The Catalyst Killing

I

My working day started unusually early on Saturday, 8 August. I got out of bed at a quarter past seven, and twenty minutes later was sitting at the breakfast table. Dagbladet expressed disquiet at the situation in South Vietnam and feared that the changes necessary there would not happen as long as the USA continued to support the corrupt regime. Morgenbladet, on the other hand, printed a critical commentary on the dictatorship in North Vietnam and was concerned that many more lives would be lost if the USA did not get the support it needed to continue its heroic war effort.

For want of any new developments, the murder of Marie Morgenstierne had fallen out of the headlines – which suited me very well for the moment. I hastily pushed the papers to one side after reading a scathing article in Aftenposten about a Swedish policewoman who had fallen head over heels in love with a well-known criminal. He had been arrested following a police raid on the policewoman’s flat, and she was now on indeterminate sick leave. The article prompted unfortunate memories in me, but was a useful reminder of just how serious these matters could be.

At a quarter to eight, I was therefore eager to start my working day. It occurred to me that I should at least inform Marie Morgenstierne’s father of what had happened so far.

I got hold of Martin Morgenstierne at home at ten to eight. He said that he was on his way to the bank, but asked if there was any news about the murder investigation or if there were any more questions he could answer.

I explained that some unexpected information had cropped up, and asked whether he was certain that he had not heard or seen anything to indicate that there was a new man in his daughter’s life in the past couple of years. He repeated that he had had more or less no contact with her during that period, or with anyone else in her immediate circle. He could thus not rule out that there was a new man in her life; but he had not heard or seen anything to indicate this, and if it was the case, he had no idea who it might be.

There was a moment’s silence. Then he asked, understandably enough, what sort of unexpected information had led to this rather surprising question.

I could not very well lie to a man who had lost his only child no more than a few days ago. So I told him the truth: that the autopsy had shown that his daughter was pregnant when she was murdered.

His reaction was instant and unexpectedly passionate, given how calm and controlled he had been only hours after hearing of his daughter’s death.

‘It can’t be true! Oh – the shame for the family!’ he almost bellowed into the receiver.

We were both silent with shock for a moment. He regained his composure with impressive speed.

‘Please excuse my outburst, but this on top of everything else only makes things worse for myself and the rest of the family. As you understand, I have no idea who the child’s father is. Are there are any more questions I can help you with? Otherwise, I really should be on my way to the office.’

I said that I had no further questions for the time being and apologized for disturbing him so early on a Saturday morning. He replied that he was grateful to be informed, but that he would be even more grateful if the news could remain strictly confidential. It would only add to the strain on himself and his siblings’ families if this got out, particularly if the newspapers started to speculate and ask questions about the case.

I told him that I unfortunately could not promise that I would be able to keep it out of the newspapers forever, but that I would do my utmost to keep it from becoming public knowledge.

Martin Morgenstierne’s thanks were polite and succinct.

Then we had nothing more to say to each other, and so ended the call.

I was left with my slice of dry toast and cup of lukewarm coffee – and the feeling that it had been a greater shock and blow to the conservative Martin Morgenstierne to learn that his daughter was pregnant than that she had been killed.

II

Sogn Halls of Residence came into view at twenty-seven minutes past eight. I had driven a little faster than I should have, in order not to be late.

It was a grey morning, the sky above the halls of residence was overcast and there was drizzle in the air. The students who had stayed there over summer had presumably gone home to their parents for the weekend, or were sleeping off the festivities of Friday night.

Much to my relief, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had done neither. She was standing there alone in the cool morning air, wearing a blue raincoat with no hood and holding a small string bag in one hand. I took it as a good sign that she was there early, and was not looking around for somewhere she could read.

She looked momentarily confused when I pulled up, but her face lit up when she recognized me.

As she got in, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen remarked that she had been expecting a police car. I told her that I had taken a civilian car so I could drop her off at the office door that afternoon, and added that I was disappointed to see that she had not been reading while she waited.

She laughed her peculiar laugh and retorted that it would be unwise to let the books be damaged by the rain, and as they were borrowed from the university library, it would also show a lack of solidarity. She was almost triumphant when she produced a huge tome about English literature in the nineteenth century from her string bag, but, much to my relief, made no attempt to open it. Then we sped away from the Oslo drizzle, towards the mountains of Valdres and the two-year-old riddle of a disappearance.

III

I thought it safest to wait with any critical questions until we were well out of Oslo. So I started by asking my passenger to tell me a bit about herself. This proved to be the right approach. The next hour or so was filled with pleasant chat about her parents and brother in Lillehammer, more details about her life at the university and predictions of how the SPP might do in the coming election. The weather brightened as we started to climb the narrow road up towards Valdres.

The mood in the car was very jolly. But then, on a rather desolate stretch of road, I finally ‘thought’ of a little question that I had in fact been dreading asking for the past two hours. I asked as kindly as I could about a tiny and possibly irrelevant detail – that is, was the door to the bedroom where Kristine Larsen and Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had slept still ajar in the morning, the day before Falko disappeared?

There was a resounding silence. For about thirty seconds, the only sound to be heard was the steady purring of the engine. The atmosphere felt all the more intense as we were passing through a desolate landscape. It suddenly felt as though we were the only two people in the world. Her voice was somewhat tense, though still controlled, when she finally broke the pregnant silence.

‘No. The door that had been ajar the night before was closed in the morning, even though I woke up before Kristine. I’m afraid it is possibly not a completely irrelevant detail.’

I gave her a meaningful nod, but was still not quite sure where this was leading. She was fortunately now on a roll, and carried on without prompting.

‘I really didn’t mean to hide anything from you. But it’s quite a step to talk to the police about a friend’s private life. Especially as I am still not sure whether I saw what I thought I saw, or whether I dreamed it.’

This time my nod was encouraging and I assured her that I did not blame her in anyway. But I added that it could be very important, and that I was certain that she had seen what she thought she had seen.

She nodded.

‘Unfortunately, I also think I did. In fact I am increasingly certain that what I saw that night was real and not a nightmare.’

Then she stopped again and looked at me expectantly.

I gave her the little push she needed.

‘And that was…’

She met me, but still only halfway.

‘Well, it was in fact me rather than Kristine who had a headache. I normally sleep very heavily, and Kristine knew that. But I had a headache and it woke me up sometime in the middle of the night. I still don’t know when it was, but that doesn’t really matter. It was dark outside, so I guess it was the middle of the night.’

We were still beating about the bush. And my patience was wearing thin.

‘So, despite the fact it was dark, you still saw something that you did not expect to see, something so unexpected that you were not sure if you had dreamed it or not the next day. But you had seen it. And to stop me from putting words in your mouth, what you saw was…’

She cooperated, fortunately, as I was still unsure about what she was going to tell me.

‘Despite the dark, and with the proviso that I may have dreamed it, I saw Falko Reinhardt. In our room, in the bed – on top of Kristine.’

I should have realized. But the news was still a small shock, especially as it came from Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s delightful little mouth.

‘And Kristine certainly did not seem to be unhappy about the situation. It’s not surprising that the whole thing seemed rather unreal to me, and that I still struggle to believe that it was true.’

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s hand touched the cross she wore around her neck, consciously or unconsciously. Her voice was apologetic when she continued.

‘I have been so unsure as to whether I should tell you or not. It was bad enough to have to tell the police about a friend’s private life, but on top of that I really wasn’t sure if it was the truth or a dream.’

