by Holt, Anne
“Good that you could all manage to come,” he said, peering round at his colleagues.
The Minister of Agriculture was the only one dressed in everyday clothes: denim jeans and a flannel shirt. He had been fishing at his summer cottage when the government car came to collect him, and there had not been time to go to his apartment for a more appropriate outfit. Now he was sitting fiddling with a tin of snuff but did not dare help himself to a pinch, even though the craving was overwhelming. It would appear disrespectful. He stuffed the tin into his breast pocket.
“This is a terrible day for us all,” the Foreign Minister said, after clearing his throat. “As far as the case itself is concerned … the police case, I mean, I actually know very little. No weapon has been found. No one has been arrested. It goes without saying that the police are working flat out. With assistance from their Security Service. I hardly need to tell you why they are in the picture.”
He fumbled for the glass of Farris mineral water in front of him, and drank its entire contents. No one took the opportunity to ask questions, even though there were quite a few of these bouncing off the soundproof walls of the room. All that could be heard was the sound of the Oil and Energy Minister sniffing.
“My primary concern is to let you know what is going on. Factually and constitutionally. I have a formal meeting with the King at nine o’clock today, and there will be an extraordinary meeting of the Cabinet later in the day. You will be told when.”
The Foreign Minister continued to hold the empty glass in his hand, staring at it as though he hoped it would refill all by itself. He then reluctantly put it down and turned to face the Senior Private Secretary, who was sitting on the other side of the vacant chair.
“Could you provide us with a short briefing?”
The Senior Private Secretary from the Prime Minister’s office was an older woman who chafed strenuously against the fact that she would be turning seventy in two months’ time. Several times during the previous night she had caught herself having the objectionably egotistical thought that this incident might mean the postponement of her pensioner status for perhaps a year.
“Otto B. Halvorsen …” she began, slipping a pair of reading glasses on to her narrow, angular face. “He passed away on 23rd May, 1923. He and Peder Ludvig Kolstad are the only ones to have died while in post as Prime Minister. So we do in a sense have precedents to follow. I can’t see any reason why we should handle this case differently.”
This case … Finance Minister Tryggve Storstein felt a strong surge of irritation, bordering on rage. This was no “case”. This concerned the dreadful fact that Birgitte Volter was dead.
Tryggve Storstein was basically quite a good-looking man. He had regular features that made life difficult for the cartoonists, short dark hair that showed no sign of receding, even though he was approaching fifty, and anxious, downcast eyes that sometimes made him look sad even when he was smiling. His North European nose was straight, and his mouth sometimes had an undeniably sensual quiver to it when he spoke. However, Tryggve Storstein did not make a big deal out of his appearance. Perhaps this was down to his upbringing in Storsteinnes in Troms County, or maybe it was that he had practically been born into the party. In any case, he had the peculiar trait that ill-tempered right-wingers ascribed to every former member of the AUF, the youth wing of the Labor movement: he was ever so slightly tacky. Although his clothes hung well on his athletic frame, they never looked quite right. Were never really tasteful. The dark suits were too dark, and everything else came from the Dressmann chain store. Now he was wearing a brown “tweed” jacket of synthetic material, black trousers and brown shoes. He was upset, and tinkered with a pen he continually pressed in and out. Click-click. Click-click.
“Of course, Otto B. Halvorsen died after a short illness,” the Senior Private Secretary continued, glancing with irritation in Storstein’s direction over her spectacle rims. “So people had time to prepare themselves to some extent. That probably came in handy when Peder Kolstad died suddenly following a thrombosis in March 1932. The same procedure was followed then. In any case, the Foreign Minister takes over the post of Prime Minister on a temporary basis, until the government resigns. That can happen as soon as a new government is ready. Until then, the present government functions as a caretaker administration.”
She pursed her lips momentarily, which made her look like a bespectacled mouse.
“That is to say, it deals only with current issues. I have prepared a memorandum …”
She gave a peremptory signal to a woman who had just entered the room. Standing beside the coffee table near the door, the woman seemed extremely uneasy. At the sign from her superior, she moved rapidly around the oval table, issuing each of the Cabinet ministers with three booklets.
The Senior Private Secretary continued: “… that explains what can be considered ‘current issues’. Mainly they are issues that cannot be said to commit the next government in any way. The appointment of judges, for example …”
Looking up from the paper in front of her, she sought eye contact with the Justice Minister, but he was gazing at the ceiling, his eyes fixed on the tiny halogen lamps that for the moment resembled planets in an alien universe.
“… must be put on hold. Well. Everything is detailed in the papers. We are at your disposal to answer questions twenty-four hours a day.”
The Senior Private Secretary tapped the papers in front of her and looked at the Foreign Minister with a forced smile.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, coughing.
He was about to come down with a cold: a chill, tight band of pain was pressing into his head. “I have spoken to the President of the Parliament. There will be an extraordinary sitting of Parliament today at twelve noon. I expect to have a new government in place within a week. But we’ll wait until after the funeral.”
