The Blind Goddess

MONDAY 5 OCTOBER

Fredrick Myhreng, the journalist, didn’t feel at all well. He tugged nervously at his rolled-up sleeves and began fiddling with a ball-point pen till he managed to break it and the ink oozed out, staining his hands blue. He looked round for something to wipe them on, but had to make do with sheets from his notebook, hardly ideal. He also got ink on his smart suit. He wore the sleeves turned back, as if he hadn’t realised that this style went out of fashion when Miami Vice disappeared from Norwegian television. A long time ago now. The label on the outside of the right sleeve hadn’t been removed; in fact, the turn-up was so contrived that it stood out like a hallmark. But it was no good; he still felt insignificant and uncomfortable sitting in Håkon Sand’s office.

He had agreed to come willingly enough. Sand had phoned him early that morning, before the journalist’s Monday-morning feeling after a lively weekend had worn off. Sand had been polite but firm when he asked him to present himself as soon as possible. It was ten o’clock, and he was feeling sick. Håkon offered him a sweet from a wooden dish, and he accepted it. He regretted it immediately after it was in his mouth; it was enormous, and impossible to suck without slurping. Sand hadn’t taken one himself, and Myhreng could understand why. It was difficult to talk with such an object in his mouth, and he felt it would look too childish if he started chewing it.

“You’re working on our murder cases, I understand,” Håkon said, not without a hint of arrogance.

“Sure, I’m a crime reporter,” Myhreng answered curtly and with scantly concealed pride in his professional title. He almost shot the sweet out of his mouth in his eagerness to sound self-assured. Sucking it quickly back in again, he inadvertently swallowed it. He could feel its slow and painful progress down his gullet.

“What do you actually know?”

The young journalist wasn’t really sure what to say. All his instincts prompted him to be circumspect, while his desire to exult in his knowledge was irresistible.

“I believe I know what you know,” he declared, and thought he’d killed two birds with one stone. “And maybe a little more.”

Håkon Sand sighed.

“Now look. I know you won’t say anything about who and how. I know your warped sense of honour will never allow you to name sources. That’s not what I’m asking for. I’m offering a deal.”

A spark of interest showed in Myhreng’s eyes, but Håkon didn’t know how long it would last.

“I can confirm that you’re onto something,” he continued. “I’ve heard that you’ve apparently made a connection between the two murders. I also note that you haven’t yet written anything about it. Which is good. It would be detrimental to the investigation, to say the least, if it got into print. I could of course get the commissioner to ring your editor and put some pressure on you. But perhaps I don’t need to.”

The blond-haired journalist’s interest was increasing.

“I promise you that you’ll be the first to get what we have, as soon as we’re able to say anything. But that’s on condition that I can rely on you when I have to muzzle you. Can I?”

Fredrick Myhreng liked the way the conversation was developing.

“That depends,” he said with a smile. “Let’s hear some more.”

“What made you link the two murders together?”

“What made you?”

Håkon took a deep breath. He rose, went over to the window, and stood there for a moment. Then he wheeled round again.

“I’m trying to come to an amicable arrangement,” he said, adopting a harsh tone. “I could have you in for questioning. I could even bring a charge of withholding evidence pertaining to a criminal investigation. I can’t torture you for information, I suppose, but I can make things hellish hot for you. Do I need to?”

His words had an effect. Myhreng squirmed in his seat. He asked for a further undertaking that he would be the first to know as soon as anything happened. He got it.

“I was having a drink in the Old Christiania the day Sandersen was murdered. In the afternoon, about three I think it was. Sandersen was sitting there with Olsen, the lawyer. I noticed them because they were on their own. Olsen has a whole crowd he goes-sorry, I mean used to go-drinking with. They were there too, but at another table. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but remembered it of course when the murders followed so closely on one another. I’ve no idea what they were talking about. But it was a bit of a coincidence! Beyond that, I know absolutely nothing. But I have my suspicions.”

It went quiet in the room. They could hear the noise of the traffic in Åkebergveien at the back. A crow landed on the windowsill, expressing its complaints in raucous tones. Håkon Sand wasn’t even aware of it.

“There may be a connection. But we don’t know. For the moment there are only a couple of us here thinking along those lines. Have you talked to anyone else about it?”

