Hanne Wilhelmsen - 01 - The Blind Goddess

by Anne Holt

  “Journalists can’t afford to be too considerate,” Myhreng retorted, seizing an unopened can of mackerel in tomato sauce.

  “Yes, fine, you can open it,” said Håkon sarcastically, after half the contents of the can were already on Myhreng’s roll.

  “Mackerel burger! Brilliant!”

  With his mouth full of food and tomato sauce dripping onto the white tablecloth he babbled on.

  “Admit it, you’ve brought him in. I can see it in your face. Thought there was something funny about that guy all along. I’ve worked out quite a lot, you know.”

  The look in his eyes above his ridiculously small glasses was challenging but not entirely confident. Håkon allowed himself a smile, and didn’t hurry with the margarine.

  “Give me one good reason why I should tell you anything at all.”

  “I can give you several. For a start, good information is the best protection against misinformation. Secondly, the newspapers will be full of it tomorrow anyway. And you can be bloody sure that the other papers won’t let the arrest of a lawyer go unnoticed for more than a day. And thirdly…”

  He interrupted himself, wiped the tomato off his chin with his fingers, and leant across the table ingratiatingly.

  “And thirdly, we’ve worked well together in the past. It would be to our mutual advantage to carry on.”

  Håkon Sand gave the impression that he’d been persuaded. Fredrick Myhreng took more credit for this than was his due. Fired by the promise of exciting information, he sat waiting as obediently as a schoolboy, while Håkon took a long and invigorating shower. The file that he’d sat up with until late into the night went with him to the bathroom.

  The shower took almost a quarter of an hour, and in that time Håkon had sketched out in his mind a newspaper story that would instil terror in the person or persons out there in the November gloom nervously biting their fingernails. For he was convinced there was someone. It was simply a question of luring—or rather, frightening—them out.

  MONDAY 23 NOVEMBER

  It was like some outlandish circus. Three television cameras, countless press photographers, at least twenty journalists, and a huge crowd of curious onlookers had assembled in the entrance hall on the ground floor of the courthouse. The Sunday papers had tried to outdo one another, but on closer analysis they had little more to say than that a thirty-five-year-old Oslo lawyer had been arrested on suspicion of being the organiser of a drugs syndicate. That was all the journalists knew, but they’d certainly filled up enough space. They’d made a sumptuous repast of the scanty ingredients, and been greatly assisted by Lavik’s colleagues who, in lengthy interviews, were highly critical of the monstrous action of the police in arresting a popular and respected fellow lawyer. The fact that these honourable colleagues knew absolutely nothing about the matter did not deter them from availing themselves of the widest possible range of expression to articulate their concern. The only one who remained silent was the one who actually knew something: Christian Bloch-Hansen.

  It was difficult to carve a path through the crowd obstructing the entrance to Court 17. Even though no more than two or three of the journalists present could have recognised him, the crowd reacted like a flock of pigeons when a TV reporter held out a microphone to him. The reporter was attached by a cable from his microphone to the photographer, a man over six feet tall who lost control of his legs when the interviewer suddenly whipped the flex taut. He struggled for some seconds to keep his balance and was momentarily held upright by the throng around him. But only briefly before overbalancing and bringing down several others with him, giving Bloch-Hansen the opportunity to slip into Court 17 in the ensuing chaos.

  Håkon Sand and Hanne Wilhelmsen hadn’t even tried. They sat behind the dark-tinted windows of the Black Maria until Lavik had been taken into the entrance at one side of the main door, with the customary jacket over his head. Hardly anyone bothered about poor old Roger from Sagene, looking rather comical with his beige parka pulled up round his ears. The whole crowd had swarmed into the court after them, and Hanne and Håkon were able to sneak in through the back door reserved for the police. They came directly up into the courtroom from the basement.

