The Blind Goddess (16 page)

“I know the man,” he argued. “My presence may put him more at ease. You’ve no idea what power competent lawyers think they have over inept ones. He may well get
over-confident.”

She finally conceded, in exchange for an explicit promise from Håkon to keep his mouth shut. He could speak if she gave him a sign, but even then should restrict himself to empty phrases
or insignificant comments, nothing about the actual substance of the case.

“Let’s do the good guy–bad guy routine,” she said in the end with a grin.

She would be the surly one, he could contribute encouraging slaps on the back.

“But don’t be too aggressive,” Håkon warned her. “There’s a risk he’ll just get up and walk out, and we’ve got no adequate reason for holding
him.”

He came to the meeting with them voluntarily. No briefcase, but otherwise smartly and professionally dressed, in a suit and stylish shoes, too stylish for the slushy streets of Oslo. His trouser
legs were wet, and the light brown leather of his shoes had a dark band along the sides, which would probably mean a troublesome autumn cold in store for him. The shoulders of his tweed coat were
also wet, and Håkon glimpsed the exclusive label on the lining as Lavik took it off and gave it a shake before turning in search of a hook or coat hanger. He found neither, so draped it over
the back of his chair. He was relaxed and cooperative, showing no sign of apprehension.

“I must say, I’m rather intrigued,” he said with a smile, sweeping his hair back from his brow. It flopped forward again immediately. “Am I suspected of something?”
he asked, smiling even more broadly.

Hanne reassured him: “Not at the moment.”

Håkon thought she was taking a risk. But with the lesson of experience fresh in his mind, he said nothing. Neither he nor Hanne had anything to write with or on. They both knew that the
flow of speech could easily dry up at the sight of a tape recorder or writing implements.

“We’re pursuing various lines of enquiry concerning one or two cases we’re having trouble with,” she admitted. “We have a feeling that you might have something to
contribute. Just a few questions. You’re free to leave whenever you like.”

It was scarcely necessary to tell him.

“I’m fully aware of that,” he said, good-naturedly, though they could discern a grittier undertone. “I’ll stay till I feel like going. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Håkon, hoping he was within his remit. He wanted to say something, if only to mitigate his sense of being superfluous. This it failed to do.

“Did you know Hans E. Olsen? The lawyer who was murdered recently?”

Hanne went straight to the point, but Lavik had obviously anticipated this.

“No, I can’t say I did,” he replied calmly. Not too fast, nor too falteringly. “I didn’t know him, though of course I’ve spoken to him on occasion. We work in
the same field—as criminal defence lawyers, I mean. I must have bumped into him in the law courts a few times too, and probably at meetings of the Defence Lawyers’ Association. But as I
say, I didn’t really know him.”

“What theories do you have about the murder?”

“The murder of Hansy Olsen?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what theories . . .”

The hesitation was natural, he sounded reflective, as if he was trying to be helpful, like any innocent person making a statement to the police.

“To be honest, I haven’t thought very much about it at all! It struck me it might be dissatisfied clients, which is the explanation that’s going around in the profession, if I
can put it like that.”

“What about Jacob Frøstrup?”

Hanne and Håkon agreed later that they were almost sure they saw a flicker of uncertainty in the lawyer’s manner when his unfortunate client was referred to. But since they had no
tangible evidence for their impression they had to concede it was probably more a projection of hope than sound judgement.

“It was a dreadful shame about Jacob. He’d had a devil of a time from the moment he was born. He’d been a client of mine for many years, but he’d never been arrested for
anything particularly big. I don’t understand why he should get involved in something like this now. He didn’t have long to go; he’d had AIDS for more than three years, I
believe.”

He’d been staring out of the window as he spoke. That was the only perceptible change since the beginning of the conversation. Apparently conscious of this, he turned to face his
interviewers again.

“I heard that he died the same day I visited him. Very upsetting. He certainly seemed terribly depressed. He talked about taking his own life, didn’t want to go on living, what with
the pain, the shame, and now this charge on top of everything else. I tried to cheer him up a bit, and told him not to give in. But I have to say that the news of his death didn’t take me
entirely by surprise.”

Lavik shook his head slowly in sorrow. He flicked at his shoulders as if to remove nonexistent dandruff; his hair was thick and lustrous and his scalp healthier than Håkon could boast of.
Håkon, feeling defensive, looked down at his own black jacket and quickly brushed off the white flakes that stood out so embarrassingly against the dark background. The lawyer gave him a
sympathetic and extremely condescending smile.

