The Blind Goddess (3 page)

The office belonged to Hanne Wilhelmsen. She was strikingly attractive, and newly promoted to Inspector. After coming out top of her year from police college, she had spent ten years at Oslo
police headquarters marking herself out as a policewoman perfectly designed for an advertising campaign. Everyone spoke well of Hanne Wilhelmsen, a unique achievement in a workplace where ten
percent of the day was spent running down your colleagues. She deferred to superiors without being branded an arse-licker, yet was not afraid to voice her opinions. She was loyal to the system, but
would put forward suggestions for improvement that were usually sound enough to be implemented. Hanne Wilhelmsen had the intuition that only one in a hundred police officers has, the fingertip
sensitivity that tells you when to coax and trick a suspect, and when to threaten and thump the table.

She was respected and admired, and well deserved it. But even so there was no one in that big grey building who really knew her. She always went to the annual departmental Christmas parties, to
the summer party, and to birthday celebrations, was a fantastic dancer, would talk about the job and smile sweetly at everyone, and would go home ten minutes after the first person had left,
neither too early nor too late. She never got drunk, and so never made a fool of herself. And no one ever got any closer to knowing her.

Hanne Wilhelmsen was at ease with herself and the world, but had dug a deep moat between her professional life and her private life. She didn’t have a single friend in the police force.
She loved another woman, a defect in this otherwise perfect human being, the public admission of which she was convinced would destroy everything she had spent so many years building up. A swing of
her long dark-brown hair was enough to deflect any questions about the slim wedding ring that was the only jewellery she wore. She had been given the ring by her partner when they first moved in
together at the age of nineteen. There were rumours, as there always are. But she was so pretty. So womanly. And the female doctor that a friend of someone’s friend vaguely knew, and that
others had seen Hanne with several times, was also very beautiful. They were really feminine women. So there couldn’t be any truth in it. Anyway Hanne always wore a skirt the few times she
had to dress in uniform, and hardly anyone did that, since trousers were so much more practical. The rumours were just malicious nonsense.

Thus she lived her life, in the knowledge that what is not confirmed is never regarded as actually true; but this made it even more important for Hanne to perform well in her job than for anyone
else in the building. Perfection was her shield. Which was how she wanted it, and since she had absolutely no ambition to elbow her way to the top, but was only interested in doing a good job,
there was no jealousy or envy to threaten her defences.

She smiled now at Håkon, who had seated himself in the extra chair.

“Don’t you trust me to ask the right questions?”

“Relax. No worries on that score. But I have a feeling we’re on to something bigger here. As I said, if you don’t mind too much, I’d rather like just to sit in on the
interview.

“It’s not against the rules,” he added quickly.

He knew she insisted on following the statutory procedures whenever possible, and he respected her for it. It was unusual for a police attorney to attend the questioning of a suspect, but it
wasn‘t precluded. He’d done the same before on occasion. Usually to study the technique, but sometimes because he was particularly involved in a case. Normally the police officers
didn’t object to the presence of the prosecution staff. On the contrary, provided he kept a low profile and didn’t interfere in the interrogation, most of them seemed quite pleased.

As if at a given signal, they both turned towards the prisoner. Hanne Wilhelmsen put her right arm on the desk and let her long lacquered nails play on the keys of an old electric typewriter. It
was an IBM golf ball machine, very advanced in its time. Now it lacked the
e,
which was so worn that it produced only a smudged black mark from the ribbon when you hit the key. It
didn’t really matter, since it was quite obvious what the smudge should be.

“It’ll be a long day if you’re just going to sit there and say nothing.”

Her voice was gentle, almost indulgent.

“I get paid for this. Chief Inspector Sand gets paid. You on the other hand will just carry on being held here. Sooner or later we might let you go. Wouldn’t you like to make it
sooner?”

For the first time the young man seemed less confident.

“My name is Han van der Kerch,” he said, after a few minutes’ further silence. “I’m Dutch, but I’m residing in the country legally. I’m a
student.”

