Lion's Mouth, The

by Holt, Anne

  The Superintendent rushed breathlessly into the room, red in the face.

  “The elevators are out of order,” he groaned, rubbing his hands over the seat of his trousers.

  Roy Hansen stood in the doorway, having been ushered in solicitously by the Police Chief’s secretary. He greeted each person in turn, and the round of handshakes became so lengthy and complicated in the confusion of chairs that Billy T. sensibly abstained from adding to the awkwardness. Instead he sat down, nodded to the widower, and avoided asking what had happened to Per Volter.

  Per Volter arrived five minutes late. His clothes looked as though they had been slept in, which they probably had; there was a whiff of stale perspiration combined with the unmistakable stench of earlier intoxication masked at daybreak with green mouthwash. His eyes were evasive, and he raised his hand in a collective greeting instead of accepting the hands hesitantly extended toward him. He did not condescend to give his father so much as a glance.

  “I’m late,” he muttered, collapsing unceremoniously onto a chair, his back half-turned on his father. “Sorry.”

  The Chief of Police stood up without quite knowing what to say. It did not seem appropriate to actually “welcome” people to the investigation into the homicide of their wife and mother. He gazed in the direction of Roy Hansen, who had his eyes trained on his son’s back; his expression was so surprisingly naked and full of despair that the Police Chief momentarily lost his courage and considered postponing the entire session.

  “I’m quite sure this will be unpleasant,” he finally ventured. “And I’m really sorry about that. However, I – and my colleagues – thought you would prefer to get a first-hand account of where we stand. In the investigation, I mean.”

  “We know a lot less than the guys outside the door downstairs,” Per Volter broke in, loudly and abruptly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The Police Chief laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and looked him in the eye.

  “Outside the door?”

  “Yes. Journalists. I had to run the gauntlet of them to make my way through. Do you think I’m happy to have my photograph taken like this?”

  He tugged at his shirtfront, as if to demonstrate his grubby condition.

  The Police Chief examined something immediately in front of his feet, and swallowed several times. His Adam’s apple chafed against his chin, which was red with shaving rash.

  “I can only apologize. It was not our intention for anyone to know you were coming. Sorry.”

  “Sorry here and sorry there!”

  Per Volter pushed back his chair and stretched out like a defiant teenager, his backside on the edge of his seat, his shoulders against the backrest, and his legs splayed out across the floor.

  “To serve and protect. Isn’t that what they say? Until now, you’ve neither served nor protected. Agreed?”

  He slammed a fist onto the wall beside him, then buried his face in his hands.

  Roy Hansen cleared his throat. His face was now ashen, and his eyes were perilously moist. The other men in the room sat quiet as mice, and only Billy T. dared to look at father and son.

  “Per,” Roy Hansen said softly. “You know you can—”

  “Don’t speak to me,” Per Volter bellowed. “Haven’t I told you that? Haven’t I told you that I never want to speak to you again? Eh?”

  He covered his face once more.

  The Chief of Police was crimson. Fumbling with a cigarette he could not light, he continued to stare at one of his knees. The Superintendent’s mouth was gaping, although he was unaware of it, and it was only when a dribble started to run down his chin that he clamped his jaw shut and promptly used his arm to wipe his face.

  The Police Chief peered studiously through the window, as though evaluating a possible escape route.

  “Per Volter!”

  It was Billy T., his voice deep and penetrating.

  “Look at me!”

  The young boy on the opposite side of the table stopped rocking from side to side, though he still kept his face hidden.

  “Look at me,” Billy T. roared, slapping the palm of his hand on the teak table so forcefully that the windows juddered.

  Startled, the boy took his hands away.

  “We know you’re feeling dreadful. Everyone in this room understands that you must be going through a terrible ordeal.”

  Billy T. leaned further across the table.

  “But you’re not the first person in the history of the world to lose his mother! Now you really must pull yourself together!”

  Per Volter sat up angrily in his chair.

  “No, but I’m the only one to have his family’s whole life-history laid bare in every newspaper in the country afterward!”

