The Catalyst Killing

I

I skimmed the newspapers at the breakfast table on Friday, 7 August 1970 and saw that the Mardøla protests still dominated the headlines, following an attack on the protestors’ camp by several hundred reportedly angry Romsdalers the night before. The defence minister had refused to send in troops to remove the activists, but a large group of policemen were on their way to prevent any further scuffles. Otherwise, the debate about Norway’s membership of the EEC had intensified after a speech given to Norway’s Rural Youth by the Conservative Party and parliamentary leader, Kåre Willoch, where he had highlighted the EEC negotiations as an important national concern that everyone should support.

Aftenposten and Arbeiderbladet both carried a matter-of-fact report about Marie Morgenstierne’s death at Smestad. Both papers had found out that ‘the well-known Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen’ had been given responsibility for the investigation and Aftenposten had, ‘based on previous experience, every hope that the case would be solved and those responsible arrested within a week’.

I put the papers to one side and set off for Kjelsås to start my working day. I still harboured a small hope that the flat where Marie Morgenstierne had lived might contain something to reveal the identity of her murderer.

Getting in proved to be no problem at all. One of the keys from Marie Morgenstierne’s wallet fitted the outside door. The caretaker was at his post and had read about the murder – and about me – in the newspaper, so immediately jumped up when I knocked on the door to his flat on the ground floor. He confirmed that the other key from Marie Morgenstierne’s wallet was to her flat. The only real challenge was to stop him coming in with me. In the end I managed to solve this by promising to come and get him if he could be of any help. He stayed outside the door just in case.

Once inside, my greatest problem was finding anything of any relevance in the flat. All my hopes were initially thwarted. Marie Morgenstierne had apparently been a tidy tenant, and there was not much of a personal touch in the flat. There were a couple of rather traditional paintings on the walls and three framed photographs of her and Falko, including an engagement picture, on the chest of drawers. Otherwise it seemed to be an entirely functional flat. Everything one expected to find in a single woman’s flat was neatly in place here – and nothing more.

Marie Morgenstierne had a bookshelf full of textbooks on politics and other political literature, including a series of selected works by Marx and Engels. And she had a respectable number of literary works on another bookshelf. She had a fair amount of clothes in the wardrobe in the bedroom, but less make-up in the bathroom than one might expect to find for a young woman of her age. There was no form of contraception anywhere, nor any other indication that she had a new boyfriend or lover in her life. Nor were there any personal letters or diaries that might cast light on the case. In short, there was absolutely nothing to point me in the direction of who it might have been who had shot the woman who lived here two days ago.

I found only one thing of any interest in the late Marie Morgenstierne’s flat. And although it was very interesting indeed, it was hard to gauge how important it was.

Under the pillow on Marie Morgenstierne’s bed was a small white envelope that had been both franked and postmarked. Her name and address were typed on the front. There was no sender’s name or address on the back.

My first thought was that it was perhaps a love letter from a new lover or admirer. However, what was written on the piece of paper inside the envelope was again typed, and was short and to the point:

‘Was it you who betrayed Falko? If so, the time has come to confess your sins and tell the truth before 1 August, or else…’

The sheet of paper was small and white, and could have been bought in any bookshop. And the typeface was the most usual kind. I did not believe for a moment that the sender had left any fingerprints on the paper, or that there was anything more to be gained from it.

I stood in the late Marie Morgenstierne’s bedroom with the letter in my hand and pondered whose hands had danced over the keys when the letter was written. Marie Morgenstierne had been sent a warning not many days before she died. The letter was not dated, but the postmark said 20 July 1970.

Rightfully or not, someone had this summer not only accused Marie Morgenstierne of high treason, but had also issued a threat and given her a deadline, which it would appear had not been met.

To me, the letter was at last evidence of a connection between her death and Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. The problem was that we faced what Patricia had called the curse of public space. In theory, more or less anyone could have written and sent the letter. In practice, I watched the faces of Trond Ibsen, Kristine Larsen, Anders Pettersen, Arno Reinhardt and Astrid Reinhardt flash through my mind in quick succession.

II

The caretaker was still waiting outside the door in anticipation, but could not be of much help. He had heard about the tenant’s extreme political views from a cousin who was in the union, but had not seen evidence of them himself. She had been an exemplary tenant and, to his knowledge, had observed all the house rules. As far as guests were concerned, the caretaker apologized that it was not always easy for him and his wife to know all the comings and goings, as tenants had their own front door keys and could in practice let anyone in as long as they were quiet. Falko Reinhardt’s face was familiar to him from the newspapers, and both the caretaker and his wife had seen him there several times before he disappeared. The only other guest they had seen in the past couple of years was a long-legged, young blonde woman whom he might say was rather attractive. I nodded and noted that, reasonably enough, Kristine Larsen had been here.

The caretaker could not remember having seen any other friends. To my relief, he looked slightly bewildered when I asked him if he had at any point seen a young woman who read books as she walked.

There was one thing of interest that the caretaker could tell me about the deceased tenant. And it was of great potential interest. On several occasions that spring, both he and his wife had thought they heard unknown footsteps on the stairs that stopped on the first floor, and Marie Morgenstierne’s flat was the only one on that floor that was inhabited. They had both, a couple of times, caught a glimpse of someone they thought was the visitor as he left the building. If it was he, the guest was taller than average, but they could not say much more as he had left in the dark and was wearing a hat and coat. The caretaker was fairly sure that he or his wife, or both of them, had heard the footsteps on three or four occasions – the last time being only a week or so ago.

I remembered Patricia’s conclusions from the night before. So I asked if it was possible that this guest might be Falko, as they remembered him.

The caretaker raised his eyebrows, thought about it for a while, and even went in to ask his wife. In the end, however, he reluctantly had to confess that they could not say yes or no to that. There were so many footsteps to remember in the building and it was a long time since they had heard Falko’s, he explained, apologetically.

When I asked for a spare key so the flat could be examined, I was given one straight away. I had no real hope of finding any technical evidence, as the flat looked too clean and tidy for that. But I did harbour a small hope that a fingerprint might help to reveal the identity of this mysterious guest – even, perhaps, of the murderer.