Again, I nodded. Then she did too.

We nodded in rhythm and drove in silence for a short while before I said that I fully understood her dilemma. On the other hand, the police was in fact me, and the context was an investigation into the murder of another friend of hers. In other words, she should tell me immediately if there was anything else of possible importance she had not mentioned.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen quickly replied that she could not think of anything else, but that she would tell me if she thought of something later.

So I followed up by saying that her explanation as to why she had not slept the following night was now clear enough, but that she could explain it for me again all the same.

I had expected a blush, or some other form of visible reaction. But there was nothing. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen answered without any awkwardness that she was quite curious by nature, and had found being so unsure very perplexing. So she had stayed awake in the hope of confirmation the following night.

‘But it didn’t happen. I can guarantee that Falko was not in our room the night he disappeared. And as far as I could hear, he was not out in the hall, either,’ she added hastily.

I asked how certain she was today that what she had seen that night was real and not a dream. She gave it some thought and then answered in a steady voice: ‘At least ninety per cent. There was a long dark hair on the sheet the following day, which could not be explained in any other way. And Kristine, who was otherwise normally so calm, seemed to be in more of a state than Marie in the hours after Falko had vanished. I was interested to see if she would say anything to me later. But she never said a word, and I didn’t want to ask.’

I nodded and said that I thought she had handled a difficult situation well. She thanked me warmly and gave me an almost mischievous little smile.

For the final short stretch up to Vestre Slidre, we drove in comfortable if pensive silence. It felt as though we were thinking the same thing. In short, Kristine Larsen might suddenly have had a strong motive for killing Marie Morgenstierne, especially if Falko Reinhardt was still out there somewhere.

A few minutes later we stopped outside the cabin where he had so mysteriously disappeared exactly two years and two days ago.

IV

My expectations regarding the standard of Martin Morgenstierne’s cabin were considerable, but it surpassed them. It was more like a large family home with its four bedrooms, kitchen, living room and bathroom, complete with toilet and shower. But it would appear that it had been standing unused for two years now. According to Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, the bed linen belonged to the cabin and was the same as had been on the beds that fateful night. She still remembered the night in impressive detail, and promptly pointed out the living-room window where she had seen the masked man peer in earlier on in the evening.

We carried on to the bedrooms. Trond Ibsen and Anders Pettersen had each a room to themselves by the front door. Then there was the double room where Kristine Larsen and Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had slept, and the double room where Falko Reinhardt and Marie Morgenstierne had shared their last nights together.

I made an attempt to sneak past the door without any shoes on, but the floorboards creaked loudly under my feet and Miriam heard me straight away from the bed in the room where she had slept. It seemed unlikely that anyone could have sneaked out that way.

Miriam had been right about the window, much to her relief. It was high up on the wall and no more than twelve inches wide. I had to stand on a chair to reach it, and even then could barely stick my head out through the opening. It would not have been possible for Falko Reinhardt to squeeze his body out through the frame.

In short, two of three possible ways in which Falko Reinhardt could have left the cabin were swiftly eliminated. Miriam looked at me with great curiosity when I said that I had another theory to test. Then she sent me a pleading look when I asked to be left on my own in the room for a few minutes. She was, however, very disciplined and obedient by nature, and took her book out of her bag without protest when I shrugged apologetically and pointed to the living room.

I spent the next quarter of an hour making a crude investigation of the room’s walls, ceiling and floor. Everything looked pretty normal, and I was sceptical of Patricia’s theory to begin with. And my scepticism in no way diminished when I had tapped my way across all four walls, including the cupboard, and across the few feet of open floor.

However, my pulse started to race when I discovered first one and then two more loose nails in a floorboard under the bed where Falko and Marie had slept.

My excitement increased when it turned out that the double bed was not attached to the floor in any way.

I pulled it to one side and took out the four loose nails in the floorboard, and could then confirm that a space just wide enough and deep enough to hide a person had been dug out below. And none of the nails in the floorboard in question, nor the one beside it, had been hammered in properly.

I stood there looking down at the secret chamber. It was easy enough to picture it now. Falko Reinhardt had either discovered or dug out this space himself beforehand, and on the night of the storm, he had loosened the floorboards and slipped down there. I stood for some time and pondered why he might have done this.

I then went to get Miriam, told her about the cavity under the bed and asked her if she had ever seen or heard about it before. She looked at me, impressed, and with naked curiosity peered down into the secret hollow. She shook her head firmly and assured me that it was not something she had heard about – or even imagined existed.

When I asked if it could have been Falko Reinhardt she saw going in the other direction that stormy night, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen nodded eagerly. The thought had crossed her mind and was certainly not entirely implausible.

‘In which case, he then obviously left the cabin of his own accord, having first planned his escape,’ she remarked in a matter-of-fact voice. I nodded my cautious agreement and said that there was much to indicate that.

There was nothing more to be found indoors. So I asked Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen to show me the way to the cliff where Falko’s shoe had been discovered the morning after he disappeared.

We found it on the third attempt. The distance to the cliff was about a quarter of a mile. When we got there, I saw the stone beside which Falko Reinhardt’s shoe had been found. It was a large white stone, almost three feet tall, and had sheltered the shoe from the wind.

The view from the cliff was spectacular. The drop was about three hundred feet down onto scree, and Falko Reinhardt could hardly have survived if he had fallen over the edge in the storm. Both Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen and I allowed ourselves to be captivated by the view for a few moments. But, as was to be expected, we found no new traces of the missing cabin guest and no new clues as to what might have happened to him.

With Patricia’s help, I had solved the riddle as to how Falko Reinhardt had left the cabin in the raging storm. But the more crucial questions as to why he had left and where he then went remained unanswered.

V

At a quarter to one, we locked the door to the cabin, got into the car and drove on to Henry Alfred Lien’s farm. The journey only lasted a matter of minutes. Miriam gave an understanding nod when I said that I could not take her in with me, and as soon as I parked the car on the driveway up to the farm, she pulled out her book.

The weather had improved and the sun was shining now. As I got out of the car, it struck me that the farm with the mountains in the background would have been a perfect motif for one of the NS propaganda posters of the 1930s.

The farmer himself, paradoxically, would not have fitted in. He was far too old, too grey and a little too fat. Henry Alfred Lien turned out to be a stocky man of around seventy. His gait was confident yet slow as he progressed across the farmyard. His face was serious and stern, as though carved in granite. And his handshake was firm when he invited me, in a not unfriendly manner, to come into the living room in the main house.

I liked Henry Alfred Lien better than expected, even though he was as taciturn as I had imagined he would be. At close quarters, his voice reminded me of a tractor; it was loud, slow and monotone, and made steady, solid progress. He seemed to be a reasonably well-read and cultured man, and switched promptly from his Valdres dialect to a more standard pronunciation.

Stepping into Henry Alfred Lien’s house was like stepping back into the interwar period. The furniture was wooden and dated from around the time of the First World War. The most recent family photograph on the wall was a black and white picture of a far younger Henry Alfred Lien, together with a very serious wife, a son and two daughters. The photograph was dated 1937. It was hanging below an old cuckoo clock that sang out when the clock struck one, just as we were sitting down at the table.

The table was set for coffee and cake for two, and I could see no sign of any other inhabitants. My host almost immediately disappeared into the kitchen and I used the time to have a quick look around his living room. It gave the impression that the elderly farmer had little social engagement and no political views of any sort. There was nothing on the walls or the tables to indicate his fascist past. I noted with some interest that he did not appear to be a hunter. There were no trophies or weapons to be seen.

