The Blind Goddess (25 page)

“Anyway, it’s a complete fallacy. The worst possible thing in a magistrate’s court is anonymous tip-offs. So now you know,” she added.

The lad had been sufficiently rebuked, and the meeting was brought to a close. Hanne and Håkon stayed on.

“This will have to be cleared with the commissioner. And with the public prosecutor. And to cover our backs I should really check with the palace.”

It was plain that Håkon wasn’t entirely happy at the thought of what lay ahead. Dejection had set in once the beating helicopter rotors had come to a standstill. What he wanted most
was to ask Hanne if she would apply for the arrest warrant.

She sat down beside him on the little sofa. To his amazement she placed her hand on his knee and leant familiarly against his shoulder. A faint aroma of a perfume he didn’t recognise made
him take a deep breath.

“Now it’s really beginning,” she said in a low voice. “All we’ve done so far is collect tiny fragments, a bit here, a bit there, so minute that it hasn’t been
worthwhile trying to fit the jigsaw together. It’s now we have to get started properly. There are still loads of pieces missing, but can’t you see the picture, Håkon? Don’t
give up! We’re the good guys. Don’t forget that.”

“It doesn’t always seem like it,” Håkon replied sullenly.

He put his hand on hers, which was still resting on his knee. To his even greater astonishment she didn’t withdraw it.

“We’ll have to try, anyway,” he said wanly, letting go of her hand and standing up. “Make sure you get everything done that’s necessary for the arrest. I assume you
want to arrest him yourself.”

“Yeah, you bet your bottom dollar I do,” she said vehemently.

They were all there. The commissioner, in a newly pressed uniform, serious and stiff-backed, as if she had lain awkwardly during the night. The public prosecutor, a flabby
little fellow in a pilot shirt with small shrewd eyes behind pebble lenses, had got the best chair. The head of the drugs squad—who was only deputising, because the real one was acting chief
constable in Hønefoss, where the chief constable himself was deputising for the public prosecutor, now on temporary appointment as a high court judge—had also ironed his uniform for
the occasion. It was rather skimpy, and his shirt was hanging out untidily over his pot belly. He looked benevolent, like a jovial P. C. Plod, with a round red face and thin grey curly hair. Lady
Justitia was on the table in her customary position, with her scales held high and sword poised for execution.

One of the clerical staff knocked on the door. She served coffee without a word, in plastic cups. Hanne Wilhelmsen and Håkon Sand were served last. Nor did they get full cups. It hardly
mattered; Hanne didn’t even have a sip of hers before she stood up. It took about half an hour to present the case. The content was the same as earlier in the day, though more structured. But
since then she had also got something else. She smiled for the first time as she added:

“A sniffer-dog has identified the money!”

The head of the drugs squad gave a nod of acknowledgement, but as both the commissioner and the public prosecutor looked uncomprehending, she elaborated further.

“The money has been in contact with drugs. Or most probably: someone has touched the money immediately after handling drugs. That’s a little piece of the jigsaw we really needed.
Unfortunately it wasn’t the note that had the fingerprints on, but even so . . .”

“About the fingerprints,” the public prosecutor interrupted. “From a legal viewpoint, you haven’t got Lavik’s fingerprints. So we have to ignore everything that
depends on them when we consider the issue of the arrest warrant. Have you taken that into account?”

He looked at Håkon, who rose from his seat and joined Hanne at the flip chart.

“Yes, indeed we have. We bring him in on the second charge, take his fingerprints immediately, and arrange with Forensics for them to have an official report ready on Monday morning. That
should fit in. We plan to arrest Lavik and Roger the car salesman tomorrow afternoon. No one could expect us to have the committal application ready by Saturday in a case of this magnitude. So
we’d have till one o’clock on Monday to draw up an application that will hold water. From that point of view, Friday afternoon is the optimum time for the arrest.”

There was silence. The commissioner, who looked nervous and unwell, was sitting bolt upright in her chair with her back unsupported. This case might prove a burden for the police that they could
well do without. The commissioner’s job had turned out to be a lot more arduous than she had imagined. Problems and criticism every single day. This was an affair that could really blow up in
her face. An artery throbbed uncomfortably in her gaunt neck.