  Now he was sobbing, quietly and with little sniffs, and rubbing his eyes repeatedly, to no avail.

  “You’re right there,” Billy T. said. “I certainly can’t imagine what that must be like. But you have to let us get on with our jobs all the same, which right now involves telling you and your father how things stand. If you would like to listen, that’s fine. If not, I suggest you leave. I can get someone to accompany you out the rear exit, so you can avoid the press out there.”

  The young man did not answer; he was still weeping.

  “Hello,” Billy T. said softly. “Per!”

  Per Volter looked up. The police officer’s eyes were a peculiar pale, matte ice-blue color, the sort you might see on a dangerous dog, or in a horror movie. However, his mouth was extended in a faint smile that suggested an understanding that Per Volter felt no one had shown him since his mother had been shot.

  “Do you want to go, or would you rather stay? Or would you perhaps like to wait in my office, so that you and I can have a chat by ourselves afterward?”

  Per Volter forced a smile.

  “Sorry. I’ll stay.”

  Then he blew his nose on a tissue offered by the Police Chief. He straightened up completely and placed one foot over the other, staring at the Police Chief as though wondering, with impatience and amazement, why the report had ended before it had begun.

  It did not take long. After a brief résumé, the Chief of Police handed over to the Security Service Chief, who was equally concise. Billy T. was aware that the information being imparted had been methodically filtered, and that in fact Ole Henrik Hermansen was relating everything and nothing. The most interesting aspect was that, when he spoke in general terms about the extremist lead, an odd expression crossed his lips, and his gaze was not as steady as usual.

  The security guard, Billy T. thought. They’ve found something on the guard.

  “Eh?” he exclaimed all of a sudden: the Police Chief had spoken his name three times without him hearing. “Oh, sorry. The pillbox, yes.”

  Retrieving a little plastic bag from his jacket pocket, he placed it in front of Roy Hansen. The widower had not uttered a word since Per had shrieked at him, and he still did not open his mouth. He peered at the plastic bag with a poker face.

  “Do you recognize this?” Billy T. asked. “Is this Birgitte’s pillbox?”

  “Never seen it before,” Per Volter said before his father had got round to answering.

  The young man leaned forward to pick up the bag. Billy T. swiftly placed his hand over the object.

  “Not yet. Do you recognize it?”

  He removed the box from the bag, and held it up to Roy Hansen.

  “It’s ours,” the widower whispered. “We received it at our wedding. Birgitte and I. A wedding present. It’s the one I showed you in the photograph.”

  “Certain?”

  Roy Hansen nodded slowly, without taking his eyes off the box.

  “I’ve not seen it before,” Per Volter repeated.

  “Where did you find it?” Roy Hansen asked, holding out his palm to Billy T.

  “In Benjamin Grinde’s apartment,” Billy T. replied, placing the box in Roy Hansen’s hand.

  “What?”

  Per
Volter looked from one to the other.

  “At that Supreme Court judge’s place?”

  All the police officers nodded enthusiastically, as though to make the assertion even more credible.

  “At Benjamin Grinde’s,” Roy Hansen said. “Why on earth …?”

  He looked up from his thorough inspection of the little pillbox.

  “Yes, well, that was what we were hoping one of you might be able to tell us,” Billy T. said, fingering the diamond on his ear.

  “No idea,” Roy Hansen mumbled.

  “Not a single theory?”

  Despair had given way to aggression, and the widower raised his voice. “Maybe Benjamin Grinde stole it? Swiped it! Some time or other. What do I know! He could have taken it years ago, for that matter, since I haven’t seen it for as long as I can remember.”

  “No. It must have been on the day he met Birgitte, before she was killed,” Billy T. said calmly. “Her secretary remembers that the box always used to sit on her desk.”

  He glanced at Per Volter, who shrugged and shook his head.

  “Haven’t a clue,” he reiterated. “Never seen it before.”

  “You probably noticed it was difficult to open,” Billy T. said, addressing Roy Hansen. “But we managed it. There was a lock of hair inside the box. It looks as if it came from a baby.”

