Lion's Mouth, The

by Holt, Anne

  “The boys like sitting on the floor.”

  “You really are an oddball.” She smiled. “I’ll see what I can get done while I’m here.”

  Billy T. set the table and turned the television around so that they could watch Channel 21 while they were eating. Then he opened two beers and poured them as he adjusted the volume.

  “By now people will be getting fed up with all these extra bulletins,” Hanne Wilhelmsen muttered as she took off her apron. “I’ve watched two of them today, and they repeat the same thing all the time. Very nearly, anyway.”

  The lady on screen was smart and inspired confidence, even though she reminded Hanne of a cartoon character.

  “My goodness, she’s had her hair cut,” Hanne Wilhelmsen commented. “It looks lovely, actually.”

  “That lady must be almost as exhausted as us by now,” Billy T. remarked, shoveling down his food. “Bloody fantastic! She’s had umpteen bulletins a day. And Channel 21’s not what it usually is, either. It’s supposed to be news first, then sport, followed by commentary. Everything’s been turned upside down now. Even them.”

  He used his spoon to point at the screen.

  “Shh,” Hanne signaled. “Keep quiet.”

  “And in the studio for this bulletin we have with us Chief of Police Hans Christian Mykland. Welcome, Sir!”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll come directly to the point, Sir, since I know you have far more important things to do than stand here with me. Can you give a straight answer as to whether the police are now any closer to solving the Volter case, almost exactly three days after her murder?”

  “Poor man,” Hanne mumbled as she listened to the Police Chief’s reply. “He’s really got nothing to report, and yet he has to pad it out as though there was a great deal. Are you honestly so at a loss, Billy T.?”

  “Just about.”

  He slurped the tagliatelle so that it formed a big red rose at the far corner of his mouth.

  “Clown,” Hanne muttered.

  “We do have something more,” Billy T. said, drying his mouth with his lower arm. “For instance, we’ve quite a rare caliber of weapon.”

  “Oh. How rare?”

  “It’s a 7.62 millimeter. We’ll have the answer to what kind of gun was used quite soon, I think. But he can’t say that there.”

  He nodded again in the direction of the television.

  “I just can’t understand the point of appearing in the studio, because he can’t really say anything at all. For fuck’s sake, he’s bloody furious about the nonsense that came out about the arrest warrant, and we’ve all had an extraordinary double-strength muzzle clamped on us.”

  “There’s little hope of that being particularly effective,” Hanne said as she took a slug of beer. “Oslo Police Station leaks like a sieve. Always has.”

  The Police Chief looked incredibly relieved when he was eventually allowed to leave. The red-haired lady transferred the viewers to another studio, where the leaders of the parties represented in Parliament were seated along a boomerang-shaped table. The program host in the center stared rather too long at the camera before starting to speak. He introduced a film clip that also appeared after a lengthy pause.

  “Why can’t they ever manage to get it together?” Hanne asked with a smile. “In the States, you never see that kind of thing. They’re able to do things smoothly, each and every time.”

  To the accompaniment of fairly meaningless images from Parliament, a commentator gave an account of the difficult game of solitaire that was now being played. Eventually, the program host in the studio turned to an immaculately dressed and extremely solemn man in a light suit jacket.

  “I thought it was that woman who was the leader of the Christian Democratic Party,” Billy T. commented. “Not that guy there.”

  “She’s the leader, but he’s the parliamentary … Shh!”

  “It would be completely crazy if we were to make political capital out of this very tragic situation that has occurred with the murder of Prime Minister Volter.”

  “Does that mean that your centrist coalition – the Center Party; the Liberals; and your own party, the Christian Democrats – will not be seizing this opportunity to take power?”

  The program host spoke in an odd mixture of dialects with a faint trace of a Trøndelag accent, and the strange lock of hair at the nape of his neck was bobbing up and down in time to his voice.

  “As I said, a particularly tragic event has struck our country, and we parties of the center have decided that this is not the time to make changes. We must all stand together during this difficult period, and then the people will have the chance to decide the future government of the country at the election in September.”

  The Christian Democrat man was not finished, but the interviewer turned to the left and addressed a man with a full, well-maintained, mottled beard and a resigned expression.

  “How do you in the Conservative Party interpret this?”

  The man shook his head almost imperceptibly, with a discouraged air, and immediately fixed his gaze on the interviewer.

  “Media course,” Hanne said. “He’s been on a media course.”

  “What?” Billy T. asked, helping himself yet again.

  “Forget it. Shh.”

  “This is a difficult time, and certainly not the time for political game-playing or mud-slinging. Nevertheless, I take the liberty of saying that this clearly demonstrates just how unrealistic the centrist alternative is. For several months now, the three centrist parties have been promoting their coalition in readiness for the election this autumn, but now that an opportunity has arisen, they’ve dropped the idea like a hot potato. This shows that we Conservatives have been right all along. An alternative to the Labor Party must include the Conservatives.”

  “We won’t receive an answer to that until this autumn, however.” It was the Christian Democratic representative who intervened, but the interviewer resolutely cut him off.