There was silence. Total silence. The Minister of Agriculture instinctively clutched his breast pocket, but still let the snuff tin be. The Minister of Trade ran his hands over his hair: for once, his hairstyle was not perfect, and several loose strands were hanging over his left ear. Tryggve Storstein broke the stillness.
“We are holding an extraordinary meeting of the Labor Party National Executive tomorrow afternoon,” he said softly. “Until further notice, I will take on the role of Party Leader. You will be immediately informed about what happens in the party in the days ahead.”
Health Minister Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden looked up. Winding her blonde hair around her ear, she glanced at the Finance Minister. Together with Tryggve Storstein, she was joint Deputy Leader of the Party. They had been granted these positions as a consolation prize following the dramatic confrontation five years earlier, when Gro Harlem Brundtland, abruptly and for personal reasons, had stepped down as Party Leader and concentrated on being Prime Minister. Birgitte Volter had won. There had been little to separate the three candidates until an hour before the result was announced. The Norwegian Confederation of Trade Unions had decided the matter. Birgitte Volter had originally come from the trade union movement and had wisely nurtured relationships there.
So they became joint Deputy Leaders. The most important difference between them was that Tryggve Storstein had accepted the defeat five years earlier with composure. He enjoyed widespread, universal respect, though most people disagreed with him on one issue or another. By contrast, Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden had both a coterie of devoted, uncritical friends and a number of thoroughly malicious enemies. As long as the former were very much in the majority, she would manage fine. Tryggve Storstein did not belong to that group, and the mistrust was mutual.
“And one thing we must make clear,” Tryggve Storstein added, leafing through the papers in front of him, “is that there is no guarantee – as the situation in Parliament currently stands, and given the appetite for government shown by the centrist parties in the past six months – that the Labor Party will be running the country in a week’s time. Now they have the opportunity, if they wan
t to take it – our friends in the centrist parties.”
No one had yet thought that far ahead. They all looked at one another.
“Hell, no,” muttered the Minister for Children and Families. Despite her young age, she had spent a long time in Parliament. “I’ll bet my boots they won’t take the chance now. They’ll wait until the autumn.”
Then she suddenly raised her hand to her mouth, as though it wasn’t quite polite to bet your boots on anything.
08.00, OSLO POLICE STATION
“There are far too many bloody cooks around here,” muttered Billy T. “This is turning into a real mess.”
The woman at his side nodded gently. There had to be at least fifty people in the parade room on the third floor of the police building. The men from the Police Security Service were easy to distinguish, as they sat on their own and looked as though they were keeping an extremely big secret. What’s more, most of them were well rested, in contrast to other members of the police force, many of whom had been working for almost twenty-four hours. An whiff of old perspiration permeated the large space.
“Damn Security Service,” Billy T. continued. “It’s sure to be a shambles. Those guys are going to conjure up the worst-case scenarios. Terrorism and devilment and threats from the Middle East. And we’re probably only dealing with a lunatic. Hell’s teeth, Tone-Marit, we don’t need a Norwegian Palme case. If we don’t get to the bottom of this in a couple of weeks, then it’ll be too late. That’s for absolute certain.”
“You’re just tired, Billy T.,” Tone-Marit replied. “Obviously the Security Service has to be involved in this. They’re the ones who know all about the threat levels.”
“Yes, I am bloody tired. But they can’t have a particularly good handle on threat levels, since the lady’s already dead. And so …”
Grinning, he tried in vain to find room for his legs between the rows of chairs; in the end he had to ask the man in the seat in front to move.
“And so they’re in a Catch-22 dilemma. Either they are right that the homicide has a political or terrorist motive, and they haven’t done their job. Or else I’m right about it being the work of some madman, and then the Security Service doesn’t have any business being here. That’s the kind of thing we’re good at.”
“You’ll just have to calm down now,” Tone-Marit said quietly. “You never got over the fact that they had doubts about your security clearance.”
“Just because I’m fond of women,” Billy T. spluttered.
“You sleep with any woman who makes herself available,” Tone-Marit corrected him. “And a few more besides. But that had nothing to do with it, and you know that perfectly well. You were once in the Communist Party. What’s more, you can’t possibly have any grounds for stating that this is the work of a madman. We don’t have grounds for drawing any conclusions. None. You should know that.”
“I’ve never been a member of the Communist Party. Never! I was a radical! That’s something entirely different. I am a radical, for fuck’s sake. That doesn’t mean that I can’t be relied upon!”
The Security Service Chief and the Chief of Police had taken their places at a table at the very front of the room, and were sitting facing the others like two teachers facing a class they weren’t quite sure how to tackle. The Chief of Police, who had been appointed to the post only three months earlier, had streaks of grime on his face and was scratching his dark-blue stubble. His uniform shirt had a dirty rim around the collar, and his tie was crooked. The Security Service Chief was not in uniform; he was immaculately dressed in a beige summer suit over a brilliant white shirt with a tan-colored tie, and he was gazing at the ceiling.