  Per gasped, obviously forcibly steeling himself to prevent another bout of tears.

  “We thought,” Billy T. began. “We thought perhaps … It isn’t easy to ask about this, Mr. Hansen, but …”

  Roy Hansen looked as if he had shrunk, and his eyes were closed.

  “We have emphasized that every single piece of information about Birgitte may be of relevance to the case, and so it is necessary to ask …”

  Billy T. placed the flat of his hand on his shaved head and rubbed it pensively to and fro. He considerately neglected to look at the Police Chief, knowing what his superior officer would say.

  “Why did you not tell us about this dead baby?” he asked quickly. “About your daughter?”

  “Billy T.,” the Police Chief said sharply, and waited. “This is not an interrogation! You certainly don’t need to answer that right now, Mr. Hansen.”

  “But I want to!”

  He got to his feet and crossed stiffly to the window, then turned abruptly to face the others.

  “You just admitted that you have no idea what it’s like to have your life dissected in the newspapers. You’re completely correct about that. You haven’t a clue! The whole of Norway is preoccupied with Birgitte. You are preoccupied with Birgitte. I have to put up with it. But there is one thing that actually belongs only to me! Me! Do you understand that?”

  Now he was standing at Billy T.’s side; one hand rested on the table as he looked into Billy T.’s eyes.

  “Why haven’t I said anything about Liv, you ask. Because it’s none of your business! Okay? Liv’s death was our tragedy. Birgitte’s and mine!”

  His fury abated just as swiftly as it had erupted. Suddenly it appeared that he did not quite know where he was or why he was there, and he gazed around the room in astonishment before returning to his seat.

  The silence lasted for some considerable time.

  “Well,” Billy T. said, returning the pillbox gently to the little bag and stuffing it into his jacket pocket again. “We’ll leave that, then. I’m sorry if I’ve said something that might have caused offense. There’s just one more thing …”

  He looked at the Police Chief, who, with a resigned nod, invited him to continue.

  “We have something that absolutely must not come out. We have managed to keep the press at bay until now, and we’d really like to keep this information to ourselves for a while yet. We have …”

  He produced an envelope from a folder and placed the contents in front of the two relatives.

  “We know that this is the gun that was used in the murder,” he said, pointing to the two photographs. “This is a Russian—”

  “Nagant,” Per Volter interrupted. “A Russian Nagant. Model 1895.”

  He stared at the picture.

  “Where is the gun?”

  “Why do you ask?” Billy T. asked.

  “Where is the gun?” Per Volter repeated his question, the roses in his cheeks making him look feverish. “I want to see the gun.”

  Within just a few minutes, an officer knocked on the door, handed a revolver to Billy T., and left again.

  “Can I touch it?” Per asked quietly, looking at Billy T., who nodded.

  With practiced movements, Per Volter examined the gun that had killed his mother. He inspected the barrel, found it empty, aimed at the floor and pulled the trigger.

  “Are you familiar with this type of gun?” Billy T. enquired.

  “Yes,” Per Volter said. “I know this gun very well. It’s mine.”

  “Yours?”

  The Security Service Chief was almost shouting.

  “Yes. This Nagant belongs to me. Can anyone tell me how it ended up here?”

  17.30, STENSPARKEN PARK

  It worried him greatly that he had not insisted on a different meeting place. He hated Stensparken Park. He could barely walk through the little green oasis between Stensgata and Pilestredet without getting insulted by one of the scum who usually roamed there, repulsive homosexuals who always mistook him for one of their own, no matter how he dressed or acted. Once a man had ingratiatingly compared him to Jonas Fjeld, the fictional detective, and that was what had saved the guy from being knocked to the ground. Brage Håkonsen had the complete works of crime writer Øvre Richter Frich on his bookshelf, and Fjeld was his hero.

  They should have arranged to meet later in the evening. It was still light now. The supplier had, however, been insistent, saying that he was going abroad and wanted this over and done with.

  Brage Håkonsen had strolled through the park three times: it was impossible to stand still. That was when they crept out. The vermin of society.

