The Catalyst Killing

I

On the morning of Thursday, 6 August 1970, I woke before seven and realized that I was far too excited to go back to sleep. Following yesterday’s encounter with the woman on the Lijord Line, I felt some of the same obsessive thrill that I had experienced in connection with my first two murder cases. The first investigation had been at as good as a standstill for two days before I met Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann, following a very timely phone call from her father. I waited no longer than necessary to call her, and felt a surge of relief when, at twenty past seven, I heard her clear, confident voice after only three rings.

Patricia, of course, did not know about the discovery of a dead woman on the train tracks at Smestad late the previous evening. She listened with increasing interest to my account, and whistled with appreciation when I mentioned the deceased’s name. ‘Falko Reinhardt’s fiancée,’ we both said at the same time. Then we sat in comfortable silence for a few thoughtful moments.

I broke the silence by adding: ‘Which can hardly be a coincidence.’

Patricia sniffed so loudly down the telephone that I could just imagine the look of disdain on her face.

‘I can most certainly promise you that it is not. You have of course already checked the date on which Falko Reinhardt disappeared?’

I had to come clean and admit that I unfortunately had not, but tried to excuse myself by saying that surely the date was of no importance here.

Patricia’s voice held a note of triumph when she replied: ‘Perhaps not. But the fact is that Falko Reinhardt, dead or alive, disappeared into the storm in the Valdres mountains on the night of 5 August 1968. And where I come from, that would certainly not be called a coincidence.’

I felt an icy shiver down my spine as my pulse started to race. And I heard myself agree that suddenly the date was of the utmost importance, and that it would not be called a coincidence in my workplace either.

There was nothing to stop Patricia’s morning inspiration and she fired away: ‘Change is the spice of life, even in murder cases. In the 1960s, we dealt with locked-room mysteries and old men. And now at the start of a new decade, you call me about a young woman and an open-space mystery. I must warn you straight away that this could be more difficult terrain. There were only six flats and a total of seven suspects in 25 Krebs Street. And only eleven people sat down to dine at Magdalon Schelderup’s mansion in Gulleråsen. Whereas, in theory, practically anyone could have been at Smestad station last night. Hopefully there will, in practice, be a more limited number of suspects, and I can already give you the names of some of them, having read about Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance at the time. But it is important that we find out as much as possible about what happened in the last hours of Marie Morgenstierne’s life, and who might have been in the area at the time. Find out what she was doing at Smestad yesterday evening and who she met there, and do not delay in requesting any witnesses who might have seen her walking to the station to come forward. Come here for supper at six o’clock this evening and bring with you anything of interest in connection with Marie Morgenstierne’s death and Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. Will that be possible?’

It sounded more like an order than a question. I replied immediately that it would.

‘Did Marie Morgenstierne throw herself on the tracks, did she fall, or was she pushed?’ I asked.

I should not have done that. Patricia let out a deep sigh, and answered rather pointedly: ‘No. She was shot.’

Thus I could confirm with alarmed relief that Patricia was clearly as on the ball as she had been the year before. She waited until I asked for more details, and then replied without hesitation, ‘I would be very surprised if Marie Morgenstierne was not shot only seconds after the train you were on pulled away from the station. And I think it is highly unlikely that she was shot with a hunting rifle of this year’s model. But hopefully you will know more about that when we meet this evening.’

I replied that I had every hope that I would. Then I put the phone down and left the flat straight away. My mind was already slightly scrambled, but I did have the clarity to realize that I would not be spending much time at home over the next few days.

II

At the office I was informed that a routine examination of the scene of the crime and door-to-door enquiries around Smestad had come up with nothing. So I called the national radio station and asked them to make an announcement calling for possible witnesses in Smestad area the evening before. I quickly established that the newspapers had not yet picked up on the death. The headlines were dominated by the new mid-distance running star Arne Kvalheim’s victory in a race at the Bislett Games, and the one hundred or so demonstrators who had set up camp in order to prevent the planned development of a power plant in Mardøla in Møre and Romsdal municipality.

Having looked through the papers, I sat for a while deep in thought. There were no files of any sort on Marie Morgenstierne in the police records and the census records only contained a single sheet of paper that was of little help. She was simply recorded as living at an address in Frogner, the most desirable part of Oslo.

It occurred to me that it was rather odd that we had heard nothing from her parents or other relatives. When I looked in the telephone directory, I discovered that a Martin Morgenstierne lived at the same address, and he was listed as bank manager. I dialled the number several times and let it ring for a long time, without getting an answer.

In anticipation of the family getting in touch or of finding any information about Marie Morgenstierne, I threw myself into the rather thick file regarding her fiancé’s disappearance in August 1968. It was exciting stuff and, like Patricia, I found it hard to believe there was no connection between Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance and Marie’s death.

Falko Reinhardt, Marie Morgenstierne and four other young people from radical student circles at the University of Oslo had travelled together to a cabin in Vestre Slidre in Valdres on Saturday, 3 August 1968. The statements were unanimous in that Falko had been the one who initiated the trip, the purpose of which was to have four uninterrupted days to plan the autumn’s anti-Vietnam demonstrations and other activities, as well as spend time together. The first two days of the trip had passed without incident.

On Monday, 5 August Falko had left the cabin for a few hours, without saying before or afterwards where he had gone. In the evening a storm had blown up, with driving rain and wind, and the six students had stayed indoors. Some alcohol had been consumed, but as they later remembered it, it was not a lot. The storm had instilled a growing feeling of unease. This had been triggered by an episode earlier in the evening when one of the young women claimed to have seen a face wearing a black eye mask look in at the window. The students had gone out into the storm together, but found no trace of anyone. ‘Incident very odd indeed, but statements credible nonetheless’ was written across the report from the hearings. I noted this down and continued to read with keen interest.

The real drama in Valdres did not start until two in the morning, when Marie Morgenstierne screamed so loudly that two of the students sleeping in another room woke up.

They came rushing in to find her alone in the bedroom. Falko Reinhardt’s side of the bed was empty. His jacket was still hanging in the wardrobe, but the rest of his clothes and shoes were gone. The window was closed, because of the rain outside.

At this point, my reading was interrupted by an irritating, impatient knocking on my office door. It was five past eleven.

III

I sighed, put down the papers with considerable reluctance and opened the door. The person responsible for this interruption proved to be a very flustered pathologist.

‘The woman from the tracks was not only dead before the train hit her, but even before she fell on the rails…’ he stammered.

With an impatient wave, I indicated that he should continue. ‘She was shot. I have already established that!’

The pathologist nodded eagerly and bowed, obviously impressed with the pace of my investigation.

‘This is slightly less certain, but I also have reason to believe that she was not shot with an ordinary hunting rifle.’

He nodded even more frantically and bowed even more deeply. ‘It is truly incredible what you have been able to work out by yourself without technical assistance. The bullet appears to come from an older, less common 22-calibre gun, possibly a small-bore rifle or some other relatively light weapon, but could also have been a pistol of some sort.’

I asked the pathologist if he had anything else of importance to tell, then sent him out of the office when the answer was no. My thoughts were still in Valdres in the summer of ’68, on the stormy night when Falko Reinhardt vanished from a bedroom where the window was closed from the inside.

IV

How Falko Reinhardt had disappeared from the cabin was a mystery in itself. According to the police statements, one of the female students in the next room had been awake all night with a headache and the door was ajar. She was able to give an accurate account of who had passed the door after midnight. Marie Morgenstierne had gone out to the kitchen for a glass of water, and one of the male students had gone out onto the step for some fresh air. And the other young man had gone to the toilet. But none of them had seen or heard anything of Falko Reinhardt – and yet he was gone.

According to the statements from Marie Morgenstierne and the others, she was beside herself and convinced that her fiancé had been abducted or murdered. They had discussed the situation for an hour in the hope that he would show up again, but the group grew increasingly uneasy when he failed to appear. It was Marie Morgenstierne who had pushed for them to go out into the storm together at around three in the morning. But there was no sign of Falko or anyone else near the cabin. One of the students said that she saw a person in the distance through the storm, but it was too far away and visibility was too poor for any of the others to verify this.

The five students had then retreated back into the cabin. They had stayed awake for the rest of the night, huddled together in the living room, anxious and upset, without any means of contacting the outside world or doing anything at all.

When the storm subsided the following morning, the students went out together again. There were still no footprints to be found. But they did make a very worrying discovery not far from the cabin.

They found Falko Reinhardt’s left shoe behind a large stone not far from a sheer drop of around three hundred feet.

This obviously made them fear that he might have fallen, been pushed or jumped off the cliff in the dark, though the latter idea made the students indignant and they dismissed it. The theory that Falko Reinhardt’s life had in some way ended on the stones at the base of the cliff was reinforced when his right shoe was found in the scree later in the day.

The only problem was that no one could find Falko Reinhardt, or any trace of him, even when the area was searched twice by a large contingent from the Home Guard. Dead or alive, the missing man had simply vanished, first from the cabin, and then into thin air.

Falko Reinhardt had taken several language courses at the University of Oslo, but at the time of his disappearance was a good way through writing his thesis for a master’s degree in history. He had written about a Nazi network during the war. A few weeks before he disappeared Reinhardt had told his supervisor, the renowned professor Johannes Heftye, that he had made a remarkable discovery that could indicate that parts of the network were still active.

One of the main leads in the investigation after this was an elderly, wealthy farmer called Henry Alfred Lien, a former convicted Nazi, who had been a member of the fascist Nasjonal Samling in Valdres. According to the thesis, he had been active in the network during the war. However, Lien proved to be ‘extremely uncommunicative’ in his meeting with the police in 1968. He claimed to have been at home on his farm a good few miles away on the night in question, and denied any knowledge of Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance.

He also threatened the police with legal action if anything was said to link his name to the case, so of course that never happened. There was no evidence that Falko Reinhardt had been the victim of a criminal act, and even less that Henry Alfred Lien was involved in his disappearance. To be on the safe side, and at his own cost, Lien had travelled to Oslo and taken a lie-detector test, during which he answered only two questions. The first was whether he had participated in the abduction of a student by the name of Falko Reinhardt. The second was whether he had been involved in the death of a student by the name of Falko Reinhardt. According to the attached certificate, the answer from the lie detector to both questions had been a clear no.

No other suspicious activity had been registered in the area on the night of the storm. A slightly sozzled youth on his way home from a birthday party a few miles further down the valley had tried, without success, to hitch a lift from a car that had sailed past him at high speed around four in the morning. He thought there had only been one person in the car, and his description of ‘a somewhat overweight man or woman of around forty’ was firstly too vague, and secondly bore no resemblance to Falko Reinhardt. As the tipsy young lad could not give a reliable description of either the driver or the car in the dark, his handwritten statement remained a simple appendix in the file.

And with that, the head of the investigation cautiously concluded that ‘there is currently no evidence to justify further investigation’, and the hunt for the truth regarding Falko Reinhardt’s fate came to a halt. The final documents in the file were two short letters from 1969 – a handwritten one from Falko Reinhardt’s parents, and a typed one from Marie Morgenstierne – which both complained about the perceived lack of police engagement in the case.

The investigation into the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt had taken place while I was on holiday and had been led by Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen. He was the youngest detective inspector after me, and was possibly even more ambitious – and he was one of those endlessly irritating people who embody guile, but are also extremely competent.

