Authors: Anne Holt
The Lion's Mouth (26 page)
Birgitte Volter was standing with one arm around the eighteen-year-old Benjamin Grinde. The young man looked stiff as a board: his hands were dangling uncertainly in front of his thighs, and he was staring seriously at a point adjacent to the camera lens. Birgitte Volter, with mid-length hair, and wearing a full skirt and pumps, and glasses with cat-like frames, was laughing and holding a baby in her other arm. The infant was not lying comfortably; its head was hanging too far over the elbow. The caption written on the gray-black cardboard in white pen, neatly and legibly, was: “Little Liv’s first day in the sun”.
“Look at this,” Birdie Grinde called eagerly, thumbing further through the album. “Here we are, all together on the beach! Birgitte Volter was a very close friend of our family, you understand. Her parents – brilliant people, they died several years
ago, poor things – were our nearest neighbors. That was a
lovely
time.”
She sighed, reclining on the settee with a smile, staring longingly out the window.
“Such a
lovely
time,” she repeated softly, more to herself than to Little Lettvik.
And Little Lettvik was not listening to her either.
“Who is this?” she asked loudly, pointing to another photograph.
Birdie Grinde did not respond. She continued to stare out the window, her face transformed. Something soft surrounded her eyes; her smile seemed to come from somewhere deep inside, from a place that had been locked away long ago.
“Excuse me,” Little Lettvik called out. “Mrs. Grinde!”
“Oh.” The old woman was startled. “I’m sorry. What was it you were asking?”
“Who is this?”
Little Lettvik did not want to draw attention to her own bitten nails, so instead tapped the photo of a baby with her knuckle. It was lying on its back on a terry towel, squinting unhappily at the sun, with its knees drawn up to its chest. Birgitte Volter was sitting on one side of the baby, still smiling flirtatiously. On the other side sat Benjamin Grinde, looking very solemn. Behind the child, crouching, handsome, broad-shouldered, smiling widely, and with his hand under the baby’s head, sat a man Little Lettvik recognized immediately. Roy Hansen.
“Who’s the child?”
Birdie Grinde looked at her in confusion.
“The baby? That’s Liv, of course!”
“Liv?”
“Yes, Birgitte and Roy’s little daughter.”
“Daughter? But they only have one child! A boy, isn’t it? Per.”
“But my dear woman …”
Birdie Grinde looked at her reproachfully.
“… Per is only in his early twenties. This was taken in 65. Little Liv
died
, you see. A terrible tragedy, the whole business. She died just like …”
She tried to snap her fingers.
“For no reason at all. Absolutely awful. It affected everybody so dreadfully. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Volter, they quite simply went into a decline. I would put it as strongly as that. They were never the same again. Thank God Birgitte was so young. And Roy too, of course, although I’ve never really understood how Birgitte could have fallen for that man. Young folk, you know … Young folk manage to get back on their feet. And Ben, that good boy. He was
shattered
. Poor Ben. He’s so sensitive. His father was just the same. He was a photographer, you see, and actually had an artistic temperament. I always said that.”
“And this was in 1965, you say?” Little Lettvik enquired, swallowing. “How old was the child?”
“Only three months, poor soul. A beautiful little baby. Enchanting. She wasn’t exactly
planned
, if you understand what I mean …”
Birdie Grinde winked slightly with her right eye.
“… but she was a little ray of sunshine. And then she just died. Cot death. Isn’t that what they call it nowadays? We just called it a tragedy, we did. At that time we didn’t have so many fine words, you see.”
Little Lettvik coughed violently: a hacking, husky cough that came from somewhere around her knees. Clutching her mouth with both hands, she gasped, “Could I have some water, please?”
Birdie Grinde looked completely distracted as she scurried off to the kitchen.
Little continued to cough, at the same time grabbing the album and letting it slide into the voluminous depths of the bag she
always carried. During one final, fierce explosion, she pulled the zipper closed.
“Here,” Birdie chirped, appearing beside her with water in a stemmed crystal glass. “Please drink it carefully! Do you smoke, Miss Lettvik? You really ought to stop!”
Little Lettvik did not answer, but downed all the water.
“Thanks,” she murmured. “Now I really must go.”
