Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

“No one in,” said Håkon breathlessly from the doorway.

There were plenty of tools on a shelf, more or less the same as the ones at home in her cellar. She quickly found what she wanted, and the battery was back in place in record time. She hesitated only for an instant.

“Strictly speaking this is theft.”

“No, it’s jus necessitatis .”

“What?”

She hadn’t quite caught it and thought he was talking nonsense in his excitement.

“Nothing. Legal Latin. I’ll explain later.”

If I ever get the opportunity, he thought.

Though it broke her heart to damage a new bike, it took only thirty seconds to fix the ignition. She snapped the steering lock with a rapid and hefty jerk. The engine burst into a promising growl. She looked round for a helmet, but couldn’t see one. Naturally enough: there were probably a couple of expensive BMW or Shoei helmets inside the locked house in the warm. Should they force an entry? Did they have time?

Hardly. They would have to ride without them. There was a pair of slalom goggles on a wall-hook next to four pairs of alpine skis. They would have to do. She sat astride the bike and manoeuvred it out into the open.

“Have you ever been on a motorbike?” Håkon didn’t speak, just shook his head vigorously.

“Well, listen: Put your arms round my waist, and do exactly as I do. Whatever it feels like, don’t lean in the opposite direction. Do you understand?”

This time he nodded, and as she was putting the goggles on he mounted the bike and gripped her as firmly as he could. He was clutching her so tight that she had to loosen his hold before she let the bike roar off onto the main road.

Håkon was totally petrified. But he did as he’d promised. To allay his terror he closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. It wasn’t easy. The noise was overwhelming, and he was as frozen as a wet kitten.

So was Hanne. Her gloves, her own everyday gloves, were already soaked through and icy cold. But it was best to have them on; they provided at least some protection. The goggles were also a help, though not much: she had to keep wiping them with her left hand. She cast a quick glance at the illuminated digital clock in front of her. They hadn’t had a chance to put it right before they set off, but it told her that it was a quarter of an hour since they’d sped out of the side track. It had been 9:35 then.

There was no doubt that time was not on their side.

The silver-haired man was pleased to note that his memory had been correct: there was only one road to Ula. Although surfaced, it was very narrow and scarcely conducive to fast driving. At a sudden bend he saw a small lane bordered by thick bushes. He jolted another few metres down the road and found room to turn round where it levelled out. The frost had made the ground hard and easy to drive on, and he was soon strategically positioned with the front of the car facing the road but well hidden from it, and with a little gap through which he would be able to see any vehicles that came by. He put the radio on low and felt, for the circumstances, reasonably comfortable. He would recognise Lavik’s Volvo. It was just a matter of waiting.

Karen Borg was also listening to the radio. It was a programme for long-distance lorry drivers, but the music was okay. She was starting the book on her lap for the sixth time, James Joyce’s Ulysses . So far she’d never got beyond page fifty, but now she’d have a real opportunity to get into it.

It was warm in the spacious living room, almost too warm in fact. The dog was whining. She opened the verandah door to let it out. It didn’t want to go, and just carried on with its restless wandering. She gave up and told it to sit, and in the end it lay down reluctantly in a corner, but with its head raised and ears pricked. It had probably caught the scent of some small animal. Or maybe an elk.

But it was neither a hare nor an elk in the bushes below the cottage. It was a man, and he’d been lying there for quite a while. Nevertheless he felt hot; he was wearing thick clothes and his adrenaline was running high. Finding the cottage had been easy. He had taken the wrong turning once, but he’d soon realised. Karen Borg’s cottage was the only one that was occupied, and it blazed out its presence like a lighthouse. He’d found a good hiding place for the car only five minutes’ walk away.

His head and arms were resting on a ten-litre can of petrol. Even though he’d been careful not to slop any over when filling it up, the fumes were burning his nostrils. He rose rather stiffly, picked up the can, and moved towards the house, half crouching. It wasn’t really necessary, since the living room was on the other side facing the sea. At the rear there were only the windows of two bedrooms, both in darkness, and a toilet in the cellar. He tapped his chest to make sure that the monkey wrench was still there, even though he knew it was: he could feel it jolting against his ribs as he walked.

The door was actually unlocked. One hindrance less than he’d reckoned on. He smiled and turned the handle, infinitely slowly. The door was well oiled and made no sound as he opened it and went in.

The silver-haired man glanced at his watch. He’d been sitting there a long time now. No Volvos had come past, only a Peugeot, two Opels, and an old, dark-coloured Lada. There was virtually no traffic. He tried to flex his muscles, but it was difficult in a car seat. He didn’t dare risk getting out to stretch his legs.

Madness! A motorcyclist with a pillion passenger came roaring by at a speed that was much too fast for the bad road. They had no helmets on either and weren’t wearing leathers. At this time of year! It made him shiver to imagine it. The bike went into a great skid at the bend, and for a moment he was afraid it would slide right into his car. But the rider managed to straighten it up at the last minute and accelerated away. Crazy. He yawned and peered again at his watch.

Karen Borg had got to page five. She sighed. It was a good book. She knew that, because she’d read that it was. She found it insufferably tedious herself. However, she was determined to persist. But she kept finding little things to distract her. Now she was going to have another coffee.

The dog continued to be restive. It was best not to let it out at all: twice before it had stayed away a whole night and day in its hunt for hares. Strange, since it wasn’t a hunting dog; it must be an instinct that all dogs shared.

Suddenly she thought she heard a faint noise. She turned to the dog. It was lying absolutely motionless, its whimpering had abruptly ceased, and its head was tilted to one side, ears pricked. Its whole body was quivering, and she knew that it had heard something too. The sound had come from below.

She went over to the stairs.

“Hello?”

Ludicrous. Of course there was no one there. She stood as quiet as a mouse for a few seconds before shrugging her shoulders and turning away.

“Stay,” she said to the dog in a strict tone, seeing that it was about to get up.

Then she heard steps behind her and wheeled round. In an instant of disbelief she saw a figure bounding up the fifteen stairs towards her. Even though he had a cap right down over his ears she recognised who it was.

“Jørgen La…”

That was all she got out. The monkey wrench struck her above the eye, and she fell straight to the floor. Not that she would have noticed if she’d hit anything on her way down-she had already lost consciousness.

The dog went berserk. It hurled itself on the intruder snarling and barking with rage, jumping up to the height of his chest, where it fastened its teeth in his bulky jacket, but lost its hold when Lavik jerked his upper body sharply. It didn’t give up. It clamped its powerful jaws on his lower arm, and this time he couldn’t shake himself free. It hurt like hell. The pain gave him a surge of strength and he lifted the dog right off the ground, but to no avail. He’d dropped the monkey wrench, and in an attempt to retrieve it took the risk of allowing the animal to make contact with the ground again. That was a mistake. It let go of his arm for a split second and got a better hold higher up. That hurt even more. The pain started to make him feel bemused, and he knew he didn’t have very long. At last he managed to grab the monkey wrench and with a murderous blow crushed the skull of the demented dog, which even so didn’t release its jaws. It hung dead and limp in its death grip, and it took him nearly a minute to loosen its teeth from his arm. He was bleeding like a stuck pig. With tears in his eyes he scanned the room and caught sight of some green towels on a hook in the kitchen doorway. He quickly made a temporary tourniquet, and the pain actually receded. It would come back even more unbearably, he knew. Bugger it.