In short, I did not particularly wish to discuss the Reinhardt case with Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen, and was even less keen to involve him in any way in my investigation into the murder of Marie Morgenstierne. The idea of solving both cases right under his nose, with secret help from Patricia, was far more appealing. So I put the file to one side, but kept the exemplary list of the telephone numbers and addresses of the witnesses in the Falko Reinhardt case to hand, as it was currently the best starting point for establishing the truth about the murder of Marie Morgenstierne.

V

According to the file, Falko Reinhardt’s parents were Arno Reinhardt, a photographer, and his wife Astrid, who lived at the end of Seilduk Street in Grünerløkka. ‘NOTE: NORWEGIAN COMMUNIST PARTY!’ had been scribbled in the margin of the filing card in Detective Inspector Danielsen’s annoyingly neat handwriting.

I put the card with the two elderly Communist Party members to one side in favour of a list of the names of the four remaining members of the Socialist Youth League who had been with Falko Reinhardt and Marie Morgenstierne at the cabin in the mountains two years ago. It read:

1. Trond Ibsen, psychology student, born 1944.

2. Anders Pettersen, art student, born 1945.

3. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, literature and language student, born 1947.

4. Kristine Larsen, politics student, born 1945.

There were addresses and telephone numbers for all of them except the young Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, whose address was given as a room at Sogn Halls of Residence.

I noticed immediately that Detective Inspector Danielsen, as the entrenched reactionary conservative he was, in addition to all his other unlikeable qualities, had written the students’ details down in alphabetical order but had put the men before the women. I was sitting pondering which order to contact them in when the phone on my desk solved my problem.

On the other end I heard one of the switchboard ladies say that there was a man on the line who said that he had potentially crucial information regarding the murder of Marie Morgenstierne. Then I heard a man introduce himself as ‘psychologist Trond Ibsen’. His voice was deep, calm and remarkably unrevolutionary. He told me that he had not been at Smestad station with Marie Morgenstierne, but had heard on the radio that a beautiful woman had been shot there, and feared it was her. So he felt he should report that not only was he a close friend of the deceased, but that he had also been with her at a political meeting in Smestad less than an hour before her death.

I thanked him for the information and said that I would like to meet him as soon as possible. He suggested that we should meet at Smestad. He had the keys to the place where the meeting had been held. I agreed and promised to meet him at the specified address at one o’clock.

VI

Marie Morgenstierne’s last political meeting had taken place in a dusty two-room office in Smestad. Five wooden chairs, now empty, were positioned around a small desk. I commented to Trond Ibsen that it obviously had not been a large meeting. He smiled, not without irony, and replied that it was true; there were not many who had realized that the future lay in combining the best elements of Soviet and Chinese communism. It had been Falko’s great vision. The small group that had gathered around him was still somewhat scornfully called the ‘Falkoists’ by other left-wing radicals, and had at various times been ostracized by the Moscow supporters in the Norwegian Communist Party and the pro-China communists in the SYL. The people who had attended yesterday’s meeting were the same small flock of visionaries and believers who had been his friends – Marie Morgenstierne, Anders Pettersen, Kristine Larsen and Trond Ibsen himself. The fifth chair had always been Falko Reinhardt’s and so was routinely left empty in case of his return.

I looked at Trond Ibsen, bemused. He was a slightly overweight, apparently very easygoing and clean-shaven young man. Apart from a single badge that said ‘Victory for FNL!’ and some unusually sharp-edged academic spectacles, there was little in his appearance to indicate that he was in any way radical or fanatical. He smiled disarmingly and shrugged.

‘The business with the chair was initially for Marie, and for Anders to a certain extent, as he also had a very close relationship with Falko. Then it just became a tradition we all took for granted. It is quite usual after accidents and disappearances for those left behind to continue to wait and hope that their loved one will come back again one day.’

‘Even a psychologist?’ I remarked.

His nod was slightly sheepish.

‘Even a psychologist. Psychologists are also human. We are simply a little better than others at understanding ourselves and other people. One would hope,’ he added swiftly, with another charming smile.

Trond Ibsen gave the impression of being a socially gifted man. He was at once suitably serious when I asked if he thought that Falko Reinhardt was alive. Trond Ibsen replied that he had at first, but now doubted it more and more. It was perhaps not so easy for the layman to see, he said, adjusting his glasses, but it had been obvious to him that Falko had been troubled by something in the weeks before he disappeared. Something he knew was weighing on him. It was therefore easy to assume that assassination or abduction were the most likely possibilities. Bearing in mind the topic of Falko’s thesis, it was not hard to imagine some kind of Nazi conspiracy – not that he wanted to point a finger at anyone.

I asked immediately if his dark mood in the weeks before his disappearance might not also support the theory of suicide. Trond Ibsen straightened his glasses again and said that that would generally be a fair assumption. Everyone who had had the pleasure of knowing Falko Reinhardt would, however, dismiss this theory out of hand. He had never met a more charismatic and vibrant person, and what was more, Falko Reinhardt himself believed that he still had so much to do in this life.

Moreover, Trond Ibsen was of the opinion that ‘dark mood’ was perhaps an imprecise description. It was absolutely clear to him, however, as he had studied psychology, that Falko had had something on his mind. Falko had been very aware of his responsibility as leader in such situations – he preferred to grapple with things alone until he had come to some conclusion, and not to bother others unnecessarily. But given the force of his personality and sharp intellect, he normally found the answer within a few hours, or certainly within a couple of days. This time, it had been hanging over him for several weeks, so it must have been something extremely difficult and important. Trond Ibsen finished with a serious note in his voice.

As far as Marie Morgenstierne was concerned, Trond Ibsen did not like to use the word ‘incomprehensible’ about anything to do with humanity, but he almost had to here. It was hard to imagine why anyone would want to take the life of such a friendly and kind person. By a process of elimination, one might think that it was the group itself that was the target. But why she would have been killed first was a mystery. As far as he was aware, Marie Morgenstierne had had no personal enemies either within their political movement or otherwise – if she did, it would have to be her capitalist father, with whom she had had strained relations for years now. But it seemed highly unlikely that he would have killed his own daughter. Parents rarely killed their own children, and if they did they were usually alcoholics or people who were seriously mentally ill, the psychologist explained. Marie Morgenstierne’s mother had died a few years ago, and she had no siblings. When she had had a glass or two, Marie sometimes complained that it was hard enough to be the child of two reactionary capitalists, let alone the only child. Marie Morgenstierne could be very open with the other members of the group in such situations, but was otherwise quiet and reserved, he added swiftly.

Yesterday’s meeting had lasted no more than an hour and nothing of note had happened. The members had first talked about the fact that it was the second anniversary of Falko’s disappearance, and had then gone on to discuss the autumn’s events and demonstrations and other work. There had been no disagreement worth mentioning. The meeting had finished at ten o’clock and the four participants had left and gone their separate ways. Trond Ibsen was the only one with a car and had, as usual, asked if he could give anyone a lift, but they had all declined. Kristine lived only a few hundred yards away, Anders was on his bike and Marie wanted to take the train. She had set off alone in the direction of the station, and he had seen neither of the others or anyone else go in the same direction. He quickly added that it was some way to walk, so anything could have happened later.

Before we finished, I took the opportunity to ask Trond Ibsen if the addresses of the other members were still correct. He looked quickly at the list and gave a short nod. ‘As far as I know,’ was his comment when he pointed at Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s name.

That prompted me to ask why she had not been at the meeting. This triggered a slightly uneasy and irritated expression on Trond Ibsen’s face.

‘Because she is no longer one of us!’ he replied, in a hard voice.

This naturally aroused my curiosity and I asked what had happened.

‘When the great schism between the Socialist People’s Party and the Socialist Youth League happened last year, all five of us met to decide on our allegiance. We had formally started as a group with the SYL. I had not imagined that any of us would want to follow Finn Gustavsen and the other reactionary, useless SPP members. Anders gave a longish speech about why we should follow the young, true revolutionaries, and added that Falko would without a doubt have wanted us all to follow this path together as a group of independent socialists. We thought that that was that. But then Miriam put up her hand and gave one of her short, incisive arguments, and concluded that we should join the SPP and run their election campaign. There was complete silence after this. I then spoke for some time in support of Anders, and urged everyone to march together on the road that would lead to a better society. Then I asked all who were in agreement to remain seated, and those who were not to stand up and leave.’

It occurred to me that I had never heard Finn Gustavsen described as either a reactionary or useless; and also that the otherwise so relaxed Trond Ibsen now looked both exercised and upset.

‘And then?’ I asked.

‘Well, then the girl got up, said goodbye and left! And that is the last time I spoke to her. I believe the same is true for the others as well, but you will of course have to ask them.’

I assured him that I would, but asked all the same if he happened to know where I might be able to find this Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen.

His smile was both roguish and sarcastic. ‘As I said, I have not been in contact with her for the past year, but I would guess that it should be easy enough. If I know Miriam, she will be sitting in the university library between half past eight and five, and will be at the SPP office from a quarter past five until ten. And I believe that between half past ten at night and half past seven in the morning, she will be alone in her bed at Sogn Halls of Residence, but I most certainly have never checked the latter. You won’t miss her. She is the one reading a book not only as she walks out of the library, but also when she crosses the road!’

Trond Ibsen laughed charmingly at his own little joke. But I had seen a glimpse of the harder and more fanatical man hidden behind this jovial facade. In addition, I had a strong suspicion that he was holding something back from me. Twice he seemed to be about to add something, and twice he refrained from doing so.

I thanked him for the information he had given me. Without being asked, he said that he would of course be happy to answer any more questions, either at his home in Bestum or his office in Majorstua.

My curiosity regarding Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had been piqued – the girl who had stood up and left, and who apparently read books as she crossed the street. I had in the meantime concluded that I should speak to all the members of the group as soon as possible, and Kristine Larsen was the one who lived closest.

VII

I stopped at a phone box on the corner and dialled the number I had been given for Kristine Larsen. She picked up the telephone on the third ring, without much enthusiasm, as far as I could tell. But she was clearly at home and immediately said that she had heard that Marie Morgenstierne was dead. When I said that I was in the neighbourhood and asked if I could come by, she said yes, with a quiet sigh.

Kristine Larsen lived on her own in a one-bedroom flat on the second floor. She came from a small family and had inherited the flat recently from her late grandmother, she added by way of explanation for the rather untidy living room. We sat down instead at a tidier kitchen table, where two coffee cups stood waiting.

Kristine Larsen was around five foot ten, blonde, slim and rather attractive and friendly. She was, however, obviously affected by the situation. She repeated twice that she would of course answer me as best she could, but that she was not used to being questioned by the police, and it had been a shock to learn that Marie Morgenstierne had been killed. Both Trond Ibsen and Anders Pettersen had called her, but she had already heard the news about a young woman who had been found dead at Smestad on the radio and immediately known who it was. As a result, she had remained at home instead of going to her lectures.

I assured her that we had all the time in the world, and she calmed down a bit. I quickly got the impression that behind her cautious manner was a rather strong-willed woman. She also appeared to have a good memory, and to be a reliable witness.

