The Catalyst Killing

I

When I finally got to sleep early in the morning of Wednesday, 12 August 1970, my sleep was deep and dreamless. I was woken with a start, not by the alarm clock but by the telephone.

Instinctively I leaped out of bed when I heard it. Then I remembered what had happened the day before and dashed as fast as I could into the living room, in only my underpants. I got to the phone in time, on the fifth or sixth ring.

It occurred to me that it was strange that the alarm clock had not woken me. So I glanced over at the clock on the wall and discovered that it was twelve minutes to nine. Bernt Berg, the head surgeon, would not have started his morning shift yet. I was therefore terrified to hear his voice on the other end all the same.

‘This is the head surgeon, Bernt Berg. I hope I did not wake you. I got to work a little early today.’

His voice was just as monotonous and grave as when he had told me the evening before that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen might not survive the night. The complicity was no longer there. My heart sank and my pulse raced.

I realized that the surgeon had gone to work early so he could call me as soon as possible – yet he said nothing, waiting for me to ask, which was even more alarming. I asked with trepidation if there was any news of the patient.

He replied swiftly and briefly: ‘Yes, we managed to prevent blood poisoning and the crisis is over.’

Everything suddenly seemed surreal. For a moment I feared that I was dreaming. I banged my left arm on the edge of the table, and to my great relief, it hurt. And just then the alarm clock started to ring in the background. I was very definitely awake. And the doctor’s voice was very clear on the telephone.

‘I hear your alarm clock ringing,’ he said, with unflappable calm.

I apologized for the alarm clock and asked what he thought the patient’s chances of survival were now.

‘Almost one hundred per cent. A truly miraculous improvement,’ he replied.

The greatest sense of relief I had ever felt in my life swept me off my feet. I felt lighter and giddier than I had ever felt before. I put down the receiver and jumped up and punched the ceiling with joy.

Then I picked up the receiver again and said to Bernt Berg that he was an excellent doctor and one of the best people I had ever met.

Whether the surgeon found it pleasing or confusing to be told this by a policeman or not, he did not allow himself to be affected in any noticeable way.

‘There is a good chance that the patient will be able to talk to you for a few minutes if you come by sometime later on this afternoon. Have a good day in the meantime,’ he said, then put down the phone.

I stayed sitting by the telephone in only my underpants, giddy with relief, for about ten minutes before I managed to pull myself together. I let the alarm clock ring, suddenly loving the sound of it. When it finally stopped, I went into the bedroom and got dressed.

I felt it might be irresponsible to drive in my semi-ecstatic mood, so I walked to the nearest bookshop to buy a six-volume work on the history of Norwegian literature. Then I walked back the other way to buy flowers. As I then walked home, I realized that I had not yet eaten breakfast or looked at the newspapers.

It was a quarter to ten by the time I got back to the flat. I quickly ate three slices of bread while I skimmed the papers. My elation was in no way diminished to see that the Mardøla protest and SALT negotiations had now very definitely been squeezed to one side in the papers, and the attempted assassination of the Labour Party leader was all over the front pages. Longer articles inside explained that it was I who had personally managed to foil the attempt at the last minute, and that the arrested assassin had also admitted to both of the Valdres murders.

The fact that a female onlooker had helped to prevent the assassination, and been badly wounded as a result, was mentioned in both Aftenposten and Arbeiderbladet without any further details or the victim being named. But both promised to print more details about her, and the case in general, the next day. And both expressed heartfelt praise for the head of investigation’s efforts in connection with the Valdres murders and the attempted assassination in Oslo. They both concluded with the news that the arrested assassin was the father of the late Marie Morgenstierne, and that her murder had still not been solved.

I now felt I was in a fit state to drive a car again, but wanted if possible to have the murderer with me the next time I met Detective Inspector Danielsen. So I dialled Anders Pettersen’s number from my own phone. There was no answer at a quarter to ten, or at five to ten. But at five past ten, he suddenly picked up the phone.

Anders Pettersen sounded very sleepy indeed, or just plain hung-over. I was terse and said with some authority that there was every hope that the murder of Marie Morgenstierne would soon be solved, which I believed would be of interest. He gave a slow yes to this, and then another when I asked if he could be available for further questioning in half an hour.

II

I was interested to see whether Anders Pettersen would be at home when I rang his doorbell half an hour later. If he had done a runner, it would be as good as a confession.

Anders Pettersen was both sleepy and hung-over, but he had definitely not done a runner. The door was opened as soon as I rang the bell, and the inhabitant had managed to have a shower and put on a nearly presentable black suit in the meantime. He shook my hand and congratulated me with something akin to respect on foiling a ‘Nazi plot’ the day before.