III

There was still a fortnight until the start of the autumn semester, and so it was far easier than I had expected to find my way round the university library. I was told that the section where the literature students usually sat had around forty places. Only one of these was occupied at a quarter past eleven.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, still dressed in blue jeans and a multicoloured sweatshirt, sat in the middle of a deserted landscape of empty chairs like a silent and lonely queen. There was a thick notepad in front of her and around it, an encyclopedia and five French dictionaries.

The sole occupant of the library was reading with such concentration that she did not notice me, even when I was only a few steps away. I stood there for a minute without attracting her attention, before I alerted her to my presence with a half-whispered: ‘Do you perhaps know where I might find Miss Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen?’

If I had expected her to start in surprise, I was disappointed. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was obviously of a far more balanced nature than I thought, and what is more, she was familiar with the silence rule. It would take more than a whispering policeman in the library to unnerve her. She looked up, nodded with a quick smile, pointed to the exit and stood up. I obediently followed behind her, taking it as a good sign that, after a moment’s hesitation, she had left the encyclopedia and all five dictionaries on the desk.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen felt that it was too early in the day for a longer break, so turned down the offer of lunch in the refectory. I saw it as positive that she then said yes to a coffee and a piece of cake – especially as she ate incredibly slowly and pensively.

My first question was about the size of the windows in the cabin in Valdres. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen took her time, chewed on a couple of mouthfuls, and then answered that she unfortunately did not dare say for sure. The windows had been small, and were relatively high, so she doubted that it would be possible for a man of Falko Reinhardt’s size to get out that way. But she could not be certain. Whatever the case, the window had been shut from the inside when she went into the bedroom around two o’clock that morning. So if that was how he had escaped, he would have needed Marie’s help, she added, with an inquisitive smile.

I did not say anything to the contrary, but asked instead what she herself had been doing at ten o’clock the night before.

I asked with my heart in my throat, and once again anticipated a strong reaction – which did not happen this time either. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen looked at me with even greater curiosity and asked if I really suspected her of murder? I tried to defuse the situation by saying that I did not, but that I had to ask her as a matter of routine, for the reports.

She replied that good reporting procedures were important in all organizations, and then added on a more serious note that her alibi was unfortunately not perfect. She had been in a meeting with several other people at the party office from six until eight, but had then carried on working alone until ten, when she caught a bus and a train back to her student flat. And at the moment, she was the only one in her corridor who had returned after the holidays.

In theory, there was nothing to have stopped her from being at Smestad around ten. But she had not been there, she said, and suddenly looked very serious indeed.

I thought to myself that Patricia would hardly be impressed by this alibi. And that I personally was relieved that Miriam had not given a boyfriend as an alibi and that there was still no hint of any boyfriend.

I turned the conversation back to their trip to the cabin, and asked whether she or Kristine Larsen had slept closest to the door. She looked at me, somewhat startled, but replied without hesitation that she had been closest to the window, and Kristine closest to the door. She told me in response to my follow-up question that Kristine Larsen had wanted to sleep with the door ajar the night before the disappearance as well.

My next question felt a bit intrusive. But I trusted Patricia, and so I asked if I was correct in thinking that on the night of Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had also been awake, even though she had had her eyes closed.

Miriam Filtvedt now looked at me with open curiosity and admiration. But her voice was just as calm, and her reply just as measured: she had turned out the light around midnight, but had not been able to sleep, and had thus lain awake. To avoid disturbing her roommate, she had been as still as she could. And given an academic proviso that she might have dropped off or confused people’s footsteps, she could therefore confirm Kristine Larsen’s claim that Falko Reinhardt’s footsteps had not been heard out in the hallway in the hours before he disappeared.

She could not help asking how I, two years later, could know that she had been awake. But then she answered this herself in the same breath, saying that I presumably could not say in light of the ongoing investigation.

I nodded meaningfully, noted down her answers, and reserved the right to contact her again should any more questions arise. She nodded, said that I now knew where to find her if that was the case, and then disappeared back into the library as if to illustrate the point.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen left half a cup of coffee and some cake on the table in her wake. They reinforced the feeling that she had now been given something to think about, even though I could not for the life of me see her as guilty of murder – or any other crime, for that matter.

IV

After Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had gone back to the library, I treated myself to another cup of coffee and a couple of rolls for lunch. In the time it took me to eat this, I decided that I would follow up the old Nazi lead before going to the police security service. I was mentally putting it off, and used the excuse that it might be handy to have a clear overview of all the possible threats first.

I therefore went straight from the refectory to the history department. Professor Johannes Heftye was, as luck would have it, alone in his office and said straight away he would be happy to talk to me. He was a grey-haired, grey-bearded and well-dressed man in his sixties, with the Second World War as his speciality. He had also once been a Communist Party politician.

The professor’s memory was impressive, as far as I could tell. He immediately remembered not only Falko Reinhardt, but details about his unfinished thesis and the last supervision he had had with him. The thesis was about an NS network from the Second World War, a subject that both the student and supervisor thought was fascinating and important. Falko had called the professor out of the blue one evening during the holidays and asked if he could get guidance as soon as possible about some sensational new findings.

Professor Heftye’s curiosity was immediately piqued and they had met here at the university on 2 August – three days before Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. Falko had been unusually excited and said that he had discovered things that might indicate that parts of the network were still active. He had then added in a hushed voice that it looked as though some of them were discussing options for a major offensive of some sort.

His supervisor got the impression that this might be an assassination or sabotage of some kind, but the usually so self-assured Falko Reinhardt was uncharacteristically vague about what kind of plans they might have and when it might happen. When, in addition, Falko Reinhardt did not want to say where he had got the information, his supervisor asked him to think about it and check all the information again, then come back when he had more to report.

