The Lion's Mouth (21 page)

“Only the gods know. Back to the party office, I expect. But first … first of all, I’ll take a vacation.”

“A well-earned one! How’s it actually been going, the past six months?”

Before he had managed to reply, she beamed. “Go and see Cecilie, then! California’s fabulous at this time of year! We’ve plenty of room and it’s only five minutes to the beach.”

“I’ll think about it. Thanks. But it might not be convenient – for Cecilie, I mean.”

“Of course it’ll be convenient! Honestly, she’ll be so delighted. Everyone says they’re going to come and visit us, but nobody does.”

He smiled, but dropped the subject.

“This has been the most turbulent six months of my life. Everything that could possibly go wrong has done so. But …”

He ran his hands through his hair once again, a bashful gesture he had been making for as long for as they had known each other.

“… it’s really been thrilling, as well. It builds solidarity. Believe it or not, all the negative criticism did not crush her. Birgitte, that is. She managed to hold us together. Us against them, in a sense. The responsible ones versus the lightweights.”

A tall, dark man arrived with the food. The fiery red chicken in front of them steamed and gave off an enticing aroma, and Hanne Wilhelmsen realized that she had not eaten since breakfast. She grabbed hold of a chunk of naan bread and talked with her mouth full.

“What was Birgitte Volter like? In real life, I mean. You’ve worked closely with her for many years, of course, isn’t that right?”

“Mmm.”

“What was she like?”

Øyvind Olve was a steady man from western Norway. He came from a working class background and had progressed through the party ranks as a result of honest hard work and having the wit to keep his mouth shut when he should. Now he had no idea what to say. It was true that Hanne Wilhelmsen was a good friend, but she was also a police officer. He had already been interviewed twice, once by an enormous giant who, in other clothes, could have stepped out of a 1930s poster from Nazi Germany.

As he hesitated, Øyvind Olve could feel his head spinning from the alcohol.

“She was one of the most exciting people I have known,” he said eventually. “She was considerate and capable; she had dreams and vision. The most remarkable thing was perhaps a quite extreme sense of accountability. She never let anything lie. She always took responsibility. And she was also … very kind.”

“Kind?” Hanne laughed. “Is there such a thing as a kind politician? What do you mean by kind?”

Øyvind Olve looked reflective for a moment, before waving to
the waiter to order another half liter. He looked quizzically at Hanne, but she waved her hand in a negative response.

“Birgitte wanted to do good. She was genuinely engaged by the idea that politics is concerned with creating a better society for as many people as possible. Not simply in her speeches. Not only on paper. She was really interested in people. For instance, she insisted on reading every single letter that came in, from anyone, anywhere in Norway, who wanted to bring their problems to her attention. And there were quite a lot of them, I can tell you. Not that we could do very much. But she read every single one of them, and some of the circumstances she read about made a real impression on her. On a couple of occasions she did also intervene. To the great irritation of the bureaucrats. Boundless irritation.”

“Was she unpopular with them? The bureaucrats, I mean.”

Øyvind Olve stared at her for some time before resuming his meal.

“Do you know, it’s almost impossible to say. I’ve never come across anyone as apparently loyal as the civil servants in the Prime Minister’s office. It’s quite honestly impossible to say whether or not they liked her. And maybe not of such great interest either.”

He rubbed his eyes with his fingers bent at the knuckles, like a tired child.

“What about her personal life?” Hanne asked.

The question caught him off guard, and, removing his fingers from his face, he gazed at her with an almost shocked expression.

“Personal? I can’t say I knew her personally.”

“You didn’t know her? But you’ve worked closely with the woman for years!”

“Worked, yes. That’s not the same as knowing somebody personally. You ought to know that.”

Smiling, he noticed that Hanne blushed slightly. She had worked at Oslo Police Station for thirteen years, but only two of
her colleagues had ever set foot in the apartment she shared with Cecilie Vibe.

“But you have social events and that kind of thing,” Hanne insisted. “In the party, I mean. And you’ve traveled all around the world with her, of course, haven’t you?”

“Not much. But what is it you actually want to know?”

Hanne Wilhelmsen put down her knife and fork and wiped her mouth with a large white linen napkin.