I suddenly doubted whether he could be the murderer, which spawned an equal curiosity as to who else Patricia might have in mind. First of all, I had to see what kind of statement Anders Pettersen would give in his defence, given the circumstantial evidence against him.

It would be wrong to say that Anders Pettersen’s flat was tidy. There was a half-finished painting on an easel in the middle of the living room, and a long row of empty beer bottles lined up higgledy-piggledy by the kitchen door. He had, however, tidied the coffee table and the chairs. Once seated, we got straight to the point.

I started by saying that I had reason to believe he had not told me the whole truth with regards to Marie Morgenstierne, but that I was now giving him another chance to do so. He nodded hastily to show he understood.

‘I apologize profusely for not having told you the truth before. This was partly due to my lack of trust in the police, but more than anything, due to the shock when Falko came back.’

‘You feared his reaction if he discovered that you had started a relationship with his fiancée in his absence?’

I held my breath in anticipation of a fierce denial. But instead he nodded, and shrugged with open palms to underline the point.

‘I am not easily frightened. It was more shock than fear. We had all been in Falko’s shadow: he was our guiding light when he was here. Everything changed when he disappeared. Time passed. Whenever we met, we of course always expressed our hope that he would come back. But after eighteen months with no sign of life, we all thought he was gone for good. The group needed someone new to lead our fight for a fairer society – and Marie needed a new man to support her in life.’

He fell silent, then hesitated, but did eventually carry on with determination.

‘If we had known that Falko was still alive and would come back, we would never have done it.’

He repeated this twice, as if to ensure that both he and I believed it. I wanted to move on, so allowed myself to be easily convinced.

‘I believe you, and it is perfectly understandable that you all thought he was dead. So you started a relationship with his fiancée in the belief that he was gone forever. And you initiated it, didn’t you?’

He nodded.

‘She was very attractive, and her personality shone all the more when she emerged from Falko’s long shadow. Slowly things developed between us. I played the role of sacrificial friend for a long time, but during the spring I began to hint that she needed to build a life without Falko. She dismissed this initially and seemed to think of me purely as a friend. She was cold towards me physically whenever I touched her. She said several times, almost as an apology, that the uncertainty about Falko’s fate made it impossible for her to think of anyone else. Towards the end of April, I thought to myself that never before had I spent so much time talking to a woman and getting so little in return. Then suddenly in the middle of May, things started to move, and then they moved fast. One Tuesday she phoned me to say that she thought I was right, that Falko would not come back alive. On the Thursday she told me that now, in retrospect, she recognized some of the less positive aspects of Falko’s character, and that as he had left us guessing for so long, it was perhaps no bad thing if he didn’t come back. And by the Saturday, when I greeted her with a hug, she was suddenly smouldering…’

A smug grin slipped over his face. For a moment, his eyes became dreamy and unfocused. But then he snapped back into the present again, his face grave once more.

‘So it was me who initiated things in the spring, but by the summer she was far keener than me. And I enjoyed it, believe me. She was my dream woman, in terms of her personality and politics. But the uncertainty about Falko was there all the time, and then it seemed to bother me more than her. She talked about making our relationship public and once even asked if I would move in with her. All of a sudden, it seemed she had no inhibitions. But he’d been like a big brother to me when we grew up, and still was. So I hesitated and asked if we could keep it secret until the second anniversary of his disappearance. She agreed reluctantly.’

I suddenly remembered Patricia’s question, and asked who else had known about the relationship. A sneering smile played on his lips.

‘We assumed that the police security service, and thus also the CIA, knew as a matter of course. You’ll have to ask them yourself when they found out. But I’m guessing it was before we did.’

I did not laugh. He was serious again.

‘I reckoned that Kristine had guessed, but I never mentioned it to her and I don’t think Marie did either. They had been close friends, but seemed to be drifting a bit. I did, however, mention it to Trond. He had shown obvious interest in Marie himself so I thought he had a right to know, in a way. But as I said, our psychologist has a bit of a complex when it comes to women and did not like to be reminded of his numerous failures in that area. So I was sure that he wouldn’t pass it on to anyone.’

I nodded, both to him and myself. The painter’s version was more idealized, but it still fitted with what Trond Ibsen had told me.

I waved him on, but he just looked at me and waited. I could not help asking, even though my pulse still raced whenever I mentioned her name.

‘Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen?’

He shook his head.

‘We had no contact with that class traitor and revisionist. I haven’t spoken to her for over a year, and I don’t think that any of the others have either. Certainly not about that. Of course, we hope that she’ll survive being shot by a Nazi, but otherwise – well, no thank you.’

I pushed on.

‘What about Marie’s father?’

He gave a scornful laugh.

