The Blind Goddess

TUESDAY 1 DECEMBER

At last there was some kind of sense to all the fuss and glitter and gaudy plastic lights that were intended to transform the streets for Christmas-they were into December. The snow had returned, and the business community had eagerly taken note of the fact that the personal consumption of the people of Norway had increased a few percent during the course of the year. It raised expectations and inspired resplendent shop-window decorations. The lime trees on Karl Johans Gata, naked and self-conscious in their Christmas lights, stood in for their coniferous cousins. The solemn illumination ceremony for the massive spruce outside the university had taken place the day before yesterday. Today there was only a shabby Salvation Army officer enjoying the sight as he stood stamping his feet and smiling hopefully at the morning commuters hurrying past his collecting box without even a few seconds to spare for the tree in all its glory.

Jørgen Lavik knew he was being shadowed. Several times he stopped abruptly and looked back. It was impossible to work out who was following him. Everybody had the same blank gaze; only one or two gave him an extra inquisitive glance, as if they half recognised him and wondered where they’d seen him before. It was fortunate that the photographs in the press had been so out-of-date and of such poor quality that hardly anyone would have recognised him.

But he knew they were after him, which made things difficult, though at the same time it gave him a permanent alibi. He could turn the situation to his own advantage. He took several deep breaths and felt his mind clearing.

His visit to the office was brief. The receptionist nearly dislodged her dentures in her rapture at seeing him, and gave him a hug that smelt of lavender and old age. It was almost touching. After a couple of hours on the more urgent matters, he told her he was going to spend the remainder of the week at his cottage. He would be available by telephone, and took a number of case files, his computer, and a portable fax machine with him. He might drop in on Friday, since he had to report to the police then.

“So you can hold the fort, Caroline, as you have so ably over the last few days,” he said in a complimentary tone.

Her mouth formed itself into a pallid smile again and her delight at the praise brought roses to her cheeks. She bobbed at the knees flirtatiously, but refrained from turning it into a curtsy. Of course she would hold the fort, and he should have a good holiday. He deserved it!

He thought so too. But before he left he went into the toilet to use the mobile phone he’d grabbed from his colleague’s pigeonhole. He knew the number by heart.

“I’m out. You can relax.”

His whisper was scarcely audible against the embarrassing gurgle from the defective cistern.

“Don’t ring me, and especially not now,” the other man hissed, but without hanging up.

“It’s perfectly safe. You can relax,” he repeated, to no avail.

“It’s easy to say that!”

“Karen Borg is in her cottage at Ula. She won’t be there long. You’ll be quite safe. Only she can bring me down, and only I can bring you down. If I’m all right, you’re all right.”

He didn’t hear the older man’s protests; he had already hung up. Jørgen Ulf Lavik had a pee, washed his hands, and went back to his invisible stalkers.

He would soon have to have something done about his heart. The medication he’d been taking didn’t work anymore. Not very effectively, anyway. He’d twice felt the hand of death, like the frightening and near-fatal blow that had prostrated him less than three years ago. Systematic exercise and a fat-free diet had certainly helped up to now, but his condition over the last few weeks couldn’t be remedied by jogging or carrots.

They were onto him. In a way he’d been expecting it, ever since the snowball began to roll. It could only be a question of time. Even though the description in the Dagbladet of the presumed ringleader had been rather general, and could have fitted several hundred people, it was a bit too exact for the guys in Platou Gata. He’d been walking home from work one afternoon and suddenly they were standing there, as anonymous as the job they were doing, two identical men, the same height, the same clothes. They’d forced him into the car in a friendly, but very firm, manner. The drive lasted half an hour, and ended in front of his own house. He had denied everything. They hadn’t believed him. But they knew that he knew that it was in the interests of all of them that he should be in the clear. Which put his mind at rest to some extent. If it came out how the money was actually spent, they’d all be finished. Admittedly he was the only one who knew where it came from, but the others had accepted it-and used it. Without ever asking, without ever checking, without ever investigating anything. Which made their position extremely delicate.

The real headache was Lavik. Had he gone out of his mind? It was pretty obvious he intended to kill Karen Borg. As if that would solve anything! He would be the prime suspect. Immediately. Besides, who knew whether she’d told others, or written something down that hadn’t yet found its way into the hands of the police? Killing Karen Borg would solve nothing.

Killing Jørgen Lavik, on the other hand, would solve most things. The moment the thought was formed, it seemed his only recourse. The successful murder of Hans Olsen had effectively halted all problems in that branch of the syndicate. Lavik had just made matters worse and worse for both of them. He had to be stopped.

The idea didn’t frighten him. On the contrary, it had a calming effect. His pulse was beating steadily and evenly again, for the first time in days. His brain felt alert and he could feel his concentration improving.

The best thing would be to eliminate him before he had time to send Karen Borg to whatever heaven was reserved for lawyers. The murder of a young and beautiful, and in this respect innocent, female lawyer would have far too many repercussions. A desperate male lawyer on drugs charges wouldn’t die without causing a few ripples either, but still… One murder was better than two. But how to go about it?

Jørgen Lavik had talked about Ula. A cottage. That must mean he was thinking of going there. How he would evade the plainclothesmen who doubtless had him under constant observation, he had no idea. But that was Lavik’s problem. His own was to find Lavik, find him without being seen by those same officers, and preferably before he got to Karen Borg. He didn’t need an alibi: he wasn’t in the police spotlight, nor would he be. If all went well.

It would take him less than an hour to find the precise address of Karen Borg’s cottage. He could ring her office, or perhaps the local council; they could check in the land register. But that was too risky. A few minutes later he’d made up his mind. As far as he could recall, there was only one way down to Ula, a little track off the coast road between Sandefjord and Larvik. He would simply lie in wait there.

Relieved at having come to a decision, he immersed himself in the day’s most pressing tasks. His hands were steady and his heart was beating regularly again. Perhaps he didn’t need any new medication after all.

