The Catalyst Killing

I

Sunday, 9 August 1970 was certainly not one of the quietest Sundays of my life. The dramatic events of the previous day continued to rattle around my head as I slept. I was out of bed before eight, and in the office by a quarter to nine.

My long run in pursuit of Kristine Larsen at Smestad the evening before had been, not unexpectedly, registered and reported. Three newspapers and nine private individuals from Smestad had already called the switchboard at the main police station to ask if it was true that a young woman from Smestad had been arrested in the case.

I, for my part, had already started to regret my action, and wanted it to receive as little attention as possible. So I issued instructions to say that a person had been taken in for questioning the evening before, but that no formal charge had as yet been made and that it was not possible to give any more details in light of the ongoing investigation.

The arrestee proved to be remarkably calm and composed despite a restless night’s sleep. Kristine Larsen had nothing to add or withdraw from the statement she had given the night before. In her dreams she had three times fled from the faceless murderer, she told me. She still insisted that she had done nothing wrong. But given how unsafe life now felt outside the prison walls, she would be quite happy to stay here for a few days more.

With an apologetic smile, she repeated her hope that I would soon find out who had murdered Marie Morgenstierne and that I would tell Falko of her whereabouts as soon as I found him. I promised to do this. The conversation ended on almost a friendly note. When I said that it might be necessary to do a house search, she pointed out the front door key on her confiscated key ring without hesitation. Kristine Larsen did not want a lawyer, but did ask if she could telephone her mother to explain the situation.

Her parents would no doubt be worried if they had heard about her panicked reaction yesterday, she remarked, especially if they been unable to get hold of her today.

As she sat there in front of me, it struck me that Kristine Larsen was a very considerate and unthreatening person. But I still felt far from sure that she was not the murderer. I recalled her much harder voice in the recording from Marie Morgenstierne’s last meeting, and the incredible will and energy she had demonstrated in her flight the day before. The motive was obvious, and the fact that she had sent a written threat to the victim still remained.

Following a brief summary of developments over the telephone, my boss agreed that there were still reasonable grounds for suspicion and remand, but that we should perhaps wait to issue a charge. He would talk to the public prosecutor’s office straight away. We no doubt thought the same thing as we put down the receiver. In other words, that holding a young woman on remand, whether she was guilty or not, would increase the pressure to solve the case.

II

Kristine Larsen had for one reason or another tidied her living room since my first visit. Her flat in Smestad reminded me of the late Marie Morgenstierne’s flat. This was also the home of a neat young woman who lived alone, and who lived a relatively well-regulated life and seldom had parties or overnight guests of any sort. The bed was made and the draining board was clear. The flat was smaller than Marie Morgenstierne’s flat, as were the bookshelves. A faint smell of smoke clung to the walls, which had not been evident in Marie Morgenstierne’s home. But otherwise, it occurred to me that in terms of their homes, Falko Reinhardt’s two women were almost interchangeable.

The only evidence of Falko himself was one single, rather unremarkable photograph of the group under an anti-Vietnam slogan. And the only other things on the walls were a black and white picture of an older couple who I presumed were Kristine Larsen’s parents, and a new colour photograph of a woman with a small child. Given the similarity in the shape of the face and stature, I guessed it must be her sister.

I only found one thing of possible interest to the investigation in Kristine Larsen’s home. But then, it was of considerable interest.

Under a pile of underwear on a shelf in the wardrobe was a brown envelope with two photographs in it. One was a picture of Kristine Larsen and Falko Reinhardt in light summer clothes, possibly taken with a self-timer at a cafe somewhere. She had her hand affectionately on his shoulder. She was looking at him adoringly and he was looking straight at the camera, full of confidence. But his hand was visible around her bare waist.

This picture confirmed what Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen and Kristine Larsen had told me: in other words, that Falko Reinhardt had embarked on a relationship with Kristine Larsen, who was now being held on remand. Her situation was no worse and no better as a result.

However, the other picture that I found hidden in her wardrobe made Kristine Larsen’s position far more vulnerable. It had obviously also been taken with a self-timer, but this time all the Falkoists were in the picture. It had clearly been taken on the trip to Valdres when Falko disappeared. The furniture in the Morgenstiernes’ cabin was easily recognizable.

