Lion's Mouth, The

by Holt, Anne

  “So sweet,” the beard muttered. “Sweet and virtuous, I must say.”

  As Little Lettvik entered, she caught sight of them and lifted her hand in greeting; three swinging half-liter glasses waved in response. She approached the bar, then headed toward her colleagues, carrying a glass.

  “Cola, Little? Incredible!” The man in Beaver nylon shook his head. “This should be immortalized. Call the photographer.”

  “Unlike you …” Little Lettvik said softly, perching on a stool that supported only the small inner circle of her backside; the remainder overflowed so that it seemed as if four chair legs were growing out of her posterior. “… I’m now working twenty-four hours a day, and am staying sober. You can tell from your newspapers, of course …”

  She raised her glass to the Dagbladet journalists at her side.

  “… that you have a different agenda to us. What’s got into you today? The whole newspaper looks like one long tribute to Birgitte Volter. God’s gift to the country, the greatest Prime Minister of our times! What’s happened to your critical faculties, Ola? Your incisive journalism? The harsh spotlight? Dagbladet always to the fore! Today, to be honest, it’s bringing up the rear.”

  “At least we understand that we shouldn’t speculate in a wild, unrestrained fashion if we don’t know a bloody thing.”

  The beard was insulted. A very experienced journalist, he was a prizewinner several times over. He had been offered the editor’s post on repeated occasions, but had always responded with a roared refusal, despite his satisfaction at the offer, since it basically confirmed how clever he was. He wanted to be an investigative journalist. He knew everything, and was good company for those who recognized his sovereignty. But not for anyone else.

  “When a Norwegian Prime Minister is shot in her office, it really is the time for speculation,” Little Lettvik countered. “What do you think the police are doing? Of course they’re speculating too. They don’t know anything. They’re inventing theories and thinking, and acting accordingly. Exactly like us.”

  “This is not the day for speculation,” Ola Henriksen said crossly. “Tomorrow will be time enough for that. When people have finished grieving.”

  “We won’t have managed that by tomorrow,” the ostracized girl piped up in a reedy voice.

  “What are you up to, then?” Ola Henriksen said, staring at Little as he rotated his beer glass over and over again. “What do you know that nobody else does?”

  Little Lettvik gave a husky, heartfelt laugh.

  “As if I would tell you.”

  Suddenly she looked at her watch, a plastic Swatch with a wide pattern of eczema around its strap.

  “Need to make a call,” she said abruptly. “Keep my place.”

  The others remained seated, watching as she left. They were all struck by the same uncomfortable feeling – that they should really be somewhere else entirely, doing entirely different things, not just sitting in the Gamla drinking beer – and they were all struck dumb.

  “When does that other bar, the Tostrup Kjelleren, actually open?” one of the eldest men muttered eventually; his words had already begun to slur.

  No one replied. They sat watching Little Lettvik, who had not been content with simply leaving the dark premises; to be on the safe side, she had also crossed the street, where she took up position outside the GlasMagasinet department store, several meters away from its café entrance.

  It was chilly outside. The drizzle made her draw close to the wall, and she stood with her back to the street as she tapped in the secret number.

  “Storskog,” the voice snapped as usual.

  “Konrad, Konrad, my very best friend,” Little Lettvik purred, and was met by the normal resounding silence. “Just one little question today. The same one as yesterday, in fact. After all, you weren’t very cooperative.”

  The pause did not last as long as she had expected.

  “This is the last time I ever give you anything, Lettvik. Do you hear? The last thing you’re ever getting.”

  The voice stopped, obviously waiting to hear a promise that did not come.

  “Do you hear me, Lettvik? I want an end to all this now. Agreed?”

  “That depends. What is it you’ve got?”

  Another long pause for thought.

  “Benjamin Grande …”

  “Grinde.”

  “Okay. Grinde. He was in fact arrested yesterday.”

  “Arrested?”