As far as Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance was concerned, Kristine Larsen said that it was still a complete mystery to her. She had been staying in the next room with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, but had been kept awake by a headache that night. She had left the door out to the hallway ajar because she needed air. She recognized all the others’ footsteps and could hear any movement outside her room after she had gone to bed. She had heard Marie Morgenstierne going to the kitchen to get a glass of water, Anders Pettersen going to the toilet and Trond Ibsen going out to get some fresh air for a few minutes. Her roommate Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had read in bed from ten until midnight, and then gone to sleep. Falko Reinhardt had apparently stayed in his room after he retired just before midnight, and there was no sign of life from him until Marie Morgenstierne raised the alarm that he had disappeared around two in the morning.

As for Marie Morgenstierne, Kristine Larsen had known her since high school. Marie Morgenstierne had met Falko Reinhardt shortly after she started university, and despite their very different social backgrounds, they immediately hit it off. They did seem to fall in love with an unusual passion, Kristine Larsen remarked with a careful little smile. Marie’s parents seemed to think that it was Falko who had led their daughter astray politically. She had, however, been moving rapidly towards socialism for about a year already before she met him, and they had in fact met at a meeting for radical students. Marie’s political views were her own, as far as Kristine Larsen could tell, but she had been very influenced by her boyfriend up until the time he disappeared. He was also a very dominant figure in the group. However, even though she remained in his shadow, Marie Morgenstierne had a far stronger personality than one might first assume, given her gentle nature.

It was a great tragedy that Marie Morgenstierne’s mother had died in the middle of this dramatic period. Marie said that she could not bear to go to her mother’s funeral and had, as far as Kristine knew, had very little contact with her father since. Kristine Larsen had been to Marie Morgenstierne’s childhood home many times when they were teenagers and had met her parents. They were nice and kind in their own way, but ‘terribly reactionary capitalists’, and her father in particular appeared to be very strict. Kristine Larsen had known Marie longer and better than she had Falko and as far as she knew, she had never met his parents.

I had noted that possible motives for the murder might be a new lover, or the rejection of a suitor. I took the opportunity to ask Kristine Larsen if she thought that there was perhaps a new man in Marie Morgenstierne’s life.

Kristine Larsen answered swiftly that she thought it as good as impossible that there had been anyone else either before Falko disappeared, or immediately after. She did, however, add slightly hesitantly that in recent months she had started to wonder if there might be another man in Marie Morgenstierne’s life. The thought had struck her because Marie’s moods had swung markedly back and forth over the course of the summer. One moment there was something brooding about her, the next she was unusually happy and carefree.

Kristine Larsen otherwise agreed with Trond Ibsen that Marie Morgenstierne’s last political meeting had been very undramatic and could not possibly have had anything to do with her death. Kristine had herself walked home alone to her flat. She had asked Marie if she wanted to come back for some coffee or a beer, but Marie had said that she had to be somewhere else. Kristine had been a bit taken aback and then thought that there might be a new man in the picture, but had not wanted to ask. She deeply regretted that now, she added in a quiet voice.

In answer to my final question about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s split with the group, Kristine Larsen said that she had possibly experienced the situation as being less dramatic than the others, but that she had also been taken aback and disappointed when Miriam stood up and left. She had known Miriam since they were around sixteen years old, and still found it hard to imagine that she would do anyone any harm.

This caught my interest and I asked what harm Miriam might have done, other than leave the group.

Kristine Larsen bit her lip and then started to backpedal furiously. She made it clear that she herself did not think that Miriam had done anything wrong, and as far as she knew, no one suspected Miriam of having anything whatsoever to do with Marie Morgenstierne’s death. But I should of course talk to Anders and Trond as well, she said, when I continued to look at her questioningly.

Then, all of a sudden, Kristine Larsen did not want to say anything more. She sat by the table pale, silent and with tears in her eyes. She had been so helpful until this point that I did not feel like pushing her any further, certainly not at the moment. So I did as she said, and drove in the direction of Anders Pettersen’s address.

This group of student activists was starting to interest me more and more. I thought it was more than likely that the group were in some way connected to Marie Morgenstierne’s death and Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance.

VIII

Anders Pettersen did not answer his telephone, but did open the door when I rang the doorbell of his flat near Grefsen. He apologized, explaining that he had just come home from a lecture on non-figurative painting at the Academy of Fine Art, and showed me a timetable that undeniably supported what he said.

This seemed reasonable enough, given that his flat was more or less full of self-signed paintings in a very non-figurative style. I had no idea what any of them were supposed to be, so could not make any comment on their artistic merit.

Anders Pettersen was almost the same height as me, had long dark hair, and was of a more stocky build than Trond Ibsen. It was easy to appreciate that under other circumstances he would appear both charismatic and handsome. Now, however, he seemed very affected by the current situation. He repeated several times that Falko’s disappearance in itself was strange, but after all he was someone who provoked powerful emotions in people and it would be easy enough to understand if he had enemies. But it was completely incomprehensible that anyone might think of killing Marie Morgenstierne. He thought it was possible that the intelligence services, or an opposing political group, might want to attack the group. He was increasingly convinced that that was the explanation for Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. But the murder of Marie Morgenstierne was inexplicable. If it was in some way related to Falko’s disappearance, why two years later? And if the intent was to strike at the group, why Marie Morgenstierne and not himself or Trond Ibsen?

Anders Pettersen seemed to be an intelligent if somewhat unsystematic thinker who had nothing against the sound of his own voice. Given his extremely radical political views and his agitated state of mind, his line of thought was not entirely unreasonable. But I was more interested in the facts.

Merely saying the name Falko Reinhardt for Anders Pettersen proved to be like pressing a button. He had known Falko since class three at school, and had always regarded him as a kind and wise elder brother. Falko was, for him, Norway’s answer to Che Guevara and a possible future leader on a par with Mao. The reason that he had now informally assumed leadership of the group in Falko’s absence was precisely because he had known Falko the longest, and could thus best imagine what he would have thought.

As for the disappearance itself, Anders Pettersen had little to add to what the others had already told me. He had initially refused to believe that Falko was dead in the period following his disappearance, but gradually the doubt had crept in. It seemed increasingly odd that Falko had not contacted him or the group if he was still alive. Falko might be in a secret American prison camp and unable to get out, but it seemed more and more likely that he had simply been killed. And Anders could imagine no satisfactory explanation of how any hypothetical kidnappers or murderers had managed to get Falko out of the cabin without being noticed.

In contrast to his impassioned response to questions about Falko Reinhardt and Marie Morgenstierne, Anders Pettersen’s reaction to my question about the split between the group and Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was unexpectedly cool. He shook his head thoughtfully and commented that he had been surprised when she got up and left, but that afterwards it had only served to strengthen a suspicion that he had had for some time.

Anders Pettersen gave me a meaningful and loaded look when he said this. His expression then became mildly patronizing when I asked what he meant by it. It had been clear to him and the other members of the group that they were being watched by the police security service from as early as 1968. However, even though they were on their guard, they had not noticed any direct surveillance. It had also been clear to Anders that there was an informant within the group who was reporting directly to the police – and he had come to believe that Falko shared this suspicion in the months before he disappeared.

Anders Pettersen had spent a lot of time pondering the mole theory after Falko went missing. His suspicion had focused on Miriam, who was also the most critical of the political stance that he and Falko had taken. The night that Falko had disappeared was the only time that Anders Pettersen could remember the otherwise so calm Trond Ibsen losing control; whereas Miriam, who was the youngest, had remained bizarrely unruffled throughout the night. When, at a later date, she stood up and left the group, he had taken that as confirmation that his theory was right.

Having said that, he added slowly and somewhat reluctantly that there was not necessarily any direct link between the supposition that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had spied on the group until she left in spring 1969, and Marie Morgenstierne’s dramatic death a little more than a year later. Marie’s death seemed more likely to be connected to Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance, though Anders was unable to say how. It was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen who claimed to have seen both the masked face in the window that evening and the shadow of a person out in the storm later that night. He advised me to take both of these incidents with a pinch of salt.

Anders Pettersen added in conclusion that he was pretty sure that the police security service, and therefore, naturally, the CIA, knew a considerable amount – if not everything – about the murder and the disappearance. And if I could get anything out of them, then perhaps something positive might come out of what was otherwise a tragic case. He also agreed with the others who had been present that the meeting the day before had been uneventful. He claimed to have seen Marie Morgenstierne for the last time outside the meeting place. They had waved goodbye to each other as usual as he got on his bike and she set off towards the station.

By the time I left Anders Pettersen, I was even more intrigued by the group and its members. And even more curious about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, the only person I had not yet met of the four remaining who had been out in the storm that night in Valdres. I reckoned that it would be easier to find her in her room, or at the SPP office later in the day, than to run around looking in the university libraries. Furthermore, I had some important telephone calls to make. So I drove straight to the main police station from Grefsen and arrived back at around half past two.

IX

Marie Morgenstierne’s family had still not been in touch. And her father Martin Morgenstierne was still not answering the telephone, even though I had now called around ten times. It was starting to be a significant problem that we had not managed to contact the deceased’s closest family. The priest had knocked on Martin Morgenstierne’s door around midnight the night before and then again at half past seven in the morning, without finding any sign of life.

Given the time of year, it seemed likely that Martin Morgenstierne was either abroad or at a cabin without television, radio or a telephone. His employer was most likely to know where he was. As there were still not so many bank managers in Oslo, I asked one of the secretaries to go through the list and ring all of the banks in the city, if necessary.

In the meantime, I myself called the number provided for Falko Reinhardt’s parents in Grünerløkka. Here the telephone was answered on the third ring. An earnest woman’s voice announced ‘Reinhardt’. I introduced myself and said that if she and her husband were at home today, I would very much like to come and speak to them in connection with the murder of Marie Morgenstierne. She replied equally earnestly that she and her husband had heard about the murder on the radio, but did not know that it was Marie Morgenstierne who had been killed until just now. She added that since their son’s disappearance, they were generally always at home.

There was silence for a moment. I asked if it would be suitable to come at either four or five o’clock. She replied, still very serious, that I could come at four, or at five, or whenever I liked. I said that I reckoned it would be sometime between four and five. She said that they would be happy to talk to me, but did not sound as though she meant it. Then she put the phone down before I had a chance to thank her.

The secretary helping me trace Martin Morgenstierne was young and eager, and only a few minutes after I had finished my telephone call, she was standing at my door with the address and telephone number of the bank where Martin Morgenstierne was manager. It was not one of the largest in town, but was well known all the same and had a good reputation.

I rang the bank’s switchboard and said that I was from the police and it was urgent. Then I got straight to the point and asked if they knew where Martin Morgenstierne, the manager, was.

There was silence for a moment, then the switchboard operator replied that the bank manager was in his office, as he always was during office hours unless he had important meetings elsewhere.

It was my turn to be lost for words. But eventually I asked if she could put me through to him.

It was a strange and by no means pleasant experience to hear the bank manager’s calm voice answer with ‘Bank Manager Morgenstierne here.’

I started by saying: ‘This is Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen and I am afraid that I have some very bad news for you regarding a personal matter…’

The bank manager’s voice sounded a touch sharper, but his response was just as measured when he asked if I was alluding to the death of his daughter, in which case his secretary had already informed him. She had been told by a friend of his who was an editor and had called to offer his condolences. He did not think that he would have anything of interest to contribute to the investigation as he had unfortunately only had very sporadic contact with his daughter in recent years. That being said, he would of course answer any questions the police might wish to ask.

