on the other hand, was depressed, as if all that had weighed on the young man for a week had now landed on her shoulders.
He asked what she was going to do. She gave him an honest answer: she wasn’t entirely sure. She would have to consider.
“But you promised to keep all this to yourself,” he reminded her.
Karen didn’t reply, but drew her index finger across her throat. She called an officer, and the Dutchman was taken back to the miserable dingy-yellow cell.
Though it was gone six o’clock on a Friday evening, Håkon Sand was still in his office. Karen Borg realised that the weary lines he had in his face, that
she’d thought on Monday were the result of living it up at the weekend, were actually permanent. She was rather amazed that he was working so late; she knew that no one got paid overtime in
the police force.
“It’s stupid to work so much,” he admitted. “But it’s worse to wake up in the night worrying about everything you haven’t done. I try to get more or less
up-to-date every Friday. The weekends are more enjoyable then.”
The big grey building was silent. They sat there with a feeling of unusual rapport. Then a siren broke the stillness, a police car being tested in the yard at the back. It ceased as abruptly as
it had begun.
“Did he say anything?”
She had expected the question, knew it had to come, but having relaxed for a few minutes she was quite unprepared.
“Nothing in particular.”
She noticed how difficult it was to lie to him. He always seemed to know what was going on in her mind. She could feel a flush creeping up her back, and hoped it wouldn’t spread to her
face.
“The Client Confidentiality Act,” he said with a smile, and stretched his arms, linking his hands and putting them behind his neck. She could see sweat under his arms, but it
didn’t seem repulsive, just natural, after a ten-hour working day.
“I respect that,” he went on. “Can’t say much myself, either!”
“I thought the defence had a right to information and documents,” she said reprovingly.
“Not if we think it might be detrimental to the investigation,” he countered with an even broader smile, as if amused that they found themselves in a professional adversarial
relationship. He got up and poured them some coffee. It tasted worse than on Monday, as if it was the same pot that had been on the hotplate ever since. She contented herself with one sip and
pushed the cup away with a grimace.
“That stuff will kill you,” she admonished him. He shrugged and reassured her that he had a cast-iron stomach.
For some reason she couldn’t explain, she felt good. There was a tangible but oddly pleasant conflict going on between them that had never been there before. Never before had Håkon
been in possession of knowledge she didn’t have. Scrutinising him, she could see a glint in his eyes. His greying at the temples and his receding hairline made him appear not just older but
also more interesting, and stronger. He had actually grown rather handsome.
“You’ve become quite good-looking, Håkon,” she blurted out.
He didn’t even blush, just looked her straight in the eyes. She regretted it immediately; it was like opening a chink in her armour that she had long recognised she couldn’t afford,
not for anyone. As quick as lightning she changed the subject.
“Well, if you can’t tell me anything and I can’t say anything, we might as well call it a day,” she concluded, standing up and putting on her raincoat.
He asked her to sit down again. She complied, but kept her coat on.
“To be perfectly frank, this is a far more serious matter than we originally assumed. We’re working on several theories, but they’re fairly vague and without a shred of firm
evidence to support them at the moment. I can at least tell you that it looks as if it might be drug dealing on a grand scale. It’s too early to say how involved your client might be. But
he’s already in deep
He asked what she was going to do. She gave him an honest answer: she wasn’t entirely sure. She would have to consider.
“But you promised to keep all this to yourself,” he reminded her.
Karen didn’t reply, but drew her index finger across her throat. She called an officer, and the Dutchman was taken back to the miserable dingy-yellow cell.
Though it was gone six o’clock on a Friday evening, Håkon Sand was still in his office. Karen Borg realised that the weary lines he had in his face, that
she’d thought on Monday were the result of living it up at the weekend, were actually permanent. She was rather amazed that he was working so late; she knew that no one got paid overtime in
the police force.
“It’s stupid to work so much,” he admitted. “But it’s worse to wake up in the night worrying about everything you haven’t done. I try to get more or less
up-to-date every Friday. The weekends are more enjoyable then.”
The big grey building was silent. They sat there with a feeling of unusual rapport. Then a siren broke the stillness, a police car being tested in the yard at the back. It ceased as abruptly as
it had begun.
“Did he say anything?”
She had expected the question, knew it had to come, but having relaxed for a few minutes she was quite unprepared.
“Nothing in particular.”
She noticed how difficult it was to lie to him. He always seemed to know what was going on in her mind. She could feel a flush creeping up her back, and hoped it wouldn’t spread to her
face.
“The Client Confidentiality Act,” he said with a smile, and stretched his arms, linking his hands and putting them behind his neck. She could see sweat under his arms, but it
didn’t seem repulsive, just natural, after a ten-hour working day.
“I respect that,” he went on. “Can’t say much myself, either!”
“I thought the defence had a right to information and documents,” she said reprovingly.
“Not if we think it might be detrimental to the investigation,” he countered with an even broader smile, as if amused that they found themselves in a professional adversarial
relationship. He got up and poured them some coffee. It tasted worse than on Monday, as if it was the same pot that had been on the hotplate ever since. She contented herself with one sip and
pushed the cup away with a grimace.
“That stuff will kill you,” she admonished him. He shrugged and reassured her that he had a cast-iron stomach.
For some reason she couldn’t explain, she felt good. There was a tangible but oddly pleasant conflict going on between them that had never been there before. Never before had Håkon
been in possession of knowledge she didn’t have. Scrutinising him, she could see a glint in his eyes. His greying at the temples and his receding hairline made him appear not just older but
also more interesting, and stronger. He had actually grown rather handsome.
“You’ve become quite good-looking, Håkon,” she blurted out.
He didn’t even blush, just looked her straight in the eyes. She regretted it immediately; it was like opening a chink in her armour that she had long recognised she couldn’t afford,
not for anyone. As quick as lightning she changed the subject.
“Well, if you can’t tell me anything and I can’t say anything, we might as well call it a day,” she concluded, standing up and putting on her raincoat.
He asked her to sit down again. She complied, but kept her coat on.
“To be perfectly frank, this is a far more serious matter than we originally assumed. We’re working on several theories, but they’re fairly vague and without a shred of firm
evidence to support them at the moment. I can at least tell you that it looks as if it might be drug dealing on a grand scale. It’s too early to say how involved your client might be. But
he’s already in deep
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