The Lion's Mouth by Anne Holt Page A

say. Some call her intelligent, hard-working, friendly, pragmatic. Not an enemy in the world, that woman. Others point out that she could be bad-tempered and obstinate, and that she had several skeletons in the closet when it came to outmaneuvering competitors. A decade ago, they say, when she’d come to a critical juncture in her career, she would stop at nothing in order to position herself. And I mean nothing , nothing at all. Apparently she would jump into bed with the right person, if that proved necessary. Others highlight how remarkable it was that she was never unfaithful. Never.”
    “Who are these other people?” For the first time, Håkon Sand showed something resembling interest in the topic under discussion.
    “In fact it’s the people who probably knew her best who maintain that she never got mixed up in anything like that. It seems as though …” Billy T. sat up and took a slurp of coffee. “It seems to me that the closer people were to her, the higher their opinion of her.”
    “That’s probably only natural,” Håkon commented. “It’s the people closest to us who like us best.”
    “But are they the ones who know us best?”
    They fell silent. From the floor above, they could hear the child squealing like an angry piglet.
    “Hard work having toddlers, eh, Håkon?”
    The Assistant Chief of Police rolled his eyes. “I had no idea it would be so much work. So much … so much of a slog !”
    “Tell me about it.” Billy T. grinned. “You should’ve done what I did. Have four children with four different mothers who look afterthem on an everyday basis, leaving me to take them now and again for fun and games. The best way to have children.”
    Håkon looked at him with what Billy T. thought might be something like forbearance. He lay down on the floor again and continued his painstaking examination of the ceiling.
    “Okay,” Håkon said softly. “That’s why you’re as happy as a sand boy every other Friday and sour as vinegar the following Monday, yes? Because you’re so happy to hand them back, I mean.”
    “Drop it,” Billy T. said tersely. “Let’s drop it.”
    Håkon Sand stood up and poured more coffee for them both. “Watch you don’t knock it over,” he said, looking at the cup sitting unsteadily on the cord carpet. “So, what do you think?”
    Billy T. hesitated. “To start with, I’m placing most trust in those who knew her best. The problem is simply that …”
    He got to his feet once more and stretched out his hands to touch the ceiling.
    “… the lady was actually extremely conventional , Håkon! It’s fucking difficult to find anything in her life to indicate that someone might want her dead. At least to the point that they would actually do it. Murder her, I mean.”
    He sighed.
    “For the time being, at least. We still have a great deal of work to do. To put it mildly.”
    He sighed again. This was a lousy day.
    “But listen to this, Håkon.”
    Billy T. was towering over him, but suddenly he dropped forward to lean his hands on the table, giving Håkon a start.
    “Actually there are only two possibilities. Either she was killed because she was Birgitte Volter. There was somebody who wanted her dead. As a person, I’m talking about. And in fact, so far there has been nothing, absolutely nothing, to indicate that. Or else someone killed her because she was the Prime Minister. Theywanted to kill the role she occupied, so to speak. A plot against Norway. Against the policies of the Labor Party. Or something along those lines. And I have to admit …”
    This was a difficult admission, and he swallowed.
    “I have to admit that that’s more likely. At the moment. And that means the guys on the eighth floor will have a field day. I don’t like that idea at all.”
    The child in the room above had stopped howling, and now they could hear instead an even, rhythmic thumping, as though a toy was being banged on the floor.
    “Tell me what you know about her,