Falko had explained that one of the sources made things a bit complicated, but assured the professor that this was something really big. He had seemed uneasy, almost frightened, in a way that his supervisor had never seen before. On his way out, Falko had said in a quiet voice that he now seriously feared for his own safety. The professor had asked if he was talking about the Nazi network. Falko had replied that the right-wing extremists were a possible danger, but with a self-deprecating smile he had added that he no longer felt safe with left-wing radicals either.

And they were the last words he had heard Falko Reinhardt say, the professor remarked gloomily as he puffed on his pipe. He had more or less dismissed the comment about left-wing radicals as a joke. But he regretted not taking the information about the Nazi network more seriously, and still believed that there had to be some kind of connection with Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. He had, without much joy, tried to explain this to the rather unappealing young detective inspector who investigated the disappearance, he added.

I nodded cautiously in agreement. It was easy to believe that Detective Inspector Danielsen had not found the right tone as easily with the radical professor as he had with the reactionary bank manager Martin Morgenstierne.

The first draft of Falko Reinhardt’s thesis, around ninety pages long, still stood between two thicker works on Professor Heftye’s shelf. He assured me that he had a copy stored away safely at his house, and handed me the thesis as soon as I asked if I could borrow it for the investigation. He added that it was a pleasure to meet a policeman who appreciated the value of history. I was more than welcome to contact him whenever I wished for further information. I thanked him, picked up the thesis and beat a hasty retreat.

V

I sat in my office from half past eleven until one, reading through Falko Reinhardt’s draft thesis. The text was incomplete; a conclusion and several chapters were still missing. However, this did not detract from the impression that the author was intelligent and had a flair for language. Some of Falko Reinhardt’s charisma as a speaker also shone through in what he wrote.

The topic was definitely interesting, not only in terms of the current murder investigation. In the body of the thesis, Falko Reinhardt described the activities of a network of Norwegian Nazis from the upper echelons of society in eastern Norway. He had also started to work on an annex about how parts of the network had remained active throughout the 1950s and 1960s. And it was hinted quite heavily that members of the group had not just met, but had also remained politically active and had discussed possible new actions. However, what this meant in practical terms was not specified in the text and no sources were given in the annex. It was thus unclear what sort of activity they were engaged in or where Falko Reinhardt had found the information.

‘The wealthy farmer Henry Alfred Lien, from Vestre Slidre in Valdres’ was mentioned as a secondary character and local contact for the network during the war. He did not, however, appear to have played a leading role at that time, nor was he mentioned in connection with activities after the war. According to the draft, ‘the Big Four’ were the architect Frans Heidenberg, the company director Christian Magnus Eggen, the shipowner Lars Roden and the landowner Marius Kofoed, all from the west end of Oslo. Both their names and professions were decidedly upper-class. I immediately went to find the relevant files in the treason trial archives and police records. They, too, proved to be interesting reading.

Henry Alfred Lien had been an active local leader and spokesman for the Nasjonal Samling, and had been sentenced to six years’ imprisonment after the war. He was released in 1948.

The shipowner Lars Roden had also been a member of the NS, and had furthermore placed his ships at the disposition of the occupying forces. He was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment, but released in autumn 1947 due to ill health. He died two years later.

Marius Kofoed, the landowner, appeared to have been the one with most contacts in the NS and the occupying forces. He had, among other things, allowed his property to be used for troop mobilization and celebrations arranged by the NS. He was also deemed to be a personal friend of Quisling. Kofoed could most certainly have expected a stiffer sentence after the war had he not been liquidated by anonymous perpetrators in January 1945. There was a short statement in his papers to say that the murder had in all likelihood been carried out by members of the Home Front, and that further investigation was not advised.

The architect Frans Heidenberg was also a man who had moved in Nazi circles, but his role was harder to pin down, other than being a member of the NS and designing some large buildings for the occupying forces. He had got away with only two years’ imprisonment after the war and had been released in autumn 1946.

The company director Christian Magnus Eggen had run his own business trading in jewellery and gold, with extensive dealings in Germany both before and during the war. He had also been a member of the NS, but had not had any formal responsibility. Despite a note to say that he was a friend of Quisling, he had got away with three years’ imprisonment and been released after two for lack of any more serious indictments.

In later files from the census rolls, Frans Heidenberg and Christian Magnus Eggen were recorded as having private addresses in Skøyen and Kolsås. And both were listed at the same addresses and with the same titles in the telephone directories for Oslo and Akerhus. According to the files, they were now 72 and 69 years old respectively. I found the lead interesting enough to reach for the phone.

Both Heidenberg and Eggen were at home and answered the telephone themselves. Neither of them sounded particularly pleased that I had called. But both agreed, curtly and correctly, to meet me once I had made it clear that they were not suspected of anything, but that the police would like to ask them some routine questions in connection with an ongoing murder investigation. I promised to do this as quickly as possible and asked that they both stay at home for the next couple of hours.

I then made a short call to the police security service to arrange a meeting with the head of division in connection with the murder investigation, before getting into my car and heading west.

VI

Frans Heidenberg’s house in Skøyen was the largest in the street, and it was not hard to see that it had been designed by an architect. No other houses had seven walls.

My meeting with Frans Heidenberg himself was a positive surprise. He was a slim, suited man with pale hands and greying brown hair, who wore patent leather shoes at home on a weekday. His steps were slow but steady. His handshake was soft and his voice pleasantly relaxed, with perfect grammar and no accent.

Frans Heidenberg explaned that his name came from his German father, but that he himself had been born to a Norwegian mother in Norway and had lived here all his life. He had had his own architecture firm in Oslo since completing his studies in 1928, and had been increasingly successful in recent years. A couple of nephews were in the process of taking over the business, but he still had an office and worked there one day a week. Otherwise, he spent most of his time here in his spacious and comfortable home.

Once installed in the living room, I declined the offer of alcohol or coffee, but said yes to a glass of water. I remained seated while I reflected that my host appeared to be the perfect diplomat, and about as far removed from a stereotypical Nazi traitor as I could imagine.