There was a brief pause when neither of us said anything. I was at a loss as to what to say to a man I had never spoken to before, who had found out only hours ago from his secretary that his daughter was dead and yet had just carried on with his working day as though nothing had happened.

I offered my condolences all the same and assured him that that the investigation would be given the highest priority, then asked if I could meet him as soon as possible. He replied that he had an important meeting in the bank at half past three, but that he should be back home in Frogner by half past five at the latest. I suggested that I should come there at six and he said that would be fine.

I sat deep in thought, with the receiver in my hand and the tone in my ear, after Martin Morgenstierne had put down the phone. The case seemed to be getting more and more convoluted, the more parties I got to know. The investigation was not yet half a day old and it was already clear that it involved several mysteries and a gallery of fascinating characters. I felt a tremendous sense of relief that I had Patricia behind me. And then I started to wonder who it was knocking on my door.

X

This time the door-knocker turned out to be Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen. I had silently hoped that he was on summer holiday in some faraway place, but now remembered that he never went on holiday at any time of year for fear of missing out on a career opportunity.

He had come primarily to ‘sympathize’ with me about being given sole responsibility for the murder of Marie Morgenstierne, which would no doubt be a very demanding case. Danielsen also wanted to make sure that I knew about the possible connection to Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance, as he himself had led that investigation. I was as friendly as could be, thanked him and assured him that I would be in touch should any relevant questions crop up. However, I had already had the pleasure of reading his written report, which was so informative and detailed that I had everything I needed for the present. He smiled and thanked me and told me that the door to his office was always open, should I need any assistance.

He then added, with the falsest smile, that some potentially good news had just come in. A witness had come forward who had been walking behind Marie Morgenstierne on the way to the station the evening before.

I asked jokingly why he had not brought the witness in with him straight away. He replied that unfortunately there were certain practical problems in connection with the witness, and it would therefore perhaps be best if I came out and met her myself.

I smelt a rat, and asked if the witness was under the influence or indisposed for any other reason. Danielsen cheerily shook his head and said that the witness was a sober and undoubtedly reliable person, but was still, to put it politely, ‘problematic as an eyewitness’. It would perhaps be best if I went out to the reception area to meet her myself. He could scarcely hide the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth when he said this.

I understood that something was not right, but did not yet know what. So I followed him out to reception.

The first thing that took me by surprise was the faint sound of a dog whining. But I understood the problem as soon as I saw the dog, and its owner.

She was a rather attractive redhead and she was waiting patiently on a chair, with a white stick in her hands. Her eyes stared blankly at me when she took off her dark glasses.

XI

I immediately led the witness and her dog into my office. Her name was Aase Johansen, she was twenty-five years old and lived with her parents in her childhood home in Smestad. She had tried to find a course at the university that was suitable for blind students and that interested her, but without any luck. She now therefore spent the greater part of her day listening to the radio and reading. The evening before, she had been on her way to meet a friend with her dog and had been heading in the direction of the station. And even though she had not been able to see what happened, she had heard enough to think she should report to the police, when the request for witnesses to come forward was announced on the radio.

I immediately thanked her for coming and said that it was indeed the right thing to do. I asked her to recall as well as she could what she had heard, and to tell me in as much detail as possible anything she thought might be of interest.

Aase Johansen took this task very seriously. She started by pointing out that she could of course not be one hundred per cent certain, but that she was at least ninety per cent sure that it was Marie Morgenstierne who had been walking in front of her yesterday evening. She knew the road very well, and she was just past the lamppost that was a couple of hundred yards from the station. So the timing fitted, as she had arrived at her friend’s flat, which was only a hundred yards or so from there, at around a quarter past ten. Aase Johansen had reacted immediately when a woman who was walking at a steady, relaxed pace about ten yards in front suddenly broke into a run. And they were the fastest steps the blind woman could ever recall having heard on the streets of Oslo. In addition, she had heard someone on the road call out ‘Marie!’ But the woman who must have been Marie Morgenstierne did not slow down – if anything, she ran faster.

All in all, it had been strange enough for her to feel it was the right thing to come here, my blind witness said in a slightly anxious voice. I nodded reassuringly, then realized that that was not of much help, so put my hand gently on her arm. Then I asked if she had heard any other people on the road.

Aase Johansen nodded eagerly. She had not heard anyone ahead of Marie Morgenstierne on the road, but she had heard two different sets of footsteps between herself and Marie. The first belonged to a man with a walking stick. Our blind witness had automatically assumed that it was an older man, but added that his breathing did not appear to be laboured and he walked at a steady pace. It had sounded as though this man with a stick had carried on walking at the same steady pace even after Marie Morgenstierne had started to run. Behind him, and just in front of the blind woman, were the steps of another younger person, in all likelihood a woman. These steps had at first picked up speed and then stopped completely in the wake of Marie Morgenstierne’s sudden flight.

The blind witness said that she could not be certain what happened in this confusion, as the footsteps then became indistinct, but also because she was at this point almost pushed over by a person with a suitcase who tried to get past her from behind. She was fairly certain that the person with the suitcase was a man, given the short and violent outburst when he bumped into her. However, she would not dare to guess his age. It sounded as though the man with the suitcase also picked up speed along with Marie Morgenstierne, but then stopped. At this point, the soundscape was so confused that the witness was not at all sure about the situation. The person who shouted ‘Marie!’ did sound like a woman, but it was so quick, and there was so much other noise.

Aase Johansen had never regretted being blind as much as she did now, she said. Her whole adult life she had hoped that one day she might do something useful for society, even though she could not see. And now she had unexpectedly been given a chance, but could not be of any real help because she was blind. It was terribly disappointing that she had been present minutes before a serious crime and could perhaps have been able to explain what had happened if she had only been able to see. A couple of tears trickled down beneath her dark glasses when she said this.

I patted her reassuringly on the shoulder and said that she had done more than anyone could expect, and had given information that might prove to be decisive. She beamed and asked if that really was true, then added that I must not hesitate to call her should I have any more questions. However, here and now, she could not think of anything else that might be of importance.

I thought for a moment or two without coming up with any questions, so I asked if she and her dog could wait out in the hall for a few minutes. She nodded happily and replied that she would be willing to wait for a few hours if there was the slightest chance that she could be of any help to me and the investigation.

I guided her out of the room, and closed the door. Then, for the first time in this investigation, I dialled Patricia’s number from my office. I had a strong feeling that she would be able to think of some questions that I had failed to ask the witness.

XII

As I suspected, Patricia was sitting at the ready. She picked up the phone after the first ring and listened with almost devout concentration to my summary of the blind witness’s account. Not unexpectedly, her response was quick when I asked if there was anything she would like me to ask the witness.

‘I have two simple but very important questions for your ear-witness. First of all, did she hear the sound of the train when Marie Morgenstierne broke into a run? And second, did the person shout Marie’s name just before, just after or at exactly the same time as Marie Morgenstierne started to run?’

I jotted the questions down without understanding their significance. I then asked Patricia if we could postpone our planned supper until seven, as I still had to take down several important statements.

‘Why not say half past seven, to be on the safe side. You can tell me the answers to my questions then, and anything else that you might think is of interest. And ask for the appeal for witnesses to be broadcast again. It would be both interesting and alarming, to say the least, if none of the other three people who were on the road yesterday evening came forward.’

I agreed, and promised to be there at half past seven. Then I put down the phone and called in the witness again.

Aase Johansen listened intently to my questions and then answered them as quickly and concisely as she could.

She had not heard any noise from the train at the point when Marie Morgenstierne started to run. She had, however, heard it approaching about thirty seconds later, when most of the other confusing sounds had died down.

In answer to the second question, she said that the person had shouted ‘Marie’ at about the same time that Marie Morgenstierne had suddenly accelerated from a walk to a run. It was possible that she had heard one or two fast steps before the shout, but she registered them at the same time.

I noted down her address and telephone number in the event of any further questions, and then accompanied her and her dog out of the building and paid for a taxi to take them home. She beamed and thanked me for this, and wished me luck with the rest of the investigation. It felt good finally to meet a helpful and obviously truthful person on what had otherwise been a very demanding day so far.

XIII

It was half past three by the time I stood alone on the pavement and watched the blind witness and her guide dog disappear in a taxi. I still had three important meetings, the first with Falko Reinhardt’s parents, the second with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, and finally with Marie Morgenstierne’s father. If her reputation was anything to go by, the former would still be in the university library, whereas Falko Reinhardt’s parents had said they were always at home. So I drove to see them first.

I had found the right address in Seilduk Street by a quarter to four. It was earlier than agreed, but the door was opened promptly all the same when I rang the bell.

Astrid Reinhardt had silver-grey hair, but was still a vigorous woman in her mid-sixties. She said she had seen me from the window. Her husband was not far behind her in the hallway. He greeted me with a noticeable accent, but otherwise in almost perfect Norwegian. One of the advantages of being a Dutchman was that it was easy to learn Norwegian, he commented with a shadow of a smile.

Meeting Falko Reinhardt’s parents in the hallway was less of a shock than entering their living room a few seconds later. I had heard that Falko Reinhardt was an only child and that his father was a photographer, but still obviously lacked the imagination to anticipate what was waiting there.

There were a couple of bookshelves, but otherwise, three of the four walls were so full of photographs that it was hard to tell whether the wall behind was painted or papered. Falko Reinhardt was in every single picture that I could see. If you followed the walls from the door, you followed his journey from babe in arms to bearded adult in hundreds of photographs.

The first picture, dated 1 June 1945 in felt tip, was a simple photo of his parents smiling broadly amongst all the Norwegian flags down at Oslo harbour, holding their oblivious baby in their arms. Arno Reinhardt was younger, darker and happier, but easily recognizable. His left hand was entwined with his wife’s, and in his right arm he held their son triumphantly up to the camera.

The Reinhardts looked on with something akin to devotion as I studied the photograph, fascinated. Mrs Reinhardt was the first to speak.

‘It was a beautiful, sunny day. We happened to be on the same ship as the prime minister and president of the Storting when they returned from London to the newly liberated Norway. Only three years earlier, Arno and I had thought we would never return to Oslo, let alone come home with a child.’

I noticed that there were no photographs from the time before Falko, and asked when they had met. This time, it was he who answered.

‘Rather typically, it was in the trenches, in the fight against fascism. In Madrid on a spring day in 1937. I had travelled from Amsterdam to volunteer as a soldier, and Astrid had come from Oslo to volunteer as a nurse. We met in a trench and stayed together. Then in spring 1938, we and many other volunteers had to leave Spain in order to save our lives. I anticipated that the Netherlands would be occupied by the Nazis within a few years. So I followed my Astrid to Norway. We never for a moment dreamed that Nazism would follow us here.’

The Reinhardts were remarkably well synchronized. His wife nodded as he spoke, and then continued the story.

