The Blind Goddess (27 page)

He’d been so sure yesterday. They’d discussed and debated, analysed and argued. Kaldbakken had wanted to go ahead with everything they’d got, invoking Håkon’s own
absolute certainty of the same course only a few days earlier. But the chief inspector had eventually given way; Håkon had been both confident and persuasive. He no longer was. He racked his
brain for the incisive punch line he’d practised the previous night, but it had gone. Instead he stood and swallowed a couple of times before stuttering that the police reaffirmed their
application. Then he forgot to sit down and there were an awkward few seconds until the magistrate cleared his throat and told him he didn’t need to continue standing. Hanne gave him a faint
smile of encouragement and poked him in the ribs, more gently this time.

“Sir,” began the counsel for the defence even while he was rising from his seat, “we are indubitably embarking on a very delicate case, one which concerns a lawyer who has
committed the gravest of crimes.”

His two adversaries couldn’t believe their ears. What on earth was this? Was Bloch-Hansen stabbing his client in the back? They looked at Lavik for a reaction, but his weary, pallid face
betrayed no emotion.

“It’s a good maxim not to use stronger words than one can substantiate,” he continued, putting on his jacket again as if to assume a formality that until then had not been
required in the big hot room. Håkon regretted not having done the same; it would just look foolish now.

“But it is quite deplorable . . .”

He paused for effect to emphasise his words.

“It is quite deplorable under any circumstances that Karen Borg, a lawyer whom I know to have sound judgement and a reputation as a very capable barrister, does not seem to have realised
she is guilty of contravening Article 144 of the Penal Code.”

Another pause. The magistrate was looking up the relevant section, but Håkon was transfixed until he’d heard how Bloch-Hansen would continue.

“Karen Borg is legally bound by the Client Confidentiality Act,” he went on. “She has infringed it. I can see from the documentation that she has based her position in this
serious breach of the law on her deceased client’s quasi-consent. This cannot suffice. I have to stress first and foremost her client’s demonstrably psychotic state, which rendered him
incapable of determining his own best interests. Secondly I would draw the Court’s attention to the so-called suicide note itself, Document 17-1.”

He paused, and turned up the copy of the hapless letter.

“From this wording it is somewhat—no, extremely—unclear whether the formulation as a whole could be seen to exempt her from her duty of confidentiality. As I read it, it is
more in the nature of a farewell note, a rather emotional declaration of affection to a lawyer who has obviously been extremely kind and sympathetic.”

“But he’s dead!”

Håkon was unable to hold his tongue, half rising and gesticulating with his arms. He dropped back into his seat again before the magistrate had time to call him to order. The defence
counsel smiled.

“I refer you to Law Reports 1983, page 430,” he said, going round the bar and putting a copy of the judgement on the magistrate’s desk.

“One for you, too,” he said, proffering a copy to Håkon, who had to stand up and go over to take it himself.

“The majority view was that the duty of confidentiality does not cease when the client dies,” he explained. “The minority view concurred, come to that. There can be no doubt on
the subject. And so we come back to this letter.”

He held it up at arm’s length and read it out:

“You’ve been very kind to me. You can forget what I said about keeping your mouth shut. Write to my mother. Thanks for everything.”

He put the letter back with the other papers. Hanne didn’t know what to think. Håkon had gooseflesh and could feel his scrotum contracting into a delicate little bulge of masculinity
as it did when bathing in ice-cold water.

“This,” Bloch-Hansen continued, “this is far from granting exemption from the duty of confidentiality. Karen Borg as a lawyer should never have made a statement on the matter.
But since she has erred, it is essential that the Court does not do likewise. I would draw your attention in this respect to Article 119 of the Penal Code and point out that it would conflict with
that provision if the Court were to allow Borg’s statement.”

Håkon turned the pages of the offprint he had in front of him; his hands were trembling so much that he had difficulty coordinating his movements. He found the relevant paragraph at last.
Hell’s bells! A court could not accept a statement from lawyers of information received in the course of their professional duties.