I registered with slight relief that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was sitting on her own in a chair to the far right of the picture. Typically enough, Anders Pettersen was leaning forward over the table whereas Trond Ibsen was leaning back in his chair on the left-hand side. And even more typically, Falko was sitting in the middle of the sofa, between Marie Morgenstierne and Kristine Larsen. There was no physical contact between any of them. Kristine Larsen was sitting close to Falko, but looked calm and collected. So far, so good.

Kristine Larsen’s problem was, however, that an attempt had been made to eradicate Marie Morgenstierne from the picture with the aggressive use of a black felt pen.

I took both photographs with me when I locked the door and left Kristine Larsen’s flat. It looked very empty and lonely without her. But my belief that it would be some time before she returned had been reinforced by the discovery of the photograph.

III

Once I was back in the office I decided to telephone Falko Reinhardt’s supervisor, who, according to Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, was also Trond Ibsen’s uncle. I took a gamble that Professor Johannes Heftye was not a regular churchgoer, and this proved to be true. He answered the telephone on the second ring, and without any hesitation said that he would be happy to answer a couple of quick questions in connection with the investigation.

There were a few moments of silence when I cut straight to the chase and asked if it was correct that he was Trond Ibsen’s uncle, and if so, whether they had at any point discussed Falko Reinhardt’s thesis.

The professor firstly confirmed that he was Trond Ibsen’s uncle. Then there were a few more moments of silence, before he confirmed that he had ‘once, and only for a few moments’ discussed Falko Reinhardt’s thesis with his nephew.

No names or other details from the research were discussed and he hastened to add that he could guarantee that the conversation was of no importance whatsoever to the investigation. The two had met at a ‘purely family do’ and had talked about mutual acquaintances, including Falko Reinhardt. Professor Heftye had taken it as given that Trond, who was in almost daily contact with Falko and shared his political vision, was familiar with the thesis. However, this proved not to be the case. Trond Ibsen had looked very bewildered when his uncle said that it would be interesting to see if there was anything to the theory that the old Nazi network from the war was still active.

Professor Heftye could only apologize for this ‘small indiscretion’, but added that he ‘had immediately closed the conversation’.

I told him honestly that it was very unfortunate all the same, in the light of later developments.

I could practically hear the professor squirming on the line as he assured me that it could not possibly have anything to do with the case, as his nephew was far too intelligent to get involved with anything criminal or to pass on something that should not be passed on. He hoped that it would not be necessary for the institute to hear about it, as he had some powerful and reactionary enemies from the Labour Party there who would be sure to use it against him.

I replied that there was certainly no reason to inform the university at the moment, but that the professor had to lay his cards on the table immediately if there was anything else he had forgotten to tell me.

He assured me that there was nothing more and that he had not tried to hide anything from me on purpose. He had deemed it a minor indiscretion that was of no particular relevance, and so had not wanted to waste my time by mentioning it.

Finally, I asked if the professor could remember the date on which this brief but rather unfortunate conversation with his nephew had taken place. He was quiet for a moment before he replied that it must have been in connection with his sixty-fifth birthday, on 28 July 1968.

I pointed out to him that it was then only a week before Falko Reinhardt disappeared. He sighed and said tersely that he realized this, and was extremely sorry. We both hung up at the same time without saying goodbye. And just then, there was a knock at the door.

IV

Outside my door stood a constable, who said that a man had asked to speak to me immediately. This proved to be Trond Ibsen, who had once again turned up without being asked. I waved the constable off straight away and showed Ibsen into my office. Behind his placid exterior, I caught an inkling of the fervour I remembered from the end of our first meeting. His voice was controlled, but he started to speak before he even sat down.

‘An acquaintance of a friend called to say that a young woman from Smestad has been arrested in connection with the murder case. It can only be Kristine Larsen. And in that case I felt it was my duty to drive here immediately to point out there must have been a terrible mistake, which can only damage the police investigation in the long run.’

I looked at him and waited. He took a deep breath and continued, at an even faster pace, ‘Anyone with a basic knowledge of psychology would tell you that Kristine Larsen is about the least likely murderer you could find on the streets of Oslo. She is a vegetarian, a pacifist and opposed to any form of violence. We voted against her to kill an unusually irritating wasp on the windowsill in the cabin on the day that Falko disappeared. It is absolutely unthinkable that Kristine would have anything to do with Falko’s disappearance or Marie’s death. A court case against her would only end with her walking free, and would constitute a further blow to police credibility and a weakening of public trust.’

