The Blind Goddess

FRIDAY 20 NOVEMBER

He couldn’t have looked more astounded if he’d seen little red-eyed green Martians. Even Hanne Wilhelmsen was momentarily assailed by doubt. Jørgen Ulf Lavik, his eyes almost popping out of his head, stood in the office of his legal practice alternately staring at Hanne and reading the blue sheet again and again, emitting small plaintive whimpers. His face had turned crimson and puffy, and he seemed in imminent danger of a heart attack. Two plainclothes police constables had taken up position in front of the closed door of his office, feet apart and hands behind their backs, as if they were expecting him to attempt to rush past at any moment and escape to a freedom he must now fear might only lie in the dim and distant future. Even the ceiling lamp flickered and trembled in its fury and agitation as a heavy articulated lorry sped over the crossroads outside to catch the amber light.

“What the hell is this?” he squeaked, having read it at least six times. “What the devil does it mean?!”

He smashed his fist down on the desk with a mighty thwack. It obviously hurt, and the pain made him shake it involuntarily.

“It’s a warrant for your arrest. You’re being arrested. Taken into custody, if you prefer.”

Hanne gestured towards the sheet of paper lying on the desk, torn nearly to pieces after the lawyer’s outburst.

“The reasons are given there. You have all the time you want to respond. All the time you want. But for now you’re coming with us.”

Seething with anger, Lavik fought to keep himself under control. His chin was working, and even the men posted at the door could hear his teeth grinding. He kept flexing his hands rapidly until he calmed down.

“I must phone my wife. And I’ll have to get myself a lawyer. Will you leave the room for a moment?”

Hanne smiled.

“From now on and for some good while I’m afraid you won’t be able to talk to anyone without a police presence-except for your lawyer, of course. But it’ll have to wait till we get to the station. Put your coat on. Don’t make trouble; it won’t help any of us.”

“But my wife!” He sounded almost pitiable. “She’s expecting me home in an hour!”

It couldn’t do any harm for him to speak to her. It would spare them from criticism in that respect, anyway. Hanne picked up the receiver and handed it to him.

“Say what you like about the reason for your not coming home. You can tell her you’ve been arrested if you wish, but not a word about why. I’ll cut off the call if you say anything I don’t approve of.”

She indicated the receiver rest with a warning finger and let him dial the number. The conversation was brief, and he told the truth. Hanne could hear a wailing voice at the other end of the line asking “Why, why?” Admirably enough he managed to retain his composure and ended by promising that his lawyer would contact her in the course of the evening. He banged down the receiver and stood up.

“Let’s get this farce over with,” he said grimly, and threw his coat on inside out, cursed when he saw what he’d done, and spoke to the two men in the doorway as he went out. “Aren’t you going to clap me in irons too?”

They ignored the sarcasm. A quarter of an hour later he was in a cell in the police station. He had been there before. Things had seemed very, very different then.

Jørgen Lavik’s choice of lawyer had surprised them all. They had expected one of two or three superstars, and prepared themselves for a rough ride. But at about six o’clock that evening Christian Bloch-Hansen had turned up, very correct and softly spoken, called on Hanne and Chief Inspector Kaldbakken, and politely requested a chat with Håkon Sand before he met his client. Which of course was granted. He had taken the slim file of copies of the charge documents with slightly raised eyebrows, but accepted without complaint Håkon’s explanation that they were unfortunately the only documents he could give him without prejudicing the investigation. Bloch-Hansen wasn’t annoyed. He’d been in the business for thirty years and was well known and respected. His was not a household name, however, because he’d never sought publicity. Indeed, it always seemed as if he deliberately avoided drawing attention to himself, which further strengthened his reputation in the courts and in the prosecution service, and had led to numerous commissions and special briefs, all discharged with thoroughness and professional competence.

Håkon’s immediate relief at his agreeable opponent would gradually give way to the recognition that he’d got the worst imaginable adversary. Christian Bloch-Hansen was not a barrister who would rant and rave; he wouldn’t want to inflate matters into bellicose headlines in the tabloid press. Nor would he dwell on inessentials: he would simply tear them to shreds. Nothing would escape him. He was expert at criminal trials.

In half an hour the neat middle-aged lawyer had gathered all the information he required. Then he went off to sit with his client in a separate room for a couple of hours. After he’d finished, he asked if the interrogation of Lavik could be postponed until the following day.

“My client is exhausted. You probably are too. I’ve had a long day myself. When would it suit you to begin?”

Overwhelmed by Bloch-Hansen’s gentlemanly manners, Hanne let him choose the time himself.

“Would ten o’clock be too late?” he asked with a smile. “I like to have a more leisurely breakfast at weekends.”

It was neither too late nor too early for Hanne Wilhelmsen. The interrogation would commence at ten o’clock.