The Lion's Mouth Read Online Free Page B

Law, Bachelor of Medicine, Supreme Court Judge Benjamin Grinde. Charged with violation of penal code section 233, c.f. penal code section 232, for the …”
    When he read the basis and essential elements of the offense, he grew pale; his complexion turned completely gray behind the slight suntan, and as if by magic, a sheen of moisture covered his face.
    “Is she dead?” he whispered to no one in particular. “Is Birgitte dead?”
    The two police officers exchanged swift glances, knowing that they were both thinking exactly the same thing: either this man had no idea about what had taken place, or he ought to add “Actor by Royal Appointment” to his already incredibly impressive title.
    “Yes. She is dead.”
    It was the woman who replied, and for a moment she was afraid that Benjamin Grinde would faint. The color of his complexion was frightening, and if it had not been for his seemingly excellent health, she would have feared for his heart.
    “How?”
    Benjamin Grinde was on his feet now, but his body seemed slumped. His shoulders were stooped, as on a bottle, and he had banged the cognac glass down on the table; the golden liquid sloshed around, twinkling in the light from the chandelier prisms above the dining table.
    “We can’t tell you that, as you well know,” the woman responded, though her voice had softened, to the irritation of her colleague, who interrupted brusquely.
    “Are you coming with us now, then?”
    Without uttering a word in reply, Benjamin Grinde folded the blue sheet carefully and precisely before unhesitatingly placing it in his own pocket.
    “Of course I’ll come with you,” he muttered. “There’s no need for any kind of arrest.”
    Five patrol vehicles were parked outside the venerable old apartment block in Frogner. As he slipped into the rear seat of one of them, he spotted two police officers heading off up to his flat.
    They were probably going to guard his apartment, he thought. Perhaps they were awaiting a search warrant. Then he fastened his seatbelt.
    That was when he noticed that his hands were shaking, quite violently.
    21.30, KIRKEVEIEN 129
    T he phone had been ringing continually, and in the end she had pulled out the plug. It was Friday night, and she wanted some time off. Real time off. Honestly. She shuttled to and fro between her office and the Parliament Building every day, and wasn’t about to have a hard-earned Friday evening spoiled as well. Both her children were out, and though they were almost grown up, she hardly spoke to them at all. Right at this moment, that didn’t matter. She was exhausted and felt a bit under the weather, and had deliberately left her pager tucked away inside a clothes closet, even though, strictly speaking, she was meant to be contactable at all times. Half an hour ago, she had heard something come in on the fax machine in her bedroom, but she didn’t have the stamina to go and see what it was. Instead, she mixed herself a Campari with a little tonic and lots of ice cubes, propped her feet up on the coffee table and was on the point of searching for some kind of detective program among theplethora of channels with which she had never managed to become entirely familiar.
    NRK, the state broadcaster, was the safest bet.
    The news review program’s graphics appeared on the screen. At half past nine? It must be the evening news. As early as this? She stood up to fetch a newspaper.
    Then she noticed the vertical text on the picture, down the right-hand side. “News Flash”. It was a special broadcast. She stood quite still with the Campari glass in her hand. The man with the fine, blond hair and tired eyes looked almost choked with tears as he cleared his throat before starting to speak.
    “Prime Minister Birgitte Volter is dead, at the age of only fifty-one. She was shot in her office in the tower block inside the government complex some time this afternoon or early evening.”
    The Campari glass fell to the floor. From the hollow