The Blind Goddess

by Anne Holt

  “You don’t mean all that, Håkon,” Hanne said soothingly, retrieving the last pieces of paper. She’d had to lie almost flat to reach an interview transcript that had lodged itself under the mobile shelving.

  “You don’t mean it,” she repeated, half muffled under the desk.

  “Well, not entirely. But almost.”

  They were both feeling frustrated. It was late on a Friday afternoon. There had been too many long days, working into the evenings, which she coped with better than he did. They sat and sorted the papers into their original sequence.

  “Brief me,” he demanded when they’d finished.

  It didn’t take long. He knew how little physical evidence they had, and their wider tactical investigations had ground to a halt. Forty-two witnesses had been questioned in all. Not one of them could throw any light on the case, not even a vague lead to follow up.

  “Has anything come of the watch being kept on Lavik?” said Håkon, putting the papers to one side. He took a warm bottle of beer out of a plastic supermarket bag and knocked the cap off against the edge of the desk. The wood splintered slightly and he brushed a sliver of glass off the neck.

  “It’s the weekend,” he said in excuse, raising the bottle to his lips. The foaming beer threatened to splash down his clothes, so he leant forward and shifted his legs. He wiped his mouth and waited for an answer.

  “No, with the resources we’ve got it’s impossible to mount twenty-four-hour surveillance on the guy. It’s as chancy as a game of roulette. No point in following him at all if it’s not effective. It just makes it more infuriating.”

  “What about the business side of his activities?”

  “It would be an enormous task to get to the bottom of it. He’s had some hotel projects in the Far East. Bangkok. Which isn’t that far from the heroin markets. But the investors he’s been working for are sound enough, and the hotels are already built. So there’s nothing suspicious about the business itself. If you could wangle the expenses, I’d be delighted to go to Thailand and investigate further.”

  She pulled a face that clearly indicated what she thought of the likelihood of such budgetary extravagance. It had turned dark outside, and the weariness they both felt, together with the faint aroma of beer, made the little office seem almost cosy.

  “Are we on duty now?”

  He knew what she meant, shook his head with a smile, and handed her a beer, opening it in the same way as the first. Once again the desk suffered, but this time the neck of the bottle remained intact. She took it from him, then set it down and disappeared without a word. She was back in a couple of minutes and struggling to make two candles stay upright on his desk. They did so eventually, having dripped wax everywhere, each tilted at a slightly different angle. She switched off the main ceiling light and Håkon turned the desk lamp to the wall so that it cast a diffused glow into the room.

  “If anyone comes now, the rumours will start flying.”

  He nodded in agreement.

  “But it could only be to my advantage,” he said facetiously.

  They clinked their bottles together, a bit too forcefully.

  “This was a good idea. Is it allowed?”

  “I’ll do what I like in my own office at half past six on a Friday evening. They’re not paying me for being here, and I’m taking the train home. And there’s nobody waiting for me there, either. What about you, is there anyone waiting for you?”

  He intended it as an amicable enquiry, just an impulsive and well-meaning attempt to exploit the unusual atmosphere. But she clearly interpreted it as overstepping the mark, stiffened in her chair, and put her bottle of beer down. He could have kicked himself as he noticed her change of attitude.

  “How about Peter Strup?” he said after an uneasy silence.

  “We haven’t seen much of him. Perhaps we should. But I just don’t know what there is we can put our finger on. I’m more interested in what Karen Borg must know.”

  Even in the flickering candlelight she could see him flush. He took off his glasses to distract her attention, and wiped the lenses on his cotton sweater.

  “She knows more than she’s saying, that much is obvious. Presumably about criminal offences other than the one we’ve got Van der Kerch for now. We’re holding him for murder. The forensic tests are complete, and enough to convict him. But if our theories are right, he may also be up to his neck in drug trafficking. It wouldn’t exactly be favourable to his sentence to have that on top of a murder. She’s got a duty of confidentiality, and she’s a woman of principle, believe me. I know her. Or used to, anyway.”

  “Well, at least it doesn’t look as if that memo of mine has caused any harm to come to her,” said Hanne. “She hasn’t been aware of anything unusual or worrying?”

  “No.”

  He wasn’t as confident as he sounded. He hadn’t spoken to her for a fortnight. Not that he hadn’t tried. Even though she’d kissed him to seal a promise that he wouldn’t phone her, he’d broken it after just a couple of days, after he’d fallen down a loft ladder very early the Saturday before last. He’d tried her office number on the Monday morning, but had been turned away by a friendly-sounding woman on the switchboard. Karen Borg was busy, but yes, she would pass on the message that he’d phoned. She’d passed on four more messages since then, but none had elicited a response. He’d accepted it with his old feeling of resignation, but even so felt bitter disappointment whenever the telephone rang and he leapt to answer it, only to find that she must be sticking to her resolution not to speak to him for at least a month. There were still two weeks to go.

  “No,” he reiterated, “she hasn’t noticed anything unusual.”

  The candles had made big circles of wax on the desk. Håkon put his hand protectively but unnecessarily behind the flames and blew them out, then stood up and turned on the ceiling light.

