woman’s cheeks had now acquired two small patches of puce.
“Foul language, in fact. I ran out and bought copies of Dagbladet and Kveldsavisen for her.”
She sighed.
“Things like that. Unnecessary things. The kind of thing Prime Ministers don’t usually waste energy on.”
Tone-Marit lifted a half-liter bottle of mineral water and looked enquiringly at the other woman.
“Yes, please,” she answered, holding out her plastic beaker.
The Police Sergeant stared at her for some time, just long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable.
“What was she like, actually?” she suddenly asked. “What kind of person was she?”
“Birgitte Volter? What she was like?” The puce patches grew. “Well … what was she like? She was extremely conscientious. Very hard-working. So, almost like former Prime Minister Gro in that respect.”
Now she smiled broadly, revealing a row of attractive, well-cared-for teeth, with flashes of gold in the molars.
“She worked from early morning till late at night. Really easy to relate to, and always gave clear instructions. Very clear instructions. When something went adrift … with the kind of schedule a Prime Minister has, unexpected things happen all the time, but she always took it in her stride. And then she was quite …”
She was searching for words again, letting her eyes flit around the room, as though the words were hidden somewhere and refused to come into view.
“… warm,” she eventually exclaimed. “I would in fact call her warm. She even remembered my birthday, and gave me a bouquet of roses. She almost always found time to have a natter about this and that.”
“But if you were to say something negative,” the Police Sergeant interrupted. “What would you say then?”
“Well, negative …”
Looking down, the woman fiddled with the edge of her jacket.
“Well, she could be slightly … slightly too … genial? I wasn’t allowed to address her as ‘Prime Minister’, she insisted on being called ‘Birgitte’. That was unusual. And not quite proper, if you ask me. And she could get muddled – when it came to specific things, I mean. Kept forgetting her pass and suchlike. And in the midst of all this geniality, there was something … what should I call it? A kind of reserve? No, now I must be rambling terribly.”
She was now speaking softly, almost whispering, and shook her head dejectedly.
“Anything else?”
“No, not really. Nothing important.”
Someone knocked at the door.
“Busy!” Tone-Marit called out, and faint footsteps disappearedalong the corridor as she continued. “Let me judge whether it’s of importance.”
The woman looked her straight in the eye as she quickly ran her hand across her hair in a superfluous gesture.
“No, honestly. There’s no more to be said. Apart from one thing that struck me last night. Or, this morning, in actual fact. A while ago. But it doesn’t really have anything to do with this, not really.”
Tone-Marit leaned forward, clutching a pen that she rocked between the forefinger and middle finger of her right hand.
“Last night I was asked to go through the Prime Minister’s office,” Wenche Andersen continued. “To see if there was anything missing, as the police officer put it. That was after Birgitte had been remo … been carried out, I mean. But I had already seen her, of course. Both when I found her and afterward, when she was lying there, or sitting there, I suppose. Across the desk. I had seen her twice. And—”
She stared expressionlessly at the pen tapping on the desktop with that nerve-racking, staccato sound.
Tone-Marit stopped abruptly. “Sorry,” she said, leaning back. “Do continue.”
“So I had seen her twice. And not to boast … in no way, but I am considered to be quite … observant.”
Now the little puce patches were ringed with dark red.
“I notice things. It is extremely necessary in my work. And I noticed that the Prime Minister wasn’t
“Foul language, in fact. I ran out and bought copies of Dagbladet and Kveldsavisen for her.”
She sighed.
“Things like that. Unnecessary things. The kind of thing Prime Ministers don’t usually waste energy on.”
Tone-Marit lifted a half-liter bottle of mineral water and looked enquiringly at the other woman.
“Yes, please,” she answered, holding out her plastic beaker.
The Police Sergeant stared at her for some time, just long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable.
“What was she like, actually?” she suddenly asked. “What kind of person was she?”
“Birgitte Volter? What she was like?” The puce patches grew. “Well … what was she like? She was extremely conscientious. Very hard-working. So, almost like former Prime Minister Gro in that respect.”
Now she smiled broadly, revealing a row of attractive, well-cared-for teeth, with flashes of gold in the molars.
“She worked from early morning till late at night. Really easy to relate to, and always gave clear instructions. Very clear instructions. When something went adrift … with the kind of schedule a Prime Minister has, unexpected things happen all the time, but she always took it in her stride. And then she was quite …”
She was searching for words again, letting her eyes flit around the room, as though the words were hidden somewhere and refused to come into view.
“… warm,” she eventually exclaimed. “I would in fact call her warm. She even remembered my birthday, and gave me a bouquet of roses. She almost always found time to have a natter about this and that.”
“But if you were to say something negative,” the Police Sergeant interrupted. “What would you say then?”
“Well, negative …”
Looking down, the woman fiddled with the edge of her jacket.
“Well, she could be slightly … slightly too … genial? I wasn’t allowed to address her as ‘Prime Minister’, she insisted on being called ‘Birgitte’. That was unusual. And not quite proper, if you ask me. And she could get muddled – when it came to specific things, I mean. Kept forgetting her pass and suchlike. And in the midst of all this geniality, there was something … what should I call it? A kind of reserve? No, now I must be rambling terribly.”
She was now speaking softly, almost whispering, and shook her head dejectedly.
“Anything else?”
“No, not really. Nothing important.”
Someone knocked at the door.
“Busy!” Tone-Marit called out, and faint footsteps disappearedalong the corridor as she continued. “Let me judge whether it’s of importance.”
The woman looked her straight in the eye as she quickly ran her hand across her hair in a superfluous gesture.
“No, honestly. There’s no more to be said. Apart from one thing that struck me last night. Or, this morning, in actual fact. A while ago. But it doesn’t really have anything to do with this, not really.”
Tone-Marit leaned forward, clutching a pen that she rocked between the forefinger and middle finger of her right hand.
“Last night I was asked to go through the Prime Minister’s office,” Wenche Andersen continued. “To see if there was anything missing, as the police officer put it. That was after Birgitte had been remo … been carried out, I mean. But I had already seen her, of course. Both when I found her and afterward, when she was lying there, or sitting there, I suppose. Across the desk. I had seen her twice. And—”
She stared expressionlessly at the pen tapping on the desktop with that nerve-racking, staccato sound.
Tone-Marit stopped abruptly. “Sorry,” she said, leaning back. “Do continue.”
“So I had seen her twice. And not to boast … in no way, but I am considered to be quite … observant.”
Now the little puce patches were ringed with dark red.
“I notice things. It is extremely necessary in my work. And I noticed that the Prime Minister wasn’t
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