The Blind Goddess (35 page)

It was bitterly cold. The police officer had to flap his arms and stamp his feet while remaining silent and invisible. It wasn’t easy. He needed to remove his gloves to
use his binoculars, which meant he wasn’t using them very often. He cursed and envied this bloody lawyer for being able to sit and enjoy the warmth in a place that necessitated outdoor
surveillance. A moment ago a light had been switched off in one of the upstairs rooms: surely he wasn’t intending to go to bed so early. It was only eight o’clock. Hell, another four
hours to the end of the shift. There was an icy blast on his wrist as he uncovered his watch, so he hurriedly pulled his sleeve down.

He could try the binoculars with his gloves on. There wasn’t much to see. Lavik had obviously drawn all the curtains, which was understandable, since he wouldn’t be so stupid as not
to realise he was under observation. From that point of view it seemed rather foolish that they were making such efforts to remain invisible. He sighed. What a tedious job. Lavik was certain to
hole up for several days, bearing in mind that he’d lugged in bag after bag of food, plus a laptop computer and a fax.

Suddenly he straightened up. He blinked rapidly to disperse the tears caused by the freezing wind. Then he tore off his gloves, flung them to the ground, and focused the binoculars more
accurately.

What the devil was it casting those dancing shadows? Had he lit a fire? He lowered the binoculars for a moment and stared up at the chimney outlined in silhouette against the dark night sky. No,
there was no smoke. What could it be, then? He put the binoculars to his eyes again, and now he could see it clearly. Something was burning. And burning fiercely. All at once the curtains were
aflame.

He threw down the binoculars and raced towards the house.

“The house is on fire!” he roared into his radio. “The bloody house is on fire!”

The radio was superfluous: they could all hear him without it, and two of them came running over. The first one there smashed open the door, saw in an instant where the regulation fire
extinguisher was, and hurtled into the living room. The smoke and heat stung his eyes, but he located the source of the fire immediately and fought his way across the room wielding the jet of
powder like a frenzied sword before him. The blazing curtains scattered glowing fragments into the air and one landed on his shoulder, setting his jacket alight. He beat out the flame with his
hand, scorching his palm, and went on undeterred. His colleagues had arrived, and one seized a woollen blanket from the sofa, the other unceremoniously ripped down a splendid Sami woven wall
hanging. In a couple of minutes they had smothered the flames. Most of the room was saved. Even the electricity hadn’t gone off. Lavik, however, had.

The three detectives stood surveying the scene as they recovered from their exertions. They saw the two remaining cords and discovered the little mechanism that had not yet sent off the fax.

“Bloody hell,” the first swore quietly, shaking his painful hand, “the fucking lawyer’s tricked us. He’s conned us good and proper.”

“He can’t have gone before seven. The surveillance team swear they saw him look out of the window at five to seven. In other words he can’t have more than an
hour’s start, hopefully less. For all we know, he might have scarpered only minutes before it was discovered.”

Hanne Wilhelmsen was trying to calm Håkon’s agitation, but without much success.

“Warn the other stations in the area. They’ve got to stop him at all costs.”

He sounded breathless and kept gulping noisily.

“Håkon, just listen. We’ve no idea where he is. He may have gone home to Grefsen and be watching some comedian on TV and having a drink with his wife. Or driving round the
city. But the crucial point is that we’ve got nothing on him that would justify another arrest. The fact that our surveillance team let themselves be duped is clearly a problem, but
it’s our problem, not his. We may well be tailing him, but he’s not doing anything illegal by giving us the slip.”

Even though Håkon was beside himself with anxiety, he had to admit that Hanne was right.

“Okay, okay,” Håkon interrupted as she was about to continue. “Okay. I know we can’t move heaven and earth. I understand what you’re saying. But you
must
believe me: he’s out to get her. It all fits in: the note about Karen that was taken when you were beaten up, her statement that vanished. He must be behind it all.”

Hanne sighed. This was a new tack.

“You can’t seriously think it was Jørgen Lavik who knocked me out? And that he was the one who sneaked up from a custody cell to your office and stole the statement and then
got back down again closing all the doors behind him? You must be joking!”

