The Blind Goddess (8 page)

Though it was gone six o’clock on a Friday evening, Håkon Sand was still in his office. Karen Borg realised that the weary lines he had in his face, that
she’d thought on Monday were the result of living it up at the weekend, were actually permanent. She was rather amazed that he was working so late; she knew that no one got paid overtime in
the police force.

“It’s stupid to work so much,” he admitted. “But it’s worse to wake up in the night worrying about everything you haven’t done. I try to get more or less
up-to-date every Friday. The weekends are more enjoyable then.”

The big grey building was silent. They sat there with a feeling of unusual rapport. Then a siren broke the stillness, a police car being tested in the yard at the back. It ceased as abruptly as
it had begun.

“Did he say anything?”

She had expected the question, knew it had to come, but having relaxed for a few minutes she was quite unprepared.

“Nothing in particular.”

She noticed how difficult it was to lie to him. He always seemed to know what was going on in her mind. She could feel a flush creeping up her back, and hoped it wouldn’t spread to her
face.

“The Client Confidentiality Act,” he said with a smile, and stretched his arms, linking his hands and putting them behind his neck. She could see sweat under his arms, but it
didn’t seem repulsive, just natural, after a ten-hour working day.

“I respect that,” he went on. “Can’t say much myself, either!”

“I thought the defence had a right to information and documents,” she said reprovingly.

“Not if we think it might be detrimental to the investigation,” he countered with an even broader smile, as if amused that they found themselves in a professional adversarial
relationship. He got up and poured them some coffee. It tasted worse than on Monday, as if it was the same pot that had been on the hotplate ever since. She contented herself with one sip and
pushed the cup away with a grimace.

“That stuff will kill you,” she admonished him. He shrugged and reassured her that he had a cast-iron stomach.

For some reason she couldn’t explain, she felt good. There was a tangible but oddly pleasant conflict going on between them that had never been there before. Never before had Håkon
been in possession of knowledge she didn’t have. Scrutinising him, she could see a glint in his eyes. His greying at the temples and his receding hairline made him appear not just older but
also more interesting, and stronger. He had actually grown rather handsome.

“You’ve become quite good-looking, Håkon,” she blurted out.

He didn’t even blush, just looked her straight in the eyes. She regretted it immediately; it was like opening a chink in her armour that she had long recognised she couldn’t afford,
not for anyone. As quick as lightning she changed the subject.

“Well, if you can’t tell me anything and I can’t say anything, we might as well call it a day,” she concluded, standing up and putting on her raincoat.

He asked her to sit down again. She complied, but kept her coat on.

“To be perfectly frank, this is a far more serious matter than we originally assumed. We’re working on several theories, but they’re fairly vague and without a shred of firm
evidence to support them at the moment. I can at least tell you that it looks as if it might be drug dealing on a grand scale. It’s too early to say how involved your client might be. But
he’s already in deep enough with murder. We think it was premeditated. If I can’t say any more than that, it’s not that I’m unwilling. We simply don’t know, and I have
to be careful, even with an old friend like you, not to come out with unfounded assertions and speculations.”

“Has it anything to do with Hans E. Olsen?”

Karen had caught Håkon Sand off guard. His mouth dropped open and he stared at her. Neither spoke for half a minute.

“What the hell do you know about that?”

“Nothing at all,” she replied. “But I had a call from a journalist today. A man called Fredrick Myhre or Myhreng or something like that. From the
Dagbladet.
He threw in
a question about whether I knew the murdered lawyer. Right in the middle of asking me about my client. It seems that the journalists are fairly well informed about police activities, so I thought I
should ask you. I don’t know anything. Should I?”

“The bugger,” said Håkon and stood up. “We’ll talk about it next week.”

As they went out the door, Håkon reached out to turn off the light after them. The movement brought his arm over her shoulder, and suddenly without warning he kissed her. It was a
tentative, boyish kiss.

For a few seconds their eyes met, then he switched off the light, locked the door, and without saying another word led her out of the deserted building.

It was the weekend.