  “So much for the Vorspiel,” he said with artificial cheerfulness. “Now off to our respective weekends!”

  SATURDAY 7 NOVEMBER

  Even though winter had rattled its sabre, leaving the frostbitten grass as the first casualty, it had had to surrender to a normal dreary autumn. The debris of these latest preliminary skirmishes had lain for a few days as dirty white patches everywhere; now all were gone. The rain was two or three degrees too warm for snow, but felt much colder. The asphalt, which a short while before had glittered at night as if studded with millions of black diamonds, now lay like a flat slobbering monster swallowing every morsel of light the moment it hit the ground.

  Hanne and Cecilie were on their way home from an excellent party. Cecilie had drunk too much, and was flirtatiously endeavouring to hold Hanne’s hand. They walked arm in arm for a few metres, between two streetlights, but as they came into the glow of the lamp Hanne pulled away.

  “Coward,” Cecilie teased her.

  Hanne just smiled, and withdrew her hands into her sleeves, guarding them from further attempts at intimacy.

  “We’re nearly home,” she said.

  Their hair was already drenched, and Cecilie complained that she couldn’t see anything through her glasses.

  “Get yourself some contact lenses, then.”

  “Well, I can hardly get any at this very moment, can I? And it’s now I need them! So I’ll just have to take your arm. Either that or I’ll break my neck and you’ll be all alone in the world.”

  They walked on with their arms linked. Hanne didn’t want to be all alone in the world.

  The park ahead of them was very murky. They were both afraid of the dark, but it would save five minutes, so they decided to risk it.

  “You’re really witty sometimes, Hanne. You really are,” Cecilie chattered on, as if the sound of their voices would ward off any evil powers that might be lying in wait on an autumn night. “Your jokes make me die. Tell me the one about the National Theatre in Gryllefjord. It gets funnier every time. And it’s a nice long one. Go on!”

  Hanne began it willingly enough. But when she came
to the bit about their second performance at Gryllefjord town hall, she suddenly stopped. She made a quick imperative gesture and dragged Cecilie behind a giant maple tree. Cecilie misunderstood, and offered her lips for a kiss.

  “Cut it out, Cecilie, keep quiet and control yourself!”

  She extracted herself from the unwanted embrace, pressed up close to the tree, and peered out.

  The two men had been incautious enough to position themselves under one of the few lamps in the entire poorly lit park. The women were thirty metres away and couldn’t hear what was being said. Hanne could only see the back of one man, standing with his hands in his pockets and banging his legs against one another to keep warm. That might mean they’d been there for some while. All four of them remained where they were for what seemed an eternity, the men conversing in low tones, the women silent behind the tree. Cecilie had eventually realised it was a serious matter and accepted that now was not the moment for an explanation.

  The man with his back to them was wearing ordinary everyday clothes. His jeans were tucked into a pair of down-at-heel snow boots. His jacket, also denim, had imitation fur on the lapels and collar. His hair was short, almost a crew cut.

  The man whose face Hanne could see was wearing a light beige overcoat and was also bare-headed. He wasn’t saying much, but appeared to be listening intently to the other’s flow of words. After a few minutes he took a small folder from the other man, possibly a slim file. He flicked rapidly through it and seemed to be asking questions about some of the contents. He pointed several times at the documents and held them out under the lamp for them both to see. Finally he folded them lengthwise and thrust them with some difficulty into an inside pocket.

  The light coming from directly above, like a weak sun at its zenith, turned his face into a caricature, looking almost diabolical. Even so, Hanne had recognised him immediately. As the men shook hands and went off in opposite directions Hanne let go of the tree and turned to her partner.

  “I know who that one is,” she said, in a tone of great satisfaction.

  The man in the overcoat was hurrying off, his shoulders hunched, towards the far side of the park where he’d left his car.

  “It’s Peter Strup,” she declared. “Peter Strup the lawyer.”

  MONDAY 9 NOVEMBER

  The paintings hung on the walls in dense profusion. It made for a pleasing impression, even though they did rather overpower one another. She recognised some of the signatures. Well-known artists. One rainy evening she had offered the proprietor a tidy sum for an almost metre-square picture of Olaf Ryes Plass. It was painted in watercolours, but was not like any watercolour she had ever seen: it looked as if it had been done on brown paper which had not absorbed the paint. It was rough and violent, full of urban life and vigour. In the background you could see the block where she lived. But the painting hadn’t been for sale.

  The tables were too close together, which was the only annoying aspect of the place. It was difficult to conduct a private conversation when the neighbouring table was in such close proximity. There weren’t many customers on a Monday; it was so quiet that they’d rejected the table to which they’d been ushered and insisted on one at the other side of the room. For the moment there were no fellow diners next to them.

  The black oilcloth that covered the table was in elegant contrast to the white damask napkins, and the wineglasses were perfect, with no fussy adornment. The wine itself was superb; she had to give him credit for his selection.

  “You don’t give up,” said Karen Borg with a smile after tasting it.

  “No, I’m not renowned for surrendering, at least not to beautiful women!”

