The Blind Goddess

If the man’s brain hadn’t been so sluggish after twenty years’ abuse of artificial stimulants, he might have said something different. If the glimpse of salvation in the lawyer’s briefcase hadn’t eroded the small amount of judgement he could still muster, he might have said that he was in possession of compromising material, papers he’d found on the floor in another visiting room, after another arrest. If he’d had his wits about him he would probably have realised that for the documents to fulfil their purpose as insurance papers, he should admit to possession of them. Maybe he could even have pretended that all would be revealed to the police if anything happened to him. He could have got some benefit from it at least. Perhaps it would have saved his life; perhaps not. But his mind was too befuddled.

“Go on keeping your mouth shut,” the lawyer said, and let the prisoner help himself to the contents of the handkerchief. There was also a cylinder about the size of a cigar container, and with increasingly shaky hands the eager addict squeezed the supply into it. Unembarrassed, he pulled down his trousers and with a grimace pushed it up into his rectum.

“They search me before they put me back in the cell, but they’ll never check my arse after a visit from a lawyer.” He grinned happily.

Five hours later he was found dead in his cell. The overdose had sent him to his end with a beatific smile on his face. The remains of his fix were on the floor, a few tiny specks of heroin in a little piece of polythene. In the wet autumn grass two floors below the high barred window of the cell lay a little cigar-shaped case. No one was looking for it, and it would lie there through wind and rain until it was picked up by a security guard six months later.

The man’s ageing mother wasn’t told of his death until two days afterwards. She wept bitter tears and downed a whole bottle of aquavit for comfort. The boy’s unwanted arrival in the world had caused her sorrow, and she had cried herself through most of his life. Now she grieved that he was gone. Otherwise there was no one, absolutely no one, who would miss Jacob Frostrup.

* * *

The older man may have seemed threatening the last time they met, but this time his face was absolutely distorted with suppressed anger. Meeting as before in a car park way up in Maridalen to the north of the city, the two men had left their respectable-looking cars at opposite ends, making them very conspicuous because there were only three other vehicles on the whole plot, all side by side. Each had walked off separately into the woods, the older one suitably attired, as on the previous occasion, the younger one freezing in a suit and black leather shoes.

“What the hell are you doing turning up dressed like that?” the older man spat out when they were a hundred metres or so in among the trees. “Are you deliberately trying to draw attention to yourself?”

“Relax, nobody saw me.”

His teeth were chattering. His dark hair was already wet, and the rain had soaked his shoulders. He looked like Dracula, a resemblance strengthened by his sharply pointed canine teeth, now quite distinct even when his mouth was closed, since his lips were tight with cold.

Not far off they heard the rumble of a tractor. They immediately hid themselves behind two tree trunks, a quite unnecessary precaution because they were at least a hundred metres from the track. The drone of the engine faded away into the distance.

“You know we never meet,” the irate man snapped. “Now I’ve had to meet you twice in quick succession. Have you completely lost your senses?”

The question was superfluous. He looked drenched and dejected. His dishevelled appearance stood out even more in contrast to his expensive suit and fashionable hairstyle, both of which were gradually disintegrating. He made no reply.

“Pull yourself together, man!”

Now absolutely livid, he seized his companion by the lapels and shook him. The younger man offered no resistance, his head flopping about like a rag doll’s.

“Now listen, listen to me.”

The older man changed his tactic. He released him, and spoke slowly and precisely, as if to a child.

“We’ll wind it up. We’ll drop the idea of the several months I was talking about. We’ll pack it in now. Do you hear? But you have to tell me where we stand. Does your jailbird know anything about us?”

“Yes. About me. Not about you, of course.”

The avuncular tone was gone in an instant as the older man screeched, “What the hell did you mean when you told me you hadn’t been as stupid as Hansy, then? You said you hadn’t had any contact with the runners!”

“I lied,” he said apathetically. “How the devil could I recruit them otherwise? I provided them with dope in prison. Not much, but enough to be able to control them. They run after dope like dogs after a bitch in heat.”

The older man raised his fist to strike him, but a bit too slowly for any element of surprise. The younger man took a frightened step back, slithered on the wet leaves, and landed in a heap on the ground. He didn’t get up. The older man kicked him contemptuously in the legs as he lay there.

“You’d better get things sorted out.”

“I have,” came a whimper from the rotting leaves. “I already have.”

FRIDAY 23 OCTOBER

He didn’t feel lonely, but perhaps a bit alone. The woman’s voice on the News at Six, assertive and unpretentious, was okay company. He’d inherited the armchair from his grandmother. It was comfortable, so he’d taken it over even though his grandmother had gone to meet her Maker from the selfsame chair. On one arm there were still two bloodstains from where she had presumably hit her head on the bookshelf when her heart failed. It was impossible to eradicate them, as if she were still obstinately determined to lay claim to her right of ownership from her new existence on the other side. Hakon Sand thought it was homely. His grandmother had been as stubborn as a mule when she was alive, and the fading remains of blood on the pale blue velour upholstery reminded him of the splendid old lady who had won the War single-handedly, taken care of the sick and helpless, been his childhood heroine, and persuaded him to study law despite, to put it mildly, a poor head for academic work.

The apartment was tastelessly furnished, without any consistency or attempt at a homogeneous style. The colours clashed horribly, but paradoxically his little abode had a friendly, snug atmosphere. Each object had its own history, some were inherited, some bought in the flea market, the lounge and dining-room furniture supplemented from Ikea. A man’s flat, but cleaner and tidier than might be expected; Hakon, as the only son of a washerwoman, had learnt domestic skills early in life. He actually enjoyed housework.

The director of public prosecutions was making a vehement attack on the press treatment of criminal cases. The News at Six anchorwoman had a problem keeping the participants in check, and Hakon was sitting with his eyes closed and only lukewarm interest in the debate. The press won’t allow itself to be subjected to controls anyway, he thought, and was just about to doze off when the telephone rang.

It was Karen Borg. He could hear the echo of his own ears buzzing in the receiver. He tried swallowing, several times. It was no use; his mouth was as dry as after a night on the tiles.

Having announced themselves, they could get no further. It was embarrassing to sit at a silent telephone without saying anything, and he cleared his throat a little awkwardly to fill the vacuum.

“I’m here all by myself,” said Karen eventually. “How would you feel about coming over for a while?

“I’m a bit nervous,” she added, as if to provide an excuse.

“What about Nils?”

“He’s on a course. I can cook something interesting. I’ve got some wine. We can talk about the case. And about the old days.”

He was willing to talk to her about anything. He was excited, happy, expectant, and scared. After a shower and a twenty-minute taxi ride he arrived in Grunerlokka, at an apartment the like of which he’d never encountered before.

The butterflies in his stomach settled down quickly, feeling cheated. Karen’s welcome was not especially warm.