Henry Alfred Lien returned with some sugar, poured the coffee and then sat down and looked at me in anticipation.

The interview was problematic from the outset. Henry Alfred Lien had already answered negatively to the routine questions on the telephone. With a poker face and booming voice, he still denied any knowledge of or contact with either Marie Morgenstierne or Falko Reinhardt. He only knew their names from the newspapers. He had been at home on the night that Falko Reinhardt had disappeared, and, unfortunately, he had been alone. The farmer’s wife had died many years ago and the seasonal workers on the farm had been given the weekend off. It had been a very unpleasant echo from the past to be unfairly suspected of being in some way involved with his death or abduction.

Henry Alfred Lien was obviously prepared for my visit. From his pocket, he produced a lie detector certificate and repeated once again that he was innocent. He was extremely grateful that his name had been kept out of the papers at the time, and would take dramatic action if anything about the case was now to appear in print. Gossip travelled quickly in these parts, and he had felt ostracized in the months following Reinhardt’s disappearance.

As far as Marie Morgenstierne was concerned, Henry Alfred Lien claimed to have been at home on the evening she was shot, but once again he had no witnesses to confirm this.

A couple of the workers would be able to confirm that he was here when they went home at six o’clock, and again when they returned at eight o’clock the following morning. However, in addition to a small tractor, he owned a large old Volvo and could have driven to and from Oslo within that space of time. So the opportunity was there, but as yet, no motive.

Henry Alfred Lien paused for thought when I asked if he, as a local, had any idea of what might have caused Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. He emptied his coffee cup and finished a biscuit before his tractor voice rolled calmly on.

‘The mountain has taken lives in mysterious ways before, certainly if one is to believe an old story… So I should imagine that perhaps something similar happened here, even though it is hard to understand how. But I’m not sure that you, a young man from Oslo, would be interested in tales?’

He sat still and looked at me askance, then rattled on once I had said that I was interested in anything that might cast light on the mystery. This time he trundled on for some time without stopping,

‘Once long ago, sometime in the last century, there was a boy called Karl. He was the son of a poor farmer, but was said to have a good head all the same. And then, a few years after his confirmation, he turned into a megalomaniac. One day he claimed to be the son of King Karl Johan, the next he talked about flying to the stars and on the third day he suddenly disappeared from work. He had been working on one of the neighbouring farms with some other lads. They didn’t see him again until they were on their way home for the night. Then there he was, standing at the edge of the cliff.’

I looked at Henry Alfred Lien with keen interest. He was encouraged and picked up pace.

‘My grandfather was one of the young lads who saw Karl standing there at the top of the cliff. And according to what my father told me when he was an old man, they heard him screaming as he fell. They saw him plummet head first down onto the scree. But when they got to where he had fallen, he was nowhere to be found. They gathered folk from the neighbouring farms and scoured the area on foot without ever finding a trace.’

Having released the story, Henry Alfred Lien’s mouth slammed shut like an iron gate. We sat looking at each other across the table for a few seconds before I attempted to encourage him to continue.

‘A remarkable story. Was the mystery of this lad Karl ever solved?’

Henry Alfred Lien shrugged.

‘His remains were found a few weeks later. His body was discovered one morning in the middle of the scree where they had searched so many times before, his head crushed. So it’s possible that the fall did kill him, but how it had happened remained a mystery. As long as there was someone alive who remembered Karl, people speculated about murder and gods and devils.’

‘And what do you think happened?’

For a moment, Henry Alfred Lien seemed to be glad that I had asked his opinion. Not that there was a hint of a smile on his face, but he straightened his body when he answered.

‘As you ask, I am a down-to-earth old farmer who does not believe in murder, gods or devils. I think that the lad jumped to his death and someone in his family or a close friend ran to the body and covered it up for a few days in order to avoid the shame of suicide. And it would not surprise me if something similar happened to this Falko chap a couple of years ago. According to what was said in the papers, he was also a young man with some wild ideas.’

I asked Henry Alfred Lien if he knew exactly when the mysterious death of Karl had taken place. He nodded and his face became even graver.

‘I don’t remember if my grandfather ever told me the exact date, but I do remember the year as clearly as if I had been told yesterday. The lad Karl met his mysterious end in the mountains in the summer of 1868. And that is a strange coincidence. I thought that perhaps this Falko had heard the story of Karl’s death and that had somehow tipped him over the edge himself.’

I nodded pensively. My discovery at the cabin did not substantiate the notion of a suicide, but nor did it disprove it. And I had to admit that it certainly was a remarkable coincidence.

But I did not pursue it any further, and instead probed a bit more into my host’s history with the NS.

Henry Alfred Lien sank a little into his chair again as soon this topic was raised. He hunched up his shoulders and replied that it was a phase in his life that he had hoped was now behind him. He had received an unexpectedly harsh sentence after the war, but had taken his punishment and had not had any contact with members of the NS since. Of the names I mentioned, he could only remember having met Frans Heidenberg briefly during the war.

We sat in silence after this. I did not have any more questions and he did not say more than he needed to. So I improvised and asked why he had ended up joining the NS in the first place.

The question seemed to open a tiny crack in his otherwise stony defence. Henry Alfred Lien took a minute to drink some more coffee before he answered. Then suddenly his voice rumbled on a fair distance.

‘There are evidently a great many who say they can’t explain why today. But I can. I have never been a Nazi for ideological reasons, or a man of ideology in any way really. In my youth, I flirted with the Liberal Party, but was not really politically active. In 1940, I believed it was set in stone that Germany would win the war and did what I could to ensure that my farm, community and country would suffer as little damage as possible. I entirely misjudged the situation and ended up as a NS section leader and spokesman, and could then not withdraw later without risking my life. In the last year of the war, I realized that we were hurtling towards an abyss and that it was too late to jump ship. I didn’t dare jump before the war was over, for fear of the Germans – and only hours after they capitulated, the Home Front was at my door. Believe me or not, the choice is yours. But that is the truth.’

I believed him instantly. Rarely did the people I questioned so openly declare themselves to be opportunists and cowards, without those words being mentioned, to be fair.

We sat in silence again. It felt as though we had touched on something interesting and I tried to push a little more. I pointed to the photographs on the wall and asked if the children were doing well. This proved to be another bull’s eye. Henry Alfred Lien sank even further into his chair before answering.

‘My daughters are both doing well, though I don’t see them as often as I would like to. But unfortunately I know very little about my son. Apparently he’s a lawyer and politician for the Labour Party in Trondheim now, and is said to be doing very well. And I have two grandsons, twins, who are nearly old enough to be confirmed. But I’ve never met them and their grandfather from Valdres will certainly not be invited to their confirmation.’

We were definitely onto something now. The stony crevices of his face were shifting. He stopped talking, but I could see that he wanted to continue. He lit his pipe, his hand still steady, and sat smoking in silence. His gaze drifted out of the window towards the mountains on the horizon.

‘The children, that’s the saddest part of it all. Had I not had a family, I would never have joined the NS. I wanted to secure the children’s future. I hoped that one day they would thank me for it. But it was quite the opposite. First of all, my choice created problems for them, and they never forgave me for that. It was hard enough to serve my sentence after the war, worried as I was about the family, but it was even worse to get out afterwards. For the first three years, my wife and I lived here together on the farm like strangers. We did the work together that we had to, exchanging only short messages where necessary. We slept in separate rooms and made our own food. When the children rang, it was to speak to her, and they hung up if I answered the telephone.’