Paintings from Norway and Germany hung on the walls between the monumental bookshelves, as well as some photographs from Frans Heidenberg’s childhood and youth in the first decades of the century. I looked around discreetly for signs of other inhabitants in the vast house. My host obviously read my thoughts and shook his head apologetically.

‘I am afraid that only I live here, sadly. The house was built towards the end of the 1930s, when my firm had had its first real success. It was built for a larger family that failed to materialize. I never got married. So now I sit here by myself with plenty of space for my books and paintings.’

He took a pensive sip of coffee.

‘A woman did live here with me once upon a time, in the final months of the war. We were engaged and planned to get married in July 1945. So the war ended at what was a very inconvenient time for me and under very unfortunate circumstances. I was, as you no doubt know, absent for a year and a half. And when I came back, she and all her things were gone. I was forty-six years old and for reasons that I am sure you understand, I was not particularly active in the city’s social life in the years that followed. And there you have it. I gave up any hope of having a family and ceased to be politically active. All my time was given over to saving the firm, which was in a very precarious situation following my absence.’

I stared at him, fascinated. If Frans Heidenberg was still a Nazi, he struck me as being a Nazi with an extremely human face.

‘I know what you are thinking: how could I put myself in that situation? It was in part my strong German roots, but more my fear of Bolshevism that had been stoked by tales of horror from the Russian Revolution in my youth. In the 1930s, I thought that the alternative to a strong Germany ruled by the Nazis was a strong USSR ruled by the Bolsheviks. And I saw the latter as a far greater threat. And I might as well admit that I still do.’

He smiled and shrugged disarmingly.

‘But all that is now well in the past, and I hope that my life today is of little interest to you. I would of course be more than happy to help you to solve your crimes if I could, but I must say that I do not see how that is possible.’

I asked him whether he had heard of Marie Morgenstierne or Falko Reinhardt. He replied without any hesitation that Marie Morgenstierne was unknown to him, other than what he had read in the papers following her ‘unfortunate demise’.

He did, however, to my surprise, admit that the name Falko Reinhardt was familiar to him. He had received a letter from Falko a couple of years before, asking if he would be willing to answer some questions about his role during the Second World War. He had, however, not felt comfortable fraternizing with communists and for his part had no desire to rip open old wounds from the war. He had therefore sent a reply to say that he did not wish to be contacted about the matter. And he had repeated this in a firm and friendly manner when Falko Reinhardt later telephoned him all the same.

He had heard nothing more from the young man. But he did remember the unusual name, and had read about Reinhardt’s disappearance in the newspaper only a few months later. Frans Heidenberg had anticipated that the police might contact him, and therefore ensured that he had a written statement from his two nephews and two other employees to say that he had been at a party with them in Oslo on the night that Falko Reinhardt went missing in Valdres. He placed it on the table in front of me and said that rock-climbing had never been one of his strengths – even less so now than when he was younger, he added with an ironic smile.

When I asked him if he had an alibi for the evening of Marie Morgenstierne’s murder two days before, Frans Heidenberg could regrettably only say that he had been home alone. He found it very hard, however, to see why he would be suspected of killing a woman forty-five years younger than himself whom he had never heard of, let alone met.

I assured him that he was in no way a suspect, but that there were still some routine questions that I had to ask. First, I asked him what his reaction was to the fact that Falko Reinhardt had identified him as a member of a Nazi network during the war, in some papers that he had left behind.

Frans Heidenberg remained calm. He shook his head in exasperation and said that he had had a good deal of contact with like-minded people and friends during the war, of both German and Norwegian descent, but that he had never seen it as a network. And this was not indicated in any way in the police investigation after the war. He felt that his sentence had been harsh given that his only sins were being a member of the NS and other symbolic actions, but that he had long since forgiven his countrymen and put the matter behind him.

Frans Heidenberg had known both Marius Kofoed and Lars Roden, and was still on friendly terms with Christian Magnus Eggen. But he had not felt that he was part of any sort of political network during the war, and even less so afterwards. He did not recognize the description of a secret network, and was somewhat dubious that a young communist today would know better than he had at the time. When I mentioned Henry Alfred Lien, he thought about it for a while and then shook his head; no, he could not recall meeting anyone of that name.

In response to my question regarding his political views today, Frans Heidenberg replied that he had been a member of the Farmers’ Party for a few years after the war, but had then stopped his membership as he was not happy with the direction that the party was taking. He had not been politically active since the war, and in public he was now a man with no political views. Which party he voted for and any thoughts and opinions he might have on political issues were private matters, were they not?

I had to concede that the eloquent and relaxed Frans Heidenberg was right on this point, and did not ask any more questions. I thanked him for the information and reserved the right to contact him again later, should that be necessary. He continued to play the role of an exemplary host by assuring me that protectors of the law were of course welcome to contact him at any point, but he unfortunately doubted that he could be of any more help.

At the front door, Frans Heidenberg suddenly and unexpectedly asked me if Christian Magnus Eggen was also on my list of people to contact. I saw no reason to deny this, as Eggen had already been told that I was coming. Heidenberg nodded in understanding. He added that he should then warn me that my meeting with him might be rather different. He had been friends with Eggen since they were students, and thought of him as highly intelligent and a good person. But they were very different in both temperament and nature. Eggen undoubtedly felt more strongly that he had been treated unfairly after the war, and could ‘quickly become extremely frank and vehement’ when he spoke about it, he added.

I thanked him for the warning and wished Frans Heidenberg a good day. He tipped the hat he was not wearing, and opened the door for me. I left him with the feeling that I had indeed met a humane Nazi. I could see no connection between him and Marie Morgenstierne’s death. I did, however, note that Frans Heidenberg did not have an alibi for the evening she was murdered. And that there was an elegant walking stick with a silver head just by his front door.

VII

Christian Magnus Eggen’s house was more traditional in style than Frans Heidenberg’s, but as good as equal in size. The difference between the two owners, however, could not have been greater.

The white-haired Christian Magnus Eggen was rounder in shape, but from the outset appeared to have much sharper edges. His hand was firm, bony and twitchy, and his voice tense. Judging by his spectacles, the man was very short-sighted, but his eyes felt like gimlets. I was invited into the living room, but not offered anything to drink. And Christian Magnus Eggen was giving his answers before I had asked a single question.