  Little Lettvik almost dropped her cell phone, and it chirruped merrily when she inadvertently pressed a number of keys in her confusion.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Arrested, you say? Have you arrested a Supreme Court judge?”

  “Take it easy, now. It was rescinded ages ago. It was all a damn mistake, the lawyers going over the top as usual.”

  “But it happened all the same? In print? A written arrest warrant?”

  “Yes. The Head of CID who filled it out got a real dressing-down today. By the Chief of Police himself. He’ll never get to be Chief of Police, that’s for sure.”

  Little Lettvik turned to face the street, where a blind man was struggling through the stream of pedestrians on the sidewalk. He was waving his white stick in front of him, and whacked Little on the shin.

  “Can you get me a copy, Konrad?”

  “No.”

  “If you get me a copy, then we have an agreement. No more phone calls from me.”

  “I can’t do that. You’ve got enough now.”

  “Tempting agreement, Konrad. No more phone calls from me ever, if you cough up a copy of that arrest warrant. Word of honor.”

  Chief Inspector Konrad Storskog did not answer. He simply disconnected the call. Little Lettvik stood for a moment staring at her cell phone, before snapping it shut and stuffing it into her coat pocket.

  Then, smiling broadly, she crossed the street, waved to the six journalists sitting there expectantly, and disappeared in the direction of the Parliament Building. Her glass of cola was left behind, untouched.

  “Thank God Konrad hates lawyers,” she muttered, chuckling to herself. “Thanks, dear God!” She was fairly certain that Konrad Storskog would grab any opportunity to be rid of her with both hands. That was just before she started whistling.

  19.04 NORWEGIAN TIME, BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA

  Dear Billy T.,

  Thanks for your fax. I’m impressed that you took the time to write. Hope this fax doesn’t wake you (does your machine make a peeping sound?), because if you’re asleep, it’s certainly well earned. You must get yourself a computer, and then we can use email! That’s cheaper and better.

  The assassination of Birgitte Volter is still receiving a certain amount of attention over here. But thank goodness for the internet, I must say. I’ve been surfing the Norwegian news outlets for hours, though it doesn’t look as if they have much information either. Apart from Kveldsavisen, who are suggesting one scenario after another. Oh well, I suppose they need something to fill up all these extra editions.

  I was quite interested in what you wrote about the security guards. When you can connect only four people to the crime scene with any certainty: the secretary, the Supreme Court judge (is that the one in charge of the commission, by the way?), and the two guards, then I would spend some time looking for a simple method of entering the Prime Minister’s section. It doesn’t seem very easy to construct a motive for any of the four who were actually present. Therefore it must have been somebody else, and this person or these persons must have found a way in.

  Typical of the Head of CID to investigate air vents and windows on the fifteenth floor! I appreciate that this has to be done, Billy T., but both you and I know that the answer almost always lies in the simplest solution. Did the security guard take a break? It was a Friday evening, and as far as I understand it, there was very little coming and going in the office. Someone might have entered by the simplest route! Does the guard smoke? Did he have
an upset stomach? I expect that the guards have been security-checked, but was there anything out of the ordinary there? Temporary staff?

  And one more thing: if I’d been working on the case, I would have left the access problem on hold to start with. I would have searched for motives. I expect the guys on the top floor are going berserk just now, with fancy theories about terrorism and that sort of thing, but what about good old-fashioned police work? Did she have enemies? Most certainly. The lady’s been climbing all her life. And not least: was she about to disclose something or other? Was the government about to pass something that major, powerful interests were afraid of? Okay, I don’t mean that somebody would have committed homicide in order to prevent a gas-fired power station in western Norway, but all the same …

  Simple, Billy T. The simplest solution is the best! First find the motive, then the access issue will become clear. No one murders without a motive. Not deliberately, at least, and it must have been deliberate.

  Don’t let the guys in the Security Service push you around. But try not to be so bad-tempered toward them. You’ve got enough enemies up there from before.

