burnt leg. The heat of the fire could be felt right down by the car, and Hanne was no longer freezing. She hoped Karen and her rescuer were reasonably comfortable as well. The wound above Karen’s eye didn’t appear to be any more severe than the one she’d suffered herself a few long weeks ago; hopefully that might be some indication of the force of the blow. Her pulse was even, if somewhat rapid. Hanne had found some ointment for burns in the first-aid box in the car, and smoothed it on the worst areas before covering them with wet tarpaulin. It was rather like using cough linctus for tuberculosis, she thought wryly, but did it anyway. They were both still unconscious, which was all to the good.
Peter Strup and Hanne Wilhelmsen stood and watched the flames, now apparently nearly sated. It was a riveting sight. The whole of the upper storey was gone, but the lower floor was harder to consume, consisting in the main of bricks and mortar. But there must be some wood there too; even though the flames were no longer soaring high in the sky, they were finding plenty to occupy them. In the distance at last they could hear the sirens, almost mockingly, as if the fire engines were taunting the stricken cottage with their imminent arrival, knowing it to be too late.
“You would have to go and kill him,” she said, without looking at the man by her side.
He gave a deep sigh and kicked at the frosty grass.
“You could see the situation for yourself: it was him or me. I’m lucky I had witnesses.”
He was right. A classic example of self-defence. Lavik was dead before Hanne reached him. The shot had hit him in the middle of the chest and must have penetrated his heart. Strangely enough it hadn’t bled much. She’d hauled him a bit further away from the burning building, since his immediate cremation would be of little advantage.
“Why are you here?”
“At this very moment I’m here because you’ve arrested me. It would be impolite to run off.”
Too much had happened that day for her to be able to raise a smile. She tried, but the result was just a weary and unattractive contortion of the lips. Instead of asking him further questions she just raised her eyebrows.
“I don’t need to say anything about why I came here,” he went on calmly. “It’s okay for you to arrest me. I’ve killed a man, and I’ll have to make a statement. I’ll talk about everything I saw here this evening. But nothing else. I can’t, and I won’t. You’ve probably been thinking I had something to do with the notorious drugs syndicate. Maybe you still do.”
He glanced at her for confirmation or negation. Hanne’s expression was totally impassive.
“All I can say is that you’re completely wrong. But I’ve had my suspicions about what’s been going on. As Jorgen Lavik’s former employer, and as someone who feels a sense of responsibility for the legal profession, and for…”
He broke off, as if he suddenly realised he’d said too much. A little moan from one of the patients behind them made them turn round. It was Hakon who was showing signs of regaining consciousness. Hanne crouched down by his head.
“Does it hurt badly?”
A weak nod and a wince were answer enough. She gently stroked his hair, which was singed and smelt burnt. The ambulance siren was getting louder, and subsided in an anguished wail as the white and red vehicle drove up to them. Following it came two fire engines, prevented by their size from coming all the way.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” she promised him as two strong men lifted him carefully onto a stretcher and carried him into the ambulance. “Everything’s going to be fine now.”
The silver-haired man had seen enough. Lavik was obviously dead, otherwise he wouldn’t have been lying alone and unattended on the grass. He wasn’t so sure about the two prostrate bodies in the parking area. But it didn’t matter. His problem was solved. He retreated into the trees and paused to light a cigarette when he was far enough away. The smoke tore at his lungs, since he’d actually given up some years ago. But this was a special occasion.
“It ought to have been a cigar,” he thought to himself as he returned to his car and trod out the stub in the brown leaves. “A fat Havana!”
A broad grin spread over his face as he set off back to Oslo.
TUESDAY 8 DECEMBER
They both made a good recovery. Karen Borg had suffered from smoke inhalation, a minor fracture of the skull, and severe concussion. She was still in hospital, but was expected to be discharged towards the end of the week. Hakon Sand was already on his feet again, metaphorically if not yet quite literally. The burns were not as bad as had been feared, but he would have to resign himself to using crutches for a while. He’d been granted four weeks’ sick leave. His leg was excruciatingly painful, and after a week of sleepless nights and large doses of analgesics, he couldn’t stop yawning. He’d also coughed up little black particles of soot for several days after the fire. And he jumped every time anybody lit a match.
He was relatively satisfied, however. Almost pleased. They might not have solved the case, but they’d brought it to some sort of conclusion. Jorgen Lavik was dead, Hans Olsen was dead, Han van der Kerch was dead, and Jacob Frostrup was dead. Not to mention poor old unremarkable Ludvig Sandersen, who’d had the dubious privilege of opening the ball. The killers of Sandersen and Lavik were known to the police; Van der Kerch and Frostrup had chosen their own way out. Only Olsen’s unfortunate encounter with a bullet remained something of a mystery. The official opinion now was that Lavik was the perpetrator. Kaldbakken, the commissioner, and the public prosecutor had all insisted on that. It was better to have a dead, identified murderer than an unidentified one still at large. Hakon had to admit that the basis for the theory of a third man had gone-it had been Peter Strup’s weird behaviour that had given rise to the idea, and now the top lawyer was out of the picture. He had conducted himself in an exemplary fashion. He accepted two days’ custody without protest until the prosecution service dismissed the killing of Jorgen Lavik as having been without criminal intent. Self-defence pure and simple. Even the chief public prosecutor, who as a matter of principle believed that all murder cases should be brought to trial, had soon agreed to no charges being preferred. Strup’s weapon was legally owned, since he was a member of a gun club.
The view of the majority, with some relief, was that there was no third man. Hakon himself didn’t know what to think. He was tempted to go along with the logical conclusions of his superiors. But Hanne Wilhelmsen demurred. She insisted there had to be a third man who had attacked her that fatal Sunday. It could not have been Lavik. Their superiors, however, disagreed: it was either Lavik, or perhaps an accomplice lower down the hierarchy. Anyway, they must not allow such an insignificant factor to disturb the neat solution they had found to the whole affair. They bought it, all of them. Except Hanne Wilhelmsen.
A strike. The third in a row. Unfortunately it was so early in the day that only one of the other lanes was in use. Four noisy young teenage boys were playing there, and they hadn’t so much as glanced over at the two older men since their initial critical and sneering appraisal. So there were no spectators to see this piece of bowling skill other than his opponent-and he pretended not to be impressed.
The screen suspended from the ceiling above their heads indicated that they’d both had a successful series. Anything over 150 points was quite good. Considering their age.
“Another game?”
Peter Strup was asking. Christian Bloch-Hansen hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and grinned. Just one more.
“But let’s get some mineral water first.”
They sat there, each with a heavy ball in his hand, sharing a bottle. Peter Strup was running his hand over the smooth surface. He looked older and thinner than the last time they’d met. His fingers were dried up and emaciated, and the skin was cracked over his knuckles.