“Already?”
Birdie Grinde was unable to hide her disappointment.
“But maybe you’ll come back again? Another time?”
“Of course,” Little Lettvik assured her. “But I have to leave now.”
She wondered fleetingly whether she should grab one of the tempting sandwiches on her way out. But then she pulled herself together.
There were limits, after all.
MONDAY, APRIL 14
02.00,
KVELDSAVISEN EDITORIAL OFFICE
If Little Lettvik had possessed a tail, it would have been swishing contentedly from side to side. She was leaning over a computer screen, studying the draft of that day’s front page. She was happiest of all with the picture: the wedding photograph of Birgitte Volter and Roy Hansen, taken by Benjamin Grinde’s father, the photographer Knut Grinde. Birgitte Volter had a little bump at the waist of her dress; ever so slightly too big to be considered up to date, two years after Marilyn Monroe’s death.
“Where did you actually get hold of these pictures?” the editor mumbled.
He did not expect a reply, and nor did he receive one. Little Lettvik simply smiled condescendingly as she asked for a printout.
“Get it yourself,” the editor snapped.
However, nothing could spoil Little Lettvik’s euphoric mood tonight. She trotted through to her own office, and clicked her way in to that day’s edition.
CHILDHOOD FRIEND INVESTIGATES FAMILY TRAGEDY
Previously unpublished photos of Prime Minister Birgitte Volter
By Little Lettvik (Photo: private ownership)
Today,
Kveldsavisen
is able to reveal previously unknown aspects of late Prime Minister Birgitte Volter’s life. These
photographs from Volter’s youth have never previously been published.
It has also never before come to light that, in 1965, Birgitte Volter and her husband lost their three-month-old daughter, Liv, in tragic circumstances. Birgitte Volter was only nineteen years old when the baby was born, but she still managed to graduate from high school. As is well known, Birgitte Volter did not go on to university, and two months after Liv’s death she began work as a secretary at the State Liquor Monopoly. She did not give birth to another child until 1975 – Per Volter, who is now at military training academy.
The family has been extremely reticent about mentioning little Liv’s demise. Sources in contact with this newspaper, and who claim to be very close to the Volter family, say that they had no idea about this tragic event. The newspaper has not succeeded in obtaining a comment from Roy Hansen, Birgitte Volter’s widower.
Nor is it common knowledge that Birgitte Volter and Benjamin Grinde were extremely close friends in their youth. More than thirty years later, that same Benjamin Grinde has now been tasked with investigating what happened in 1965, when a remarkably high number of infants died in Norway.
See also pages 12 and 13.
Lighting another cigarillo, Little Lettvik clicked through to page twelve.
EXTREMELY WORRYING, ACCORDING TO PROFESSOR
Fred Brynjestad aims strong criticism at Grinde
By Little Lettvik and Bent Skulle (photo)
“There is every reason to be skeptical about Supreme Court Judge Benjamin Grinde’s impartiality as chair of the committee investigating what may have been a major health scandal
in 1965.” This is the assertion made by Fred Brynjestad, professor of public law and a doctor of law, to
Kveldsavisen
. The chair of the Parliamentary Standing Committee on Health and Social Affairs, Kari-Anne Søfteland of the Center Party, is deeply shocked by these new revelations, declaring that she and the rest of Parliament have been hoodwinked.
“If it is the case that Birgitte Volter herself lost a daughter in the relevant year, and at that time had a close friendship with Benjamin Grinde, there is every reason for alarm bells to ring,” Brynjestad says. “Prime Minister Volter should have realized, before Grinde was asked to undertake this task, that their relationship placed him in a compromising position,” Brynjestad insists.
“It is far worse, however, that Grinde himself did not appreciate this,” Professor Fred Brynjestad comments. “He is a very competent lawyer, and the problematic nature of this situation should have been most obvious to him.”
Brynjestad adds that he is not necessarily accusing Grinde of prejudice, but there is a possibility that he
may
be biased, and that is sufficient reason for him to have refused to take on the role.
“This kind of thing has become worryingly common in our society,” Professor Brynjestad continues. “Namely, that members of the social elite increasingly have links to one another, allowing them to operate beyond the usual boundaries and without being accountable to ordinary citizens. We end up with an invisible network of power we cannot control.”
