The Blind Goddess (32 page)

“Give him a Hanne Wilhelmsen special. In the morning. Let’s get you back home now so you can carry on enjoying yourself.”

Which was exactly what she did.

SUNDAY 29 NOVEMBER

Y
ou’re shaking like a piece of wet cod—a jelly, a leaf, whatever—you’re shaking so damned much that unless you can cough
up a doctor’s certificate to say you’ve got an advanced stage of Parkinson’s, I’ll have to assume you’re pissing yourself in fear.”

She shouldn’t have said that. A pool had appeared soundlessly beneath his chair, slowly increasing in size till it reached all four legs. She sighed aloud, opened the window, and decided
to let him sit in wet trousers for a while. He was crying now too. A pitiful wretched weeping that didn’t elicit any kind of sympathy, but actually irritated her enormously.

“Cut out the snivelling. I’m not going to kill you.”

The assurance didn’t help; he went on whimpering, tearlessly and infuriatingly, like a fretful, defiant toddler.

“I’ve got extensive powers,” she lied, “very extensive powers. You’re in deep trouble. Things will be a lot easier for you if we get some cooperation. A bit of give
and take. Some information. Just tell me what your connection is with Jørgen Lavik, the lawyer.”

It was the twelfth time she’d asked. She got no response this time either. Beginning to feel a sense of defeat, she handed over to Kaldbakken, who up till then had been sitting silently in
a corner. Perhaps he’d get something out of the guy. Though she didn’t really think so.

Håkon was depressed when she reported to him, as might be expected. It seemed as if the man from Røa would prefer the tortures of hell to reprisals from Lavik and his organisation.
If so, the police hadn’t made the breakthrough that Hanne and Billy T. had so exultantly assumed the previous night. But the battle wasn’t yet lost.

Five hours later it was. Kaldbakken put his foot down. He left the whining suspect to his own devices and took Hanne out into the corridor.

“We can’t go on with this any longer,” he said in a whisper, one hand on the doorknob as if to make sure no one would steal it. “He’s dog-tired. We ought to let him
rest. And we ought to get a doctor to take a look at him: that trembling can’t be normal. We’ll try again in the morning.”

“Tomorrow may be too late!”

Hanne was getting absolutely desperate. But it was no good: Kaldbakken had made up his mind and was not to be persuaded otherwise.

It was Hanne who had to convey the bad news to Håkon. He received it without a word. Hanne sat there momentarily undecided, but then thought it best to leave him alone.

“By the way, I’ve put Karen Borg’s statement in your case file,” she said before she went. “I didn’t have time to make copies Friday evening. Can you do it
before you go? I’m off. It’s Advent Sunday.”

This last was meant as an excuse, rather unnecessarily. He waved her out of the room. When the door closed behind her, he laid his head in his arms on the desk.

He was worn out. He was ready to go home.

The annoying thing was that he forgot to take a copy of the statement. He thought of it when he was halfway home in the car. Ah well, it could wait till the morning.

Although he was nearing pension age, he moved with the litheness of an athlete. It was four o’clock in the early hours of Monday morning, the time when ninety-five
percent of the population are asleep. A huge, newly lit Christmas tree was blinking its illuminations to keep itself awake down in the entrance hall. There was also a pale blue light shining
through the glass walls of the night duty room. Otherwise everywhere was in darkness. His rubber soles made no sound as he moved swiftly along the corridor. He clutched his impressive bunch of keys
very tightly to prevent them jingling. When he reached the office with Håkon Sand’s nameplate on, he found the correct key almost immediately. Closing the door behind him, he drew out a
heavy rubber torch. It had an extremely powerful beam, which momentarily dazzled him.