The head of the drugs squad still retained his inappropriate smile. With his sheep-like grin and squinting eyes he didn’t give an impression of great intelligence. The public prosecutor
got up and crossed to the window. He stood with his back to them and spoke as if his audience were on scaffolding outside.

“Strictly speaking we ought to have the approval of the Court for an arrest,” he said loudly. “All hell will be let loose if we don’t go to the Court first.”

“But we never do that,” Håkon protested.

“No,” said the public prosecutor, swinging round. “But we ought to! But . . . it’s you who’ll take the rap. Have you worked out how you’re going to defend
yourselves?”

Strangely enough, Håkon was gradually becoming less nervous. The public prosecutor was actually on his side.

“Well, the situation is this: we won’t get an arrest if we don’t include the fingerprints; we won’t get the fingerprints before we’ve arrested him. Hopefully his
defence counsel will have more than enough to do over the weekend, far too much to concern himself with formalities. I’m willing to take any flak afterwards. And since it’s up to us to
gauge the need to involve the Court in seeking an arrest warrant, it’s not something we can really be hauled over the coals for. We’ll just be severely reprimanded. I can take
that.”

The little man in the safari shirt smiled and addressed himself to Hanne.

“What about you? Have you completely recovered from the attack now?”

She felt almost flattered, and was annoyed with herself.

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks. But we still don’t know who was behind it. We presume it has something to do with this case, so perhaps we’ll uncover some clues along the
way.”

It was beginning to get dark, and the humid November air was pressing against the sixth-floor windows. From the depths of the building they could hear faint martial music. The police band was
having a practice session. They had all sat down again, and Hanne was in the process of packing up the thick bundle of files.

“Just one more thing, Sand: have you decided how you’ll word the charge against Lavik? Quantity unknown, place unknown, time unknown, and so forth?”

“We’ll charge him with the quantity we found at Frøstrup’s apartment. Twenty grams of heroin, four grams of cocaine. Not a lot, but more than enough to establish the
next link. Much more than enough for remand in custody.”

“Put a second count in the charge,” the public prosecutor directed. “For ‘having in recent years imported an unknown quantity of drugs.’ Or some such
phrase.”

“Certainly,” Håkon indicated his assent.

“Another thing,” said the public prosecutor, turning to the head of the drugs squad. “Why is Eleven dealing with this case? Shouldn’t it have been handled by A 2.4?
It’s developed into a drugs case, even if the murders are connected.”

“We’re cooperating,” Hanne interjected unhesitatingly, without waiting for a response from the head of the drugs squad. “Cooperating very effectively. And the murder
cases are the fundamental aspect, as you know.”

The meeting was over. The commissioner had said barely a word since she opened the session. She shook the public prosecutor’s hand as she showed him out of the room; the others had to make
do with a nod. Håkon was the last to leave, and in the doorway he glanced back again at the beautiful sculpture. The commissioner noticed, and smiled.

“Good luck, Håkon. I really wish you luck.”

It actually sounded as if she meant it.

FRIDAY 20 NOVEMBER

H
e couldn’t have looked more astounded if he’d seen little red-eyed green Martians. Even Hanne Wilhelmsen was momentarily assailed by
doubt. Jørgen Ulf Lavik, his eyes almost popping out of his head, stood in the office of his legal practice alternately staring at Hanne and reading the blue sheet again and again, emitting
small plaintive whimpers. His face had turned crimson and puffy, and he seemed in imminent danger of a heart attack. Two plainclothes police constables had taken up position in front of the closed
door of his office, feet apart and hands behind their backs, as if they were expecting him to attempt to rush past at any moment and escape to a freedom he must now fear might only lie in the dim
and distant future. Even the ceiling lamp flickered and trembled in its fury and agitation as a heavy articulated lorry sped over the crossroads outside to catch the amber light.

“What the hell is this?” he squeaked, having read it at least six times. “What the devil does it mean?!”

He smashed his fist down on the desk with a mighty thwack. It obviously hurt, and the pain made him shake it involuntarily.

“It’s a warrant for your arrest. You’re being arrested. Taken into custody, if you prefer.”

Hanne gestured towards the sheet of paper lying on the desk, torn nearly to pieces after the lawyer’s outburst.

“The reasons are given there. You have all the time you want to respond. All the time you want. But for now you’re coming with us.”

