Lion's Mouth, The

by Holt, Anne

  “I certainly don’t want to talk about that,” he said, gulping.

  Stomach acid was making his tongue contract.

  “But just listen, Grinde—”

  “I’ve got company,” he interrupted, with suppressed rage. “I’m celebrating my fiftieth birthday. This conversation is inappropriate and impertinent. I’m putting the phone down now.”

  “But, Grinde—”

  Bang. He put the receiver down so hard that it cracked.

  He could hear the faint sound of his mother’s squeaky voice from the living room.

  “And he was actually flirting! Think of it! A dashing, genuinely distinguished señor! Not that anything serious came of it, you understand, but since I’m down there eight months in every year, it’s lovely to get just a little scrap of attention, you know!”

  Birdie Grinde laughed ecstatically. It was more obvious to Nina Rambøl than at any time previously just why Benjamin Grinde had devoted his childhood to studying so diligently in his boyish bedroom.

  His mother was still sitting with her glass raised when he entered.

  “Cheers again, darling! Who was it? More congratulations, Ben?”

  Her arm, the wrist jangling with masses of gold, swept across the table as she gazed at all the bouquets of flowers that had arrived during the day.

  “Ben?”

  Her face took on an unfamiliar, earnest expression.

  “Ben, is something wrong?”

  Jon and Nina, sitting with their backs turned, wheeled around abruptly.

  Benjamin Grinde was swaying in the middle of the floor, his face ashen and his eyes sunk so far into his head that they looked like two bullet holes in the room’s dim light.

  “Mother! My name isn’t Ben. I’ve never been called Ben. I’m Benjamin!” Then, closing his eyes gently, he fainted.

  SUNDAY, APRIL 6

  07.30, DEEP INSIDE THE FORESTS OF NORDMARKA, NEAR OSLO

  The water clutched at him. It gripped him and would not let go, forcing him to breathe from the top of his lungs: sudden, shallow gasps that made his skin contract. His heart was hammering rapidly inside his broad ribcage. He became aware of the passage of blood through his body; he felt the rhythmic pulsing beat spreading out from his heart through narrowing veins, in his legs and arms and toes, before the blood fought its way back to feed the struggling lungs and secure new strength, new life. He dived again, this time concentrating on extending his strokes, stiff, long strokes. He was an albatross in the water, a tiger shark; quick as a flash, he kicked with his feet in a fish-like movement and gained enough speed to push high, high up over the gray, glassy surface.

  He had never felt more alive. With a stealthy, continuous motion, he reached the shore and stepped onto a small, silvery rock worn smooth millions of years ago in this amazing, beautiful landscape that was his home. He was naked, and his eyes scanned his body with pride, from the large, masculine feet with their fine, pale-blond hairs, to the shoulders that bore signs of hard work and even harder exercise. When he caught sight of his semi-erect member, he laughed. Cold water was the best thing he knew, and he always swam without bathing shorts, enjoying the discomfort of other men. But now he was alone.

  Without drying himself – he had not even brought a towel with him from the cabin – he turned to face the lake. It had closed over behind him, and only here and there could he spot a tiny fish feeding, breaking the surface with minute, perfectly expanding circles.

  The morning mist had settled between the trees, which were still naked, just like him. They peeped shyly at their own reflections in the water. Here and there, dirty clumps of snow clung obstinately to tussocks of heather and grass. The temperature couldn’t be more than four or five degrees Celsius, and the air was damp and fresh, with the unmistakable scent of the approaching spring. Smiling, he inhaled deeply through his nose.

  He had never, ever, been happier.

  He had really not had confidence in the man. Even though he had been recommended. By several people, in fact: two group members had thought the man worth contacting. As their leader, it was he who had decided against it. There was something weak about the man. Even though he had never spoken to him, not then, but had simply judged him from a distance; one day he had tailed the unsuspecting security guard from the government complex. That was usually useful. A day spent following someone could tell him more than all the references in the world.

