The Lion's Mouth (45 page)

She riffled quickly through the pages.

“… nine pages! Taking it for granted that the guard and Brage Håkonsen committed the crime!
Nine pages
! The guy’s miles away from a conviction. Don’t they have memories?”

“Who?”

“Journalists, of course. Don’t they
remember
what they were writing a week ago?”

“Yes, but …”

Billy T. scratched his crotch vigorously, and seemed disgruntled.

“Are you siding with these
journalists
now?” Hanne asked, chuckling. “You’re damn well jumping about just as much as they are, anyway. Don’t
scratch
yourself there, for heaven’s sake. Go to the bathroom if you’ve got lice.”

She thumped him again, this time on the hand.

“Will you pack it in! Bloody hell, that hurt!” He rubbed the back of his hand, and moved farther over to the left. “Now I’m starting to feel really happy that you’re leaving soon.”

“You don’t mean that!”

She crawled over to him, and put his arm around her own shoulders.

“Actually I’m not really so keen to leave. This is where I feel at home. But I miss Cecilie so terribly, and she … I’m going on Saturday.”

He hugged her tightly.

“I know that. If we really are close to solving this case, then I’ll soon be able to come and visit,” he said.

“Great. Can you bring the children with you?”

Billy T. threw his head back, banging it against the wall, and laughed heartily.

“Very clever! I don’t think Cecilie would get much done if the house was filled with that gang of mine!”

Hanne turned to face him, enthusiastic.

“She’s at work all day! Think what fun it would be! Sunshine, summer and swimming in the sea … We can go to Disneyland!”

He shook his head.

“I can’t afford it.”

“Just bring Truls, then!”

He pushed her away.

“We’ll see. But as a matter of fact …”

He got to his feet and disappeared. Hanne could hear sounds from the kitchen; rattling followed by a whining, droning screech.

“Håkon’s having a goodbye party for you tomorrow,” he shouted above the racket from the hand-held vacuum cleaner.

“Cut that out,” Hanne said, rolling out of bed just in time. “Who’s going?”

“Håkon and you and me. And Tone-Marit, I think. If you don’t have any objections, I’ll invite Severin as well.”

“What?”

She reached for the vacuum cleaner. Billy T. stretched his hand above his head, and launched himself at the other side.

“Turn that off!”

“Okay, okay,” Billy T. said sulkily, pressing the button. “Is it okay if Severin and Tone-Marit come, then?”

Hanne drew herself up to her full height and shook her head gently. Then she began to scratch one foot against the other.

“You know that I don’t associate with police officers in my free time,” she said softly. “So why are you asking?”

Throwing the vacuum cleaner down on the mattress, Billy T. opened his arms in a gesture of resignation.

“But Cecilie isn’t even here, and anyway …”

He crept over to Hanne and tried to take her hand in his. She pulled back in a flash, beyond his reach, without even looking him in the eye.

“… how long are you planning to keep this up?” he murmured. “How long are you going to continue with this game of hide-and-seek?”

“I’m
not
hiding,” she spluttered. “But I’m quite entitled to choose my own friends.”

She slammed the bedroom door noisily behind her, and soon Billy T. could hear the whooshing sound of the shower; even the
rushing water seemed angry. He padded after her and opened the bathroom door a crack.

“Is it okay for them to come?” he called out with his mouth against the gap. “Can Tone-Marit and Severin come to your party?”

His voice was as distorted as a little child’s, and he hunkered down.

“Please!”

Hearing a faint, reluctant burst of laughter, he closed the door and headed off to phone Håkon Sand.

23.45,
MOTZFELDTS GATE
15

L
ittle Lettvik was feeling awful. This was a new, unfamiliar experience. It was as if her whole body was agitated, consumed with an inexplicable anxiety. Something had clamped onto the upper part of her back, somewhere behind her shoulder blades, and was shooting arrows throughout her body, filling her with a pain that nothing could relieve. She had tried most things, God knows, but there were limits to what she could get hold of, given that she would not seek medical assistance. Alcohol did not help, and did not even make her intoxicated. As a last resort, she had tried to swim the pain away.

At least twenty years had elapsed since she had paid a visit to Tøyen swimming pool. The place had not changed very much. She had managed to swim two hundred meters before her heavy, out-of-condition body cried out for her to stop, but when she was slumped in the sauna, eyes closed and with a towel wrapped around her stomach, the pain returned.