‘On the subject of Nazis… No thank you, absolutely no way. Neither of us wanted to talk to him, and certainly not about this. She commented that we could tell him with a wedding invitation when the time came – and that we could invite him without worrying about whether he would turn up.’

‘Your parents?’

He shook his head with a faint smile.

‘I’ve taken a few too many girlfriends home in my time. My parents told me that they didn’t want to meet any more until I was engaged. Marie wanted to meet them, but I held back. But…’

I looked at him expectantly.

‘But I do think that Falko’s parents might have known about us. We were standing hand in hand on a street corner one warm summer’s day in July, when suddenly we realized that the woman who had passed us was Falko’s mother. We weren’t sure if she had seen us and it didn’t seem natural for any of us to keep in touch any more. We didn’t hear anything from them. Marie took the episode as an argument for us soon to go public, but I was still reluctant.’

‘Then she discovered she was pregnant. When did you find out?’

He started, then shrugged – and now, at last, he became emotional.

‘Believe it or not, only when you told me yesterday. It was more of a shock than it perhaps should have been, given that she wanted us to be open about our relationship. And having played it so cool only weeks earlier, by the early summer she was dynamite – like a wild animal in bed sometimes. The neighbour below me here said with obvious envy that he hoped I would soon find myself a quieter lover.’

The smug charmer’s smile slipped onto his face again. There was something ambiguous about him: sometimes I felt sympathy for him, at other times contempt.

‘But she said she was taking the pill and I was more than happy with the situation, so I chose to believe her. It was a great shock to hear she was pregnant and I was just about to tell you the truth. But then I realized it would leave me in a very vulnerable position if I was suddenly to change my story at such an important juncture.’

It felt like we were getting somewhere now. I noted down that if Anders Pettersen had not known about the pregnancy, he did not really have a motive. But we still only had his word for this.

We sat in silence, both watching and waiting. It felt as if there was a sheet of ice stretching across the table between us. I was the one who finally ventured out onto it.

‘Well, let us move on to the evening that your girlfriend was shot. I do not think it was you who shot her, but there is much to indicate that you have not told me the whole truth about what happened either.’

He looked at me coldly for a second. Then he stepped out onto the ice to meet me.

‘Right on both counts. I was there, and I was there because she had asked me to come. She had called me a couple of hours earlier to say that there was something important she had to discuss with me, but we couldn’t talk about it on the telephone. I was worried that she either wanted to split up or give me an ultimatum to make our relationship official. She suggested that we should meet at the train station after the meeting, but for some reason did not want us to go there together. So she said that she would walk slowly in the direction of the station, and that I should cycle round to meet her there.’

‘Which you did. And you were standing waiting in a side road when she walked by. What did you see?’

He shrugged.

‘Yes, I was standing in the side street. But I didn’t see much, because it was dark. I recognized Marie from the way she walked, but the others who were further back down the road were too far away for me to see much. But then suddenly, to my great shock, I saw Falko in the road opposite.’

The memory of his reaction was clear in Anders Pettersen’s face as he spoke. His eyes opened wide and his voice changed to a whisper.

‘I didn’t even think he was alive – let alone that he would show up. We spotted each other at the same time, and both of us were startled. We stood there staring at each other, and only looked away when Marie hurtled past at full speed. We were both totally bewildered, I guess. Neither of us followed her. Falko disappeared in the opposite direction, and I jumped onto my bike and pedalled home. Then I called her again and again throughout the evening, but there was no reply. I fell asleep fearing for my darling’s life, and woke up to my greatest nightmare.’

I found Anders Pettersen more and more complex. His otherwise zealous political language every now and then slipped into almost pathetic romantic clichés. It happened again when he said that was all he had to tell me, and that he hoped that it would help me to find ‘my beloved’s murderer’.

Then he simply sat there, with his eyes suddenly swimming in tears.

I asked him to stay within the city boundaries and to keep himself available for further questioning, but was not sure whether he even heard me. In any case, I had no more questions for him at that moment. I left him sitting there by the coffee table like a statue, and found my own way out.

I strongly suspected that Anders Pettersen had escaped into a happy fantasy world where people were queuing up to buy his paintings, where the group was able to mobilize the masses under his leadership to revolution in Norway, and where Marie Morgenstierne was once again naked and wild in his bed. But I no longer suspected him of killing her. And I was even keener to know who had done it.

III

It was now midday, and the table was set for lunch at Patricia’s. She had not asked, and I had not told her, any more about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. Instead she listened in grave silence to my account of my meeting with Anders Pettersen.

‘So, did I get the answers you needed to finally uncover the murderer’s identity?’ I eventually asked.

Patricia’s face was grim as she finished her cup of coffee, but her answer was short and simple: ‘Yes.’

I looked at her, taken aback, as she poured another cup of coffee.