  Hanne laughed loudly. “They don’t want power, any of them! They’re damn well afraid!”

  “Politics.” Billy T. snorted, helping himself for a third time. “You can have a job here. As a cook.”

  “Chef,” Hanne said absent-mindedly, without taking her eyes from the TV screen.

  “What?”

  “As a chef. Really good cooks are called chefs, whether male or female. But I want to listen to this, if you don’t mind.”

  “It would quite simply be wrong to take advantage of this extraordinary situation.” This was the representative of the Center Party echoing his coalition partner in the Christian Democrats, and the Conservative shook his head again, this time more decidedly.

  “But what’s the difference?” he asked. “What exactly will be different come the autumn? The Labor Party is in a minority today, and will still be so in September. As they have been throughout the post-war period. Do the Center Party, the Liberals and the Christian Democrats really believe they’ll gain a majority in Parliament after the election?”

  “As I said, that remains to be seen,” the Christian Democrat man tried to interject, but the program host waved his hand determinedly and the Conservative did not brook any interruption.

  “Then it’s really about time we got to know what your policies are on the important issues. The voters are entitled to hear. What’s your position on the building of gas-fired power stations? What about the European Economic Area? Child benefits? And what do you genuinely believe with regard to the sickness benefit system? Are we going to find out anything about these matters before people go to the ballot boxes?”

  They all began to speak at once.

  “When the cat’s away, the mice will play,” Hanne commented.

  “But that lot don’t want to play,” Billy T. said. “They’re sitting stock still, frightened that somebody will invite them out to the playground! Sick. They make me sick.”

  That did not seem to be holding him back any, and he piled his plate for a f
ourth time, scraping the bottom of the casserole dish.

  “Can’t I put on some music instead?” he asked.

  “No, honestly, this is important.”

  At last the men had stopped arguing, or at least they were not allowed to continue. Instead the viewers were transferred to the woman in the other studio, who had Tryggve Storstein standing at her side.

  “Bloody hell, he looks exhausted, doesn’t he?” Hanne said under her breath, as she put down her beer glass without touching another drop.

  Tryggve Storstein was so drained that not even the makeup artists at NRK had been able to do much for him. The dark shadows under his eyes were obvious in the strong light, and his mouth had taken on a sad, almost sullen expression that persisted throughout the interview.

  “Yes, Tryggve Storstein, despite the tragic circumstances, may we now congratulate you on becoming the new Party Leader?”

  He muttered something that might have been interpreted as thanks.

  “You’ve been here with me listening to the discussion. Is it the case that you’ll be the one who forms a new administration on Friday?”

  Tryggve Storstein cleared his throat and nodded.

  “Yes.”

  The interviewer seemed perplexed by the terse response, and made some vigorous arm movements before managing to pose another question. Storstein continued to be concise, sometimes seeming downright dismissive, and the interviewer struggled energetically to fill the time that the program schedule had obviously allocated to the interview.

  “He doesn’t exactly seem like the great white hope,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said as she began to clear the table. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “You can make it then.”

  The bespectacled man with the Trøndelag accent had taken over once again. Now his guests were three newspaper editors, who commented on the present situation with great pathos and gravity.

  “How are we to have a normal, healthy political process in the days ahead, as we move forward to the formation of a new government, when a police investigation is being conducted that could, and I emphasize could, lead to the discovery of murder suspects in the very circles from which the government will emerge?”

  It was the program host who was posing the question.

  “I really wish people would learn to speak using periods,” Hanne said, almost to herself. Billy T. was whistling as he toiled over the coffee machine.

  The editor of Dagbladet leaned forward eagerly, his beard almost touching the tabletop.

  “Now, it’s definitely of extreme importance for the police to keep out of the political process. It must be quite clear that no such considerations should hinder the police in their work. But, on the other hand, we can’t have a situation where the party that is to form the government is emasculated by the fact that most of the present candidates for the post of Prime Minister actually knew Birgitte Volter.”

  “Typical.” Hanne Wilhelmsen sighed. “No one believes it could be someone close to her, despite statistics showing that murderers almost always belong to the victim’s inner circle. But the entire political elite in Norway knew Birgitte Volter. Then it becomes too dangerous to believe in the statistics.”

  She stood up and switched off the TV set.

  “Music?” Billy T. enquired optimistically.

  “No! I want some silence, okay?”

  For lack of a proper settee, they lay down in the bedroom, head to toe in the double bed. Hanne’s head was leaning against the wall, and her back was resting on a well-worn, skinny beanbag. She sipped the coffee he handed her.

  “Yuck!”

  She spluttered, spraying the coffee, and making a grimace.

  “What on earth is this? Tar?”

  “Too strong?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he fetched milk from the fridge and poured a generous portion into her cup.

  “There. Now we’ll stay awake for a while.”

  He attempted to find a comfortable position on the bed, but there were no more cushions, so in the end he sat up.

  “There’s something about Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden,” he said, scratching his ear. “Fuck, there’s something wrong inside here. It’s bloody sore at times.”

