The Blind Goddess

by Anne Holt

  “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 clos
ed 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 th
ere. 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.