by Holt, Anne
Raising her arms above her head, she stretched, and Knut recognized the scent of Poison. Not so long ago, he had been forced to pay a visit to the emergency doctor for anti-histamines after a one-night stand with a lady who had the same taste.
“What do you want?” she said suddenly, as though she had just noticed him.
“There’s something going on. The police radio went berserk at first, and now it’s totally silent. I’ve never known anything like it.”
Truth to tell, twenty-year-old Knut Fagerborg had not experienced very much in his short life. However, Little was in agreement: it did seem odd.
“Heard anything on the street?” she asked.
“No, but—”
“Guys!”
A man in his forties, wearing a gray tweed jacket, came shuffling into the editorial office.
“Something’s going on in the government tower block. A great commotion and lots of vehicles, and they’re cordoning off the entire place. Is the Prime Minister expecting some hotshot from abroad?”
“At night? On a Friday night?”
Little Lettvik’s left knee was aching.
She had experienced pain in her left knee two hours before the Kielland oil-rig disaster in the North Sea. Her knee had also been excruciating the day before the murder of Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme. Not to mention how she had limped to the Accident and Emergency unit the evening after the Gulf Crisis erupted, surprised that it had come upon her so late, until that night she had received news that King Olav had died.
“Pop out and investigate.”
Knut popped out.
“By the way, does anybody know anybody who had a child in 1965?”
As Little Lettvik rubbed her tender knee, she panted and puffed, bringing her stomach into a clinch with the edge of the desk.
“I was born in 65,” yelled a snazzy woman in a mauve dress who entered carrying two archive folders.
“That’s no help at all,” Little Lettvik said. “You’re alive.”
20.15, PMO
Billy T. felt something he could only interpret as longing. It hit him somewhere in his solar plexus, and he was forced to take several deep breaths in order to clear his head.
The Norwegian Prime Minister’s office would have been quite tasteful if it had not been for her lying there stone dead with her head on the papers in front of her; a literally bloody affront to the interior designer who had carefully chosen the massive desk with its bow-shaped outer edge. The same undulating contours were echoed in a number of places throughout the room, including on a bookcase which admittedly was quite decorative, but its lack of straight lines made it seem totally unfit for purpose. And sure enough there were not many books in it. The room itself was rectangular: at one end the furniture was arranged for meetings and at the other end was the desk plus two visitors’ chairs. It contained nothing that could truly be called luxurious. The picture on the wall behind the desk was large, but not particularly attractive, and Billy T. could not immediately identify the artist. The first thought that struck him as he looked around was that he had seen far more exclusive offices in other places in the country. This space was social democracy through and through, a sober prime-ministerial office that would make Norwegian visitors nod in appreciation, but which foreign heads of state would probably find conspicuously lacking in flamboyance. There was a door at either end; Billy T. had just entered through one of them, and the other led into a restroom containing a shower and toilet.
The pale physician had bloodstains on his gray jacket. He was struggling to remove his latex gloves, and Billy T. detected a hint of solemnity in his strained voice.
“I believe the Prime Minister died between two and three hours ago. However, that’s only a provisional estimate. Extremely provisional. I am assuming that the temperature in this room has remained constant, at least until our arrival.”
Finally, as the gloves capitulated, saying farewell to his fingers with a sucking sound, they were stuffed into the pocket of his tweed jacket. The doctor straightened up.
“She was shot in the head.”
“Can see that,” Billy T. mumbled.
The Superintendent sent him a warning look.
Billy T. registered it. He turned to face the three men from the crime scene division, who had already set to work doing what they had to do, what they had done many times before: they photographed, measured, and brushed their fingerprint powder, moving around the huge office with a grace that would have amazed anyone who had not seen it before. They behaved as though they were used to this sort of thing, as though this was simply routine practice. But there was something approaching the sacred in the room, an absence of the usual gallows humor, an uneasy atmosphere that was exacerbated by the rising temperature. A dead Prime Minister did not invite frivolity.
As always when he found himself in close proximity to a corpse, it struck Billy T. that nothing was as naked as death. Seeing this woman who had ruled the country until three hours ago, this woman whom he had never seen in the flesh but had encountered every single day on TV, in the newspapers, and on the radio; seeing Birgitte Volter, the human being behind the public persona, lying dead on her own desk, this was worse, more embarrassing, and made him feel more self-conscious than seeing her without any clothes. Billy T. turned away and walked across to the window.
The Ministry of Finance was situated to the left, far below. The building seemed to cower in leaden resentment at the newly and very expensively refurbished Supreme Court by its side. Further to the southwest, Billy T. could just discern the roof of the Parliament Building, which appeared rather reticent from where he stood on the second-to-top floor of the government tower block, a wispy, impotent pennant flying from the flagpole atop its cupola. The executive, the judiciary and the legislature, observed from a somewhat skewed angle.
And the national newspaper offices of Akersgata winding through it all, Billy T. thought, turning to face the room again.
“Weapon?” he enquired of a young police officer who had stepped toward the door for a moment.