Now Håkon Sand had his explanation for the perfect yet not fully idiomatic Norwegian. He remembered his boyhood hero Ard Schenk, remembered himself as a thirteen-year-old thinking that the
man spoke an unbelievably good Norwegian for a foreigner. And he remembered reading Gabriel Scott’s
Dutchman Jonas,
a book he had loved as a child and which had contributed to his
later unwavering support for the orange shirts in international football championships.

“That’s all I’m prepared to say.”

Once again there was silence. Håkon waited for Hanne Wilhelmsen’s next move. Whatever it might be.

“Well, that’s okay by me. It’s your choice, and your right. But we’ll be sitting here for some time in that case.”

She had inserted a sheet of paper in the typewriter, as if she already knew that she would get something to take down.

“You might as well hear a theory we have.”

The chair leg scraped on the linoleum as she pushed it back. She offered the Dutchman a cigarette, and lit one herself. The young man seemed grateful. Håkon was less pleased, and leaning
back in his chair pushed the door ajar to create a through-draught. The window was already slightly open.

“We found a body on Friday evening,” said Hanne Wilhelmsen in a soft voice. “It was a bit of a mess. He obviously hadn’t wanted to die. At least not in such a horrible
way. There must have been a lot of blood around. You were pretty well covered in it when we found you. We can be a bit slow here in the police sometimes. But we’re still capable of putting
two and two together. As a rule we get four, and we think we’ve got four now.”

She stretched behind her for an ashtray on the bookshelf. It was a tasteless souvenir from southern climes made of brown bottle glass, featuring a faun in the centre wearing an evil grin and
sporting an enormous erect phallus. Not exactly Hanne Wilhelmsen’s style, thought Sand.

“I’ll happily be more explicit.”

Her voice was sharper now.

“We’ll have a preliminary analysis of the blood on your clothes tomorrow. Which—if it matches the blood of our faceless friend—will be more than enough to justify keeping
you in custody. We can have you in for interrogation whenever we like. Over and over again. A week might pass before you hear from us, then we’ll suddenly turn up again, perhaps after
you’ve gone to sleep. We’ll question you for an hour or two, you’ll refuse to say anything, we’ll take you back, and then fetch you out again. It can be rather wearing. For
us too, of course, but we can take it in turns. It’s worse for you.”

Håkon began to doubt whether Hanne deserved her reputation as a stickler for the rules. The method of interrogation she’d outlined was definitely not in the book. He was even more in
doubt about the legality of threatening it.

“You have the right to a solicitor; the State will pay,” he reminded him, as if to compensate for any possible illegality.

“I don’t want a solicitor!” he exploded.

He took one last puff on his cigarette before stubbing it out emphatically and saying it again, “I don’t want a solicitor. I’ll be better off without one.”

He threw a questioning, half-imploring look across at the pack of cigarettes on the table. Hanne Wilhelmsen nodded, and handed him both the cigarettes and the matches.

“So, you think it was me. Well, you may be right.”

That was that. The man’s basic needs had been satisfied at last: a shower, some breakfast, a drink, and a couple of cigarettes. Showing all the signs of having talked as much as he was
going to, he slid forward in the chair and slumped back with a distant look in his eyes.

“Okay, then.” Detective Inspector Wilhelmsen seemed fully in command of the situation. “Perhaps I should continue,” she said, starting to turn over the pages of the
rather slim file of papers beside the typewriter.

“So we found this repulsive-looking corpse. He had no documents on him, and his face had gone before him, so to speak, wherever it was he was going. But our man in the patrol car was
fairly well acquainted with the drugs scene here in the city. The clothes, body, and hair were sufficient. Revenge killing, he thought. A not unreasonable assumption, it seems to me.”

She linked her fingers and put her hands behind her head. She massaged her neck with her thumbs as she looked the Dutchman straight in the eyes.

“I think you killed the guy. We’ll know better tomorrow, when the results come back from Forensics. But lab technicians can’t tell me why. That’s where I need your
assistance.”

The appeal seemed to be in vain. The man didn’t move a muscle, he just retained his remote, slightly mocking smile, as if he had the upper hand. There he was mistaken.

“To be frank, I think it would be more sensible of you to give me that assistance,” the Inspector went on. “Maybe you did it on your own. Maybe it was to order. Perhaps you
were even forced into it. And that might have a decisive impact on what happens to you.”