From the investigations carried out by this newspaper in recent weeks, it is clear that Benjamin Grinde is a prominent
éminence grise
in Norwegian society. He was a childhood friend of Birgitte Volter, and has friends high up in both Parliament and the legal system.
Among other things, he was a member of the same choir as MPs Kari Bugge-Øygarden (Labor Party) and Fredrick Humlen (Conservatives) from 1979 to 1984. During his student days, he counted among his friends Haakon
Severinsen, who went on to become managing director of Orkla, one of the largest companies in Norway, and Ann-Berit Klavenæs, chief executive of the National Hospital in Oslo.
MP Kari-Anne Søfteland of the Center Party claims to be quite aghast that these connections have not come to light before now.
“Now we must sit down and decide on an entirely new commission,” she told
Kveldsavisen
in a phone call from the Seychelles, where her committee is on a visit to study the operation of local infirmaries.
“This demonstrates how important it is for Parliament itself to retain control over such things. Obviously, this commission should have been appointed by Parliament. This setback is extremely unfortunate, as it will lead to major delays in the investigation,” she concluded.
Logging out of the computer, Little Lettvik produced the photo album from the drawer and absent-mindedly browsed through the pages. In several places she noticed empty holes where the tiny paper corners used to hold family photographs in place were displayed like meaningless frames around nothing.
Little Lettvik had only one problem. How was she to return the album?
She sat pondering this for a while, as the room slowly filled with light white tobacco smoke.
It doesn’t really matter, she finally decided. I can just set fire to the whole shebang.
She took the album home with her. For safety’s sake.
07.00,
BOTANIC GARDENS
,
TØYEN
H
anne Wilhelmsen enjoyed the sensation of perspiration dripping off her and her heart protesting. On her way up
the gentle slope of Trondheimsveien, she had stepped up a gear and sprinted through the gate to the Botanic Gardens and on up to the Zoological Museum. She chose a bench underneath a tree she did not recognize. The writing on the explanatory sign beside it was unreadable: some hooligan had sprayed his tag there instead.
She had never been so fit. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the scent of the trees that had embarked on the long journey into summer. Cecilie had been right: your sense of smell improved when you stopped smoking.
An old man approached her, with a rake in one hand and a spade in the other.
“Lovely weather.” He nodded, smiling at the peevishly gray sky grumbling above them: it was drizzling.
Hanne Wilhelmsen chuckled. “Yes, you could say that!”
Peering down at her, the man made up his mind quickly. He sat beside her on the bench and fished out a plug of chewing tobacco that he carefully inserted under his tongue.
“This is the best weather,” he muttered. “Rain now in the early morning, and then the sun will come out in the afternoon.”
“Do you think so?” Hanne said skeptically, leaning her head back. The fine rain enveloped her face like a Japanese cloth facemask.
“Heavens above!” the man said, chortling. “Look over there!”
He was pointing to the west, where Sofienberg Church loomed against the gray-white sky.
“Do you see that chink of light over there?”
Hanne nodded.
“When there’s a little chink over there, above Holmenkollen, slightly to the west-southwest, then there will be really good weather in a few hours.”
“But that’s not what was forecast,” Hanne said, standing up to do some stretches. “They’ve forecast rain every day until Wednesday.”
The old man’s hearty laughter produced a spray of brown juice.
“I’ve worked here for forty-two years now,” he said with satisfaction. “For forty-two years I’ve pottered around here with my plants. I know exactly what they need: water and sun and TLC. It’s a grand job, so it is, young lady. People think that all these trees and plants require is scientific treatment, but these plants here, they need more than that.”
He watched her in silence for some time, and she stopped doing her exercises to return his gaze. His face was lined and tanned. She was surprised that he was still in employment: he looked as if he should have been pensioned off long ago. He was a pleasant companion, as he had a kind of stillness that did not require her to say very much.
“It has to do with
instinct
, you see. They give me all these books and dissertations, or whatever they’re called. But I don’t need any of that. I know what each little flower and every bloody massive tree in this garden needs. I’ve got
instinct
, you see, young lady. I know what the weather is going to do, and I know what they need. Every tiny little flower.”