Seething with anger, Lavik fought to keep himself under control. His chin was working, and even the men posted at the door could hear his teeth grinding. He kept flexing his hands rapidly until
he calmed down.

“I must phone my wife. And I’ll have to get myself a lawyer. Will you leave the room for a moment?”

Hanne smiled.

“From now on and for some good while I’m afraid you won’t be able to talk to anyone without a police presence—except for your lawyer, of course. But it’ll have to
wait till we get to the station. Put your coat on. Don’t make trouble; it won’t help any of us.”

“But my wife!” He sounded almost pitiable. “She’s expecting me home in an hour!”

It couldn’t do any harm for him to speak to her. It would spare them from criticism in that respect, anyway. Hanne picked up the receiver and handed it to him.

“Say what you like about the reason for your not coming home. You can tell her you’ve been arrested if you wish, but not a word about why. I’ll cut off the call if you say
anything I don’t approve of.”

She indicated the receiver rest with a warning finger and let him dial the number. The conversation was brief, and he told the truth. Hanne could hear a wailing voice at the other end of the
line asking “Why, why?” Admirably enough he managed to retain his composure and ended by promising that his lawyer would contact her in the course of the evening. He banged down the
receiver and stood up.

“Let’s get this farce over with,” he said grimly, and threw his coat on inside out, cursed when he saw what he’d done, and spoke to the two men in the doorway as he went
out. “Aren’t you going to clap me in irons too?”

They ignored the sarcasm. A quarter of an hour later he was in a cell in the police station. He had been there before. Things had seemed very, very different then.

Jørgen Lavik’s choice of lawyer had surprised them all. They had expected one of two or three superstars, and prepared themselves for a rough ride. But at about
six o’clock that evening Christian Bloch-Hansen had turned up, very correct and softly spoken, called on Hanne and Chief Inspector Kaldbakken, and politely requested a chat with Håkon
Sand before he met his client. Which of course was granted. He had taken the slim file of copies of the charge documents with slightly raised eyebrows, but accepted without complaint
Håkon’s explanation that they were unfortunately the only documents he could give him without prejudicing the investigation. Bloch-Hansen wasn’t annoyed. He’d been in the
business for thirty years and was well known and respected. His was not a household name, however, because he’d never sought publicity. Indeed, it always seemed as if he deliberately avoided
drawing attention to himself, which further strengthened his reputation in the courts and in the prosecution service, and had led to numerous commissions and special briefs, all discharged with
thoroughness and professional competence.

Håkon’s immediate relief at his agreeable opponent would gradually give way to the recognition that he’d got the worst imaginable adversary. Christian Bloch-Hansen was not a
barrister who would rant and rave; he wouldn’t want to inflate matters into bellicose headlines in the tabloid press. Nor would he dwell on inessentials: he would simply tear them to shreds.
Nothing would escape him. He was expert at criminal trials.

In half an hour the neat middle-aged lawyer had gathered all the information he required. Then he went off to sit with his client in a separate room for a couple of hours. After he’d
finished, he asked if the interrogation of Lavik could be postponed until the following day.

“My client is exhausted. You probably are too. I’ve had a long day myself. When would it suit you to begin?”

Overwhelmed by Bloch-Hansen’s gentlemanly manners, Hanne let him choose the time himself.

“Would ten o’clock be too late?” he asked with a smile. “I like to have a more leisurely breakfast at weekends.”

It was neither too late nor too early for Hanne Wilhelmsen. The interrogation would commence at ten o’clock.

SATURDAY 21 NOVEMBER

A
shrill diabolical sound penetrated his consciousness. At first he couldn’t make out what it was, and rolled over in confusion to squint at
the alarm clock. He had an old-fashioned clockwork one that ticked, with a face of ordinary numerals and a key on the back that reminded him of the screw-on ice skates of his childhood. It had to
be wound up tight every evening until it groaned if it wasn’t to stop by about four in the morning. It was ten to seven, and he lashed out at the big bell on the top. It made no difference.
He sat up in bed to clear his mind and realised it was the telephone ringing. Groping clumsily for the receiver he knocked the whole instrument to the floor with a clatter. He finally succeeded in
getting hold of it and blurrily announced himself.