The Lion's Mouth by Anne Holt Read Free Book Online Page A

what the Grinde Commission was up to, without discovering anything but the most mundane and fairly obvious facts. Then the chair of the commission pops up as perhaps the last person in the country to have seen the Prime Minister alive.
    “Now you’d damn well better set to work, Little.”
    It was the editor. As usual he shot a look filled with loathing across the tiny room, before turning on his heel and repeating, “Now you’d better get to it. There should be more than enough to be going on with.”
    07.00, GOVERNMENT CONFERENCE ROOM IN THE TOWER BLOCK
    T hey all felt the same insistent revulsion as they passed the entrance to the Prime Minister’s office on the floor below. Although there was no longer a police presence in the vicinity – at least not a visible one – and although the only obvious abnormality was a closed door that was usually kept open, they were aware that, behind the wall they all tried to avoid staring at, Birgitte Volter had been shot and killed twelve hours previously.
    The government ministers were extraordinarily quiet; only the Minister of Trade’s singsong voice was just about audible.
    “It’s just so awful. I simply can’t find the words.”
    She was sitting at the massive oval table on which stood several slim, modern microphones. One of them was audaciously pointing directly at her; she held her hand over it as she leaned forward to gain the ear of the Minister of Defense. It was no use. They were both sitting near the top of the table, as their age and seniority in Cabinet required, and the sound carried right across the room.
    The Foreign Minister was last to enter. The others were already seated. He was unusually pale, and the Minister of Culture could swear that his hair had turned grayer overnight. She tried to send him an encouraging smile, but he did not make eye contact with any of them. Standing momentarily beside the Prime Minister’s seat at the head of the oval table, he made up his mind quickly and drew out the large leather chair, left it vacant, and sat down on the chair to its left. The Foreign Minister’s seat.
    “Good that you could all manage to come,” he said, peering round at his colleagues.
    The Minister of Agriculture was the only one dressed in everyday clothes: denim jeans and a flannel shirt. He had been fishing at his summer cottage when the government car came to collect him, and there had not been time to go to his apartment for a more appropriate outfit. Now he was sitting fiddling with a tin of snuff but did not dare help himself to a pinch, even though the craving was overwhelming. It would appear disrespectful. He stuffed the tin into his breast pocket.
    “This is a terrible day for us all,” the Foreign Minister said, after clearing his throat. “As far as the case itself is concerned … the police case, I mean, I actually know very little. No weapon has been found. No one has been arrested. It goes without saying thatthe police are working flat out. With assistance from their Security Service. I hardly need to tell you why they are in the picture.”
    He fumbled for the glass of Farris mineral water in front of him, and drank its entire contents. No one took the opportunity to ask questions, even though there were quite a few of these bouncing off the soundproof walls of the room. All that could be heard was the sound of the Oil and Energy Minister sniffing.
    “My primary concern is to let you know what is going on. Factually and constitutionally. I have a formal meeting with the King at nine o’clock today, and there will be an extraordinary meeting of the Cabinet later in the day. You will be told when.”
    The Foreign Minister continued to hold the empty glass in his hand, staring at it as though he hoped it would refill all by itself. He then reluctantly put it down and turned to face the Senior Private Secretary, who was sitting on the other side of the vacant chair.
    “Could you provide us with a short briefing?”
    The Senior