Lion's Mouth, The

by Holt, Anne

  “Heavens above! Have you come back? Welcome! When did you get here? Are you returning to work?”

  As he gazed at Hanne in search of answers, he placed a folder in front of the Assistant Chief of Police.

  “No, just a holiday.” Hanne smiled stiffly. “Only a couple of weeks.”

  “Hah! I’ll be surprised if you can keep away from the station now!”

  They could hear the officer’s laughter long after the door had closed behind him.

  “What is it?” Hanne asked, pointing at the folder.

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Håkon Sand browsed through the contents of the folder, and Hanne Wilhelmsen had to steel herself not to stand up and read over his shoulder. She gave him two minutes, after which she couldn’t bear it any longer.

  “What is it? Is it something important?”

  “The gun. We think we know what kind of gun the bullet came from.”

  “Let me see,” Hanne said enthusiastically, trying to grab the papers.

  “Hey, hey,” Håkon protested, placing both hands flat on the bundle of papers. “Confidentiality, you know. You’re on leave. Don’t forget that.”

  “Doh!”

  For a moment it looked as though he meant it, and she glared at him in disbelief.

  “Once a police officer, always a police officer. Honestly!”

  “Idiot!”

  Laughing, he handed her the green folder.

  “Nagant,” Hanne Wilhelmsen mumbled, thumbing through the papers. “Probably a Russian Model 1895. Strange. Bloody strange.”

  “Why so?”

  She closed the folder but continued to cradle it on her lap.

  “Interesting gun. Extremely unusual. Has an entirely unique patented device in the cylinder. The mechanism turns it when the hammer is cocked, and then moves it forward over a little projection on the barrel. A so-called ‘gas-seal’ between the cylinder and barrel. Curious, really, because the patent was once actually stolen from a Norwegian!”

  “What?”

  “Hans Larsen of Drammen. He invented a unique system for gas-sealed revolvers, and sent it to Liège in Belgium to be produced. They didn’t give a damn about the weapon, stole the patent, and it was developed into a revolver in Russia at the end of the nineteenth century. The Tsar and all that lot.”

  “You never cease to amaze me.” Håkon Sand smiled. But he knew that Hanne’s knowledge of marksmanship was such that, many years earlier, several colleagues had tried to enter her as a contestant on the TV quiz show Double or Quits. She had protested vigorously when NRK got in touch, and nothing had come of it.

  “And what’s the point of having a … gas-sealed barrel, was that what you called it?”

  “Greater precision,” Hanne explained. “The problem with a revolver is that there’s a loss of pressure between the cylinder and the barrel, so precision is diminished. It doesn’t usually matter too much, because revolvers were never meant to be used at great distances. I saw one once.”

  She fell silent and read on.

  “It says here that there are only five such guns listed in the gun register. But you have a big problem, Håkon. A huge problem.”

  She closed the folder again, and for a moment it looked as though she longed to slip it surreptitiously into the handbag beside her chair. However, she placed it instead on the table between them.

  “As far as I know, we have more than one huge problem in this case,” Håkon said, yawning. “There’s a whole line of problems, so to speak. But what are you referring to?”

  “This gun was mass-produced over a long period of time. You’ll find it in a lot of countries, especially in regions that have been under Soviet influence. They sold them cheaply to all their allies both in Europe and Africa in the fifties. For instance, you’ll come across them in …”

  She hesitated, and passed her hand quickly over her eyes.

  “… in the Middle East. And there are in fact a number of them in Norway. More than five anyway. They tend to have arrived here in curious ways. The one I saw belonged to a Russian exile who had inherited it from his father who had served in the Red Army during the Second World War.”

  “Unregistered weapon,” Håkon said dejectedly under his breath, and puffed his cheeks. “That’s all we need.”

  Hanne Wilhelmsen laughed heartily and ran her fingers through her hair.

  “But you weren’t expecting anything else, were you, Håkon? Did you think the Norwegian Prime Minister would be killed with a gun that was listed in our totally useless gun register, full of holes as it is? Did you honestly think so?”