“A staff base has been set up in the communications room at the central switchboard,” the Police Chief began, without any further introductions or opening preamble. “We’ll continue with that arrangement in the days ahead. Time will tell whether we move out from there.”
Time will tell. They all knew what that meant.
“We’re left bloody high and dry,” Billy T. whispered.
“In the meantime, we have very little to go on,” the Chief of Police confirmed loudly, as he stood up.
Crossing to an overhead projector, he placed an acetate on the glass plate.
“Up till now, we have interviewed twenty-eight people. We’re talking about people who can be closely connected to the scene of the crime. Staff at the Prime Minister’s office, politicians, government officials and office workers. In addition to the security personnel on the fourteenth as well as the ground floor. And a couple of … visitors. People who visited the Prime Minister yesterday.”
The Chief of Police pointed at a red box on the sheet, filled with names. His hands were trembling. The pen he was using, outlined like a giant pointer on the wall behind him, moved up and down on the acetate and pushed it askew. For a moment or two he fumbled to try to straighten it, but it seemed to have attached itself to the glass, and he abandoned the attempt.
“At this preliminary stage, we have no fixed theories. I repeat: we have no fixed theories. It’s of the greatest importance that we go forward on an extremely broad front. The Security Service will play a very important part in this work. The method used in this homicide …”
He switched off the projector, using both hands to remove the obstinate acetate. Then, placing another on the glass plate, he switched the machine on again.
“… indicates a high degree of professionalism.”
The acetate showed a diagram of the fourteenth and fifteenth floors in the tower block.
“This is the Prime Minister’s office. As you can see, it can be reached in two ways, either through the outer office and in through here …”
He let the pen smack against a door opening.
“… or via a conference room, through the restroom and in here.”
The pen drew a route on the sheet.
“What both entrances have in common is that, in both instances, you have to pass through this door here …”
Again he dotted the pen on the glass.
“… and that is in full view of the secretary’s desk here.”
The Chief of Police sighed so heavily that the sound reached all the way back to Billy T. and Police Sergeant Tone-Marit Steen. This was followed by a lengthy silence.
“Besides …” the Police Chief said suddenly, his voice breaking in the middle of the word. He coughed hoarsely. “Besides, in order to access the three top floors, the Prime Minister’s section, you have to pass this point.”
His stubby forefinger now covered the entire entrance to the fourteenth floor.
“This is a security gate, where a security guard is always present. True enough, there is of course an emergency exit …”
His finger moved again.
“… here, but there is absolutely nothing to indicate that it was used. The doors are sealed, and the seals have not been broken.”
“Where’s John Dickson Carr and his super-sleuths when you need them?” Billy T. said under his breath, his mouth at Tone-Marit’s ear.
The Chief of Police continued. “For some time now, the tower block has been undergoing extensive renovations, both inside and out. Because of that, scaffolding has been erected on the outside of the building. Naturally, we have checked whether someone could have come in that way, but we haven’t found any evidence of that either. None whatsoever. The windows are intact, the frames untouched. Of course, we are also investigating everything to do with air vents and that sort of thing, but for the moment that seems to be a red herring as well.”
The Security Service Chief had folded his arms across his chest, and was studying something on the desk facing him.
The Police Chief went on. “The weapon has still not been found. So far it looks as though it was a relatively small-caliber gun, probably a revolver. We’ll have more specific answers later today, when a provisional post mortem report will also be available. As things appear now, the time of the murder seems to have been at
some point between 18.00 and 18.45. And guys …”
He peered out across the assembly.
“… it should be completely unnecessary to say this, but I’m saying it regardless: if there was ever a time when it was important to keep our cards close to our chests, then this is it. Every single leak to the press or anybody else will be subjected to a thorough investigation, and I mean thorough. I will not accept any leaks; I repeat: not a single, solitary leak about this case. Understood?”
A murmur of consent rippled through the room.
“The Security Service Chief will make a short statement.”
The man in the beige suit got to his feet and rounded the table where he had been sitting. With a graceful movement, he sat on the tabletop, and once again crossed his arms over his ribcage.
“We’re keeping all possibilities open, as the Chief of Police has suggested. We know that right-wing-extremist groups have engaged in a certain amount of activity recently, and we are aware that this includes drafting so-called death lists. In itself, this is nothing new. Such lists have been in existence for a long time, and Prime Minister Volter featured on them long before she took over the premiership.”
He stood up again and walked back and forth across the floor as he spoke. His voice was deep and pleasant, and his words flowed without pause.
“Neither can we disregard the possibility that the murder has a connection with recent events in the Middle East. The Oslo Agreement is in imminent danger of petering out altogether, and it is well known that Norway is working tenaciously behind the scenes to prevent the whole peace process from collapsing.”
“Now our guys in Security will get to cooperate with their old pals in Mossad again,” Billy T. muttered, almost inaudibly.
Tone-Marit pretended not to hear, and craned her neck to obtain a better view of the man at the front.