Now he was seriously worried. He didn’t give a damn about Lavik, drug-runner and possible murderer Jørgen Ulf Lavik. All he could think of was Karen Borg. Perhaps she was in deep
trouble. And it was entirely his fault: it was he who had insisted on getting her statement. Admittedly she had offered no protest, but she would never have provided it if he hadn’t asked her
for it. Everything was his fault.

On the opposite side of the room the counsel for the defence had packed up his papers. He’d gone to the end of the bar nearest the magistrate and was leaning with one hand on the top of
the bench.

“And that, sir, leaves the prosecution with nothing at all. No particular significance can be attached to the telephone numbers in Roger Strømsjord’s notebook. The fact that
the man has a penchant for playing with numbers is not proof of wrongdoing. It is not even an indication of anything unusual—other than that he might be an eccentric. And what of the
fingerprints on the banknote? We know very little about that. But, sir, there is nothing to show that Mr. Lavik isn’t speaking the truth! He could have lent a thousand to a client he felt
sorry for. Not particularly sensible, of course, since Frøstrup’s credit rating was not exactly flawless, but the loan was without doubt a generous act. No special significance can be
attached to that either.”

A wave of his arm denoted that he was about to make his concluding remarks.

“I shall not comment further upon the grave impropriety of incarcerating my client. It would be superfluous. None of this even approaches reasonable grounds for suspicion. My client must
be released forthwith. Thank you.”

It had taken exactly eight minutes. Håkon had taken one hour and ten minutes. The two police constables who were in charge of Lavik had been yawning throughout the hearing. During
Bloch-Hansen’s defence they perked up considerably.

The magistrate was far from perky. He made no effort to conceal the fact that he was worn out, tilting his head from side to side and massaging his face. Håkon wasn’t even offered
his right of reply. He didn’t care. He felt a sinister void in his stomach and was in no condition to say any more. The magistrate looked at the clock. It was already half past six. The news
would be on in half an hour.

“We’ll continue with Roger Strømsjord right away. It probably won’t take so long now that the Court is familiar with the facts of the case,” he said
optimistically.

It took less than an hour. Hanne couldn’t help feeling that poor Roger was only being seen as an appendage of Lavik. If the decision went against Lavik, it would go against Roger. If Lavik
went free, Roger would do likewise.

“You’ll have a judgement today, I hope, but it may not be until midnight,” the magistrate declared as the hearing at last came to an end. “Will you wait, or may I have a
fax number for each of you?”

He certainly could.

Roger was escorted back to the basement, after a whispered conversation with his defence counsel. The magistrate had already gone into the adjacent office, and the typist had followed him.
Bloch-Hansen put his shabby but venerable document case under his arm and went over to Håkon Sand. He seemed more friendly than he had reason to be.

“You can’t have had much when you arrested them on Friday,” he said in an undertone. “I wonder what you would have done if you hadn’t found the notebook and been
lucky with the fingerprints. Or to put it more bluntly, you must have been miles away from reasonable grounds for suspicion when you took them both in.”

Håkon felt faint. Perhaps it was obvious to the other two, because the lawyer was quick to reassure him.

“I’m not going to make any fuss about it. But if I can offer you a word of friendly advice: don’t get involved in things you can’t handle. That holds good for all aspects
of life.”

He nodded curtly but politely and went out to meet those journalists who had not yet lost patience. There were quite a few. The two police officers were left alone.

“Let’s go and get something to eat,” Hanne suggested. “Then I’ll wait with you. I’m sure it’ll be all right.”

That was a barefaced lie.

Again he noticed the subtle fragrance of her perfume. She’d given him a hug of consolation and encouragement as soon as they were by themselves. It hadn’t helped.
When they emerged from the grand old courthouse, she remarked on how sensible it had been to wait for half an hour. The inquisitive crowds had long gone off home to the warmth. The television
people had had to bow to their fixed schedules and hurry back with what little they’d got. The newspaper reporters had also vanished, after having obtained a short statement from the defence
counsel. It was already quarter past eight.

“Actually, I haven’t eaten all day,” Håkon realised in some astonishment, feeling his appetite sneaking back after having cowered in a corner of his stomach for over
twenty-four hours.

