Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

Lavik dismissed the thought. It wasn’t important anymore. He was a free man, and had no doubt now that the case against him would soon be dropped. He would ask Bloch-Hansen to make sure it was. A real blunder, that thousand-kroner note, but as far as he knew it was the only mistake he’d ever made. Never, never would he put himself in that position again. There was just one task left, but he’d had plenty of time to plan it. Several days. But it still needed some fine-tuning, and it had come as a real gift when Håkon Sand had attributed the lack of further elucidation of Karen Borg’s witness statement to her absence on holiday. The magistrate had been exasperated by the fact that the police had had problems contacting somebody in the next county, as if it were the other side of the world. Of course it wasn’t. He knew exactly where it was. Nine years ago they’d organised a trip for the student representatives on the faculty committee, of all political persuasions. He’d had a feeling at the time that the woman might have been a little in love with him, though the political gulf between them would have made any greater familiarity impossible. But there was talk of restrictions on student numbers, and they’d all set aside their political differences to make common cause against the planned admission reductions. Karen had offered to host the historic meeting. It had been more wine than politics, but as far as he remembered it had been an enjoyable weekend.

He would have to act fast, and it would be problematical getting rid of the troublesome mosquitoes he knew would be buzzing around him for a long time to come. But he’d manage it. He had to. If he could dispose of Karen Borg, they’d never get him. She was the last hurdle between himself and ultimate freedom.

The dark-blue Volvo came to a halt in front of the garage, skidding slightly on the slippery drive but finding its way home like an old horse returning to its stable after a hard day’s work. Lavik bent over his pale wife behind the steering wheel, kissed her tenderly, and thanked her for her support.

“Everything will be fine now, darling,” he said.

It didn’t entirely seem as if she believed it.

Should he phone, or not? Should he go down there, or should he leave her alone? He wandered restlessly round his small apartment, which had the air of having for some time been a place he just passed through to get clean clothes and some sleep. Now there weren’t any clean clothes, and he couldn’t find sleep anywhere either.

Giddiness overcame him and he had to clutch at the bookcase to keep his balance. Luckily there was a dusty bottle of red wine at the back of the kitchen cupboard. Half an hour later it was empty.

The case was lost. Karen too, probably. There was no point in getting in touch with her. It was all over.

He felt dreadful, and broached a half-bottle of aquavit that had been in the fridge since the previous Christmas. The alcohol finally had the desired effect: he fell asleep. An evil and malicious sleep, with nightmares of being pursued by devilish gigantic lawyers, and a tiny little yellow figure calling to him from a cloud on the horizon. He tried to run towards her, but his legs were like lead and he got no closer. In the end she disappeared altogether: the yellow figure flew off, leaving him lying on the ground, a tiny little police attorney surrounded by cloaked vultures pecking out his eyes.

At last there was some kind of sense to all the fuss and glitter and gaudy plastic lights that were intended to transform the streets for Christmas-they were into December. The snow had returned, and the business community had eagerly taken note of the fact that the personal consumption of the people of Norway had increased a few percent during the course of the year. It raised expectations and inspired resplendent shop-window decorations. The lime trees on Karl Johans Gata, naked and self-conscious in their Christmas lights, stood in for their coniferous cousins. The solemn illumination ceremony for the massive spruce outside the university had taken place the day before yesterday. Today there was only a shabby Salvation Army officer enjoying the sight as he stood stamping his feet and smiling hopefully at the morning commuters hurrying past his collecting box without even a few seconds to spare for the tree in all its glory.

Jørgen Lavik knew he was being shadowed. Several times he stopped abruptly and looked back. It was impossible to work out who was following him. Everybody had the same blank gaze; only one or two gave him an extra inquisitive glance, as if they half recognised him and wondered where they’d seen him before. It was fortunate that the photographs in the press had been so out-of-date and of such poor quality that hardly anyone would have recognised him.

But he knew they were after him, which made things difficult, though at the same time it gave him a permanent alibi. He could turn the situation to his own advantage. He took several deep breaths and felt his mind clearing.

His visit to the office was brief. The receptionist nearly dislodged her dentures in her rapture at seeing him, and gave him a hug that smelt of lavender and old age. It was almost touching. After a couple of hours on the more urgent matters, he told her he was going to spend the remainder of the week at his cottage. He would be available by telephone, and took a number of case files, his computer, and a portable fax machine with him. He might drop in on Friday, since he had to report to the police then.

“So you can hold the fort, Caroline, as you have so ably over the last few days,” he said in a complimentary tone.

Her mouth formed itself into a pallid smile again and her delight at the praise brought roses to her cheeks. She bobbed at the knees flirtatiously, but refrained from turning it into a curtsy. Of course she would hold the fort, and he should have a good holiday. He deserved it!

He thought so too. But before he left he went into the toilet to use the mobile phone he’d grabbed from his colleague’s pigeonhole. He knew the number by heart.

“I’m out. You can relax.”

His whisper was scarcely audible against the embarrassing gurgle from the defective cistern.

“Don’t ring me, and especially not now,” the other man hissed, but without hanging up.

“It’s perfectly safe. You can relax,” he repeated, to no avail.

“It’s easy to say that!”

“Karen Borg is in her cottage at Ula. She won’t be there long. You’ll be quite safe. Only she can bring me down, and only I can bring you down. If I’m all right, you’re all right.”

He didn’t hear the older man’s protests; he had already hung up. Jørgen Ulf Lavik had a pee, washed his hands, and went back to his invisible stalkers.

He would soon have to have something done about his heart. The medication he’d been taking didn’t work anymore. Not very effectively, anyway. He’d twice felt the hand of death, like the frightening and near-fatal blow that had prostrated him less than three years ago. Systematic exercise and a fat-free diet had certainly helped up to now, but his condition over the last few weeks couldn’t be remedied by jogging or carrots.

They were onto him. In a way he’d been expecting it, ever since the snowball began to roll. It could only be a question of time. Even though the description in the Dagbladet of the presumed ringleader had been rather general, and could have fitted several hundred people, it was a bit too exact for the guys in Platou Gata. He’d been walking home from work one afternoon and suddenly they were standing there, as anonymous as the job they were doing, two identical men, the same height, the same clothes. They’d forced him into the car in a friendly, but very firm, manner. The drive lasted half an hour, and ended in front of his own house. He had denied everything. They hadn’t believed him. But they knew that he knew that it was in the interests of all of them that he should be in the clear. Which put his mind at rest to some extent. If it came out how the money was actually spent, they’d all be finished. Admittedly he was the only one who knew where it came from, but the others had accepted it-and used it. Without ever asking, without ever checking, without ever investigating anything. Which made their position extremely delicate.