The Blind Goddess (21 page)

“You can talk forever for the price of one unit at night. You can afford it.”

She was more tranquil now.

“I’m planning to go away,” she said. “To the cottage by myself. I’ll take the dog and a few books. It feels as if I can’t think here in the city. At least not
here in the flat, and at the office all I’ve got time for is the battle to get through my work. Can hardly even manage that.”

She started snuffling again.

“When are you going?”

“I don’t know. I promise I’ll phone before I go. It might be a week or two yet. But you must promise not to ring me. You’ve been so patient.”

“I promise. Word of honour. But—could you say it just once more?”

After a short pause, she did.

“I may be a little bit in love with you, Håkon. Maybe. Good night.”

TUESDAY 10 NOVEMBER

T
alk about a waste of effort.”

Hanne Wilhelmsen had sensibly put two thick elastic bands round the documents on the case. They looked like a rather attractive Christmas present. A package that would stand up to anything, even
being thrown. She put it to the test.
Thud.

“Now we’ve been through both Olsen and Lavik. Zilch.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all?”

Håkon Sand was quite astonished. It was more extraordinary that there was nothing of interest than if they’d found the odd little nugget. Few people would withstand the critical
scrutiny of the police without something crawling out of the woodwork.

“But there is one thing that puzzles me,” said Hanne. “We haven’t got access to Lavik’s bank account, since we haven’t charged him. But look at his tax
returns for the last few years.”

She put a sheet of meaningless figures in front of Håkon. They told him nothing—except that the guy had an annual income that would turn every employee of the prosecution service
green with envy.

“It seems as if the money just disappears,” said Hanne in explanation.

“Disappears?”

“Yes, there’s simply no correlation between the amount he declares and his wealth. Either his normal living expenditure is prodigious, or he’s salted the money away
somewhere.”

“But why should he salt away money honestly acquired?”

“There’s only one good reason for it: avoidance of wealth tax. But with the level of wealth tax we have in this country it seems both silly and unlikely. It doesn’t make sense
to me that he would risk tax irregularities for the sake of a few miserable kroner. His accounts are in order and approved by an auditor every single year. But there’s something here I
don’t understand.”

They sat and looked at one another. Håkon put a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth.

“Have you started that filthy habit?” said Hanne in disgust.

“Just to stop myself succumbing to cigarettes again. Purely a temporary measure,” he said in excuse, spitting out the old tobacco into the room.

“It’ll spoil your teeth. Anyway, it smells foul.”

“There’s no one to smell me,” he retorted. “Let’s bounce a few ideas around. What would make you hide money away?”

“I would do it with money earned from the black economy or illegally. Switzerland, probably. As in crime stories. We’re powerless with Swiss banks. The accounts don’t even have
to be registered in a name, a number will do.”

“Have we noted any trips to Switzerland?”

“No, but he doesn’t need to go there. Swiss banks have branches in masses of the countries he’s visited. And I can’t get away from the idea that there may be something in
his connections with the Far East. Drugs. That would fit in with our theory. It’s a pity he’s got a valid reason for his trips there—his hotels.”

There was knock at the door, and a fair-haired constable opened it without waiting for a response. This annoyed Håkon, but he didn’t comment.

“Here are the papers you asked for,” he said to the inspector, and handed her five sheets of computer printout, leaving again without closing the door. Håkon got up and did it
for him.

“No manners, the youth of today.”

“Håkon, listen: if I had large sums of unlawfully gained money and were using a Swiss bank account, and if I were miserly, wouldn’t I take my own legitimate surplus and send it
the same way?”

“Miserly? Yes, you could call him that!”

“See what a spartan life he leads! People like that take delight in having a complete record of their money. I bet he’s put it all in the same account!”

It wasn’t a very convincing theory. But for the want of anything better it would do. A lust for money makes even the cleverest people commit blunders. Though blunder was hardly the
word—it would be difficult to show anything illegal in having less money than appeared in the accounts.

“From now on we’ll assume that Lavik has money stashed away in Switzerland. We’ll see where that gets us. Not much further, I’m afraid. What about Peter Strup? Have you
made any progress on him since the mysterious meeting in Sofienberg Park?”

