Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

“Would you mind leaving the smoking till later?”

She was embarrassed and very apologetic, and stubbed out the cigarette she’d just started.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” she asked in gentle reproof, throwing the packet onto the backseat.

“It’s your car,” he murmured, looking out of the window.

There was a fine layer of snow all over the fields, and here and there long rows of straw bales wrapped in white plastic.

“They look like gigantic fish balls,” he remarked, feeling even sicker.

“What do?”

“Those plastic rolls. Hay, or whatever it is.”

“Straw, I think.”

He caught sight of at least twenty huge bales a hundred metres from the road on the left; this time in black plastic.

“Liquorice fish balls,” he said, his nausea increasing. “Can we stop soon? I’m getting carsick.”

“There’s only fifteen minutes to go. Can’t you hold on?”

She didn’t sound annoyed, just anxious to get there.

“No I can’t, to be honest,” he said, putting his hand up to his mouth to emphasise the precariousness of the situation.

She found a suitable place to leave the road a few minutes further on, a bus stop by a turn-off to a little white house, which was all in darkness. It was as desolate a place as could be, on a trunk road through Vestfold. There were cars rushing by at regular intervals, but no other life to be seen anywhere.

The fresh, cool air did him good. Hanne stayed in the car while he took a walk along the short track. He stood for a few minutes with his face into the wind; then, feeling better, made his way back to the car.

“Danger over,” he said, fastening his seat belt.

The car coughed irascibly into life when she turned the ignition key, but faded immediately. She made repeated attempts, but there was no reaction to the starter motor at all: the engine had gone completely dead. It was such a surprise that neither of them said a word. She tried once more. Not a murmur.

“Water in the distributor,” she said through clenched teeth. “Or it could be something else. Maybe the whole bloody car has packed up.”

Håkon continued to say nothing, quite deliberately. Hanne got out of the car abruptly, and grimly opened the bonnet. A moment later she was back beside him, holding what he assumed to be the distributor cap; at least, it looked like a lid of some sort. She took several paper tissues from the glove box and rubbed the inside of the cap dry. She gave it a final critical inspection and went out to replace it. It was soon done.

But it didn’t make any difference. The car was just as uncooperative. After two more attempts on the starter, she struck the steering wheel in anger.

“Typical. It has to be now. This car has run like clockwork ever since I bought it three years ago. Couldn’t have been more obliging. And now it has to let me down at a time like this. Do you know anything about car engines?”

She gave him a rather reproachful look, and he guessed she knew the answer. He shook his head slowly.

“Not much,” he said, with some understatement. The truth was that he knew nothing at all about cars, except that they required petrol.

Nevertheless he went out with her to take a look. It would be moral support: the car might be persuaded if there were two of them.

To judge from all the cursing, her search for the fault was not going well. He made a discreet withdrawal and felt queasiness rising in him again. It was cold, and he hopped from one foot to the other as he watched the cars zoom past. Not one of them even slowed down. They were probably on their way home and had no leanings towards human compassion on such a dreary and unpleasant December evening. They were easily visible, since there was a lone street lamp beside the timetable board at the bus stop. Then there was a gap in the regular, if not particularly heavy, flow of traffic. In the far distance he could see the lights of an approaching car. It actually appeared to be adhering to the seventy-kilometres-an-hour speed limit, unlike most of the others, and it had collected four cars impatiently tailing it close behind.

Then came the real shock. The street lamp briefly illuminated the driver as the car went by. Håkon was paying special attention because he’d made a small bet with himself that it must be a woman driving so slowly. It wasn’t a woman at all. It was Peter Strup.

The import of this took a second to penetrate to the relevant part of his brain. But only a second. Recovering from his astonishment, he ran over to the car, which was standing with its bonnet agape like a pike in the reeds.

“Peter Strup!” he yelled. “Peter Strup has just driven by!”

Hanne jumped up, hitting her head on the bonnet.

“What did you say?” she exclaimed, even though she’d heard him perfectly.

“Peter Strup! He just drove past! Right now!”

So the pieces fell into place, everything fitted with a sudden click, difficult to take in, even though the picture was now as clear as day. She was livid with herself. After all, the man had been under suspicion the whole time. He was the most obvious candidate. The only one, in effect. Why hadn’t she wanted to see that? Was it Strup’s spotless reputation, his very correct manner, his photograph in weekly magazines, his successful marriage, his splendid children? Was it these elements that had made her resist the logical conclusion? Her brain had told her it was him, but her police intuition, her bloody overestimated intuition, had protested.

“Shit,” she muttered, slamming down the bonnet lid. “So much for my damned instincts.”

She hadn’t even brought the guy in for questioning. How bloody stupid.

“Stop a car!” she shouted to Håkon, who obeyed her command immediately, taking up position at the side of the road and waving both arms in the air. Hanne got back into her own useless vehicle, gathered up her coat, cigarettes, and wallet, and locked it. Then she joined her overwrought and panicking colleague.

Not a single car showed any inclination to help. Either they drove by without appearing to notice the two people leaping and gesticulating at the roadside, clearing them by centimetres, or they hooted angrily and reprovingly at them as a traffic hazard and swerved round them as they tore past.

After nearly thirty cars, Håkon was on the point of despair, and Hanne realised that something had to be done. It would be far too dangerous to stand in the middle of the road, no question of that. If they phoned for assistance, it would probably be too late. She looked over at the unlit house, standing hunched and unassuming and closed up, as if trying to excuse its unenviable position only twenty metres from the main E-18. There was no parked car to be seen.

She ran up to the house. The little hut on the other side, barely visible from the road, might be a garage. Håkon wasn’t sure whether she expected him to continue the attempt to stop a vehicle, but he took a chance and followed her, which met with no protest.

“Ring the bell and see if there’s anyone at home, just in case,” she called, and tugged at the shed door.

It wasn’t locked.

No car. But a motorcycle. A Yamaha FJ, 1200cc. Latest model. With ABS brakes.

Hanne despised rice burners. Only Harleys were motorbikes. The others were simply two-wheeled conveyances for getting from A to B. Apart perhaps from Motoguzzi, even if that was European. Deep inside, however, she’d always had a sneaking affection for the more sporty type of Japanese machines, especially the FJ.

It looked as if it was in a roadworthy condition, except for the fact that the battery had been removed. It was December; the bike had probably been standing idle for at least three months. The battery was lying on a folded newspaper, neatly stored for the winter just as it should be. She snatched up a screwdriver and connected it across the terminals. Sparks flew, and after a few seconds the thinnest part of the metal began to glow faintly. Enough power in it, evidently.