Withholding evidence? He wasn’t entirely sure.
On the other hand, how to explain his possession of the key? The break-in at Lavik’s office was an offence in itself. If his editor got to hear of it, he could kiss his job good-bye. For the moment he couldn’t think of any alternative story that would hold water.
The conclusion was obvious: he would have to hunt around on his own. If he succeeded in finding the cupboard or locker or whatever it might be, he would go to the police. If it contained anything of interest, that is. Then his dubious methods would probably be overlooked. Yes, the sensible thing was to keep the key to himself.
He hitched up his trousers and went into the big grey building where his newspaper had its home.
The broad expanse of the desk was completely covered in newspapers. Peter Strup had been at the office since half past six. He too had been woken by the news of the court ruling. He had bought seven different papers on the way to work, all of which had devoted sizeable headlines to the case. On the whole the articles had little to say, but they all took different angles.
His old-fashioned fountain pen scratched across the paper as he took notes at lightning speed. It was always difficult to follow the legal arguments from newspaper articles. Journalists confused concepts and blundered around the legal landscape like free-range hens. Only
Finally he folded all the newspapers together, with pages hanging loose where he’d cut out the most significant bits. The whole batch went into the wastepaper basket. He clipped the cuttings to his handwritten notes and put them in a plastic folder in a locked drawer. He buzzed his secretary and instructed her to cancel his engagements for today and tomorrow. She was manifestly astonished, and began to counter with ifs and buts before restraining herself.
“Very well then. Shall I arrange new dates?”
“Yes, please do. Say that something unforeseen has cropped up. Now I have to make one or two important phone calls and I don’t want to be disturbed. Not by anyone.”
He stood up and locked the door to the corridor. Then he took out a neat little mobile phone and went over to the window. After a couple of rings he was through.
“Hello, Christian, it’s Peter here.”
“Good morning.”
His voice was sombre, the tone at variance with the words.
“Well, it’s not exactly good for either of us. But I’d better congratulate you, if I’ve got it right from the newspapers. One discharged and the other in custody for half the length of time demanded could be seen as a favourable result.”
His voice was flat and expressionless.
“This is one hell of a mess, Peter, a real bugger of a mess.”
“I agree.”
Neither said anything more, and the crackling on the line became intrusive.
Peter Strup wondered if the connection had been broken. “Hello, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here. Quite frankly, I don’t know what’s best-for him to stay there or be released. We’ll have to see. The result of the appeal won’t come much before the end of the day. Or maybe tomorrow. Those chaps aren’t renowned for working overtime.”
Peter Strup bit his lip. He shifted the telephone to his other hand, turned round, and stood with his back to the window.
“Is there any chance at all of stopping this avalanche? In a reasonably respectable way, I mean.”
“Who knows? For the moment I’m preparing myself for anything. If it explodes, it’ll be the biggest bang since the War. I hope I can avoid being nearby when it happens. Right now I sincerely wish you’d kept me out of it.”
“I couldn’t, Christian. The fact that Lavik chose you was a fantastic stroke of luck in the midst of all this misfortune. Someone I could rely on. Absolutely rely on.”
It was not meant as a threat in any way. Nevertheless Christian Bloch-Hansen’s voice sounded sharper.
“Let’s get one thing crystal-clear between us,” he said firmly. “My good nature isn’t inexhaustible. There has to be a limit. I thought I made that clear to you on Sunday. Don’t forget it.”
“I’m hardly likely to,” Peter Strup replied stonily, ending the conversation.
He stayed where he was and leant back against the cold glass of the window. This wasn’t just a sticky mess, it was a bloody swamp. He made the other call, which was over in two or three minutes. Then he went to get himself some breakfast. With no appetite whatsoever.
Karen Borg was sitting at a pine table by a lattice window with red-striped curtains, eating with a very hearty appetite. The third slice of bread was already on its way down, and her boxer dog lay with its head on its paws looking up at its owner with a melancholy pleading expression.
“Stop begging,” she admonished it, turning her attention again to the novel on the table in front of her. The unobtrusive tones of the morning radio programme provided background entertainment from an old-fashioned portable radio on a shelf above the kitchen bench.
The cottage was on a rocky mound, with a view she had imagined as a child stretching all the way to Denmark. When she was eight years old she had conjured up a picture of the flat land down there in the south, and she could actually
She’d had no particular trouble getting the place up to a comfortable temperature. It was well insulated against the winter cold and connected to the electricity supply; and there was still heat left from Sunday when the entire cottage had been nicely warmed through. She hadn’t dared switch on the water pump, because she wasn’t sure whether the pipes had frozen. But it didn’t matter, since the well was only a few steps from the door.
After two days she was more relaxed than she had been for many weeks. Her mobile phone was on, of course, to make her feel more secure, but it was only the office and Nils who had her number. He had left her in peace. These last weeks had been a strain for both of them. She winced at the thought of his injured enquiring look, his helpless attempts to understand her. Rejection had become a habit. They talked politely enough about their jobs, about the news and all the necessary, everyday things. But with no intimacy, no real communication. Perhaps he even felt relief when she decided to go away, though he’d tried to protest, with tears in his eyes and forlorn appeals. In any event, there had been no word from him since she’d made the obligatory call to assure him of her safe arrival. However glad she was that he had acceded to her wish to be left in peace, it hurt her a little to think he was actually managing it.
She shrugged and slopped some tea into her saucer. The dog raised its head at the abrupt movement, and she threw it a piece of cheese that it caught in midair.
“You don’t need a second invitation!” she said, shooing the dog away but failing to persuade it to give up hope of catching another piece in its slavering jaws.