The officer drank some water from a plastic mug, then conscientiously returned the beaker to a uniformed female officer in the outer office. He shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“Not yet. No weapon.” He wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve. “We’ll find it soon enough,” he continued. “We have to search further. Toilets, hallways, corridors. Dammit, this building’s a mammoth. But it’s probably not in here. The weapon, that is.”
“And this mammoth is actually filled with loads of people, even on a Friday evening,” the Superintendent said with some surprise. “They’re starting to gather in the canteen downstairs. At least sixty or seventy people so far.”
Billy T. swore under his breath. “There must be at least four hundred fucking offices in this building. Do I dare to ask for reinforcements?” He said this with a tense smile, rubbing his hand over his smooth-shaven skull.
“Of course,” said the Superintendent. “We need to find that weapon.”
“So much for the bleeding obvious,” Billy T. said, just quietly enough that no one could hear.
He wanted to leave. There was no need for him to be there. He knew that the days, the weeks, yes, perhaps even the months that followed would be hellish. There would be a lengthy state of emergency. No days off, and definitely no vacations. No time for the boys. Four children who should at least be entitled to see him at weekends. However, there was no need for him to be here, not now, not in this rectangular office with its fantastic view over the lights of Oslo and a dead woman lying across her desk.
The sense of loneliness seized him again. That was what it was: loneliness and longing. For her, his partner and only confidante. She ought to have been there. Together, they were invincible; alone, he felt that neither his height – six foot seven in his stocking feet – nor the inverted cross he wore in his ear were of any use whatsoever. For the last time, he averted his eyes from the pool of blood
underneath the woman’s shattered head.
He turned around and touched his chest.
Hanne Wilhelmsen was in the USA, and would not be back until Christmas.
“Shit, Billy T.,” whispered the police officer who had drunk the water. “I’m feeling really sick. That’s never happened to me before. At a crime scene, I mean. Not since I was a rookie.”
Without replying, Billy T. simply glanced at the man and flashed a grimace that, with a certain degree of indulgence, might be taken for a smile.
He felt really awful himself.
20.30, KVELDSAVISEN EDITORIAL OFFICE
“This must be something colossal,” Knut Fagerborg gasped, flinging off his fleece-lined denim jacket. “Crawling with people, crawling with cars, cordoned off everywhere, and everything so silent! Fuck, everybody’s so bloody serious!”
He collapsed into an office chair that was far too low, his legs flailing about all over the place, making him look like a spider.
Little Lettvik’s left knee was smarting intensely. She stood up and warily set her foot down on the floor, increasing the pressure with extreme caution.
“I want to see for myself,” she said, fishing out a box of small cigars.
Slowly and solicitously, with Knut Fagerborg jogging on the spot, impatient to sprint ahead of her the few meters across to the government tower block, she lit her cigar.
“I think you’re right,” she said, smiling. “This is definitely something colossal.”
She limped her way out of the editorial office.
20.34, SKAUGUM ESTATE IN ASKER
The black government car drew gently to a halt at the entrance to the royal residence in Asker, half an hour’s drive from central Oslo. A tall slim man in a dark suit opened the right-hand rear door before the vehicle was properly at a standstill, and alighted. Shrugging his coat more snugly around himself, he strode toward the entrance. Halfway, he staggered slightly, but only momentarily, and moved a foot to one side to recover his balance.
A uniformed man opened the door and led the Foreign Minister straight into a room resembling a library. In a subdued voice, the man asked the minister to wait. He had raised his eyebrows in surprise when the minister had dismissively waved away his outstretched hand, ready to take his outer garment. Now the tall, dark, ungainly Foreign Minister was sitting in an uncomfortable baroque chair, feeling that there was not enough room for him on it. He pulled his coat even more tightly around his frame, even though he didn’t feel cold.
The King was standing in the doorway, wearing everyday clothes: gray trousers and an open-necked shirt. He looked even more concerned than usual, and his eyes glinted restlessly behind the heavy eyelids that revealed only the lower part of the iris. He was unsmiling, and the Foreign Minister rose to his feet abruptly, holding out his hand.
“Unfortunately, I have extremely grave news, Your Majesty,” he said softly, coughing with his left hand clenched in front of his mouth.
The Queen had followed her husband, and stood a couple of meters inside the room, holding a glass containing something with ice cubes. There was a homely clinking sound as she entered, like an invitation to a pleasant evening. She was wearing denim jeans designed specially for older women, and a colorful sweater adorned with black and red cows. The professional expression on her face did not succeed in concealing a certain curiosity about the visit.
The Foreign Minister felt unwell. The royal couple seemed to be enjoying a rare evening of peace and quiet at home. On the other hand, other people too were having their evening spoiled.
He nodded toward the Queen before looking into the King’s eyes again as he continued. “Prime Minister Volter is dead, Your Majesty. She was shot earlier tonight.”
The royal couple exchanged glances, and the King rubbed his nose slowly. Both remained quiet for some time.
“I think the Foreign Minister should take a seat,” the King said eventually, pointing toward the chair the minister had just vacated. “Sit down and let us hear more. Perhaps I can take your coat?”
