Lion's Mouth, The

by Holt, Anne

  “Tell me what you know about her, Billy T.”

  “Fuck, there’s nowhere here that I can sit down!”

  “Here. Take this.”

  Håkon Sand passed the chair over to him, and Billy T. smiled.

  “It’s her birthday on Friday. She’s damn well going to have her funeral on her fifty-first birthday. She got married when she was only eighteen years old, to a childhood friend of the same age, Roy Hansen. They are still married. One child. Per Volter. Aged twenty-two. Student at the military academy, stays at the Fredriksvern naval base in Stavern. Decent young man; the only sorrow he seems to have brought upon his parents is that he’s a member of the Young Conservatives. Fairly clever at school, vice-chairman of a handgun club, the boy has inherited his mother’s flair for organization.”

  “Handgun club? Does he have access to guns?”

  “Yes, oh yes. Several guns. But that weekend he was on an expedition bloody miles away up on the Hardanger Plateau; in fact there were problems trying to get in touch with him to inform him of his mother’s death. And there’s nothing to suggest that he had a strained relationship with his mother. On the contrary. Nice boy. Apart from all that stuff about the Young Conservatives. But, honestly, the boy is far beyond any suspicion.”

  “More,” Håkon mumbled.

  “Birgitte Volter was born in Sweden on April 11, 1946. Her father was Swedish, her mother had fled there during the war. They moved to Norway, to Nesodden, in 1950. She graduated from high school and moved quickly into the trade union movement. Became secretary or something of that nature at the State Liquor Monopoly in Hasle. Then on to the local authority in Nesodden, and gradually took more prominent positions in the Norwegian Civil Service Union. And so on and so forth. The rest is history, as they say. Great girl. Great favorite. All the same, it was a close-run thing in 1992.”

  “Friends?”

  “That’s strange too,” Billy T. said, scratching his ear again. “I think I’m getting a bloody ear infection. That’s all I need.”

  He stared at his forefinger, but could see nothing apart from an ink stain from the previous day.

  “You know all that stuff we read in the newspapers. About these networks, you know. That this person knows that person and is best of friends with this one and that one. I don’t think that can be right. Or else the newspapers are using an entirely different definition of friendship from that used by you and me. They’re actually not friends. They’re more like party colleagues, so to speak. They seem to have few proper friends, and those are almost always entirely outside politics: people they’ve met in ordinary workplaces, at school years ago and that kind of thing. The only person inside politics I believe was really a friend of Birgitte’s was the President of the Parliament.”

  “Enemies, then?”

  “Same thing again. It depends what you mean by enemies. What is an enemy? If it’s someone who speaks badly of you, then we’ve all got plenty of enemies. But is it right to call them that? It’s obvious, Håkon, that when you reach so far inside a high-profile political party like the Labor Party – the governing party – you’ll find many people who have on occasion felt aggrieved. But enemies? Not to mention, someone who would actually go so far as to murder you? No. Not that I can see. Not yet, at least.”

  “No …” Håkon Sand crossed to the window and opened it a crack. “Actually we’ve got the same problem if we approach it all from a different angle,” he said as he sat down again.

  “A different angle?”

  “Yes, if we view it as the actual … role? Was that what you called it? It seems really so … tame here. In Norway. It’s as if it’s not possible to think about Anne Enger Lahnstein plotting to kill Birgitte Volter, even though she’s fanatical about stopping this Schengen agreement!”

  Billy T.’s laughter was loud and booming.

  “No, that would be something! That Lahnstein woman in combat gear sneaking through the air vents in the tower block with a knife in her mouth and a revolver in her belt!”

  “Can you imagine it!”

  Håkon Sand was still struggling to dry his hair. The atmosphere in the basement was ever so slightly damp and so it was taking longer than usual, causing him to ruffle his grizzled locks repeatedly.

  “It can’t be anyone within the country. That’s simply not how it is here. And the madman theory doesn’t hold water either. He would have chosen another place. For God’s sake, Norwegian government ministers get such minimal security, apart from in their offices. A madman would have attacked her outside. In a shop. At a handball game. Or something like that.”