‘Eureka – I have the answer to what is almost a Greek tragedy. This case just gets worse and worse the clearer the answer becomes,’ she concluded.

I had to admit that this left me none the wiser. So I asked her straight out who was responsible for Marie Morgenstierne’s death.

‘The person I have always most feared it to be. There were so many possible alternatives along the way, but now only one realistic one remains. And of course it had to be the most depressing one.’

Patricia sighed again, and drained another cup of coffee in one go. Then she leaned over the table towards me.

‘The crucial question has always been not who killed her, but who or what did she see that so terrified her, as you yourself saw?’

Patricia’s voice was starting to break. As was my patience.

‘But who and what did she see? I have to know if we are going to close this case today.’

For a moment, Patricia pressed her serviette to her face. Then she found her voice again and pressed on.

‘A few yards behind her down the street, she saw what would be a harmless sight to anyone else: an elderly man with a stick. Marie Morgenstierne had feared that this man or his wife would kill her because they wrongly suspected her of killing their only son. Despite her newfound happiness, she was constantly on edge because she had not told them that she had a new lover, but they had discovered it all the same. So that was the situation when she suddenly saw a man behind her whom she had never seen at Smestad before, but whom she knew had killed before. He had himself told her about his experiences in the fight against the enemy during the Spanish Civil War. She saw a man who was old, but she knew perfectly well that he did not need a stick. And she saw a cunning murder weapon that he had perhaps shown her himself at some point: a walking stick that housed a salon rifle. Marie did not see anyone or anything else now: just that. And it is not surprising that she then started to run for her life.’

Patricia breathed out slowly, and then continued. I sat there staring at her in fascination.

‘Unfortunately, she started running a second too late to save herself. If she had started a second earlier, she and her unborn child – and the others who have been killed – might still be alive. And you would not have had to drive over to Grünerløkka now to arrest an old married couple who are no doubt devastated at having lost their only son so recently. The story might have been different and far happier if other coincidences had not happened, for example, if Mrs Reinhardt had not walked by when Anders and Marie were holding hands that summer day. Or if Mr Reinhardt had seen his missing son standing there only a few yards away on the evening he killed Marie.’

We sat and looked at each other in sombre silence. I realized that she was of course right. But I could not understand how I had failed to think of this possibility at an earlier stage myself.

I relived my painful encounter with the terrified woman on the Lijord Line seven days earlier. It struck me that the story might have been very different if I had had the sense to pull the emergency brake. It seemed highly unlikely that Patricia had not thought of this. And I was very grateful to her for not having mentioned it at all.

I said that it was a truly sad story, and that I would have to conclude it now by going to Grünerløkka.

Patricia gave a slight nod, and asked in a quiet voice if I would be needing her help any more.

I said that I realized the case had been very demanding for her, and that she no doubt wanted it to be over as soon as possible. I would, however, appreciate talking to her a little bit more once I had arrested the murderer, in order to fill in the final missing details.

She let out a heavy sigh, nodded in resignation and asked me to come back as quickly as possible. She said nothing more, but sat there in silence, waiting.

IV

There was no great drama at Seilduk Street in Grünerløkka when I arrived there at a quarter past one. Arno Reinhardt was on his own when he opened the door this time. He said that his wife was grief-stricken, and had gone to lie down. I told him that we could talk without her for the moment.

He nodded gratefully and showed me into the living room. In a strange way, it felt like we both knew why I was there. As we walked down the hall, I noticed an old travel bag standing there, packed and ready.

I said that we now had information that meant we sadly had to question him again about his whereabouts on the day that Marie Morgenstierne was murdered.

He indicated that he understood.

I added that four police constables were now standing on duty outside the building, as was the case.

My eyes moved to the wall of photographs, and to the last picture of Marie Morgenstierne together with Falko and his parents, here in the flat. Arno Reinhardt followed my gaze.

‘I can always turn my back to that wall, but I can never get away from her. Not here, not in the other rooms, not out on the street,’ he began quietly. ‘I waited and waited. One day before he disappeared, Falko mentioned that he suspected that his fiancée was a mole. I couldn’t prove anything, but the idea that she was, and that she had something to do with his disappearance, took root. So I sneaked out and followed her, and saw her handing something over to a man who passed her on the street after one of their meetings. And still I hesitated. It was only when…’

His voice broke, and I had to finish the sentence for him.

‘It was only when your wife came home and told you that she had seen your son’s fiancée hand in hand with another man – your son’s friend, no less – that you were galvanized into action?’

He looked down, and said nothing.

I did not know what else to say. So in the end, I stated the obvious: that he should not have taken the law into his own hands. Slowly he raised his head, showing a bitter smile.

