“I’m so sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “Something went down the wrong way. How are you?”
“I don’t want to talk about that now, Hakon. We will talk about it, but later. I have to think. I need to work things out. Be a good chap. Give me a bit more time.”
“Why are you phoning then?”
A mixture of despair and the faintest surge of hope made him sound unjustifiably impatient. He could hear it himself, and hoped the telephone line would take the sting out of his tone.
“Peter Strup has invited me out to dinner.”
There was complete silence. Hakon was absolutely taken aback, and inordinately jealous.
“I see.”
What more could he say?
“I see,” he repeated. “Have you accepted? Has he given any reason for the invitation?”
“Not yet,” she replied. “But I’m sure it has something to do with the case. I’m tempted to go. Do you think I should?”
“No, of course you shouldn’t! He’s a suspect in a serious criminal investigation! Have you gone completely crazy? God knows what he might be up to! No, you can’t go. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
She sighed, and realised what a mistake it had been to phone him.
“You know he’s not a suspect, Hakon. Go on, admit it. You’ve got nothing on the man at all! The fact that he’s shown a peculiar interest in my client is hardly enough to put him in the spotlight. Actually, I’m rather keen to find out what’s prompted this interest, and dinner with him might produce an answer. That would be advantageous for you too, wouldn’t it? I promise I’ll tell you whatever I can get out of him.”
“We’ve got more on him,” Hakon countered pathetically. “We have more than just this attempted poaching of clients. But I can’t tell you anything. You’ll simply have to take my word for it.”
“I think you’re jealous, Hakon.”
He could hear that she was smiling, damn her.
“I’m not in the least jealous,” he shouted, his gastric juices rising into his mouth again. “I’ve got a genuine professional concern for your safety!”
“Well, well,” she said. “If I should disappear this evening, you can arrest Peter Strup. I’m going. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Wait a minute. Where are you meeting him?”
“None of your business, Hakon, but if you really want to know: the Wine Bar on Markveien. Don’t phone me. I’ll phone you. In a while. A few days, or weeks.”
She rang off and a derisive monotone buzz took her place.
“Damn,” Hakon muttered. He spat again into the wastepaper bin and then removed the plastic liner, knotted it tight, and went off to dispose of its evil-smelling contents.
The food was out of this world. Karen enjoyed a good meal. Her own repeated culinary efforts were always a disaster. A metre of cookery books on the shelf hadn’t made any appreciable difference. In the course of her years with Nils he had gradually taken over the cooking. He could make gourmet meals out of sachets of soup; she could ruin a prime steak.
Seeing him again, she thought Peter Strup more attractive than his photographs in the newspapers. According to the press he was sixty-five. He looked much younger in photographs, but it was probably because the numerous tiny wrinkles didn’t show. Now, sitting across a table from him, she could see that life hadn’t treated him as leniently as she’d previously thought. Nevertheless the lines on his face gave him more credibility, made him look more experienced. His impressive dark grey hair covered his head like a steel helmet. A Viking chieftain with a glint of granite in his eyes.
“How are you liking it as a defence counsel?” he asked with a smile over the port, after three courses and cheesecake.
“All right,” she replied, not giving anything away.
“Is your client still in the same psychotic state?”
How did he know about the Dutchman’s state of health? But the question slipped from her mind as fast as it had occurred to her.
“Yes. It’s a shame for the poor chap. It really is. They haven’t even arranged the medical for the court yet-he’s too far gone for them to do it! He ought to be put away. But you know how it is… Frustrating. There’s not much I can do for him.”
“Do you visit him?”
“Yes, I do. Every Friday. It seems as if somewhere deep inside his disturbed brain he sets store by it. Strange.”
“No, it’s not that strange,” said Peter Strup, gently wafting away the smoke of Karen’s cigarette.
“Sorry, is that troubling you?” she asked apologetically, stubbing it out half-smoked.
“No, not in the slightest,” he assured her, picking up her pack and shaking out another one to offer her. “It’s not troubling me at all.”
She declined the cigarette anyway, and put the pack in her handbag.
“It’s not surprising that he welcomes your visits. They always do. You’re probably the only one who calls. It’s a glimmer of light in his existence, something to look forward to beforehand, and something to keep him going till the next time. However psychotic he is, he still registers what’s going on. Does he talk?”
It was a totally innocent question, quite natural in the context. But it put her immediately on the alert, cutting right through the genial atmosphere and the comfortable mild intoxication induced by three glasses of wine.
“Only meaningless mumbling,” she said in an offhand tone. “But he smiles when I go in. Or at least he makes a grimace that could be taken for a smile.”
“So he doesn’t say anything,” Peter Strup continued casually, looking at her over the top of his glass of port. “What does he actually mumble about?”
Karen’s jaw tightened. She could feel she was under interrogation, and didn’t like it. Up to that point she’d been enjoying the meal, and felt at ease in the company of a courteous, knowledgeable, and charming man. He’d been recounting anecdotes from legal and sporting life, telling her jokes with triple layers of meaning, and spicing the whole with an attentiveness that would have made more attractive women than Karen feel flattered. She had opened up too, more than she usually did, and confided some of her misgivings about life as a lawyer for the rich and powerful.
Now he was cross-examining her. She wouldn’t let herself be drawn.
“I don’t want to talk about a specific case. Least of all about this particular one. I have my duty to my client to think of. Anyway it seems to me you owe me an explanation for your so patently obvious curiosity.”
She had folded her arms, as she always did when she felt annoyed or vulnerable. Now she felt both.
Peter Strup put down his glass and sat like a male mirror image with arms folded and his gaze fixed on hers.
“I’m interested because I think I have an inkling of something that concerns me. As a lawyer, as a person. There’s a possibility I could protect you, from something that
He unfolded his arms and leant towards her. His face was too close to hers, and involuntarily she tried to back away-in vain, as it happened, because her head was soon pressing against the wall.
“You can regard this as a warning. Either you let me take over the Dutchman, or you’ll have to accept the consequences. I can assure you of one thing: you’d definitely do yourself a service by withdrawing. It’s probably not too late.”
It had become very hot in the room. Karen could feel her cheeks reddening and a rash starting on her neck from her slight allergy to red wine. The underwiring in her bra dug into the damp flesh beneath her breasts. She rose abruptly to get away from it all.
“And I can assure
