“Karen Borg is legally bound by the Client Confidentiality Act,” he went on. “She has infringed it. I can see from the documentation that she has based her position in this serious breach of the law on her deceased client’s quasi- consent. This cannot suffice. I have to stress first and foremost her client’s demonstrably psychotic state, which rendered him incapable of determining his own best interests. Secondly I would draw the Court’s attention to the so-called suicide note itself, Document 17-1.”
He paused, and turned up the copy of the hapless letter.
“From this wording it is somewhat-no, extremely-unclear whether the formulation as a whole could be seen to exempt her from her duty of confidentiality. As I read it, it is more in the nature of a farewell note, a rather emotional declaration of affection to a lawyer who has obviously been extremely kind and sympathetic.”
“But he’s dead!”
Hakon was unable to hold his tongue, half rising and gesticulating with his arms. He dropped back into his seat again before the magistrate had time to call him to order. The defence counsel smiled.
“I refer you to Law Reports 1983, page 430,” he said, going round the bar and putting a copy of the judgement on the magistrate’s desk.
“One for you, too,” he said, proffering a copy to Hakon, who had to stand up and go over to take it himself.
“The majority view was that the duty of confidentiality does not cease when the client dies,” he explained. “The minority view concurred, come to that. There can be no doubt on the subject. And so we come back to this letter.”
He held it up at arm’s length and read it out:
“You’ve been very kind to me. You can forget what I said about keeping your mouth shut. Write to my mother. Thanks for everything.”
He put the letter back with the other papers. Hanne didn’t know what to think. Hakon had gooseflesh and could feel his scrotum contracting into a delicate little bulge of masculinity as it did when bathing in ice-cold water.
“This,” Bloch-Hansen continued, “this is far from granting exemption from the duty of confidentiality. Karen Borg as a lawyer should never have made a statement on the matter. But since she has erred, it is essential that the Court does not do likewise. I would draw your attention in this respect to Article 119 of the Penal Code and point out that it would conflict with that provision if the Court were to allow Borg’s statement.”
Hakon turned the pages of the offprint he had in front of him; his hands were trembling so much that he had difficulty coordinating his movements. He found the relevant paragraph at last. Hell’s bells! A court could not accept a statement from lawyers of information received in the course of their professional duties.
Now he was seriously worried. He didn’t give a damn about Lavik, drug-runner and possible murderer Jorgen Ulf Lavik. All he could think of was Karen Borg. Perhaps she was in deep trouble. And it was entirely his fault: it was he who had insisted on getting her statement. Admittedly she had offered no protest, but she would never have provided it if he hadn’t asked her for it. Everything was his fault.
On the opposite side of the room the counsel for the defence had packed up his papers. He’d gone to the end of the bar nearest the magistrate and was leaning with one hand on the top of the bench.
“And that, sir, leaves the prosecution with nothing at all. No particular significance can be attached to the telephone numbers in Roger Stromsjord’s notebook. The fact that the man has a penchant for playing with numbers is not proof of wrongdoing. It is not even an indication of anything unusual-other than that he might be an eccentric. And what of the fingerprints on the banknote? We know very little about that. But, sir, there is nothing to show that Mr. Lavik isn’t speaking the truth! He could have lent a thousand to a client he felt sorry for. Not particularly sensible, of course, since Frostrup’s credit rating was not exactly flawless, but the loan was without doubt a generous act. No special significance can be attached to that either.”
A wave of his arm denoted that he was about to make his concluding remarks.
“I shall not comment further upon the grave impropriety of incarcerating my client. It would be superfluous. None of this even approaches reasonable grounds for suspicion. My client must be released forthwith. Thank you.”
It had taken exactly eight minutes. Hakon had taken one hour and ten minutes. The two police constables who were in charge of Lavik had been yawning throughout the hearing. During Bloch-Hansen’s defence they perked up considerably.
The magistrate was far from perky. He made no effort to conceal the fact that he was worn out, tilting his head from side to side and massaging his face. Hakon wasn’t even offered his right of reply. He didn’t care. He felt a sinister void in his stomach and was in no condition to say any more. The magistrate looked at the clock. It was already half past six. The news would be on in half an hour.
“We’ll continue with Roger Stromsjord right away. It probably won’t take so long now that the Court is familiar with the facts of the case,” he said optimistically.
It took less than an hour. Hanne couldn’t help feeling that poor Roger was only being seen as an appendage of Lavik. If the decision went against Lavik, it would go against Roger. If Lavik went free, Roger would do likewise.
“You’ll have a judgement today, I hope, but it may not be until midnight,” the magistrate declared as the hearing at last came to an end. “Will you wait, or may I have a fax number for each of you?”
He certainly could.
Roger was escorted back to the basement, after a whispered conversation with his defence counsel. The magistrate had already gone into the adjacent office, and the typist had followed him. Bloch-Hansen put his shabby but venerable document case under his arm and went over to Hakon Sand. He seemed more friendly than he had reason to be.
“You can’t have had much when you arrested them on Friday,” he said in an undertone. “I wonder what you would have done if you hadn’t found the notebook and been lucky with the fingerprints. Or to put it more bluntly, you must have been miles away from reasonable grounds for suspicion when you took them both in.”
Hakon felt faint. Perhaps it was obvious to the other two, because the lawyer was quick to reassure him.
“I’m not going to make any fuss about it. But if I can offer you a word of friendly advice: don’t get involved in things you can’t handle. That holds good for all aspects of life.”
He nodded curtly but politely and went out to meet those journalists who had not yet lost patience. There were quite a few. The two police officers were left alone.
“Let’s go and get something to eat,” Hanne suggested. “Then I’ll wait with you. I’m sure it’ll be all right.”
That was a barefaced lie.
Again he noticed the subtle fragrance of her perfume. She’d given him a hug of consolation and encouragement as soon as they were by themselves. It hadn’t helped. When they emerged from the grand old courthouse, she remarked on how sensible it had been to wait for half an hour. The inquisitive crowds had long gone off home to the warmth. The television people had had to bow to their fixed schedules and hurry back with what little they’d got. The newspaper reporters had also vanished, after having obtained a short statement from the defence counsel. It was already quarter past eight.
“Actually, I haven’t eaten all day,” Hakon realised in some astonishment, feeling his appetite sneaking back after having cowered in a corner of his stomach for over twenty-four hours.
“Nor have I,” Hanne replied, even though it wasn’t entirely true. “We’ve got plenty of time. The magistrate will need at least three hours. Let’s find somewhere quiet.”
They walked arm-in-arm down a little hill, trying to evade the heavy splashes from the roof of an old building, and managed to get a secluded table in an Italian restaurant just round the corner. A handsome young man with jet-black hair escorted them to their places, plonked a menu down in front of them, and asked mechanically whether they wanted anything to drink. After a moment’s hesitation, they both ordered a beer. It was delivered in record time. Hakon drank half the glass in one gulp. It revived him, and the alcohol made an immediate impact-or perhaps it was just the shock to his atrophied stomach.
“It’s all disintegrating,” he said, almost cheerfully, wiping the froth from his upper lip. “It’ll never get through. They’ll walk straight out and back to their old games again. Mark my words. And it’s my fault.”
“We’ll worry about it if it happens,” said Hanne, though she was unable to disguise the fact that she shared his