‘We communists have always had to take the law into our own hands, because the police have never done it for us. But I punished an innocent person. Even if the law grants me mercy because of my age, I will never be able to forgive myself. I could live with the fact that I had killed someone who was guilty. But then, just when I was overjoyed to see my son again, my world fell to pieces when I realized I had shot an innocent person.’

‘The fact that she ran for her life made no impression on you?’ I asked.

He nodded, and buried his face in his hands for a moment.

‘To me it was just confirmation of her guilt. When fighting against the Falangists in the Spanish Civil War we learned that those who ran fastest were the guiltiest. I had thought of hearing what she had to say for herself. But when she started to run, I was left in no doubt. It was my doing, and mine alone. My wife didn’t even know that I went out that evening,’ he added, hastily.

I wanted to believe this, but did not know whether I could. Fortunately, I did not have to decide. His wife appeared at that moment, fully dressed and sombre, and sat down beside him without hestitation.

‘No matter what happens, we will always stand together, for better or for worse. It’s true, I did not know that my husband went out that night. But I was the first one to suspect that she had betrayed our son. I was the one who was convinced when I saw her standing there, holding hands with another man we knew nothing about. I was the one who asked my husband on the second anniversary of my son’s disappearance how long he had thought of letting those who were guilty go free. And when he came back that evening, it was I who said that he had done the right thing, and promised to help him conceal it.’

I looked at him. He nodded imperceptibly. Their fingers were now firmly entwined.

There was a strange, slightly unreal atmosphere in the room. There I was having an apparently relaxed conversation with an elderly couple, in the process of closing a complex murder case, and yet was experiencing one of the worst moments of my life.

I had nothing more to ask them. This was clearly a terrible tragedy.

She was the one who broke the silence.

‘Do you mind if we ask you a question? It could mean so much to us in the middle of all this… Is it really the case that our son might have been alive today, if we had not made such a fatal misjudgement?’

I had to think about this for a moment before I answered. I could not lie to two people who were guilty of murdering a young, pregnant woman. I could have said that their son would also still be alive had it not been for his own misjudgements, his exaggerated belief in his ability to sort things out alone and his inability to trust others, including his own parents and fiancée. But I thought that criticizing their son or his upbringing would not make things any easier. So I told them the truth: that it was sadly their fatal decision to take the law into their own hands that had resulted in the death of their son, and all that followed.

It was only then that they started to cry. And in a peculiar way, their tears made it easier. My sympathy for them waned when, seven days after killing an innocent young woman, the only thing they could cry for was the loss of their son.

I stood up and said that it was time to go.

They remained seated, holding each other tight.

He asked in a quiet voice if they could have a few minutes alone together first. And in a strange way, it felt as though we understood each other.

I thought about it for a moment or two. I definitely thought more about myself and the police than about them. Then I said that human life was sacrosanct for a country and its people where the rule of law applied, and that too many lives had been lost in this tragic case already. They gave an almost apathetic, synchronized nod, then stood up without any further protest.

On our way out, we stopped for a moment by all the photographs on the wall. None of us could bear to look at the last photographs. We stood instead looking at the first picture, the one of a little Falko with his smiling parents on their return to Oslo in 1945. They were holding hands in exactly the same way tonight. But their hands were old now, and Falko was no longer there. Arno Reinhardt picked up the old travel bag with one hand and held onto his wife’s with the other as he left his home for the last time.

V

Back at the main police station, a couple of hours were spent on congratulations, press releases and other formalities. My boss gave me flowers and endless congratulations on solving the final murder. He said that I would be on the front pages of all the national papers on Monday as a result, and that with three successful murder investigations under my belt I would soon be the country’s most famous policeman. It would only be a matter of time before I was promoted, despite my young age, and several people had suggested me for the rank of detective chief inspector.

Danielsen was nowhere to be seen, but according to unconfirmed rumours had handed in a sick note for the rest of the week. I resisted the temptation to suggest that he should be sent to Mardøla on his return. My boss was all smiles, happier than I had ever seen him before, and might easily decide that sending both Danielsen and me to Mardøla was a good way to resolve our conflict.

Other colleagues were more or less queuing up to congratulate me when I left my boss’s office. In short, the day at the station was almost perfect.

It was half past three before I could drive over to Patricia’s, and ten past four by the time I stepped into her library. She had coffee and cake waiting on the table, but still did not look like she was in a celebratory mood. Without saying a word, she indicated impatiently that I should sit down.

I told her in brief, and without too many details, about the arrest. She nodded but asked no questions, and seemed almost impatient to be done with the whole thing.

‘Many congratulations on another success. But unlike our last case, this does not call for celebration,’ she commented curtly.

She let out a deep sigh, then continued.