Henry Alfred Lien stopped abruptly, but then continued after a short pause, when I nodded encouragingly.

‘Then my wife fell ill in 1953. It was terribly sad, but in a strange way it also marked a transition to something better. We started to talk again and I was able to show how much I loved her in those final years. She finally forgave me some months before she died, and, as was her wish, so did our daughters. The three of us sat together at her funeral. Even though it will never be the same, they do come to visit me now. And they have started to call me father again.’

‘Your son, on the other hand…’

He sighed and leaned his great arms on the table, which sagged slightly under their weight.

‘It’s hopeless. He sat on his own in the church at his mother’s funeral and has never set foot here again since. His sisters were nearly grown up when the war started and left home as soon as it was over, so perhaps it was easier for them. But my son was only eleven when the war came, and was still a youth when it was over. It wasn’t easy to be the son of a Nazi at high school in those days. And my son is like me: stubborn as an ox and slow to change. So I still hope for a miracle every time the telephone rings and every day when the postman comes, but I have stopped believing that he will forgive me.’

He suddenly pointed at the floor, his great, coarse hand trembling dangerously in the air.

‘I remember in the autumn of 1940, before my son turned twelve, he stood in the middle of the room and screamed at me, Father, you can’t do this to us or yourself. Hitler is a dictator, Nasjonal Samling are traitors and Germany will lose the war. What you are doing will only bring trouble. And he was right, of course.’

Henry Alfred Lien sat there and stared at the floor for a while, as though his son was still standing there. His eyes were fixed as his voice continued. The tractor was making very unsteady progress now.

‘I have sent him letter after letter, begging for forgiveness, without ever getting an answer. He put the phone down every time I tried to call, even after his mother’s death. Then one day in autumn 1960, I drove to Trondheim, found his house and waited at the gate with a present until he came home from work. But even then he did not want to talk to me. He said that Nazi scum would always be Nazi scum, no matter what age, and that he no longer believed a word I said. I stood there like a dog at the gate and stared at my son’s closed door for over an hour. Then I drove all the way home again without having resolved anything. Every time I drove over a bridge I thought that it would perhaps be just as well if I drove off it. And since then the years have passed with no change, and I have no idea what might make him change his mind.’

Henry Alfred Lien’s eyes turned reluctantly up from the floor. He looked me in the eye again when he carried on.

‘So that is the story of the greatest mistake of my life. I’m not a Nazi, never have been, and every day I regret that I pretended that I was during the war. I did it for my son’s sake and he will never forgive me. So I hope you can understand why I want to leave it all behind me now, and that under no circumstances do I ever want to be associated with the Nazis again. If my son saw any mention of that in the newspaper, all hope would be lost.’

I nodded with understanding. It was about half past one when I finally stood up to leave. It was a powerful story and I really wanted to believe that Henry Alfred Lien deeply repented his sins. And what was more, there was no stick of any sort to be seen. I did jot down, all the same, that he admitted that he had been in contact with other Nazis during the war. And that he did not have an alibi for the night when Falko Reinhardt disappeared, or the evening when Marie Morgenstierne was killed.

VI

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was obviously an impressively fast reader. When I got back into the car, she suddenly had only fifty pages left to read of the thick book on nineteenth-century English literature. She continued to read these at the same time as having a rather interesting conversation with me while we drove back down the valley.

Then for the rest of the journey, we spoke uninterrupted.

She reassured me that nothing I told her about the case would ever get out, but hastened to add that she fully understood if I was not able to tell her anything about it, as was probably the case.

Instead we talked about Valdres and hiking in the mountains, which proved to be a shared tradition in both our families. To my relief she only read book number two, on French grammar and linguistic theory, for about five minutes while I filled the tank at a petrol station outside Hønefoss.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was easily persuaded to stop for a bite to eat at a cafeteria shortly after, once it had been established that we would only be half an hour and would still easily be able to reach the party office on time.

It was while we sat there in Hønefoss with our plates of meatballs that I suddenly thought of another question I could ask her – whether she could remember ever hearing, during any of her childhood trips to Valdres, the almost mythical story of the young lad, Karl, who had also vanished in the mountains up there.

Her reaction was so unexpected that I almost jumped. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen pointed at me across the table in a manner that was almost accusing.

‘Yes, in fact, I read it in a parish yearbook from Valdres when I was twelve. It’s an incredible story. But where did you hear it? And does it have any bearing on Falko’s disappearance?’

I told her honestly that I had no idea yet. But I had heard the story now and thought that the similarity was remarkable, especially given that it had apparently happened in 1868.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen nodded eagerly and pointed at me again, then leaned forward across the table.

‘The year is one thing, certainly, but if I remember correctly, it was in fact on the night of 5 August 1868 that Karl vanished into thin air on his way down the mountain in Valdres. I may be wrong – after all, it is ten years since I read the article. But I am pretty sure it was, and could easily find the book and check again as soon as the libraries open on Monday. And if I’m right about the date, then it really is a remarkable coincidence, isn’t it? How exciting!’

I felt my pulse rising, but was not quite sure whether this was due to the incredible coincidence of dates or the sudden outburst of the otherwise so calm Miriam. So I asked her to check the date at the library on Monday, and to contact me as soon as she had. I told her I agreed that if she had indeed remembered the date correctly, it was a very interesting and exciting find. She nodded eagerly again, an unexpected glow in her eyes.

So the mood in the car was very jolly once again for the last two hours as we headed into Oslo. I ventured to ask a bit more about the others who had been at the cabin. She took the hint and spoke only of them for the rest of the trip. However, there was not much new to be gleaned, compared with what she had told me before.

Kristine Larsen was an only child. Both her parents were teachers at Hegdehaugen, but we quickly established that I had not been taught by either of them in my final years.

Anders Pettersen was, in Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s words, ‘the prototype artist and communist. Quite possibly talented, but very definitely self-absorbed and ambitious.’

In Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s opinion, Trond Ibsen was a far more gifted man, socially, even though he often pushed his psychological reasoning too far.

She had seen Anders Pettersen as Falko’s loyal younger brother, whereas Trond Ibsen had a far more independent role. Anders Pettersen and Trond Ibsen generally shared the same political views, but there had been some rivalry between them since Falko’s disappearance, as they vied for the role of leader. There was a degree of jealousy on Anders’ part, as he could not compete with Trond when it came to family traditions and wealth. The legendary playwright, Henrik Ibsen, was a distant relative, and a number of well-known names from cultural and philosophical circles were in Trond’s immediate family, including, for example, the famous communist and historian Johannes Heftye, who was an uncle on his mother’s side.

She threw me a questioning glance when she said this, and I said that it could well be an important link. It crossed my mind that it was rather odd that neither Trond Ibsen nor Johannes Heftye had said anything about this to me. And that it was a blessing that Miriam Filtvedt was so open with me, and showed no apparent sign of any kind of sympathy for either of the men in the group.

When we drove past Grefsen, I said that I would quite possibly have to contact her again in the course of the investigation. It was fine by me if she wanted to tell her parents that she had been questioned by the police, but I asked her not to mention this trip or any of the details we had spoken about to anyone, not even those closest to her. I then waited with a pounding heart to see if she used the opportunity to mention a boyfriend – which, to my huge relief, she didn’t. She smiled, remarked that it was important keep one’s family life and private life separate, and assured me that she would keep everything that she had seen and heard today strictly to herself.

