Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

“This will make him even more afraid,” she thought, and turned her attention to the rest of the newspaper as the modern tram rolled and hummed along through the city streets with a smoothness so unlike the clatter of its predecessors.

In another part of the city a man was in abject fear of imminent death.

Hans E. Olsen was as ordinary as his name. Too much alcohol over too many years had left its mark on his face. His flesh was flabby and grey, with prominent pores, and always sweaty. But his permanently sour expression stemmed more from an innate bitterness than from his excessive consumption of alcohol. Right now he was sweating more than ever, and looked older than his forty-two years.

Hans E. Olsen was a lawyer. He had shown some promise in his early years as a student, and had attracted a number of friends. But his upbringing in a pious environment in southwest Norway had put a leaden weight on any vigour and joie de vivre he might have had. His childhood faith had been jettisoned after a few months in the capital, leaving the young man with nothing to put in its place. The concept of a vengeful and implacable God had never really lost its hold on him, and torn between his former self and the dream of the student life of wine, women, and academic achievement, he had all too soon sought his consolation in the temptations of the big city. Even in those days his fellow students used to joke that Hans Olsen never used his cock for anything but peeing. But this was an assertion in need of qualification: he had discovered at an early stage that sex could be bought. His lack of charm and self-confidence had soon led him to the resentful realisation that women were not interested in him. He had become a frequent visitor to the red-light district around the city hall, and had thus accumulated a lot more experience than his fellow students gave him credit for.

His alcohol consumption, which increased so rapidly that by the age of twenty-five he was being referred to as an alcoholic-though from a medical point of view this was not strictly accurate-prevented him from passing his law examinations with a result commensurate with his original talents. He gained a mediocre degree, and took a job at the Ministry of Agriculture. He stayed there for four years before setting up on his own, after two years’ practical work as an assistant judge in northern Norway, a period he now regarded with horror, but which had been a necessary evil to achieve his lawyer’s licence and the freedom he felt he had always been seeking.

He had found a practice of three lawyers with a vacancy for a partner. They soon realised that he was an awkward character with an unpredictable temper. But they accepted him as he was, not least because, unlike others, he was always, without exception, up-to-date with the rent and his share of the joint expenses. They assumed this had more to do with his own modest expenditure than with any great earning capacity. Hans Olsen was, in a word, miserly. He had a predilection for grey suits. He had three-two of them more than six years old, and it showed. None of his colleagues had ever seen him in anything else. He spent his money on just one thing: alcohol.

For a brief period he had blossomed out, to everyone’s amazement. The surprising turn in his life manifested itself in his more frequent hair washing, his use of an exclusive aftershave that for a short while overpowered the musty, slovenly body odour that permeated his office, and in the fact that he turned up one morning wearing a pair of new Italian, and, in his secretary’s opinion, extremely suave, shoes. The cause of the transformation was a woman who was actually willing to marry him-after only three weeks’ acquaintance, which in reality meant about fifty pints in the Old Christiania pub.

The woman was as ugly as sin, but those who knew her said she was warm, kind, and intelligent. She was a deaconess. That hadn’t been a hindrance on the short path to their separation and divorce.

But Hans Olsen had one definite strength: criminals loved him. He stood up for his clients as few others did. Because he felt so strongly in their favour, he hated the police. He hated them without reservation, and never tried to conceal it. His ranting and raging had provoked countless prosecutors over the years, and usually resulted in his clients receiving sentences far in excess of the norm. Olsen hated the police, and the police hated him. Naturally enough this had an effect on the suspects he represented.

But now Hans Olsen was in fear for his life. The man standing in front of him was pointing a pistol at him of a type which he, with his limited knowledge of firearms, couldn’t place. But it looked dangerous, and he’d seen enough films to be able to recognise a silencer when he met one.

“That was bloody stupid of you, Hansy,” said the man with the gun.

Hans E. Olsen loathed the nickname Hansy, even if it was a natural consequence of his always including his middle initial when he introduced himself.

“I just wanted to talk to you about it,” he croaked from the armchair he’d been ordered into.

“We had an agreement, Hansy,” said the other man in an exaggeratedly restrained voice. “No one pulls out. No one squeals. We have to know that the operation is totally watertight. Remember it’s not just us who’re involved. You know what’s at stake. You’ve never come up with objections before. What you said on the phone yesterday was a threat, Hansy. We can’t tolerate threats. If one goes down, we all do. We can’t afford that, Hansy. You know that.”

“I’ve got documents!”

It was a last, desperate attempt to cling on to life. The room was suddenly filled with the unmistakable odour of excrement and urine.

“No, you haven’t, Hansy. We both know that. Anyway, it’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

The shot sounded like a small half-suppressed cough. The bullet struck Hans E. Olsen in the middle of the nose, which was completely shattered as the projectile bored right on through his skull and blasted out a crater the size of a turnip at the back of his head. Red and grey spurted over the little crocheted antimacassar on the chair, and splattered onto the wall behind it.

The man with the gun adjusted the tight rubber glove on his right hand, walked over to the door, and left.

The murder of Hans E. Olsen was given wide coverage in the newspapers. He had never reached the front pages while he lived, despite repeated ill-humoured attempts. In death he was the subject of reports on no fewer than the first six pages. He would have been proud of himself. His colleagues had shown their respect, even though most of them considered him to be a little shit, and the papers painted a portrait of a highly esteemed gentleman of the bar. Several found reason to criticise the police, once again utterly devoid of leads in a serious murder case. Though most seemed to agree that the lawyer had been removed by a dissatisfied client. With his fairly limited caseload, the hunt for the killer ought to be short and simple.

Detective Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen didn’t subscribe to that theory. She felt the need to air a few half-formulated thoughts with Håkon Sand.

They’d found themselves a place right at the back of the canteen, in seats by the window, with magnificent views over the poorer districts of Oslo. They both had cups of coffee, which both had spilt in their saucers. Their cups dripped as they drank. Between them was an open pack of chocolate caramels.

Hanne spoke first.

“To be honest, Håkon, I think these two murders are linked in some way.”

She looked at him expectantly, unsure how her hunch would be received. Håkon dipped a chocolate in his coffee, put it in his mouth, and licked his fingers thoroughly. They didn’t look particularly clean. He returned her gaze.