  09.45, MINISTRY OF HEALTH

  Actually, no one quite understood how she had become Health Minister. It struck Teddy Larsen, when she closed the meeting with a strange scowl – always these odd facial expressions, ticks, sudden, unprompted and unexplained facial movements – it struck him that nobody actually understood why she was there. Hardly anyone outside the press–Parliament–government triangle had really known who she was when she was appointed Minister of Health, despite her having been joint Deputy Leader of the Labor Party for four years. The woman had a degree in history and had studied a couple of other insignificant subjects, and had worked as a teacher at one time, long ago. She was divorced and had twin teenage daughters, and had in fact stayed at home for a not inconsiderable period of time. Afterward, she had taken a step up here and there: had spent a short time in the Norwegian Confederation of Trade Unions, but not long, and some time in the Workers’ Education Association, but there too she had not lasted long. Gradually she had attained more powerful positions, while still managing to keep in the background to a remarkable degree. And she had never distinguished herself in health matters in any way. Until she became the minister.

  Teddy Larsen did not like his new boss, and that bothered him intensely.

  “We’ll draw this morning’s meeting to a close now.”

  The undersecretary, political adviser and Senior Private Secretary stood up at the same time as Teddy Larsen.

  “You!”

  Startled, they all turned to face the minister.

  “Gudmund! You stay behind.”

  The political adviser, a robust young man from Fauske, shrank and looked enviously at the others as they left the room in relief.

  Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden crossed from the conference table to her own large office chair. She sat there gazing at Gudmund Herland. She looked like a slightly worn Barbie doll: her face blank, her eyes like saucers as she made an odd gesture with her upper lip that forced the nervous young man to stare out the window.

  “This Grinde case,” she said vaguely.

  The political adviser did not know whether to sit down, but did not receive any assistance from his boss, and therefore remained on his feet. He felt like an idiot.

  “Yes,” he ventured, tentatively.

  “Why was I not informed that he wants more money?”

  “But,” Gudmund Herland began, “I tried to raise the subject—”

  “Tried! I won’t put up with not being kept informed about such important matters.”

  She was fiddling with a pen that threatened to disintegrate under her hard, stabbing movements.

  “Ruth-Dorthe, I did tell you that he wanted a meeting to discuss this with you, but you—”

  “You did not tell me what it was about.”

  “But—”

  “That’s an end to it.”

  She was determined, and waved her hands wildly without looking at him.

  “You need to sharpen up. You really must sharpen up. You can go now.”

  Gudmund Herland did not leave. He stood in the middle of the floor, feeling a wave of uncontrollable rage surge through his body, as he clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes. The bloody bitch. The damn bastard harpy. Not only had he informed her that Benjamin Grinde wanted to talk to her, he had also advised her as earnestly as he could to meet the man. The health scandal was something she could use to make her na
me: she could demonstrate initiative. If there was one thing this government needed to do, it was to show exactly that kind of ability to take action. But she had listened to him with half an ear, and brushed him aside. She did not have time. Maybe later. That was her perennial comment: maybe later. This woman had no idea what it meant to be a government minister. She thought you could keep normal office hours, and she became completely pissed off if anything came between her and dinner with her gorgeous daughters.

  He clenched his teeth so hard that there was a cracking sound, and he only just managed to hear what she said.

  “Are you going to just stand there?”

  He opened his eyes. Now she looked like a member of the Addams Family, her cheeks were drawn up in such a diabolical expression. She was not worth it. His political career would not run aground on this particular rock. Without uttering a word, he turned on his heel and walked out, seizing one minuscule scrap of pleasure, all the same, by slamming the door unnecessarily hard behind him.

  Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden lifted the phone and asked her secretary to invite the Senior Private Secretary to come in again. While she waited, she leaned back in the chair and rested her feet on the wastepaper basket as she studied the curtains. They were not to her taste, and it annoyed her that they had still not been replaced, despite her having given instructions about them several times.