When I dropped her off outside the party office, I said that her company had been refreshing in the midst of the murder investigation. She replied that it had been ‘extremely interesting’ to follow a murder investigation for a few hours. I would have preferred it had she said ‘extremely pleasant’, but was happy enough with that for the moment. Especially when she added with a little smile that I was welcome to contact her again should I have any more questions that she might possibly help me with. Then we waved happily to each other through the car window.

My fascination with this calm and knowledgeable young lady was growing in the midst of this grisly business. As I drove back to what would no doubt be a far less engaging meeting with the powerful head of the police security service, I could unfortunately not think of any new questions to contact her about at the moment, but very much hoped that some would soon crop up.

VII

It was with a degree of awe, as well as some dread, that I knocked on the door to Asle Bryne’s office in Victoria Terrace at exactly six o’clock. I had never spoken to the revered head of police security before, but had heard his voice on the radio and seen his face in the papers. He had, whether it was justified or not, acquired a reputation for being alternately temperamental and uncommunicative.

My first impression was that he was relatively calm. His jet-black eyebrows were even bushier than I had imagined, and his face was unexpectedly controlled for the moment. He nodded briskly at a chair in front of his desk and when I held out my hand, gave it a firm, equally brisk shake. He had a pipe in the corner of his mouth and his eyes followed my every movement as I sat down.

I started by introducing myself and the case in brief. He nodded and replied curtly that he was of course familiar with it. I did not venture to ask him how. Instead I got straight to the point and asked if he could tell me about Marie Morgenstierne and the rest of the circle around Falko Reinhardt.

The head of the police security service was, as expected, well prepared. His answer was brief: that they would of course be happy to help with the murder investigation, but that the security service had to follow strict procedures when it came to divulging information. Then he said nothing more.

In answer to my initial question as to whether the police security service had the group under surveillance, he answered, ‘yes, of course.’ When I asked if this was the case both before and after Falko Reinhardt had disappeared, he replied, ‘yes, of course.’

Bryne exhaled some smoke from his pipe following these two succinct replies and paused for thought. Then he added, with a bit more vigour: ‘The greatest threat to our country is still from the supporters of Moscow communism. The second greatest threat is probably the Peking communists. We would therefore clearly be neglecting our duty to our country and its people if we did not keep our eye on a group that was trying to worship both Moscow and Peking at the same time.’

When I asked whether the police security service had at any point received information from members of the group, Asle Bryne replied brusquely that he could under no circumstances comment on that. He added that the security service was dependent on getting information from a range of different sources, and that it could have disastrous consequences if these sources were identified and at risk of being made public.

I permitted myself to remind him that this was after all a murder inquiry and for the present would only involve one policeman and some confidential information.

No more was needed for Asle Bryne’s temperament to make an appearance. He suddenly leaned forward in his chair and launched into a lengthy tirade about the security service’s responsibilities, the essence of which was that they were the country’s only hope in the fight against communist infiltration and Soviet occupation, and that they therefore needed room for manoeuvre without any interference from either politicians or the other police organs.

I waited until he started to calm down. Then I asked if they had found anything to indicate that this small group of students had contacts abroad, or constituted a threat to the status quo in Norway. This unleashed another almost equally violent eruption behind the cloud of smoke. The fact that they did not always uncover something in the short term should not fool anyone into relaxing their focus on potentially violent terrorist groups. Furthermore, it was better that ten innocent groups were kept under surveillance than that they did not watch the one group that might prove to be a real threat to society.

I took this as a ‘no’, and quickly carried on when he paused for breath a couple of minutes later. I told him that I fully understood that the security service could not reveal their contacts and that I could see why they had kept the group under surveillance – which could in fact be of great benefit to the investigation. I therefore would dearly like to know what the security service knew about Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance and the murder of Marie Morgenstierne.

Asle Bryne took a couple of deep breaths, nodded – and made an attempt to answer my request. He assured me that as long as one respected the security service’s situation and work methods, they would of course be more than happy to do what they could to help solve any crimes that were under investigation by other police divisions.

As far as the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt was concerned, however, the police security service knew nothing about it and had no information that might be of any help.

Again, when it came to the murder of Marie Morgenstierne, no one from the police security service had been in the vicinity. They had, however, successfully bugged the group’s meeting place in Smestad, and could thus provide a recording of the last meeting that Marie Morgenstierne attended. The meeting had been short, and the security service had not picked up anything of interest from the recording. But if it could be of any help to the murder investigation, they would be able to lend it to the head of investigation for a day or two, in the strictest confidence, and on the condition that the tape was returned within forty-eight hours and that no reference was made to it in public.

He then made a great show of taking the tape out of the desk drawer and placing it on the table between us.

To humour him, I thanked him for his help and assured him that the conditions would be upheld. I then reached for the tape and pulled it over to my side. To my relief, he did not protest.

I casually added that the investigation had brought me into contact with old Nazi circles, and I asked if the security service was familiar with them. Bryne peered out at me from under his great bushy eyebrows, obviously taken aback, and shook his head almost before he had heard the names.

Another long tirade followed, about how he himself had fought against the Nazis during the war, and that ‘now it is the Cold War that is important, my young man, and not the Second World War.’

These old Nazi circles only involved ‘a bunch of random, bitter’ individuals who hardly constituted a threat to anyone but themselves. The security service was of the definite opinion that the focus should now be on left-wing rather than right-wing extremists. In that sense, he added, both the government and the opposition were in agreement with the security service.

I made a blunder just before I stood up, when I remarked briefly that there was perhaps no reason to believe that military intelligence might know any more. Asle Bryne leaned even further forward across the desk and boomed that there was absolutely no reason to believe that military intelligence might know more than the security service about anything. In fact, military intelligence with its incompetent management was perhaps the second greatest threat to the security of the Norwegian people after communism. It was incomprehensible that neither the government nor the Storting had taken the matter in hand and transferred all surveillance to the police security service.

Asle Bryne was struggling to control himself, and I realized that a far more serious outburst was now imminent. I was genuinely concerned that he might have a heart attack in front of my very eyes. When he eventually stopped for breath again, I gave a disarming shrug and assured him that I was extremely happy with the help the police security service had given so far and did not really think that military intelligence would know any more about the matter. He sat in silence after this, and we then shook hands briefly before I left.

I suspected that the security service knew more than they were willing to tell me. But I was curious to see what the recording from Marie Morgenstierne’s last meeting might reveal, and relieved to be able to take it with me when I left the room.

VIII

Patricia listened intently to my report of the Valdres trip and my meeting with the head of the police security service. When I finished by telling her about the tape, she nodded with cautious appreciation and pointed at the stereo player. I personally was very keen to know what might be on the tape, so quickly put it on.

The recording lasted no more than half an hour. It was very odd to hear the late Marie Morgenstierne’s voice in amongst the other three now-familiar voices. In the short sequences where she spoke, her voice was quiet and soft, but firm and clear at the same time. It also sounded young and vital. I identified the various voices for Patricia the first time they spoke, then we listened to the rest of the tape in silence.

Anders: Well, it’s time then to start our first meeting after the holidays. We will discuss our planned demonstration against the imperialistic war in Vietnam and other plans for the autumn. But first, do any of you comrades have any other points you would like to raise?

