The Lion's Mouth (43 page)

Now she really did throw herself across the desktop, burying her head in her hands and sobbing inconsolably.

“It wasn’t Richard, he only … It’s at home in my closet, but it wasn’t him, he just … It’s in my closet and I don’t know … Richard …”

Billy T. closed his eyes, aware of how tired he was. How bloody fed-up he was. For some reason, he thought of Truls. The picture of the little boy, bravely trying not to cry as the doctor prepared to realign his bone before setting his arm in a plaster cast, had fixed itself in his mind’s eye; he rubbed his hand over his face to brush
the image away. Opening his eyes again, he looked at the girl without uttering a word.

How many young people would weep bitter tears in this horrible, unpretentious office on the second floor of the police station, blue zone, before this case was solved?

Billy T. thought about his youngest son, and reflected on how life would never be the same again. Norway would never be the same. He sat facing a young girl – a poor, neglected little scrap of humanity – who apparently held the key to it all. She could tell him what had actually happened on the evening of April 4, 1997 on the fifteenth floor of the government tower block; she knew the answer, and if he coaxed a little here and cheated a little there, she would share everything she knew with him. However, Billy T. was not sure if he had the energy to cope with it.

He thought about Hanne Wilhelmsen’s imminent departure. She had mentioned it that morning, in passing, with her mouth full of cornflakes. She was missing Cecilie; she would be leaving soon.

In a flash he strenuously attempted to suppress, he had a vision of the enraged look on Truls’ mother’s face when she had caught sight of the brilliant white plaster of Paris covered in the scrawled black autographs of his three older brothers; his little son had proudly held up his arm to his mother, the woman with the black, reproachful eyes.

“What’s in the closet, Kaja?” he asked.

“The shawl,” she muttered, getting to her feet. “The shawl that Prime Minister woman was wearing when she was killed!”

Billy T. stood up abruptly; the chair rolled toward the wall, and he momentarily forgot that he was actually too exhausted. Too fed-up. Too tired of everything.

“The shawl! Do you have the shawl? Did the security guard murder Volter? Listen to me, Kaja! Was it Richard who killed the Prime Minister?”

“Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying?” she sobbed. “It wasn’t Richard. He was only going to … That alarm went off, and he went up there on his own, his buddy was sleeping, I think.”

She dried her eyes with the back of her hand, but the flood of tears would not cease.

“He took the revolver. He’s crazy about guns, but … the lady was dead when he got there. He does loads of shooting, and has piles of magazines and books and all that sort of stuff – Richard’s just nuts about guns and that kind of thing. He … the revolver was lying there, wasn’t it, and the woman was dead, and it was lying on top of this shawl, you see, so he took the whole lot and … bloody hell, he was scared to death afterward. I noticed he was behaving really oddly and all that, one evening when I was …”

Now she blushed, and her blue eyes looked younger than ever.

“Don’t tell Dad,” she begged weakly. “I’m not allowed to go to Richard’s place. Promise you won’t say anything to Dad!”

“To hell with your father,” Billy T. barked. “Are you telling me that Richard just took the gun that was lying beside a shot Prime Minister? Was he
mad
or what?”

“It was my idea to mail it back. I thought if you got hold of that revolver, then you could find out who had done it, somehow. We polished it till it shone, and then I went down to the central post office with it, and I forgot … stamps. But I was wearing mittens.”

“But the shawl?” Billy T. almost yelled. “Why didn’t you send that back as well?”

Squirming in her seat, Kaja looked longingly at the pack of cigarettes she had fished out of a rucksack shaped like an artless baby panda clinging to her back.

“Just have a smoke,” Billy T. said, slapping a massive ashtray made of orange-glazed lava down on the table in front of her. “Why didn’t you send the shawl too?”

“Richard said … a shawl is much more difficult to wipe clean. He was afraid he might have left traces on it that we wouldn’t be able to remove. He said it was possible to get fingerprints from skin, so we couldn’t be sure whether it was possible to get fingerprints from fabric and that kind of thing. And we couldn’t just throw it in the garbage, because … in the movies, the cops always examine the garbage, you know, and so it would be safer to look after it for a while. Richard was going to go to Germany, and then he was going to come home and get me when … Dad hated Richard, you see.”