  “Outside a movie theater,” Billy T. said softly.

  “Exactly. The murder of Olof Palme was a far greater challenge for the police, because anyone at all could have been the perpetrator! As far as Birgitte Volter is concerned, we have a totally different starting point.”

  They gazed at each other, and suddenly raised their coffee cups simultaneously, as though at an invisible signal.

  “Then nobody can have committed this murder,” Håkon Sand said.

  “Then we’ll have to try to discover who this nobody is,” Billy T. concluded. “Shall we go?”

  That turned out to be a difficult task, as the two-year-old clung to Billy T.’s left leg and would not let go, hanging on for grim death.

  “Bath with Billitee! Bath with Billitee!”

  He raised the roof when the two police officers clambered into the car outside the attractive white house at Holmenveien 12, but stopped abruptly when the exhaust pipe emitted a loud bang as the Volvo jolted out of the long driveway.

  “Bye bye, Billitee and Daddy.” He waved, thrusting his thumb into his mouth.

  11.25, OSLO POLICE STATION

  The colossal, curved police station at Grønlandsleiret 44 hummed with a constant, low-frequency buzz, as though the building itself was alive: a hive of systematic, purposeful industry. Never before had the vast block – timeworn and gray, with its seven official floors, and secluded, wing-clipped Security Service division in the two-story attic – behaved like this. It was used to its sixteen hundred officers pursuing their own work individually, in exhausted battles against the criminals that ran ahead and thumbed their noses at all of them. But now, as a submissive April sun hung wearily in the sky above the hill at Ekebergåsen, the police station appeared to have renewed energy. The building itself seemed to stretch, both in length and height; the windows that usually looked like dull, half-closed eyes, staring out on a world the police would prefer not to acknowledge, sparkled vivaciously. The blinds were rolled up, the windows opened slightly, and inside, the people began almost imperceptibly to pull in the same direction. Even the two sequestered floors at the top dared to peep forward and upward, no longer clinging tightly to the roof in the hope of avoiding any more scandals, any more critical investigations.

  “I’ll grant him that, the Police Chief,” Billy T. commented. “He’s made quite a good job of organizing this.”

  A total of 142 police officers had been allocated full-time to the investigation of Birgitte Volter’s homicide, in addition to an unknown number of officers from the police division of the Security Service. Sixteen sub-groups of varying sizes were operating out of Oslo Police Station. The smallest consisted of only three people, whose job it was to liaise with the Security Service; the largest, having commandeered the gymnasium on the sixth floor, comprised thirty-two police officers, and was responsible for coordinating the tactical investigation. The whole of the police force’s Criminal Intelligence Section was entirely preoccupied with pressing informants, analyzing information and attempting to build a picture of everything that had occurred in Oslo’s underworld in recent days. Billy T. had four people assisting him in compiling a profile of Birgitte Volter’s life and times, a special assignment he regarded as far more exciting than the exhausting interviews he had conducted in the first days after the Prime Minister’s death. Tone-Marit Steen was not a member of his group.

 
“Why on earth should I interview that guy? You’ve already done it pretty thoroughly, haven’t you?” Billy T. was annoyed.

  “I’d like you to have another go with him,” Tone-Marit said quietly, handing Billy T. a slim, green folder.

  “Listen,” Billy T. said, pushing the folder back at the Police Sergeant. “We have to do everything properly. It’s your job to do this kind of thing. That security guard can’t have anything of significance to say about Birgitte Volter’s private life.”

  “No. But honestly, Billy, can’t you take this as a compliment? I think the man’s lying, and you’re one of the best interviewers we have. Please.”

  “How many times do I have to say …”

  He banged his fists on the table.

  “How often have I told you that I’m called Billy T.! T.! Not just Billy. Will you never learn!”

  Tone-Marit nodded a furious and extravagant apology. “T. Billy T. What does the T stand for anyway?”

  “That’s none of your fucking business,” he muttered, opening the window wider.

