by Holt, Anne
“I expect you’ll tell me what this is about,” he said, using his palms to indicate the settee.
He himself sat down in a deep winged armchair. The police officers remained on their feet: the man stood behind the settee and fiddled in embarrassment with a seam in the leather, without raising his eyes.
“We would like you to accompany us to the police station,” the woman said, clearing her throat, obviously feeling increasingly ill at ease. “We, that is to say the attorneys at headquarters, would really appreciate it if you could come down for a … a chat, you might say.”
“A chat?”
“An interview.”
The voice emanated from the beard; the man straightened up now as he continued. “We would like to interview you.”
“Interview me? About what?”
“You’ll find that out when we get there. To the police station, I mean.”
Supreme Court Judge Benjamin Grinde gazed first at the woman and then at the man, before bursting into laughter. Muted, pleasant laughter. The situation seemed to amuse him enormously.
“I expect you know that I’m familiar with the rules here,” he chortled. “Strictly speaking, I don’t need to come with you at all. Of course I’m happy to be of service, but I do need to know what this is about.”
Then he stood up, and as if to emphasize his nonchalance, left them and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned immediately, carrying his cognac glass, and raised his glass to them with an elegant movement, as though he had already embarked on his birthday celebrations.
“I expect you probably don’t drink while on duty.” He smiled, sitting down slowly in his chair again after picking up a newspaper from the floor.
The female officer sneezed.
“Prosit,” mumbled Benjamin Grinde, fumbling with the financial newspaper, Dagens Nœringsliv, in his hand. Oddly, its pink paper matched the room’s furnishings.
“I think you ought to come with us,” the woman said, clearing her throat again, this time with more assurance. “We have a warrant for your arrest, just in case.”
“An arrest warrant? For what, if I may be so bold?”
The newspaper was now back on the floor, and Grinde leaned forward in his seat.
“Honestly,” the female officer said, moving round to the front of the settee in order to sit down, “wouldn’t it be better if you just came with us? You said so yourself: you know how things work, and it will be such a shambles if we arrest you. The press, for example. Much better to come with us.”
“Let me see that warrant.”
His voice was cold, hard and incontestable.
The younger man fiddled with his jacket zipper and eventually withdrew a blue sheet from his inside pocket. Hesitant, he remained where he was as he glanced at his older colleague to find out what he should do. She nodded faintly, and Benjamin Grinde was handed the form. He unfolded it, laid it on his knee and stroked the paper several times.
To top it all, they had used his full title: “Doctor of Law, Bachelor of Medicine, Supreme Court Judge Benjamin Grinde. Charged with violation of penal code section 233, c.f. penal code section 232, for the …”
When he read the basis and essential elements of the offense, he grew pale; his complexion turned completely gray behind the slight suntan, and as if by magic, a sheen of moisture covered his face.
“Is she dead?” he whispered to no one in particular. “Is Birgitte dead?”
The two police officers exchanged swift glances, knowing that they were both thinking exactly the same thing: either this man had no idea about what had taken place, or he ought to add “Actor by Royal Appointment” to his already incredibly impressive title.
“Yes. She is dead.”
It was the woman who replied, and for a moment she was afraid that Benjamin Grinde would faint. The color of his complexion was frightening, and if it had not been for his seemingly excellent health, she would have feared for his heart.
“How?”
Benjamin Grinde was on his feet now, but his body seemed slumped. His shoulders were stooped, as on a bottle, and he had banged the cognac glass down on the table; the golden liquid sloshed around, twinkling in the light from the chandelier prisms above the dining table.
“We can’t tell you that, as you well know,” the woman responded, though her voice had softened, to the irritation of her colleague, who interrupted brusquely.
“Are you coming with us now, then?”
Without uttering a word in reply, Benjamin Grinde folded the blue sheet carefully and precisely before unhesitatingly placing it in his own pocket.
“Of course I’ll come with you,” he muttered. “There’s no need for any kind of arrest.”
Five patrol vehicles were parked outside the venerable old apartment block in Frogner. As he slipped into the rear seat of one of them, he spotted two police officers heading off up to his flat.
They were probably going to guard his apartment, he thought. Perhaps they were awaiting a search warrant. Then he fastened his seatbelt.
That was when he noticed that his hands were shaking, quite violently.
21.30, KIRKEVEIEN 129
The phone had been ringing continually, and in the end she had pulled out the plug. It was Friday night, and she wanted some time off. Real time off. Honestly. She shuttled to and fro between her office and the Parliament Building every day, and wasn’t about to have a hard-earned Friday evening spoiled as well. Both her children were out, and though they were almost grown up, she hardly spoke to them at all. Right at this moment, that didn’t matter. She was exhausted and felt a bit under the weather, and had deliberately left her pager tucked away inside a clothes closet, even though, strictly speaking, she was meant to be contactable at all times. Half an hour ago, she had heard something come in on the fax machine in her bedroom, but she didn’t have the stamina to go and see what it was. Instead, she mixed herself a Campari with a little tonic and lots of ice cubes, propped her feet up on the coffee table and was on the point of searching for some kind of detective program among the plethora of channels with which she had never managed to become entirely familiar.