Myhreng was able to reassure him on that score. He was only too keen to keep the story to himself. But he had begun some investigations of his own, he said. The odd question here and there, nothing that would arouse suspicion. And everything he’d learnt up to this point was only what he knew already. Hansy Olsen’s alcohol problem, his predilection for his clients, his lack of friends, and his large number of boozing companions. What were the police doing?

“Very little so far,” said Håkon. “But we’ve got going now. We’ll talk at the end of the week. I’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks, make no mistake about it, if you don’t stick to our agreement. Not one word about this in the paper, and I’ll ring you as soon as we know any more. Right, you can go.”

Fredrick Myhreng was elated. He’d done a good day’s work, and had a broad grin on his face as he left police headquarters. His Monday-morning feeling had evaporated.

The big room was much too dim. Heavy brown velour curtains with tasselled edges absorbed what little light managed to find its way into the apartment on the ground floor of the old city block. All the furniture was made of dark wood. Mahogany, Hanne Wilhelmsen thought. It smelt as if it was always sealed up, and everything was covered in a deep layer of dust. It couldn’t possibly have appeared in a single week, so the two police officers had to conclude that cleanliness had not been high on Hansy Olsen’s list of priorities. But it was tidy. There were bookshelves right along one wall, dark brown with cupboards at the base and an illuminated bar cabinet at one end with cut-glass doors. Håkon Sand walked across the thick carpet to the bookshelves. He felt as if he was sinking into it, and his feet made no sound except for a slight creak of shoe leather. There was no fiction on the shelves, but the lawyer had an impressive collection of legal tomes. Håkon shook his head as he read the titles on the spines. Some of the books here would sell for several thousand kroner if they went to auction. He took one of them down, felt the good quality genuine calf of the binding, and registered the characteristic smell as he carefully turned over the pages.

Hanne had sat herself at the enormous marble desk with lions’ claw legs, and stared at the leather armchair. There was a crocheted antimacassar over the back, covered in dark, congealed blood. She thought she could even discern a faint aroma of iron, but dismissed the notion as fanciful. The seat was stained too.

“What are we actually looking for?”

Håkon’s question was pertinent, but received no response.

“You’re the detective on the case: why did you want to drag me along?”

He still got no answer, but Hanne moved to the window and ran her hands along under the sill.

“Forensics have been over the whole place,” she said at last. “But they were after murder clues, and they may have missed what we’re looking for. I think there have to be papers hidden somewhere. There must be something in this apartment to give an indication of what the man was up to, apart from his legal practice, that is. His bank accounts, or at any rate the ones we’re aware of, have been thoroughly scrutinised. Nothing suspicious at all.”

She carried on feeling the walls as she spoke.

“If our rather flimsy theory is correct, he must have been pretty well off. He wouldn’t have risked keeping documents at his office, because other people would be running in and out all damned day. Unless he had a hiding place elsewhere, there must be something here.”

Håkon followed her example, and ran his fingers over the opposite wall, self-consciously recognising that he hadn’t the slightest idea what a possible secret compartment might feel like. But they went on in silence until they’d duly felt round the entire room. With no result other than sixteen dirty fingertips.

“What about the obvious places?” Håkon wondered, and went over and opened the cupboards in the tasteless bookcase.

There was nothing at all in the first one. The dust on the shelves bore witness to its having been empty for a long time. The next was stuffed full of porn films, neatly arranged by category. Hanne took one out and opened it. It contained what it said it did, according to the enticing promises on the label. She put the film back, and took out the next one.

“Bingo!”

A slip of paper had fallen to the floor. She snatched it up, a neatly folded A4 sheet. At the top, written by hand, was the word “South.” Below it followed a list of numbers, in groups of three with hyphens between them: 2-17-4, 2-19-3, 7-29-32, 9-14-3. And so it went on right down the page.

They stared at it long and hard.

“It must be a code,” Håkon declared, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.

“You don’t say,” Hanne replied with a smile, folding the sheet carefully again and placing it in a sealable plastic bag. “We’ll have to try to crack it then,” she said emphatically, and put the bag in the case they’d brought with them.

