Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

“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.