Kristine: No other points. But we should perhaps start by marking the second anniversary of Falko’s puzzling disappearance, and renew our hope that he will soon come back.

[Applause]

Anders: Unanimously agreed. We hope and believe that our comrade has not fallen victim to some plot by imperialists, capitalists or class traitors, that he is alive, and that he will soon return to continue his work in the fight to liberate his country’s oppressed people. Does anyone have anything else to say on the matter?

Trond: In cases like this it is often the person who is closest who is the first to notice a change. There are many examples, even among non-religious groups, where the person who was left behind felt something before the missing person returned. So it would be particularly interesting to know what you, comrade Marie, think about the situation?

Marie: I still hope, but no longer know if I dare believe. Falko has been gone for so long now and there has been no sign of any change. So, like you, I can only hope that he will suddenly reappear one day and take up his role again in the class struggle.

Anders: We all share that hope, and once again express our sympathy to you, as you have suffered the greatest loss in his absence. And now we must move on to discuss our planned demonstration and prepare our activities as best we can without Falko. To begin with, we need to plan our participation in the big anti-Vietnam rally on the last Saturday in August. I hope that everyone is able to take part?

Kristine: Yes, of course.

Trond: Yes, I have taken time off from work on Friday afternoon and Saturday morning.

Marie: Yes, I’ll be there.

Anders: Excellent. We will announce it through the normal channels and hope for strong support from the anti-Vietnam movement and others on the far left. It has not yet been decided whether to demonstrate outside the American Embassy, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs or the Storting. I personally think we should take imperialism by the horns and demonstrate outside the American Embassy.

Trond: I agree with you in principle, but I think that psychologically the Storting is better. A mass mobilization there would put pressure on the politicians who are warming to the idea of demanding a change in the Vietnam policy. A good many Labour Party politicians are pushing in that direction and pressure on the government is mounting. No one in the American Embassy is up for election, and no one there is sympathetic to our calls.

Kristine: I see advantages in both, but Falko always said that the American Embassy was the root of all evil in both the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Storting. So I think that the first demonstration after the second anniversary of his disappearance should be there. Marie: I support Anders.

Trond: Then I accept. Should we send invitations to the Labour Party and SPP youth leagues, or just to the Vietnam Committee and other contacts left of SPP? Don’t get me wrong, I am sceptical of any flirtations with the Labour Party, and even more sceptical of any pandering to the SPP. But I do think we should send invitations to both as I think that would make the situation harder for them both, tactically.

Anders: Well-meaning members of the Labour Party and SPP are welcome to join us, but we will not invite them. It’s important to show the Americans how strong the far-left radicals in Norway really are. Clear slogans and committed participation are more important than numbers here.

Marie: I agree with that.

Kristine: I also agree. Reminds me of what Falko used to say: that few can become many if they are just patient and stand united.

Trond: Well, I will back down then. It is easy to compromise on the choice of method as long as the goal is fixed. And what about our other plans for the autumn? I have to look after my practice and my duty to my patients, who have all suffered in some way under the heavy yoke of capitalism. But I have a flexible timetable and will keep patient numbers at a level that allows time for meetings and agitation.

Anders: I have cleared my timetable and work schedule for a very activist autumn. A few daytime lectures are obligatory, but I’ll get a sick note if the good cause so requires.

Kristine: Same here, a few obligatory lectures that I can skip if necessary. But it would be good if I knew about important activities a few weeks in advance.

Marie: Concurred. I don’t quite know what’s happening with my course this winter yet, but I have to get on with my masters. Whatever the case, it shouldn’t be a problem for the first part of the autumn, and I’ll be there for whatever we decide to take part in.

Trond: Excellent. Then our conscience is still clear, in terms of both Falko and society’s repressed masses.

Anders: Agreed. We should also note the good news from China, where new advances in Mao’s Cultural Revolution have been reported. The progress continues, and in sharp contrast to the situation in the USA, it is of benefit to the entire population. A united nation celebrates in the streets in Mao’s China, whereas there are more and more demonstrations against the war in Richard Nixon’s USA. There is no doubt which country and which ideology is on the offensive. We still have the present against us here in Norway, but the future is behind us. In just the same way that the heroes of the Resistance are now honoured for their stand against Hitler’s Nazism in the Second World War, we and other likeminded people will be honoured in the next century by future generations in a new and fairer Norway. The great awakening will reach the sleeping masses in our country within the next few years.

[Applause]

Marie: Thank you for your uplifting words. When shall we meet again to continue our struggle?

Trond: What about the Tuesday before the anti-Vietnam demonstration? There may be a need for more preparations by then, and it’s free in my diary at the moment.

Anders: Suits me very well. I can, if everyone is happy, volunteer to open with a few minutes on communism’s development in China and neighbouring countries. There is exciting news that communism is now advancing fast in Cambodia under the charismatic leadership of the young general secretary Pol Pot, and it would seem that the USA’s lackeys there are on the verge of collapse.

Marie: That sounds like a very interesting theme. And Tuesday is good for me too.

Kristine: And for me. So let’s close then by reiterating our hope that Falko will be back by then to take his seat and place at the rally outside the American Embassy.

[Applause]

Trond: So that concludes the meeting. I’ve got my new car outside. Does anyone need a lift somewhere?

Anders: No thanks, I am becoming more and more environmentally aware and prefer to cycle.

Kristine: I’ll be home by the time you’ve got in the car, but thank you.

Marie: And I’m on the train, as usual.

Trond: Have you got enough time before the next train? Otherwise, I’m happy to give you a lift.

Marie: There’s plenty of time. Thank you for a good meeting and see you soon. No doubt we’ll have a lot to talk about this autumn.

It was a poignant conclusion to the meeting and the recording, to hear Marie Morgenstierne say that she looked forward to seeing more of the others during the autumn. Her voice was just as calm and even as it had been at the start of the meeting.

But a few minutes later, I had seen her running for her life in sheer panic. As I stopped the tape, I wondered more than ever what had happened on the way from the meeting to the station. Patricia had now finished her main course, and was staring at me across the table with an expression that was unusually sharp and concentrated.

IX

‘Well, did you get anything out of that?’

Patricia nodded and rubbed her hands.

‘Yes, absolutely. Lots of interesting things. What did you think was most important?’

This question put me in an awkward position, as I had not immediately recognized that the tape contained anything important to the murder investigation. There was nothing in the recording to indicate that there was any conflict between Marie Morgenstierne and the others, or that her life was in danger. So I mumbled that the ending was quite interesting, but it gave no reason to believe that she had any idea of the danger that waited outside. If that had been the case, she would obviously have accepted the offer of a lift to the station. It was strange to think now how different the story might have been, had she accepted.

Patricia nodded impatiently.

‘But it was hardly accidental, and it is also odd that Marie Morgenstierne lied about having plenty of time to catch the train. And then proceeded to walk slowly, even though she should really have got a move on if she was going to catch it. It is clear that she did not want to go with Trond Ibsen – without us yet being able to say anything as to why. Otherwise, the others in the group appear to have given a pretty truthful account of the meeting. And even though there does not appear to be any open conflict, one can detect an obvious tension between Anders Pettersen’s principled, sectarian line and Trond Ibsen’s more pragmatic approach. Marie Morgenstierne consistently supports Anders and goes against Trond, as does Kristine Larsen. So there may be some opposition, even suspicion, levelled at Trond Ibsen. But there are many other interesting things here as well. There is something that Kristine Larsen does that Marie Morgenstierne does not, even though they always seem to concur.’

