The Lion's Mouth (15 page)

“Whoever has nothing to say, says it with an overhead,” Billy T. muttered under his breath. He was once again sitting at the very back of the room, with Tone-Marit at his side.

She pretended not to hear him.

“As you know, we are working tirelessly on all fronts. First and foremost it is important to discover how and why. As far as the latter is concerned, we have found it expedient to divide the possible motives into three main categories.”

He turned to face the screen, and pointed without getting to his feet. “One: the personal motive. Two: the international motive. Three: the extremist motive. In no particular order.”

“It is quite extreme to kill the Prime Minister, regardless of the reason,” Tone-Marit said softly, and Billy T. looked at her in surprise.

“Now you’d better be a good girl and sit quietly.” He grinned.

“We’ve decided to be restrained as far as interviewing the closest family members is concerned, at least until after the funeral, which takes place on Friday. And that gives us a fresh problem.”

He raised his hand toward the Head of the Terror Police, or the Anti-Terror Squad, as it was described more politely on paper. The thickset man with the raven-black hair and beard stood up stiffly.

“The funeral will require the very highest level of security measures. We are in the process of making a list of the groups that present a risk, that is to say international terrorists, foreign agents, national extremists on both the right and left …”

He smiled in the direction of the Security Service Chief, who did not return the compliment. Obviously slightly offended, he continued. “And of course, mentally disturbed people. We know
from previous experience, previous experience in the international arena, I should say, that crazy people crawl out of the woodwork when events like this take place. In addition, we are of course keeping an eye on those familiar to us within the criminal fraternity who are not suspected of having anything to do with the case. There will be a special talk about that tomorrow morning.”

Resuming his seat, the Anti-Terror Squad Chief glanced at the Security Service Chief in anticipation of acknowledgement, but still received no response.

The Head of CID started speaking again. “Right now, we’re putting all our interviews with employees from the government tower block on to computer. We will attempt to uncover possible unauthorized access to the Prime Minister’s office. It is therefore extremely important that all interviews are submitted on computer disk …”

“If we had better equipment, then that could be done with a few keystrokes.” Billy T. sighed as he got to his feet.

“Are you leaving already?” Tone-Marit whispered.

“Got better things to do,” Billy T. said.

Something was bothering him, but he could not quite put his finger on what it was. Something he had forgotten, a piece of information he had received but that he had lost somewhere up in his own hard disk, inside his head.

“Overload,” he muttered to himself as he sneaked out the door toward the yellow zone on the third floor of the police station. “In fact, I do believe I can’t handle any more information.”

12.24,
OSLO CITY CENTER

B
rage Håkonsen was wearing jeans and an enormous, rust-red college sweater, its chest emblazoned with “Washington Redskins", and on the back a picture of a Native American chief in
a feather headdress. The others found it odd that he wanted to go round with the image of a darkie on his jumper, but that was only because the others did not have a clue about anything. Native North Americans were a proud, majestic race. In contrast to their incompetent relations in the south – those small, dark-skinned creatures in gaudy clothing – the indigenous people of North America had a magnificent culture, were intelligent, and understood and respected nature and the animal kingdom. But the Jewish-infiltrated American government had ridden roughshod over them for several centuries, taking from them their self-evident right to water, land and the prairies; the mere thought of it made his ears ring with rage.

The security guard momentarily glanced in his direction. Fast as lightning, Brage Håkonsen squeezed in behind an idling delivery truck full of clothes destined for the store at the end of Storgata.

When he tentatively peered out again, with his baseball cap pulled well down on his forehead, he could see the guard walking on: he appeared vigilant, with a nervousness that had not been evident previously. He wasn’t behaving evasively, or acting like a coward, as he usually did, but he seemed to have become more wary, like a wild animal during the hunting season. Now he slipped into a store, G-Sport, looking to left and right before he entered.