Humiliation. That was what it was. The pain of being humiliated. They had looked at her, seen through her, and bit by bit revealed what they knew. Had they had cameras watching the two of them? Some of what they had said suggested they were aware
of exactly what the two of them had got up to, and in some detail. The mere thought caused the pain to escalate, and her face to blush a fiery red. Worst of all, however, was that they had known for ages. Perhaps for a number of years.

She had been naïve. Repeatedly naïve. Little Lettvik, exceptionally talented journalist, prize-winning and highly honored, with a special reputation for holding the powers that be to account. Despite all that, she had not realized that they knew.

Perhaps she had dropped her guard because it was all such a long time ago. Mostly. A few times in recent years, admittedly, and then again in March …

The pain was unbearable now, and her eyes welled up with tears. As Little Lettvik leaned forward, she fished out a short letter that had arrived that day, the handwriting elegantly cursive, and the stamp placed neatly in the top right-hand corner, with all the perforations intact. At first she could not think who the woman was. Elsa Haugen. Not until she had run her eyes over the sheet of paper a couple of times did it dawn on her. Little Marie’s mother. The woman in Elverum. Or was it Eidsvoll? The letter described her sorrow and pain, and a wound that had been ripped open. Sleepless nights and insulting behavior.

Little Lettvik sighed deeply and tore the letter to shreds.

Her own pain was enough to cope with.

FRIDAY, APRIL 25

21.35,
HOLMENVEIEN
12

Ø
yvind Olve sat at the head of the enormous pine dining table, rocking a tiny infant. The baby was making inexplicable movements with its hands, and Øyvind stared in fascination at the minuscule fingers. As Karen Borg leaned over him to take hold of the bundle, he realized that he really did not want to let go.

“Beautiful girl.” He smiled broadly. “What’s her name to be?”

“We don’t know yet,” Karen answered. She addressed the room: “Everybody!”

Clutching the baby to her shoulder, she looked exhausted and drawn. It bothered Hanne Wilhelmsen, who had quite simply not spared a thought for Karen, hadn’t even considered that it might be too much for her to have to entertain a house full of people the day she returned home from hospital with a new baby and a fresh surgical scar.

“I’m off to bed. I can’t hear anything up there, so just go ahead and enjoy yourselves. I’d appreciate it, though, if you’d try not to make too much noise when you leave, okay?”

Håkon Sand jumped to his feet.

“I’ll help you!”

“No, no, you sit down. Have a good time. But remember, you have to take Hans Wilhelm early tomorrow morning.”

“I can take him,” Billy T. roared. “Just send the boy over to me, Karen.”

Karen did not reply, but made a slight movement with the baby as a goodnight salute before vanishing into the upstairs area of their spacious, comfortable wooden house.

Billy T. took hold of the sixth bottle of red wine and opened it with a worldly flourish.

“Hope you’ve got enough of this in your cellar, Håkon.” He grinned, and did the rounds of refilling glasses.

“No thanks, I’ve had enough,” Øyvind Olve said, placing his hand over his glass.

“What kind of wimp is this you’ve brought with you today, Hanne? Doesn’t even drink!”

Øyvind Olve still felt like an outsider. He could not quite understand why Hanne had insisted on him accompanying her. It was true that he had met Billy T. a couple of times before, with Hanne and Cecilie at their apartment, but the gigantic, boisterous man had obviously forgotten him. He had never met any of the others.

“I have to drive in the morning,” he mumbled, refusing to relinquish the glass.

“Drive! He’s going to
drive
a car! What’s all that about?”

“You need to behave, Billy T.,” Hanne said, patting him reassuringly on the back to make him sit down. “Not everybody can match your pace, you know.”

“Go on, Tone-Marit,” Billy T. said as he resumed his seat. “What did he say then?”

Tone-Marit was still seated; she was laughing and had tears in her eyes. Lowering her voice, she mimicked a halting, broad Kristiansand dialect.

“‘Perhaps he did not owe anyone anything.’ And then Billy T. started talking about
Madame Butterfly
and honor! You should have seen the Superintendent’s face! He looked like somebody just released from a mental institution!”

The others screamed with laughter, and even Øyvind Olve smiled, despite not having any idea what was so amusing about Billy T. and Tone-Marit’s account of Monday’s plenary meeting.

