Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

The reporter could scarcely suppress his incredulity.

“Do you mean there will be no consequences for the Service as a whole?”

When he didn’t get a response straightaway he thrust the microphone right into the minister of justice’s face so that he had to jerk his head back to avoid getting a mouthful of nylon fur.

“In view of the fact that your closest colleague has been charged with such a serious crime, shouldn’t you resign as minister of justice?”

The minister was now quite calm. He gently pushed the microphone further away, ran his fingers through his hair, and looked straight at the television camera.

“Yes, I think I should,” he said coolly and deliberately.

The reaction was instantaneous. Even the cameras were stilled.

“I am stepping down with immediate effect,” he declared, and evidently meant it literally. Without any indication that the press conference was being terminated, he picked up his papers, rose to his feet, and surveyed the assembly before squaring his shoulders and walking out.

The two police officers at the back of the hall felt sympathy for the young minister.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong,” Håkon murmured. “Only selected a bit of a rogue as a colleague.”

“Good help is hard to get these days,” said Hanne. “You’re lucky from that point of view: you’ve got me.”

She kissed him on the cheek and whispered good-bye. Hanne Wilhelmsen was off to do some late-night shopping. It was high time she bought her Christmas presents.

There were only eleven days to Christmas. The weather gods were propitious, and were endeavouring for the sixth time in two months to decorate the city for the festival. Now it looked as though they might succeed. There were already twenty centimetres of snow lying on the broad expanse of grass in front of the curved grey building of police headquarters on Grønlandsleiret. The paving stones that led up to the entrance were as slippery as an ice rink, and only ten metres from the door Håkon Sand’s painful leg slithered from under him. The taxi driver had refused to tackle an ungritted slope, and Håkon was perspiring from the effort of toiling up on foot. The hill must have been constructed with malice aforethought.

He struggled to his feet again and limped into the warmth. As usual the foyer was full, and as usual the darker-hued immigrants were sitting on the left, shabby and sweaty in their garish, old-fashioned winter coats. Håkon stopped for a moment and scanned the floors above. The building was still standing at any rate. Things were much worse for the Intelligence Service.

The furore was far from abating. The newspapers were bringing out several editions a day, and there had been additional television news bulletins three days running. The immediate resignation of the minister of justice had plainly been an attempt to save the government, but it was extremely doubtful whether it would succeed. The situation was still uncertain. The Intelligence Service now had a belligerent investigation committee on its back, and there was already open talk of radical restructuring. A book published only a few months previously, on the relationship between the Party and the Secret Services, was enjoying an alarming resurgence of topicality. A new edition with a huge print-run had gone to press. A conservative politician who had long maintained he had been under illegal surveillance without being able to get a response from any quarter was now being taken seriously.

Håkon didn’t mind being removed from the case, nor was he particularly bothered by the total lack of any express recognition from his superiors. It was only colleagues at his own level who gave him due credit for what he’d achieved. The job was done, the case was closed. He’d been free at the weekend on both Saturday and Sunday. It had been ages since that last happened.

When he reached the door with the peeling Walt Disney characters on, he stopped and fumbled with his bunch of keys. Once inside, he was brought up sharply by the sight of the figurine on his desk.

It was Lady Justitia. For an instant he thought it was the commissioner’s own, and was at a loss to understand. But then he realised that this one was bigger and shinier. It was presumably new. It was also more stylised; the female figure was more erect and the sculptor had taken liberties with the anatomy. The body was too long in relation to the head, and the sword was raised at an angle above the head, not resting down by the skirt. As if poised to strike.

He went over to the desk and lifted the statuette. It was heavy. The bronze was russet and gleaming and had not yet begun to oxidise. A card fell to the floor. He put the figure carefully back on the desk, and with his injured leg extended stiffly to one side he bent down and picked it up.

He tore it open.

It was from Karen.

Dearest Håkon, I thank you for everything with all my heart. You are my hero. I think I love you. Don’t give up on me. Don’t phone, I’ll ring you soon. Yours (believe it or not as you will), Karen. PS: Congratulations!!! K.

He read it again and again. His hands were shaking as he caressed the radiant copper-bronze statuette in front of him. It was cool and smooth and pleasing to the touch. Then in utter amazement he had to close his eyes tight and refocus-he was sure he’d seen it move.

The Goddess of Justice had peeped out from behind her thick blindfold. She had gazed straight at him with one eye, and he could swear that for a split second she had winked. And smiled. A wry, enigmatic smile.

Anne Holt, acclaimed author of the Hanne Wilhelmsen mysteries, has worked as a journalist and news anchor and spent two years working for the Oslo Police Department before founding her own law firm and serving as Norway’s minister of justice in 1996-97. She lives in Oslo with her family.