  A frail court attendant was having his work cut out endeavouring to keep order in the room. It could be no more than an attempt: the elderly uniformed man hadn’t the slightest chance of holding out against the crush from the multitude outside. Håkon saw the consternation in his face and used the phone on the magistrate’s bench to call for reinforcements from below. Four constables soon succeeded in ejecting everyone for whom there was no space on the single public bench.

  The magistrate was delayed; the session was meant to start at one o’clock sharp. He arrived at four minutes past, without so much as a glance at anybody. He placed his file in front of him; it was marginally thicker than the one Bloch-Hansen had been provided with three days previously. Håkon stood up and gave the defence counsel some additional documents. It had taken him seven hours to sort out what he wanted to present to the Court, which was not allowed to have more documents than were given to the defence.

  Turning to Håkon, the magistrate asked for the defendant. Håkon nodded towards the counsel for the defence, who rose.

  “My client has nothing to hide,” he said in a loud voice, to make certain that all the journalists heard him, “but his arrest has obviously had a devastating effect, both on himself and on his family. I would ask that the committal proceedings be conducted in camera.”

  A sigh of disappointment, of resignation even, passed through the little group of spectators. Not because of their dashed hopes for open proceedings, but because they had expected it to be the police closing the doors against them, as more often happened. This laconic, discreet defence lawyer did not augur well. The only one to react with a smirk was Fredrick Myhreng, who felt sure he would be furnished with a continuing flow of information anyway. The Dagbladet had been fuller yesterday than its competitors. He had enjoyed the hour before the court session, exulting in the fact that older colleagues were sidling up to him with enquiring looks and oblique questions, reluctant to admit to their own inadequacies but with a transparent desire for information that boosted his feelings of self-importance.

  The magistrate struck his gavel on the desk and cleared the court for discussion with counsel. The court attendant stepped out triumphantly behind the last reluctant journalist and hung up the black sign with white lettering: In Camera.

  There was of course no discussion. With a whimsical glint in his eye the magistrate stood up, walked the few paces to the adjoining office, and returned with a ready-prepared ruling.

  “I assumed as much,” he said, signing the paper. Then he leafed through the case file for a couple of minutes before picking up the ruling again and going out to announce to the crowd outside what they already knew. When he came back in he removed his jacket and hung it over the bar. He sharpened three pencils with the utmost concentration before leaning over to the intercom.

  “Bring Lavik up,” he ordered, loosening his tie and smiling at the woman sitting rigidly erect at the computer.

  “It’s going to be a long day, Elsa!”

  Even though Hanne had warned him in advance, Håkon was shocked at Lavik’s appearance when he entered through the door at the back of the court. If it weren’t a physical impossibility, he could have sworn that Jørgen Lavik had lost ten kilos over the weekend. His suit hung baggily and he had a sunken look about him. His face was alarmingly ashen and his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. He had the air of a man on the way to his own funeral, and for all Håkon knew that might be closer than anyone dared to suppose.

  “Has he been given anything to eat and drink?” he whispered in a concerned tone to Hanne, who gave him a dispirited nod.

  “But all he would take was some Coke. He hasn’t eaten a scrap of food since Friday,” she said in an undertone. “It’s not our fault, he’s been given special treatment.”

  Even the magi
strate seemed worried about the defendant’s condition. He scrutinised him several times before telling the two police guards to remove him from the witness box and bring a chair. The stern computer operator relaxed her image momentarily to emerge from her enclosure and offer Lavik a plastic cup of water and a paper napkin.

  When the magistrate had satisfied himself that Lavik wasn’t as close to death as his appearance suggested, the proceedings finally commenced. Håkon was to speak first, and received an encouraging slap on the thigh from Hanne as he stood up. It was harder than intended and the pain made him want to pee.

  * * *

  Four hours later both prosecuting and defence counsel had followed the magistrate’s example and discarded their jackets. Hanne Wilhelmsen had taken off her sweater, but Lavik looked as if he were freezing. Only the lady at the computer appeared to be unaffected. They’d had a short break an hour ago, but none of them had risked showing themselves to the wolves in the corridor. Whenever the courtroom went quiet they could hear there was still a considerable crowd outside.