I thought furiously, but looked at Patricia in desperation.

She let out a heavy sigh.

‘Dear detective inspector… it is perfectly possible to hear that right from the start it is Kristine who constantly talks about Falko, and expresses her hope and belief that he will come back. Given that Marie is Falko’s fiancée, she is remarkably defensive and almost sceptical.’

We were interrupted by the maid, who cautiously knocked on the door and popped her head round to ask if we wanted dessert. Patricia replied ‘yes, please’, but drummed her fingers so impatiently on the table that the maid served our apple cake and ice cream in great haste before almost running out of the room with the dinner plates.

Patricia mumbled something about the maid moving slower and slower while time was passing faster and faster. When the door had closed, she immediately turned back to the case.

‘It could of course be a psychological mechanism, in which case Trond Ibsen would no doubt be able to tell us more. But based on what we have just heard, it is reasonable to believe that Kristine Larsen’s desire for Falko to come back was stronger than Marie Morgenstierne’s.’

I had now had the time I needed to link the two things together, and nodded in agreement. ‘And that would tie in very well with what Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen told me earlier today.’

Patricia’s acknowledgement was serious.

‘Yes, young Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was already sharing gossip about a friend with the police before she claimed to have qualms about sharing gossip about friends with the police. But what she said was reasonable enough and certainly fits. Falko Reinhardt clearly had unlimited confidence in his own magnificence and was enjoying himself with Kristine Larsen only hours before his planned disappearance.

She was obviously in love with him. And the recording from the meeting reinforces the idea that she still is. Thus here there are signs of a possible conflict between the two. Given the picture that is emerging, I think you should confront Kristine Larsen with this as soon as possible, and see if she wants to change her statement.’

I gave a quick nod.

‘So it seems increasingly likely that my guess is correct – that the woman behind Marie Morgenstierne who called out to her was Kristine Larsen?’

Patricia shook her head, looking pensive and rather disapproving.

‘Yes, that would seem to be a reasonable assumption. But: one, we still do not know for sure. And two, even if Kristine Larsen was the woman behind Marie Morgenstierne on the road to Smestad station, that does not prove in any way that it was she who shot Marie Morgenstierne. And there is nothing here to rule out that any of the others is the murderer. Trond Ibsen could easy have driven around in his car and been waiting on one of the side roads. Anders Pettersen could have done the same on his bike. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, who clearly knew about Falko’s infidelity, could, for all we know, have been anywhere around there. And the same is true of Falko himself.’

Patricia continued.

‘Now that we can confirm that Falko’s disappearance from the cabin was voluntary and well planned, there is much to indicate that he is still out there somewhere. But unfortunately I lack the information to say any more.’

I voiced my understanding and concluded that my next visit should be to Kristine Larsen.

Patricia nodded, as she pointed at the stereo player.

‘By all means, but the security police question should also be followed up. I do not trust them at all, and I am curious as to how they got such a good recording from the meeting so fast. I have a theory about how it might all link up. But there is a danger that Asle Bryne will not answer if you ask how he got the tape.’

I could only too well imagine that Asle Bryne would not answer that, and said so.

Patricia let out a heavy sigh.

‘My theory is therefore far too weak to be used as the basis for any confrontation. So we will have to test the security police procedures and send the tape to be fingerprinted. And otherwise hope that new information will crop up that can help to explain this side of the case.’

I looked at Patricia. Her eyes met mine without turning away – or blinking.

‘I do not leave any stone unturned in the hunt for a murderer. And you should not either. I think that one of the four who were at the meeting made the recording at some point. And I would dearly like to know which one of them it was. It could be of crucial importance to the motives in this case.’

I concurred, and promised to have the tape checked. Then, in conclusion, I asked about the strange story from Valdres. Patricia grew pensive and sighed again.

‘Let’s wait and see what young Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen finds out about the date. But if she is right, it is too incredible to be a coincidence. Henry Alfred Lien also said several very interesting things that are starting to make me think there is a link with Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. But I can’t be sure yet, and any connection to the murder of Marie Morgenstierne is still unclear. Send the tape to be checked for fingerprints, and in the meantime, pay Kristine Larsen another visit; and then talk, if necessary, to the rest of the group. Contact me immediately when you have anything new to tell, whether late this evening or early tomorrow morning. I will in the meantime ruminate on both things and any possible connections between the two.’

I noted with some surprise that Patricia was happy to talk about possible links between Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance and the murder of his fiancée. Then I retired in order to continue the investigation.

X

I made a pit stop at the police station and sent the tape off for a forensic check. I reminded the laboratory of the strict confidentiality clause and that they should report directly to me. There was fortunately no kind of marking on the tape that might link it to the police security service.

It was half past eight by the time I got back into the car. But I was increasingly keen to get on with the case, so having started in the direction of Hegdehaugen, I then turned off and headed towards Smestad.

The theory that the relationship between Marie Morgenstierne and Kristine Larsen was tainted by jealousy was of increasing interest, especially now that there was more to indicate that Falko was still alive. It was not hard to imagine that Kristine Larsen might have been behind both the written threat and the murder, particularly if she had been the woman following behind Marie Morgenstierne. Whatever the case, I wanted to hear what possible explanation Kristine Larsen would give of her relationship with Falko Reinhardt as soon as possible.

I arrived at Smestad at just the right moment, at five to nine. There was no response when I rang on Kristine Larsen’s doorbell. But when I turned my head I saw her on the other side of the road, apparently ambling along.

‘Kristine!’ I called over to her.

I immediately thought that I should perhaps not have shouted. But her reaction made me forget everything else.

Kristine Larsen froze.

For a brief moment she stood like a statue on the pavement.

Then she turned on her heel and ran off in the opposite direction, at ridiculous speed. It crossed my mind that she was running in the same direction that Marie Morgenstierne had run. She was running towards the station.

I also stood paralysed for a few seconds before I pulled myself together and started to run after her. To my surprise I did not seem to be able to catch up at first. Kristine Larsen had a good start on me, and her long legs carried her remarkably fast.

Kristine Larsen did not look back once. She just ran and ran and ran. She hurtled down the road at terrific speed, without even slowing down when she reached the crossroads. Fortunately the drivers were able to stop in time and stayed there, astounded, until I was well clear myself.

It was only when I was halfway over the crossing that I realized that Kristine Larsen was now running in blind panic.

For the rest of the chase, I did not doubt for a moment that I was pursuing a murderer. The prospect of solving the case and my hunting instinct helped me to pick up pace. And even though I was now close to my limit, I still had not closed the distance before reaching the crossroads. But then a couple of hundred yards later, Kristine Larsen seemed suddenly to collapse. At the next crossroad, she was barely across before I charged out onto the road. A few seconds later I was close enough to get my arms round her.

At which point she screamed.

A terrible, piercing female scream, so full of anguish and pain that it hurt my ears. She was shaking uncontrollably, and still struggling. I locked my arms hard around her and eventually managed to stop her, thanks to my greater body weight.

I spun her round to face me and got another shock. The face of the running woman was just as I remembered the face of the woman on the Lijord Line: distorted and rigid with fear. Only this woman’s face was even closer to mine, and there was no window between us.

‘Oh… is it you?’ Kristine Larsen whispered, her voice cracking.

Then she fainted in my arms.