“Let me begin with something else,” she said softly. “Was it Birgitte Volter who chose Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden as Health Minister?”

Now it was Øyvind Olve whose cheeks were red. He fumbled with a piece of naan bread as he dipped it in the sauce, and red stains dripped on to his shirt.

“I wouldn’t have told you this if it weren’t for the fact that she’s dead now,” he muttered, trying to clean off the stain; it only increased in size from all his scrubbing with a dry napkin. “Perhaps it’s difficult to understand.”

“Try me.” Hanne smiled.

“Putting together a government is a tremendously complicated jigsaw,” Øyvind Olve began. “Naturally it’s not up to the Prime Minister alone to choose Cabinet members. A whole lot of different considerations have to be weighed. Geography, gender …”

He attempted to swallow a belch.

“The trade unions want to have their say. Central figures in the party. The Party Secretary. And so on and so forth.”

He belched now, touching his chest.

“Heartburn,” he mumbled apologetically.

“But what about Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden?” Hanne asked again. She had pushed her plate aside and leaned her elbows on the table. “Who chose her?”

Øyvind Olve fished out a little sachet of Balancid indigestion remedy, and tried to ingest the contents as discreetly as possible: not easy.

“You shouldn’t eat Indian food if you have stomach problems,” Hanne advised. “What about Nordgarden?”

“It wasn’t Birgitte who wanted her, in any case. Ruth-Dorthe was brought in over her head.”

“By whom?”

He gave her a lingering look, and then shook his head.

“Honestly, Hanne. You’re not even a party member.”

“But I vote for you!” She grinned. “Every time!”

She understood all the same that she would obtain nothing more. Not about that. But perhaps about what interested her most.

“Did Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden have an affair with Roy Hansen?” she ventured, so directly that Øyvind Olve belched violently again, and as a little streak of Balancid ran from the corner of his mouth, he picked up the ill-treated napkin once more.

“You of all people should be above listening to rumors, Hanne,” he said quietly.

“Does that mean you’ve heard this before?”

Øyvind Olve rolled his eyes.

“If I were to tell you everything I’ve heard about who is sleeping with whom in Norwegian political circles, then we’d have to book in here for the rest of the week,” he said, smiling faintly.

“No smoke without fire,” Hanne replied.

“I’ll tell you one thing, Hanne,” Øyvind said, leaning toward her, his voice intense. “I’ve seen rooms thick with smoke but without so much as a tiny flame anywhere. I learned that long ago. You should also know that. How many men’s names were linked with yours until people began to guess the truth? And how many women do you think you’ve been involved with, according to the rumor mill?”

This was no longer pleasant. The remains of the tandoori smelled strong and pungent, and the beer had gone flat. The restaurant felt overheated, and she tugged at the neck of her sweater. Hanne Wilhelmsen had lived in faithful monogamy with Cecilie for almost nineteen years, and was aware that at Oslo Police Station her name was mentioned in connection with the most unlikely sexual alliances. She glanced at the time.

“One thing, though,” she said. “Did they know each other? Birgitte Volter and Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden?”

“No,” Øyvind Olve said, gesturing for the bill. “Not in the sense you would define knowing each other. Not outside politics. They were party comrades.”

“And you don’t know anything about whether Ruth-Dorthe … What kind of name is that, by the way!”

With a smile, she continued. “Whether she knew Roy Hansen at all?”

“Not as far as I know.”

Øyvind Olve shook his head.

“So if I tell you that I—”

The waiter appeared with the bill, and after a moment’s hesitation placed it in front of Hanne, even though Øyvind had asked for it.

“There. You see what kind of authority you radiate.” Øyvind grinned.

“If I tell you that I saw this Ruth-Dorthe woman and Roy Hansen sitting together, drinking beer in Café 33 about six months ago, would you be surprised?”

He looked at her with a furrow between his teddy bear eyes.

“Yes,” he said, cocking his head. “It surprises me greatly. Are you quite sure that was who it was?”

“Quite sure,” Hanne Wilhelmsen said, pushing the bill across to the other side of the table. “I’m not working at the moment!”

“That possibly applies to me too,” Øyvind Olve muttered, but he picked up the bill all the same.