‘Your latest triumph is framed by tragedy. The Reinhardts were broken by their son’s disappearance, took the law into their own hands and killed another man’s only daughter. This, paradoxically, made him pull the trigger and set in motion a chain reaction that culminated with Martin Morgenstierne taking the life of the Reinhardts’ only son. The two young people are gone forever, and their three broken parents are in prison. And Henry Alfred Lien’s valiant attempt to atone for his old sins by preventing the assassination of the leader of the Labour Party ended in Lien losing his own life, instead of being forgiven by his son. Even the fate of the two former Nazis could perhaps have been different if sad family histories had not left them bitter old men. This case seems to have no end of devastating stories of parents and children.’

I allowed myself to point out that we had after all cleared up all the crimes, and what is more, averted the attempted assassination of the Labour Party leader at the last moment. I hastened to add that this was largely all thanks to her brilliant conclusions, and that I would never have managed to solve the case without her.

Patricia’s smile was tenuous. She thanked me for the compliment, but still seemed to be in a sombre mood. Something was clearly bothering her, and I was beginning to suspect what it might be. There was an important unanswered question between us, and I now waited with increasing irritation to see if Patricia would bring it up.

Which she did, with yet another sigh, at five past four.

‘And how is the unfortunate Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, who was caught in the firing line? Is there any news from the hospital about her chances of survival?’

I nodded happily, and was about to answer, when something totally unexpected happened.

The telephone on Patricia’s desk started to ring.

Never, in all my many previous visits, had I heard her telephone ring. And I had therefore, for some reason, imagined that I was the only one who knew the number and might use it. I was rather annoyed with the telephone for having the audacity to ring at such an inconvenient moment. At the same time, my curiosity was piqued as to who it might be.

Patricia lifted the receiver on the second ring and held it to her ear. Much to my relief, it was a very brief conversation. Patricia listened to the short message given by the person at the other end. She nodded pensively. Her reply was brief and polite.

‘That is just as we thought. Thank you so much for letting me know, all the same.’

There seemed to be no drama. The person at the other end continued talking, but I was not able to make out the words.

Patricia listened for a few seconds more, but then interrupted briskly: ‘Thank you. Hopefully everything will be all right. I will call you back later today.’

She put down the telephone and apologized for having answered it, but gave no explanation as to who had called or what it was about.

For a short while afterwards she sat deep in thought, staring straight ahead. Then she returned to where we had left off the conversation.

‘Yes, we were talking about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. Have you heard any more about her condition?’

I said yes, and that all was well with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, given the circumstances. There was a danger that she would suffer from the injuries to her neck and shoulders for a while, and that it would be some time before she could write again. But she had regained consciousness an hour ago and was now definitely out of danger after the operation. She would survive, and live a meaningful life.

‘Good,’ Patricia said.

She said it so perfunctorily, without the slightest bit of feeling. This only fanned my earlier irritation that she had so obviously delayed asking the question.

I also had the strong feeling that she would have preferred it if I had said that Miriam would not survive. And so, for the first time in my life, I was truly angry with Patricia.

Later, I could not remember my exact words. But I had one of my rare, furious outbursts and said exactly what I thought and felt at that moment: that Patricia had always disliked Miriam and been jealous of her. And that I thought that she had now shown an alarming lack of human empathy for a young woman who might suffer permanent injuries and had nearly lost her life, thanks to her heroic attempt to foil a political assassination. I apparently finished this rant by asking Patricia whether she had any consideration for people in the world outside this house.

Patricia heard me out, remaining unusually still for an unusually long time.

‘Consideration. Yes. One of us is certainly not showing any consideration here,’ she said in the end. Then she was quiet again.

My rage had passed, but my anger on the part of the wounded Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen remained. So I said that I would shortly have to show consideration to some other people, and pay someone a visit.

Whether it was my intention that Patricia would understand the context or not, I was not able to say in retrospect. But she had of course understood instantly.

‘Pay someone a visit today… Yes, of course. At Ullevål Hospital, perhaps?’

I nodded, almost defiantly, I realized, as soon as I had done it. I was still very angry with her.

‘And so everything crashes around me,’ Patricia said, with a deep sigh. Her head fell forward onto her chest as she said it.

I did not understand, and she said nothing more in explanation. Instead she kept her mouth firmly shut, as if in panic.

We sat there in tense silence for a few seconds. Then I made a point of standing up.

‘Please, just go if you must, if that is how you want it to be. It is important to visit, especially if it is someone you care for,’ Patricia said.

Then once again she sat quite still in her wheelchair.

I left, with quicker steps than usual.

I turned around just outside the door, went back into the room and thanked her again for all her help with the investigation. But later I doubted if she had even heard me. For once she said nothing in response, but continued to sit huddled in her wheelchair. She seemed to have withdrawn entirely into her own world.