‘I am, of course, extremely curious to know what I have done to merit this unexpected visit from a keeper of law and order? Surely it cannot be in connection with the still unsolved murder of my old friend, Marius Kofoed, in which the police showed a remarkable lack of interest following liberation in 1945?’

I started by reassuring him that it was simply a matter of routine questions, and that he was not suspected of having done anything criminal. Christian Magnus Eggen proceeded to answer my questions succinctly, in a curt voice.

When he turned seventy, he had retired as director of his own company, which he had run for thirty-two years without any form of complaint. He now lived very comfortably on his pension and savings. His wife had died following an illness a few years earlier, and as his son had fallen in the fight against the Bolsheviks in Stalingrad, he was now a widower with no heirs. So his life was just fine, thank you very much, but his previous experience of the Norwegian police was not very pleasant and he now simply wanted to be able to live in peace for what time he had left. In short, he was still curious as to why I had now come to disturb a law-abiding and respectable citizen in his own home.

I took the liberty of reminding Christian Magnus Eggen that he had not always been a law-abiding citizen. He snorted in contempt and replied that he had never broken the law of the day – what happened in 1945 was that the law was amended with retrospective effect. He would never have believed that one could be punished in Norway for nothing more than being a member of a political party. And in order to avoid any chance of experiencing something similar again, he had not been politically active since. After all, he remarked snidely, it was impossible to know whether the socialists might suddenly decide tomorrow to ban any of the right-wing parties with retrospective effect.

We had not got off to a good start. And I did not make things any better by allowing myself to be provoked into asking if he denied any knowledge of the persecution of the Jews during the war.

‘What persecution of the Jews?’ he challenged, looking me straight in the eye.

‘The Holocaust – the genocide of six million Jews, organized by Hitler’s Germany and supported by Quisling’s NS,’ I replied, also with a certain antagonism.

He rolled his eyes.

‘So even senior civil servants have allowed themselves to be brainwashed by the lies of their parents. What you call the Holocaust is an illusion based on exaggerated lies. A few Jewish criminals were executed, as more criminals and antisocial elements should be. But the Jews themselves are primarily to blame for their persecution in Germany. After all, they chose to stay there rather than give up their businesses, despite all the well-intentioned warnings. It was never a case of industrial genocide. I went there myself and saw the so-called annihilation camps – and they simply did not have the capacity to do anything like that. There are no documents signed by Hitler or members of his government to authorize anything of the sort. Some members of the German army may, at the height of the war, have overstepped their orders to tackle antisocial elements, but there was never an organized genocide.’

I stared at the man on the sofa with horrified fascination. His smile was bitter.

‘Next you’ll be saying that you believe the lie that Norway was occupied by the Germans. There was no German occupation; it was a rescue operation to save Norway from becoming part of the British Empire. There is evidence that the British had already started their invasion and had laid out mines in Norwegian territorial waters when the Germans arrived. And when the government and king decided to leave the country on 7 June 1940 rather than stay here to serve their people, Norway was no longer at war. In 1945, I and many other law-abiding citizens were convicted of being war criminals in a country that had not been at war, because we had used our given right to express our political views while obeying the laws that were current at the time.’

It was not easy to argue with the increasingly passionate Christian Magnus Eggen, partly because he was agitated and talking so fast, but also because I was at a bit of a loss and my knowledge of wartime Norway was obviously inferior to his. So I simply said that his understanding of the war was obviously very different from my own – and that given in Norwegian history books – but that that was not why I had come to see him. He gave an impatient nod, and then calmed down a bit and waited.

When we finally got down to business, Christian Magnus Eggen’s story was more or less the same in content as Frans Heidenberg’s, despite their outward differences. Marie Morgenstierne was just a name that he had read in the week’s newspapers. But he had first heard of Falko Reinhardt as a prominent young communist. When he then received a letter from him, with some questions about his experiences during the war, he had not wanted to waste ‘five minutes and a stamp’ on the answers. He had instead said exactly what he thought when Falko Reinhardt subsequently called him. He had thus spoken to Falko Reinhardt on the telephone for a couple of minutes, but had never seen the man.

As it was so long ago, Christian Magnus Eggen could no longer say what he had been doing on the night that Falko Reinhardt disappeared, but he could guarantee that he had not been in Valdres. He had been at home alone on the evening that Marie Morgenstierne was shot.

He did not, however, understand why he had to answer these questions about two people he had never met or had any significant contact with. He had no kind of motive whatsoever, and there was absolutely nothing to link him to the scene of the crime. And in any case, he added with a sarcastic smile, no one knew for certain that one of them had been the victim of a criminal act.

I was starting to feel very angry. I said that some information had come to light that could indicate that he had been a member of a Nazi network during the war.

Christian Magnus Eggen snorted with even more contempt than before. He had done nothing more than be involved with the lawful activities of a political party that was legal at the time, and was engaged in the fight to save Norway from the threat of communism. He had been a member of the NS and done business with the Germans, but had not played a central role or been part of any network. And in later years he had minded his own business, paid his tax and not been politically active in any way. In addition, his right to vote had been suspended for a decade after the war due to his political affiliations, and he had since chosen not to use it in protest. The Conservatives and Labour were all the same to him. He had, however, continued to have contact with Frans Heidenberg and a few other old friends, which, as far as he was aware, was still not illegal.

To this, I asked if Henry Alfred Lien from Valdres was one of the old friends with whom he had kept in touch.

He shook his head in irritation. He had only met Lien briefly a couple of times during the war, and he had never been in Valdres. And what was more, the government and police should stop wasting taxpayers’ money on recording who he kept in touch with or speculating about what he might think about social developments, so long as he paid over fifty thousand kroner a year in tax and did not break the law.

