The Blind Goddess

TUESDAY 10 NOVEMBER

Talk 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.