‘But then one day the war came to Norway. Before the war, we had been active in the Norwegian Communist Party and had met Peder Furubotn. So it was perfectly natural for us to support the communists in the resistance movement. We were active even before the Germans attacked the Soviet Union, in case you were wondering. Then everything exploded and we had to escape in all haste. We were with Furubotn when the Germans attacked his camp in Valdres in the autumn of 1942 and miraculously managed to get away and across the border into Sweden. But the authorities there persecuted us for our political beliefs too. So then we went to Great Britain, where we worked in the lower echelons of the government administration for the last two years of the war. And it was there, in autumn 1944, in the midst of all the horrors of war, that we experienced a miracle that we had not dared to hope for.’

I looked over at her husband, who continued: ‘We had tried for seven years, and in three countries, to have a baby. In spring 1944, with only a few days between us, we both turned forty. We had definitely given up all hope of there ever being more than two of us in the family. I had lost one of my best friends in an air raid the night before. But I still cried with joy for the first time in my adult life when Astrid came running into my office to tell me. And I cried for the second time in my adult life on 12 November 1944, when I saw my son for the first time. In the midst of all the wounded and dying people, a small miracle was born to us in a half-bombed hospital in London. We feared for his life every day in London. And when the war was over, we took it in turns to watch over him on the journey home, in case the ship should sink. We were both awake for those last twenty-four hours. It was an enormous relief when we could finally go ashore in Oslo, with our little Falko intact.’

The Reinhardts seemed to be so in tune and shared their story equally. Mrs Reinhardt nodded as her husband told his part, then took over when he stopped.

‘We wanted so desperately to have a child that we would have gladly welcomed any child. A handicapped child, a blind child – we would still have carried it to the end of the world with us and protected it for the rest of our lives. But it was soon clear that not only had we got a healthy child, but also an unusually intelligent child. Our Falko read out loud for us for the first time when he was three, and could already speak and write Norwegian, Dutch and English before he started school. He got top marks in every subject and was of course the heart and soul of his group of friends. Throughout his childhood he was the sun that lit up our lives. We hope you can understand that, even though you may not understand our politics.’

I looked around the walls, and nodded to show my understanding. Even if one was to take the parental crowing with a pinch of salt, it was impossible not to be fascinated by the collection of photographs that covered three of the living-room walls. There was the three-year-old Falko reading a book, eight-year-old Falko scoring a goal, twelve-year-old Falko speaking from a lectern. Even at that age he stood out from his peers, thanks to his height, his strong face and dark mop of curly hair.

The second-last picture of him was dated 1 May 1968 and showed Falko, again at a lectern, in front of a large gathering of young people.

The last one was dated 29 July 1968, and had been taken here in the living room by the table. The picture showed Falko Reinhardt, Marie Morgenstierne and his parents. They looked at least five years younger in the photograph and were smiling widely.

And there the collection ended abruptly. The fourth wall of the living room, where they had obviously hoped to hang pictures from Falko Reinhardt’s adult life, was an empty white wall. I stood between his parents, silent and lost in thought, as I looked at it. I felt their longing for their lost son, and it seemed that they understood that I understood. The atmosphere when we then sat down at the table was moving, despite the deep gravity of the situation.

I expressed my sympathy for their troubles and my hope that he might still come back alive. Mr Reinhardt thanked me and said that they had for a long time hoped and believed that he was still alive. Their son had been so young, so vital and alive, when he disappeared, that it was hard to imagine he was dead. But as days became weeks, months and years, the doubt grew stronger. It seemed incomprehensible that their son would not let them know if he was alive out there, somewhere. They had had many wild ideas as to what might have happened, without ever really finding an explanation they could believe. It now seemed most likely that he had been kidnapped or killed by some powerful enemy, but they couldn’t understand how it had happened. His wife nodded in agreement.

I asked who they thought that enemy might be. Without hesitation, he replied the Nazis were a possibility, as the family had always fought against them and his son was, after all, writing his as yet incomplete thesis about them. As far as they had understood, he had made some important discoveries, but he recommended that I contact his supervisor if I wanted to know more about the thesis. Falko had always been a considerate son and had not wanted to involve them in it too much. They had also understood that he needed to live his own life and did not want to put any pressure on him.

They had of course supported his political activities, even though this involved a new left-wing perspective they did not understand. Falko had always shown a great interest in China, even as a child, whereas for them it was a distant, foreign land. They had at first been sceptical of the notion that Moscow communism might benefit from ideas from China, but had eventually been persuaded by their son’s long and well-reasoned arguments. They were therefore very happy that he established his own group to embrace the positive aspects of both China and the Soviet.

Anders Pettersen was a childhood friend who had been in and out of the flat since he was ten. They had of course also seen a lot of Marie Morgenstierne in the two years before Falko disappeared. They only knew the others in the group by name, and their son had unfortunately not talked much about them or the group’s work. They could not remember having met Trond Ibsen, Kristine Larsen or Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen.

With regard to Marie Morgenstierne, Falko’s parents, like most other people their age, hoped that their son would have his own family and they would become grandparents. They had been very happy when he came home one day in autumn 1966 and told them that he had a girlfriend. They admitted they had been less positive when they heard about her upper-class background, but were then pleasantly surprised by her character and opinions. They were delighted when Falko and Marie announced their engagement in autumn 1967. They had talked about a wedding in late autumn 1968 or early spring 1969, but no date had been set.

The Reinhardts had never had any direct contact with Marie Morgenstierne’s family. They had not made any moves themselves, nor had they felt there was any interest from the other side. Marie Morgenstierne spoke very little about her family, but they had understood that she was an only child and that she had had very little contact with her father since her mother died. Whether the father or other family members might come to the wedding or not was a question that had been discussed at their last meal together, which took place here, on 29 July 1968. Marie Morgenstierne had shrugged and commented that her father could come if he wanted, as could her uncles and aunts. Falko’s parents had thought this was a good answer.

Falko Reinhardt had disappeared a week later. And now, two years on, his fiancée had been shot and killed. It seemed to be as inexplicable to Falko’s parents as it was to me. They thought that she had perhaps been murdered by someone who wanted to stop the group, but had nothing to back up this theory.

I thanked them warmly for all they had told me and promised to get in touch immediately should I discover anything that might cast more light on their son’s fate. They, in turn, thanked me and promised to contact me if they thought of anything else that might be of interest. It felt as though we had become closer somehow in the course of my visit.

I asked, almost in passing, where they had been the day before. They both nodded in understanding and said that they had been together at home yesterday evening, as they were most evenings. One of them was always at home, in case Falko or anyone else who knew something about what had happened to him got in touch. They were generally to be found here. Arno Reinhardt had sold his photography business shortly before his son’s disappearance. They had not been active in politics since they were excluded from the NCP along with other Furubotn followers in 1949. So they seldom went out unless it was to go shopping or some other necessary errand.

It struck me that the Reinhardts fitted perfectly with two of Patricia’s concepts from our previous murder investigations. Both parents had orbited Falko like satellites from the day he was born in 1944 until his disappearance in 1968. And since his disappearance they had become human flies who circled round and round what had happened, without being able to move on.

I felt a deep sympathy for them, and was increasingly puzzled by what had happened to their son. And yet my visit had in no way brought me closer to a solution. I still lacked anything that might resemble a theory about either what had happened when Falko Reinhardt disappeared, or what had happened when Marie Morgenstierne was killed.

XIV

When I left the Reinhardts’ museum of photographs in Seilduk Street, there was still an hour left until my meeting with Marie Morgenstierne’s father. But there was now a reasonable hope that I might find Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen at the SPP office in Pilestredet.

I would never have dreamed that I would ever want to go there. And my first attempt was a bit of a fiasco. The door was locked and the lights were off, and there was no response to my rather aggressive use of the doorbell.

I was standing outside on the pavement wondering if I should drive to the address I had in Sogn Halls of Residence, when a bus stopped a short way down the street.

Even on this otherwise sad day, I almost burst out laughing when I saw the only passenger who got off. It was the first time I had ever recognized someone because I could not see their face. This was because she was reading an unusually large and thick book as she got off the bus and crossed the road. All that was visible below the book covers was a pair of blue jeans and a multicoloured sweatshirt, and above, some fair hair.

Judging from the front cover, the book was a single-volume work on nineteenth-century English literature. It certainly looked as though it contained most of what could be written about the subject.

When she was only a few feet away, I could not resist saying: ‘Miss Filtvedt Bentsen, I presume?’

She came to an abrupt halt, lowered the book and looked at me, more than a little bewildered. The twinkle in her eye rapidly changed to curiosity when I produced my police ID. The first thing I heard her say was a surprise nonetheless.

‘How exciting. Am I about to be arrested? In which case, what for?’

She looked up at me with a teasing smile, but was serious again as soon as I said that I unfortunately had to ask her some questions regarding the investigation into the death of Marie Morgenstierne.

‘Oh, so it was poor Marie? I heard that a young woman had been murdered at Smestad on the radio while I was eating my lunch today. They didn’t give her name, but I was anxious to know whether it could have been her or Kristine Larsen. Then I reasoned that the chances of that were very slim. What a terrible thing to happen, and I will of course answer any questions you might have about the case.’

I stared at her, fascinated, and then shook the hand she held out towards me. Her handshake was firm and her expression somehow both concentrated and relaxed at the same time. I was surprised to notice a necklace with a small cross around her neck. I had heard that there were Christian socialists in the SPP, but had never encountered one before.

It occurred to me that she also disproved the claim that one of my colleagues had made that if there were attractive women in the SPP, he had certainly never seen one. Her fair hair fluttered in the wind. It seemed to me that there was something refreshing and free-spirited about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, something that made me more interested in her than the other three members of the group.

I nodded my agreement as soon as she pulled a key from her jacket pocket and suggested that we should go and sit down in the party office.

The SPP office was even smaller, dustier, more overflowing with paper and more deserted than I had imagined. There was no danger of us being interrupted as we sat on our chairs by a desk that looked like it was about to collapse.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had now very definitely closed her book and given me all her attention. She leaned across the desk with obvious interest and concentration. I of course could not be seen to be any different. So five minutes after meeting for the first time, we were thus suddenly sitting in deep and focused conversation, our faces only inches from each other.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen quickly proved to have a considerably more nuanced view of Falko Reinhardt than the others who had been at the cabin when he disappeared. She agreed that he was an extremely intelligent and charismatic person, and obviously also very well read. He was perhaps one of the best linguists she had ever met. As a socialist, however, he was both too simplistic and too egoistic, and the group had acted too much like a personal fan club and too little like a political work group. The leader of the group was, according to Miriam, ‘one of those people who believed that the road was built because he started his car’.

Also, if Falko Reinhardt was a genius, he was a very distracted genius, according to Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. She commented with a more sadistic than sympathetic tinkle of laughter that he often wrote lists about things, but the problems were rarely solved as he then forgot where he had put the lists.

In addition, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen thought that when they were at the cabin, and in the weeks leading up to the trip, Falko had been troubled by something, but she did not know whether it was political or personal. She had on one occasion asked him outright, but he had not wanted to answer.

As for Marie Morgenstierne, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen considered her a sensible and philosophical young woman who, ‘like far too many other young women today’, had lived in the shadow of her boyfriend. However, she thought that the relationship between Falko and Marie had been good up to the point of his disappearance. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had never met Marie Morgenstierne’s parents, nor Falko Reinhardt’s – or certainly not as far as she knew, she added with a mildly ironic smile. She had had regular contact with Marie herself until the split in spring 1969, after which they had never spoken again.