And so I had to stop there for the time being. I had no problem whatsoever imagining Christian Magnus Eggen as a criminal and traitor. He seemed to be the prototype of a bitter old Nazi. Everything he said sounded like self-justification. He was certainly high on the list of people I had met in the course of this investigation who I would be more than happy to arrest. At the top, in fact.

But, unfortunately, he was right: at present, there was nothing whatsoever to link him to Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance, and any connection to the murder of Marie Morgenstierne was even more tenuous.

I did, however, take care to note that he did not have an alibi for the evening of the murder, and that he had a walking stick standing out in the hallway.

‘Age takes its toll, even for an Aryan,’ he remarked bitterly, when he saw me looking at the walking stick.

We parted a few moments later without either of us feeling the need to shake hands.

VIII

It was half past four when I got back to the office. There was a message lying there to say that the head of the police security service had gone home for the day and would be out on a secret mission the following day. If it was in connection with the murder investigation, however, he could give me fifteen minutes at the end of the day tomorrow, at six o’clock, to be precise.

I immediately confirmed this arrangement and silently hoped that the case would somehow resolve itself one way or another in the meantime. The last thing I wanted was a conflict of interest with the head of the police security service.

My last task for the official working day could be completed with the help of a telephone. It was answered by Astrid Reinhardt, at home in Grünerløkka, after the second ring. She was able to tell me straight away that her son’s passport had not been found, but that they did not in fact know where he had kept it before he disappeared. She added pointedly that the family did have a tradition of keeping their passports in secret places.

Her son’s post office savings book had been left in his bedroom. There was seven thousand kroner in the account. He had withdrawn a couple of thousand three months before his disappearance, but they had no idea what he had used it for. His parents had at first hoped that the withdrawal was an indication that he was alive somewhere else. But this hope dwindled as time passed, and now they thought that perhaps the withdrawal of the money had absolutely nothing to do with his disappearance. He might have wanted to give the money to a political cause or a friend in need, his mother said. Both would have been typical of him, she added, her voice filled with maternal pride.

I thanked her for her help, and promised to call them immediately should anything new be discovered.

IX

At five o’clock the calm of my office was disturbed by a knock at the door.

The pathologist was standing outside, once again looking slightly abashed.

‘You may perhaps have suspected this already, but I have just discovered something concerning the late Marie Morgenstierne that I thought you should know immediately,’ he said.

I indicated impatiently that he should continue. But his previous visit had obviously made him more cautious.

‘First of all I concentrated on the bullet wound in her chest, which was clearly the cause of death. The rest of her body was so badly injured that it was not easy to examine. But I have finished the autopsy now. And there is no doubt that when she died she was…’

He looked at me questioningly. I gave an irritated shrug. There was a flash of triumphant relief in his eyes when he carried on.

‘Pregnant! Very early stages, possibly no more than the fourth or fifth week. And we can’t be sure that she even knew herself, though she may have noticed something. Whatever the case, Marie Morgenstierne was expecting a baby when she died. And I presume that that is of interest to the investigation?’

I nodded, and told him truthfully that I had had no idea and that it was definitely of potential interest to the investigation. He seemed very pleased that he had been able to contribute something, and shook my hand with feeling.

Once the pathologist had closed the door behind him, I sat down to spend the next half an hour writing a report for my boss. It was quick enough to give an account of the day’s events, but developments in the case were slower. It was with great relief that I popped the report into my boss’s pigeonhole at ten to six, then got into my car to drive to Erling Skjalgsson’s Street.

X

‘So, who posted the threatening letter to Marie Morgenstierne? Trond Ibsen? Kristine Larsen? Anders Pettersen?

Or one of Falko Reinhardt’s parents?’

Patricia helped herself to a piece of salmon, and smiled briefly.

‘Possibly all five of them. But it could in theory have been a lot of other people too. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, for example, whom I do not think we should let out of our sight quite yet. Or Falko Reinhardt himself, if he is, as I believe, still sneaking around out there. Or some completely unknown person who, for some reason or another, planned to kill Marie Morgenstierne, and wanted to confuse us by making it look as though Falko Reinhardt’s family and closest friends were to blame. The latter is less likely, but still possible. And furthermore, the murderer does not necessarily need to be the person who wrote the letter. Murders in open spaces can be complicated things.’

Patricia did not look as though she was particularly worried and, with a smile, she started to eat her salmon.

‘You mean, for example, that the murderer may also be the father of her unborn child?’

Patricia nodded.

‘Perhaps, yes. As for who the father might be, it would be natural to assume that it might be one of the others in the group, but it is also possible that she had been sleeping with a fellow student on the quiet, or had a fling with some passer-by who we know nothing about. Whatever the case, we have two alternatives that are both very interesting. Either Marie Morgenstierne had recently been unfaithful to her absent fiancé, or her absent fiancé has been in the area again.’

‘What about the Nazi network lead?’

Patricia nodded.

‘It could mean everything – or nothing. You should also try to talk to this Henry Alfred Lien, even though it’s a slightly longer trip, and even though he does not appear to be very communicative.’

I nodded in agreement.

‘Well, it looks like I may not be able to get much done in Oslo tomorrow, so I had wondered about a day trip to Valdres, both to speak to Henry Alfred Lien and to have a look at the cabin. What do you think?’

Patricia helped herself to another piece of salmon.

‘I think it might be worthwhile. Then we can perhaps solve the mystery of how Falko Reinhardt managed to leave the cabin. The first theory that has to be checked is the window. If Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen is right and the window was too small for Falko Reinhardt to get out of, then we are left with two alternatives, as far as I can see.’

She fell silent and chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of salmon.

‘And would you perhaps like to share what these two alternatives might be?’

Patricia’s smile was sugar-sweet.

‘Of course. I apologize, but I thought that would be quite obvious to you too. Falko could have sneaked out down the hall. But given that the door to the next room was ajar, and both the people who were in there were awake, the theory doesn’t quite work unless Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen and Kristine Larsen are both lying to cover for him – which is not entirely unfeasible. If they are not, though, that leaves only one possibility, and it is the one that I have always thought to be true.’