I thought I saw a tear run down her left cheek. But I might have been mistaken, and in my agitation, I did not feel the need to approach her. Her comment about everything crashing around her only seemed to confirm her egoism, as the situation now stood.

Patricia looked like the loneliest person in the world, sitting there in her library among all her books and with the remains of our coffee on the table. But when I thought of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen lying lifeless on the asphalt in Frogner Square, and her subsequent fight for life in a hospital bed, I thought that Patricia deserved to be left with her own thoughts today. And in any case, I was certain that the maid was there and would appear as soon as I had left.

So I closed the door behind me a little more loudly than necessary, and left the house without turning back.

VI

The atmosphere in Room 302 at Ullevål Hospital was far more pleasant and uplifting.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was in better shape than I had feared. Her shoulders and arms were tightly bandaged, but she was awake and reading a book about the history of French literature when I came into the room. She had obviously learned to turn the pages with her nose. She put the book down as soon as she saw me, and lit up the room with one of her smiles. And the mood soared when I put down the flowers and the books on the table beside her.

‘Oh, I don’t know what to say,’ Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen exclaimed, when she saw the gifts.

It may sound strange, but she looked just as in control when she said this as she always did. So I chuckled and she laughed at me laughing at her.

There was still a danger of permanent damage to her shoulder, but she would possibly be able to write again in time for the autumn exams. But whatever the case, it was simply a huge relief for her to be alive and to be able to read again. Her parents and younger brother had already been to visit. And it was a lovely surprise that I had come too, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen said with a bold little smile from her sickbed.

I told her that she had been exceptionally astute to run to the stage and prevent Trond Bratten from going on, given that I had not even had time to tell her. She thanked me, and with another smile said that that was precisely why she had understood. I had mentioned that there might be an assassination attempt earlier, so when I just ran on straight into the building without even apologizing, she could not think of any explanation other than the planned assassination. She had simply done what she had to for society and democracy, and despite the pain, she did not regret it at all.

I assured her that when she left hospital there would be many more gifts and congratulations, from both friends and strangers. The newspapers had already made several enquiries to the police asking when she could be interviewed. Miriam raised her head with an inquisitive look in her eyes and asked if I knew which papers had rung. Her eyes opened wide when I said the local Lillehammer paper Dagningen and the SPP paper Orientering had called at least twice, and that Aftenposten, Dagbladet, VG and Arbeiderbladet had all been on the phone. When I added that the NRK radio and television had also been in touch, Miriam looked like she wanted to jump out of bed and call them all immediately.

As this was all positively received, I added with some trepidation that her efforts in saving the party leader would no doubt increase support for the SPP. And even more hesitantly, I added that my own sympathies for the party had certainly increased thanks to her efforts in recent days.

Then I hastily asked whether she might allow me to take her out to dinner as soon as she got out of hospital. And we would then have plenty of time to talk about the case, and other things, at one of the best restaurants in town.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s smile widened even more. She commented with some irony that she would have to look at her timetable first, but that she should be able to find time for dinner in a restaurant once she was out. As a student, one could live for several days on a good restaurant meal, given the current rates on student loans.

We laughed a bit and ended our visit on a cheerful, happy note, despite the serious nature of the case. In the end I was chased out by an almost militant head nurse who was concerned about complications, stress and exhaustion, despite the patient’s mild protests. I tried to excuse myself by saying that I had been there barely half an hour, but had to back down when both the head nurse’s watch and my own proved that I had in fact been there for more than two.

‘Even the police risk being hounded by the military!’ Miriam joked in a whisper as I got up from the chair by her bed. Then she laughed her peculiar, almost sadistically sarcastic laugh. Both this and her joke made me laugh, and I whispered back that the police would be back for another inspection tomorrow.

My fascination and admiration for Miriam had grown in the course of these two hours at the hospital, when I saw the calm and self-control with which she accepted the fact that she had been exposed to a shock and injury that might affect her for life, through no fault of her own. And in parallel, my anger at Patricia’s jealousy and lack of empathy also increased. And I was quite exercised by the time I left Ullevål Hospital at half past seven.

I waved happily from the doorway, remembering a few seconds too late that Miriam could not wave back. But she took it with good humour, and sent me a crooked smile as I shut the door.

VII

The telephone rang just as I let myself into my flat in Hegdehaugen around eight o’clock, and carried on ringing until I answered it.

I was at first relieved when I heard my mother’s voice. But to my surprise, it was not her usual cheerful voice, and she had definitely not called to congratulate me on closing the case.

‘Have you heard the terrible news?’ she more or less cried into the phone.