  Tone-Marit Steen’s appearance was deceptive. Her face was round, with sweet features that made her look as though she was about twenty, although in actual fact she was only two years shy of her thirtieth birthday. Tall and slim, she had narrow, slightly crooked eyes that disappeared when she smiled. She was a veteran player in the national women’s soccer team, where she played left back. This was a role she had also adopted in her work in the police force, where she was a stalwart, solid defender of everything that was right and fair. She was strong, she was fit, and she was afraid of no one.

  “You know, I’m just not putting up with this.”

  Her eyes flashed, and one corner of her mouth trembled.

  “You always treat me like shit, and you couldn’t care less about anything. I will not put up with you speaking to me like that. Understood?”

  Billy T. looked like a fish out of water.

  “Calm down, my dear girl! Calm down!”

  “I’m not your dear girl! You’re the one who needs to let up! You’re nothing but a male chauvinist pig, Billy T.! You waltz around with all sorts of women and think you’re sex on legs, but actually …”

  Now she stamped on the floor, and Billy T. chuckled, making her even angrier.

  “… actually you don’t even like women, Billy T. You’re scared of them. I’m not the only one who notices that you treat female and male colleagues differently. It’s the opinion of the whole team, I’m telling you. You’re afraid of us, that’s what you are.”

  “Now you really must give over. There are lots of girls here who—”

  “Oh yes, yes. One girl. There is indeed one woman in this whole building that you actually do respect, Billy T. Her Royal Highness Hanne Wilhelmsen. And do you know why? Eh? Do you know?”

  For a moment she seemed to hesitate, as though she did not dare; she licked her lips with the tip of her pink tongue, and inhaled deeply.

  “Because you’re never going to get her into bed! Because she’s out of the question! The only woman you actually respect is a lesbian, Billy T. That’s something you really should think about.”

  “NOW YOU GIVE OVER!”

  He got to his feet and kicked the wastepaper basket so hard that it smacked against the wall; then silence descended on the room. Even the neighboring office, from where they had previously heard loud conversation, had fallen quiet. But Billy T. did not restrain himself.

  “Don’t you bloody dare come here and make nasty comments about Hanne Wilhelmsen! You … you don’t even come up to her ankles! Not even to her ankles! And you never will!”

  “I’m not saying anything nasty about Hanne,” Tone-Marit said calmly. “Not in the slightest. I’m saying something nasty about you. If I had anything to say to Hanne, I would say it to her face. At the moment we’re talking about you.”

  “To Hanne’s face? To Hanne’s face? You’d have needed to swim, then, wouldn’t you? Eh?”

  Tone-Marit tried to stop herself smiling, but her eyes gave her away.

  “For heaven’s sake, now you’re being childish.”

  “For heaven’s sake, for heaven’s sake,” he mocked, in a reedy, distorted voice.

  Then Tone-Marit began to laugh. She made an effort to hold the laughter back, but it forced itself out, bubbling up, and eventually it erupted into a long, rippling burst. Tears flowed from the narrow slits below her eyebrows. She plumped herself down on a chair, holding her stomach with the palm of her hand, rocking to and fro, and finally she began hiccupping so ferociously as she slapped herself on the thighs that Billy T. could not restrain himself either. He guffawed and swore under his breath.

  “I’d better talk to the guy then,” he muttered at last as he took hold of the slim green folder. “Where is he?”

  “I’ll go and get him,” Tone-Marit said, drying her eyes, still not quite able to compose herself.

  “Get your damn carcass out of here, anyway,” Billy T. said.

  But he smiled as he said it.

  “You really should speak to a psychologist,” Tone-Marit mumbled inaudibly as she closed the door behind her.

  11.30, OLE BRUMMS VEI 212

  “I can’t find it anywhere,” Roy Hansen said to the trainee police-woman with pigtails and big, blue eyes. “Sorry.”

  “And you’ve looked everywhere?” the epitome of Norwegian womanhood asked quite unnecessarily, as she fiddled with her police cap.