It was a bit more than a summer cottage-a substantial red-painted old wooden house from the thirties, completely renovated, and even in the gloom of December you could appreciate the idyllic character of the location. It was quite well protected against the elements, and though there was some snow on the approach to it, the rocky ground behind was scoured clean by the incessant wind off the sea. A fir tree swayed obstinately just a few metres from the west wall. The wind had managed to bend the trunk but not to kill the tree. It stood leaning away from the shore, as if it were longing to join its family further inland but couldn’t tear itself loose. You could make out the contours of summer flowerbeds between the humps of snow on the lee side of the house. It was all neatly tended. It didn’t belong to Lavik, but to his senile and childless uncle. Jørgen had been his favourite nephew when last his uncle had been able to feel anything of that nature. He had turned up faithfully every summer when he was a boy, and they had gone fishing together, caulked boats, and eaten fried bacon and beans. Jørgen was the son he’d never had, and he would inherit the beautiful summer cottage when Alzheimer’s eventually, and probably in the not-so-distant future, met its only match-death.

Jørgen Lavik had spent quite a lot of money on the place. His uncle wasn’t a poor man, and had paid for the essential maintenance himself. But it was Jørgen who’d installed a bathroom with a Jacuzzi, and a mini-sauna and a telephone. He’d also given his uncle a nippy little boat as a seventieth birthday present, in the certain knowledge that it would effectively remain his own.

On the journey down to the far end of the Hurum peninsula, he’d not once caught sight of his pursuers. There had been cars behind him all the way, but none of them had tailed him long enough to be likely candidates. Nevertheless, he knew they must be there, and was pleased about it. He didn’t hurry himself parking the car, and demonstrated his intention of staying for a significant period by carrying in his luggage in several instalments. He wandered from room to room gradually switching on all the lights, and lit the paraffin stove in the living room to supplement the electric heater.

In the afternoon he went for a short walk. He strolled over the familiar terrain, but even now couldn’t see or hear anything suspicious. He felt uneasy. Weren’t they here? Had they abandoned him? They couldn’t do that! His heart was thumping fast and nervously. No, they must be somewhere nearby. They had to be. He forced himself to be calm. Perhaps they were just very skilful. That was probably it.

There were a few things to fix. He must start without delay. He took his time on the doorstep, stretching himself and knocking the snow off his trousers at unnecessary length. Then he went in to make his preparations.

The worst of it was that everyone was so cheering. He was slapped on the back with a cry of “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” and given congratulatory smiles and other friendly expressions of support. Even the commissioner had taken the trouble to phone down to him to convey her satisfaction with what he’d achieved, despite the unfortunate outcome. Håkon mentioned the possibility of a claim for damages to her, but she just snorted. She didn’t believe for a moment that Lavik would dare; after all, he was guilty. He was probably just happy to be free again and anxious to put the whole affair as far behind him as he could. Håkon could rest assured about that; in fact the officers tailing Lavik had reported that he was now out at a cottage on the Hurum peninsula.

The support didn’t do much to boost his morale. He felt as if he’d been put into an automatic washing machine, subjected to the centrifugal force of a complete washing cycle, and shrunk. There were other cases lying on his desk with imminent deadlines, but he was totally incapable of action and decided to let everything wait till the next morning.

Only Hanne recognised how he actually felt. She came by in the afternoon with two cups of hot tea. He coughed and spluttered when he tasted the contents, having assumed it was coffee.

“What shall we do now, Mr. Prosecutor?” she asked, putting her feet up on the desk. Nice legs, he thought, not for the first time.

“Don’t ask me.”

He sipped the tea again, a little more cautiously this time. Actually it wasn’t bad.

“We won’t give up, anyway. We’ll nail him. He hasn’t won the battle yet, just a little skirmish.”

It was incomprehensible that she could be so positive. It almost sounded as if she meant what she said. Of course, it might just be the difference between an active police officer and an official of the Prosecution Service. There were many avenues of retreat for him; he could find another job at any time. Assistant secretary in the Department of Fisheries, for instance, he thought glumly. Hanne, on the other hand, was trained as a police officer. There was only one possible employer for her: the police force. So she could never give up.

“Now you listen to me,” she said, putting her feet back down on the floor. “We’ve got a lot more to go on! You can’t lose your fighting spirit now! It’s in adversity we have the chance to show what we’re made of.”

Banal. But probably true. In that case he was a wimp. He definitely couldn’t tackle it. He was going home. Perhaps he might be man enough to cope with a few household chores…

“Phone me at home if there are any developments,” he said, leaving his stoical colleague and most of his cup of tea.

“You win some, you lose some,” he heard her call out after him as he trudged off down the corridor.

The plainclothesmen following him, six in total, had realised that it would be a long evening and a cold night. One of them, a narrow-shouldered clever chap with sharp eyes, had checked round the back of the house. About three metres from the wall facing the sea the ground sloped down abruptly to a small cove with a sandy beach. It was only fifteen to twenty metres across, and bordered at each end by a barbed-wire fence with supports fixed into the bare rock. Private ownership of land was never so jealously guarded as at the seashore, the policeman thought, grinning to himself. On both sides of the wire there was a steep rock face five or six metres high. It would be possible to climb it, but only with difficulty. In any case Lavik would still have to come round onto the road by the house. The point was completely cut off by the road, which therefore had to be crossed in order to leave the area.

One man was stationed at either end of this stretch of road and one in the middle, and since it was only about a couple hundred metres, they had visual coverage of the entire length. Lavik couldn’t get past without being seen. The other three took up positions around the cottage.

Lavik was sitting inside amused at the thought that the men outside, however many there were, must be freezing their arses off. He was warm and comfortable and hyped up with excitement as he embarked on his plan. He had an old-fashioned alarm clock in front of him, with no glass over the hands. With a bit of fiddling he managed to attach a wooden peg to the small hand. He plugged in the fax machine, put a sheet of paper in the feed, and tried it out. He set the hand just before three, placed the extended hand over the start button of the machine, keyed in his own office number, and sat watching it. A quarter of an hour passed, and nothing happened. He waited a few more minutes and began to worry that the whole scheme would have to be aborted. But then, just as the little hand made its tiny movement to the three, everything functioned perfectly. The peg on the end of the hand just brushed the electronic start button, but it was sufficient. The fax machine obeyed, sucked in the sheet of paper, and transmitted the message.