Patricia was obviously still more than happy to make fun of me. She demonstratively refrained from saying anything more until I asked.

‘So, according to this theory, how did Falko Reinhardt leave the cabin without the other five noticing, if he used neither the window nor the door?’

Her smile was teasing and she was clearly enjoying the situation.

‘According to the theory, he didn’t!’ she said, with her smuggest smile.

I glowered back. Patricia realized she was on dangerous ground and quickly changed her tone.

‘That is to say, he did of course leave the cabin at one point or another. But not while the other five were there, or between midnight and two o’clock in the morning. According to this theory, he hid himself away somewhere in the bedroom once his fiancée had fallen asleep and stayed there until the others left the cabin. Then he walked calmly out the door. And in that case, it is highly probable that he was the very person Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen claims to have seen making his way through the storm in the opposite direction shortly after.’

I had not for one moment thought about this possibility, but had to admit that it did not seem completely implausible.

‘We are missing a link in the form of a hiding place in the bedroom. It certainly does not sound entirely unreasonable, and is worth investigating as a possibility.’

Patricia nodded vigorously.

‘I realize that this may sound a bit odd. But soon it will be the unlikely that is most likely here, as what is most likely has proved to be not possible. It is becoming increasingly clear that a trip to Valdres tomorrow would be very sensible indeed. By coincidence, of course. But it is in fact a good idea.’

I accepted the compliment and nodded quickly in agreement.

‘In that case, perhaps I should take a guide with me? I would manage to find the cabin on my own, I’m sure, but would have no idea of who was in which room and what happened where…’

Patricia kept a poker face to begin with. After a short pause, she nodded in agreement.

‘It could of course be useful. The most obvious person would be Trond Ibsen, or perhaps Kristine Larsen?’

Despite the gravity of the investigation, I relished the situation and smiled a little to myself before carrying on.

‘Both are certainly suitable candidates. However, I had thought of asking Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen first. It may be an advantage that she is someone who is no longer in the group, and more importantly, she is the one who claimed to have made these observations that night.’

Patricia had lost, and knew it. There were no good arguments against Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, as she had already accepted that it would be good to have a witness with me from that stormy night.

Patricia swallowed hard a couple of times, left what remained of the salmon on her plate and drank the water in her glass. Then she accepted with grace and shook her head thoughtfully.

‘I would have thought she might not have time for such a long trip, given the amount she studies and works. And it is quite novel to take a guide with you who has no sense of direction. But goodness, it is up to you who you ask.’

She was soon on the offensive again, and leaned across the table in a manner that could be seen as aggressive.

‘If Miss Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen accompanies you to Valdres, you might try to tease out of her on the way why Kristine Larsen slept with the door ajar, and why Miriam herself was lying awake but with her eyes closed on the night that Falko disappeared. And in that context, please ask her about a detail I find unusually irritating, as I am very interested to see what she remembers. Kristine Larsen had wanted to leave the door ajar the night before as well; but was the door still open when Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen woke up the next morning?’

I immediately thought that this could only mean one thing. And that I still had no idea what that might be. Patricia had asked me apparently inexplicable questions about tiny details on several occasions previously, and these had always proved to be critical. I looked at Patricia, puzzled, and she for some reason suddenly looked irritated.

‘I am allergic to strange details in murder investigations – and the bedroom door is one such detail. And what is more, these days it would be as good as a medical sensation if a group of three young men and three young women managed to survive for several years without any secret liaisons or at least some jealousy. So there may be more than a couple of skeletons under the mattress!’

The latter was not an expression I could remember having heard before. I sent Patricia a sharp look and asked which mattress she was referring to, if that was the case. Patricia gave a disapproving shrug, which I took to be a good sign.

‘Well, we should not indulge in pure speculation. But the detail with the door is a tiny mystery within the mystery, which may prove to be of greater significance in solving the case than I imagine at the moment.’

I resisted the temptation to ask Patricia how much significance she thought it might have. Instead I asked her whether she had anything more to tell me about Falko’s disappearance. To my astonishment, she nodded.

‘The picture is becoming clearer. Regardless of how Falko managed to get out of the cabin, he left of his own will. In fact, there is much to indicate that it had been planned for some time. Add to that his egocentric personality and the suggestions of an imminent attack, and I don’t like the outcome.’

I looked at Patricia askance, and she sighed heavily. Her mood seemed to have plummeted even further.

‘Hmm, I am going to have to ask Beate for an extra teaspoon soon. Well, we are talking about a gifted only child who was worshipped and photographed by his parents every day as he grew up. He was naturally the life and soul of any gathering, liked to maximize the attention and seems to have had great faith in his own abilities. He was publicly known, though not as famous and successful outside his circle as he perhaps wanted to be. Imagine for a moment that you were someone like that, and that you had heard rumours about a planned future attack. And you feared that the person or persons planning this might pose a threat to you in the period prior to the attack. What would you do?’

Now I suddenly understood what she meant. I nodded in agreement.

‘I might well consider arranging to disappear, thus ensuring my own safety while retaining the ability to gauge the situation regarding the planned attack. And then, when the time was right, come back and save the day.’

Patricia nodded, but there was still no trace of a smile.

‘I think there is more and more to indicate that that is what happened. A man who was as resourceful as Falko could of course have secured a cover identity and financial means to live in another part of Norway – or countless other countries. So the fact that he might have gone under cover for two years is in itself not hard to accept. On the other hand…’

My eyes were trained on her in anticipation.

‘… On the other hand, it is something of a mystery why he has remained under cover for so long, and, it would seem, kept his parents in the dark. I see no other explanation than that he expected something major and dramatic to happen.’

My focus sharpened.

‘But if your theory is right, and Falko is once again out there on the streets of Oslo somewhere…’

Patricia nodded gravely and finished my sentence.

‘… then we can expect a large explosion of one sort or another soon. And if that is the case, we have no idea where or when things will explode.’

Patricia appeared to be deeply uneasy about the situation.

She twitched nervously in her wheelchair while the maid cleared the dinner plates and served ice cream for dessert. In the meantime, I was able to consider the situation in more detail.