“He needn’t have done it himself. He might have accomplices. Hanne, listen to me! I know he’s after her!”

Håkon was really frantic now.

“Will it set your mind at rest if we take the car and go over there?”

“I thought you’d never suggest it. . . . Pick me up by the riding school in Skøyen in a quarter of an hour.”

Perhaps the whole thing was just an excuse to see Karen. He couldn’t swear that it wasn’t. On the other hand, his dread lay like a physical knot of pain beneath
his ribs, and was definitely not just a figment of his imagination.

“Call it male intuition,” he said ironically, and sensed rather than saw her smile.

“Intuition’s neither here nor there,” she scoffed. “I’m doing this for your sake, not because I agree with you.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Since speaking to him twenty minutes ago on the phone she’d been getting an increasing feeling that his agitation might well be justified. It was difficult
to put a finger on what had made her change her mind. His certainty, perhaps: she’d lived long enough not to ignore other people’s instincts and presentiments. Besides, Lavik had seemed
so demoralised and desperate when she’d last seen him that he might be capable of anything. Nor did she like the fact that Karen Borg hadn’t answered the phone all evening—it
might mean nothing, of course, but she didn’t like it.

“Keep trying her number,” she said, inserting a new cassette into the player.

Karen was still not responding. Hanne glanced across at Håkon, put her hand on his thigh, and patted him gently.

“Relax, it’s good if she’s not there. Anyway . . .”

She looked at the clock on the dashboard.

“Anyway, he couldn’t possibly have reached there yet, not even by the most pessimistic reckoning. He’d have to find himself a car first, and in the unlikely event of his having
one ready to hand near the cottage, he still couldn’t have got away until after seven. Probably later. It’s twenty past eight now. Stop worrying.”

That was easier said than done. Håkon released the little lever on the right of his seat and let it recline as far as it would go.

“I’ll try,” he muttered disconsolately.

Twenty past eight. He was hungry. In fact he hadn’t eaten all day. His elaborate preparations had taken the edge off his appetite, and his stomach had become
unaccustomed to food after ten days of semi-fasting. But now it was rumbling insistently. He indicated and pulled off into a lit-up parking area. There was plenty of time for something to eat. He
had about a three-quarter-hour drive left. Plus another quarter of an hour to find his way to the right cottage. Maybe even half an hour, since the students’ meeting there had been so long
ago.

He parked the Lada between two Mercedes, but it didn’t appear intimidated by such exalted company. Lavik smiled, gave it a friendly pat on the boot lid, and went into the café. It
was an unusual building, rather like a UFO that had taken root in the ground. He ordered a large bowl of pea soup, and took a newspaper to the table with him. He was in no great hurry now.

They had already passed Holmestrand and the tape had played both sides. Håkon was bored with country music, and hunted in the tidy console for something else. They
didn’t say much on the journey; it wasn’t necessary. Håkon had volunteered to drive, but Hanne had declined. He was content not to, but less happy about the fact that she’d
been chain-smoking ever since they passed through Drammen. It was much too cold to open the window, and he was beginning to feel sick. His own chewing tobacco didn’t help. He used a tissue to
get rid of it, but couldn’t avoid swallowing the last few bits.

“Would you mind leaving the smoking till later?”

She was embarrassed and very apologetic, and stubbed out the cigarette she’d just started.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” she asked in gentle reproof, throwing the packet onto the backseat.

“It’s your car,” he murmured, looking out of the window.

There was a fine layer of snow all over the fields, and here and there long rows of straw bales wrapped in white plastic.

“They look like gigantic fish balls,” he remarked, feeling even sicker.

“What do?”

“Those plastic rolls. Hay, or whatever it is.”

“Straw, I think.”

He caught sight of at least twenty huge bales a hundred metres from the road on the left; this time in black plastic.

“Liquorice fish balls,” he said, his nausea increasing. “Can we stop soon? I’m getting carsick.”

“There’s only fifteen minutes to go. Can’t you hold on?”

She didn’t sound annoyed, just anxious to get there.

“No I can’t, to be honest,” he said, putting his hand up to his mouth to emphasise the precariousness of the situation.

