The Blind Goddess (36 page)

Not a single car showed any inclination to help. Either they drove by without appearing to notice the two people leaping and gesticulating at the roadside, clearing them by centimetres, or they
hooted angrily and reprovingly at them as a traffic hazard and swerved round them as they tore past.

After nearly thirty cars, Håkon was on the point of despair, and Hanne realised that something had to be done. It would be far too dangerous to stand in the middle of the road, no question
of that. If they phoned for assistance, it would probably be too late. She looked over at the unlit house, standing hunched and unassuming and closed up, as if trying to excuse its unenviable
position only twenty metres from the main E-18. There was no parked car to be seen.

She ran up to the house. The little hut on the other side, barely visible from the road, might be a garage. Håkon wasn’t sure whether she expected him to continue the attempt to stop
a vehicle, but he took a chance and followed her, which met with no protest.

“Ring the bell and see if there’s anyone at home, just in case,” she called, and tugged at the shed door.

It wasn’t locked.

No car. But a motorcycle. A Yamaha FJ, 1200cc. Latest model. With ABS brakes.

Hanne despised rice burners. Only Harleys were motorbikes. The others were simply two-wheeled conveyances for getting from A to B. Apart perhaps from Motoguzzi, even if that was European. Deep
inside, however, she’d always had a sneaking affection for the more sporty type of Japanese machines, especially the FJ.

It looked as if it was in a roadworthy condition, except for the fact that the battery had been removed. It was December; the bike had probably been standing idle for at least three months. The
battery was lying on a folded newspaper, neatly stored for the winter just as it should be. She snatched up a screwdriver and connected it across the terminals. Sparks flew, and after a few seconds
the thinnest part of the metal began to glow faintly. Enough power in it, evidently.

“No one in,” said Håkon breathlessly from the doorway.

There were plenty of tools on a shelf, more or less the same as the ones at home in her cellar. She quickly found what she wanted, and the battery was back in place in record time. She hesitated
only for an instant.

“Strictly speaking this is theft.”

“No, it’s
jus necessitatis
.”

“What?”

She hadn’t quite caught it and thought he was talking nonsense in his excitement.

“Nothing. Legal Latin. I’ll explain later.”

If I ever get the opportunity, he thought.

Though it broke her heart to damage a new bike, it took only thirty seconds to fix the ignition. She snapped the steering lock with a rapid and hefty jerk. The engine burst into a promising
growl. She looked round for a helmet, but couldn’t see one. Naturally enough: there were probably a couple of expensive BMW or Shoei helmets inside the locked house in the warm. Should they
force an entry? Did they have time?

Hardly. They would have to ride without them. There was a pair of slalom goggles on a wall-hook next to four pairs of alpine skis. They would have to do. She sat astride the bike and manoeuvred
it out into the open.

“Have you ever been on a motorbike?” Håkon didn’t speak, just shook his head vigorously.

“Well, listen: Put your arms round my waist, and do exactly as I do. Whatever it feels like, don’t lean in the opposite direction. Do you understand?”

This time he nodded, and as she was putting the goggles on he mounted the bike and gripped her as firmly as he could. He was clutching her so tight that she had to loosen his hold before she let
the bike roar off onto the main road.

Håkon was totally petrified. But he did as he’d promised. To allay his terror he closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. It wasn’t easy. The noise was
overwhelming, and he was as frozen as a wet kitten.

So was Hanne. Her gloves, her own everyday gloves, were already soaked through and icy cold. But it was best to have them on; they provided at least some protection. The goggles were also a
help, though not much: she had to keep wiping them with her left hand. She cast a quick glance at the illuminated digital clock in front of her. They hadn’t had a chance to put it right
before they set off, but it told her that it was a quarter of an hour since they’d sped out of the side track. It had been 9:35 then.

There was no doubt that time was not on their side.

