The Blind Goddess (12 page)

“Make an appointment for me at the hairdresser’s,” she said peremptorily. “As soon as possible, please.”

Han van der Kerch was beginning to lose track of time. The lights were switched off to let the remand prisoners know when it was night, and the unappetising plastic-packed
food was served punctually, dividing their lives into segments that fitted together to make a day. But without a glimpse of sun or rain, wind or cloud, and with far too much time that could only be
used for sleeping, the young Dutchman had sunk into an apathetic state of semiexistence. One night, when five hours’ sleep during the day resulted in unbearable nocturnal wakefulness, having
to listen to painful sobbing from a young lad in the adjoining cell and piercing screams from a Moroccan with withdrawal symptoms further down the corridor, he thought he would soon go mad. He
prayed to a God he hadn’t believed in since he used to go to Sunday school as a child, prayed for daybreak and the bright ceiling light. God had obviously forgotten him, just as Han van der
Kerch had forgotten God, because morning never came. In his desperation he had flung his recently returned wristwatch against the wall and smashed it. Now he couldn’t even follow the passage
of time on its painful and relentless march towards a blank future without content.

The sturdy, myopic woman who brought the trolley of prison food round would occasionally give him a piece of chocolate. It made it feel like Christmas. He broke it up into tiny fragments and let
them melt on his tongue one after another. The chocolate hadn’t prevented him from losing weight; after three weeks’ incarceration he was seven kilos lighter. His clothes no longer
fitted him, but that was of little significance in his present circumstances, where he sat sometimes in his underpants, sometimes stark naked.

He was also afraid. The fear that had taken hold of him like an expanding cactus in his stomach as he stood over Ludvig Sandersen’s disfigured body had spread to his limbs. His hands and
arms were trembling and he was spilling all his drinks. At the beginning he’d managed to read the books he was allowed to borrow, but gradually his powers of concentration waned. The letters
danced and leapt about on the page. He’d been given pills. That’s to say, the warders had been given the pills, and they were handed to him one by one according to the doctor’s
instructions, with a plastic mug of tepid water. Tiny bright blue pills in the evening which helped him along the road to dreamland. Three times a day he had bigger white pills. They gave him a
sort of breathing space as the cactus temporarily retracted its needles. But the certainty that they would return, stronger and sharper, was almost as bad. Han van der Kerch was starting to lose
his grip on his own existence.

He thought it was day. He couldn’t be certain of it, but the light was on, and there were noises going on all around him. A meal had just been served, though he wasn’t sure whether
it was meant to be lunch or dinner. Perhaps it was a late supper. No, it was too early, too much noise.

At first he couldn’t see what it was. When the piece of paper dropped in through the bars it took him a while to work it out. He followed its progress; it was small and almost weightless
and took ages to reach the floor. It fluttered like a butterfly, from side to side, as it bobbed down towards the concrete. He smiled, the motion was pleasing, and he felt it had nothing to do with
him.

There it lay. Han van der Kerch left it where it was and raised his eyes again to follow the shadows of movement from the corridor. He’d just taken one of the white pills, and felt better
than he had an hour ago. He made a laborious effort to stand up. He was dizzy, and had been lying for so long in the same place that his limbs had gone to sleep. They tingled uncomfortably as he
hobbled the few steps to the door. He bent and picked up the piece of paper without looking at it. It took several minutes to get himself into a normal sitting position, without his legs
complaining too much.

It was the size of a postcard, folded twice. He opened it up on his lap.

The message was clearly intended for him. A few words written in capitals with a broad-nibbed pen: “Silence is golden, talk and you’re dead.” It was rather melodramatic, and he
began to laugh. His laughter was shrill and so loud that he startled himself and fell silent. Then a sense of fear came upon him that was utterly overwhelming. If a piece of paper could find its
way through the bars of the door, so could a bullet.

He started laughing again, just as loud and shrill as before. The laughter echoed around the walls, bounced to and fro, and did a little jig around its performer before disappearing out through
the bars and taking with it the last remnants of sanity from the Dutchman’s mind.