It was almost too easy. The file was right in front of him on the desk, and the statement he was seeking was on the very top. He hastily flicked through the rest of the file, but there appeared
to be no further copies of it. Not in this file, at least. He ran the beam of the torch up and down the sheet. This was the original! He folded it hurriedly and stuffed it into the deep inner
pocket of his capacious tweed jacket. He glanced round to make sure that everything looked as it had when he’d come in, went to the door, switched off his torch, and slipped out into the
corridor, locking up behind him. Further along the corridor he opened another door, again with a key. On this desk too the case file was out, open in two untidy piles, as if it had outgrown its
strength and fallen into an exhausted slumber. It took longer to check through this one. The statement wasn’t where it should have been according to the arrangement of the file. He carried on
searching, but when he couldn’t find the eight-page document anywhere, he began a systematic inspection of the rest of the room.

He gave up after a quarter of an hour. There wasn’t a copy. This was a cheering assumption, and not without logic. According to reports, Hanne Wilhelmsen hadn’t got back to the
office until about half past seven on Friday. She might not have felt much like waiting the twenty minutes or so it took for a copier to warm up.

His theory was reinforced when he’d searched the third and final office, Kaldbakken’s little den. If neither Wilhelmsen nor the chief inspector had copies, there was every likelihood
that the document only existed in the original. Which was now in his possession.

A few minutes later it existed no more. First it had passed through a shredder until it resembled a desiccated and malformed tangle of spaghetti, and then it lay in a dish for just as long as
was needed for the flames to destroy it completely. Finally the remains were collected up in a sheet of toilet paper and flushed down the lavatory, which was at the far end of the corridor on the
most invisible floor of the police headquarters building. Using an old lavatory brush, the man from the Special Branch removed the final particles of ash from the WC, and with that Hanne
Wilhelmsen’s rainy trip to the county of Vestfold was totally wasted.

Back in his office the man picked up a mobile phone and rang the number of one of the men he’d met in Platou Gata a few days previously.

“I’ve done as much as I’m prepared to do,” he said in a low voice, as if out of respect for the somnolent building. “Karen Borg’s statement has been removed
from the file. It’s bloody awful doing things like this to colleagues. You’ll have to look after yourselves from now on.”

He terminated the call without waiting for a reply. Instead he went to the window and stood staring out over Oslo. The city lay heavy and tired beneath him, like a drowsy whale glistening with
the phosphorescence of the sea. He felt old and tired himself. Older than for many years. After a while his eyes began to feel gritty, and he had to screw them up to steady the dancing specks of
light far, far below. He sighed and lay down on a small and very uncomfortable sofa to await the start of the working day. Before he fell asleep the full import struck him again of what he had done
to his colleagues.

MONDAY 30 NOVEMBER

I
t’s not surprising this gang has managed to keep it all going so long. They have a hold over their people that I’ve never seen the
like of. Not in the drugs world. Very strange. Is he still not coming clean?”

Kaldbakken was genuinely amazed. He’d done six years in the drugs squad and knew what he was talking about.

“Well, we can’t exactly throw the book at him,” said Hanne Wilhelmsen miserably. “Threats against public servants, even the police, don’t qualify for more than a
brief vacation in a pleasant little cell. From that point of view he has a lot to gain by keeping his mouth shut. He may appear to be scared out of his wits, but he’s still got enough left to
keep a cool head. He’s even clever enough to admit he was the one who aimed a gun at Billy T. We’ll have to let him go today; we’ve got no reason to detain him. No risk of losing
evidence if he’s admitted it.”

Of course they could keep him under observation for a few days. But for how long? Twenty-four-hour surveillance of Roger from Sagene was already taking up a large part of their capacity. If
Lavik were released today, they’d really have a problem with resources. It could be solved in the short term, but these guys were hardly going to do anything stupid in the next few days or
weeks. It would probably be months before they resumed any interesting activities. The police would miss it, not willingly, but because budgets wouldn’t allow such extravagance. Not even for
a case with these ramifications. It was a raw deal. As usual.

Håkon hadn’t said anything. Apathy had set in. He was anxious, fed up, and deeply disappointed. His grey temples had gone greyer, his acid stomach more acidic, his clammy hands
clammier. Now all he had was Karen’s statement. It was doubtful whether it would be enough. He got up dispiritedly and left the meeting without a word. An oppressive silence followed his
departure.