Encouraged by this success, he went quickly through the house plugging in the time switches he’d brought from home. He used them to economise on electricity, turning the electric radiators off at midnight and on again at six, so that the house was warm when they got up. It was soon done-he was accustomed to setting them. But the difficult part was still to come. He had to create movement while he was away: lights going on and off wouldn’t be enough. He’d thought it all out beforehand, but hadn’t put the idea to the test. It was hard to tell how it would go in practice. Hidden from view by the drawn curtains, he arranged three thin cords across the living room, tying one end of each to the kitchen door handle, and the other ends to different points on the opposite side of the room. Then he attached a kitchen towel to the first, an old pair of swimming trunks to the second, and a napkin to the third. It took a while to set up the candles in the right place: each one had to be up against its string, close enough for the string to catch alight when the flame burnt down to the same level. He broke off the candles to unequal lengths and fixed them in a base of molten wax, standing them on saucers. The candle by the string with the napkin on was the shortest, only a fraction of an inch above the taut thread. He stood and watched in eager anticipation.

Success! In just a few minutes the flame had come low enough to lick at the string, which smoked and then burnt through, and the napkin descended to the floor, casting a moving shadow on the curtains in the window that faced the road. Perfect.

He put up a new string to replace the burnt one, and got out a longer candle. Then he set the clock with the little hand just past one. In slightly less than two hours’ time Jørgen Lavik would apparently send a fax to a lawyer in Tønsberg about an urgent matter which had been delayed by circumstances beyond his control; he apologised and hoped the delay had not caused any problems.

Then he changed into camouflage clothes, meant for hunting but ideal for his purpose. He lit the candles carefully and ensured once again that they were firmly in position. Then he went down to the cellar and slipped out through the door at the rear of the house.

Down on the beach he paused and waited for a moment. Hugging the wall of rock, he felt reasonably certain that he blended fully with the background. When he’d got his breath back he crept along to the spot where many summers ago he’d cut an opening in the wire to gain easier access to his neighbour’s property, in order to play with a boy of his own age.

He crawled towards the road. They probably had it under observation along its whole length. Near the edge of the wood he lay and listened. Nothing. But they must be there. He continued parallel with the road, five metres in and hidden by the trees. There it was. The big concrete pipe that carried a small stream to the other side of the road, creating a bridge instead of a ford. He’d slithered through the pipe on countless occasions in his youth, but he’d put on several kilos and twenty centimetres since then. But he’d calculated correctly that it would still be big enough to take him. He got a bit wet of course, but the stream was only a thin winter trickle; the little pond in the forest above was probably frozen. The pipe continued for three metres beyond the road, because they’d allowed for a long-promised widening which had never materialised. With his head protruding from the other end, he lay quiet again for a few minutes to listen. Still nothing. He was breathing heavily, and could feel how debilitated he’d become from his days in prison. Though much of his loss of strength was compensated for by a potent rush of adrenaline as he darted swiftly and soundlessly into the undergrowth on the opposite side of the roadway.

It wasn’t very far to run, and he was there in just over five minutes. He glanced at his watch. Half past seven. Perfect. The wood creaked a bit when he opened the door of the shack, but the police were at too great a distance to have any chance of hearing it. He slipped inside just as a car went past on the main road twenty metres away. Another one followed close behind, but by then he was already sitting in the dark green Lada and had found that even after being laid up for several months, the battery still had enough power in it to start the engine with a cough and a splutter. Although his uncle’s mind was gone and he barely recognised him on his visits to the hospital, it was obvious that he got some enjoyment from the occasional drives in the Lada that Jørgen treated him to. So as a gesture to his uncle, Jørgen had kept the car in good condition. Now it was he who was reaping the benefit. He revved the engine a couple of times, drove out of the garage, and headed off in the direction of Vestfold.

It was bitterly cold. The police officer had to flap his arms and stamp his feet while remaining silent and invisible. It wasn’t easy. He needed to remove his gloves to use his binoculars, which meant he wasn’t using them very often. He cursed and envied this bloody lawyer for being able to sit and enjoy the warmth in a place that necessitated outdoor surveillance. A moment ago a light had been switched off in one of the upstairs rooms: surely he wasn’t intending to go to bed so early. It was only eight o’clock. Hell, another four hours to the end of the shift. There was an icy blast on his wrist as he uncovered his watch, so he hurriedly pulled his sleeve down.

He could try the binoculars with his gloves on. There wasn’t much to see. Lavik had obviously drawn all the curtains, which was understandable, since he wouldn’t be so stupid as not to realise he was under observation. From that point of view it seemed rather foolish that they were making such efforts to remain invisible. He sighed. What a tedious job. Lavik was certain to hole up for several days, bearing in mind that he’d lugged in bag after bag of food, plus a laptop computer and a fax.

Suddenly he straightened up. He blinked rapidly to disperse the tears caused by the freezing wind. Then he tore off his gloves, flung them to the ground, and focused the binoculars more accurately.

What the devil was it casting those dancing shadows? Had he lit a fire? He lowered the binoculars for a moment and stared up at the chimney outlined in silhouette against the dark night sky. No, there was no smoke. What could it be, then? He put the binoculars to his eyes again, and now he could see it clearly. Something was burning. And burning fiercely. All at once the curtains were aflame.

He threw down the binoculars and raced towards the house.

“The house is on fire!” he roared into his radio. “The bloody house is on fire!”

The radio was superfluous: they could all hear him without it, and two of them came running over. The first one there smashed open the door, saw in an instant where the regulation fire extinguisher was, and hurtled into the living room. The smoke and heat stung his eyes, but he located the source of the fire immediately and fought his way across the room wielding the jet of powder like a frenzied sword before him. The blazing curtains scattered glowing fragments into the air and one landed on his shoulder, setting his jacket alight. He beat out the flame with his hand, scorching his palm, and went on undeterred. His colleagues had arrived, and one seized a woollen blanket from the sofa, the other unceremoniously ripped down a splendid Sami woven wall hanging. In a couple of minutes they had smothered the flames. Most of the room was saved. Even the electricity hadn’t gone off. Lavik, however, had.