The thought of her father brought back the convulsive sobs, and her face contorted into a painful grimace.

“Calm down,” Billy T. said, more quietly now. “I’ll sort things out with your father. I promise he won’t give you any grief.”

He did not know whether his attempt at a reassuring smile had any effect, but he was short of time. Now at least he could insist on that search warrant he had been agitating for. And he would be sure to get it. He grabbed the phone to contact Assistant Chief of Police Håkon Sand.

“Sorry,” his secretary said cheerfully. “He’s gone to the hospital. The baby’s on its way!”

Billy T. swore vehemently, then glanced apologetically at the girl. But she hadn’t heard, and was obviously used to worse language anyway.

“Tone-Marit,” he snapped into the receiver. “Get hold of the duty officer and come in here, at the double. Now! At once!”

Kaja had lit her second cigarette.

“Can I come with you?” she asked quietly, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Can I come with you and show you the shawl?”

18.05,
A REMAND CELL AT OSLO POLICE STATION

T
he attorney was certainly not stupid: he understood everything. Negotiating two days’ imprisonment had been smart. Brage had gone along with the proposal that he be kept in custody until Wednesday, in order to give the cops time to consider. And they had managed to keep it out of the press. The lawyer had hassled them, threatening to sue them for compensation if they didn’t keep the short sentence secret. Two days. That was how long they had to think about it. Whether they wanted to make a deal. They probably would. He had something they wanted. Two names. That idiot Richard and his girlfriend. Richard was an oddball: involving your girlfriend in something like that! Brage had seen her, and followed her all the way to the post office. He had no idea why Richard had not wanted to keep the gun. Perhaps the girl had panicked. A damn child, she couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen.

The cops had their hearts set on the names. That Heger guy had been quite amazed when he had been able to provide accurate details. They knew that he had two big fat names.

Brage Håkonsen strode to the center of the hot, stuffy cell, and stretched himself out on the concrete floor. He did sit-ups without a break, and at the same steady pace. The entire time. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine.

A hundred.

He sat up with his arms around his knees, not even particularly sweaty.

As long as he had the names, the cops would make a deal. He was going to be freed.

22.30,
MOTZFELDTS GATE
14

A
s Little Lettvik sat in the old armchair, having poured herself a stiff Jack Daniel’s, she experienced the disappointing taste
of success. It was always like that. A brief, intense feeling of triumph, followed by emptiness. You had to go on. Nothing was as dead and meaningless as yesterday’s newspaper. In a few months, almost no one would remember that she had been the one who had uncovered it all. It had been wonderful for a few hours. Especially during the press conference. Demolishing Ruth-Dorthe in front of a crowded room was one of her greatest achievements. Her colleagues’ half-appreciative, half-envious looks had done her good. Some of them, the youngest, the ones with less to protect as yet, had been quite open. They had approached her, slapping her back enthusiastically, and wanting to know how she had unearthed Pharmamed at such lightning speed.

If only they knew.

When she thought about it, she felt a jab under her breastbone. Distaste. She peered accusingly at the glass in her hand, and pressed her left fist against her stomach.

Perhaps she should not have done it. She had exploited something of long standing that was, in a way … invaluable. The word made her cough, and she slammed down her glass.

Of course she should have done it. No one would find out, because no one ever had. Never. Not once, in all these years. Thirty-two years.

The doorbell rang.

As the piercing pain under her solar plexus struck, she was forced to curl up in discomfort.

Once again, the bell ding-donged impatiently. She tried to straighten up, but had to walk to the door crouching forward slightly and with perspiration breaking out on her forehead.

“Little Lettvik?”

She had no need to ask the identity of the two men. She recognized one of them. He worked for the Police Security Service.

“Yes,” she moaned.

“We’d like you to accompany us to the station for interview.”

“Now? Half past ten at night?”

The tall man smiled and, sensing the contempt in his eyes, she quickly transferred her gaze to the younger, shorter guy, but he did not look down.

“Yes. You’re probably well aware of why it’s so urgent.”

She thought she was going to faint. Fumbling to hold the doorframe, she closed her eyes to stop the room spinning.