  He was not sure what had decided the matter. There was something unacceptably feminine about the way the young lad moved. What’s more, he did not dress appropriately. Something weak about that as well. Perhaps it was his eyes. He had brown eyes, though that did not mean anything in itself. It was more significant that they wandered. Indecisive. Hesitant.

  “Out of the question,” he had decided. “That man presents a risk.”

  Precautionary measures. Double-checking. Triple guarantees. Such things had never been more important than now, when the security police guarding the traitors in Parliament were forced to direct their attention away from the real threat – the Reds – and toward them.

  He had managed to build something resembling an effective organization. It was true they were not many, and there were only ten he actually trusted one hundred per cent. However, it was more important to be strong than to be numerous. They had to do their recruitment with extreme caution. A potential member was investigated for several months before the group even started to approach the person in question.

  The security guard was a supporter of the Progress Party. Not a member or anything like that, but quite openly sympathetic. That was not usually a promising starting point. Of course, they were often true patriots like himself, but most of them were totally stupid. If not, they normally suffered from what he called “a democratic surplus”. He liked the expression: he had invented it himself. Adherents of the Progress Party had no real appreciation of the compelling need to use other means than those allowed by Norway’s Jewish-dominated power elite.

  So he had said no. The two referees had sulked, but he got the impression that they had accepted his decision. They had to.

  “He must prove himself first,” he had resolved, just over a year ago.

  Immediately afterward, the two referees had told him that the guard was a friend of a guy in the underground organization Loke. That gang of romantic fools: debauched boy scouts who drank too much and damaged cars belonging to Pakistanis. Boyish pranks. They lacked ideological foundation, knew nothing, and had barely read anything other than the Wild West exploits of Morgan Kane. The security guard had an interesting job, however.

  They had never before had the opportunity to recruit someone so close to the upper echelons of government. The security guard was as close as it was possible to get.

  So he had continued the surveillance. Entirely on his own initiative, though not frequently. He knew everything about that guard. He knew what newspapers he read, what magazines he subscribed to, what weapons he possessed. The guard did own some guns, and was a member of a handgun club. As leader, he had an entire folder at home containing information about the security guard; he even knew that he was screwing his supervisor’s fifteen-year-old daughter and used Boss aftershave.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he had approached the man. By chance at first; he had asked to sit beside him in a café where the security guard was sitting on his own at a table for four. He had pulled out an American gun magazine. The guard had taken the bait, and after that they had met up perhaps five or six times.

  The man was not yet a member. He did not even know about the group; nothing specific. But somehow or other, he must have realized there was an opportunity there. As leader, he had said as much as he could without admitting to anything concrete, without causing any rumors to circulate. And the security guard had understood. He had realized that there might be something there for him too.

  The most important thing was to keep one’s distance. Considerable distance. In no way connect the guard to the group. That
was of paramount importance.

  “At last we’re up and running,” Brage Håkonsen shouted to two crows who were skittishly taking off from an uprooted tree.

  And so, taking enormous strides, the well-built young man headed toward the log cabin at the edge of the forest.

  “At last we’re up and running!”

  In the cabin he had stacks of papers, organized neatly and tidily in folders and plastic wallets. He sat down, still without putting on his clothes; his skin was covered in red blotches from the cold.

  “We’re up and running,” he murmured to himself yet again, as he remained sitting there, staring at a list of sixteen names.

  08.14, HOLMENVEIEN 12

  Karen Borg stared at Billy T. in fascination while trying, as discreetly as possible, to transfer a fresh loaf from the freezer to the microwave.

  “Do you have any more?”

  The man had eaten eight slices of bread and was still hungry.

  “Coming up, coming up,” Karen said, selecting the defrost program on the display. “Five minutes!”