The three detectives stood surveying the scene as they recovered from their exertions. They saw the two remaining cords and discovered the little mechanism that had not yet sent off the fax.

“Bloody hell,” the first swore quietly, shaking his painful hand, “the fucking lawyer’s tricked us. He’s conned us good and proper.”

“He can’t have gone before seven. The surveillance team swear they saw him look out of the window at five to seven. In other words he can’t have more than an hour’s start, hopefully less. For all we know, he might have scarpered only minutes before it was discovered.”

Hanne Wilhelmsen was trying to calm Håkon’s agitation, but without much success.

“Warn the other stations in the area. They’ve got to stop him at all costs.”

He sounded breathless and kept gulping noisily.

“Håkon, just listen. We’ve no idea where he is. He may have gone home to Grefsen and be watching some comedian on TV and having a drink with his wife. Or driving round the city. But the crucial point is that we’ve got nothing on him that would justify another arrest. The fact that our surveillance team let themselves be duped is clearly a problem, but it’s our problem, not his. We may well be tailing him, but he’s not doing anything illegal by giving us the slip.”

Even though Håkon was beside himself with anxiety, he had to admit that Hanne was right.

“Okay, okay,” Håkon interrupted as she was about to continue. “Okay. I know we can’t move heaven and earth. I understand what you’re saying. But you must believe me: he’s out to get her. It all fits in: the note about Karen that was taken when you were beaten up, her statement that vanished. He must be behind it all.”

Hanne sighed. This was a new tack.

“You can’t seriously think it was Jørgen Lavik who knocked me out? And that he was the one who sneaked up from a custody cell to your office and stole the statement and then got back down again closing all the doors behind him? You must be joking!”

“He needn’t have done it himself. He might have accomplices. Hanne, listen to me! I know he’s after her!”

Håkon was really frantic now.

“Will it set your mind at rest if we take the car and go over there?”

“I thought you’d never suggest it… Pick me up by the riding school in Skøyen in a quarter of an hour.”

Perhaps the whole thing was just an excuse to see Karen. He couldn’t swear that it wasn’t. On the other hand, his dread lay like a physical knot of pain beneath his ribs, and was definitely not just a figment of his imagination.

“Call it male intuition,” he said ironically, and sensed rather than saw her smile.

“Intuition’s neither here nor there,” she scoffed. “I’m doing this for your sake, not because I agree with you.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Since speaking to him twenty minutes ago on the phone she’d been getting an increasing feeling that his agitation might well be justified. It was difficult to put a finger on what had made her change her mind. His certainty, perhaps: she’d lived long enough not to ignore other people’s instincts and presentiments. Besides, Lavik had seemed so demoralised and desperate when she’d last seen him that he might be capable of anything. Nor did she like the fact that Karen Borg hadn’t answered the phone all evening-it might mean nothing, of course, but she didn’t like it.

“Keep trying her number,” she said, inserting a new cassette into the player.

Karen was still not responding. Hanne glanced across at Håkon, put her hand on his thigh, and patted him gently.

“Relax, it’s good if she’s not there. Anyway…”

She looked at the clock on the dashboard.

“Anyway, he couldn’t possibly have reached there yet, not even by the most pessimistic reckoning. He’d have to find himself a car first, and in the unlikely event of his having one ready to hand near the cottage, he still couldn’t have got away until after seven. Probably later. It’s twenty past eight now. Stop worrying.”

That was easier said than done. Håkon released the little lever on the right of his seat and let it recline as far as it would go.

“I’ll try,” he muttered disconsolately.

Twenty past eight. He was hungry. In fact he hadn’t eaten all day. His elaborate preparations had taken the edge off his appetite, and his stomach had become unaccustomed to food after ten days of semi-fasting. But now it was rumbling insistently. He indicated and pulled off into a lit-up parking area. There was plenty of time for something to eat. He had about a three-quarter-hour drive left. Plus another quarter of an hour to find his way to the right cottage. Maybe even half an hour, since the students’ meeting there had been so long ago.

He parked the Lada between two Mercedes, but it didn’t appear intimidated by such exalted company. Lavik smiled, gave it a friendly pat on the boot lid, and went into the café. It was an unusual building, rather like a UFO that had taken root in the ground. He ordered a large bowl of pea soup, and took a newspaper to the table with him. He was in no great hurry now.

They had already passed Holmestrand and the tape had played both sides. Håkon was bored with country music, and hunted in the tidy console for something else. They didn’t say much on the journey; it wasn’t necessary. Håkon had volunteered to drive, but Hanne had declined. He was content not to, but less happy about the fact that she’d been chain-smoking ever since they passed through Drammen. It was much too cold to open the window, and he was beginning to feel sick. His own chewing tobacco didn’t help. He used a tissue to get rid of it, but couldn’t avoid swallowing the last few bits.

“Would you mind leaving the smoking till later?”

She was embarrassed and very apologetic, and stubbed out the cigarette she’d just started.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” she asked in gentle reproof, throwing the packet onto the backseat.

“It’s your car,” he murmured, looking out of the window.

There was a fine layer of snow all over the fields, and here and there long rows of straw bales wrapped in white plastic.

“They look like gigantic fish balls,” he remarked, feeling even sicker.

“What do?”

“Those plastic rolls. Hay, or whatever it is.”

“Straw, I think.”

He caught sight of at least twenty huge bales a hundred metres from the road on the left; this time in black plastic.

“Liquorice fish balls,” he said, his nausea increasing. “Can we stop soon? I’m getting carsick.”

“There’s only fifteen minutes to go. Can’t you hold on?”

She didn’t sound annoyed, just anxious to get there.

“No I can’t, to be honest,” he said, putting his hand up to his mouth to emphasise the precariousness of the situation.

She found a suitable place to leave the road a few minutes further on, a bus stop by a turn-off to a little white house, which was all in darkness. It was as desolate a place as could be, on a trunk road through Vestfold. There were cars rushing by at regular intervals, but no other life to be seen anywhere.

The fresh, cool air did him good. Hanne stayed in the car while he took a walk along the short track. He stood for a few minutes with his face into the wind; then, feeling better, made his way back to the car.

“Danger over,” he said, fastening his seat belt.