  I must say that every cloud has a silver lining. Cecilie and I had been arguing for three days when we heard about the murder. She wanted to extend our stay here. I said not on your life. It’s true that I love the good ole U.S. of A., but one year out of work is enough. Now we’re the best of friends.

  On the other hand, probably nothing will now come of your long-awaited visit. Am I right?

  I’m crossing my fingers that the case is cleared up quickly, and am quivering with excitement as I wait for your next fax. Give Håkon my best regards if you see him, and tell him there’s a letter on the way.

  Love and kisses,

  Hanne

  21.13, ODINS GATE 3

  “I just couldn’t let you sit on your own with your mother on an evening like this,” she whispered as she placed her arm nonchalantly, in an almost sisterly fashion, around his shoulders. “That wouldn’t have done you any good at all!”

  Benjamin Grinde smiled without any emotion registering in his eyes as he tied the apron strings behind his back.

  “I’m sorry for phoning you last night, Nina. Hope it didn’t prevent Geirr and the children from getting a good night’s sleep.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Nina Rambøl reassured him. “Of course you had to phone! You must have been beside yourself!”

  She crunched on a raw carrot as she stood with her back to the kitchen worktop.

  “Sore back.”

  “What?”

  “You have a sore back.” She smiled broadly, now sitting on the kitchen counter, dangling her legs. Her flat shoes bumped repeatedly on the door to the casserole cabinet, and she affected not to notice his disapproving frown.

  “That’s what I said. To the guests. That you had such terrible sciatic pain that the party had to be called off. I am to give you everyone’s fondest regards and best wishes for a full recovery.”

  “Thanks very much,” he mumbled, staring suspiciously at the ready-cooked roast beef he had grabbed for himself from the Smør-Petersen gourmet store, having popped in there only ten minutes before closing time. “I should have got salmon parcels. Salmon in puff pastry.”

  “Never mind,” Nina said, aiming at the trashcan that happened to be standing in the middle of the floor. The remainder of the carrot missed, and for a second it looked as if she was considering jumping down from the worktop. However, she changed her mind and instead picked up the generous glass of wine at her side.

  “You slurp terribly when you’re drinking,” he muttered.

  Staring at him over the glass of red wine, she cocked her head.

  “Benjamin. You’re really not yourself.”

  Benjamin Grinde did not have a woman. A man who took an admiring touch on his suit jacket as an invitation to discuss the merits of alpaca did not attract women. He attracted female friends. Nina Rambøl was the best of them. She was five years younger than him, and they had met when he was a trainee doctor and she was a medical secretary. When she got married, her husband-to-be had been forced to accept the strange fact that his wife had chosen a male bridesmaid. But that was a generation ago now.

  “Shall I send Jon and Olav home as well?” she asked in a childishly comforting voice, as she stroked his back with her hand. “Would you prefer that? Was I wrong to let them come? They insisted …”

  “No, no. It’s all right—”

  “Boys and girls! Now you really muuust come and join the rest of us!”

  The shrill outburst came from a woman in the doorway. She was clutching a glass of sherry and swaying slightly. Her face was tanned and wrinkled like a raisin, and as she raised her glass in a toast, the loose skin on her upper arms smacked gracefully against her sleeveless top decorated with enormous flowers. Her orange tights had gone out of fashion several years earlier, and even at that time had not really looked very elegant on seventy-two-year-old legs.

  “Here I am, having flown like a tiny bird from Spain just to celebrate my golden boy’s birthday, and you’re looking so down in the mouth! Come on, Ben, come in and join us. Come to Mother. You, too, Nina. By the way, that dress suits you. Beautiful! But then you’ve always had such a good eye for color!”

  Tottering across the floor in seven-centimeter heels, she grasped Benjamin’s arm. He pulled away, and refused to meet her gaze.

  “Soon, Mother. I’ll be through shortly. Just need to see to this first. You can tell the others to sit at the table.”