Having said this, he blanched a little. I humoured him, pretended to take notes, and assured him that this information would be taken into consideration before any decision was made regarding charges. I asked then if he knew if there had ever been any romantic liaisons in the group other than the well-known relationship between Falko and Marie.

At first, Trond Ibsen shook his head emphatically, and then looked very serious and pensive. I asked him to tell me what he was thinking. He hesitated, but then launched forth when I started to look increasingly agitated.

‘On my oath, I don’t know whether there have been any other romantic liaisons. Certainly not as far as I am concerned, and I think you can forget Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen in that context…’

He fell silent again and glanced around the room, as if he were looking for an emergency exit.

‘But…’ I prompted.

He nodded, and his response was then fast and intense.

‘But, now that you ask, it is easy to see that the apparently confident Anders suffers from a little brother complex. To an extent in relation to me, but mostly in relation to Falko, of course. Anders is the youngest in his family, he struggles financially, he did not get top marks at university and has only had modest success as an artist. He has without much joy tried to take over Falko’s role as leader in the group. The idea that he might also try to take over Falko’s fiancée in his attempt to achieve this has crossed my mind. I thought that Anders, who otherwise does not have much empathy, showed her a surprising amount of sympathy for a while. But I cannot imagine that it got him anywhere. He was three years below Falko, and she has immense self-control and comes from a better background, and is no doubt very particular about who she lets into bed. It would of course have been very controversial within the group, especially so long as Falko’s fate remained unknown. But for Anders it would certainly be the ultimate self-assertion, in terms of how he saw himself and how others saw him.’

I nodded and this time really did take notes.

‘But nothing in terms of Kristine, at any point?’

Trond Ibsen thought for a moment, but then shook his head again.

‘I have never seen Kristine with a boyfriend, or heard her say that she had one. It’s rather odd, really, as she is such a beautiful and kind girl. But she has dedicated herself to our cause and her studies. And as I have discovered myself, that doesn’t leave much time to find someone and have a relationship. Of course, Kristine admired Falko more than anything in the world, as we all did, but he was taken and I don’t think she was open to anyone else. At one point, I wondered if Anders might not be interested in her, but that was long before Falko disappeared, and I reckon he was given the cold shoulder.’

He laughed a little. I noted that there was clearly a rivalry between the two remaining men in the group. I swiftly changed the subject by remarking that he had not told me that Johannes Heftye was his uncle, or that he had spoken to him about developments in Falko’s thesis.

Trond Ibsen was definitely an intelligent and balanced man. He looked suitably confused for a moment, but then nodded and continued.

‘You mean on his sixty-fifth birthday? Yes, my uncle and I did have a brief conversation about it. Falko had been very secretive and evasive about his work for a few months, so naturally I was curious. I had thought of asking Falko face to face when no one else was around, but never found the opportunity before he disappeared.’

‘And you can rule out that it had anything to do with his disappearance?’

Trond Ibsen furrowed his brow and looked at me.

‘It is of course not possible to rule out completely that developments in Falko’s thesis had anything to do with his disappearance. But I would guess the opposite to be true. And the fact that I knew about these developments definitely had nothing to do with it. I had nothing to do with his disappearance whatsoever, and did not tell anyone about the thesis in the meantime.’

I did not have any more questions, and Trond Ibsen did not have any more answers to the ones I had already asked. We sat and looked at each other in charged silence.

He asked with a wisp of worry in his voice whether he was suspected of having done something criminal. I chose to answer ‘not at present’, but asked him to remain available for possible further questioning. He nodded, and enquired if there was anything more I would like to ask. When I said no, he stood up and rapidly left the office.

I now had a greater understanding of how the case was gnawing at the remaining members of the group, now that one was dead, one was missing and one was in custody. But I still did not feel that I could trust any of them.

Just after half past eleven, the telephone on my desk rang. The call was from a rather flustered technician who felt it was his duty to tell me about a finding that was potentially of great interest. The cassette had been wiped, but not very well. On the edge of the tape was an incomplete, but still recognizable, fingerprint. It belonged to one of the five members of the group around Falko, who had all provided fingerprints after his disappearance in 1968.