The car coughed irascibly into life when she turned the ignition key, but faded immediately. She made repeated attempts, but there was no reaction to the starter motor at all: the engine had gone completely dead. It was such a surprise that neither of them said a word. She tried once more. Not a murmur.

“Water in the distributor,” she said through clenched teeth. “Or it could be something else. Maybe the whole bloody car has packed up.”

Håkon continued to say nothing, quite deliberately. Hanne got out of the car abruptly, and grimly opened the bonnet. A moment later she was back beside him, holding what he assumed to be the distributor cap; at least, it looked like a lid of some sort. She took several paper tissues from the glove box and rubbed the inside of the cap dry. She gave it a final critical inspection and went out to replace it. It was soon done.

But it didn’t make any difference. The car was just as uncooperative. After two more attempts on the starter, she struck the steering wheel in anger.

“Typical. It has to be now. This car has run like clockwork ever since I bought it three years ago. Couldn’t have been more obliging. And now it has to let me down at a time like this. Do you know anything about car engines?”

She gave him a rather reproachful look, and he guessed she knew the answer. He shook his head slowly.

“Not much,” he said, with some understatement. The truth was that he knew nothing at all about cars, except that they required petrol.

Nevertheless he went out with her to take a look. It would be moral support: the car might be persuaded if there were two of them.

To judge from all the cursing, her search for the fault was not going well. He made a discreet withdrawal and felt queasiness rising in him again. It was cold, and he hopped from one foot to the other as he watched the cars zoom past. Not one of them even slowed down. They were probably on their way home and had no leanings towards human compassion on such a dreary and unpleasant December evening. They were easily visible, since there was a lone street lamp beside the timetable board at the bus stop. Then there was a gap in the regular, if not particularly heavy, flow of traffic. In the far distance he could see the lights of an approaching car. It actually appeared to be adhering to the seventy-kilometres-an-hour speed limit, unlike most of the others, and it had collected four cars impatiently tailing it close behind.

Then came the real shock. The street lamp briefly illuminated the driver as the car went by. Håkon was paying special attention because he’d made a small bet with himself that it must be a woman driving so slowly. It wasn’t a woman at all. It was Peter Strup.

The import of this took a second to penetrate to the relevant part of his brain. But only a second. Recovering from his astonishment, he ran over to the car, which was standing with its bonnet agape like a pike in the reeds.

“Peter Strup!” he yelled. “Peter Strup has just driven by!”

Hanne jumped up, hitting her head on the bonnet.

“What did you say?” she exclaimed, even though she’d heard him perfectly.

“Peter Strup! He just drove past! Right now!”

So the pieces fell into place, everything fitted with a sudden click, difficult to take in, even though the picture was now as clear as day. She was livid with herself. After all, the man had been under suspicion the whole time. He was the most obvious candidate. The only one, in effect. Why hadn’t she wanted to see that? Was it Strup’s spotless reputation, his very correct manner, his photograph in weekly magazines, his successful marriage, his splendid children? Was it these elements that had made her resist the logical conclusion? Her brain had told her it was him, but her police intuition, her bloody overestimated intuition, had protested.

“Shit,” she muttered, slamming down the bonnet lid. “So much for my damned instincts.”

She hadn’t even brought the guy in for questioning. How bloody stupid.

“Stop a car!” she shouted to Håkon, who obeyed her command immediately, taking up position at the side of the road and waving both arms in the air. Hanne got back into her own useless vehicle, gathered up her coat, cigarettes, and wallet, and locked it. Then she joined her overwrought and panicking colleague.

Not a single car showed any inclination to help. Either they drove by without appearing to notice the two people leaping and gesticulating at the roadside, clearing them by centimetres, or they hooted angrily and reprovingly at them as a traffic hazard and swerved round them as they tore past.

After nearly thirty cars, Håkon was on the point of despair, and Hanne realised that something had to be done. It would be far too dangerous to stand in the middle of the road, no question of that. If they phoned for assistance, it would probably be too late. She looked over at the unlit house, standing hunched and unassuming and closed up, as if trying to excuse its unenviable position only twenty metres from the main E-18. There was no parked car to be seen.

She ran up to the house. The little hut on the other side, barely visible from the road, might be a garage. Håkon wasn’t sure whether she expected him to continue the attempt to stop a vehicle, but he took a chance and followed her, which met with no protest.

“Ring the bell and see if there’s anyone at home, just in case,” she called, and tugged at the shed door.

It wasn’t locked.

No car. But a motorcycle. A Yamaha FJ, 1200cc. Latest model. With ABS brakes.

Hanne despised rice burners. Only Harleys were motorbikes. The others were simply two-wheeled conveyances for getting from A to B. Apart perhaps from Motoguzzi, even if that was European. Deep inside, however, she’d always had a sneaking affection for the more sporty type of Japanese machines, especially the FJ.

It looked as if it was in a roadworthy condition, except for the fact that the battery had been removed. It was December; the bike had probably been standing idle for at least three months. The battery was lying on a folded newspaper, neatly stored for the winter just as it should be. She snatched up a screwdriver and connected it across the terminals. Sparks flew, and after a few seconds the thinnest part of the metal began to glow faintly. Enough power in it, evidently.

“No one in,” said Håkon breathlessly from the doorway.

There were plenty of tools on a shelf, more or less the same as the ones at home in her cellar. She quickly found what she wanted, and the battery was back in place in record time. She hesitated only for an instant.

“Strictly speaking this is theft.”

“No, it’s jus necessitatis.”

“What?”

She hadn’t quite caught it and thought he was talking nonsense in his excitement.

“Nothing. Legal Latin. I’ll explain later.”

If I ever get the opportunity, he thought.

Though it broke her heart to damage a new bike, it took only thirty seconds to fix the ignition. She snapped the steering lock with a rapid and hefty jerk. The engine burst into a promising growl. She looked round for a helmet, but couldn’t see one. Naturally enough: there were probably a couple of expensive BMW or Shoei helmets inside the locked house in the warm. Should they force an entry? Did they have time?

Hardly. They would have to ride without them. There was a pair of slalom goggles on a wall-hook next to four pairs of alpine skis. They would have to do. She sat astride the bike and manoeuvred it out into the open.