  He turned toward her with a salad bowl in his hands, but changed his mind and gave it to Nina instead. His mother did not reveal her feelings about his obvious lack of trust, but embarked on a fresh foray across the challenging kitchen floor, her glass held high.

  “It’s just so dreadfully, unbelievably awful,” she began once the candles were lit and the food had been passed around the table. “Sweet little Birgitte. Beautiful little Birgitte! Yes, you know of course that Ben and Birgitte Volter were best friends when they were younger! She was always in and out of our house, Birgitte. A sweet, well-brought-up little girl. That’s what makes all this so very much worse for Ben. Ben’s so sensitive, you know. He gets that from his father. Can I come with you to the funeral, Ben? It’s natural for me to go, I really mean that, she was in and out of my house for years! When is the funeral, actually? The Cathedral, eh? It has to be in Oslo Cathedral, of course.”

  She had seized the bowl of potato salad, and it was bouncing up and down in time to the torrent of words. Benjamin Grinde’s mother did not talk – she chirruped. Her voice was reedy, and its pitch unusually high. And she insisted on being called “Birdie”.

  “We weren’t friends, Mother. She was not forever in and out of our house; she might have come back with me three times. Maximum. I sometimes helped her with her homework. Now and again.”

  Affronted, Birdie Grinde opened her heavy eyelids, made even heavier with the weight of too much eye shadow.

  “Now you’re being really silly, Ben. Don’t you think I should know who was coming in and out of my own house? What? Birgitte was a … a friend of the family, I would almost call it. You were so taken with her. A little bit in love, absolutely, that’s what you were, Ben.”

  She blinked at Jon, who had given up waiting for the potato salad and was toying with his meat instead.

  “You could have been a couple; I said that to my husband many a time. Just a shame that … what’s his name again, Ben? Birgitte’s husband? What was he called?”

  “Roy Hansen,” Benjamin mumbled, attempting to relieve her of the bowl of potato salad.

  She moved it out of her son’s reach as she continued. “Roy. That’s right – Roy. What a horrible name, don’t you think? Who on earth gives their children such names? Well. He wasn’t much of a catch, if you ask me, and I don’t mean to be indiscreet, far from it, and I don’t have any prejudices either, and I’ve never been prudish, but …”

  She l
eaned confidentially across the table, her chin almost touching the potato salad as her eyes darted conspiratorially from one to the other.

  “They had to get married.”

  Delighted, she leaned back as she passed the salad to Nina.

  “Mother!”

  “Oops! I said too much there!”

  Her hand flew to her mouth as she opened her eyes wide.

  “Ben’s so disapproving of gossip. Sorry, Ben! You must forgive your old mother for being a bit loose-tongued on a day such as this! Happy birthday, my treasure! Happy birthday!”

  She raised her glass so abruptly that red wine splashed onto the tablecloth.

  “Cheers.” The others smiled, looking sympathetically at the object of her toast.

  The phone rang.

  As Benjamin Grinde rose from the table, he had an attack of dizziness, like a sudden squall. He had to use the chair back to support himself, and he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Is everything all right, Benjamin?” Nina asked anxiously, placing her hand over his. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  “Fine, fine,” he said softly, withdrawing his hand to answer the phone in the hallway.

  The dizziness would not subside.

  “Grinde. Go ahead,” he said quietly, as he closed the living room door.

  “Hi there! It’s Little Lettvik, the Kveldsavisen journalist, speaking. Sorry for phoning so late on a Saturday night, but it’s something of an emergency—”

  “I can be reached at my office on Monday.”

  The receiver was on its way down.

  “Wait!”

  Resigned, he lifted the receiver to his ear again. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about the Volter case.”

  “What?”

  “The Volter case.”

  Momentarily the world stood still, then it resumed whirling around at accelerating speed. The series of five small lithographs on the wall immediately facing him raced along like an express train; he had to look down at the floor.