  She was nervous about this infant mortality case. If she was going to lose her ministerial job in the coming reshuffle, which she seriously doubted, it might turn out that she had overlooked something, something that might then be used against her. Perhaps. What was it Benjamin Grinde had wanted to discuss with her, that he had chosen to take to Birgitte instead? Was it simply a fuss about money, or was there something more to it? Something else?

  She dipped a sugar cube into her coffee cup and placed the sweet, brown lump on her tongue. Irritated, and not without a certain sense of anxiety, she reflected on her conversation with Little Lettvik the previous evening. She had not understood what the journalist was looking for. Nor had she given the woman anything either. But the conversation had left Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden with a gnawing feeling of unease, and she gulped sour reflux in the midst of all the sweetness.

  The Senior Private Secretary stood in the doorway.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes.” Ruth-Dorthe sniffled and sat properly in the chair, sugar crunching between her teeth, causing her to swallow several times. “I want all the papers concerning the infant mortality case here at once. Immediately.”

  The Senior Private Secretary nodded gently, aware that this actually meant she would have preferred to have been given the papers yesterday.

  12.39, SECURITY SERVICE SECTION, OSLO POLICE STATION

  When Ole Henrik Hermansen laughed, the sound was explosive and unfamiliar. The Security Service Chief was a buttoned-up man in every respect: his immaculate exterior and expressionless features made him the cliché of a secret agent. His face was impassive and lacked distinctive characteristics, from his graying, combed-back hair to his pale, watery eyes and his straight, thin-lipped mouth; this man could blend into any crowd of human beings, anywhere whatsoever in the Western world.

  “Where did you get hold of that?”

  The police officer facing him looked down at his chest and smiled self-consciously.

  “I only wear it up here. Only at work. Never outside.”

  Bold black letters across the entire front of the gray T-shirt declared: “I’ve got your file”.

  “No, I certainly hope not. That sort of thing could bring us trouble.”

  “More trouble here, boss,” the police officer said, placing a file on his desk and searching around for a chair.

  “Sit down. What’s this?”

  “A report from the Swedish Security Police. Very troubling.” Massaging his right shoulder with his left hand, he pulled a face.

  The Security Service Chief did not touch the folder, but gazed intently at his subordinate.

  “Yesterday evening a small plane, a little six-seater Cessna, crashed in northern Sweden, in Norrland. In Västerbotten County, between Umeå and Skellefteå,” the man in the T-shirt began.

  Now he changed tack, and brutally kneaded his left shoulder with his right hand.

  “We sent a full emergency warning to all our neighboring countries on Friday evening, and security measures surrounding the Swedish Prime Minister, Göran Persson, and his Danish counterpart, Poul Nyrup Rasmussen, have been ramped up. Therefore this has not come out, fortunately …”

  Hesitating, he stared at the folder he had placed before his boss. It would be better if his boss read it. But Ole Henrik Hermansen still made no sign of touching anything. Only an almost imperceptible raising of his eyebrows indicated his growing impatience to hear the rest.

  “Prime Minister Göran Persson should have been on that plane. He was scheduled to open a major boat exhibition in Skellefteå, and because of the Social Democrats’ national conference in Umeå, he had to take a small plane in order to manage both.”

  “He should have been on that flight,” the Security Service Chief commented quietly, implying a question in his words.

  “Yes. Fortunately, he had to cancel the trip. At the last minute. The pilot flew the plane alone. As far as I understand it, he lived there – in Skellefteå. The pilot, that is. Now he’s dead.”

  At long last, Hermansen opened the folder. He leafed through it rapidly, so quickly that he could not possibly have absorbed much of its contents.

  “And what are our Swedish friends saying? Sabotage?”

  “They don’t know. For the time being, they are mostly happy the story has not leaked out. But they have their own thoughts about it. As do we.”

