”

  Lavik had had time to gather his thoughts. He smiled again, a little more relaxed now.

  “Well, you’re really off-target if you’re trying to link me to that. I barely knew the man. Obviously I’d met him, around and about. But I couldn’t say I knew him. It was a tragic way to die, of course. He didn’t have any children?”

  “No, he didn’t. What do you do with your money, Mr. Lavik?”

  “My money?”

  He sounded genuinely astonished.

  “Yes, you earn enough, and you’ve been a good boy and given all the right information to the tax office. Almost one and a half million kroner last year. Where’s it all gone?”

  “That’s got absolutely nothing to do with you! My conscience is completely clear, and how I invest my lawful earnings is hardly any affair of yours.”

  He stopped abruptly, his goodwill at an end. He glanced up at the clock and said he had to prepare for a meeting.

  “But I’ve a lot more questions to ask you, Mr. Lavik, a lot more,” the journalist protested.

  “But I haven’t got any more answers to give,” said Lavik decisively, standing up and showing him the door.

  “May I come back another day when it’s more convenient for you?” Myhreng persisted as he walked across the room.

  “I’d rather you rang. I’m a very busy man,” the lawyer replied, putting an end to the conversation and shutting the door behind him.

  Fredrick Myhreng was alone with the librarian. She had picked up on her employer’s negative attitude and gave the impression she was going to refuse when Myhreng asked if he could use the toilet. But common courtesy prevailed.

  He’d noticed an opaque window in the corridor outside, near the entrance door. While he was sitting in the waiting room it had occurred to him that it must be a lavatory. That turned out to be not entirely correct. Behind the door bearing the familiar little porcelain heart was an anteroom with a washbasin, from which the cubicle was divided by a lockable swing door. He opened and closed the door, but instead of going in he took out a chunky Swiss Army knife. It had three screwdriver blades, and it wasn’t difficult to loosen the six screws in the frame that held the window in position. He knew enough about carpentry to feel amused when he saw that the window was only screwed in; it should have been jointed together, otherwise it would warp. It hadn’t been, however, presumably because it was an inside window and not exposed to the damp. He ensured that the screws were still caught by a couple of threads, and went quietly into the cubicle and flushed the cistern. Having washed his hands, he smiled pleasantly at the receptionist, who didn’t even deign to say good-bye as he left the office. He didn’t intend to lose any sleep over it.

  * * *

  The evening was well advanced and bitterly cold. But Fredrick Myhreng was not anxious to get into the warm. He was worried. His overconfidence of the morning had been replaced by growing uncertainty. He hadn’t learnt anything about burglary or other illegal activities at the College of Journalism. Rather the reverse. He wasn’t even sure how to begin.

  The building had offices on three floors, and flats on the top two, as far as he could see from the names by the bells. In films the burglar would try all of them and say, “Hi, it’s Joe,” in the hope that someone would know a Joe and activate the door release. But that would hardly work here. The outer entrance door to the courtyard was very firmly closed. Going for the next best solution, he drew out a jemmy from his sheepskin jacket.

  Getting in was a doddle. Two tugs and the door gave way. It didn’t even creak on its hinges when he opened it just enough to slip through. To the left there was another door at the top of three little granite steps, already salted against the night frost. He was anticipating another obstacle, but to make certain he turned the door handle before he set to with his crowbar. Someone must have forgotten to lock it, because it opened outwards so easily and unexpectedly that he took an involuntary step back, found his foot in midair, and yelped as he touched the ground later than his reflexes had reckoned on. But it didn’t detract from his delight at how well everything was going.

  He bounded up the stairs in half the time it had taken him a few hours earlier. He stopped at the opaque window and stood for a moment to recover his breath, and to listen in case anyone had heard him. There was nothing except a faint ringing in his ears, so a moment later he took out a little tub of Plasticine and pressed the soft lump against the glass, using his thumbs to knead it into shape round the edges. It was difficult to know how much pressure he could exert without the window falling out, but when he was satisfied he repeated the operation with a new lump of Plasticine further down. Then he took hold of both lumps and pushed hard. The window wouldn’t budge.

  He was beginning to perspire and felt the need to dispense with his jacket. It was also hampering his movements, so after his second attempt on the glass he took it off. Despite his gloves, he had a firm grip on the Plasticine. When he put the whole weight of his body into his third attempt he could feel the screws giving way. Luckily the lower part of the window came loose first, and he was able to lift the frame at the same time as he clambered over the sill and into the little room. The window was completely free and all in one piece. He grabbed his jacket before removing the Plasticine, and eased the window back into position.

  Cautiously he opened the door into the lobby. He was not so stupid as to assume there was no alarm. It didn’t look very sophisticated: he could see a small box with a tiny red light above the window. He got down and squirmed his way across to the door of Lavik’s office on his stomach. His torch was tucked into his belt and dug into him painfully with every ponderous movement. The door was open. He shone his torch round the room looking for a corresponding alarm box to the one in the anteroom. There wasn’t one. Or at least the beam of his torch didn’t pick anything out. He took a chance and stood up as soon as he was through the doorway.

  Naturally he had no idea what he was looking for. He hadn’t thought about
it, and now he felt rather foolish standing there in an office he had no lawful right to be in, committing his first crime, but without any clear objective. The safe was locked. That was hardly suspicious. The filing cabinet was unlocked, however, and pulling out the drawers he found a sequence of cardboard folders, each with a little label projecting at one corner bearing a name written in a clear and elegant hand. The names meant nothing to him.

  The desk drawer contents were what could have been predicted. Yellow message stickers, pink markers, a pile of ballpoint pens, and a few pencils. They lay in a tray subdivided into sections, supported by the sides of the drawer, to leave room for papers underneath, in the drawer itself. He lifted the tray, but the documents were of no interest. Star Tours’ winter brochure, an A4 pad of preprinted fee notes. And a pad of lined paper. He put the pen tray back and closed the drawer. Beneath it was a low free-standing cupboard on castors, which was locked.

  He ran his gloved hands along the underside of the desk. It was smooth and polished, and his fingers met no resistance. Disappointed, he turned again to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. He walked across to it, bent down, and felt underneath it in the same way. Nothing. He lay flat and shone his torch systematically from one side to the other.

  He almost missed it, because he wasn’t expecting to find it. The beam had already gone past it before his brain registered what he’d seen, and in his slight confusion he dropped the torch, but it was still close enough for him to spot the little dark lump. He worked it free and stood up. The streetlights cast a pale glow into the room, enough to show him immediately what it was. A key, quite small, which had been attached to the bottom of the cupboard with tape.

  He was inordinately pleased, and was about to put it in his pocket when he had a far better idea. He brought out a piece of Plasticine from the tub in his pocket, warmed it against his cheek, and fashioned it into two flat oval shapes. He pressed the key into one of them, long and hard. He had to take off his gloves to get it out again without damaging the impression. Then he did the same with the other side, and finally made an imprint of the diameter at the top of the first piece of Plasticine.