My mother was normally a woman of great composure, so I realized immediately that something was seriously wrong. My thoughts swirled around my father, my sister and her little girl. I had in no way anticipated what was to come.

‘It’s so sad. I have just heard that Professor Borchmann died of cancer at the University Hospital this afternoon! Is there no end to the misfortune that poor family has to suffer? We were not even aware that he was ill. How could you guess something like that?’

The words hit me like a blow to the chest – it was a knockout. I do not remember sitting down, but suddenly realized that I was.

When I found my voice again, I said that I had certainly had no idea, and could not have guessed either. Professor Director Ragnar Sverre Borchmann had always seemed so strong and solid to both me and my mother. We simply did not imagine that he could die.

I heard myself promising my mother that I would pass on the family’s condolences to the young, now parentless Patricia, if and when I spoke to her again.

Then I found myself asking if she had heard when exactly Professor Borchmann had died this afternoon.

It had been around four o’clock.

As soon as my mother said that, all communication between my brain and my arm was broken. I do not remember saying goodbye. But I suddenly realized that I was sitting with the receiver in my hand, and my mother’s voice was no longer there.

The receiver felt as heavy as lead in my hand. I finally put it back in the cradle. This did not help. When I picked it up again a few minutes later, it felt even heavier. My hand sank listlessly twice before I managed to dial the number correctly with a shaking finger.

VIII

I had never before experienced the telephone on Patricia’s table ringing more than three times before she answered. This time it rang for thirteen eternal rings. And when I finally did hear a voice at the other end, it was the maid, Beate, and not Patricia.

I apologized for calling so late on this of all evenings, and asked if it would be possible to pass on our condolences and to have a few words with Patricia.

Beate said that Patricia had told her I would call, and had given her a short message to read over the phone.

The message was as follows: ‘Thank you for your thoughts with regards to the death of my father. I hope that you will understand that I will now have to focus on the various formal and practical things that have to be done in connection with my father’s funeral and the continued operation of his companies. I would be very grateful if you and your parents would come to the funeral. Best wishes, Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann.’

There was silence on the line for a moment. I thanked Beate, and asked if she could send a message back that I and my parents would of course come to the funeral.

Beate’s voice was trembling when she promised to give Patricia the message. Then there was another moment’s silence.

‘There’s something I would like to tell you, even though maybe I shouldn’t…’ Beate stammered.

She stopped, hesitant, until I asked her to continue. I had no idea what to expect, but did not imagine it could make things any worse.

Beate lowered her voice to little more than a whisper when she continued.

‘They called Miss from the hospital yesterday just before you came. I was standing right beside her and heard what was said. The doctor started by telling her that her father was extremely ill, and that the end was now perhaps only a matter of hours away rather than days. Then the director came onto the phone. He said that she should come now if she wanted to see him again.’

I felt a lump building in my throat. I was whispering now as well when I asked what Patricia had answered.

‘Miss said that she would of course come as soon as she could, but that she did not dare to leave the house and telephone until the case was closed and the murderer had been arrested. It could cost other people their lives and it was extremely important for you, she added. And she couldn’t tell you the truth because she was afraid it would distract you from such an important murder investigation. The director said that he understood and just hoped that she would get there on time. Then he asked her to send you his greetings, and to wish you all the best with the rest of your life.’

The lump in my throat was now enormous and hard. I struggled with it for what seemed like a small eternity before I managed to whisper a final question. And that was whether the conversation she had just recounted to me was the last time that Patricia and her father had spoken together.

Beate replied very quietly and slowly that yes, it unfortunately was.

I thanked her in a barely audible whisper for telling me. Then we put down the telephone at the same time with great care and no noise.

I just sat there for the rest of the evening, old images of Ragnar Sverre Borchmann’s dashing figure flickering through my mind, alternating with Patricia’s immobile expression earlier in the day. I sat beside the phone with my memories until well past midnight, in the hope that it would ring again. But it never did.

The fact that I had successfully closed my third murder investigation brought me as little joy in those few long hours as Patricia’s fortune would bring her. I thought to myself that one did not know what real loneliness was until one had sat alone in oppressive silence: alone in a room with a telephone that never rang, no matter how desperately one might want it to.

It was only many years later that I found out that in the course of my conversation with the maid, and throughout the evening that followed, Patricia had been sitting silently in her usual place by the telephone, chain-smoking. Around midnight, Beate had ventured to say that Patricia should perhaps call me. She had promptly been told that a maid who tried to make a career as a counsellor could just as easily end up without a job.

As I sat there alone in the silence, I felt like the loneliest person in the world. Finally I understood what Patricia had meant earlier in the day. There was no end to sad stories about parents and children in this investigation. And my great triumph was now overshadowed by tragedy. It really did feel as though everything had suddenly come crashing down.