“Have you ever been on a motorbike?” Håkon didn’t speak, just shook his head vigorously.

“Well, listen: Put your arms round my waist, and do exactly as I do. Whatever it feels like, don’t lean in the opposite direction. Do you understand?”

This time he nodded, and as she was putting the goggles on he mounted the bike and gripped her as firmly as he could. He was clutching her so tight that she had to loosen his hold before she let the bike roar off onto the main road.

Håkon was totally petrified. But he did as he’d promised. To allay his terror he closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. It wasn’t easy. The noise was overwhelming, and he was as frozen as a wet kitten.

So was Hanne. Her gloves, her own everyday gloves, were already soaked through and icy cold. But it was best to have them on; they provided at least some protection. The goggles were also a help, though not much: she had to keep wiping them with her left hand. She cast a quick glance at the illuminated digital clock in front of her. They hadn’t had a chance to put it right before they set off, but it told her that it was a quarter of an hour since they’d sped out of the side track. It had been 9:35 then.

There was no doubt that time was not on their side.

The silver-haired man was pleased to note that his memory had been correct: there was only one road to Ula. Although surfaced, it was very narrow and scarcely conducive to fast driving. At a sudden bend he saw a small lane bordered by thick bushes. He jolted another few metres down the road and found room to turn round where it levelled out. The frost had made the ground hard and easy to drive on, and he was soon strategically positioned with the front of the car facing the road but well hidden from it, and with a little gap through which he would be able to see any vehicles that came by. He put the radio on low and felt, for the circumstances, reasonably comfortable. He would recognise Lavik’s Volvo. It was just a matter of waiting.

Karen Borg was also listening to the radio. It was a programme for long-distance lorry drivers, but the music was okay. She was starting the book on her lap for the sixth time, James Joyce’s Ulysses. So far she’d never got beyond page fifty, but now she’d have a real opportunity to get into it.

It was warm in the spacious living room, almost too warm in fact. The dog was whining. She opened the verandah door to let it out. It didn’t want to go, and just carried on with its restless wandering. She gave up and told it to sit, and in the end it lay down reluctantly in a corner, but with its head raised and ears pricked. It had probably caught the scent of some small animal. Or maybe an elk.

But it was neither a hare nor an elk in the bushes below the cottage. It was a man, and he’d been lying there for quite a while. Nevertheless he felt hot; he was wearing thick clothes and his adrenaline was running high. Finding the cottage had been easy. He had taken the wrong turning once, but he’d soon realised. Karen Borg’s cottage was the only one that was occupied, and it blazed out its presence like a lighthouse. He’d found a good hiding place for the car only five minutes’ walk away.

His head and arms were resting on a ten-litre can of petrol. Even though he’d been careful not to slop any over when filling it up, the fumes were burning his nostrils. He rose rather stiffly, picked up the can, and moved towards the house, half crouching. It wasn’t really necessary, since the living room was on the other side facing the sea. At the rear there were only the windows of two bedrooms, both in darkness, and a toilet in the cellar. He tapped his chest to make sure that the monkey wrench was still there, even though he knew it was: he could feel it jolting against his ribs as he walked.

The door was actually unlocked. One hindrance less than he’d reckoned on. He smiled and turned the handle, infinitely slowly. The door was well oiled and made no sound as he opened it and went in.

The silver-haired man glanced at his watch. He’d been sitting there a long time now. No Volvos had come past, only a Peugeot, two Opels, and an old, dark-coloured Lada. There was virtually no traffic. He tried to flex his muscles, but it was difficult in a car seat. He didn’t dare risk getting out to stretch his legs.

Madness! A motorcyclist with a pillion passenger came roaring by at a speed that was much too fast for the bad road. They had no helmets on either and weren’t wearing leathers. At this time of year! It made him shiver to imagine it. The bike went into a great skid at the bend, and for a moment he was afraid it would slide right into his car. But the rider managed to straighten it up at the last minute and accelerated away. Crazy. He yawned and peered again at his watch.

Karen Borg had got to page five. She sighed. It was a good book. She knew that, because she’d read that it was. She found it insufferably tedious herself. However, she was determined to persist. But she kept finding little things to distract her. Now she was going to have another coffee.

The dog continued to be restive. It was best not to let it out at all: twice before it had stayed away a whole night and day in its hunt for hares. Strange, since it wasn’t a hunting dog; it must be an instinct that all dogs shared.

Suddenly she thought she heard a faint noise. She turned to the dog. It was lying absolutely motionless, its whimpering had abruptly ceased, and its head was tilted to one side, ears pricked. Its whole body was quivering, and she knew that it had heard something too. The sound had come from below.

She went over to the stairs.

“Hello?”

Ludicrous. Of course there was no one there. She stood as quiet as a mouse for a few seconds before shrugging her shoulders and turning away.

“Stay,” she said to the dog in a strict tone, seeing that it was about to get up.

Then she heard steps behind her and wheeled round. In an instant of disbelief she saw a figure bounding up the fifteen stairs towards her. Even though he had a cap right down over his ears she recognised who it was.

“Jørgen La…”

That was all she got out. The monkey wrench struck her above the eye, and she fell straight to the floor. Not that she would have noticed if she’d hit anything on her way down-she had already lost consciousness.

The dog went berserk. It hurled itself on the intruder snarling and barking with rage, jumping up to the height of his chest, where it fastened its teeth in his bulky jacket, but lost its hold when Lavik jerked his upper body sharply. It didn’t give up. It clamped its powerful jaws on his lower arm, and this time he couldn’t shake himself free. It hurt like hell. The pain gave him a surge of strength and he lifted the dog right off the ground, but to no avail. He’d dropped the monkey wrench, and in an attempt to retrieve it took the risk of allowing the animal to make contact with the ground again. That was a mistake. It let go of his arm for a split second and got a better hold higher up. That hurt even more. The pain started to make him feel bemused, and he knew he didn’t have very long. At last he managed to grab the monkey wrench and with a murderous blow crushed the skull of the demented dog, which even so didn’t release its jaws. It hung dead and limp in its death grip, and it took him nearly a minute to loosen its teeth from his arm. He was bleeding like a stuck pig. With tears in his eyes he scanned the room and caught sight of some green towels on a hook in the kitchen doorway. He quickly made a temporary tourniquet, and the pain actually receded. It would come back even more unbearably, he knew. Bugger it.