“Did he say anything about why he had such a large supply of drugs?”

“Frankly,” said Lavik reproachfully, “even if he is dead, I find it highly irregular to be sitting here repeating to the police what he told me.”

The two officers accepted his position in silence.

Hanne gathered her thoughts before playing her final card. She ran her fingers over the shaved area by her temple, a habit she’d developed over the last few days. It was so quiet in the
room that she fancied that the others would be able to hear the rasping sound it made.

“Why did you meet a man in Grünerløkka at three o’clock last Friday night?”

Her tone was incisive, as if she were trying to make it sound more dramatic than it actually was. But he was ready for her.

“Oh that, that was a client. He’s in deep trouble, and wanted immediate help. The police aren’t involved yet, but he’s afraid they will be. I just had to give him some
advice.”

Lavik smiled reassuringly, as if it wasn’t unusual for him to drag himself out of bed in the middle of the night to rendezvous with clients in the city’s less respectable districts.
All in a day’s work, his expression almost seemed to say. All in a night’s work.

Hanne leant towards him and rapped the fingers of her left hand on the desk.

“And you expect me to believe that,” she said in a low voice. “You expect me to believe that?”

“It doesn’t matter to me what you believe,” said Lavik, smiling again. “What matters is that I’m telling the truth. If you think otherwise, you’ll have to try
and prove it.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” Hanne replied. “You can go. For now.”

Lavik put his coat on, thanked them, and said good-bye amicably, closing the door carefully and politely behind him.

“You had a lot to say,” said Hanne in some annoyance to her colleague. “Not much point in having you here.”

Her head injury had made her more irascible. Håkon ignored it. Her mood was simply the result of frustration at Lavik’s excellent parrying of her questions. He just grinned.

“Better to say too little than too much,” he retorted in his own defence. “Anyway, we know one thing now. The owner of the boot must have spoken to Lavik after the episode on
Friday night. He was well prepared. Why didn’t you say anything about the piece of paper, by the way?”

“I want to keep that in reserve,” she said pensively. “I’m going home to lie down now. I’ve got a headache.”

“They don’t know anything!”

Lavik was intensely pleased with himself, and even through the distortion of the telephone line the older man could hear his exultation. He’d been worried about his younger colleague,
who’d looked as if he might be on the verge of a breakdown at their last meeting in Maridalen. A confrontation with the police could have had catastrophic repercussions. But Lavik was utterly
sure of himself. The police knew nothing. A shaven female and a dumbo of an old student contemporary of his—they’d just seemed puzzled, with no cards up their sleeves. Of course the
events of Friday night were rather unfortunate, but they’d bought his explanation, he was certain of that. Lavik was absolutely delighted.

“I swear they know nothing at all,” he repeated. “And with Frøstrup dead, Van der Kerch round the bend, and the police completely clueless, we’re in the
clear!”

“You’re forgetting one factor,” said the other man. “You’re forgetting Karen Borg. We don’t know what she knows, but it’s almost definitely something.
The police think so anyway. If you’re right that they’ve got no leads, it means that she still hasn’t talked. We don’t know how long that situation will last.”

Lavik didn’t have much to say to this, and his jubilation abated somewhat.

“They may be wrong,” he said, more meekly. “The police can get things wrong. She may not know anything at all. She and Sand used to be as thick as thieves when we were all
students together. I bet she would have told him if she’d had anything to tell. In fact, I’m damned sure she would.”

He was sounding more confident again, but the older man could not be persuaded.

“Karen Borg is a problem,” he stated emphatically. “She is and will remain a problem.”

There were a few seconds’ silence before the older man brought the conversation to a close.

“Don’t ring me again. Not from a phone box, nor from a mobile. Don’t ever ring. Use the normal method. I’ll check every other day.”

He slammed down the receiver. Lavik jumped at the other end as the noise shot through his ear. His ulcer gave a stab. He took out a packet of antacid powder from his inside pocket, bit off the
end, and sucked in the contents. It left a white residue on his lips that would stay there for the rest of the day, but in just a few seconds he felt better. He looked carefully both ways as he
came out of the phone booth. His euphoria had evaporated, and belching intermittently he made his way back to his office.

THURSDAY 29 OCTOBER

G
reed,” he thought. “Greed is the criminal’s worst enemy. Moderation is the key to success.”