‘And in that case, it may in some way be connected to the death of Marie Morgenstierne. But whatever the case, we have not come any closer to solving the murder today, have we?’

Patricia responded with a sullen shake of the head. She showed no interest in eating her ice cream.

‘No, you could hardly say that. It is both striking and rather unnerving that none of the witnesses who were walking behind her have come forward. I have at least six possible explanations in my head, but lack the information either to confirm or reject any of them. We will just have to wait and see what you get out of the security service tomorrow, and what your trip to Valdres might bring.’

I took the hint and stood up.

‘You are of course welcome to come for supper tomorrow evening. But if you take Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen with you to Valdres, remember to drop her off well before you come here.’

I smiled and assured her that I would remember to do that. Patricia’s mouth smiled back, but not her eyes.

I quickly thanked her for the evening. It had given us both a lot to think about. The ice cream was left half-eaten in my bowl, and untouched in hers.

XI

From time to time it still worried me that the professor and company director Ragnar Sverre Borchmann might feel some resentment towards me as a result of the stress and danger that my first murder investigation had entailed for his daughter. It was also possible that he might have heard about my late and hasty retreat at the end of my second murder case, and hold that against me too.

On my way out I therefore remarked to the maid, Beate, that I had not had the pleasure of meeting the man himself this time. I had noticed that the maid simply called him ‘the director’. It was no doubt a far grander title to her ear than professor.

She promptly told me that the director was away, and for ‘business reasons and the like’ it was all very hush-hush where he was, and why he was there.

I gave a complicit nod when she said this. Borchmann’s business empire was so extensive that he could be away on all sorts of business in any number of places both within the country and abroad, and I had more than enough to think about already without speculating on his whereabouts.

I therefore said that I wished the director and his business well, wherever he was in the world and whatever he was doing. Beate replied that they all did, and that he was after all not so very far away. The director telephoned his daughter every evening and had said how glad he was to hear that I had come by.

I heaved a sigh of relief, thanked her and asked her to pass on my best wishes should she have the opportunity. She assured me that she would do her best.

XII

It was eight o’clock in the evening by the time I got home to my flat in Hegdehaugen. I would never have guessed that I would one day call the SPP party office from my own home. But I did it now with pleasure and excitement.

The telephone in the party office was answered after four rings and to my relief it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen herself who answered. After the solemn atmosphere at the end of my visit to Patricia, it was a delight to hear such a happy voice – particularly as it sounded even happier when she heard it was me, and that I was calling about the murder investigation.

She asked if the fact that I was calling meant that there had been new developments in the investigation. I replied that there had been some progress, but that regrettably I could not tell her anything more right now. But I added that I needed a guide for a trip to Valdres in the morning, and that perhaps I could tell her a little more then, if she was willing to volunteer to come with me.

There was silence at the other end of the line for a moment. A breathless silence.

I hastily said that she could of course take a book or two with her, and there would undoubtedly be time to read on the journey. And that it could be of considerable importance to the investigation.

She answered slowly that a murder investigation sounded interesting, and that Valdres was a beautiful place that she knew well. She should be able to take the day off from her studies, given that it was a Saturday and that she still had three months to get through the reading list for her only exam that autumn. As far as the party office was concerned, it might not be so easy, as there were more papers to be sorted than usual.

I immediately promised that she would be back by half past five, and that I would drive her straight to the office on our return from Valdres.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen let out a peculiar peal of laughter, and said that it would perhaps be better for her career in the party if she was dropped a couple of blocks away, given that it was a police car – but that she would, on that condition, be able to come. We agreed that I would pick her up outside Sogn Halls of Residence at half past eight the following morning. Then we put the phone down at almost the same time – and, it seemed, in equally good spirits.

XIII

It was only a few minutes after I had finished the conversation with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen that it struck me that I should perhaps also check whether the farmer, Henry Alfred Lien, would be there. Directory enquiries were able to give me his number. He answered the telephone when I rang, but was not particularly friendly. His voice was monotone, hard and serious; it sounded as if he had not laughed since 1945.

I explained my errand, assured him that he was not a suspect in any way, but said that I hoped that he would be able to answer a few questions tomorrow in connection with the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt and the death of Marie Morgenstierne.

Henry Alfred Lien was not as negative as I had feared, given the reports of his behaviour in 1968, but it was not a jolly conversation all the same. He had nothing to hide, he said, and was fed up of being accused of things he had not done. He had seen a photograph of the young lady in the paper and thought it was a great shame, but did not understand how he could be of any help in the matter. He had never met the woman and had never been in contact with her.

In the end, however, he agreed to meet me for half an hour around lunch time, on the rather peculiar condition that I did not come in a police car. His reputation in the parish was already bad enough, and gossip could spread like wildfire from farm to farm; he said this without the slightest inkling of humour. He then added that of course he did not want to be associated with the case in the media in any way.

Relieved, I assured him that that would not happen. Henry Alfred Lien gave me some brief instructions as to how to find the farm and repeated that he doubted he had anything of interest to tell – but, he concluded, as I was a policeman and was coming all the way from Oslo, it was only right to meet me.

Towards the end of the third day of the investigation, I felt a growing unease. But I did not think that I could do anything more of value that evening, so in anticipation of my trip the following morning, I called it a day at around ten o’clock.

Two busy days of investigation had taken more of a toll than I had noticed: having watched the news while half asleep on the sofa, I went to bed and was asleep by a quarter to eleven on Friday, 7 August.

But then I woke up with a jolt at two in the morning – as the woman from the Lijord Line was running for her life towards me and the train. When I saw her coming towards me in my dream, I thought at first that it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, but then saw that it was in fact Kristine Larsen who was staring at me in panic through the window.

Luckily, I woke up before she was also shot. But I did lie there for the next thirty minutes or so pondering the meaning of the dream, and what Patricia had said. And suddenly I got the strange and uncomfortable feeling that she might be right: it did feel as though there was a great storm brewing – but I had no idea where it might come from, or who would be hit.