He ran down to the lower floor and opened the can of petrol. He poured its contents systematically all over the cottage. It amazed him how far ten litres went. It soon began to smell like an old petrol station, and the can was empty.

Steal something! He must make it look like a burglary. Why hadn’t that occurred to him before? He hadn’t brought a bag or case to carry things in, but there must be a rucksack somewhere. Downstairs. There was sure to be one there; he’d seen some sports equipment. He raced back down.

She couldn’t make out what it was that tasted so peculiar. She moved her lips feebly. It must be blood. Probably her own. She wanted to go back to sleep. No, she had to open her eyes. Why? Her head was so damned painful. Better to go on sleeping. It smelt awful. Did blood smell like that? No, it’s petrol, she thought, with a half-smile at her own cleverness. Petrol. She made another attempt to open her eyes. She couldn’t. Perhaps she should try one more time. It might be easier if she rolled over. The effort was agonising, but she slewed herself round almost onto her stomach. There was something preventing her from turning fully. Something warm and soft. Cento. Her hand slowly stroked the dog’s body. She could feel it immediately: Cento was dead. She opened her eyes abruptly-the dog’s head was right up against her own. It was battered in. She tried desperately to rise. Through her bloodied eyelids she saw the figure of a man outside the window, with his face up close to the glass, cupping his hands round his eyes to be able to see more clearly.

What’s Peter Strup doing here? she managed to think, before falling back and crumpling over the corpse of the dog.

There wasn’t much of value in the cottage. A few ornaments and three silver candlesticks would have to do. The cutlery in the kitchen drawers was all steel. It was by no means certain that any loss would be discovered anyway; with luck, the whole house would burn to the ground. He laced up the grey rucksack he’d found, drew out a box of matches from his inside pocket, and went towards the verandah door.

That was when he saw Peter Strup.

The motorbike wasn’t very well suited to cross-country riding. She was also frozen solid, and realised that her coordination and strength were failing her. She stopped just a few metres along the forest track and dismounted, numb and aching. Håkon said not a word. It would be a waste of time even attempting to use the stand on the uneven ground, so she tried instead to lay the heavy machine carefully on its side. She had to drop it the last bit. The owner would be furious. She would have killed anybody herself in similar circumstances. They ran as best they could along the track-not exactly fast. Rounding a bend they came to an abrupt halt. They could see a frightening orange glow through the trees two hundred metres ahead, and above the bare trees yellow flames leaping into the sky.

In seconds they were running again-much faster now.

Jørgen Lavik hadn’t quite known what to do. But his uncertainty was short-lived. He’d thrown three matches, and all of them hit the mark. Flames leapt up instantaneously. He could see Peter Strup tugging at the verandah door, which fortunately was locked. He was unlikely to go away, and must have spotted Karen Borg where she lay, perfectly visible from outside. Had she moved? He was sure she’d been lying on her back before.

It wasn’t so certain that Peter Strup had recognised him. His cap was still pulled down low over his face, and his jacket had a high collar. But he couldn’t take the risk. The question was which would Strup regard as the more important, catching him, or saving Karen Borg? Probably the latter.

He made up his mind fast, picked up the monkey wrench, and ran across to the verandah door. Peter Strup was so surprised that he let go of the handle and lurched back a few paces. He must have caught his foot on a rock or a stump, since he swayed momentarily and then fell backwards. It was the chance Lavik needed. He opened the door, and the flames, which by now had taken hold of the walls and some of the furniture, blazed up fiercely.

He jumped on the man as he lay there, and raised the wrench to strike. But a split second before the blow would have smashed into his mouth, Strup twisted his head out of danger. The wrench hit the ground harmlessly and dropped from Lavik’s grasp.

Intent only on recovering his weapon, Lavik relaxed his guard. Strup wriggled over to one side of him and drove his knee into Lavik’s groin. Not hard, but enough to make him double up and forget the wrench. In a fury, he seized Strup’s legs just as he struggled to his feet. Down went Strup again, but with his arms free, and as he tried to work his legs loose by kicking out at his opponent, he got his hand inside his jacket. The kicking had an effect, and he felt his foot make contact with Lavik’s face. Suddenly his legs were released and he was able to stand up. As he staggered towards the edge of the wood twenty metres away he heard a yell and turned to look behind him in trepidation.

Police officers Sand and Wilhelmsen had reached the blazing house in time to see a figure in hunting gear wielding a massive wrench charging after a man in a suit. They came to a standstill, too winded to intervene.

“Stop!” shrieked Hanne in a futile attempt to prevent the catastrophe, but the huntsman ignored her.

He had only three metres to go when there was a bang. Not very loud, but short and sibilant and very, very distinct. The huntsman’s face assumed a weird expression, clearly defined in the strong light from the flames, as if he were amused by a game he didn’t really understand. His mouth, wide open as he ran, closed in a cautious smile, and he dropped the tool he’d been carrying, let his arms fall, looked down with interest at his own chest, and collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Peter Strup turned to the two police officers and threw down the gun, as an overt demonstration of his good faith.

“She’s still inside,” he shouted, pointing at the burning cottage.

Håkon didn’t pause to think. He tore across to the open verandah door, not even hearing the warning cries of the others as he plunged into the inferno. He ran so fast that he couldn’t stop until he reached the centre of the room, where the only thing as yet in flames was one end of a rag rug. But the heat was so intense that he could feel the skin on his face beginning to tighten.

She was as light as a feather; or perhaps he had suddenly acquired superhuman strength. It took no more than seconds to heave her up onto his shoulder, in a proper fireman’s lift. As he swung round to get back out the way he’d come in, there was an almighty crash. The noise was deafening, like a gigantic explosion. The picture windows had done their best to withstand the heat, but had eventually succumbed. The powerful draught from outside made the roaring flames almost unbearable, and his exit was cut off. At least in that direction. He turned round slowly, like a helicopter with Karen as a broken, lifeless rotor blade. The smoke and heat made it difficult to see anything. The stairs were ablaze.