NRK, the state broadcaster, was the safest bet.
The news review program’s graphics appeared on the screen. At half past nine? It must be the evening news. As early as this? She stood up to fetch a newspaper.
Then she noticed the vertical text on the picture, down the right-hand side. “News Flash”. It was a special broadcast. She stood quite still with the Campari glass in her hand. The man with the fine, blond hair and tired eyes looked almost choked with tears as he cleared his throat before starting to speak.
“Prime Minister Birgitte Volter is dead, at the age of only fifty-one. She was shot in her office in the tower block inside the government complex some time this afternoon or early evening.”
The Campari glass fell to the floor. From the hollow sound, she could hear that it did not smash, but the pale shag-pile carpet would almost certainly never be the same again. She did not even look at it, but let herself sink down slowly onto the settee once more.
“Dead,” she whispered. “Birgitte? Dead … Shot?”
“We’re moving across to the government complex.”
A breathless young man, who seemed tiny in a far too big all-weather jacket, gazed into the restless camera with wide eyes. “Yes, I am standing here outside the tower block, and we have just had confirmation that Birgitte Volter has in fact …”
He was obviously struggling to find the right words for the occasion and, as he stuttered and spluttered, she noted that he had not even managed to change into a dark suit, as the man in the studio had.
“… passed away. From what we now know, she was shot in the head, and we have been informed that she must have died instantly.”
And then he could not think of anything further to say. He swallowed repeatedly, and the camera operator was clearly unsure about whether to keep him in focus. The image veered between the reporter –
strongly illuminated by a floodlight – and the scene of subdued activity in the background, where the police had their hands full keeping rubberneckers and journalists outside the red-and-white crime-scene tape.
Birgitte was dead. The voices on the news program became distant, and she realized she felt faint. Lowering her head between her knees, she reached out for an ice cube from the carpet. Though it was covered in fluff, she placed it on her forehead all the same; it helped to clear her head.
The anchorman in the studio was making a heroic effort to save his younger, far less experienced colleague standing outside the government offices.
“Do you know if any arrests have been made?”
“No, there’s nothing to suggest that.”
“What about the weapon; do you know any more about what kind of gun we’re talking about?”
“No, all we’ve been told is that Birgitte Volter is dead, and that she has been shot.”
“What’s happening around the tower block at the moment?”
And so they continued, for an eternity, thought the Minister of Health, Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden, who did not succeed in absorbing much of it at all. Then the TV picture moved from the tower block to the Parliament Building, where a procession of solemn-faced parliamentary leaders was hurrying into the studio.
Telephone!
She restored the plug, and after only a few seconds, the phone rang.
As she replaced the receiver, there was only one thought in her head: am I going to lose my job now?
She headed for the clothes closet in her bedroom to fish out her pager and look for something suitable to wear. Black. It must be black. On the other hand, her winter complexion was pale, and black was not the most becoming color. She was aware she was beautiful, she was well aware of that – enough not to choose a black dress in April. They would have to be satisfied with brown. Something dark.
The shock had subsided, and instead she felt a growing sense of irritation.
This was a particularly bad time for Birgitte to have departed this world, to have died. It was extremely inconsiderate of her.
The brown velour dress would have to do.
SATURDAY, APRIL 5
00.50, OUTSIDE ODINS GATE 3
Sure enough, the editor was pissed off that she had left, but that was of no consequence. She would not say what her theories were. That was her concern. Her business. If there was any business.
Benjamin Grinde’s apartment was in darkness. Of course that might mean he was fast asleep. On the other hand, hardly anyone in the Kingdom of Norway was asleep right now: it was a Friday and the homicide of Prime Minister Birgitte Volter had struck homes throughout the country like an atomic bomb. Both NRK and TV2 had news flashes every hour, although strictly speaking they had very little to convey. They mostly comprised fillers and meaningless commentary, as well as obituaries that had clearly been cobbled together at the last minute; it was obvious that, since Birgitte Volter had taken office only six months previously, the material had not yet been sitting ready-prepared in the editorial offices. By the following day, the situation would probably have improved.
The darkened windows might also mean that the Supreme Court judge was out. At a party, perhaps, or “in company”, as they said in this part of the city. However, it might also indicate something else.
She looked around before crossing the street. Cars were parked close together along the sidewalk, and there was hardly space for her between a Volvo and BMW whose bumpers were almost kissing. She huffed and puffed and finally had to turn away to try to locate a larger gap elsewhere.
Something was wrong with the lock on the entrance door at Odins gate number 3. Actually, something was wrong with the door itself; it did not close properly, and looked as though the timber had become warped. Odd, but she was spared having to use the intercom. Warily, she opened the massive wooden door and stepped into the hallway.
A smell of plaster and detergent assailed her in the unexpectedly large foyer, and she saw a bicycle secured to the railings of the staircase adjacent to the door leading to the basement. The stairway was attractive and well maintained, with yellow walls and green decorative moldings, and the original stained glass windows on each landing were in exceptionally good condition.
