very practical, only a stone’s throw from the law courts.
Lavik was interesting. Myhreng had checked on quite a number of people now. Phoned around a bit, checked through old tax records, visited a few watering holes, and generally made himself amenable. He had started with twenty names on his pad; now there were five. It had not been easy sorting them out, and he had done it principally by instinct. Lavik became increasingly prominent, eventually heading the list. With a thick line underneath. He spent suspiciously little money. Perhaps he was just very frugal, but there were limits. His house and cars could have belonged to an average-income legal assistant rather than a partner in the firm. He didn’t own a boat or a country cottage either, despite the fact that his tax returns for the last few years showed that the firm was flourishing. He’d done well out of a hotel project in Bangkok that he was still involved in. It looked as if it was going to be a sound investment for his Norwegian clients, and had led to further projects abroad, most of which had produced handsome dividends both for the investors and for Lavik himself.
As a defence lawyer it seemed he was quite successful. His reputation among colleagues was good, his statistics for acquittals were impressive, and it was difficult to find anyone who spoke ill of him.
Myhreng was not exceptionally intelligent, but he was clever enough to know it. He was also inventive and intuitive. He’d had a thorough training from a wily old fox of an editor on a local paper, and knew that investigative journalism consisted mainly of hard graft and failed leads.
“The truth is always well hidden, Fredrick, always well hidden,” the old newspaperman had cautioned him. “There’s a lot of muckraking before you get to it. Dress smartly, never give up, and have a thorough wash when you’ve finished.”
It couldn’t do any harm to have a chat with Lavik. It would be best not to have an appointment. Catch him on the hop. He stubbed out his cigarette, spat into the gutter, and zigzagged across the road between hooting cars and a stationary lorry.
The woman in reception was surprisingly plain. She was getting on in years, and reminded him of a librarian from an American children’s movie. Receptionists were supposed to be attractive and friendly-not this one. She looked as if she was going to tell him to be quiet as he tripped on the threshold and stumbled into the waiting room. But equally unexpectedly, she smiled. Her teeth were dull and unnaturally even. Obviously dentures.
“The door sill is too high,” she apologised. “I’m always telling them. It’s a wonder there hasn‘t been a real accident. Can I help you?”
Myhreng put on his flattering-old-ladies smile, which she immediately saw through, and her mouth contracted into a pattern of stern wrinkles like angry little darts.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Lavik,” he said without discarding his ineffectual smile. She consulted the book, but obviously couldn’t find his name there.
“No appointment?”
“No, but it’s rather important.”
Fredrick Myhreng said who he was, and she pursed her lips even more. Without a word she pressed a button on her telephone and conveyed his message, presumably to the man in question.
She didn’t come off the line immediately, but then with a quaint gesture she motioned him towards a row of chairs and asked him to wait. Mr. Lavik would see him, but he wouldn’t be free for a few minutes.
It was actually half an hour.
Lavik’s office was bright and spacious. The room had parquet flooring and just three pictures on the walls. The acoustics were poor, and more wall decoration might have helped. The desk was remarkably clear and tidy, with just three or four files on it. There was a solid wooden filing cabinet in one corner beside a small safe. The chair for clients was comfortable, but Myhreng could see that it was from a well-known furniture chain and cheaper than it appeared. He had the same kind himself. The bookcase contained very little, and Myhreng assumed the office must have its own library. He found it slightly bizarre that one shelf was full of old children’s books, in enviably good condition, to judge from the spines.
He introduced himself again. Lavik gave him an enquiring look; the sweat on his upper lip was presumably caused by the malfunctioning room thermostat. Myhreng felt hot himself, and tugged at the neck of his sweater.
“Is this an interview?” the lawyer asked amiably.
“No, it’s more a matter of a few preliminary queries.”
“What about?”
“About your connection with Hans Olsen and the drugs case the police think he was involved in.”
He could swear he saw a reaction. A slight, barely perceptible reddening of the throat and a movement of his lower lip to suck a few beads of sweat from the upper one.
“My connection?”
There was a smile on his face, but it looked rather forced.
“Yes, your connection.”
“I had nothing to do with Olsen! Was he involved with drugs? Your newspaper gave the impression that he was the victim of criminals involved in drugs, not that he himself…”
“We can’t say anything other than that yet, but we have our own theories. So have the police, I believe.”
Lavik had had time to gather his thoughts. He smiled again, a little more relaxed now.
“Well, you’re really off-target if you’re trying to link me to that. I barely knew the man. Obviously I’d met him, around and about. But I couldn’t say I knew him. It was a tragic way to die, of course. He didn’t have any children?”
“No, he didn’t. What do you do with your money, Mr. Lavik?”
“My money?”
He sounded genuinely astonished.
“Yes, you earn enough, and you’ve been a good boy and given all the right information to the tax office. Almost one and a half million kroner last year. Where’s it all gone?”
“That’s got absolutely nothing to do with you! My conscience is completely clear, and how I invest my lawful earnings is hardly any affair of yours.”
He stopped abruptly, his goodwill at an end. He glanced up at the clock and said he had to prepare for a meeting.
“But I’ve a lot more questions to ask you, Mr. Lavik, a lot more,” the journalist protested.
“But I haven’t got any more answers to give,” said Lavik decisively, standing up and showing him the door.
“May I come back another day when it’s more convenient for you?” Myhreng persisted as he walked across the room.
“I’d rather you rang. I’m a very busy man,” the lawyer replied, putting an end to the conversation and shutting the door behind him.
Fredrick Myhreng was alone with the librarian. She had picked up on her employer’s negative attitude and gave the impression she was going to refuse when Myhreng asked if he could use the toilet. But common courtesy prevailed.
He’d noticed an opaque window in the corridor outside, near the entrance door. While he was sitting in the waiting room it had occurred to him that it must be a lavatory. That turned out to be not entirely correct. Behind the door bearing the familiar little porcelain heart was an anteroom with a washbasin, from which the cubicle was divided by a lockable swing door. He opened and closed the door, but instead of going in he took out a chunky Swiss Army knife. It had three screwdriver blades, and it wasn’t difficult to loosen the six screws in the frame that held the window in position. He knew enough about carpentry to feel amused when he saw that the window was only screwed in; it should have been jointed together, otherwise it would warp. It hadn’t been, however, presumably because it was an inside window and not exposed to the damp. He ensured that the screws were still caught by a couple of threads, and went quietly into the cubicle and flushed the cistern. Having washed his hands, he smiled pleasantly at the receptionist, who didn’t even deign to say good-bye as he left the office. He didn’t intend to lose any sleep over it.
The evening was well advanced and bitterly cold. But Fredrick Myhreng was not anxious to get into the warm.
