The Blind Goddess

SATURDAY 28 NOVEMBER

Have you heard the one about the bloke who went to the brothel without any money?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the others groaned, and the joker subsided mutely into his chair and sulkily finished off his red wine. It was the fourth dirty joke he’d tried, with minimal response. His silence didn’t last long. He poured himself another drink, puffed out his chest, and tried again.

“Do you know what girls say when they have a really great…”

“Yes, we do,” the other five cried in chorus, and again the comedian was forced to shut up.

Hanne leant across the table and kissed him on the cheek.

“Can’t you give these jokes a rest, Gunnar? They’re really not that funny when you’ve heard them before.”

She smiled and ruffled his hair. They’d known each other for thirteen years. He was as mild as milk, thicker than a hunk of bread, and the most considerate guy she knew. In the company of Hanne and Cecilie’s other friends he could never hold his own, but he seemed to belong, his hostesses loved him, and he almost counted as part of the furniture. He was the nearest thing they had to a good, old-fashioned friend of the family. He had the apartment next to theirs, and it always looked a tip. He had no taste, didn’t bother much about cleaning, and found it a lot more agreeable to luxuriate in one of his neighbours’ soft armchairs than to spend an evening in his own scruffy pad. He called in at least twice a week, and was literally a self-invited guest at all their dinner parties.

Despite the tiresome Gunnar and his jokes, it had turned into a splendid evening. For the first time since the discovery of the mutilated faceless corpse by the River Aker that wet September evening, Hanne felt relaxed. It was half past eleven now, and the case had been a pale forgotten spectre for the last two hours. It might have been the alcohol that had such a benevolent effect. After nearly two months of total abstinence five glasses of red wine was enough to make her pleasantly light-headed and seductively charming. Cecilie’s persistent leg contact under the table had tempted her to try to break up the party, but she hadn’t succeeded. Anyway, she was enjoying herself. Then the telephone rang.

“It’s for you, Hanne,” Cecilie called from the corridor.

Hanne tripped over her own feet as she got up from the table, giggled, and went to see who was daring to call at nearly midnight on a Saturday night. She closed the living-room door behind her and was sober enough to recognise the dejected expression on her partner’s face. Cecilie put her left hand over the mouthpiece.

“It’s work. I’ll be bloody mad if you go out now.”

With a look of anticipatory reproach she passed Hanne the phone.

“Would you believe we’ve caught the bugger, Hanne?!”

It was Billy T. She rubbed the bridge of her nose in an attempt to clear her head, but without discernible effect.

“What bugger? Who’ve you caught?”

“The boot man, of course! Bull’s-eye! Shit scared, plain as a pikestaff. That’s how it looks to us.”

It couldn’t be true. It was difficult to believe. The case hadn’t just gone down the pan, it was flushed away and into the sewers. And now this. The breakthrough perhaps. A living person, actually involved, and under arrest. Someone who could give them some real information. Someone they could grab by the balls. Someone who could bring Lavik down into the same sludge the police had been wallowing in. An informant. Exactly what they needed.

She shook her head and asked if he could come and fetch her. Driving herself was out of the question.

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Make it a quarter of an hour. I’ll have to have a quick shower first.”

Fourteen minutes later she kissed her friends good-bye and asked them to keep the party going until she got back. Cecilie went with her to the door, and was offered a parting hug, but drew back.

“I sometimes hate this job of yours,” she said in a serious voice. “Not often, but sometimes.”

“Who was it who sat all alone night after night in that godforsaken place in Nordfjord when you were on duty? Who had limitless patience for four years with your evening and night duties at Ullevål Hospital?”

“You,” said Cecilie reluctantly, but with a conciliatory smile. And she let herself be hugged after all.

“He’s as unblemished as a newborn babe. Not even a bloody traffic offence.”

He was drumming his grubby fingers on the sheet of paper, which could have been the criminal record of the prime minister. Absolutely blank.

“And now,” said Billy T., a grin spreading over his face, “with this clean sheet, let’s see how convincing a story he can damn well come up with to explain why he brandishes a gun at the police on the street and why he’s sitting there quivering like a piece of wet cod.”

Good point. A lot could be gleaned from reactions on arrest. The innocent were frightened of course, but it was always a controllable fear, an emotion that could be held in check by reminding themselves that since it was all a misunderstanding it would soon be cleared up. It never took more than a quarter of an hour to calm the innocent. According to Billy T. this miscreant was still scared to death even after two hours.

There was no sense in starting an interrogation that night. She herself wasn’t sober, and the wait would do the suspect no harm. He’d been charged with threatening the police, which was quite enough to hold him till Monday.

“How did you find him?”

“It wasn’t me, it was Leif and Ole. Talk about luck. You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Try me!”

“There’s this bloke we’ve had under surveillance for some time. Never got anything on him. He’s a medical student, very well behaved. Lives a nice and respectable life in Røa, in nice respectable low-rise housing. Drives a car that’s a bit too nice and respectable, and surrounds himself with anything but respectable ladies. But nice. The surveillance team were pretty sure he had an interesting little consignment in his apartment, so our boys decided to take a look. Jackpot. They found four grams, plus a decent bit of hash. Ole realised he’d be home later than he’d told his wife, because a full search of the apartment would take men and time. The guy had no phone, amazingly enough, so Ole went to the next-door neighbour, a chap of about thirty. Born 1961, to be precise.”

His fingers were drumming again on the printout from the police database.

“Well, it may be disconcerting to have the police ringing your doorbell at half past nine on a Saturday evening, but not so devastating that you’re paralysed with terror and slam the door in the officer’s face.”

Hanne thought privately it wasn’t in the least surprising that someone should slam the door in Ole Andresen’s face. He had hair down to his waist, which he boasted he washed once a fortnight, “even if it wasn’t dirty.” It was parted in the middle, like an ageing hippie, and between the curtains of hair projected an unbelievably large and pimply nose above a beard which would have been the envy of Karl Marx. Not unreasonable to be afraid, she thought, but maintained a diplomatic silence.

“It was the stupidest thing he could have done. Ole rang the bell a second time, and the poor bloke had to open up. It was a pity he gained a few minutes to himself in the flat, but the amazing thing was that when he eventually opened the door…”

Billy T. was roaring with laughter, becoming increasingly hysterical, until Hanne began to chuckle herself, even without yet being able to share the joke. Billy T. pulled himself together.

“When he eventually opened up, he had his hands in the air!”

He collapsed with laughter again. This time Hanne joined in.

“He had his hands in the air, like in a film, and before Ole could say anything at all-he’d only held up his police ID-the guy was standing with his feet apart and his hands against the wall. Ole had no idea what was going on, but has been in the business long enough to realise it was something suspicious. And there in the shoe rack was the missing boot. Ole pulled out my stencil and compared it. It was a direct hit. The guy just stood against the wall with his palms glued to the wallpaper.”

They both choked with mirth till the tears ran.

“And Ole simply wanted to use the telephone!”

Perhaps it wasn’t as funny as all that, but it was the middle of the night, and they were relieved. Bloody relieved.

“Here’s what they found in his flat,” said Billy, bending his ungainly body to pick up a bag at his feet.

A small-calibre pistol fell onto the table, followed by a well-worn boot, size ten.

“Well, it’s not really enough to reduce him to such a complete state of the jitters,” said Hanne with satisfaction. “He must have something else for us.”

“Give him a Hanne Wilhelmsen special. In the morning. Let’s get you back home now so you can carry on enjoying yourself.”

Which was exactly what she did.