Marie Morgenstierne was, in Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s opinion, generally careful and considerate in what she said about others. She had, however, on one occasion after a couple of glasses of wine, intimated that she suspected that one of the other members of the group knew something about Falko’s disappearance. But when Miriam tried to follow this up, Marie had swiftly backtracked, and neither of them ever mentioned it again.

All contact was broken after spring 1969. Miriam knew nothing about what Marie had done in the intervening eighteen months, and she therefore feared that she would not be of much help to the murder investigation.

She looked a little sad when she said this; the case had obviously piqued her curiosity. I personally had absolutely no wish to finish our conversation, and so asked how Miriam had interpreted the events leading up to her leaving the group. She looked at me and asked what importance that might have to me or the murder investigation, but then jokingly added that she no doubt remembered things very differently from the rest of the group.

As she remembered it, Anders Pettersen had held one of his ‘long, passionate and nebulous’ lectures. His argument, in short, was that everything the USA did was wrong and that President Nixon’s hands were stained with human blood. China, on the other hand, was the new Soviet and a land of opportunity, and Mao was the greatest leader of our time. The SPP, with its half-hearted support, had proved to be a class traitor both in terms of the working class in Norway and the hundreds of millions of liberated workers in the Soviet and China. Anders’ conclusion, therefore – and he believed that Falko would have wanted the same – was that the group should split from the SPP.

As she remembered it, Miriam herself had replied that politics were more about making things right than being right. They should therefore join with the SPP and take part in the election campaign rather than splintering into an unaffiliated group which was not even a party, and which had no realistic chance of winning representation in that year’s election. Then she had added that there should be no doubt about the democratic stance of Norwegian socialists, and that if one used one’s eyes, it was easy to see that China and the Soviet were one-party systems and that both Mao and Brezhnev also had blood on their hands. She admitted that this was somewhat provocative, but that it was undeniably both true and important. I had no problem in agreeing with her.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen gave a crooked smile and assured me that she had not expected to win over the majority of the group. She had nurtured a faint hope that Marie Morgenstierne might come with her, but was not surprised when she left alone. And she had never regretted her decision to leave. She had come into contact with the group through her anti-Vietnam activities, and still agreed with them on that point. But she could not follow the group in their support of dictatorship, and had become increasingly provoked by their simplifications and partiality following the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt.

As far as surveillance was concerned, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen thought it was overwhelmingly likely that ‘the group in general and Falko in particular’ were being watched, even though she had no direct evidence of this. In response to my question as to whether she thought there had been a mole in the group, she replied that she found that hard to believe and therefore did not want to speculate who it might have been if that were the case.

The temptation to ask if she was aware that the others suspected her of being the police security service’s informant was too great.

I was interested to see whether this might lead to a sudden outburst of emotion. But it would obviously take a lot more than accusations of treachery to knock Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen off balance. She leaned forward a touch and answered that she had not heard anything like that before, but that she should perhaps not be surprised. Then she asked, with noticeable curiosity, who had said that – only to answer her own question by saying that it was no doubt Anders or Trond, and that it really didn’t matter anyway. The accusation was, in her own words, absurd. For the sake of formality, she added that she had of course never had any form of contact with the intelligence services, and would not have answered any questions about the group, or anything else for that matter, had they contacted her.

My instinct was to believe her, and in any case, I saw no reason to pursue the idea any further here and now. So I turned instead to the stormy night in Valdres when Falko Reinhardt had disappeared, and asked whether any explanation had ever occurred to her.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen answered that she had of course given it much thought, but much to her frustration had not come up with any answers. She had herself also been awake for a long time that night, and had heard nothing. She had gone to sleep around midnight, so trusted her ‘roommate’ Kristine Larsen’s statement that Falko had not been out in the hall at any point.

I asked if she still stood by her statement about having seen a face at the window, as well as a person out in the storm that night. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen nodded, more serious now. She understood, she said, that her account of a face looking in through the window that night sounded absurd, and the fact that the upper part of the face had been hidden by a mask made it even more far-fetched. But that was exactly what she had seen, and she would never have tried to deceive the police with such an unlikely story.

She looked me straight in the eye when she said this, and I had to agree with Detective Inspector Danielsen’s notes from 1968, despite my antipathy towards him. The witness appeared to be reliable, even if her story was rather bizarre.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen added that it was a man who had looked in, and that he had a mole on his chin, which she would recognize if she ever saw him again. But otherwise it was not possible to describe him in any more detail, because of the mask and the weather.

She was even more cautious about describing the person she had seen out in the storm, as the visibility was so poor. She had been a short distance away from the others, but was sure enough of what she had seen to shout to them and point at the shadow in the dark. However, it was quite far away and no one else had been able to see it clearly.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen looked at me directly again and repeated that she had seen something upright moving through the storm, and that it was too tall, too slim and not the right colour to be an animal. For want of any alternative, she could say with ninety per cent certainty that she had seen a person. She believed that it was a person who was not only walking away from the students, but from the cabin as well. But she added with a disarming and self-deprecatory smile that although her younger brother had inherited the family’s sense of direction, she had not, so she could not be sure.

I looked at my watch and discovered to my surprise that it was a quarter to six. I had been sitting here in the SPP office for more than half an hour, in an interview situation, with my face alarmingly close to that of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. And at no point had I been anywhere close to catching her off balance. There was perhaps more interest and curiosity in her eyes now than when we first met, but they were still just as calm and confident when they met mine. I was strongly inclined to believe everything she had said, even though I had several times told myself that this appeared to be a case in which no one could be trusted.

Whatever the case, I was now in danger of being late for my important meeting with the victim’s father. So I promptly thanked Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen for her answers and asked if I could contact her again should any relevant questions arise. She brightened up and said that she had a busy week ahead, what with her studies and party commitments, but that she would of course make time if it was necessary for the investigation. She unfortunately did not have a telephone in her student room, but for the next few days would be at the university library between nine and five, and at the party office between a quarter past five and ten in the evening.

I managed to swallow my laughter. Instead I commented with a smile that she clearly took her studies very seriously – given that she also obviously read on her way from the university to the party office. Her reply was open-hearted and highly unexpected: ‘Before, I even read books in the shower!’

Fortunately, I managed to refrain from blurting out my spontaneous response: ‘Now that I would like to see!’ At the last moment I realized that it might be misconstrued and insulting. So instead I permitted myself a short burst of friendly laughter. She gave an ironic smile and added that she had stopped when it proved to be impractical. The books were fine as long as you kept them out of the water, but it took so much longer to shower when reading, so it was not rational. Another rather unfortunate consequence was that there was rarely enough warm water left for her parents and little brother.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen explained that she believed you had to be a rational idealist to make the world a better place in this day and age. And in order to demonstrate the point, she took out a large pile of papers as she said this and started to sort through them.

I watched the obviously very rational idealist for a few seconds with a mixture of surprise and fascination. She sorted with alarming speed. I thanked her once again for the information and wished her a good evening – and was only too well aware that I would be late for my meeting with the deceased’s father.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen looked up briefly from her pile of paper, waved and flashed me a crooked smile as I left the office. For want of any other leads, I interpreted it as a good omen for my investigation. I found it reassuring and credible, and not in the least suspect, that she was the only one who had remained calm on the night that Falko Reinhardt had disappeared. And for my own personal record, I noted that the sole dissenter in the group was rather beautiful as she sat there alone, smiling, even if it was by a desk in the SPP office.

XV

It was ten past six by the time I rang the doorbell of Martin Morgenstierne’s house in Frogner.

The house was even larger than I had expected, and the host more correct. He was standing waiting at the door, gave me a firm handshake and immediately accepted my apology that I was a few minutes late owing to other commitments relating to the case.

Martin Morgenstierne was as impeccably dressed as I had imagined, in a black suit and tie. But he was unexpectedly tall and unexpectedly youthful. His hair was still black and his face was free of wrinkles, so he did not look a day over fifty, and his movements were still vigorous and dynamic. He seemed remarkably fit for a bank manager.

Martin Morgenstierne showed me into the drawing room and we sat down opposite each other on very generous sofas. I politely declined his offer of a drink. He poured himself a small glass of cognac from a large drinks cabinet, but left it untouched to begin with. I waited to see if he would say anything first. In the meantime, I glanced swiftly around the room.

The contrast with the Reinhardts’ flat in Seilduk Street was striking, and it was not difficult to understand why the meeting of the two families had been such a collision both politically and culturally. The walls here were at least twice as big as the Reinhardts’, but with the exception of three impressive bookcases, they were panelled and remarkably empty. There were a couple of plaques honouring Martin Morgenstierne himself, and two pictures of him with an attractive, elegant dark-haired woman, who was obviously his wife. The first was an old black and white wedding photograph, the second a more recent colour photograph from their silver wedding anniversary or some such celebration. Martin Morgenstierne was easily recognizable. However, there was a stark contrast between his broad, apparently genuine smile in the pictures on the wall and his very grave expression now.

The drawing room almost gave the impression that Martin Morgenstierne had had a happy but childless marriage. There was no trace of his daughter, though I suspected that at some point there had been. Below the photographs of himself and his wife were two lighter squares on the wooden panelling, telling of photographs that had been removed.

Martin Morgenstierne was clearly an intelligent man with good social skills. He followed my gaze around the room for the first thirty seconds or so, before breaking the silence.

‘You are no doubt somewhat surprised that I do not have any photographs of my only daughter here, and that I carried on working as usual after I had received the news of her death.’

I nodded my confirmation. He continued, still without a shadow of a smile.

‘My family has always had a strong sense of duty and work ethic. I have not missed a single day of work, other than trade holidays, for more than a decade. I have worked extremely hard all my life and my compulsion to work became even stronger after the death of my wife. I realized very quickly that I would go mad if I stayed at home on my own too much. So instead, I worked my way through the greatest sorrow I have ever experienced. And now I will do the same.’

He took a nip from the glass of cognac, and sat for a moment lost in thought. I was relieved to hear that Martin Morgenstierne did feel some grief at his daughter’s death, and I hoped that we were getting closer to something.

‘There were of course pictures of her on the walls for all the years she lived at home. And I left them there even though she rebelled and turned her back on all the values we held. But in the last few months that my wife was alive, her lack of respect was too much. I phoned Marie one Wednesday in September 1967 to say that her mother was deteriorating rapidly, and that my wife would like to meet her to see if they could be reconciled. Marie replied that it was highly unlikely that a meeting could lead to reconciliation at this stage, and that she in any case had a meeting that evening. She would see if she had the time to come by at the weekend. But by the time the weekend came, Margrete was dead. So there was a tragic end to a sad chapter in my family story. I hope that you understand and judge my reactions accordingly.’

I nodded. Even though I had only heard one side of the final chapter in the Morgenstierne family history, it was easy to understand that this would have made a deep impression on an old-school family man. The sudden use of her first name reinforced my impression that he had been deeply attached to his wife.

