E-Book, Englisch, Band 4, 416 Seiten
Reihe: Hanne Wilhelmsen Series
Holt The Lion's Mouth
Main
ISBN: 978-0-85789-235-5
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, Band 4, 416 Seiten
Reihe: Hanne Wilhelmsen Series
ISBN: 978-0-85789-235-5
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
ANNE HOLT is Norway's bestselling female crime writer. She spent two years working for the Oslo Police Department before founding her own law firm and serving as Norway's Minster for Justice between 1996 and 1997. She is published in 30 languages with over 6 million copies of her books sold.
Weitere Infos & Material
SATURDAY, APRIL 5
00.50, OUTSIDE ODINS GATE 3
Sure enough, the editor was pissed off that she had left, but that was of no consequence. She would not say what her theories were. That was her concern. Her business. If there was any business.
Benjamin Grinde’s apartment was in darkness. Of course that might mean he was fast asleep. On the other hand, hardly anyone in the Kingdom of Norway was asleep right now: it was a Friday and the homicide of Prime Minister Birgitte Volter had struck homes throughout the country like an atomic bomb. Both NRK and TV2 had news flashes every hour, although strictly speaking they had very little to convey. They mostly comprised fillers and meaningless commentary, as well as obituaries that had clearly been cobbled together at the last minute; it was obvious that, since Birgitte Volter had taken office only six months previously, the material had not yet been sitting ready-prepared in the editorial offices. By the following day, the situation would probably have improved.
The darkened windows might also mean that the Supreme Court judge was out. At a party, perhaps, or “in company”, as they said in this part of the city. However, it might also indicate something else.
She looked around before crossing the street. Cars were parked close together along the sidewalk, and there was hardly space for her between a Volvo and BMW whose bumpers were almost kissing. She huffed and puffed and finally had to turn away to try to locate a larger gap elsewhere.
Something was wrong with the lock on the entrance door at Odins gate number 3. Actually, something was wrong with the door itself; it did not close properly, and looked as though the timber had become warped. Odd, but she was spared having to use the intercom. Warily, she opened the massive wooden door and stepped into the hallway.
A smell of plaster and detergent assailed her in the unexpectedly large foyer, and she saw a bicycle secured to the railings of the staircase adjacent to the door leading to the basement. The stairway was attractive and well maintained, with yellow walls and green decorative moldings, and the original stained glass windows on each landing were in exceptionally good condition.
Halfway up the second flight of stairs, she came to a halt.
Voices. Quiet voices in conversation. A whinny of laughter.
She pulled back against the wall surprisingly quickly, and blessed fate for having equipped her with soundless Ecco shoes. She continued her ascent, keeping as close to the wall as possible.
Two men were sitting on the steps. Two uniformed police officers, sitting directly outside Benjamin Grinde’s apartment.
She had been right.
Just as carefully as she had gone up, she padded down again. Once she was well outside the damaged front door, she produced a cell phone from her voluminous coat and keyed in the code for a number that was one of the most valuable in her collection, the number for Chief Inspector Konrad Storskog, a thoroughly unpleasant social climber, aged thirty-five. No one but her knew that at the age of twenty-two he had crashed his parents’ car while in a state of intoxication that was never measured but that must have been around three per mille. She happened to have been driving the vehicle behind him; it was dark and there was no one else around. She had contacted his parents, who had, quite remarkably, extricated him from this awkward situation without the young, newly qualified police officer receiving so much as a scratch on his record. Little Lettvik had tucked away the information for future use, and had never regretted that she had neglected to fulfill her duties as a citizen thirteen years earlier.
“Storskog,” was the harsh response at the other end, also a cell phone.
“Hi there, Konrad, old pal.” Little Lettvik smirked. “Plenty to do tonight?”
Silence fell.
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
There was no crackling sound, so she knew that he was still on the line.
“Konrad, Konrad,” she said indulgently. “Don’t be difficult now.”
“What do you want?”
“Just an answer to one tiny question.”
“What is it? I’m extremely busy.”
“Is Supreme Court Judge Benjamin Grinde at the station? Right now, I mean?”
Total silence again.
“I’ve no idea,” he said suddenly, after a lengthy pause.
“Nonsense. Obviously you know. Just say yes or no, Konrad. Just yes or no.”
“Why would he be here?”
“If he isn’t, then there’s a question of gross dereliction of duty.”
