Free The Lion's Mouth by Anne Holt Page B

You can tell from your newspapers, of course …”
    She raised her glass to the Dagbladet journalists at her side.
    “… that you have a different agenda to us. What’s got into you today? The whole newspaper looks like one long tribute to Birgitte Volter. God’s gift to the country, the greatest Prime Minister of our times! What’s happened to your critical faculties, Ola? Your incisive journalism? The harsh spotlight? Dagbladet always to the fore! Today, to be honest, it’s bringing up the rear.”
    “At least we understand that we shouldn’t speculate in a wild, unrestrained fashion if we don’t know a bloody thing.”
    The beard was insulted. A very experienced journalist, he was a prizewinner several times over. He had been offered the editor’s post on repeated occasions, but had always responded with a roared refusal, despite his satisfaction at the offer, since it basically confirmed how clever he was. He wanted to be an investigative journalist. He knew everything, and was good company for those who recognized his sovereignty. But not for anyone else.
    “When a Norwegian Prime Minister is shot in her office, it really is the time for speculation,” Little Lettvik countered. “What do you think the police are doing? Of course they’re speculatingtoo. They don’t know anything. They’re inventing theories and thinking, and acting accordingly. Exactly like us.”
    “This is not the day for speculation,” Ola Henriksen said crossly. “Tomorrow will be time enough for that. When people have finished grieving.”
    “We won’t have managed that by tomorrow,” the ostracized girl piped up in a reedy voice.
    “What are you up to, then?” Ola Henriksen said, staring at Little as he rotated his beer glass over and over again. “What do you know that nobody else does?”
    Little Lettvik gave a husky, heartfelt laugh.
    “As if I would tell you.”
    Suddenly she looked at her watch, a plastic Swatch with a wide pattern of eczema around its strap.
    “Need to make a call,” she said abruptly. “Keep my place.”
    The others remained seated, watching as she left. They were all struck by the same uncomfortable feeling – that they should really be somewhere else entirely, doing entirely different things, not just sitting in the Gamla drinking beer – and they were all struck dumb.
    “When does that other bar, the Tostrup Kjelleren, actually open?” one of the eldest men muttered eventually; his words had already begun to slur.
    No one replied. They sat watching Little Lettvik, who had not been content with simply leaving the dark premises; to be on the safe side, she had also crossed the street, where she took up position outside the GlasMagasinet department store, several meters away from its café entrance.
    It was chilly outside. The drizzle made her draw close to the wall, and she stood with her back to the street as she tapped in the secret number.
    “Storskog,” the voice snapped as usual.
    “Konrad, Konrad, my very best friend,” Little Lettvik purred, and was met by the normal resounding silence. “Just one little question today. The same one as yesterday, in fact. After all, you weren’t very cooperative.”
    The pause did not last as long as she had expected.
    “This is the last time I ever give you anything, Lettvik. Do you hear? The last thing you’re ever getting.”
    The voice stopped, obviously waiting to hear a promise that did not come.
    “Do you hear me, Lettvik? I want an end to all this now. Agreed?”
    “That depends. What is it you’ve got?”
    Another long pause for thought.
    “Benjamin Grande …”
    “Grinde.”
    “Okay. Grinde. He was in fact arrested yesterday.”
    “Arrested?”
    Little Lettvik almost dropped her cell phone, and it chirruped merrily when she inadvertently pressed a number of keys in her confusion.
    “Hello? Are you there?”
    “Yes.”
    “Arrested, you say? Have you arrested a Supreme Court judge?”
    “Take it easy, now. It was rescinded