‘I continued to treat my daughter with the utmost respect, even though she perhaps did not deserve it. She inherited a quarter of million from her mother, fifty thousand more than was in the estate. But I could no longer bear to see her picture alongside that of her mother. So I put away all the photographs of Marie. I hoped that there would be better times ahead and that we would eventually find our way back to each other. But it seemed, as she said herself, highly unlikely. I sent her a Christmas card and received a card in response for New Year. Other than that, we have had no contact for more than a year now.’

He shook his head sadly and emptied the rest of the glass of cognac.

‘In retrospect, I have realized that the situation is in part fate and in part our own fault. Both Margrete and I came from conservative families with strong traditions. I followed in my father’s footsteps, serving as an officer in the army in my younger years, then going on to become a successful bank manager. I had great hopes for a large family and a son to carry on the family name. But Marie’s birth was difficult, and as a result, my wife could have no more children. So all our hopes and aspirations rested on Marie. It was perhaps too much for her. I have often thought about it in recent years.’

Martin Morgenstierne stood up and poured himself another glass of cognac. He was on a roll now, and carried on without any prompts from me.

‘She was the dream daughter throughout most of her childhood. She did everything we asked her to, was kind and polite to everyone, and did well at school. But then suddenly everything changed when she turned eighteen and went to university. I cannot forgive him for leading her astray.’

‘By him, you mean Falko Reinhardt?’

He nodded, and an almost aggressive edge sparked in his eye.

‘Of course. Though we had noticed some changes before he came on the scene. She was much harder on both me and her mother, and the atmosphere around the table was often not particularly pleasant in the months before she graduated from high school. But it was when she started university and met him that it became unbearable for me to eat supper in my own home. I am fully aware that he is in all likelihood dead, but I have nothing positive to say about him, all the same.’

I asked whether he had ever met Falko Reinhardt in person. He nodded, almost reluctantly.

‘We met a couple of times when they first fell in love, and then I met him again at my daughter’s request just after they got engaged. He made an admirable attempt to embrace me and even tried to call me father-in-law, instead of his usual sarcastic ‘Super Pater’, the last time we met. He was intelligent enough not to mention any of the anti-establishment theories he spouted so readily in other social contexts. But we were of course diametrically opposed in terms of politics and status, so any real contact was impossible. I prayed to God on several occasions that my daughter might break off the engagement and had debated vigorously with myself as to whether I would go to the wedding or not. And in the end, I did not have to make that choice.’

He sighed, took a sip from his glass, and then carried on.

‘For me, it was a huge relief when my daughter’s fiancé disappeared, and I had no desire whatsoever for him to come back. It is understandable that the detective inspector leading the investigation into Reinhardt’s disappearance had to ask me where I was on the night that he disappeared. Fortunately, it could be confirmed that I was at an anniversary dinner in Oslo until well past midnight, so it would have been impossible for me to get to my cabin in Vestre Slidre.’

I could not gauge the extent to which this positive reference to Detective Inspector Danielsen was a dig at me or not. I could imagine that the two of them had quickly become chums, but something else that the bank manager said immediately caught my attention.

‘So the cabin in Valdres is yours?’

He nodded.

‘Paradoxically, yes. I inherited it from my father. I had spent family holidays there since I was a boy, a tradition that Marie had also grown up with and enjoyed. But the cabin had not been used since Margrete died. I could not face going there alone, and Marie knew this. Which is why she took the chance of inviting her friends there without even asking me. I was completely unaware that the group were in my property and at first thought it was a misunderstanding when the police called to say that a person had been reported missing from my cabin.’

‘So your daughter had her own key to the cabin, and you still have your own key?’

‘Yes, I do still have it, but don’t use it any more. I have not been to the cabin since all this happened and definitely have no intention of going there alone now. The police are welcome to borrow the key, if that would be of any help to the investigation.’

I accepted this offer and thanked him, popping the key he gave me into my pocket. It could well be useful to have the key to the cabin where Falko Reinhardt had disappeared.

But right now, I was more interested in the deceased’s flat. According to her father, she had lived in a rented two-bedroom flat in Kjelsås for the past three years. He had only been there once and was never offered a key. He could therefore only advise that I contact the owner or caretaker of the building if I wanted to get in. As far as inheritance was concerned, he had no idea whether his daughter had a will or not, or if so, where it might be. If she had not left a will, he would, as her closest living relative, get back all the money she had received following her mother’s death. Which was certainly not what he had hoped for, he added hastily.

I viewed Martin Morgenstierne in a more positive light following this conversation. It now seemed that he had said all that he wanted to for today. He looked at me questioningly over his glass of cognac, with a hint of anticipation.

I still had one unanswered question – which I really did not want to ask, but knew I had to.

‘As a matter of procedure, I have to ask where you were at ten o’clock yesterday evening?’

I was prepared for a violent reaction. There was none. Martin Morgenstierne was obviously an impressively controlled man. He emptied what was left of his cognac before answering, but when he did, his voice was measured but not unfriendly.

‘I have been a law-abiding man all my life. And I had not given up hope that my daughter would at some point change her views, and that we would be reconciled. In fact, it was my fervent wish for the future. The thought that I might hurt my daughter in any way is absurd. But I fully understand that you have to ask. Fortunately, I can tell you that I was at a colleague’s fiftieth birthday celebrations yesterday evening at ten o’clock, and that can be confirmed by about ten reliable witnesses.’

When he said the word ‘absurd’ it struck me that Martin Morgenstierne the bank manager and Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen the SPP activist, despite all other apparent differences, shared a remarkable sense of rationality. But even though Morgenstierne had risen in my esteem during our conversation, I was in no doubt which of the two I liked best.

I had no more questions to ask then and there. I thanked him for his time and once more gave my condolences, then stood up. Martin Morgenstierne was a very proper host, and he followed me out to the front door.

In the hallway, he said that he would be grateful if he could be informed of any conclusions the investigation might reach concerning his daughter’s murder before they appeared in the newspapers. Then he added that he was more than happy to answer any more questions, should that be necessary, but did not think that he had much more to add. He had no idea what his daughter had been up to in the past year. He would guess that the possible motive was to be found in the radical circles she frequented, some of whose members were not averse to the idea of terrorism and illegal activity. But he did not know any of the others involved, and so could not point anyone out as a suspect.

As I was leaving, he suddenly remarked that it would no doubt be some time before his daughter could be buried due to the ongoing investigation, but that when the time came he supposed it would be he who had to do it. I confirmed this assumption: Marie Morgenstierne had at the time of her death been unmarried, and her father was her closest relative. He said he would have to consider the situation, but thought that perhaps she should be buried beside her mother in the family grave.

I pointed out that that had nothing to do with me or the police, but that personally I thought it was a good idea. And in some way in that moment, it felt as though Marie Morgenstierne was one step closer to reconciliation with her parents, albeit after her own and her mother’s death. Her father and I shook hands and parted on almost friendly terms.

When I left the house in Frogner at ten past seven, I had still only seen Martin Morgenstierne’s smile on old photographs. But little else was to be expected, given what I now knew about the family history. And given the father’s alibis it seemed very unlikely that he had anything to do with his daughter’s death, or with her fiancé’s disappearance.

XVI

I had plenty of new information to worry about on my short drive to the grand Borchmann residence at 104 -8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. The case was becoming increasingly complex, and a solution was no closer than it had been this morning. However, as I parked the car, it was the thought of how it would be to see Patricia again that bothered me most. My last visit there had been some fifteen months earlier, on the Norwegian national day, and that 17 May had ended dramatically when I more or less fled the house just before midnight.

To my relief, the impressive white building was just as I remembered. To step through the door was still like taking a step back in time to the 1930s. It was Patricia’s father, the professor and company director Ragnar Sverre Borchmann, who had contacted me in connection with my first murder investigation two years ago. This time, he was nowhere to be seen. But I was still graciously received. I was, just as before, unable to tell whether the maid was Beate or Benedikte, as they were identical twins. But I assumed that Benedikte would not be back at work yet as she had had a baby the year before, so I guessed it was Beate, and did not ask. She was standing at the ready as soon as I rang the doorbell, and whispered: ‘Don’t say that I told you, but she’s been looking forward to this and waiting impatiently for you all day.’

I gave her a friendly smile and took this as a sign that our complicity from the two previous investigations had been re-established.

The library – where the now twenty-year-old Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann had spent most of her waking hours since a car accident had killed her mother and left her paralysed from the waist down – was still the same, too. And there she was, surrounded by all her books, sitting back in her wheelchair, apparently relaxed, with a thick notebook and three ballpoint pens at the ready on the large table.

The new decade had heralded few changes in here. The twenty-year-old Patricia I met in summer 1970 looked more or less the same as the nineteen-year-old Patricia I had fled from in spring 1969. I was convinced that she remembered my hasty retreat, but she did nothing to show it if that was the case. The starter to a delicious three-course meal was already on the table.

It did not feel natural for me to shake her hand, or to initiate any form of physical contact, and fortunately she did not appear to feel inclined either. But it did feel absolutely natural that I should come back here to seek her advice, now that I was once again in the middle of a demanding investigation. It had become part of the world order that we both took for granted; I needed her help to solve my murders, and she needed my help to give her life meaning. So we sat down without shaking hands and this time without any small talk either.

‘Tell me everything,’ she said, the very second that the door closed behind the maid.

Patricia noted down the odd key word as a reminder, but otherwise listened in silence while we consumed the oxtail soup and most of the duck breast. I myself had my work cut out trying to finish both the starter and the first course and still deliver my report of the day’s hearings fast enough to prevent any impatient furrows appearing on Patricia’s brow. It was half past eight by the time I had gone through all the day’s events and reached the end of my visit to the victim’s father.

‘So, what does the genius have to say about Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance and Marie Morgenstierne’s murder so far?’ I asked, before throwing myself with gusto into what remained of my first course.

Patricia smiled.

‘The genius is certainly intelligent enough to see that we still lack too much information to be able to conclude anything about these two rather complicated cases. And at the same time warns that it may take time and energy to solve them. The universes we have dealt with in both our previous cases have been clearly defined, and we have had to separate the truth from lies, and the murderer from the innocent within a limited group of known players. Here we face the curse of public space. Practically the whole of Oslo could in theory have shot Marie Morgenstierne at Smestad yesterday, with the exception of her father and anyone else with a clear alibi. And practically the whole world could, in one way or another, have played a part in Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance in Valdres two years ago. However, bearing in mind the dates, it seems likely that there is some kind of connection between these two events. And I think that we can safely say that the person who shot Marie Morgenstierne is someone she already knew.’

I looked at Patricia, impressed, as she slowly and thoughtfully chewed her last mouthful of duck.

‘That sounds reasonable enough. But how can you be so sure? And, what’s more, how did you know before the pathologist that she had been shot, and with an unusual weapon?’

Patricia was looking at me patronizingly already.

‘I thought it was fairly obvious that she had been shot, but the argument does entail further implications that we should bear in mind. As you yourself saw, Marie Morgenstierne was running in fear for her life, even though there was no one behind her. However, she was still cool-headed enough to skip from side to side, clearly to make herself a less easy target for the person with the gun. It had to be a gun, really, as the murderer was obviously quite far behind her. But he or she would obviously be taking quite a chance by walking around Smestad with an ordinary hunting rifle. So it is therefore reasonable to assume that it was a more unusual weapon, one that could in some way remain concealed from other passers-by. In theory it could of course be a powerful revolver or pistol, even though that would require an unusually good shot. So what sort of murder weapon it was, and what it looked like, is a mystery in itself.’