Brage Håkonsen scuttled past McDonald’s and sprinted across the intersection, ignoring the warning red man and forcing a Volkswagen Beetle to brake suddenly, though he did not so much as turn to face the driver.

Some considerable time passed before the security guard reappeared. He was carrying nothing, not even a carrier bag, so if he had purchased anything, it must have been small enough to cram into his pocket. He still seemed wary, and he scanned his surroundings continuously; now and again he would stop abruptly,
wheel round, and then start to run, not far, only a few meters, before resuming his slow walking pace again, moving forward with almost exaggerated steadiness.

It had not been like this before. The security guard had been the easiest surveillance target in the world. He never looked at anybody, avoiding all eye contact, and Brage Håkonsen had been able to walk right behind him several times, in fact on occasion had even stood in front of him, only two or three meters away, in a delicious act of recklessness. The guard had never noticed him. Now he had eyes in the back of his head. Following him was tiresome, and Brage Håkonsen regretted wearing this sweater. It would have been better to have put on something more neutral, a shirt and jacket, something in shades of brown or gray.

Eventually the guard crossed the bridge at Nybrua; it was more open here, and Brage Håkonsen was able to put a hundred meters between them without risking losing sight of him. All of a sudden, an ambulance siren sounded from the Accident and Emergency unit, and Brage saw that the security guard was startled. For a moment it looked as though he was considering jumping in the Akerselva River, as he pressed against the railings and stared wildly around.

Brage Håkonsen smiled. He could not be mistaken. The only fly in the ointment was that the guard was behaving so suspiciously that he might be hauled in if anyone from the police caught sight of him. On the other hand, the police had most certainly already interviewed the man, perhaps more than once, and he was still swaggering around, footloose and fancy free, on the streets of Oslo.

When the security guard from the government complex rounded the corner of his own street and inserted his key into the front door without even chatting to the supervisor’s daughter – who had appeared by his side and was staring at him indignantly,
her hip thrust forward provocatively – Brage Håkonsen felt sure of his ground.

He remained on his feet, gazing at the run-down apartment block in Jens Bjelkes gate until the guard had clearly entered his own apartment.

Then Brage Håkonsen tried to hail a taxicab.

14.47,
KVELDSAVISEN EDITORIAL OFFICE

T
he pain in Little Lettvik’s left knee had subsided. She had refrained from indulging in anything unwholesome for the entire weekend, and as her body seemed to have reacted to this unexpectedly considerate treatment by developing an aversion to cigarillos; she had not smoked for five hours. Little Lettvik felt exceptionally fit.

The police had not denied anything. It was true that they had rowed at breakneck speed at the press briefing less than an hour earlier – the water had positively splashed around the Chief of Police – but the information about the arrest warrant had not been contradicted. Little Lettvik thought warmly of Konrad Storskog, and wondered fleetingly whether she should actually leave him in peace from now on.

Of course, they had been the only ones to cover the story. In recognition of this, the editor had given her the go-ahead to continue working on the connection between Birgitte Volter’s murder and Benjamin Grinde’s visit to the Prime Minister’s office, though he was lukewarm about it.

“There’s probably no more juice to be squeezed out of that lemon now,” he had protested cautiously while biting his lip doubtfully. “A spicy story today, Little, but it’s obvious that the police no longer suspect the guy. Jesus Christ, he was sitting in the Supreme Court again this morning!”

“Listen, Leif,” Little Lettvik had argued. “The political guys have struck a goldmine. There’s plenty to work on with that.”

“They’ve got enough on their plates as it is. It’s still totally unclear what kind of government we’ll have on Friday. The political section hasn’t had this much fun since the Furre case exploded.”

“Exactly! And what was the most central aspect of the Furre case?”

The editor had not answered, but she had caught his attention, as his toying with the blotting pad on his desk revealed; it was worn and fluffy at the edges and the fingers picking at the border were the surest sign that chief editor Leif Skarre was interested in something.