Peter Strup was an extremely active man. He lived life at a pace which at his age would have made all the doctors’ warning lights flash, if it weren’t for the fact that he kept himself in such impressively good physical shape. He was in court thirty weeks a year. In addition to that he took part in protest meetings, TV programmes, and public debates. He had published three books in the last five years, two about his many exploits, and one pure biography. All of them, published just the right length of time before Christmas, had sold well.

He was in the lift on his way up to Karen Borg’s office. His suit showed good taste, a deep reddish-brown flannel. His socks matched the stripes on his tie. He looked at himself in the huge mirror that covered the whole of one wall of the lift. He drew his fingers through his hair, adjusted his tie, and was annoyed to see a hint of grime around his collar. As the wood-trimmed metal doors slid open and he took a step out into the corridor, a young woman came through the big glass doors embellished with white numerals to reassure him he was on the right floor. She was fair-haired, quite attractive, dressed in a suit that was almost exactly the same colour and material as his own. Seeing him, she stopped in astonishment.

“Peter Strup?”

“Mrs. Borg, I presume,” he said, offering his hand, which she took with only momentary hesitation.

“Are you on your way out?” he asked, rather superfluously.

“Yes, but only to get myself a few things. Come on in,” she replied, turning back.

“Was it me you wanted to see?”

He confirmed that it was, and they went into her office together.

“I’ve come about your client,” he said when he’d sat down in one of the deep armchairs with a little glass table between them.

“I really would be very happy to take him over from you. Have you discussed it with him?”

“Yes. He won’t agree to it. He wants me. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No thanks, I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” Peter Strup replied. “Do you have any idea why he’s insisting on having you?”

“No, I don’t, actually,” she said, amazed at how easily she found herself lying to this man. “Perhaps he simply prefers a woman.”

She smiled. He gave a short but charming laugh.

“This isn’t meant to sound insulting,” he asserted, “but with all due respect, are you conversant with criminal law? Are you aware of all the courtroom procedures in criminal trials?”

She bristled angrily as she considered her response. Over the course of the last week she had been teased by her colleagues, bullied by Nils, and reproached by her snobbish mother for having taken on a criminal case. She was fed up with it. And Peter Strup would have to bear the brunt. She slammed her hands down on the desk.

“Quite honestly I’ve had just about enough of everybody pointing out my incompetence. I’ve had eight years’ experience as a lawyer, following on from damn good results when I graduated. With all due respect, if I may use your own words, how challenging will it actually be to defend a man who has admitted to a murder? Won’t it be fairly plain sailing, with a few well-chosen words about his difficult life before the summing up and sentencing?”

It was unusual for her to boast, and she wasn’t normally short-tempered. But it gave her quite a buzz. She could see that Strup was uneasy.

“Of course, I’m sure you can handle it,” he said soothingly, like a benevolent examiner. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

As he went out he turned with a smile and added, “But the offer is still there!”

Having closed the door, Karen rang police headquarters. She eventually got a surly switchboard operator, and asked for Håkon Sand.

“It’s Karen here.”

He was silent, and for a fraction of a second she felt again the weird tingle of excitement that had arisen between them before the weekend, but that she’d almost forgotten about in the meantime. Perhaps because she preferred to.

“What do you know about Peter Strup?”

Her question broke the atmosphere of wariness, and she could hear the surprise in his voice as he answered.

“Peter Strup? One of the most competent defence lawyers in the country, maybe even the best; practising since time immemorial, and a damned nice guy, too! Clever, very well known, and not a skeleton in his cupboard. Married to the same woman for twenty-five years, three successful children, and a modest detached suburban house in Nordstrand. I read the last bit in the tabloids. What about him?”

Karen told her story. She was factual, adding nothing and omitting nothing. When she’d finished, she declared:

“There’s something very fishy about it. He can’t be short of work. And he went to all the trouble of coming to my office! He could have phoned again.”

She sounded almost indignant. Håkon was immersed in his own train of thought, and said nothing.

“Hello?”

He came back to life.

“Yes, I’m still here. No, I can’t explain it. He probably just called in because he was in your neighbourhood.”

“Well, maybe, but then it was strange that he didn’t have a briefcase or documents of any kind with him.”

Håkon couldn’t help but agree, though he said nothing. Absolutely nothing. But his brain was working so hard that Karen might almost have heard it.