Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

“This belonged to Jørgen Lavik,” he said meekly. “It was taped to the underside of his safe. Or filing cabinet, I can’t really remember which.”

“You can’t really remember.”

Håkon’s nostrils were white with fury.

“You can’t really remember. You’ve removed important evidence from the premises of a suspect in a criminal case, and you can’t really remember whereabouts it was. Well, well.”

The whiteness had now spread into a circle round his whole nose, giving his face the appearance of a Japanese flag in reverse.

“Dare I ask when you ‘found’ this key?”

“Quite recently,” he replied evasively. “And it’s not the original, by the way. It’s a copy. I took an impression of it and then replaced it.”

Håkon Sand was breathing in and out through his nose very rapidly, like a rutting stag.

“You haven’t heard the last of this, Fredrick. Believe me. Right now you can take your bottle of dishwater and go.”

He shoved the cork violently back into the half-empty bottle, and the Dagbladet ’s emissary was ejected into the unpleasant frosty air of the December night. Outside the door he stopped and placed his foot on the threshold to prevent their conversation being so abruptly terminated.

“But Håkon,” he ventured, “I hope I’ll get something in return for this? Can I have an exclusive?”

All he got for an answer was a very sore toe.

Having worked on it for less than a couple of days, they had reduced the possible locations to a very encompassable number: two. One was a respectable and serious gym in the centre of town, the other a less respectable, more expensive, and more multifarious health club in St. Hanshaugen. Both venues were devoted to physical pursuits, but while the former was legitimate, the latter’s activities functioned with specially imported ladies from Thailand. It had taken a while to discover the manufacturers of the key, but once they found them, they succeeded in narrowing it down in just a few hours to the cupboard it might fit. In view of Lavik’s shattered reputation they were all convinced that the specific one would be found in the brothel. But they were wrong. Lavik had pumped iron twice a week, as on checking the file they realised they already knew.

The locker was so small that the attaché case had only been squeezed in with difficulty. It now lay unopened, its combination lock still unassailed, on Kaldbakken’s desk on the second floor, blue zone. Håkon Sand and Hanne Wilhelmsen were anticipating an early Christmas present and could hardly bear to wait for the leather-covered metal case to be broached.

The combination was no match for Kaldbakken’s screwdriver. They’d fiddled about with the six numbered wheels just to satisfy themselves, but had soon given up. After all, the owner had no use for it anymore, even though it was still new.

None of them could understand why he’d done it. It was incomprehensible for the man to have taken such a risk. The only logical explanation was that he’d hoped to drag others down with him if he fell. He would have been unlikely to need such a thick bundle of documentation while he was alive. It must have been a real security headache for him. In a fitness centre, where he could never be sure that the owner wouldn’t make an inquisitive round of his affluent members’ lockers after closing time, he had stashed away a complete and detailed account of a syndicate none of the three readers had ever imagined they would come across, except perhaps in a crime novel.

“He doesn’t mention the attack on me,” said Hanne, “which must mean that I was right. It must have been the under secretary.”

Kaldbakken and Sand were totally uninterested. If it had turned out to be the Pope himself who’d travelled north to commit violence on a defenceless woman, they wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.

They spent a couple of hours going right through it. Some of the papers they pored over together, some they took turns to read. Occasional exclamations prompted them to lean over one another’s shoulders. After a while they were no longer surprised at anything.

“This will have to go straight to the top,” said Hanne when they’d finished reading and had put it all back into the damaged leather case.

She pointed her finger at the ceiling. And she didn’t mean God.

The minister of justice insisted on a press conference that very evening. The Special Branch and the Intelligence Service had protested vociferously, but in vain. The scandal would be enormous if the media found out that they had kept the matter under wraps for more than a few hours. It was significant enough as it was.

The minister’s striking appearance had taken a severe buffeting in the course of the day. His skin was more pallid and his hair less golden. He could hear the baying of the newshounds outside the door. For various reasons he had decided that the conference should be held in police headquarters.

“It’s only you lot who’ll come out of this affair with any glory,” he’d declared sarcastically when the commissioner had expressed the opinion that they should receive the journalists in the government building. “We’ll have the press conference under police auspices.”

What he forbore to mention was that there was a virtual state of emergency in and around all the government buildings. The prime minister had ordered a tripling of security arrangements and had become increasingly paranoid about the media as the day wore on. Police headquarters would thus afford a welcome diversion.

Taking a few deep breaths he strode into the big lecture hall. It was fortunate that he had some reserves of oxygen, because the crush inside the double doors nearly suffocated him.

Håkon Sand and Hanne Wilhelmsen stood leaning against the wall at the back of the room. The affair was now totally out of their hands. It had progressed up the building at an unprecedented rate. All they’d heard was a brief message to say that the case could now be regarded as fully investigated and finally solved. Which was okay by them.

“It’ll be interesting to see how they get themselves out of this one,” said Hanne in an undertone.

“They can’t get out of it,” said Håkon, shaking his head. “This is something no one is going to emerge from unscathed. Except us two. The heroes. Us in our white Stetsons.”

“The good guys!”

They were both wreathed in smiles. Håkon put an arm round his colleague, and she didn’t push it away. A couple of uniformed constables gave them a furtive glance, but rumours had already been circulating for some time and were no longer so intriguing.

Where they stood they were practically invisible to the crowd up at the front of the room. Five powerful floodlights had hastily been rigged up by the technicians from the three TV channels, and that had left the back of the room in darkness compared with the fierce glare over the table where all the VIPs were sitting. Norwegian Radio and Television were broadcasting live. It was four minutes to seven. The press release, issued through the Press Agency three hours earlier, had said everything and nothing. No details, simply that the parliamentary under secretary had been arrested for a serious criminal offence, and that the government had convened a special session. In fact, everyone who could justify their presence, plus a few more, had got to the meeting in the chamber in double-quick time.

The commissioner opened the proceedings now. If it hadn’t been for the whirr of the camera motorwinds, you’d have been able to hear the proverbial pin drop even from Hanne’s and Håkon’s position.

She seemed nervous, but brought herself under control. She had prepared some notes in advance, several A4 sheets that she kept shuffling backwards and forwards to no obvious purpose.