  Lavik was willing to speak in his own defence, at excruciating length because every word was weighed so carefully. There was nothing new in his story—he denied everything and stuck to the statement he had made to the police. He even had an explanation of sorts for the fingerprints: his client had simply asked him for a small loan, which Lavik maintained was not unusual. In response to a caustic question from Håkon as to whether he was in the business of handing out cash to all his more indigent clients he replied in the affirmative. He could even provide witnesses to the fact. He couldn’t of course explain how a lawfully acquired thousand-kroner note came to be in a plastic envelope with drugs money under a floorboard on Mosseveien, but equally they couldn’t hold it against him if his client did strange things. The connection with Roger had been explained perfectly clearly before: he happened to have assisted the chap with a few minor matters, income tax returns and three or four traffic offences. Håkon’s problem was that Roger had said exactly the same.

  The explanation for the thousand-kroner note rang rather more hollow, however. Even though it was impossible to read anything in the magistrate’s impassive face, Håkon felt certain that this element in the indictment would hold up. Whether it would be sufficient in itself was another question, which would be resolved in an hour or so; the case would stand or fall by it. Håkon began his summing up.

  The money and the fingerprints were the vital elements; after that he went over the mysterious relationship between Roger Strømsjord and Lavik and the encoded telephone numbers. Towards the end he spent twenty-five minutes on Han van der Kerch’s statement to Karen Borg, before concluding with a pessimistic tirade about the likelihood of destruction of evidence and the risk of disappearance.

  That was all he had. His final thrust. Not a word about any links to Hans Olsen through the murdered and faceless Ludvig Sandersen. Nor about the lists of codes they had found. Nothing whatsoever about Lavik’s presence at the time of Van der Kerch’s derangement or Frøstrup’s fatal overdose.

  He’d been so sure yesterday. They’d discussed and debated, analysed and argued. Kaldbakken had wanted to go ahead with everything they’d got, invoking Håkon’s own absolute certainty of the same course only a few days earlier. But the chief inspector had eventually given way; Håkon had been both confident and persuasive. He no longer was. He racked his brain for the incisive punch line he’d practised the previous night, but it had gone. Instead he stood and swallowed a couple of times before stuttering that the police reaffirmed their application. Then he forgot to sit down and there were an awkward few seconds until the magistrate cleared his throat and told him he didn’t need to continue standing. Hanne gave him a faint smile of encouragement and poked him in the ribs, more gently this time.

  “Sir,” began the counsel for the defence even while he was rising from his seat, “we are indubitably embarking on a very delicate case, one which concerns a lawyer who has committed the gravest of crimes.”

  His two adversaries couldn’t believe their ears. What on earth was this? Was Bloch-Hansen stabbing his client in the back? They looked at Lavik for a reaction, but his weary, pallid face betrayed no emotion.

  “It’s a good maxim not to use stronger words than one can substantiate,” he continued, putting on his jacket again as if to assume a formality that until then had not been required in the big hot room. Håkon regretted not having done the same; it would just look foolish now.

  “But it is quite deplorable…”

  He paused for effect to emphasise his words.

  “It is quite deplorable under any circumstances that Karen Borg, a lawyer whom I know to have sound judgement and a reputation as a very capable barrister, does not seem to have realised she is guilty of contravening Article 144 of the Penal Code.”

  Another pause. The magistrate was looking up the relevant section, but Håkon was transfixed until he’d heard how Bloch-Hansen would continue.

  “Karen Borg is legally bound by the Client Confidentiality Act,” he went on. “She has infringed it. I can see from the documentation that she has based her position in this serious breach of the law on her deceased client’s quasi-consent. This cannot suffice. I have to stress first and foremost her client’s demonstrably psychotic state, which rendered him incapable of determining his own best interests. Secondly I would draw the Court’s attention to the so-called suicide note itself, Document 17-1.”