The statement wasn’t where he’d put it. He tried a couple of drawers absentmindedly. Could he have tucked it away somewhere? No, all he found were a few insignificant items
he’d hidden out of sight of his guilty conscience. Now was not the time to confront previous procrastination.

The statement wasn’t in his office at all. Odd—he was convinced he’d placed it right there, on top of the big pile. With a deeply furrowed brow he cast his mind back to the
previous day. He’d been going to make copies; then he’d forgotten to. Or had he gone to the copying room? He went to check now.

The machine was running at full tilt, and a stocky woman in her sixties confirmed that there’d been nothing there when she arrived. To make absolutely certain they looked behind the
machine and underneath it, but there was no sign of the statement anywhere.

Hanne hadn’t taken it. Kaldbakken had already asked for a copy, and shrugged his shoulders dolefully, swearing he’d never seen it.

Håkon was getting seriously worried now. The document was the only hope they had of obtaining an extension of custody. Before going home the night before he’d scanned it as well as
his red-rimmed eyes would allow. It was exactly what he’d wanted. Thorough and incisive. Convincing and well expressed. But what the hell had happened to it?

The time had come to raise the alarm. It was half past nine, and the application for an extension had to be ready to take to the Court by noon. The hearing should actually have been held at half
past eight in the morning, but on Friday Christian Bloch-Hansen had asked for a few hours’ postponement, which had suited the police admirably. He had a trial to attend in the morning, and
would if necessary send an assistant to the important custody hearing. There were two and a half hours to go, which actually gave Håkon just about long enough to get the custody application
dictated and typed, with no time to embark on a general search. But no statement, no custody order.

They abandoned the effort at about half past ten. The statement had totally disappeared. Hanne was upset, and took all the blame on herself; she should have done the copies straightaway. Her
unreserved declaration of responsibility didn’t really help Håkon at all. Everyone knew that he was the last to have had the papers.

Karen could come and repeat the statement. He could get a postponement of an hour, which would just about enable her to make it back from the cottage. She would
have
to make it.

But she didn’t answer the phone. Håkon rang five times. In vain. Hell. Panic was setting in, clawing its way up his spine. It was an extremely unpleasant sensation. He shook his head
violently as if that would somehow help.

“Ring Sandefjord or Larvik. Get them to fetch her. Immediately.”

The commanding tone couldn’t conceal his anxiety, though it hardly mattered—Hanne was equally fearful. Having spoken to the police at Larvik, under the mistaken impression that they
were the nearest, she hurried back to Håkon’s office. He was morose and unapproachable, and busy trying to construct something which might give an appearance of solidity. It
wasn’t easy with the third-rate and imperfect material they had.

That bloody boot man. Håkon was tempted to run down to the cells and offer him a hundred thousand to blab. If that didn’t work, he could beat him up. Or maybe kill him. In pure and
simple rage. On the other hand, both Frøstrup and Van der Kerch had bought their own tickets to the other side, so who knew, perhaps the police would soon have another suicide on their
hands. God forbid. Anyway, they’d have to let him go in the course of the day. They’d wait as long as they could.

An hour later there was nothing more to be done. The secretary took twelve minutes to type what he’d dictated. He read it through with a despondency that increased with every line. She
gave him a sympathetic look, but said nothing. Which was probably best.

“Karen isn’t in the cottage.”

Hanne stood at the door.

“Her car is there, and there’s a light in the kitchen, but no sign of the dog, nor anybody. She must be out for a walk.”

Out for a walk. His beloved Karen, the only straw he had left to clutch at. The woman who could rescue him from total humiliation, save the police from scandalous headlines, save the country
from a drugs baron and murderer. She was out for a walk. Right now she was probably strolling along the shore at Ula, throwing sticks for the dog and breathing in the fresh sea air many miles and a
hundred light-years away from a stuffy claustrophobic office at police headquarters with walls that had started to sway, constricting themselves and threatening to suffocate him. He could see her
in his mind’s eye, in her old yellow raincoat, with wet hair and no makeup, the way she always looked on rainy days at the cottage. Out walking. Out for a bloody walk in the pissing rain.

“They can take a walk too, the local police! The bloody area isn’t that big!”