The Lion's Mouth Read Online Free PDF Page A

sound, she could hear that it did not smash, but the pale shag-pile carpet would almost certainly never be the same again. She did not even look at it, but let herself sink down slowly onto the settee once more.
    “Dead,” she whispered. “Birgitte? Dead … Shot?”
    “We’re moving across to the government complex.”
    A breathless young man, who seemed tiny in a far too big all-weather jacket, gazed into the restless camera with wide eyes. “Yes, I am standing here outside the tower block, and we have just had confirmation that Birgitte Volter has in fact …”
    He was obviously struggling to find the right words for the occasion and, as he stuttered and spluttered, she noted that he had not even managed to change into a dark suit, as the man in the studio had.
    “… passed away. From what we now know, she was shot in the head, and we have been informed that she must have died instantly.”
    And then he could not think of anything further to say. He swallowed repeatedly, and the camera operator was clearly unsure about whether to keep him in focus. The image veered between the reporter – strongly illuminated by a floodlight – and the scene of subdued activity in the background, where the police had their hands full keeping rubberneckers and journalists outside the red-and-white crime-scene tape.
    Birgitte was dead. The voices on the news program became distant, and she realized she felt faint. Lowering her head between her knees, she reached out for an ice cube from the carpet. Though it was covered in fluff, she placed it on her forehead all the same; it helped to clear her head.
    The anchorman in the studio was making a heroic effort to save his younger, far less experienced colleague standing outside the government offices.
    “Do you know if any arrests have been made?”
    “No, there’s nothing to suggest that.”
    “What about the weapon; do you know any more about what kind of gun we’re talking about?”
    “No, all we’ve been told is that Birgitte Volter is dead, and that she has been shot.”
    “What’s happening around the tower block at the moment?”
    And so they continued, for an eternity, thought the Minister of Health, Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden, who did not succeed in absorbing much of it at all. Then the TV picture moved from the tower block to the Parliament Building, where a procession of solemn-faced parliamentary leaders was hurrying into the studio.
    Telephone!
    She restored the plug, and after only a few seconds, the phone rang.
    As she replaced the receiver, there was only one thought in her head: am I going to lose my job now?
    She headed for the clothes closet in her bedroom to fish out her pager and look for something suitable to wear. Black. It must be black. On the other hand, her winter complexion was pale, and black was not the most becoming color. She was aware she was beautiful, she was well aware of that – enough not to choose a black dress in April. They would have to be satisfied with brown. Something dark.
    The shock had subsided, and instead she felt a growing sense of irritation.
    This was a particularly bad time for Birgitte to have departed this world, to have died. It was extremely inconsiderate of her.
    The brown velour dress would have to do.

SATURDAY, APRIL 5
    00.50, OUTSIDE ODINS GATE 3
    S ure 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