She smiled to herself as she continued. “Because he must be about the very last person to have seen the lady alive. Volter, I mean. He was at her office late yesterday afternoon. Of course you have to talk to the guy! Can’t you just say either yes or no, Konrad, and then you can continue with all those important tasks you’re doing?”
Yet again, complete silence.
“This conversation never took place,” he said, his tone stony and impassive. Then he disconnected the call.
Little Lettvik had received the confirmation she needed.
“Na-na-na-na-na-na-na …” she sang contentedly as she headed toward Frognerveien to flag down a taxi.
The situation was getting urgent.
00.57, OSLO POLICE STATION
Even Billy T., who rarely noticed such things, had to admit that Benjamin Grinde was an unusually handsome man. His physique was athletic but not bulky. He had broad shoulders and narrow hips, though not exaggeratedly so. His clothes were extremely tasteful, down to the socks that were visible when he crossed his legs, and the matching tie, ever so slightly loosened. The dark circlet of hair around his head was cut very short, making the almost bald pate into something deliberate, something chosen: it suggested potency and a large dose of testosterone. His eyes were dark brown and his mouth full, and he had surprisingly white, youthful teeth, given that he was fifty years old, very nearly.
“Birthday tomorrow,” Billy T. commented as he leafed though the papers.
A young trainee had already taken the personal details while Billy T. had been occupied with a private matter. An extremely private matter. He had sent a two-page handwritten fax to Hanne Wilhelmsen, before taking a shower. Both of these had been beneficial.
“Yes,” Benjamin Grinde said, looking at his wristwatch. “Or actually today. Strictly speaking.”
He smiled wanly.
“Fifty years old and all that,” Billy T. said. “We’ll have this out of the way fast enough so that your celebrations aren’t spoiled.”
Benjamin Grinde looked startled for the first time; until now his facial expression had been almost blank, exhausted and virtually apathetic.
“Out of the way? I’ll have you know that I was actually presented with an arrest warrant a few hours ago. And now you’re saying that this will be out of the way quickly?”
Billy T. turned away from the typewriter to gaze at the Supreme Court judge facing him. He placed the palms of his hands on the table and tilted his head to one side.
“Listen to me.” He sighed. “I’m not stupid. And you are definitely not stupid. Both you and I know that the person who killed Birgitte Volter did not smile nicely to her secretary and go home in an orderly fashion to make …”
He rooted though the papers.
“… pâté. Was that what you were doing?”
“Yes …”
Now Benjamin Grinde was genuinely taken aback. Surely none of the police officers had been inside his kitchen?
“You’re such an obvious suspect that it can’t possibly be you.”
Billy T. chuckled, and rubbed his ear lobe, making the inverted cross dance.
“I read crime novels, you know. It’s never the obvious person. Never. And they don’t go home to their own place afterward. To be honest, Grinde, this arrest warrant was a damn piece of nonsense. You were quite right to confiscate it. Throw it away. Burn it. Typical panic response from the bloody attorneys. Pardon my language.”
Turning back to the typewriter, he let his fingers hammer out three or four sentences before he inserted a fresh sheet of paper. Then he faced Benjamin Grinde again, and seemed to hesitate before he raised his extremely long legs and size forty-seven boots onto the edge of the table.
“Why were you there?”
“At the office, at Birgitte’s?”
“Birgitte? Did you know her? Personally, I mean?”
Billy T.’s feet slammed onto the floor as he leaned across the desk.
“Birgitte Volter and I have known each other since childhood,” Benjamin Grinde said, staring at the Chief Inspector. “She’s one year older than me, and during one’s teens that creates a certain distance. But in Nesodden, the community wasn’t very large. We knew each other at that time.”
“At that time. What about now, are you still friends?”
Benjamin Grinde shifted in his seat, placing his left leg over his right.
“No, I wouldn’t claim that at all. We’ve had only sporadic contact over the years. Inadvertent contact, you might say, since our parents continued to live next door to each other for many years after we had left home. No. We can’t be said to be friends. Have been, would be more correct.”
“But you’re on first-name terms?”
Grinde smiled faintly.
“When you’ve been friends in your childhood and youth, it would seem pretty unnatural to use surnames. Even if you’ve lost contact. Isn’t it the same for you?”
“Probably.”
“Well, I expect you know why I was there. You can certainly check...