  Ole Henrik Hermansen got to his feet and crossed over to a map of Scandinavia on the wall. It was covered in red pinheads, clustered together in places. The map was well used. He let his finger run along the east coast of Sweden.

  “Farther up,” the police officer said. “Here.”

  He had followed his boss, and now placed a stubby forefinger on the map.

  “Right between Kvärnbyn and Vebomark.”

  Two pinheads cruelly spearing Malmö fell to the floor, though neither of the two men had touched them.

  “I need to put up a new map,” Hermansen said. “This must have been hanging here since the dawn of time. How many people knew that he was to make that journey?”

  “Next to no one. Not even the pilot.”

  “Not even the pilot,” the Security Service Chief repeated softly, using a finger to scratch his hairline. “How concerned are the Swedish Security Police?”

  “Extremely.”

  The police officer hoisted his shoulders and rolled his head from side to side.

  “And what’s more, Göran Persson is coming here to Norway. For the funeral. Of course.”

  Ole Henrik Hermansen took a deep breath.

  “Yes. Who’s not coming!”

  The police officer walked over to the door and was about to close it behind him when Hermansen suddenly called out.

  “You!”

  The police officer pushed his head round the door again.

  “Yes?”

  “Take off that shirt. On reflection, it’s not so amusing after all. Take it off, please. And put it away somewhere.”

  15.30, PMO

  “I sat here. I just … I just sat here!”

  Wenche Andersen buried her face in her hands and started to cry, quietly and inconsolably. Her shoulders were shaking underneath her russet-colored jacket, and, crouching beside her, Tone-Marit laid her hand on Wenche Andersen’s back. The Prime Minister’s secretary had finally begun to reveal that the events of the past few days had left their mark: she seemed shrunken, and much older.

  “Can I get you something? Maybe a glass of water?”

  “I just sat there. I didn’t do a thing!”

  She removed her hands from her face. Underneath her left eye, a bla
ck streak showed that her mascara had started to run.

  “If only I had done something,” she hiccupped. “Then I might have been able to save her!”

  A reconstruction was never easy. Billy T. merely sighed, snatching a glimpse of Supreme Court Judge Benjamin Grinde, who also looked somehow diminished. His suit hung more loosely, and the pale tan of his complexion had completely vanished. Now he could see the slight pattern of broken veins on each of the man’s cheeks, and his lips were pressed together in a tight, unattractive line.

  “You couldn’t have saved her,” Tone-Marit consoled her. “She died instantly. We know that now. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “But who on earth did it, then? How did they get in? They must have gone past me somehow or other. Why did I just sit here?”

  Wenche Andersen stretched out across the table, and Billy T. peered at the ceiling, trying to find the patience that he had lost long ago. It had taken an unnecessarily long time to complete the sound test: a police officer with blank cartridges had fired several shots in the Prime Minister’s office. Although they could be heard only faintly through the double doors, Wenche Andersen had jumped just as high in her seat every time. From the toilet, nothing could be heard. The problem was that Wenche Andersen could not say with any certainty when she had left her post.

  “Perhaps we should just try and get started,” he suggested. “Wouldn’t it be better to get this over and done with?”

  The secretary sniffed loudly, but did not stop weeping. However, she did at least straighten up, and took hold of the tissue that Tone-Marit offered her.

  “Maybe so,” Wenche Andersen whispered. “Maybe we should just begin.”

  Benjamin Grinde looked at Billy T., and after receiving a nod as a signal to leave, he stepped out into the corridor.

  “Wait!” Billy T. shouted. “Don’t come in until I tell you!”

  Then he leaned across Wenche Andersen’s desk, and said softly, “So, the time was quarter to five. Around 16.45. Those who were still here were …”

  He shuffled the papers in front of him.

  “Øyvind Olve, Kari Slotten, Sylvi Berit Grønningen and Arne Kavli,” Wenche Andersen said helpfully, with a sniff between each name. “But they weren’t here the whole time. They left in the course of the next half hour. All of them.”