The Blind Goddess

TUESDAY 13 OCTOBER

The headline was dramatic. The editorial desk had produced one of the pictures of Ludvig Sandersen’s corpse they had used before, and mounted it beside an old archive photograph of Hans Olsen. It must have been taken more than ten years earlier, rather fuzzy and presumably an enlargement from what had originally been a group photograph. The lawyer had a surprised expression on his face, and was on the point of blinking, which gave his eyes a tired and vacant look. The caption was in bright red ink and covered part of the photomontage.

“Mafia Behind Two Murders” it announced in trenchant terms. Håkon Sand found the story barely recognisable. He read the front page and the two full inside pages that the newspaper had devoted to the subject. Across the top of each page was a black strip with a white text: “The Mafia Affair.” He ground his teeth in annoyance at the exaggerations, but on closer reading he could see that Myhreng hadn’t promulgated any actual untruths. The facts were stretched, the speculations far-fetched and so well camouflaged that they could easily be taken for truth. But Håkon himself had been quoted accurately and so couldn’t really complain.

“Well, it could have been worse,” he said, passing the paper to Karen Borg, who was now sufficiently at home in his office to collect what passed for coffee from the anteroom herself.

“It’s time you told me something about this client of yours,” he demanded. “The man’s still sitting around in his underpants refusing to talk. Now we know as much as we do, you ought in all decency to help us along a bit.”

They stared at one another intently. Karen reverted to the type of silent contest they used to have when they were students. She held his gaze, held it so focused that everything except her grey-green eyes diffused in a mist. He could see the tiny brown specks in the iris, more in the right eye than the left; he couldn’t blink, didn’t dare to for fear that his own gaze would drop when his eyes reopened. Hell, he’d never managed to win this game. She always managed to outstare him until he lowered his eyes in embarrassment, the loser, the lesser of the two.

But this time she was the one who had to give in. He could see her eyes filling with water, she had to blink, and her gaze slid to the side as if nudged by the faint flush that had begun to spread over her left cheek. He was astonished at his own tenacity; she was exposed on the flank. But the victor did not exult; instead he took both her hands in his.

“I’m actually rather apprehensive,” he admitted. “We don’t know much about this gang, or mafia as they’ve now been called, but we do know they’re not choirboys. The newspaper probably has some evidence for saying they’d go to any lengths to defend themselves and their own interests. We have reason to believe that they know that you know something. Or anyway that they suspect you do.”

He told her about Hanne Wilhelmsen’s memo, that must now be in the wrong hands. He could see that this made an impact on her. Her whole bearing was transformed as he’d never seen it before, as if she were looking to him for some kind of protection, to Håkon, whom she had protected and bullied through all their student years.

“We’ll have no chance of protecting you unless you tell us what you know!”

He realised he was gripping her hands too hard. They’d gone white, with crimson indentations where he’d held her. He let go of them.

“Han van der Kerch has told me a little. Not much. He doesn’t want it to go any further, but there is one thing I’ve got his permission to tell you. I don’t know whether it’s any use.”

She had pulled herself together now. She was sitting up straight again, and her suit hung neatly in place.

“He was collecting the money for a delivery. As he counted the bundle of notes, he saw that one had been written on in ink. A telephone number. Which he’s forgotten. But next to the number were three letters. He had the impression they might have been initials; they had full stops between them. He remembers the initials, because they were pronounceable: J. U. L.”

“JUL?”

“Yes, with full stops. He had joked to the man who was giving him the money that he didn’t want defaced notes. The man had snatched it back and been quite brusque with him.”

“Have you thought about what it could mean?”

“Yes, I have.”

There was silence for a moment, and they fell back into a familiar set pattern.

“What have you thought, then, Karen?” Håkon asked softly.

“It’s occurred to me that there’s a lawyer in Oslo with exactly those initials. And only one-I checked through the Lawyers’ Association membership list.”

“Jørgen Ulf Lavik.”

Håkon’s guess was not as impressive as it sounded. They’d both been students at the same time as Lavik, who was even then a popular character. Gifted, loads of friends, and politically committed. Håkon had thought for ages that Karen was in love with him, which she had dismissed at the merest hint. Lavik was fairly conservative, and Karen Borg had been the Socialist Front representative on the Faculty Committee. In those days such barriers were virtually insurmountable, and Karen had often described her fellow student as a reactionary shit in front of others and even Lavik himself. They’d only been on speaking terms a few times, once when they’d made common cause against restrictions on student numbers. He’d actually been to her parents’ summer cottage out at Ula for what was intended as a student political seminar, but had turned into purely a pleasure jaunt. She hadn’t liked him any better after that.

“I don’t understand what all this is about, but the newspaper insinuated that there might be lawyers behind some kind of gang. I can’t really see Jørgen Lavik as a gang leader, but you’re welcome to the information for what it’s worth.”

The information was worth quite a bit to Håkon. Its value rose when Karen added a few moments later, “You’ll find this out for yourself, but to save you the trouble: Jørgen began his career as a lawyer’s clerk with one of the big names. Can you guess who?”

“Peter Strup,” said Håkon immediately, and his face relaxed into a huge grin.

Before Karen Borg left police headquarters that afternoon she was given a two-way radio on loan. She thought it resembled an old-fashioned walkie-talkie, larger and more awkward than a mobile phone. She had to twist a button, and it would rasp and scrape as in an American detective film. Then press another button and she would be in direct contact with the police operations room. She was BB 04, the ops room was 01.

“Keep it with you at all times,” Håkon commanded. “Don’t hesitate to use it. The ops room knows about you. The police will be with you in five minutes.”

A lot can happen in five minutes, thought Karen Borg.