It was bitingly cold, and the snow had already been lying for weeks up here in the mountains. He’d changed over to winter tyres at Dokka, when he got to the northern end of Randsfjorden,
having had a couple of alarming skids into the opposite lane. But he still had difficulty with the long, steep incline of the forest track only half a mile from the cottage. Eventually he’d
had to reverse up the slope. Only once before had he had so much trouble, and the cottage had been in the family for more than twenty years. Was it the road conditions or was he losing his nerve?
The little parking place was empty, and he could only just distinguish the dark outline of the four neighbouring cottages. There were no lights to indicate human habitation, but the moon came to
his aid when crossing the two hundred metres to the cottage door in his snowshoes. His hands were frozen and he dropped the key in the snow twice before he finally got the door open.

It smelt mouldy and airless. He locked the door behind him, even though he realised it was hardly necessary. He had problems getting the wick to ignite in the paraffin lamp; it seemed wet from
the dank air rather than with paraffin. He managed to light it after several attempts, but an ominous quantity of soot particles shot up to the ceiling. The solar energy unit had no electricity
stored in it, though he couldn’t see why. There must be something wrong with it. He hung his torch from the ceiling, removed his coat, and slipped on a thick sweater.

An hour later he had things organised. The paraffin heater was temperamental, and he finally abandoned it in favour of a good old-fashioned open fire. It was still far from warm, especially as
he’d opened up the room to air it for half an hour. But the fire was burning fiercely and the chimney looked as if it was standing up to the blaze. The gas cooker was functioning, and he
treated himself to a cup of coffee. He decided to let his business wait until the cottage had reached a reasonable temperature. The job was going to be wet and cold. There was a bundle of sixties
comics stuffed in a basket, and he took one out and started turning the pages with his cold hands. He’d read it a hundred times before, but it would do to occupy him for a while. He was
itching to get on with things.

It was midnight before he dressed to go out again. He took a pair of overalls from the cupboard, and his old national service boots that still fitted him, thirty years after he’d
misappropriated them from the army. The full moon was still high in the southern sky, so the torch was superfluous at first. He had a coiled rope slung over one shoulder, and an aluminium snow
shovel in his hand. He left his snowshoes against the side of the cottage; he could wade through the forty metres of snow to the well in his boots.

The well housing stood out like a huge landmark below the cottage in an area that could almost be described as marsh. They had been warned against taking water from there, but had never been
affected by it. It always tasted fresh and sweet, with a distinct flavour of the seasons. Four stout poles were tied together at the top, like a rudimentary Lapp tent. Plywood panels had been
nailed to each side, cut to an A-shape, with an aperture in one of them. A basic door arrangement, fastened with a padlock, had originally been quite small, just large enough to get the bucket
through, but he had sawn it bigger four years ago. Now a man could just about crawl inside; the family thought it unnecessary, but it definitely made it easier to draw up the water.

It took almost a quarter of an hour to dig out the door enough to release it. He was sweating, and his breathing was laboured. He kicked the door firmly into an open position in the snow,
crouched down, and squeezed his way in. The lowest part of the well housing was only just over a square metre, and the apex of the timber frame wasn’t high enough for him to stand up. With a
bit of a struggle he got the torch to shine down on the water. It was pitch-black and absolutely motionless. An old shoulder injury gave a twinge when he bent awkwardly, and he let out a fart and a
groan under the strain. At last he focused the beam of light on the narrow ledge near the surface of the water. He lowered his foot tentatively, and as expected he could feel that the ledge was as
slippery as soap. He kicked at the surface several times, and finally got a toehold. He repeated the exercise on the opposite side until he was standing with his legs astride, upright and
reasonably stable. He took off his gloves and put them on a horizontal joist in front of him. Then he tried to roll up his overalls as far as they would go. It wasn’t easy, they were too
thick, and his fingers were already cold again. In the end he gave up, crouched down, and put his right arm into the freezing water while holding on to the bucket hook with his left hand. His arm
went numb in seconds and he was aware of his heart beating faster and a tightness in his chest. He felt with his fingers around the sides of the well half an arm’s length beneath the surface.
He couldn’t find what he was searching for. He cursed, and had to pull his arm out. Rolling the overall back down helped a bit, and he rubbed the sleeve against his skin and blew on his
frozen hand. He waited a few minutes before he dared make another attempt.