XI

It was a strange Saturday night. The clock on the wall behind me struck half past ten. I was sitting alone with Kristine Larsen in an interview room at the police station. When she had come to after fainting, she agreed to give a statement without a lawyer present.

She had asked for permission to smoke, and this had been granted.

Then she had admitted that she had been Falko Reinhardt’s lover in the weeks before he disappeared, and still hoped that he would choose her should he return. As she could not talk to anyone, it had been hard for her to live with the pain of Falko’s disappearance and the nagging of her conscience with regard to his fiancée. Kristine Larsen’s guilt had, however, gradually given way to a growing jealousy, and a suspicion that Marie Morgenstierne might have had something to do with Falko’s disappearance.

So, driven by loneliness and despair, she had in the end sent Marie Morgenstierne the threatening letter, in the hope that it would in some way resolve the situation. Which it had not. On the evening in question, she had started to walk towards her flat after the meeting, but had then turned around and tried to catch up with Marie Morgenstierne so she could talk to her face to face. And she had shouted ‘Marie!’ spontaneously in surprise when Marie Morgenstierne bolted.

The chain-smoking Kristine Larsen had, in short, managed to confess an impressive amount in the course of the fifteen-minute interview.

The problem was not only that she denied, in horror, any knowledge of Falko Reinhardt’s whereabouts, but also denied, even more horrified, any knowledge of how Marie Morgenstierne had died.

According to her statement, Kristine Larsen had stopped running and watched Marie Morgenstierne disappear in wild flight. Furthermore, Kristine Larsen did not have any weapons on her at the time, and had never owned a gun. She had no idea who the murderer was, but had lived in fear of him or her since she heard that Marie Morgenstierne had been killed.

So when she heard someone shout her name, she thought that the murderer had come to shoot her and had therefore run for her life without looking back. If she had known it was me, she would have stopped straight away. She repeated this three times within a minute.

Kristine Larsen smoked and cried until ten to eleven. She looked as though she was on the verge of a nervous and physical breakdown. But she stuck to her statement with forceful despair and declared her innocence with open arms.

After five unsuccessful attempts, I realized that I was not going to get any further and so instead asked her to describe in detail what had happened when Marie Morgenstierne started to run.

Kristine Larsen told me that there was an old man with a stick walking in front of her and that he stepped to one side to let her pass. There had been a blind woman with a guide dog behind her, and a man farther back behind the blind woman, but she only caught a glimpse of him.

She had spontaneously shouted ‘Marie’ when she saw her take off. Marie had first glanced back and then looked all around. Kristine Larsen had assumed that it was the sight of her that made Marie Morgenstierne bolt.

‘But then, as I shouted, I also looked around. And that was when I saw something that made me stop in my tracks.’

I gave her a sharp look. She lit another cigarette with shaking hands and took a deep drag.

‘That was when I saw him. He was standing there by the corner of a house on one of the side roads, looking at us.’

She said nothing more, and looked at me with an odd mixture of confusion and joy in her eyes.

‘And the man who was standing there was…?’

She nodded gravely. Then she whispered the name I had guessed before she said it, and which made the room spin.

‘Falko.’

I stared hard at Kristine Larsen. Her eyes were wet with tears, but she did not look away for a moment.

‘He was just as tall, just as dark and just as irresistibly handsome as when I last saw him. I would have recognized him anywhere in the world. He stood by the corner of the house for a few moments without moving, then disappeared from sight again between the houses. I don’t know whether he was waiting for Marie or me. And I don’t know if she saw him. But I did. It was my Falko standing there in the road – I am as sure about that as I am that I’m sitting here on this chair.’

At first I did not really know what to say to this highly unexpected turn of events. So I kept quiet for a few seconds. Behind me, I heard the clock on the wall strike eleven. And then I heard myself say to Kristine Larsen that she was under arrest and would be held on remand, on suspicion of murdering Marie Morgenstierne.

XII

It was by now half past eleven. I sat on my own in my office and thought about the situation.

Kristine Larsen had accepted being taken into custody with unexpected dignity, saying that at least in prison she no longer need fear the faceless murderer as she had every second since the news of Marie Morgenstierne’s death. But she continued to maintain that she was innocent, and that the murderer was still out there somewhere.

She begged me in earnest to continue with the investigation. And with even more urgency, she asked that Falko Reinhardt be informed of where she was, if he was found. She had to see him as soon as he turned up. He would no doubt then be able to corroborate her version of what had happened the evening that Marie Morgenstierne died.

At twenty-five past eleven, I rang Patricia. She picked up the telephone on the second ring. It sounded as though she was stifling a yawn, but she soon perked up when I started by saying: ‘Following some dramatic developments this evening I have now arrested the person I believe to be Marie Morgenstierne’s murderer!’

I waited for some sign of delight, but it never came.

‘Gracious, do tell!’ Patricia said, instead.

Then she listened silently to my brief account of my meeting with Kristine Larsen and her ensuing statement.

‘Very interesting indeed. But who have you arrested as a result?’ she asked, when I had finished.

‘Kristine Larsen, of course,’ I replied.

There was not a sound to be heard on the line for a moment or two. Not a sound.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, what have you done now?’ Patricia exclaimed in disbelief.

Something, I realized, was terribly wrong. But the indications that Kristine Larsen was guilty were so clear to me that I was not going to give up without a fight.

‘The case is of course not solved yet, in terms of all the details. But even so, you cannot deny that Kristine Larsen had both the motive and the opportunity to shoot Marie Morgenstierne.’

This gave about two seconds’ respite. Then Patricia’s voice slammed back into my ear like the recoil from a gun.

‘Absolutely. Kristine Larsen could have shot Marie Morgenstierne. But why on earth would the sight of Kristine Larsen have caused Marie Morgenstierne suddenly to panic and run for her life? Have you thought about that?’

I had not given that side of the matter any thought at all. And now that I was forced to think about it, I found no good answer.

The memory of the terrified Marie Morgenstierne hammering on the train doors in desperation popped up in my mind. Kristine Larsen’s harmless appearance could not possibly have made Marie Morgenstierne run for her life. Particularly not when she had in fact left the meeting with Kristine Larsen, had turned down the offer of a lift, and then walked slowly and calmly towards the station.

Either something inexplicable had happened in the meantime that alerted Marie Morgenstierne to the fact that Kristine Larsen was now going to shoot her – or it was, quite simply, not Kristine Larsen from whom Marie Morgenstierne was fleeing.

The floor was heaving beneath my feet when I asked Patricia if she had any plans for Sunday. She replied that she had no plans that could not be changed, and that I was very welcome to come for lunch around midday if that suited. Then she added that I should bring with me any fingerprints that had been found, and anything else of interest that I might discover in the meantime.

I promised to do so. Then I put down the receiver and sank back into my chair.

Kristine Larsen remained on remand. There were still reasonable grounds to suspect her, but it was with a heavy heart that I went out into the dark just before midnight.

I kept my eyes peeled as I walked the short distance to my car – and thus realized that I obviously still assumed that the person who had shot Marie Morgenstierne three days ago was out there somewhere, in the dark. And that I still had no idea who it was.

I continued to ponder who it was who had shot Marie Morgenstierne as I drove home and got ready for bed, and until I eventually fell asleep. In the minutes immediately before I slept, I was able to relax a little when I recalled Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s calm face and mischievous smile. But after all the evening’s drama, it was still Kristine Larsen’s terrified eyes that stared at me and followed me into my dreams.