  “What do you mean by something?”

  “Well, an infection, or something like that.”

  “Idiot. I meant with Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden.”

  “Oh.”

  Billy T. squinted at his fingertip, but there was still nothing visible.

  “Strange lady,” he said. “Lots of nervous hand movements and peculiar grimaces. At the same time, she gives the impression of being … cold!”

  He waved his forefinger in the air.

  “She seems cold as ice! Like a fish. There’s something I’d like to investigate further, but I can’t get hold of what it is, and there’s absolutely no reason to think that she was anywhere near the PMO on the evening of the murder.”

  “PMO?”

  “The Prime Minister’s office. Now you’ll have to learn the jargon.”

  “Was she a friend of the Prime Minister?”

  “No, not according to what she herself says. They did not socialize, she told me. Bloody peculiar woman. There’s something … spooky about her. I get damn nervous being in the same room as her!”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen did not answer. She warmed her hands on the steaming cup, and stared at a child’s drawing hanging on the notice board: a very advanced Batmobile with inlaid wings and cannons.

  “And that—”

  “SHH,” Hanne interrupted noisily. Billy T. jumped and spilled his coffee.

  “But what …?”

  “SHH!”

  Billy T. swore under his breath, though Hanne pretended not to notice. Instead she examined the wall behind him thoroughly, and Billy T. whirled around to find out what she was staring at with such concentration.

  “Alexander,” she said tentatively. “It was Alexander who drew that.”

  Suddenly she looked directly at him. Her eyes seemed larger than normal, and the black circles around the irises even more pronounced.

  “Did she tell you they did not socialize?”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  Hanne rose from the bed, and placed her coffee cup on the floor before crossing to Alexander’s drawing and peering at it searchingly.

  “What is it about that drawing?” Billy T. asked.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Hanne said. “It’s marvelous. But that’s not what I’m thinking about.”

  She turned to face him, hands on hips and head canted to one side.

  “Birgitte Volter’s son, Per, is quite a good marksman. I’ve met him a few times at the Løvenskiold shooting range. When he was younger, his father often accompanied him. I can’t say that I know him, but we’ve chatted now and again, and it would be natural to nod to each other if we met on the street. And …”

  Billy T. stared at her, but his finger was still digging deep into his ear canal.

  “If you have an infection coming, you really shouldn’t pick at it like that,” Hanne said, shoving his hand away. “But then, a year or so ago … no, actually, it was just before we left for the States in November, so it must have been around the time of the change of government … I caught sight of Roy Hansen and Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden at Café 33 in Grünerløkka.”

  “At Café 33? That dive?”

  “Yes, it struck me too. I went in to deliver something to someone who works there, and there they were sitting at the far end of the bar, with a glass of beer each. Yes, it must have been after the change of government, because before that I hardly knew who Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden was. She is really quite … pretty? Blonde bimbo and all that, easy to notice. At first I thought of saying hello to Roy, but something held me back, and I left without him spotting me.”

  “But, Hanne, how can you remember this so clearly?”

  “Because that same day I’d read an article in a newspaper. Dagbladet, I think, about these networks journ
alists are so fascinated by. About dynasties and such like. I think in fact I was carrying that newspaper when I was in Café 33.”

  “Fuck,” Billy T. muttered, rubbing his earlobe. “I think I need to go to the doctor’s.”

  “But isn’t that quite odd, Billy T.?” Hanne remarked thoughtfully, again gazing at the Batmobile that she had now discovered had a television on its hood and “Il Tempo Gigante” on the trunk. “Isn’t it really striking that Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden says that she doesn’t associate with Birgitte Volter outside work when she actually, just six months ago, was drinking beer with the woman’s husband in a dingy joint in Grünerløkka?”

  Billy T. stared at her, rubbing his head repeatedly.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “You’re right. It’s strange.”

  TUESDAY, APRIL 8

  09.00, OSLO POLICE STATION

  “And to think that you have stopped smoking, Hanne!”

  “You’re sharp; it took you only ten minutes to register that. Billy T. hasn’t worked it out yet. And you’ve become an Assistant Chief of Police. Splendid!”

  Håkon Sand, smiling from ear to ear, grasped her hand and squeezed it hard.

  “You must come to visit us as soon as you can. Hans Wilhelm is growing so big!”

  Håkon’s little boy was named after Hanne Wilhelmsen, and she thanked the gods she did not believe in that she had remembered to bring a present. Strictly speaking, it was Cecilie who had remembered, in great haste at the airport, when Hanne had left California so abruptly. A soccer shirt for Billy T. and an enormous bright yellow alligator for Hans Wilhelm.

  “Won’t you stay with us?”

  It was as though the brilliant idea had just dawned on him, and his entire face opened up in a sincere invitation.

  “Karen might not be so happy to have a lodger,” Hanne said, brushing him aside. “Isn’t she in the pudding club?”

  “Next weekend,” Håkon mumbled, and did not insist. “But you must visit us. Soon.”

  There was a faint knock at the door and a uniformed police officer entered. Taken aback, the man stood staring at Hanne.