MONDAY 5 OCTOBER

F
redrick Myhreng, the journalist, didn’t feel at all well. He tugged nervously at his rolled-up sleeves and began fiddling with a ball-point
pen till he managed to break it and the ink oozed out, staining his hands blue. He looked round for something to wipe them on, but had to make do with sheets from his notebook, hardly ideal. He
also got ink on his smart suit. He wore the sleeves turned back, as if he hadn’t realised that this style went out of fashion when
Miami Vice
disappeared from Norwegian television. A
long time ago now. The label on the outside of the right sleeve hadn’t been removed; in fact, the turn-up was so contrived that it stood out like a hallmark. But it was no good; he still felt
insignificant and uncomfortable sitting in Håkon Sand’s office.

He had agreed to come willingly enough. Sand had phoned him early that morning, before the journalist’s Monday-morning feeling after a lively weekend had worn off. Sand had been polite but
firm when he asked him to present himself as soon as possible. It was ten o’clock, and he was feeling sick. Håkon offered him a sweet from a wooden dish, and he accepted it. He
regretted it immediately after it was in his mouth; it was enormous, and impossible to suck without slurping. Sand hadn’t taken one himself, and Myhreng could understand why. It was difficult
to talk with such an object in his mouth, and he felt it would look too childish if he started chewing it.

“You’re working on our murder cases, I understand,” Håkon said, not without a hint of arrogance.

“Sure, I’m a crime reporter,” Myhreng answered curtly and with scantly concealed pride in his professional title. He almost shot the sweet out of his mouth in his eagerness to
sound self-assured. Sucking it quickly back in again, he inadvertently swallowed it. He could feel its slow and painful progress down his gullet.

“What do you actually know?”

The young journalist wasn’t really sure what to say. All his instincts prompted him to be circumspect, while his desire to exult in his knowledge was irresistible.

“I believe I know what you know,” he declared, and thought he’d killed two birds with one stone. “And maybe a little more.”

Håkon Sand sighed.

“Now look. I know you won’t say anything about who and how. I know your warped sense of honour will never allow you to name sources. That’s not what I’m asking for.
I’m offering a deal.”

A spark of interest showed in Myhreng’s eyes, but Håkon didn’t know how long it would last.

“I can confirm that you’re onto something,” he continued. “I’ve heard that you’ve apparently made a connection between the two murders. I also note that you
haven’t yet written anything about it. Which is good. It would be detrimental to the investigation, to say the least, if it got into print. I could of course get the commissioner to ring your
editor and put some pressure on you. But perhaps I don’t need to.”

The blond-haired journalist’s interest was increasing.

“I promise you that you’ll be the first to get what we have, as soon as we’re able to say anything. But that’s on condition that I can rely on you when I have to muzzle
you. Can I?”

Fredrick Myhreng liked the way the conversation was developing.

“That depends,” he said with a smile. “Let’s hear some more.”

“What made you link the two murders together?”

“What made
you
?”

Håkon took a deep breath. He rose, went over to the window, and stood there for a moment. Then he wheeled round again.

“I’m trying to come to an amicable arrangement,” he said, adopting a harsh tone. “I could have you in for questioning. I could even bring a charge of withholding evidence
pertaining to a criminal investigation. I can’t torture you for information, I suppose, but I can make things hellish hot for you. Do I need to?”

His words had an effect. Myhreng squirmed in his seat. He asked for a further undertaking that he would be the first to know as soon as anything happened. He got it.

“I was having a drink in the Old Christiania the day Sandersen was murdered. In the afternoon, about three I think it was. Sandersen was sitting there with Olsen, the lawyer. I noticed
them because they were on their own. Olsen has a whole crowd he goes—sorry, I mean used to go—drinking with. They were there too, but at another table. I didn’t think much about
it at the time, but remembered it of course when the murders followed so closely on one another. I’ve no idea what they were talking about. But it was a bit of a coincidence! Beyond that, I
know absolutely nothing. But I have my suspicions.”

It went quiet in the room. They could hear the noise of the traffic in Åkebergveien at the back. A crow landed on the windowsill, expressing its complaints in raucous tones. Håkon
Sand wasn’t even aware of it.

