Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

His theory was reinforced when he’d searched the third and final office, Kaldbakken’s little den. If neither Wilhelmsen nor the chief inspector had copies, there was every likelihood that the document only existed in the original. Which was now in his possession.

A few minutes later it existed no more. First it had passed through a shredder until it resembled a desiccated and malformed tangle of spaghetti, and then it lay in a dish for just as long as was needed for the flames to destroy it completely. Finally the remains were collected up in a sheet of toilet paper and flushed down the lavatory, which was at the far end of the corridor on the most invisible floor of the police headquarters building. Using an old lavatory brush, the man from the Special Branch removed the final particles of ash from the WC, and with that Hanne Wilhelmsen’s rainy trip to the county of Vestfold was totally wasted.

Back in his office the man picked up a mobile phone and rang the number of one of the men he’d met in Platou Gata a few days previously.

“I’ve done as much as I’m prepared to do,” he said in a low voice, as if out of respect for the somnolent building. “Karen Borg’s statement has been removed from the file. It’s bloody awful doing things like this to colleagues. You’ll have to look after yourselves from now on.”

He terminated the call without waiting for a reply. Instead he went to the window and stood staring out over Oslo. The city lay heavy and tired beneath him, like a drowsy whale glistening with the phosphorescence of the sea. He felt old and tired himself. Older than for many years. After a while his eyes began to feel gritty, and he had to screw them up to steady the dancing specks of light far, far below. He sighed and lay down on a small and very uncomfortable sofa to await the start of the working day. Before he fell asleep the full import struck him again of what he had done to his colleagues.

It’s not surprising this gang has managed to keep it all going so long. They have a hold over their people that I’ve never seen the like of. Not in the drugs world. Very strange. Is he still not coming clean?”

Kaldbakken was genuinely amazed. He’d done six years in the drugs squad and knew what he was talking about.

“Well, we can’t exactly throw the book at him,” said Hanne Wilhelmsen miserably. “Threats against public servants, even the police, don’t qualify for more than a brief vacation in a pleasant little cell. From that point of view he has a lot to gain by keeping his mouth shut. He may appear to be scared out of his wits, but he’s still got enough left to keep a cool head. He’s even clever enough to admit he was the one who aimed a gun at Billy T. We’ll have to let him go today; we’ve got no reason to detain him. No risk of losing evidence if he’s admitted it.”

Of course they could keep him under observation for a few days. But for how long? Twenty-four-hour surveillance of Roger from Sagene was already taking up a large part of their capacity. If Lavik were released today, they’d really have a problem with resources. It could be solved in the short term, but these guys were hardly going to do anything stupid in the next few days or weeks. It would probably be months before they resumed any interesting activities. The police would miss it, not willingly, but because budgets wouldn’t allow such extravagance. Not even for a case with these ramifications. It was a raw deal. As usual.

Håkon hadn’t said anything. Apathy had set in. He was anxious, fed up, and deeply disappointed. His grey temples had gone greyer, his acid stomach more acidic, his clammy hands clammier. Now all he had was Karen’s statement. It was doubtful whether it would be enough. He got up dispiritedly and left the meeting without a word. An oppressive silence followed his departure.

The statement wasn’t where he’d put it. He tried a couple of drawers absentmindedly. Could he have tucked it away somewhere? No, all he found were a few insignificant items he’d hidden out of sight of his guilty conscience. Now was not the time to confront previous procrastination.

The statement wasn’t in his office at all. Odd-he was convinced he’d placed it right there, on top of the big pile. With a deeply furrowed brow he cast his mind back to the previous day. He’d been going to make copies; then he’d forgotten to. Or had he gone to the copying room? He went to check now.

The machine was running at full tilt, and a stocky woman in her sixties confirmed that there’d been nothing there when she arrived. To make absolutely certain they looked behind the machine and underneath it, but there was no sign of the statement anywhere.

Hanne hadn’t taken it. Kaldbakken had already asked for a copy, and shrugged his shoulders dolefully, swearing he’d never seen it.

Håkon was getting seriously worried now. The document was the only hope they had of obtaining an extension of custody. Before going home the night before he’d scanned it as well as his red-rimmed eyes would allow. It was exactly what he’d wanted. Thorough and incisive. Convincing and well expressed. But what the hell had happened to it?

The time had come to raise the alarm. It was half past nine, and the application for an extension had to be ready to take to the Court by noon. The hearing should actually have been held at half past eight in the morning, but on Friday Christian Bloch-Hansen had asked for a few hours’ postponement, which had suited the police admirably. He had a trial to attend in the morning, and would if necessary send an assistant to the important custody hearing. There were two and a half hours to go, which actually gave Håkon just about long enough to get the custody application dictated and typed, with no time to embark on a general search. But no statement, no custody order.

They abandoned the effort at about half past ten. The statement had totally disappeared. Hanne was upset, and took all the blame on herself; she should have done the copies straightaway. Her unreserved declaration of responsibility didn’t really help Håkon at all. Everyone knew that he was the last to have had the papers.

Karen could come and repeat the statement. He could get a postponement of an hour, which would just about enable her to make it back from the cottage. She would have to make it.

But she didn’t answer the phone. Håkon rang five times. In vain. Hell. Panic was setting in, clawing its way up his spine. It was an extremely unpleasant sensation. He shook his head violently as if that would somehow help.

“Ring Sandefjord or Larvik. Get them to fetch her. Immediately.”

The commanding tone couldn’t conceal his anxiety, though it hardly mattered-Hanne was equally fearful. Having spoken to the police at Larvik, under the mistaken impression that they were the nearest, she hurried back to Håkon’s office. He was morose and unapproachable, and busy trying to construct something which might give an appearance of solidity. It wasn’t easy with the third-rate and imperfect material they had.

That bloody boot man. Håkon was tempted to run down to the cells and offer him a hundred thousand to blab. If that didn’t work, he could beat him up. Or maybe kill him. In pure and simple rage. On the other hand, both Frøstrup and Van der Kerch had bought their own tickets to the other side, so who knew, perhaps the police would soon have another suicide on their hands. God forbid. Anyway, they’d have to let him go in the course of the day. They’d wait as long as they could.

An hour later there was nothing more to be done. The secretary took twelve minutes to type what he’d dictated. He read it through with a despondency that increased with every line. She gave him a sympathetic look, but said nothing. Which was probably best.