  At last. The man with the dark, ankle-length coat made an almost imperceptible gesture toward him. Surveying his surroundings as discreetly as possible, Brage began to approach the other man. As they passed each other, he felt something drop into the bag he was carrying, a nylon bag with some training gear at the bottom. He had released his grip on one handle just in time.

  Now he clutched it again and jogged across to two trashcans at the other end of the little park. He opened one, and dropped a padded envelope inside, together with an ice cream wrapper he had found half an hour before.

  Five thousand was not so bad. Not for an unregistered, efficient handgun. Untraceable. As Brage Håkonsen left the park, he saw out of the corner of his eye the man in the long coat heading for the trashcans. Smiling, Brage held the bag extra tightly.

  Suddenly an icy sensation raced down his spine. That man over there, the one standing under a tall tree reading a newspaper, he had seen before. Today. Not long ago. He made a strenuous effort to remember where. In the kiosk? On the tram? Picking up his pace, he glanced over his shoulder to see whether the man with the newspaper was following, but he was not. He just stared after him, and then stooped over his newspaper again.

  He must be one of them. The homosexuals. Relieved, Brage breathed out and scuttled across toward the veterinary college.

  However, he could not let go of the thought of the man with the newspaper. He would travel out to the cabin and hide the gun there. For the time being. Until the plan was completely ready. It was almost, but not quite. He was unsure who to take with him, since the project could not be accomplished alone. But he wanted only one assistant. The more people involved, the greater the likelihood of it all going down the drain.

  Now that the Prime Minister had been taken out, it was the turn of the President of the Parliament. The symbolic value would be enormous. However, something made him hesitate as he unlocked the door to his apartment: he could not travel out to the cabin. Hardly anyone knew he had it. Only the old woman on the gro
und floor, for whom he did some shopping and washed the stairs, and who had given him the keys to her cabin by way of thanks. She was childless and as old as the hills, and knew hardly anyone apart from the council care-workers who brought her hot food three times a week. But she was quite charming too. He had not actually had any ulterior motives when he’d started chatting to her about this and that, but when it emerged that her husband had been a Norwegian soldier in the Waffen-SS, and that he had died during the war, he had begun to help her out. After all, you had to look after your own. It was a matter of honor.

  He wanted to go to the cabin. Something told him that he could not. Something told him that the gun ought not to remain in his apartment, or in his own storeroom.

  Padding down to the basement, he unlocked the storeroom belonging to Mrs. Svendsby, and placed the wrapped pistol behind four jars of preserves dated 1975. He did not even look at the gun before he locked up again, and replaced the key between two joists under the ceiling.

  Mrs. Svendsby had trouble with her hips and had not visited the basement for more than fifteen years.

  19.10, TRANEN RESTAURANT

  The Tranen restaurant had made no effort to be trendy. While all the other gloomy cafés in Oslo had begun attracting crowds of taxi-riding tourists from the West End, the Tranen remained quite simply too gloomy. Few of its customers had ever ventured west of the Bislett Stadium at any point in their lives, and now most of them were in no fit condition to toddle even that far. They sat there with their few kroner from social security, their florid, reddish-purple faces, and their life stories that no one wanted to hear. Hanne Wilhelmsen knew that these characters were desperately sad: they just sat there shouting, so thoroughly pickled in alcohol that they were never going to be listened to by anyone.

  Glancing at the time, she tried to suppress her irritation.

  Øyvind Olve rushed breathlessly through the door. He scanned the room in confusion, and looked as though he thought he had come to the wrong place. A cowboy sat at the table just inside the door. Actually, it was a woman, and in truth she looked as if she had never sat her broad backside on anything resembling a horse, but the accessories were all in place. She was wearing a shiny red leather jacket with long fringes of luminous nylon, and studs on the back spelling out the words “Divine Madness” in cursive script. On her head she wore a white replica Stetson, and her jeans were three sizes too small, making it difficult for her to sit down. Perhaps that was why she was half standing, leaning over a man who was obviously refusing to pay her bill. Or perhaps she simply wanted to show off her boots: shiny, brilliant white, and clearly made of plastic.