  Assistant Chief of Police Håkon Sand padded into the bright, spacious kitchen and plumped down on a rush chair. He was barefoot under his black trousers and his hair was wet; the small dark stains visible on his newly ironed pale blue shirt indicated that he hadn’t bothered to dry himself properly. He rumpled the platinum-blond hair of the two-year-old in the highchair, but withdrew his hand abruptly, glaring at the child in disgust.

  “Karen! He has jam in his hair!”

  Hans Wilhelm laughed loudly and waved a slice of bread topped with strawberry jam in the air before leaning forward and slapping the whole mess on his father’s shirtfront. Billy T. grinned as he got to his feet. The boy looked at him in delight and stretched out his arms.

  “I think we’ll pay a visit to the bathroom, eh? Do you want to come with Billy T. to the bathroom, Hans Wilhelm?”

  “Bath, bath,” the little boy squealed. “Co’ wi’ Billitee to bath!”

  “And then Daddy can change his shirt at the same time.”

  “Do I have any more clean uniform shirts?” Håkon asked sullenly, as he tugged at the front of his shirt, staring in consternation at the scarlet stain.

  “Yes, of course.” Karen smiled.

  “Good heavens, Håkon! Don’t you take care of your uniform shirts yourself?”

  Billy T. was holding the toddler aloft like an airplane; the child laughed and waved his arms up at the ceiling.

  “Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s Superman!”

  Describing an enormous curve through the air, Superman rushed through the doorway, moving up and down from floor to ceiling, giggling so heartily that he started to hiccup.

  “There,” Billy T. said when he returned; the boy now had wet hair and was wearing a fresh tracksuit. “Now I think we’ll have some salami.”

  He grabbed one of the slices of bread that had just been set down on the table and made a substantial sandwich for Hans Wilhelm; for safety’s sake he cut the slice in two and made a double-decker.

  “Don’t make a mess,” he instructed gruffly, and the boy scoffed the whole lot at an amazing speed, without dropping so much as a crumb.

  “You’ve a lot to learn from Billy T., Håkon,” Karen Borg declared, trying to maneuver her huge stomach between chair and table.

  “When’s it due?” Billy T. asked, pointing at her with his sandwich covered in Italian salad.

  “It’s a girl, Billy T. In a fortnight. The due date, at least.”

  “No way. A boy. I can see that.”

  “Let’s go down to the basement,” Håkon Sand interrupted. “Is it okay for us to borrow the office for a while?”

  Nodding, Karen Borg rescued a glass of milk from where it teetered dangerously in front of the little boy.

  “Come on.”

  The two men clattered down the narrow basement stairs and stepped into a remarkably pleasant room. It seemed bright despite actually being a cellar, with only one small window opening onto the dim Sunday morning outside. Billy T. tried to make room for himself on a little daybed along one wall, while Håkon sat on the office chair, planking his feet on the desk.

  “Bloody great set-up you’ve got for yourself, Håkon,” Billy T. said, scratching his ear. “Fantastic house, lovely lady and super kid. Life’s a breeze, eh?”

  Håkon Sand did not reply. The house did not belong to him. It was Karen’s. She was the one with money, even though what she earned as an independent attorney could not compare with the fortune she had raked in when she’d been the youngest and only female partner in the country’s largest commercial law firm. Living in Vinderen had also been her idea. Not getting married was her choice. She had been married once, and felt that was enough. Now that baby number two was on the way, it was to be hoped that her attitude would soften. Håkon sighed heavily as he ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Right now I’d give a lot to be able to sleep for twenty hours.”

  “Me too. Or even longer.”

  “What are your thoughts at present?”

  Billy T. gave up on his seat and stretched himself out on the floor with his hands under his head and his feet propped up on the daybed.

  “I’m trying to compile a profile of her,” he said to the ceiling. “It’s not so damn easy. I’ve now spoken to three Cabinet ministers, four friends, office staff, political colleagues, as well as the devil and all his kin. It’s strange, you know—”

  Karen Borg stood in the doorway with a tray of coffee and cookies. Billy T. twisted his head around and opened his arms.