23.10,
VIDARS GATE
11
C

“Y
ou have to help me,” whispered the security guard. “Bloody hell, Brage, I need help!”

Brage Håkonsen, dressed in a brilliant white T-shirt and camouflage boxer shorts, could not believe his eyes. The guard from the government complex was standing outside his front door, looking completely demented. His hair was sticking out in all directions, tangled and uncombed, and his eyes were popping as if he had seen a real-life vampire only a couple of minutes ago. He was wearing baggy clothes and his shoulders had disappeared entirely underneath his over-large military jacket.

“Are you off your head?” Brage hissed. “Coming here! Now! Get away with you, and
don’t show your face here again
!”

“But, Brage,” the guard grumbled. “Damn it all, I need
help!
I’ve—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you’ve done!”

“But, Brage,” the guard bleated again. “Listen to me at least! Let me come in and talk to you!”

Brage Håkonsen placed a massive fist on the guard’s chest. He was a good head taller and he towered over him.

“For the last time, get away from here.”

Someone down below opened a door. Startled, Brage Håkonsen gave the guard a forceful push across the landing, then slammed his door; the guard could hear him making a racket with the security chain.

A young man came up the stairs, and the guard pulled his jacket lapels up under his ears, staring at the wall as the man walked past. Then he stood listening to his footsteps all the way up to the fourth floor.

What was he to do? His eyes filled with tears as his mouth trembled. He felt awful, and had to sit down on the steps to avoid falling over.

“I need to go away,” he said to himself. “I fucking need to get away.”

Finally he stood up and stumbled aimlessly out into the Oslo night.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 9

08.32,
OSLO POLICE STATION

T
he gun lay inside a padded envelope, addressed only to “Oslo Police Station” in thick black felt-tip pen. The consignment was not franked. The officer who stood at the door of Assistant Police Chief Håkon Sand’s office was panting breathlessly.

“It was in a mail sack at the central post office,” he gasped. “The mail sorters realized it might be important and have just delivered it.”

Håkon Sand wore latex gloves on his hands. The envelope had already been opened, in itself a gross error of judgment: it could have been a bomb, of course. However, it was not an explosive device. Håkon Sand fished out the revolver and with extreme care placed it on a white sheet of paper in front of him.

“A Nagant,” Billy T. whispered. “A Russian Model 1895.”

“Not you too.” Håkon sighed. “Do you and Hanne hold Saturday night quizzes, or what?”

“Guess,” Billy T. said softly. “About guns and motorbikes. She knows all there is to know about both.”

“Don’t touch,” Håkon Sand warned as Billy T. leaned toward the revolver.

“I’m not stupid, you know,” Billy T. muttered, studying the gun from a distance of ten centimeters. “Besides, it doesn’t really matter anyway. I’ll bet this gun has been clinically cleaned of any possible traces that might lead us to anything at all. It’s been scrubbed and polished and looks good as new.”

“You’re probably right there.” Håkon sighed again. “But don’t touch, regardless. Not the envelope either. It’s all going to Forensics.”

“But wait a minute!”

Billy T. suddenly brightened.

“If this was lying in one of the sacks at the central post office … What about videotape? Isn’t that whole damn place crawling with cameras?”

“I’ve already thought of that,” Håkon lied. “You!”

He was pointing at the officer who was still standing in the doorway, craning his neck.

“Instruct someone to go through the CCTV tapes for the last twenty-four hours. No, as a matter of fact, make it the past forty-eight hours.”

“And then we’ll find an insignificant, uncouth guy in a baseball cap who at least had the wit to turn away,” Billy T. mumbled.

“Do you have a better suggestion, then?” Håkon said, slightly too loudly.

Billy T. only shrugged his shoulders as he headed back to his own office.

12.03,
JENS BJELKES GATE
13

O
f course, it had been crazy to say he was sick. Talk about stupidity. However, his boss had at least regarded him with concern and confirmed that he looked dreadful. About as dreadful as he felt, he assumed.

He had to get away. Preferably flee the country. But that would seem suspicious; he appreciated that. He could travel to Tromsø. He could go skiing. It would do him good. Morten was his best friend and had said many times that he should come. There was so much fucking snow up there this winter.