When I heard who had left the fingerprint, I sat deep in thought for a few minutes with the telephone receiver in my hand. Then I dialled Patricia’s number and asked if it would be possible to have a quick lunch meeting, as there had been a sensational new development in the case.

V

‘So, whose fingerprints do you think we found on the police security service’s recording of Marie Morgenstierne’s last meeting?’ I asked, and reached out to help myself to a piece of cake.

Patricia’s eyes were steady and confident when they met mine. She answered before I had reached the cake.

‘Almost certainly Marie Morgenstierne’s own fingerprints. I have for several days now suspected that it was she herself who was in contact with the security service. But to have this confirmed is still a very important step forward, so congratulations.’

I thanked her for the rare compliment and hurried on without waiting for any possible jibes.

‘So the others were right that there was a mole in the group, but they were wrong about who it was. It was Marie Morgenstierne, not Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, who was the informer. And if any of them had discovered this, they could all have a possible motive for murder.’

Patricia nodded, and chewed thoughtfully on a piece of cake before she answered.

‘Betrayal is always a possible motive for murder, particularly in sect-like political and religious groups such as this one. And it would now appear that Marie Morgenstierne was an informer. But that does not mean that she was one before Falko Reinhardt disappeared. You should put pressure on the head of the security service and demand to know when she became their informant. You are in a far better position to force him to tell you the truth now. Particularly if you then add that a representative of the security police was obviously at the scene of the crime.’

I looked in astonishment at Patricia, who sighed heavily.

‘Dear detective inspector, the situation should be fairly clear by now. Given that Marie Morgenstierne took the recording with her when she left the meeting, she must have passed it on to someone before she started to run. It is no coincidence that there was a man with a suitcase walking behind her, and that he still has not come forward. He is of course the person she gave the tape to. And therefore a very interesting witness. Ask to speak to him as soon as possible!’

I nodded, fascinated, wondering desperately how I should present this to the head of the police security service without setting myself up for a fall if Patricia’s reasoning proved for once to be wrong.

‘But today’s finding also makes it far more likely that Kristine Larsen is the murderer after all. She had a clear motive if she saw the tape changing hands, and in that case, Marie Morgenstierne also had reason to fear her reaction. And what do you say to this? I found it in her wardrobe.’

I laid the photograph, in which Marie Morgenstierne had been blacked out with a felt pen, on the table. Patricia looked at it and gave a pensive nod.

‘Not very nice. And not very smart either, if after shooting Marie Morgenstierne, Kristine Larsen left this in a place where it obviously would be found in the event of a house search. She is definitely guilty of being vehemently jealous of Marie Morgenstierne, but still highly likely not to be guilty of her murder.’

I noted the formulation ‘highly likely not’ and commented that it was still a possibility that could not be ruled out.

Patricia squirmed restlessly in her wheelchair, but granted me a reluctant nod.

‘In this case, we should both be aware that nothing can be ruled out. And one should never trust pacifism either, in the case of a jealous woman in love. But I still cannot get it to tally with the overwhelming fear that seized Marie Morgenstierne on the street. The man from the police security service was a fair way behind her, and the blind woman was between them. So the tape must have been handed over a good deal earlier. If Marie Morgenstierne realized that Kristine Larsen had seen the handover and understood the significance of it, why did she then only start to run a few hundred yards later? Could the sight of Kristine Larsen have been so terrifying, even if Marie Morgenstierne did not know that she had seen the handover? Or…’

Patricia fell silent – into deep thought. She had definitely forgotten about her slice of cake now, even though it was only half eaten. I could see her mind processing the new information at top speed, running through the various possibilities.

‘Or…’ I prompted.

‘Or it was the far more surprising sight of Falko Reinhardt waiting in one of the side streets that frightened her. Or someone else in another side street or behind a hedge, whom neither the blind woman nor Kristine Larsen could see. There are still a number of possibilities. But either Kristine Larsen is lying so much that her nose will soon start to grow, or Falko Reinhardt is at large somewhere out there. And if that is the case, the mystery is greater than ever. Why has he not contacted the police, given that he was then an eyewitness to his fiancée’s murder, or now that his lover has been arrested?’

‘The most likely explanation in the latter case would simply be that he was not there, because the whole story about him being there was made up by Kristine Larsen to deflect any suspicion from herself,’ I said, cautiously.

Patricia seemed both to nod and shake her head.