The Foreign Minister looked down at himself with an air that suggested he was not even aware he was wearing a coat. Clumsily, he extricated himself from it, but felt it was too much to hand it over to the King, so instead he hung it over the back of his chair before sitting down again.
The Queen’s hand touched his shoulder as she passed to sit in a chair several meters away; a comforting gesture from a woman who had discerned a hint of tears behind the Foreign Minister’s extremely thick glasses.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked softly, but the minister shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and cleared his throat once more, this time at length and with obvious difficulty.
“No, I don’t think so. This is going to be an exceptionally long night.”
20.50, OLE BRUMMS VEI 212
“My sincere condolences,” the Bishop of Oslo said as he attempted to make eye contact with the man facing him.
It was impossible. Roy Hansen had been Birgitte Volter’s sweetheart for thirty-four years, and married to her for thirty-three of them. They had both been a mere eighteen when the wedding took place, and despite turbulent patches, they had weathered all storms and stayed together even while everyone around them was trying to prove that lifelong marriage couldn’t survive such an urbane, hectic environment. Birgitte was not only an important part of his life, in many ways she was his life, something he had regarded as a natural consequence of their joint decision to prioritize her career. Now he sat on the settee, staring at some non-existent place.
The Labor Party Secretary stood at the verandah door, appearing very uncomfortable in the Bishop’s presence. She had protested at his being there. “I’m the one who knows them,” she had said. “For God’s sake, Birgitte wasn’t even a member of the Church!”
But protocol required it, and protocol had to be followed. Especially now. When everything was crazy and upside down and the way nobody ever thought it could be, the dust was brushed off the Crisis Management Handbook. Suddenly it became something new and different rather than simply a book lying in a drawer for when the thing that was never going to happen actually happened.
“I’d like you to leave,” whispered the man on the settee.
The Bishop looked disbelieving for a brief moment, but only for a second; he caught himself and recovered his ecclesiastical dignity.
“This is a very difficult time,” he continued in his east-Norwegian accent. “I have the greatest respect for your wish to be alone. Maybe there is someone else? Family, perhaps?”
Roy Hansen continued to stare at something the others could not see. He did not sob, his breathing was even and easy, but a silent stream of tears ran down from his pale blue eyes, a tiny rivulet he had long since given up wiping away.
“She can stay,” he said, without looking at the Party Secretary.
“Then I’ll withdraw,” the Bishop said, though he remained seated. “I shall pray for you and your family. And by all means phone if there’s anything I or anyone else can do for you.”
He still did not get to his feet. The Party Secretary stood at the door, keen to open it and hasten the man’s departure, but there was something about the situation that made her stand absolutely still. The minutes passed, and all that could be heard was the ticking of the oak-cased mantel clock. Suddenly it struck nine: ponderous, strained, hesitant strokes, as though it did not wish the evening to progress.
“Aha, then,” said the Bishop, with a heavy sigh. “I’ll be off.”
When at long last he had gone, and the Party Secretary had locked the door behind him, she returned to the living room. Roy Hansen looked at her for the first time; a bewildered look that turned into a grimace as he finally burst into tears in earnest. The Party Secretary sat down beside him, and he rested his head on her lap as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Someone will have to speak to Per,” he wept. “I don’t have the strength to tell Per.”
21.03, ODINS GATE 3
The liver was top quality. He held it up underneath his nose, letting his tongue just touch the pale slice of meat. The slaughterhouse at Torshov was the only one he could truly rely on as far as calf’s liver was concerned, and although it was situated out of his way, the detour was worth the trouble.
He had bought the truffles in France three days earlier. Normally he contented himself with canned ones, but when the opportunity presented itself – something that happened relatively often – there was nothing to compare with the fresh variety.
Ding-dong.
He had to do something about that doorbell. The sound was discordant and atonal, and startled him every time it rang.
He glanced at his wristwatch, and it crossed his mind that he was not expecting anyone. This was Friday, and the party was not until tomorrow.
En route to the front door, he suddenly stopped, remaining still for a split second, before walking resolutely across to the heavy oak coffee table and taking hold of the object lying there. Without further thought, he opened one of the sideboard doors decorated with grapes, and placed the item behind the table linen, underneath a tablecloth his great-great-grandmother had woven in the 1840s. He closed the door again and brushed his hands on his flannel trousers before striding out to see who was ringing the doorbell.
“Benjamin Grinde?”
It was the woman who asked. She was in her forties, had three stripes on her shoulders and looked as though she enjoyed being in uniform; it fitted well and suited the matronly bust he could discern underneath her buttoned jacket. However, it appeared that she was far from happy about the business in hand. Avoiding his gaze, she instead stared at a point ten centimeters above his head. At her side stood a somewhat younger man with glasses and a bushy, well-kept beard.
“Yes,” answered Benjamin Grinde, stepping aside as he held the door open in invitation to the two police officers.
They exchanged fleeting glances before deciding to follow the Supreme Court judge as he headed toward the living room.