situation was still uncertain. The Intelligence Service now had a belligerent investigation committee on its back, and there was already open talk of radical restructuring. A book published only a few months previously, on the relationship between the Party and the Secret Services, was enjoying an alarming resurgence of topicality. A new edition with a huge print-run had gone to press. A conservative politician who had long maintained he had been under illegal surveillance without being able to get a response from any quarter was now being taken seriously.
Hakon didn’t mind being removed from the case, nor was he particularly bothered by the total lack of any express recognition from his superiors. It was only colleagues at his own level who gave him due credit for what he’d achieved. The job was done, the case was closed. He’d been free at the weekend on both Saturday and Sunday. It had been ages since that last happened.
When he reached the door with the peeling Walt Disney characters on, he stopped and fumbled with his bunch of keys. Once inside, he was brought up sharply by the sight of the figurine on his desk.
It was Lady Justitia. For an instant he thought it was the commissioner’s own, and was at a loss to understand. But then he realised that this one was bigger and shinier. It was presumably new. It was also more stylised; the female figure was more erect and the sculptor had taken liberties with the anatomy. The body was too long in relation to the head, and the sword was raised at an angle above the head, not resting down by the skirt. As if poised to strike.
He went over to the desk and lifted the statuette. It was heavy. The bronze was russet and gleaming and had not yet begun to oxidise. A card fell to the floor. He put the figure carefully back on the desk, and with his injured leg extended stiffly to one side he bent down and picked it up.
He tore it open.
It was from Karen.
He read it again and again. His hands were shaking as he caressed the radiant copper-bronze statuette in front of him. It was cool and smooth and pleasing to the touch. Then in utter amazement he had to close his eyes tight and refocus-he was sure he’d seen it move.
The Goddess of Justice had peeped out from behind her thick blindfold. She had gazed straight at him with one eye, and he could swear that for a split second she had winked. And smiled. A wry, enigmatic smile.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Holt, acclaimed author of the Hanne Wilhelmsen mysteries, has worked as a journalist and news anchor and spent two years working for the Oslo Police Department before founding her own law firm and serving as Norway’s minister of justice in 1996-97. She lives in Oslo with her family.