She handed him a slim envelope of her own. Håkon noticed that there was no case number written on it.

“My private file,” she explained. “That’s a copy for you. Take it home with you, and keep it in a safe place.”

He glanced through the papers. Strup’s CV was impressive. Active in the Resistance during the War, despite being only just eighteen when peace came. Member of the Labour Party even then,
but didn’t rise to any prominent role during the years that followed. However, he’d kept in contact with the lads from the wartime forests and now had a circle of acquaintances in
influential positions. Close friend of several former party leaders, on good terms with the king, with whom he had sailed in his time (God knows how he’d fitted it all in), and met up with
the parliamentary under secretary in the Ministry of Justice once a week, having worked with him at an earlier stage of his life. Freemason of the tenth degree, thus with access to most of the
corridors of power. Had married a former client, a woman who had killed her husband after two years of hell, and who had then served an eighteen-month sentence before coming out to wedding bells
and life on the sunny side of the street. The marriage was apparently a happy one, and no one had ever been able to pin an extramarital affair on him. His earnings were large, despite the fact that
his fees were paid largely from the public purse. He paid his taxes willingly, according to his own repeated assurances in the newspapers, and they were no small sums.

“Not exactly the picture of a major criminal,” said Håkon, closing the file.

“No, but it hardly looks law-abiding to rendezvous with people in murky parks late at night.”

“Nighttime appointments with clients seem to be quite a feature of this case,” he commented ironically, nudging the tobacco into place with his tongue.

“We must be careful. Peter Strup has friends in the Special Branch.”

“Careful? We’re being so careful it feels like total inertia.”

With that he gave up the struggle with the recalcitrant tobacco and spat it into the bin. He was out of practice.

It was fantastically beautiful, and Hanne Wilhelmsen’s only luxury item. Like most luxury items, there was no scope for it in a police inspector’s salary. But with
a contribution from a legacy she could experience the freedom of a 1972 Harley-Davidson for six months of the year. It was pink. Pink all over. Cadillac-pink, with shiny polished chrome. At the
moment it was standing partly dismantled in the cellar, in a workshop with yellow walls and an ancient stove in one corner where she’d knocked through into the chimney breast without asking
the housing association. Ikea shelf units along the walls, full of tools, and a portable television on the top shelf.

The whole engine was lying in pieces in front of her, and she was cleaning it with cotton buds. Nothing was too good for a Harley. March seemed such a long way off, she thought, already feeling
a frisson of pleasure at the prospect of her first ride of the spring. It would be wonderful warm weather with dirty puddles on the road. Cecilie would be riding pillion, and the steady throb of
the engine would fill their ears. If only it weren’t for the damned helmet. She had ridden coast to coast in the USA many years ago, wearing a headband with the inscription “Fuck helmet
laws.” Here at home she was a policewoman, and had no choice. It wasn’t the same. Part of the freedom was missing, part of the delight in danger, contact with the wind and all the
scents it bore.

She dragged herself out of her reverie and switched on the TV to see the evening newsmagazine programme. It had already begun, and had reached something of a high point. Three journalists had
jointly published a book about the Labour Party’s relationship with the Security Services, and of course had made various allegations that were totally unpalatable to certain people. Only one
of the authors was present, and he was given a hard time. Accusations of speculation and undocumented claims, of amateur journalism and worse, poured over the airwaves. The journalist, a handsome
white-haired man in his forties, answered in such a measured voice that after only a few minutes Hanne was convinced by him. Having watched it for a quarter of an hour, she turned back to her work
on the engine. The valves were always filthy after a long season.

Suddenly the programme caught her attention again. The presenter, who seemed to be biased in favour of the author, was directing a question at one of his critics. He wanted an assurance that
nothing was undertaken by or purchased for the Intelligence Services without the money coming out of the official budget. The man, a grey character in a charcoal-grey suit, spread his arms
expressively as he affirmed it.

“Where on earth would we get any other money from?” he asked rhetorically.