The silver-haired man was pleased to note that his memory had been correct: there was only one road to Ula. Although surfaced, it was very narrow and scarcely conducive to
fast driving. At a sudden bend he saw a small lane bordered by thick bushes. He jolted another few metres down the road and found room to turn round where it levelled out. The frost had made the
ground hard and easy to drive on, and he was soon strategically positioned with the front of the car facing the road but well hidden from it, and with a little gap through which he would be able to
see any vehicles that came by. He put the radio on low and felt, for the circumstances, reasonably comfortable. He would recognise Lavik’s Volvo. It was just a matter of waiting.

Karen Borg was also listening to the radio. It was a programme for long-distance lorry drivers, but the music was okay. She was starting the book on her lap for the sixth
time, James Joyce’s
Ulysses
. So far she’d never got beyond page fifty, but now she’d have a real opportunity to get into it.

It was warm in the spacious living room, almost too warm in fact. The dog was whining. She opened the verandah door to let it out. It didn’t want to go, and just carried on with its
restless wandering. She gave up and told it to sit, and in the end it lay down reluctantly in a corner, but with its head raised and ears pricked. It had probably caught the scent of some small
animal. Or maybe an elk.

But it was neither a hare nor an elk in the bushes below the cottage. It was a man, and he’d been lying there for quite a while. Nevertheless he felt hot; he was wearing thick clothes and
his adrenaline was running high. Finding the cottage had been easy. He had taken the wrong turning once, but he’d soon realised. Karen Borg’s cottage was the only one that was occupied,
and it blazed out its presence like a lighthouse. He’d found a good hiding place for the car only five minutes’ walk away.

His head and arms were resting on a ten-litre can of petrol. Even though he’d been careful not to slop any over when filling it up, the fumes were burning his nostrils. He rose rather
stiffly, picked up the can, and moved towards the house, half crouching. It wasn’t really necessary, since the living room was on the other side facing the sea. At the rear there were only
the windows of two bedrooms, both in darkness, and a toilet in the cellar. He tapped his chest to make sure that the monkey wrench was still there, even though he knew it was: he could feel it
jolting against his ribs as he walked.

The door was actually unlocked. One hindrance less than he’d reckoned on. He smiled and turned the handle, infinitely slowly. The door was well oiled and made no sound as he opened it and
went in.

The silver-haired man glanced at his watch. He’d been sitting there a long time now. No Volvos had come past, only a Peugeot, two Opels, and an old, dark-coloured Lada.
There was virtually no traffic. He tried to flex his muscles, but it was difficult in a car seat. He didn’t dare risk getting out to stretch his legs.

Madness! A motorcyclist with a pillion passenger came roaring by at a speed that was much too fast for the bad road. They had no helmets on either and weren’t wearing leathers. At this
time of year! It made him shiver to imagine it. The bike went into a great skid at the bend, and for a moment he was afraid it would slide right into his car. But the rider managed to straighten it
up at the last minute and accelerated away. Crazy. He yawned and peered again at his watch.

Karen Borg had got to page five. She sighed. It was a good book. She knew that, because she’d read that it was. She found it insufferably tedious herself. However, she
was determined to persist. But she kept finding little things to distract her. Now she was going to have another coffee.

The dog continued to be restive. It was best not to let it out at all: twice before it had stayed away a whole night and day in its hunt for hares. Strange, since it wasn’t a hunting dog;
it must be an instinct that all dogs shared.

Suddenly she thought she heard a faint noise. She turned to the dog. It was lying absolutely motionless, its whimpering had abruptly ceased, and its head was tilted to one side, ears pricked.
Its whole body was quivering, and she knew that it had heard something too. The sound had come from below.

She went over to the stairs.

“Hello?”

Ludicrous. Of course there was no one there. She stood as quiet as a mouse for a few seconds before shrugging her shoulders and turning away.

“Stay,” she said to the dog in a strict tone, seeing that it was about to get up.

Then she heard steps behind her and wheeled round. In an instant of disbelief she saw a figure bounding up the fifteen stairs towards her. Even though he had a cap right down over his ears she
recognised who it was.

“Jørgen La . . .”

That was all she got out. The monkey wrench struck her above the eye, and she fell straight to the floor. Not that she would have noticed if she’d hit anything on her way down—she
had already lost consciousness.

