Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

“Absurdly simple,” he went on with a smile.

The other two couldn’t really see what he was talking about, and Hanne ventured to confess her ignorance.

“What exactly is a book code, and how is it so self-evident?”

Løvstrand glanced up at her for a moment, and then indicated the top line.

“Three numbers in each group. Page, line, and letter. As you can see, it’s only the first one in each group that has any logical progression. It’s either the same as the preceding first number or higher: 2, 2, 7, 9, 12, 13, 16, and so on. The highest number in the second group is 43, and it’s rare for a book to have more than forty-something lines to a page. Once you identify the book it’s based on, the puzzle should solve itself straight away.”

He could only assume that it must have been devised by amateurs, since book codes were so easy to recognise.

“On the other hand, they’re incredibly difficult to crack,” he declared, “because you have to find the book! And if a prearranged code is used to denote it, you need an awful lot of luck to discover it. When you gave me this, I went down to the Central Library. I got a printout from the database that gave more than twelve hundred books with the word ‘south’ in the title. Good hunting! Anyway, that word could be a code too, and then you’re no further on. Without the right book, there’s not a hope of breaking the code.”

He folded the paper and gave it back to Hanne, who looked dispirited. He wouldn’t keep it, even though it was only a copy. His years in the secret service had had their effect.

“But since the code itself is so banal, I would suggest you try and track down what it’s based on-search for the book near where you found this piece of paper. You might well stumble upon it. A lot of good police work comes from luck. I wish you plenty of it!”

The two officers sat in silence for a while.

“Look on the bright side, Håkon,” said Hanne eventually. “At least we know we’re onto something. Olsen would hardly have needed a code for writing his defence speeches. So it has to refer to nefarious activities.”

“But what?” Håkon sighed. “Shall we go over everything we’ve got once again?”

An hour later they were both in a considerably better mood. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that they might find the book. And since their last meeting they’d also had confirmation that Olsen had indeed seen his client on the day of the appointment. And that it had not taken place in his office, but in the unlikely and very public venue of the Old Christiania.

“That could of course mean that the meeting was entirely innocent,” said Håkon rather glumly.

“Sure could,” said Hanne, making ready to go.

“Why do you use so many American expressions?”

“I’m an America freak.” She grinned, slightly embarrassed. “I know it’s a bad habit.”

They gulped down the rest of their coffee, and went their separate ways.

Later that afternoon two walkers were conversing on a fallen tree trunk in the wooded hills of Nordmarka just to the north of Oslo. The older of the two was sitting on a plastic bag as protection against the damp. The autumn was in its most typical phase, with the finest drizzle in the air, bordering on mist. Visibility was poor, but they hadn’t come out to enjoy the view. One of them tossed a stone into the smooth surface of the forest lake, and they sat in silence watching the circular ripples spread out with the beauty of natural phenomena until the water was totally still again.

“Will the organisation collapse now?”

It was the younger one, a man in his thirties, who put the question. His voice was tightly controlled. He was tense, and it showed, despite the fact that he was trying to appear relaxed.

“No, it’ll be fine,” the older man reassured him. “There’s a good solid structure in place. We’ve just hacked off one branch. Pity, in a way, because it was profitable. But it had to be done. There’s too much at stake.”

He threw another stone, with greater force this time, as if to emphasise his point.

“Well, the truth is,” the younger man ventured, “it’s been solid till now, we’ve always been careful, and the police have never got anywhere near us. But two murders are in a different league from our previous activities. However greedy Olsen may have been, I don’t see why we couldn’t simply have paid him off. Hell, it’s given me the jitters!”

The older man got up and stood in front of him. He looked all around, to make sure they were alone. The mist had thickened, and visibility was down to about twenty or thirty metres. There was no one within that radius.

“Now see here,” he hissed. “We’ve always been fully aware of the risks of this business. But we have to pull off a few more operations, so it doesn’t look as if there’s a connection between the supply of drugs and the murders. Then we’ll get out while the going’s good. But that means you’ll have to keep a cool head and not let us down in the next few months. Because you’re the one with the contacts.

“But we have a little spot of bother that might blow up in our faces,” he continued. “Han van der Kerch. How much does he know?”

“Nothing, basically. He knows Roger in Sagene. Not much apart from that. But he’s been part of the team for a year or two now, so he may have picked up a few bits and pieces. He can’t have any knowledge of me. I haven’t been as incredibly stupid as Hansy was, letting one of the runners into our secrets. I’ve stuck to the codes and written messages.”

“All the same, he might be a problem,” the older man persisted. “Your problem.”

He lapsed into a meaningful silence without shifting his gaze from his companion. It was a threatening posture, with one leg on the tree trunk and the other firmly on the ground right in front of the younger man.

“There’s something else you ought to remember. You’re the only one who knows about me, now that Hansy has kicked the bucket. None of the boys lower down in the organisation is aware of my existence. Only you. That makes you rather vulnerable, my friend.”

It was an absolutely blatant threat. The younger man stood up and put his face right up close to the other.

“That goes for you too,” he said coldly.

Hanne Wilhelmsen had the same relationship with the police force that in her more romantic moments she imagined a fisherman had with the sea. She was indissolubly bound to the police, and couldn’t envisage doing anything else. When she chose to go to police college at the age of twenty, she made a decisive break with the deep-rooted academic traditions of her family. It had been a protest against her professorial parents and thoroughly middle-class background. Her choice of lifestyle was met with deafening silence from the family, apart from a nervous clearing of the throat by her mother at one Sunday lunch. But they seemed to have accepted it with equanimity. Now she was a sort of mascot for them all, the one who had the most entertaining stories at Christmas. It was through her that the family could imagine they were keeping in touch with real life, and she loved her job.

At the same time she feared it. She had begun to notice what was happening to her soul as a result of this daily contact with murder, rape, violence, and abuse. It clung to her like a wet sheet. Even though she had got into the way of taking a shower when she came home from work, she sometimes thought the smell of death stuck fast, like the smell of fish guts on the hands of fishermen. And just as she imagined fishermen scanning the waters for direct or indirect signs of the presence of fish-gulls gathering, schools of whales hunting-almost as a reflex in their bones after generations at sea, that was how she let her subconscious roam over all her cases simultaneously. There was no information that didn’t lead somewhere. The danger lay in the ever-present problem of overwork. Crime in Oslo was growing at a faster rate than the money allocated to police recruitment in the annual budget.