  “Of course. Everywhere. Handbags and closets and pockets. Drawers.”

  It had been an extremely painful experience. He had smelled the scent of her body in her clothes; the entire closet was redolent with Birgitte’s fragrance, and the fragile, delicate scab that had formed over the bleeding wound since Friday night had been ripped away. Her handbags, full of familiar objects. The key ring he had made for her that summer they had turned twenty: a reef knot that had never untied and that she had used to joke was as solid and secure as the love they had for each other. A dark red lipstick that was almost used up; in a flash he had seen her in his mind’s eye, the perfunctory, habitual way she applied the waxy color to her lips. A theater ticket, old and faded, from an evening he would remember for the rest of his life; it had caused him to pause in his search, standing alone in their bedroom as he sniffed at the ticket and wished himself back, far back, to the time before they became caught up in the Major Project: Birgitte’s political career.

  “Her pass is quite simply not here. Sorry.”

  A young man was sitting on the settee, and the trainee police officer assumed he was the son of the house. He was wearing uniform, and was terribly pale. She tried to give him a smile, but he stared right past her.

  “We’ll have to leave it then. Perhaps she had actually lost it. I’m really sorry for disturbing you.”

  When she closed the front door behind her, she paused momentarily on the stairs, deep in thought. On Friday Volter had forgotten her pass. That had been clearly ascertained. All the same, they had examined her office thoroughly, and it wasn’t there. The pass was apparently the size of a credit card, with a photo and a magnetic strip on the back. An ordinary, government pass, that was not in the widower’s home either. Curious.

  Well, the Prime Minister may have mislaid it. Simple as that. She could have put it somewhere in the townhouse apartment that her husband had not thought of looking. After all, he had just lost his wife, and probably was not thinking straight.

  The trainee officer settled in the driver’s seat and inserted the key in the ignition. She then froze for a moment before arriving at a decision and starting the vehicle.

  It bothered her that they could not find that pass.

  12.07, OSLO POLICE STATION

  Billy T. was in a bad mood, and the man on the opposite side of the desk was not much happier.

  “Let’s go over this one more time,” Billy T. said briskly, attempting to make contact with the man’s evasive eyes. “So, an alarm sounded. From the conference room adjacen
t to the Prime Minister’s restroom. At—”

  “At twenty-three minutes to six. If you don’t believe me, you can check the log.”

  “Why on earth would you suspect that I don’t believe you?” Billy T. commented. “Hey! Look at me!”

  The security guard did not lift his head, but raised his eyes ever so slightly.

  “Why shouldn’t we believe you?”

  “Why else would I be called in here for a second time?” the man said sulkily. He was twenty-seven years and a few months old, according to the papers facing Billy T. on the desk.

  The guard was a strange character. He was not exactly ugly, but he was certainly far from handsome. Though he was not quite repulsive, there was something indefinably unpleasant about his whole appearance. His face was pinched, his chin pointed, and his hair in need of a shampoo. His eyes might have been attractive if the man had looked more attentive; his eyelashes were long and dark. He could have been twenty, or just as easily approaching forty – Billy hadn’t been able to guess his age until he’d checked the paperwork.

  “You must appreciate and understand that your witness statement is fairly central to this enquiry, man!”

  Billy T. grabbed a diagram of the fifteenth floor; a copy of the overhead acetate the Police Chief had shown them the previous day.

  “Look at this!”

  He pointed to the conference room, which quite clearly was only separated from the Prime Minister’s office by a narrow restroom.

  “You were here. At an extremely critical point in time. Tell me what took place.”

  The security guard snorted like a horse, spraying drops of spittle across the desk, and causing Billy T. to scowl.

  “How many times do I have to tell you this?” the guard enquired crossly.

  “Just as many times as I decide.”

  “Can I have something to drink? A glass of water?”

  “No.”

  “Am I not even entitled to a glass of water?”

  “You are not entitled to anything at all. If you want, you can stand up and leave the police station. You are a witness, and we require you to give a statement voluntarily. But you’d damn well better do so! And without any more fuss!”