They knew. Fucking hell, they knew.

Once she had packed her capacious bag and shrugged on her coat, a dawning realization popped fleetingly into her head. She pushed it aside as quickly as possible.

A realization about what it must have been like for Benjamin Grinde.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23

17.30,
AKER HOSPITAL
,
MATERNITY UNIT

H
anne Wilhelmsen peered into the tiny, wrinkled face. The newborn baby girl screwed up her features, her eyes becoming two supercilious lines. She resembled a baby dormouse, except that she meowed. She mewled almost inaudibly, like a kitten, her lips twisting toothlessly, quivering in displeasure. Her complexion was blotchy and her face asymmetrical, with tufts of downy red hair above her ears. The fontanel – seemingly way too open – was beating rapidly and rhythmically, and made it look as if her head was not fully formed; it was downright terrifying.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Karen Borg whispered. “Isn’t she just the most gorgeous baby you’ve ever seen?’

“Weeell, yes,” Hanne Wilhelmsen lied. “She’s lovely. All babies are lovely.”

“Indeed they are not,” Karen protested, still in a whisper. “Have you seen that little boy over there? He looks like … a monkey!”

Karen giggled, but had to wipe away tears that flowed from her left eye.

“I’m sorry I’m the only one who could come,” Hanne said. “Håkon’s in court, and it’s so absurdly important to make sure this custody case gets wrapped up. He’ll come the minute he’s finished. He promised—”

“Here,” Karen interrupted, passing the little cotton parcel containing a twenty-four-hour-old baby to the Chief Inspector. “Feel how delightful she is!”

“No, no,” Hanne Wilhelmsen insisted, but she was forced to accept the bundle; Karen did not seem strong enough to hold the baby like that, with arms extended, for very long.

She was really not a pretty sight. Hanne carefully, and actually without thinking too much about it, laid her own face on the baby’s. The scent was sublime. A lovely, sweet fragrance that gave Hanne goosebumps. Suddenly, the baby opened its eyes: deep, colorless wells with undefined irises.

“She looks so wise,” Hanne whispered. “Her eyes are like my grandmother’s. What’s her name to be?”

“We’re not entirely sure. We can’t agree. Håkon wants a double name, since Hans Wilhelm has one, but I don’t like double names for girls. We’ll see.”

“Dyveke,” Hanne said softly, kissing the infant’s forehead, light as a feather, the baby skin tickling her lips. “She looks as if she’s called Little Dove.”

“We’ll see.” Karen laughed. “Sit down here.”

Hanne cautiously inched her way along the edge of the bed and handed the baby back to her mother.

“Was it difficult?”

“Can you put her in the crib?” Karen asked, grimacing. “It was a caesarian in the end, and trying to bend is excruciating.”

Hanne placed the bundle down carefully in the plastic tub, which was on tall legs and had wheels, and to be on the safe side, rocked it.

“You don’t look too strong,” she said dubiously. “Caesarian?”

“Yes, they lost the fetal heartbeat.”

Karen Borg burst into tears. She sobbed convulsively. From time to time, she laughed apologetically and tried to dry her tears. But they continued to fall in copious amounts, and she could not find a way to stop them.

“I can’t understand why I’m behaving like this, but I’ve been
weepy all day long. Fortunately, I managed to pull myself together when Mum and Hans Wilhelm were here earlier. He was so sweet, he—”

Hanne stood up and wheeled a folding screen across to the bedside, then sat down again, clutching Karen’s hand.

“On you go, cry if you like.”

“I’m so glad you came.” Karen sniffed. “But it’s Håkon who should have been here.
We
were the ones who nearly lost her. She’s healthy and fine and I shouldn’t cry, but …”

Damnable police station, Hanne thought. Couldn’t they have sent another lawyer to deal with this custody case? She got to her feet again, and crossed to a little basin on the gable wall beside the door. Underneath was a shelf with cloths; she soaked one in cold water, wrung it out, and placed it on Karen’s forehead.

“She could have died,” Karen said sotto voce. “She’s okay now, but she could have … If she had died, it would have been my fault. Håkon was nagging for ages to have the birth induced, but I … It would have been my fault. I wouldn’t have managed—”