But perhaps not as engulfed as they seemed? He didn’t have any choice. He drew a deep breath, which made him cough violently. The flames had caught his trousers now. With a howl of agony he leapt down the stairs, and could hear Karen’s head bumping against the wall with every stride.

The fire had been considerate enough to blow out the cellar door. With one final effort he was outside, and the fresh air gave him the extra strength to run another ten metres away from the building. Karen toppled to the ground, and all he had time to notice before he himself lost consciousness was that his trousers were still on fire.

This had all been something of a failure. For one thing, Lavik could have got there before him. Not very likely, though, because murder is easier at night; and it would have been simpler for him to throw off the men tailing him after dark.

But it was boring just sitting there. He finally took the risk of a little walk outside the car-nothing had come past since the crazy motorcyclists. It was bitterly cold, but fine and dry. The frost crunched beneath his feet, and he stretched his arms above his head.

There was a faint pink glow reflected on the low cloud-cover where he imagined Sandefjord must be. He turned towards Larvik and saw the same there. Above Ula, on the other hand, the glow was more of an orange colour, and much more conspicuous-and he thought he could see smoke. He stared towards the light. It was a fire!

Damn and blast! Lavik must have beaten him to it. Or maybe he hadn’t been driving the Volvo? Perhaps he’d changed cars to fool the police. He tried to remember what makes had gone past: two Opels and a Renault-or was it a Peugeot? No matter. The fire couldn’t be coincidence. Arson was one way of taking someone’s life. The man must be completely insane.

He was probably too late. It would be difficult to get Lavik now. The flames were so high that someone would be bound to notice them and call the fire brigade. In a few minutes the place would be full of fire engines and firemen.

But he couldn’t resist stealing a glimpse. Back in the driver’s seat, he put the car in gear and drove slowly towards the conflagration.

“The ambulance is the urgent thing. Very urgent.”

She gave the mobile phone back to Peter Strup, who stood up and put it in his pocket.

“Karen Borg is the worse of the two,” he said. “But the burns on your colleague don’t look good, either. And inhaling all that smoke can’t have helped.”

Between them they had managed to drag the two unconscious bodies down to the parking space where Karen’s car was standing. Hanne hadn’t hesitated to smash the window of the driver’s door with a big stone. There was a woollen blanket in the car, and two small cushions. It was also draped in a tarpaulin that they’d removed and laid beneath the injured pair. They’d torn off a large piece first and filled it with ice-cold water from a little stream just below. Even though the water quickly ran out again, they both thought it had some cooling effect on Håkon’s burnt leg. The heat of the fire could be felt right down by the car, and Hanne was no longer freezing. She hoped Karen and her rescuer were reasonably comfortable as well. The wound above Karen’s eye didn’t appear to be any more severe than the one she’d suffered herself a few long weeks ago; hopefully that might be some indication of the force of the blow. Her pulse was even, if somewhat rapid. Hanne had found some ointment for burns in the first-aid box in the car, and smoothed it on the worst areas before covering them with wet tarpaulin. It was rather like using cough linctus for tuberculosis, she thought wryly, but did it anyway. They were both still unconscious, which was all to the good.

Peter Strup and Hanne Wilhelmsen stood and watched the flames, now apparently nearly sated. It was a riveting sight. The whole of the upper storey was gone, but the lower floor was harder to consume, consisting in the main of bricks and mortar. But there must be some wood there too; even though the flames were no longer soaring high in the sky, they were finding plenty to occupy them. In the distance at last they could hear the sirens, almost mockingly, as if the fire engines were taunting the stricken cottage with their imminent arrival, knowing it to be too late.

“You would have to go and kill him,” she said, without looking at the man by her side.

He gave a deep sigh and kicked at the frosty grass.

“You could see the situation for yourself: it was him or me. I’m lucky I had witnesses.”

He was right. A classic example of self-defence. Lavik was dead before Hanne reached him. The shot had hit him in the middle of the chest and must have penetrated his heart. Strangely enough it hadn’t bled much. She’d hauled him a bit further away from the burning building, since his immediate cremation would be of little advantage.

“Why are you here?”

“At this very moment I’m here because you’ve arrested me. It would be impolite to run off.”

Too much had happened that day for her to be able to raise a smile. She tried, but the result was just a weary and unattractive contortion of the lips. Instead of asking him further questions she just raised her eyebrows.

“I don’t need to say anything about why I came here,” he went on calmly. “It’s okay for you to arrest me. I’ve killed a man, and I’ll have to make a statement. I’ll talk about everything I saw here this evening. But nothing else. I can’t, and I won’t. You’ve probably been thinking I had something to do with the notorious drugs syndicate. Maybe you still do.”

He glanced at her for confirmation or negation. Hanne’s expression was totally impassive.

“All I can say is that you’re completely wrong. But I’ve had my suspicions about what’s been going on. As Jørgen Lavik’s former employer, and as someone who feels a sense of responsibility for the legal profession, and for…”

He broke off, as if he suddenly realised he’d said too much. A little moan from one of the patients behind them made them turn round. It was Håkon who was showing signs of regaining consciousness. Hanne crouched down by his head.

“Does it hurt badly?”

A weak nod and a wince were answer enough. She gently stroked his hair, which was singed and smelt burnt. The ambulance siren was getting louder, and subsided in an anguished wail as the white and red vehicle drove up to them. Following it came two fire engines, prevented by their size from coming all the way.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” she promised him as two strong men lifted him carefully onto a stretcher and carried him into the ambulance. “Everything’s going to be fine now.”

The silver-haired man had seen enough. Lavik was obviously dead, otherwise he wouldn’t have been lying alone and unattended on the grass. He wasn’t so sure about the two prostrate bodies in the parking area. But it didn’t matter. His problem was solved. He retreated into the trees and paused to light a cigarette when he was far enough away. The smoke tore at his lungs, since he’d actually given up some years ago. But this was a special occasion.

“It ought to have been a cigar,” he thought to himself as he returned to his car and trod out the stub in the brown leaves. “A fat Havana!”

A broad grin spread over his face as he set off back to Oslo.