She paused in her steady stream of words, lit a new cigarette, and stared him in the face. He went on sitting there displaying absolutely no intention of talking. Hanne heaved a sigh and
switched off the typewriter.

“It’s not up to me to determine your sentence. If you’re guilty, that is. But it could definitely be to your advantage if I was able to say something positive about your
willingness to cooperate and so on when I have to testify in court.”

Håkon recognised the feeling from when he was a child and had been allowed to watch a detective story on television. He would be dying to go to the loo, but didn’t dare say so for
fear of missing something exciting.

“Where did you find him?”

The Dutchman’s question took Håkon completely by surprise, and he noticed for the first time a hint of uncertainty in the Inspector’s face.

“Where you killed him,” she replied, with exaggerated slowness.

“Answer me. Where did you find the guy?”

Both police officers hesitated.

“By the River Aker at Hundremanns Bridge. As you well know,” Hanne said, holding him steadily in her gaze so as not to miss even a flicker of reaction in his expression.

“Who found the body? Who reported it to the police?”

This time Hanne Wilhelmsen’s hesitation created a vacuum that Sand was sucked into.

“It was someone out for a walk. A lawyer, a friend of mine in fact. Must have been a dreadful experience.”

Hanne was livid, but Håkon realised it too late. He hadn’t picked up on her warning gesture as he started to speak. He flushed deeply at her fierce look of reproof.

Van der Kerch stood up.

“I would like a lawyer after all,” he declared. “I want that woman. If you get her here, I’ll think about talking, at any rate. If I can’t have her, I’d
rather have ten lonely years in prison at Ullersmo.”

He went across to the door unbidden, stepping over Håkon Sand’s legs, and waited politely to be taken back to his cell. Hanne Wilhelmsen escorted him, without a backward glance at
her red-faced colleague.

The coffee had been drunk. It hadn’t been particularly good, even though it was freshly made. Decaffeinated, Håkon Sand explained. There were six cigarette stubs
in a tawdry brown and orange ashtray.

“She was bloody mad at me afterwards. Understandably so. It’ll be some time before I’ll be allowed to be present at an interrogation again. But the man won’t be budged.
It’s you or no one.”

He seemed no less exhausted now than when Karen Borg had arrived. He was massaging his temples and running his fingers through his hair, which was now quite dry.

“I asked Hanne to give him all the counterarguments. She says he remains adamant. I’ve kept well out of it. It’ll smooth things over a bit if I can get you to help
us.”

Karen Borg sighed. For six years of her life she’d done little else but favours for Håkon Sand. She knew she wouldn’t be able to refuse this time either. But she would play
hard to get.

“I’m only agreeing to have a talk with him. I’m not promising anything,” she said curtly, and stood up.

They went out the door, she first, he following. Just like the old days.

The young Dutchman had insisted on speaking to Karen Borg, with a vague intimation that he would open up to her. But that seemed to have been forgotten now. He looked full of
bile. Karen Borg had moved over to Håkon Sand’s chair, and Håkon had discreetly withdrawn. The lawyers’ room in the custody suite was a miserable place, so in justified
apprehension that she might renege on her promise to talk to the young Dutchman, he’d put his own office at her disposal.

Their suspect should have been handsome, yet was somehow unprepossessing. An athletic body, fair hair that looked as if it might have been expensively styled a month or so back. His hands were
delicate, almost feminine. Did he play the piano? A lover’s hands, Karen thought, with no idea of how she was going to deal with the situation. She was used to boardrooms, meeting rooms with
heavy oak furniture, airy offices with curtains costing five hundred kroner per metre. She could tackle men in suits with fashionable or garish ties, and women with briefcases and Shalimar perfume.
She knew all about the laws relating to shares and the formation of companies, and only three weeks ago had earned herself a nice 150,000 kroner fee for checking over a comprehensive contract for
one of her biggest clients. It hadn’t involved much more than reading five hundred pages of contractual agreements, ensuring they contained what they purported to, and writing
“OK” on the cover. That worked out to 75,000 kroner per letter.