“There may be a connection. But we don’t know. For the moment there are only a couple of us here thinking along those lines. Have you talked to anyone else about it?”

Myhreng was able to reassure him on that score. He was only too keen to keep the story to himself. But he had begun some investigations of his own, he said. The odd question here and there,
nothing that would arouse suspicion. And everything he’d learnt up to this point was only what he knew already. Hansy Olsen’s alcohol problem, his predilection for his clients, his lack
of friends, and his large number of boozing companions. What were the police doing?

“Very little so far,” said Håkon. “But we’ve got going now. We’ll talk at the end of the week. I’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks, make no mistake
about it, if you don’t stick to our agreement. Not one word about this in the paper, and I’ll ring you as soon as we know any more. Right, you can go.”

Fredrick Myhreng was elated. He’d done a good day’s work, and had a broad grin on his face as he left police headquarters. His Monday-morning feeling had evaporated.

The big room was much too dim. Heavy brown velour curtains with tasselled edges absorbed what little light managed to find its way into the apartment on the ground floor of
the old city block. All the furniture was made of dark wood. Mahogany, Hanne Wilhelmsen thought. It smelt as if it was always sealed up, and everything was covered in a deep layer of dust. It
couldn’t possibly have appeared in a single week, so the two police officers had to conclude that cleanliness had not been high on Hansy Olsen’s list of priorities. But it was tidy.
There were bookshelves right along one wall, dark brown with cupboards at the base and an illuminated bar cabinet at one end with cut-glass doors. Håkon Sand walked across the thick carpet to
the bookshelves. He felt as if he was sinking into it, and his feet made no sound except for a slight creak of shoe leather. There was no fiction on the shelves, but the lawyer had an impressive
collection of legal tomes. Håkon shook his head as he read the titles on the spines. Some of the books here would sell for several thousand kroner if they went to auction. He took one of them
down, felt the good quality genuine calf of the binding, and registered the characteristic smell as he carefully turned over the pages.

Hanne had sat herself at the enormous marble desk with lions’ claw legs, and stared at the leather armchair. There was a crocheted antimacassar over the back, covered in dark, congealed
blood. She thought she could even discern a faint aroma of iron, but dismissed the notion as fanciful. The seat was stained too.

“What are we actually looking for?”

Håkon’s question was pertinent, but received no response.

“You’re the detective on the case: why did you want to drag me along?”

He still got no answer, but Hanne moved to the window and ran her hands along under the sill.

“Forensics have been over the whole place,” she said at last. “But they were after murder clues, and they may have missed what we’re looking for. I think there have to be
papers hidden somewhere. There must be something in this apartment to give an indication of what the man was up to, apart from his legal practice, that is. His bank accounts, or at any rate the
ones we’re aware of, have been thoroughly scrutinised. Nothing suspicious at all.”

She carried on feeling the walls as she spoke.

“If our rather flimsy theory is correct, he must have been pretty well off. He wouldn’t have risked keeping documents at his office, because other people would be running in and out
all damned day. Unless he had a hiding place elsewhere, there must be something here.”

Håkon followed her example, and ran his fingers over the opposite wall, self-consciously recognising that he hadn’t the slightest idea what a possible secret compartment might feel
like. But they went on in silence until they’d duly felt round the entire room. With no result other than sixteen dirty fingertips.

“What about the obvious places?” Håkon wondered, and went over and opened the cupboards in the tasteless bookcase.

There was nothing at all in the first one. The dust on the shelves bore witness to its having been empty for a long time. The next was stuffed full of porn films, neatly arranged by category.
Hanne took one out and opened it. It contained what it said it did, according to the enticing promises on the label. She put the film back, and took out the next one.

“Bingo!”

A slip of paper had fallen to the floor. She snatched it up, a neatly folded A4 sheet. At the top, written by hand, was the word “South.” Below it followed a list of numbers, in
groups of three with hyphens between them: 2-17-4, 2-19-3, 7-29-32, 9-14-3. And so it went on right down the page.