FRIDAY 16 OCTOBER

T
wo murdered and two in hospital. And all we have to go on are some initials and the vaguest of suspicions.”

It sounded as if they were wading through piles of crisp new banknotes: the yellowing maple leaves had experienced their first night of frost. Patches of fresh snow lay here and there, the
nearest it had fallen to the city centre so far. They had arrived at the top of the hill in St. Hanshaugen Park, and the city lay spread before them in its frostbitten autumn pallor. It seemed as
caught out by the sudden cold as the motorists on Geitemyrsveien, sliding into one another on their fully inflated summer tyres. The sky looked low. Only the church spires, the high one at
Uranienborg and two shorter ones not so far away, were preventing it from total collapse.

Hanne Wilhelmsen had been discharged from hospital, but was hardly in a condition for lengthy walks in the woods. Nor should she really have been inflicting problems on her battered brain, but
Håkon Sand couldn’t resist the temptation when she rang and suggested going for a gentle stroll. She was still pale and bore clear signs of her ordeal. The blueness on her jaw had
turned light green, and the enormous bandages had been exchanged for large plasters. Her hair was completely lopsided, which surprised him. He’d thought she would have cut it all the same
length to match the part that had been shaved smooth, a large area above one ear. When they met, with cautious smiles and a somewhat awkward pleasure at seeing one another again, she had
immediately explained that she hadn’t wanted to sacrifice the rest of her long hair. Even though it definitely looked very odd.

“Only one in hospital,” she corrected him. “I’m on my feet again.”

“Yes, from that point of view you’re luckier than our Dutch friend. He’s had a complete breakdown. Retroactive psychosis, the doctor says, whatever that may mean. Stark,
staring mad, I should think. He’s in the psychiatric wing at Ullevål Hospital now. Not that there’s any reason to assume he’ll be any more talkative after that. At the
moment he’s curled up in the foetal position and burbling like a baby. Scared stiff of everything and everyone.”

“Very strange,” said Hanne, sitting down on a bench. She patted the space next to her and he obeyed.

“Strange that it should happen after only three weeks,” she went on. “I mean, we know what it’s like in those cells. Not exactly a holiday camp. But people are always
being held there too long. Have you ever heard of anyone going stir-crazy before?”

“No, but he probably has more reason than most to panic. A foreigner, feeling of isolation and all that.”

“But even so . . .”

Håkon had learnt to listen when Hanne spoke. He hadn’t pondered very much himself about Han van der Kerch’s mental state, just registered the fact resignedly; yet another door
slammed in their face in an investigation that was more or less at a standstill.

“Could something have triggered it off? Could anything have happened to him in his cell?”

Håkon didn’t answer, and Hanne said no more either. Håkon had that peculiar sensation of well-being he always experienced in Hanne’s presence. It was something new in
comparison with other women he’d met, a kind of comradeship and professional rapport together with the absolute certainty that they liked and respected each other. It occurred to him that
they ought to become friends, but he rejected the thought. He realised intuitively that it was she who would have to take the initiative if they were to be more than colleagues. As he sat there
now, on an ice-cold bench in St. Hanshaugen Park on a grey October day, he was more than happy with the feeling of being at one with this woman, who was so close and yet at the same time so remote,
so intelligent, and so vital to the job he was trying to do. He hoped she wasn’t having too bad a time.

“Was anything of interest found in the cell?”

“No, not as far as I know, and what the devil could there be anyway?”

“But did they look for anything?”

He ought to be able to answer. He missed her involvement, and he began to see why. He lacked the experience of direct leadership of an investigation; even though he was formally responsible for
all the cases in his name, it was rare for any of the police lawyers to take a direct part as he was now doing.

“I have to admit that was something I didn’t think of,” he said.

“It’s not too late,” she consoled him. “You can still check it out.”

He accepted her reassurance, and to make up for his dwindling reputation as an investigator he told her about his enquiries on the subject of Jørgen Ulf Lavik.