“And then …” Billy T. bellowed, waving his glass of red wine, narrowly missing knocking over the entire bottle as he stood up without warning to slam his fist on the tabletop. “Then the wit had gone too far for His Excellency the Security Service Chief. He …”

Billy T. cleared his throat, and when he resumed speaking, he had suddenly turned into Ole Henrik Hermansen. “With all respect, Chief of Police! I’m not spending my demanding workday listening to this nonsense!”

Now Hanne had to hush the others, as they were laughing so loudly it would be impossible for Karen to get any sleep. Tone-Marit had a chunk of potato salad stuck in her throat and her face was rapidly turning puce. Billy T. hammered her back mercilessly.

“But it’s really quite impressive that the Chief is so preoccupied by such things, don’t you think?” Hanne said.

“His son committed suicide two years ago,” Tone-Marit said, having retrieved the piece of potato and wiped her tears. “So really, we shouldn’t laugh.”

“I didn’t know that,” Hanne said, pressing her glass against her cheek. “How do you know?”

“I know everything, Hanne! Absolutely everything!” Tone-Marit whispered loudly and dramatically, holding eye contact for so long that Hanne suddenly felt the need to help herself to more grilled meat.

“But why were you talking about honor in that context?”

This was Øyvind Olve, only the third time he had said anything all evening.

Billy T. regarded him for some time, adopting a reflective pose.

“To be honest, I don’t quite know why I brought that up. When we talk about ‘integrity’, we all know what that means. We’re focused on that all the time. But ‘honor’, on the other hand … It’s become a word that makes us look down at the floor in embarrassment. But really, they’re two sides of the same coin, if you think about it.”

He shoved his plate of leftover food and barbecue sauce to one side, and leaned his elbows on the table.

“Consider Benjamin Grinde. Clever boy all his life. Really
fucking
clever boy. Everything goes well for him. Judge and doctor and God knows what. Then he’s smeared in the newspapers and dragged down into the dirt. One week later, he takes his own life. We should be allowed to think about
honor
in those circumstances, don’t you agree?”

Hanne Wilhelmsen stared down into her glass of red wine. It almost glowed, sending little rays of light toward her eyes as she slowly rotated the glass.

“It could be as straightforward as that, as far as Benjamin Grinde is concerned,” she said, sipping the wine. “But, for the sake of the hypothesis, let’s look more closely at the order of events. If Benjamin Grinde had committed suicide in a
different
situation, no one other than his closest relatives would have raised an eyebrow. The police would have put their heads around the door to establish that it was suicide, and closed the file. But Grinde’s sudden and probably self-inflicted death occurred …”

She unfolded a large paper napkin and leaned across the table to steal a pen from Øyvind Olve’s breast pocket.

“Birgitte Volter was murdered on April 4.”

She drew a little dot and wrote the number four above it.

“We know that she was shot in the head, with a gun the murderer could
not
have been entirely sure would actually kill anyone, even if it was fired at short range. There’s no trace of a perpetrator.
A total of three people had business either
at
or in extremely
close
proximity to the crime scene – at the time of the murder, I mean. The secretary, the guard and Grinde. Within one short week, two of them are dead, even though they were both in the prime of life. Strange, don’t you think?”

She emphasized the point by sketching two tiny crosses on the paper.

“And then there’s a—”

“But Hanne,” Tone-Marit interrupted.

Håkon felt his muscles tense; cutting in on Hanne Wilhelmsen’s train of thought was normally punished by an icy look that shut most people up for a very long time. He dipped into his plate of food, hoping to avoid witnessing the humiliation. To his great surprise, he saw Hanne lean back in her chair, look amiably at Tone-Marit, and wait for her to continue.

“Sometimes we
over-interpret
aspects of cases,” Tone-Marit said eagerly. “Don’t you agree? I mean, the guard died in a natural catastrophe, and no one other than the Good Lord has control of that.”

She blushed slightly at the religious reference, but moved on swiftly. “And quite honestly, I think it sounds strange that Benjamin Grinde should have taken his own life because he regretted having killed the Prime Minister of the country, who, what’s more, was an old friend. Maybe the suicide doesn’t have anything to do with the case at all! Maybe he’d been feeling depressed for a long time? Besides, since we can now state with certainty that the gun was at the guard’s home, we can entirely exclude Benjamin Grinde from the case. Can’t we?”