‘That is possible, of course. But it strikes me as being equally likely that Kristine Larsen did in fact see Falko, and that he is out there, but he is waiting for something to happen before making contact. This Falko chap seems to be a rather self-centred person with a sense of melodrama. But what on earth could he be waiting for? It must be something major if he first hides away for two years, and then continues to do so even after a murder.’

Patricia looked almost frightened. I jumped when, out of the blue, she slapped her hand down on the table.

‘Pass! There are too many unresolved questions here, and I will make no headway unless some of them are answered. If it does transpire that Kristine Larsen either had a gun in her hand that was clearly visible, or she saw the handover of the tape, then I will start to take your theory that she is the murderer more seriously. In the meantime, however, I will concentrate on other possible solutions while you try to find someone who can give you more relevant information. The security service would seem to be the best lead now, but put increasing pressure on both Kristine Larsen and the other remaining Falkoists through the course of the afternoon.’

This was a very clear hint. I stood up to leave, but Patricia stopped me halfway with her hand.

‘Come back for supper at seven, if you can. And in the meantime, call me immediately if anything new crops up.’

I realized that Patricia’s voice was trembling – as was her hand. She noticed the surprise in my eyes and continued without prompting: ‘It could be my general fear of things I do not understand. It does have something to do with who or what scared Marie Morgenstierne so much, but more with the question as to why Falko disappeared and why he is not making himself known now. It seems to me that we are running against time to prevent an even greater catastrophe.’

This whisper of fear in Patricia made a strong impression on me. I followed the maid out of the room with unusual alacrity, and overtook her just before the front door.

VI

Once back in the office, I made the phone call I had been dreading most of all: to the head of the police security service, Asle Bryne. I called him at home. I feared that he might not appreciate being called at home early on a Sunday afternoon, particularly when it concerned a difficult case, and had made up my mind to put down the phone if he had not answered after five rings. But he picked up the receiver on the fourth ring. The situation was not made any easier by the fact that instead of saying who he was, he opened the conversation with a curt ‘Who is it?’

His voice, however, banished any doubts I may have had that I had got the wrong number. I resisted the temptation to slam down the receiver, and instead launched myself out into deep waters.

‘This is Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen. I met with you at your office yesterday. I apologize profusely for having to disturb you at home on a Sunday, but we have some new information in the murder case I am investigating, which could put the security service in a rather unfortunate light, should it become known. I thought I should discuss the matter with you immediately and try to minimize the negative consequences it could have for both our organizations.’

For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the telephone. I braced myself for a furious outburst that never came.

‘I see,’ Asle Bryne said, eventually. And then said no more.

After a few seconds I realized that he was waiting for me to continue in order to ascertain how much I knew. It felt as though I was teetering on the edge of the cliff in Valdres when I spoke: ‘The current investigation has first of all discovered that the murdered Marie Morgenstierne herself acted as a security service informant for a while. And secondly, and more importantly, a member of the security service appears to have been present at the scene of the crime when she was killed.’

Again, there was silence. Absolute silence. Delightful, liberating silence. And the silence lasted for a long time.

‘I see,’ Asle Bryne said, once more. And then was silent again.

I obviously had to launch myself into a new attack, and did so.

‘It is still my hope that we can keep this from the press and politicians. But then I need any information that may help to solve the case quickly, now.’

‘I see,’ Asle Bryne’s voice repeated. ‘What do you need, then?’ he added hastily.

‘I need to know the details of your contact with Marie Morgenstierne. But first and foremost, I have to speak to the man who was at the scene of the crime about what he might have seen and heard.’

‘I see,’ Asle Bryne said yet again, still sounding remarkably cool and collected.

‘Come to my office at six o’clock this evening, and I will give you all the help I can,’ he continued swiftly.

Then he put down the phone without waiting for confirmation.

I heaved a sigh of relief and looked at the time. It was still only half past two. I still had time for a couple of meetings with the group around Falko Reinhardt before the end of the working day. The one I wanted to speak to most was without a doubt Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, but I had more crucial questions to ask Anders Pettersen. So in the end I dialled his number, and when I had established that he was at home, I headed over there.

VII

Anders Pettersen sat leaning forward in a chair beside his untidy coffee table and stared at me in disbelief. It was not a pleasant situation, and became even less so when he started to speak.

