The Blind Goddess

WEDNESDAY 25 NOVEMBER

The sound of the bell was so unexpected that she almost fell out of bed in sheer confusion. She was still sitting up reading, even though it was getting on for two in the morning. Not because the book was so especially enthralling, but because she had slept heavily for three hours after dinner. On her bedside table, which she had made herself many years before, were a candle and a glass of red wine. The bottle next to it was almost empty. Karen Borg was half drunk.

She clambered out of bed, bumping her head on the sloping ceiling. It didn’t hurt. Her mobile was recharging in the socket over by the door. She brought it back under the covers before pressing the talk button.

“Hello, Håkon,” she said, even before she knew who it was. It was taking quite a risk, since it was more likely to be Nils. But her instinct hadn’t failed her.

“Hello,” said a meek voice at the other end. “How are you?”

“How are you?” she countered. “How’s the appeal gone?”

So she knew about it.

“The result didn’t come out today. Or rather, yesterday. There’s still hope. Only a few hours to go to the start of the working day, and then the decision will be announced pretty quickly. I just can’t get to sleep.”

It took half an hour to explain to her what had happened. He didn’t spare himself with regard to his own woeful effort.

“It can’t have been that bad,” she said, not very convincingly. “After all, you won the Court over to your side in obtaining custody for the principal suspect.”

“Well, for a limited period,” he replied grumpily. “We’ll lose tomorrow, almost certainly. What we’ll do then, I haven’t a clue. And I’ve managed to drag you into it for committing an indictable offence: breach of client confidentiality.”

“Don’t worry about that,” she said, dismissing it lightly. “I did think about the problem in advance and aired it at some length with my wisest and most experienced colleague.”

Håkon was tempted to remark that the magistrate in the case wasn’t exactly inexperienced, nor was Christian Bloch-Hansen a novice in criminal law. He was much more doubtful about the competence of Greverud & Co. in this sphere, but he held his tongue. If she wasn’t worried, it was better to leave it like that.

“Why didn’t you get in touch before you left?” he asked suddenly and accusingly.

No reply was forthcoming. She didn’t really know why-why she hadn’t let him know, nor why she couldn’t answer now. So she said nothing.

“What do you actually want of me?” he continued, annoyed by her silence. “I feel like a yo-yo. You make rules for what I should and shouldn’t do, and I try to stick by them to the best of my ability. But you don’t even do so yourself! What am I to think?”

There was no simple answer. She stared at a little print above the bed, as if the solution to the conundrum might be concealed in the blue-grey landscape. But it wasn’t. It was all suddenly too much. She couldn’t talk to him. Instead of telling him that, she put one slender finger on the cut-off button. When she lifted it, all the accusations had gone. There was only a faint, soothing buzz from the receiver and little grunts from the dog curled up on the rug.

The telephone announced itself again in a melancholy tone. It rang more than ten times before she picked it up.

“Okay,” the voice said, from far, far away, “we needn’t talk about us anymore. Just let me know when you want to. Whenever you like.”

His sarcasm didn’t penetrate the thin protective layer of alcohol that enveloped her.

“The point is that we have to have another interview. Can you come back into town for a while?”

“No, I’d rather not. I can’t. I mean… I just can’t face it. I’ve got a fortnight’s holiday now, and intended not to see anyone except the old man in the local shop. Please, get me out of it if you can.”

The mournful sigh wasn’t lost across the ether. Karen had no desire to react to that, either. She’d done more than they could expect for this dreadful case. She wanted to forget the whole thing now, forget the poor young Dutchman, forget the horribly disfigured corpse, forget drugs, murder, and all the ills of the world, and just think about herself and her own life. That was more than enough. Much more than enough.

Having pondered for a moment, Håkon came up with an alternative.

“Then I’ll send Hanne Wilhelmsen down to you. On Friday. Will that suit you?”

Friday wouldn’t suit her at all. But neither would Thursday or Saturday. If the alternative was to go into Oslo, she’d have to accept it.

“Okay then,” she agreed. “You know the way. Tell her I’ll mark the turning with a Norwegian flag, so she doesn’t miss it.”

Indeed he did know the way. He’d been there four or five times, along with various boyfriends of Karen’s. More than once he’d had to resort to earplugs at night to avoid the torture of the noises from her room, the gasps of passion and the creak of bedsprings. He’d curled himself up as patiently as a dog in the narrow bunk and rammed the wax plugs so far into his ears that he’d had trouble removing them the next morning. He’d never slept very well in Karen’s parents’ cottage. And he’d often breakfasted there alone.

“I’ll tell her to get there about twelve, then. I hope you continue to have a good night.”

It wasn’t a good night, so it could hardly continue being one. But her closing words made it a little better for Håkon at least.

“Don’t give up on me, Håkon,” she said softly. “Good night.”