She found a suitable place to leave the road a few minutes further on, a bus stop by a turn-off to a little white house, which was all in darkness. It was as desolate a place as could be, on a
trunk road through Vestfold. There were cars rushing by at regular intervals, but no other life to be seen anywhere.

The fresh, cool air did him good. Hanne stayed in the car while he took a walk along the short track. He stood for a few minutes with his face into the wind; then, feeling better, made his way
back to the car.

“Danger over,” he said, fastening his seat belt.

The car coughed irascibly into life when she turned the ignition key, but faded immediately. She made repeated attempts, but there was no reaction to the starter motor at all: the engine had
gone completely dead. It was such a surprise that neither of them said a word. She tried once more. Not a murmur.

“Water in the distributor,” she said through clenched teeth. “Or it could be something else. Maybe the whole bloody car has packed up.”

Håkon continued to say nothing, quite deliberately. Hanne got out of the car abruptly, and grimly opened the bonnet. A moment later she was back beside him, holding what he assumed to be
the distributor cap; at least, it looked like a lid of some sort. She took several paper tissues from the glove box and rubbed the inside of the cap dry. She gave it a final critical inspection and
went out to replace it. It was soon done.

But it didn’t make any difference. The car was just as uncooperative. After two more attempts on the starter, she struck the steering wheel in anger.

“Typical. It has to be now. This car has run like clockwork ever since I bought it three years ago. Couldn’t have been more obliging. And now it has to let me down at a time like
this. Do you know anything about car engines?”

She gave him a rather reproachful look, and he guessed she knew the answer. He shook his head slowly.

“Not much,” he said, with some understatement. The truth was that he knew nothing at all about cars, except that they required petrol.

Nevertheless he went out with her to take a look. It would be moral support: the car might be persuaded if there were two of them.

To judge from all the cursing, her search for the fault was not going well. He made a discreet withdrawal and felt queasiness rising in him again. It was cold, and he hopped from one foot to the
other as he watched the cars zoom past. Not one of them even slowed down. They were probably on their way home and had no leanings towards human compassion on such a dreary and unpleasant December
evening. They were easily visible, since there was a lone street lamp beside the timetable board at the bus stop. Then there was a gap in the regular, if not particularly heavy, flow of traffic. In
the far distance he could see the lights of an approaching car. It actually appeared to be adhering to the seventy-kilometres-an-hour speed limit, unlike most of the others, and it had collected
four cars impatiently tailing it close behind.

Then came the real shock. The street lamp briefly illuminated the driver as the car went by. Håkon was paying special attention because he’d made a small bet with himself that it
must be a woman driving so slowly. It wasn’t a woman at all. It was Peter Strup.

The import of this took a second to penetrate to the relevant part of his brain. But only a second. Recovering from his astonishment, he ran over to the car, which was standing with its bonnet
agape like a pike in the reeds.

“Peter Strup!” he yelled. “Peter Strup has just driven by!”

Hanne jumped up, hitting her head on the bonnet.

“What did you say?” she exclaimed, even though she’d heard him perfectly.

“Peter Strup! He just drove past! Right now!”

So the pieces fell into place, everything fitted with a sudden click, difficult to take in, even though the picture was now as clear as day. She was livid with herself. After all, the man had
been under suspicion the whole time. He was the most obvious candidate. The only one, in effect. Why hadn’t she wanted to see that? Was it Strup’s spotless reputation, his very correct
manner, his photograph in weekly magazines, his successful marriage, his splendid children? Was it these elements that had made her resist the logical conclusion? Her brain had told her it was him,
but her police intuition, her bloody overestimated intuition, had protested.

“Shit,” she muttered, slamming down the bonnet lid. “So much for my damned instincts.”

She hadn’t even brought the guy in for questioning. How bloody stupid.

“Stop a car!” she shouted to Håkon, who obeyed her command immediately, taking up position at the side of the road and waving both arms in the air. Hanne got back into her own
useless vehicle, gathered up her coat, cigarettes, and wallet, and locked it. Then she joined her overwrought and panicking colleague.