  “Well, Karen, if you ever get tired of that guy over there, I’ll move in. No hesitation.”

  “I’ll never get tired of that guy over there,” she said, placing the tray on the computer table. “At least not if you’re threatening to take over.”

  “What that lady sees in you, I’ll never understand,” Billy T. muttered with a cookie in his mouth. “She could have me in a shot.”

  “What were you about to say?” Håkon asked, yawning. “Something was strange.”

  “Yes. It’s strange how difficult it is to arrive at an opinion about somebody you’ve never met. People seem to … it’s all so different, what people say. Some call her intelligent, hard-working, friendly, pragmatic. Not an enemy in the world, that woman. Others point out that she could be bad-tempered and obstinate, and that she had several skeletons in the closet when it came to outmaneuvering competitors. A decade ago, they say, when she’d come to a critical juncture in her career, she would stop at nothing in order to position herself. And I mean nothing, nothing at all. Apparently she would jump into bed with the right person, if that proved necessary. Others highlight how remarkable it was that she was never unfaithful. Never.”

  “Who are these other people?” For the first time, Håkon Sand showed something resembling interest in the topic under discussion.

  “In fact it’s the people who probably knew her best who maintain that she never got mixed up in anything like that. It seems as though …” Billy T. sat up and took a slurp of coffee. “It seems to me that the closer people were to her, the higher their opinion of her.”

  “That’s probably only natural,” Håkon commented. “It’s the people closest to us who like us best.”

  “But are they the ones who know us best?”

  They fell silent. From the floor above, they could hear the child squealing like an angry piglet.

  “Hard work having toddlers, eh, Håkon?”

  The Assistant Chief of Police rolled his eyes. “I had no idea it would be so much work. So much … so much of a slog!”

  “Tell me about it.” Billy T. grinned. “You should’ve done what I did. Have four children with four different mothers who look after them on an everyday basis, leaving me to take them now and again for fun and games. The best way to have children.”

  Håkon looked at him with what Billy T. thought might be something like forbearance. He lay down on the floor
again and continued his painstaking examination of the ceiling.

  “Okay,” Håkon said softly. “That’s why you’re as happy as a sand boy every other Friday and sour as vinegar the following Monday, yes? Because you’re so happy to hand them back, I mean.”

  “Drop it,” Billy T. said tersely. “Let’s drop it.”

  Håkon Sand stood up and poured more coffee for them both. “Watch you don’t knock it over,” he said, looking at the cup sitting unsteadily on the cord carpet. “So, what do you think?”

  Billy T. hesitated. “To start with, I’m placing most trust in those who knew her best. The problem is simply that …”

  He got to his feet once more and stretched out his hands to touch the ceiling.

  “… the lady was actually extremely conventional, Håkon! It’s fucking difficult to find anything in her life to indicate that someone might want her dead. At least to the point that they would actually do it. Murder her, I mean.”

  He sighed.

  “For the time being, at least. We still have a great deal of work to do. To put it mildly.”

  He sighed again. This was a lousy day.

  “But listen to this, Håkon.”

  Billy T. was towering over him, but suddenly he dropped forward to lean his hands on the table, giving Håkon a start.

  “Actually there are only two possibilities. Either she was killed because she was Birgitte Volter. There was somebody who wanted her dead. As a person, I’m talking about. And in fact, so far there has been nothing, absolutely nothing, to indicate that. Or else someone killed her because she was the Prime Minister. They wanted to kill the role she occupied, so to speak. A plot against Norway. Against the policies of the Labor Party. Or something along those lines. And I have to admit …”

  This was a difficult admission, and he swallowed.

  “I have to admit that that’s more likely. At the moment. And that means the guys on the eighth floor will have a field day. I don’t like that idea at all.”

  The child in the room above had stopped howling, and now they could hear instead an even, rhythmic thumping, as though a toy was being banged on the floor.