Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

She constantly endeavoured to keep her caseload within a maximum of ten under investigation at any one time, a goal she all too frequently failed to achieve. Green files of differing thicknesses were heaped up in dangerously high and mutually threatening stacks on one side of her desk. Even in the extremely busy period that was now behind her, she had made time to go through them at intervals and try to attach the little A5 sheet bearing the words “Recommend no further action” to the greatest possible number of cases. With feelings of inadequacy and an absolute certainty of the suspect’s guilt, she would go, weighed down with guilt herself, to get the necessary stamp from a police prosecution attorney, code 058, “Not proceeded with for lack of evidence.” So another criminal went free, she had one less case to spend her time on, and she just hoped that she had mostly got her priorities right. The burden was made worse by the fact that she never encountered any resistance from the attorneys. They relied on her and only skimmed through the documents out of a sense of duty before invariably following her recommendations. Hanne knew that the stacks of green files were nightmares for them, too.

It was Sunday, and she had twenty-one files in front of her. She had sorted them according to the severity of the potential penalty. She felt paralysed for a while by an inability to act, but eventually managed to get herself going. None of the cases was a prime candidate for the archives. There were eleven Article 228/229s, assault and grievous bodily harm. Perhaps she should go for a fine on some of them, a legitimate and practical way of getting rid of them.

Three hours later she had proposed fines in seven cases, all involving greater or lesser degrees of violence perpetrated by drunken restaurant customers and churlish doormen. With a certain amount of goodwill two cases could be regarded as adequately investigated, even if more witness statements would undoubtedly have been valuable. Hoping the courts would be able to recognise a criminal when they saw one, she made recommendations to prosecute.

Sunday was a good day for working. No phones, no meetings, and only a few other colleagues to exchange smug words with in mutual admiration for being at work on their free day, without pay or recognition-only the knowledge that Monday would be that much easier.

She heard voices at the rear of the building, and glanced out of the window. A considerable number of press photographers were clustered outside, and she remembered that the minister of justice was coming that day. “Why on a Sunday?” their superintendent had asked grumpily when the notice of the proposed visit arrived from the commissioner’s office. The only response he got was that it was not his concern. Hanne had a shrewd suspicion that the choice of day was not unrelated to the amount of space available in Monday newspapers, since all the major stories would have been hogged by the ubiquitous Sundays. The Monday papers had been getting thinner, and it was that much easier to get into print. The minister’s visit was the result of repeated headlines about the high incidence of unsolved crimes, and he was also going to take the opportunity to discuss with the commissioner the alarming increase in street violence, what the media were fond of calling “unprovoked attacks”-not an accurate description if one had access to the relevant files, which journalists usually did not. So they didn’t realise that the change was not the absence of provocation, but that it was now countered by knives and fists rather than by verbal abuse as in the old days.

Now she had got it down to twelve unsolved cases. She was closer to her target, and felt in a better humour. She selected the thickest of the files.

They weren’t any nearer to finding an answer as to why Ludvig Sandersen had had to be despatched so brutally to what some maintained was a better place. Hanne hoped for his sake that she was the one who was wrong, and that he was now attired in white and seated on a cloud, indulging himself to the fullest on the greyish-white powder that had made his life on earth such a misery.

They had still not found any link between this case and Olsen’s murder. She had chewed over the idea with Håkon Sand on Friday, and she felt they had enough now to make the connection official. But he had opposed the suggestion, and opted to wait a bit longer. However, she thought the time had come to start examining the two cases together. She pushed the pile of papers away, took her feet off the desk, and let her boots thud to the floor as she rummaged in her bag for her keys, which also fitted the doors of all the other investigators’ offices. The file was with Heidi Rørvik, a few rooms further down the corridor.

There was no sign of anyone in the corridor as she came out. Everything was quiet, as it should be on a Sunday afternoon. But just as she was about to unlock the door of Rørvik’s office, she felt rather than heard footsteps behind her. She swung round, a split second too late. The blow, with an object she couldn’t identify, struck her savagely on the temple. Her head exploded in a violent flash of light and she knew she was already bleeding profusely even before she hit the ground. She had no strength in her muscles, so there was nothing she could do to break her fall. The left side of her forehead smashed to the floor, but she wasn’t aware of it. She had already lost consciousness, momentarily experiencing only an intense feeling of life ebbing away, before she sank into a darkness that obliterated the pain. A gash like a broad, scornful sneer opened up on her brow.

She was roused by a desperate urge to vomit. She was lying on her stomach with her head twisted at an excruciating angle; the need was so overpowering that it fleetingly outweighed the sensation that her head was going to burst open. She hurt all over. Cautiously exploring with her fingers she realised with a dull sense of surprise that two big bleeding cuts, one on her forehead and the other above her right ear, were no more painful than the deep sharp stab emanating from somewhere inside, deep in the centre of her skull. She lay there fighting against the nausea for several minutes, but finally had to give in. As if by instinct, she found the strength and presence of mind to drag herself up onto her hands and knees, like a baby watching TV, so that she could vomit without swallowing anything. It helped.

She wiped her forehead, but couldn’t prevent the blood running into one eye and obscuring her vision. She made an effort to stand up, but the blue corridor spun round and round, and she had to perform the task in stages. Finally on her feet again, she sagged against the wall, and only then did she start trying to understand what had happened. She couldn’t remember a thing. She was seized by panic. She knew she must be at police headquarters, but had no idea why she was there. Where were the others? She staggered along to her own office and dialled her home number, smearing the telephone with blood in the process. She had to make numerous attempts; it was difficult to find the right buttons. The light from the window was unbearable, like being hit with a hammer behind the eyes.

“Cecilie, come and fetch me. I’m ill.”

She dropped the receiver, and collapsed back into unconsciousness.

The darkness was comforting. Her head still ached, but where before there had been bleeding wounds, she could feel big soft bandages. The cuts weren’t really painful, and she presumed she must have been given a local anaesthetic. The bed was a metal one, and after touching the bandages she discovered that a saline drip had been inserted into her hand. Hanne was in hospital, and Cecilie was sitting on the edge of the bed.