“Nor have I,” Hanne replied, even though it wasn’t entirely true. “We’ve got plenty of time. The magistrate will need at least three hours. Let’s find
somewhere quiet.”

They walked arm-in-arm down a little hill, trying to evade the heavy splashes from the roof of an old building, and managed to get a secluded table in an Italian restaurant just round the
corner. A handsome young man with jet-black hair escorted them to their places, plonked a menu down in front of them, and asked mechanically whether they wanted anything to drink. After a
moment’s hesitation, they both ordered a beer. It was delivered in record time. Håkon drank half the glass in one gulp. It revived him, and the alcohol made an immediate impact—or
perhaps it was just the shock to his atrophied stomach.

“It’s all disintegrating,” he said, almost cheerfully, wiping the froth from his upper lip. “It’ll never get through. They’ll walk straight out and back to
their old games again. Mark my words. And it’s my fault.”

“We’ll worry about it if it happens,” said Hanne, though she was unable to disguise the fact that she shared his pessimism. She glanced at the clock. “We still have an
hour or two before we may have to admit defeat.”

They sat there for quite a while without saying anything and with a faraway, unfocused expression in their eyes.

Their glasses were empty by the time the food came. Spaghetti. It looked appetising, and was piping hot.

“It’s not your fault if it hasn’t worked out,” she said as she struggled with the long white strands covered in tomato sauce. She’d tucked her napkin into her
collar with an apologetic gesture to protect her sweater from the inevitable accidents.

“You know it isn’t,” she added emphatically, scanning his face. “If it goes wrong, we’ve all failed. We were all agreed on trying for custody, no one can blame
you.”

“Blame me?”

He banged his spoon on the table so that the sauce spattered everywhere.

“Blame me? Of course they’ll blame me! It’s not you or Kaldbakken or the commissioner or anyone else who was wittering on for hours in there! It was me! I was the one who
messed it up. They have every right to blame me.”

He suddenly felt full and pushed the half-eaten food away, almost in distaste, as if the mussels might be concealing an unpalatable release order.

“I don’t think I’ve ever performed so badly in court, believe me, Hanne.”

He took a deep breath and beckoned to the sleek young man for a bottle of mineral water.

“I’d probably have done a better job if I’d had a different defence counsel. Bloch-Hansen makes me nervous. His ultra-correct, factual style throws me off balance. Maybe
I’d prepared myself for a bloody and open battle. When my adversary challenges me to an elegant fencing duel instead, I just stand there like a sack of potatoes.”

He rubbed his face vigorously, grinned, and shook his head.

“Promise me you won’t say nasty things about my performance,” he begged.

“I can assure you of that on my word of honour,” Hanne promised, raising her right hand to confirm it. “But you really weren’t
that
bad.

“By the way,” she went on, changing the subject, “why did you tell that
Dagbladet
reporter about a possible third person still at liberty? It sounded as if we had
someone specific in mind. At least, I assume he got it from you?”

“Do you remember what you said when I was so shocked at the way you treated Lavik in the last interview before we arrested him?”

She frowned in concentration.

“Not really.”

“You said that frightened people make mistakes. That was why you wanted to frighten Lavik. Now it’s my turn to play the bogeyman. It may be a shot in the dark, but on the other hand
it may hit someone out there who’s scared. Very, very scared.”

The bill arrived within seconds of Håkon’s discreet signal. They both reached for it, but Håkon was the quicker.

“Out of the question,” Hanne protested. “I’ll pay—or at any rate let me pay half.”

Håkon clutched the bill to his chest with a pleading expression.

“Let me feel like a man just once today,” he begged.

It wasn’t much to ask. He paid, and rounded it up with a three-kroner tip. The oily-haired waiter showed them out into the darkness with a smile, and hoped to see them again soon. His
sincerity wasn’t very convincing.

Weariness enveloped his brain like a tight black cowl, and his eyelids drooped whenever he stopped speaking for a few moments. He took out a small bottle of eyedrops from his
jacket pocket, bent his head back, pushed his glasses to the end of his nose, and poured the drops liberally into his eyes. He’d soon used up the whole bottle; it had been new that
morning.