Lavik had been fairly successful in quite a short time. After a couple of years with Peter Strup he had started up his own firm with two newly established lawyers about the same age as himself.
They covered most aspects of the law, and Lavik himself had a caseload that was about fifty percent criminal with the other half spread over middle-ranging commercial law work. He had acquired a
second wife, and had three children with her in quick succession. The family lived in a modest terraced house in quite a respectable part of the city. Their spending didn’t seem on first
appraisal to be any more than a man such as Lavik would be able to afford: two cars, a one-year-old Volvo, and a seven-year-old Toyota for his wife. No summer cottage, no boat. Wife at home,
necessarily so, of course, with three boys of one, two, and five.

“Sounds like a pretty typical Oslo lawyer,” said Hanne in a resigned tone. “Tell me something I don’t know, pal.”

Håkon thought she seemed exhausted. Her breath in the cold air was getting visibly faster, even though they’d been sitting still for a while. He stood up, brushed his hands over the
back of his trousers as if to wipe off imaginary snow, and stretched out his hand to help her up. It was unnecessary, but she accepted it.

“Look into the commercial side of his activities,” she instructed her superior. “And get a list drawn up of all his criminal clients over the last few years. I bet we’ll
find something or other.

“And also,” she added, “put the cases together now. They’re mine, both of them, I had the first one.”

She looked almost joyful at the thought.

MONDAY 19 OCTOBER

I
t was only eight days since Hanne Wilhelmsen’s brutal encounter with her attacker. She should have been on sick leave for at least another
week. Considering the way she felt, she had to admit it would have been more sensible. She still had a slight headache, and was subject to episodes of giddiness and nausea if she overexerted
herself. But she swore to everyone, including Cecilie, that she was in perfect condition. Just a bit tired. She consented to take half time off sick for a week.

She was greeted by applause when she went into the combined lunch and meeting room, and felt extremely self-conscious. But she smiled and shook all the extended hands. There were a few comments
about her hairstyle; she parried the friendly teasing with self-irony, and everyone laughed. She was still wearing sticking plasters, and the lower part of her face was displaying various shades of
yellow and green. That protected her from hugs, until the superintendent entered the room, threw his arms round her shoulders, and gave her an exuberant embrace.

“What a girl!” he bellowed into her ear. “My God, Hanne, you gave us all a fright!”

Hanne had to reiterate her insistence that she was fine, and promised to deliver the report he was expecting. They agreed on a time and place, and Chief Inspector Kaldbakken concurred.

Suddenly Billy T. was standing in the doorway. At six foot eight plus boots, his shaved head touched the lintel. Despite his broad grin, he was an intimidating sight.

“KO’d in the first round, Hanne? Thought you’d have been able to look after yourself better than that,” he said, in a tone of mock disappointment. He had trained Hanne in
self-defence himself.

“Are you going to sit there all day letting them sing your praises, or have you got a few minutes for some real work?”

She had indeed. Her desk was dominated by a huge bouquet of flowers. It was beautiful, but the vase rather spoilt the effect. It wasn’t big enough either, and when she lifted it carefully
to carry it to the windowsill the whole lot toppled over. The vase slipped out of her grasp and crashed to the floor. Flowers and water went everywhere. Billy T. roared with laughter.

“You see what happens when we show a bit of appreciation here in the office,” he said.

He pushed Hanne aside, scooped up the flowers in one gigantic hand, and tried to sweep the water to the wall with his boots. Ineffectually. He sat down, tossing the flowers into a corner.

“I think I’ve got something for you,” he declared, pulling out two pieces of paper from his back pocket. They were curved to the shape of his buttocks, like a man’s
wallet. They’d obviously been there some time.

“Seized last week,” he said, as Detective Inspector Wilhelmsen unfolded them. “When we raided an apartment. Second time lucky. Twenty grams of heroin, four grams of cocaine.
But it really was a stroke of luck, we’d only nabbed him for minor offences before. Now he’s down below gnashing his teeth.” He waved his arm with a flourish towards the window,
indicating the rear of the building.

“And he’ll be staying there till the main hearing, you can be sure of that—which may take a while,” he added in a tone of great satisfaction.