Patricia smiled smugly, finished the water in her glass, and quickly continued before I made any attempt to interrupt her.

‘The blind witness can of course not help us with that, but her statement is still very revealing. Something happened to make Marie Morgenstierne break from a steady walk into a mad dash for her life. As the blind lady, with her excellent hearing, could not hear the train, Marie Morgenstierne could presumably not see it either. So she was not running to catch the train – it just suddenly appeared in front of her, and she realized it was her only chance to save her life. We know she panicked, obviously for some justifiable reason, while she was walking happily down the road – but that does not necessarily need to be linked to any of the people walking behind her. She could have seen someone else waiting down a side road, or behind a hedge. But something happened that alerted Marie Morgenstierne to danger, and made her run. And I would dearly love to know what it was. It would seem that it was something that the others there did not understand, but she immediately knew what it meant.’

‘Someone she knew, in other words?’ I ventured.

Patricia shrugged disarmingly and shook her head at the same time.

‘It would certainly seem that it was someone she knew, but not just that. Most of us know one or two people we would rather not meet, but very few of us would suddenly flee in panic at sight of them in a public place. Marie Morgenstierne apparently saw someone she knew, and for one reason or another she immediately knew that he or she was carrying a gun that could be aimed at her at any moment. Who and what was it that Marie Morgenstierne saw yesterday evening? That is now the most pressing question. And it undeniably makes the fact that three of the four people we know were on the street have not come forward in response to the repeated call for witnesses on the radio and television even harder to fathom. Goodness knows what their reasons are. One would think…’

Patricia stopped mid-sentence and sat deep in thought for a while. She opened her mouth for a moment, then shut it firmly. I had learned during our last investigation that Patricia hated to make mistakes, and would therefore often keep her arguments to herself until she was absolutely certain they were watertight. So I tried to prompt her by asking a question and airing my own views.

‘Surely the shout indicates that at least one person on the street knew who she was?’

Patricia nodded.

‘Clearly at least one of them knew who she was, and I suspect others did too. The shout is a mystery in itself, which the blind witness alone cannot help to explain. She heard the shout and Marie breaking into a run almost simultaneously. Was the shout prompted by the fact that Marie suddenly started to run? Or did Marie start to run because she heard the shout? Or did something else happen that only two people on the street understood the significance of, making Marie break into a run and the other person shout her name?’

I ventured to comment that Kristine Larsen was a woman, had been in the vicinity, and knew Marie Morgenstierne. Patricia looked at me sharply.

‘That is certainly a possibility to be considered, and I can assure you that I have. But first of all, the blind lady is not entirely sure that the person who shouted was a woman. And secondly, there are many other women in the world who might equally have shouted to Marie. Did you for example ask whether Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had an alibi for last night?’

I had to admit that I had forgotten to do so. I told myself that I had no reason to believe she had been at the scene of the crime, and what it is more, found it hard to believe that she had anything to do with the murder. But I was wise enough not to mention this to Patricia. Instead, I promised that I would ask her tomorrow.

‘Please do,’ Patricia said, without any apparent enthusiasm. Then she suddenly continued, ‘And ask her two more questions at the same time. One: was the window in the room where Falko Reinhardt and Marie Morgenstierne were sleeping big enough for Falko to have climbed out? Two: ask if she is absolutely sure that she fell asleep that night, and whether she can confirm Kristine Larsen’s statement that she did not hear Falko out in the hall from the time they went to bed until they discovered he was missing?’

I looked at Patricia in surprise and with something akin to disapproval.

‘Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen said clearly enough that she went to sleep around midnight, and Kristine Larsen, who had a headache, saw her lying there asleep. So surely there is no great mystery there?’

There was a pause while the maid came in to clear the plates after the main course and give us each a dessert plate of ice cream and cake. Even in this new age, Patricia was upper-class enough not to say anything while the servants were in the room. However, she drummed her fingers impatiently on the table to ensure it did not take too long, then eagerly continued her reasoning as soon as the maid had closed the door.

‘The boundary that defines sleep is blurred, to say the least. And saying that you have gone to bed is even vaguer. There is, however, a considerable difference between lying in bed with your eyes closed and being asleep, in that you are no longer aware of sounds and movements in the room. I am neither a clairvoyant nor paranoid, but while I am in no doubt that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had put down her book and closed her eyes two hours earlier, I do not think she was fast asleep at the point when it was discovered that Falko Reinhardt had disappeared. Nor, for that matter, do I believe that Kristine Larsen was lying awake because of a headache. She seems to have coped very well in the hours after it was discovered, despite the claimed headache and lack of sleep. And leaving the door open to ease a headache is a new one on me, as it increases the risk of noise. Ask Miriam if Kristine had wanted to keep the door ajar on previous nights at the cabin as well, and whether she had noticed any obvious signs of this supposed headache.’

I could not understand what she was driving at, but carefully noted down the questions on a piece of paper. Experience from earlier investigations had shown that Patricia’s apparently bizarre questions and whims could prove to be enormously important.

‘What do you make of the coincidence regarding the dates of Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance and Marie Morgenstierne’s murder?’ I asked. For me, this was the greatest mystery, along with how Falko Reinhardt had left the cabin.

Patricia rubbed her hands.

‘It is one of the most striking things about the case, and one of the most important questions that needs to be solved. I don’t believe in coincidence, and certainly not in supernatural connections. Given the situation, I am fairly sure that there is a direct and man-made link between these two strange events. But what sort of connection remains to be seen. I have too little information to know which of my many possible explanations is right. But I do think that Falko Reinhardt’s personality in part holds the key, as do the circumstances surrounding his disappearance.’

‘Does that mean that you may have an explanation as to how Falko Reinhardt disappeared from the cabin?’ I asked, hopefully.

Patricia gave a scornful snort.

‘I already have three possible solutions as to how he left the cabin. But if the answers to the questions you are going to ask are what I expect them to be, then I can possibly eliminate two of them. And in that case, we will be a good deal closer to solving the case. And by the way, all three possible explanations are based on the assumption that Falko Reinhardt disappeared off into the storm that night of his own volition, with or without help from anyone else in the cabin. This of course does not rule out the possibility that something serious happened to him, either outside the cabin or later. He may have gone out to meet someone who it then transpired wanted to kill him. However, I do believe that the chances that Falko Reinhardt is still alive out there somewhere are as great as the danger that he is dead.’

‘Well, where do you think he is, then?’

Patricia shook her head.

‘I have no idea where in the world Falko Reinhardt might be right now. His disappearance is in itself a locked-room mystery that then spills out into public space. Nor do I have any idea at the moment why he disappeared. But I am not concerned about that. Assuming that we are both still alive in a fortnight, we should have solved both the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt and the murder of his fiancée Marie Morgenstierne.’

This conclusion was immensely comforting, on the basis of previous experience – though I did suspect that Patricia trusted her own ability far more than mine. I did not pursue the matter. Instead, I asked what I should do the next day, apart from asking Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen the questions I had noted down.

The answer came faster than expected.

‘Start with that and Marie Morgenstierne’s flat. Then check with Falko’s parents, and anyone else who might know, whether his passport was left behind and if there is any indication that his money or other possessions have disappeared. Then speak to Falko’s supervisor at the university and see what you can find out about the names mentioned in his thesis. The lead of a possible Nazi network should be followed up. And then, most exciting of all, but also perhaps most demanding…’

I looked at her in anticipation. She swallowed her last two spoonfuls of ice cream before she continued.

‘… you should in fact do exactly as Anders Pettersen suggested, and request to see any information the police security service might have. My guess is you will not find the answer as to whether there was a mole in the group or not; but ask, all the same. And take a note of anything that they say might be of interest. I have a theory, and if it is right, it will also be a considerable step forward.’

‘Is the theory perhaps, like everyone else’s, that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was the mole?’ I felt my heart beat a little harder when I asked this question. To my great relief, Patricia snorted again.

‘Not at all. It is incredible how irrational and paranoid even intellectually gifted people can become in group situations. I do not trust this Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen for a second, but “absurd” is in fact a good description of that claim. There is nothing in the world to say that she had any sympathies with the police security service, even though she broke away from the group. The SPP is presumably watched just as closely. If, by any chance, she had been an agent with a mission to spy on the group, she would of course have remained seated, rather than leaving such a good post. If there was a mole in the group, it would seem more likely that it was one of the four who remained, not the one who left.’

I sent Patricia a look that was at once questioning and firm. She teased me a little, staring into the air thoughtfully without saying a word. I realized that she had a theory about the mole’s identity, but was not yet willing to reveal it. So I stood up, made it clear that I was getting ready to go, and remarked that it was going to be a long working day tomorrow.

Patricia stopped me halfway with her hand and one of her short and completely unexpected questions: ‘The question for today is, was Marie Morgenstierne wearing a watch when she died?’

I looked at her, taken aback, and wondered secretly if this was some kind of a joke. It was beyond me to understand what significance this detail might have. But Patricia’s face remained focused and almost insistent, without a shadow of a smile, so I answered with forced gravity.

‘Yes. She was, after all, a woman of means and was wearing a rather expensive watch on her left wrist. And it was still working after she had been run over by a train. But I simply have to ask, in return, what on earth you think the practical significance of that is?’

Now, however, Patricia smiled broadly.

‘I thought the practical significance of that would also be obvious. But I am more than happy to explain to you if necessary and you so wish. So far we have, naturally enough, been more interested in why Marie Morgenstierne ran for her life to the train. But what is also interesting is why she was walking so slowly in the first place. Even though she had a watch and knew the time, she was walking at such a leisurely pace towards the train that she would not catch it, and so would have to wait some time for the next one. And she must have known that, as she had taken the train home from meetings many times before. So, one theory that is worth noting is that Marie Morgenstierne wanted to give the impression of heading straight to the train, whereas in reality, she was going to meet someone else or do something else at Smestad yesterday evening.’

I had to admit that this was a theory worth noting. But I felt rather confused. So I excused myself, saying that I was tired after a long day of investigation, and asked with a fleeting smile whether we could meet again and discuss this further tomorrow. By then I would also, hopefully, have some more information to add.

Patricia replied with a bigger smile that she in fact had no other important arrangements tomorrow and that it would suit her very well if I was to drop by sometime after six, for example. Unless the staff had fallen asleep on the job or gone on strike, there was even a hope that I might get a simple meal after my hard day’s work. I thanked her and promised to be there before seven o’clock the following evening. Then I followed the maid out, still pensive, but far more optimistic than when I came in.

I had an extraordinary amount to think about when I went to bed, alone, in my flat in Hegdehaugen at around eleven o’clock on Thursday, 6 August 1970. The faces of the various people I had met in the course of the day flashed through my mind. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s face stayed longest, even though she was the one I least suspected of being a murderer. But then I could not really imagine any of the people I had met so far as being Marie Morgenstierne’s extremely cold-blooded murderer. And if one of them was in fact behind it, I had no idea of who that might be.

And so, just before I fell asleep, I pondered what Patricia had said about the curse of public space, and concluded that the murderer was probably someone else, somewhere else out there in the dark. And I unfortunately had no idea as to how we might find him or her.