The dog went berserk. It hurled itself on the intruder snarling and barking with rage, jumping up to the height of his chest, where it fastened its teeth in his bulky jacket, but lost its hold
when Lavik jerked his upper body sharply. It didn’t give up. It clamped its powerful jaws on his lower arm, and this time he couldn’t shake himself free. It hurt like hell. The pain
gave him a surge of strength and he lifted the dog right off the ground, but to no avail. He’d dropped the monkey wrench, and in an attempt to retrieve it took the risk of allowing the animal
to make contact with the ground again. That was a mistake. It let go of his arm for a split second and got a better hold higher up. That hurt even more. The pain started to make him feel bemused,
and he knew he didn’t have very long. At last he managed to grab the monkey wrench and with a murderous blow crushed the skull of the demented dog, which even so didn’t release its
jaws. It hung dead and limp in its death grip, and it took him nearly a minute to loosen its teeth from his arm. He was bleeding like a stuck pig. With tears in his eyes he scanned the room and
caught sight of some green towels on a hook in the kitchen doorway. He quickly made a temporary tourniquet, and the pain actually receded. It would come back even more unbearably, he knew. Bugger
it.

He ran down to the lower floor and opened the can of petrol. He poured its contents systematically all over the cottage. It amazed him how far ten litres went. It soon began to smell like an old
petrol station, and the can was empty.

Steal something! He must make it look like a burglary. Why hadn’t that occurred to him before? He hadn’t brought a bag or case to carry things in, but there must be a rucksack
somewhere. Downstairs. There was sure to be one there; he’d seen some sports equipment. He raced back down.

She couldn’t make out what it was that tasted so peculiar. She moved her lips feebly. It must be blood. Probably her own. She wanted to go back to sleep. No, she had to open her eyes. Why?
Her head was so damned painful. Better to go on sleeping. It smelt awful. Did blood smell like that? No, it’s petrol, she thought, with a half-smile at her own cleverness. Petrol. She made
another attempt to open her eyes. She couldn’t. Perhaps she should try one more time. It might be easier if she rolled over. The effort was agonising, but she slewed herself round almost onto
her stomach. There was something preventing her from turning fully. Something warm and soft. Cento. Her hand slowly stroked the dog’s body. She could feel it immediately: Cento was dead. She
opened her eyes abruptly—the dog’s head was right up against her own. It was battered in. She tried desperately to rise. Through her bloodied eyelids she saw the figure of a man outside
the window, with his face up close to the glass, cupping his hands round his eyes to be able to see more clearly.

What’s Peter Strup doing here? she managed to think, before falling back and crumpling over the corpse of the dog.

There wasn’t much of value in the cottage. A few ornaments and three silver candlesticks would have to do. The cutlery in the kitchen drawers was all steel. It was by no means certain that
any loss would be discovered anyway; with luck, the whole house would burn to the ground. He laced up the grey rucksack he’d found, drew out a box of matches from his inside pocket, and went
towards the verandah door.

That was when he saw Peter Strup.

The motorbike wasn’t very well suited to cross-country riding. She was also frozen solid, and realised that her coordination and strength were failing her. She stopped
just a few metres along the forest track and dismounted, numb and aching. Håkon said not a word. It would be a waste of time even attempting to use the stand on the uneven ground, so she
tried instead to lay the heavy machine carefully on its side. She had to drop it the last bit. The owner would be furious. She would have killed anybody herself in similar circumstances. They ran
as best they could along the track—not exactly fast. Rounding a bend they came to an abrupt halt. They could see a frightening orange glow through the trees two hundred metres ahead, and
above the bare trees yellow flames leaping into the sky.

In seconds they were running again—much faster now.

Jørgen Lavik hadn’t quite known what to do. But his uncertainty was short-lived. He’d thrown three matches, and all of them hit the mark. Flames leapt up
instantaneously. He could see Peter Strup tugging at the verandah door, which fortunately was locked. He was unlikely to go away, and must have spotted Karen Borg where she lay, perfectly visible
from outside. Had she moved? He was sure she’d been lying on her back before.