“The criticism was directed first and foremost at the revelation that Berge Furre, a former Socialist Left politician, was secretly investigated by the Police Security Service. Isn’t that right? Specifically, that he was investigated by them while he was serving on the Lund Commission, which had been set up to look into the activities of the self-same Security Service. Correct? Put simply, the argument was that it was
because
Furre was a member of the Lund Commission that he should not have been subject to such investigations. And then the defense counsel for the Security Service started to scream that no one is exempt in such cases, from a cat to a king. And now they’ve charged a Supreme Court judge! King Solomon himself, so to speak! Without a legal ruling! There’s plenty there, you know. More than enough.”

The editor had sat in silence for some time before grumpily nodding toward the door. That was all the consent she needed.

However, she had not discovered very much more about Benjamin Grinde. As she leafed through his folder, it struck her that hardly anyone seemed to actually know him. Even the friendly and exceptionally naïve temp in the Supreme Court office that Little had enjoyed such success with on Friday afternoon had
been unable to help her. Despite evidently finding it unbearably exciting that an Oslo journalist was interested in her opinions about this and that.

“No, Judge Grinde, he really
never
receives personal phone calls,” she had chirruped at the other end of the phone line.

Benjamin Grinde had innumerable acquaintances, but obviously no friends, at least not in the judicial establishment. The descriptions she had been given in eleven wasted phone conversations were downright boring and totally unusable: Benjamin Grinde was clever, correct and hardworking.

“Advocate Fredriksen’s office, how can I help you?”

Little Lettvik had finally lit a cigarillo, and she blew smoke out through her nose as she introduced herself and asked to speak to Frode Fredriksen. It took only a couple of seconds to get him on the line; Fredriksen was not the kind of person who passed up an opportunity to make use of his constitutional right to give a statement.

“A legal scandal!” he blustered, and Little Lettvik could virtually hear him brushing the dandruff from the shoulders of his suit, as he always did when he was emphasizing a point. “I’ll tell you one thing, Little Lettvik: if the commission doesn’t get to the bottom of this case, then I
personally
will ensure that the right people are brought to account. It is my damn
duty
as a spokesman for the powerless!”

Now Frode Fredriksen was able to use the most pompous expressions about the origins of a slice of bread, and Little Lettvik could not even be bothered to write this down. Instead she interrupted his tirade before he managed to get as far as “their inviolable human rights”.

“But what is it actually that’s so scandalous? What has happened?”

“The authorities want to hide something, Little. They are hiding something!”

“Yes, I realize that’s what you mean. But what?”

“I don’t know, obviously, but I’ll tell you one thing: I’ve never come across anything like the wall of silence that the various authorities have built around this case. Never in my entire career. And that is, in all modesty, a very long time. As you know.”

“What kind of silence, then?”

Little Lettvik lit another cigarillo with the old one.

“Records are missing,” Frode Fredriksen continued. “They refused to release the records. The records were incomplete when I first received them. The hospitals in this country are the security police of the Public Health Service, I can tell you, Lettvik. Undue secrecy and the arrogance of power all the way. But we don’t let that stop us.”

“But you’ve applied for a postponement of the hearing into the demands for ex gratia compensation payments.”

“Yes indeed. I’m hoping the Grinde Commission will shed fresh light on the case. The amounts might well be higher for that reason.”

“But listen here, Fredriksen …”

Impatiently, Little Lettvik changed the receiver to her other ear.

“… you must have some opinion about what might have happened. I mean, according to the commission’s mandate, it is to report on both what possibly took place and to what extent the relatives have received adequate information from the Health Service. But honestly, this all happened more than thirty years ago, so can it really be so explosive? And why are you so outraged, given that you’ve received everything you’ve asked for? The commission was established, and wasn’t that the very first thing you insisted upon?”

The other end of the line went completely silent. Little Lettvik took a deep drag and held her breath, enjoying the comforting sensation as the nicotine pulsed through her bloodstream.