  He paused, and turned up the copy of the hapless letter.

  “From this wording it is somewhat—no, extremely—unclear whether the formulation as a whole could be seen to exempt her from her duty of confidentiality. As I read it, it is more in the nature of a farewell note, a rather emotional declaration of affection to a lawyer who has obviously been extremely kind and sympathetic.”

  “But he’s dead!”

  Håkon was unable to hold his tongue, half rising and gesticulating with his arms. He dropped back into his seat again before the magistrate had time to call him to order. The defence counsel smiled.

  “I refer you to Law Reports 1983, page 430,” he said, going round the bar and putting a copy of the judgement on the magistrate’s desk.

  “One for you, too,” he said, proffering a copy to Håkon, who had to stand up and go over to take it himself.

  “The majority view was that the duty of confidentiality does not cease when the client dies,” he explained. “The minority view concurred, come to that. There can be no doubt on the subject. And so we come back to this letter.”

  He held it up at arm’s length and read it out:

  “You’ve been very kind to me. You can forget what I said about keeping your mouth shut. Write to my mother. Thanks for everything.”

  He put the letter back with the other papers. Hanne didn’t know what to think. Håkon had gooseflesh and could feel his scrotum contracting into a delicate little bulge of masculinity as it did when bathing in ice-cold water.

  “This,” Bloch-Hansen continued, “this is far from granting exemption from the duty of confidentiality. Karen Borg as a lawyer should never have made a statement on the matter. But since she has erred, it is essential that the Court does not do likewise. I would draw your attention in this respect to Article 119 of the Penal Code and point out that it would conflict with that provision if the Court were to allow Borg’s statement.”

  Håkon turned the pages of the offprint he had in front of him; his hands were trembling so much that he had difficulty coordinating his movements. He found the relevant paragraph at last. Hell’s bells! A court could not accept a statement from lawyers of information received in the course of their professional duties.

  Now he was seriously worried. He didn’t give a damn about Lavik, drug-runner and possible murderer Jørgen Ulf Lavik. All he could think of was Karen Borg. Perhaps she was in deep trouble. And it was entirely his fault: it was he who had insisted on getting her statement. Admittedly she had offered no protest, but she would never have p
rovided it if he hadn’t asked her for it. Everything was his fault.

  On the opposite side of the room the counsel for the defence had packed up his papers. He’d gone to the end of the bar nearest the magistrate and was leaning with one hand on the top of the bench.

  “And that, sir, leaves the prosecution with nothing at all. No particular significance can be attached to the telephone numbers in Roger Strømsjord’s notebook. The fact that the man has a penchant for playing with numbers is not proof of wrongdoing. It is not even an indication of anything unusual—other than that he might be an eccentric. And what of the fingerprints on the banknote? We know very little about that. But, sir, there is nothing to show that Mr. Lavik isn’t speaking the truth! He could have lent a thousand to a client he felt sorry for. Not particularly sensible, of course, since Frøstrup’s credit rating was not exactly flawless, but the loan was without doubt a generous act. No special significance can be attached to that either.”

  A wave of his arm denoted that he was about to make his concluding remarks.

  “I shall not comment further upon the grave impropriety of incarcerating my client. It would be superfluous. None of this even approaches reasonable grounds for suspicion. My client must be released forthwith. Thank you.”

  It had taken exactly eight minutes. Håkon had taken one hour and ten minutes. The two police constables who were in charge of Lavik had been yawning throughout the hearing. During Bloch-Hansen’s defence they perked up considerably.

  The magistrate was far from perky. He made no effort to conceal the fact that he was worn out, tilting his head from side to side and massaging his face. Håkon wasn’t even offered his right of reply. He didn’t care. He felt a sinister void in his stomach and was in no condition to say any more. The magistrate looked at the clock. It was already half past six. The news would be on in half an hour.

  “We’ll continue with Roger Strømsjord right away. It probably won’t take so long now that the Court is familiar with the facts of the case,” he said optimistically.