Halfway up the second flight of stairs, she came to a halt.
Voices. Quiet voices in conversation. A whinny of laughter.
She pulled back against the wall surprisingly quickly, and blessed fate for having equipped her with soundless Ecco shoes. She continued her ascent, keeping as close to the wall as possible.
Two men were sitting on the steps. Two uniformed police officers, sitting directly outside Benjamin Grinde’s apartment.
She had been right.
Just as carefully as she had gone up, she padded down again. Once she was well outside the damaged front door, she produced a cell phone from her voluminous coat and keyed in the code for a number that was one of the most valuable in her collection, the number for Chief Inspector Konrad Storskog, a thoroughly unpleasant social climber, aged thirty-five. No one but her knew that at the age of twenty-two he had crashed his parents’ car while in a state of intoxication that was never measured but that must have been around three per mille. She happened to have been driving the vehicle behind him; it was dark and there was no one else around. She had contacted his parents, who had, quite remarkably, extricated him from this awkward situation without the young, newly qualified police officer receiving so much as a scratch on his record. Little Lettvik had tucked away the information for future use, and had never regretted that she had neglected to fulfill her duties as a citizen thirteen years earlier.
“Storskog,” was the harsh response at the other end, also a cell phone.
“Hi there, Konrad, old pal.” Little Lettvik smirked. “Plenty to do tonight?”
Silence fell.
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
There was no crackling sound, so she knew that he was still on the line.
“Konrad, Konrad,” she said indulgently. “Don’t be difficult now.”
“What do you want?”
“Just an answer to one tiny question.”
“What is it? I’m extremely busy.”
“Is Supreme Court Judge Benjamin Grinde at the station? Right now, I mean?”
Total silence again.
“I’ve no idea,” he said suddenly, after a lengthy pause.
“Nonsense. Obviously you know. Just say yes or no, Konrad. Just yes or no.”
“Why would he be here?”
“If he isn’t, then there’s a question of gross dereliction of duty.”
She smiled to herself as she continued. “Because he must be about the very last person to have seen the lady alive. Volter, I mean. He was at her office late yesterday afternoon. Of course you have to talk to the guy! Can’t you just say either yes or no, Konrad, and then you can continue with all those important tasks you’re doing?”
Yet again, complete silence.
“This conversation never took place,” he said, his tone stony and impassive. Then he disconnected the call.
Little Lettvik had received the confirmation she needed.
“Na-na-na-na-na-na-na …” she sang contentedly as she headed toward Frognerveien to flag down a taxi.
The situation was getting urgent.
00.57, OSLO POLICE STATION
Even Billy T., who rarely noticed such things, had to admit that Benjamin Grinde was an unusually handsome man. His physique was athletic but not bulky. He had broad shoulders and narrow hips, though not exaggeratedly so. His clothes were extremely tasteful, down to the socks that were visible when he crossed his legs, and the matching tie, ever so slightly loosened. The dark circlet of hair around his head was cut very short, making the almost bald pate into something deliberate, something chosen: it suggested potency and a large dose of testosterone. His eyes were dark brown and his mouth full, and he had surprisingly white, youthful teeth, given that he was f
ifty years old, very nearly.
“Birthday tomorrow,” Billy T. commented as he leafed though the papers.
A young trainee had already taken the personal details while Billy T. had been occupied with a private matter. An extremely private matter. He had sent a two-page handwritten fax to Hanne Wilhelmsen, before taking a shower. Both of these had been beneficial.
“Yes,” Benjamin Grinde said, looking at his wristwatch. “Or actually today. Strictly speaking.”
He smiled wanly.
“Fifty years old and all that,” Billy T. said. “We’ll have this out of the way fast enough so that your celebrations aren’t spoiled.”
Benjamin Grinde looked startled for the first time; until now his facial expression had been almost blank, exhausted and virtually apathetic.
“Out of the way? I’ll have you know that I was actually presented with an arrest warrant a few hours ago. And now you’re saying that this will be out of the way quickly?”
Billy T. turned away from the typewriter to gaze at the Supreme Court judge facing him. He placed the palms of his hands on the table and tilted his head to one side.
“Listen to me.” He sighed. “I’m not stupid. And you are definitely not stupid. Both you and I know that the person who killed Birgitte Volter did not smile nicely to her secretary and go home in an orderly fashion to make …”
He rooted though the papers.
“… pâté. Was that what you were doing?”
“Yes …”
Now Benjamin Grinde was genuinely taken aback. Surely none of the police officers had been inside his kitchen?
“You’re such an obvious suspect that it can’t possibly be you.”
Billy T. chuckled, and rubbed his ear lobe, making the inverted cross dance.
“I read crime novels, you know. It’s never the obvious person. Never. And they don’t go home to their own place afterward. To be honest, Grinde, this arrest warrant was a damn piece of nonsense. You were quite right to confiscate it. Throw it away. Burn it. Typical panic response from the bloody attorneys. Pardon my language.”