  It would have been banal, even rather impertinent, coming from anyone else. But Peter Strup made it sound like a compliment, and she realised—not without a degree of self-reproach—that she felt gratified by it.

  “I couldn’t say no to a written invitation,” Karen replied. “It’s years since I last had such a thing.”

  The invitation had been on top of her pile of mail that very day. An ochre-coloured card of quality paper from Alvøen, deckle-edged and headed in fine print: Peter Strup, High Court Barrister.

  The text itself was handwritten, in a manly but neat and legible hand. It was a humble request to meet him for dinner at a particular restaurant, considerately enough only two blocks away from where she lived. The time proposed was that same evening, and he had ended by writing:

  This is an invitation in the best sense. With your polite rejection fresh in my mind, I leave it to you whether to accept. You don’t need to let me know, but if you come, I’ll be there at 7 p.m. If you choose not to, I promise you’ll hear no more from me—at least not on this matter!

  He had signed off with his first name, like an American gesture of familiarity. It seemed a bit presumptuous, but only in this one respect. The note itself was tasteful, and gave her a free choice. She could turn up if she felt so inclined. She did. But before finally deciding she rang Håkon.

  It was over a fortnight since she’d asked him to keep his distance. Since then she’d been wavering between a fierce desire to phone him and panic at what had happened. It had been the best night of her life. It threatened everything she had, and showed her that there was something inside her that couldn’t be controlled, tempting her out of the secure existence she was so dependent on. She didn’t want to have an affair on the side, nor did she want a separation, under any circumstances. The only rational conclusion was that Håkon had to be held at bay. But at the same time she was sick with desire and had lost several kilos in weight while striving towards a decision whose ramifications she still could not envisage.

  “It’s Karen,” she said when she finally got through to him at the third attempt.

  He gulped so hard that he started coughing. She could hear him moving the receiver away, but what she couldn’t hear was that the cough and the excitement at her call had made him vomit, and he had to grab the wastepaper bin. The bitter taste was still burning his mouth when he was eventually in a condition to speak.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “Something went down the wrong way. How are you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that now, Håkon. We will talk about it, but later. I have to think. I need to work things out. Be a good chap. Give me a bit more time.”

  “Why are you phoning then?”

  A mixture of despair and the faintest surge of hope made him sound unjustifiably impatient. He could hear it himself, and hoped the telephone line would take the sting out of his tone.

  “Peter Strup has invited me out to dinner.”

  There was complete silence. Håkon was absolutely taken aback, and inordinately jealous.

  “I see.”

  What more could he say?

  “I see,” he repeated. “Have you accepted? Has he given any reason for the invitation?”

  “Not yet,” she replied. “But I’m sure it has something to do with the case. I’m tempted to go. Do you think I should?”

  “No, of course you shouldn’t! He’s a suspect in a serious criminal investigation! Have you gone completely crazy? God knows what he might be up to! No, you can’t go. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  She sighed, and realised what a mistake it had been to phone him.

  “You know he’s not a suspect, Håkon. Go on, admit it. You’ve got nothing on the man at all! The fact that he’s shown a peculiar interest in my client is hardly enough to put him in the spotlight. Actually, I’m rather keen to find out what’s prompted this interest, and dinner with him might produce an answer. That would be advantageous for you too, wouldn’t it? I promise I’ll tell you whatever I can get out of him.”

  “We’ve got more on him,” Håkon countered pathetically. “We have more than just this attempted poaching of clients. But I can’t tell you anything. You’ll simply have to take my word for it.”

  “I think you’re jealous, Håkon.”

  He could hear that
she was smiling, damn her.

  “I’m not in the least jealous,” he shouted, his gastric juices rising into his mouth again. “I’ve got a genuine professional concern for your safety!”

  “Well, well,” she said. “If I should disappear this evening, you can arrest Peter Strup. I’m going. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Wait a minute. Where are you meeting him?”

  “None of your business, Håkon, but if you really want to know: the Wine Bar on Markveien. Don’t phone me. I’ll phone you. In a while. A few days, or weeks.”

  She rang off and a derisive monotone buzz took her place.

  “Damn,” Håkon muttered. He spat again into the wastepaper bin and then removed the plastic liner, knotted it tight, and went off to dispose of its evil-smelling contents.

  The food was out of this world. Karen enjoyed a good meal. Her own repeated culinary efforts were always a disaster. A metre of cookery books on the shelf hadn’t made any appreciable difference. In the course of her years with Nils he had gradually taken over the cooking. He could make gourmet meals out of sachets of soup; she could ruin a prime steak.

  Seeing him again, she thought Peter Strup more attractive than his photographs in the newspapers. According to the press he was sixty-five. He looked much younger in photographs, but it was probably because the numerous tiny wrinkles didn’t show. Now, sitting across a table from him, she could see that life hadn’t treated him as leniently as she’d previously thought. Nevertheless the lines on his face gave him more credibility, made him look more experienced. His impressive dark grey hair covered his head like a steel helmet. A Viking chieftain with a glint of granite in his eyes.