That terminated the discussion, and Hanne carried on working until Cecilie appeared in the doorway.

“Come on, I’m dying to go to bed,” she said with a smile.

WEDNESDAY 11 NOVEMBER

H
e was thoroughly peeved and fed up. His case, the Big Case, had run into the ground of late. He hadn’t been able to wheedle anything out of
the police. The probable reason was that the police were stuck. So was he. His editor was displeased, and had ordered him back to normal duties. It bored him to have to go to the magistrate’s
court and prise trivial details out of a taciturn police constable about stories that would hardly make a single column.

With his feet up on the desk he looked as sulky as an obstinate three-year-old. The coffee was bitter and only lukewarm. Even his cigarette tasted disgusting. And his notebook was empty.

He stood up so suddenly that he knocked the coffee cup over. Its dark contents quickly spread over newspapers, notes, and a paperback that was lying facedown to keep his place. Fredrick Myhreng
stared at the mess for a few seconds before deciding to do absolutely nothing about it. He grabbed his coat and hurried off through the editorial offices before anyone had a chance to stop him.

The little shop was run by an old friend from his primary school. Myhreng called in now and then, to have an extra set of keys cut for his latest woman—they never returned them—or to
have new heels put on his boots. What shoe repairs had to do with key-cutting was incomprehensible to him, but his school friend wasn’t the only one in the city running the same combination
of business.

It was always “Hi” and “Great to see you” and “Take five.” Fredrick Myhreng had an uneasy feeling that the shopkeeper felt proud of knowing a journalist on a
national paper, but went along with the ritual. The tiny premises were empty, and the owner was busy with a black and very worn winter boot.

“Another new woman, Fredrick! There’ll soon be a hundred sets of keys for that apartment of yours floating around town!”

He was grinning broadly.

“No, same woman as last time. I’ve come to ask for your help with something special.”

He produced a little metal box from his capacious pocket. Opening it, he carefully drew out the two Plasticine moulds. As far as he could see, the casts were undamaged. He held them out to his
friend.

“So, you’ve started indulging in illegal activities?”

There was a hint of seriousness in his voice, and he went on:

“Is it a registered key? I don’t make copies of numbered keys. Not even for you, old chum.”

“No, it’s not numbered. You can see that from the cast.”

“The cast is no guarantee. For all I know, you might have smoothed off the impression of the number. But I’ll take your word for it.”

“Does that mean you can make a copy?”

“Yes, but it’ll take time. I haven’t got the equipment here. I use manufactured blanks, the same as most of the others do. Cut and grind them with this fancy little piece of
computer-controlled machinery here.”

He gave an affectionate pat to a monster of a machine covered in buttons and switches.

“Come by in about a week’s time. Should be ready then.”

Fredrick Myhreng thanked him for being his saviour and was on his way out of the door when he turned and asked:

“Can you tell what sort of key it is?”

The key-cutter pondered for a moment.

“It’s small. Hardly for a big door. A cupboard, perhaps? Or maybe a locker. I’ll think about it!”

Myhreng sauntered back to the newspaper office, feeling rather more cheerful.

Perhaps the guy in the twilight zone would welcome some fresh air. Hanne Wilhelmsen was inclined to have another try, anyway. Reports from the prison seemed to indicate that
the Dutchman had improved a bit. Though that wasn’t saying very much.

“Take the handcuffs off him,” she ordered, wondering silently whether young policemen were actually capable of thinking for themselves. The apathetic, skeletally thin figure before
her wouldn’t be able to do much against two strong constables. It was doubtful whether he could actually run at all. His shirt hung loose on him, his protruding neck reminiscent of a Bosnian
in Serb custody. His trousers must have fitted him once; now they were held up by a belt drawn tight into an extra hole that had been pierced in it, several centimetres beyond the other ones. The
hole was off-centre, so the end of the belt projected upwards and then dangled down again under its own weight, like a failed erection. He wasn’t wearing any socks. He was pale, unkempt, and
looked about ten years older than when she’d last seen him. She offered him a cigarette and a throat pastille. She had heard of his habit from Karen, and he gave her a weak smile.