‘That is completely absurd. No one could honestly believe that Kristine would kill anyone, let alone a member of our group. If you believe that, you have either been duped by a conspiracy or are part of one yourself. Kristine is the most consistent, helpless pacifist I have ever met, and I have met quite a few. We all knew that she would not be up to much in the great struggle when world revolution reached Norway. She had been in touch with another revolutionary group before, but was told that they had no use for pacifists.’

The man was politically provoking and personally unbearable, but I chose to ignore both aspects for the moment. There was a considerable risk that he was right about Kristine Larsen and my chances of getting anything out of him about the rest of the group would not increase with confrontation. I therefore replied that the question as to whether Kristine Larsen would be charged or not was still open, but that there was much to indicate that jealousy and rivalry within the group had played a part. He looked at me with a little more interest when I said this.

So I then asked Anders Pettersen the same question that I had asked Trond Ibsen earlier in the day: if he had ever noticed any signs of romantic relationships within the group other than that between Marie Morgenstierne and Falko Reinhardt.

His reaction was more or less the same. He rolled his eyes and looked as though he was about to dismiss the whole question, but then paused for thought and frowned for a moment.

‘I never thought I would mention this to anyone outside the group, and certainly not to a policeman. But this is an extremely serious situation as one of us has been murdered, and I should do everything I can to disprove the clearly mistaken view that Kristine is the prime suspect.’

I nodded in agreement, said that he should absolutely do that, and assured him that for the time being it would be an unofficial statement and would not be written down or shared with the other members of the group. This prompted a sudden sense of confidentiality between us. Anders Pettersen leaned even further forward over the table and lowered his voice when he spoke.

‘I have never heard or seen anything to indicate that Kristine had any kind of romantic ties, if that is what you mean. Not with anyone, either in or out of the group. But there is a romantic secret in the group that you should perhaps know about, as it might be of some importance here…’

He looked at me, his eyes almost twinkling, and continued to talk even faster and more intensely, but in a whisper.

‘Our psychologist has a complex, and it is called women. Trond comes from a very good family, has plenty of money and a good education and all that. And, as far as others are concerned, he is without a doubt an extremely good psychologist. And as you have perhaps noticed, he appears to get on relatively well with other men. But his relationships with women have been less happy in all the years I’ve known him. As far as we know, he has never had a lover of any kind, through no lack of interest on his part. Trond is either too laid-back and distant, or too eager and intense in his dealings with women. In recent years, he seems to have focused more on his psychology and has been outvoted by the group more and more often. Since Falko’s disappearance, I’ve had a growing sense that he is part of the group not so much out of political interest, but rather romantic interest.’

‘So what you are saying is that… he may have been romantically attached to the late Marie Morgenstierne?’

Anders Pettersen nodded and gave a derisive smile.

‘He definitely had a romantic interest in Marie Morgenstierne; or perhaps a crush on her is a better way of putting it. And on Kristine Larsen. And his later contemptuous talk of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was perhaps also an attempt to hide the fact that he had tried it on with her too, without any success. I know him and his complex so well that I could see it, without even having a basic degree in psychology.’

This was said with an undertone of triumph. Once again I felt the tension and rivalry between the two remaining male members of the group, even when only one of them was present.

It seemed that we were getting close to something now in a case that really needed a boost and to pick up pace. So I threw down the trump card that I had had up my sleeve for several days now, and asked whether, if Marie Morgenstierne had been pregnant when she was killed, Trond Ibsen might be the father.

The reaction was unexpectedly instant and marked. His head sank down towards the table.

He asked if it was really true, and if so, how far gone she was.

I told him the truth, that she was pregnant, but probably only in the fifth or sixth week.

Anders Pettersen looked even more confused at this. He replied that he thought that Trond Ibsen was in love with Marie Morgenstierne, but that he had not thought he had a chance. Then he suddenly took this back and said that one could never rule out anything in such situations, and that this was becoming ever more mysterious. If Marie Morgenstierne had been pregnant when she died, he could not rule out the possibility that Trond Ibsen was not only the father but also potentially the murderer, though both things seemed highly unlikely to begin with. The first explanation that came to mind with regard to her pregnancy was that Falko had come back. He shook his head firmly when I asked if he had seen any indication of this, and added that it would be very odd if that were the case and Falko had not been in touch.

Anders Pettersen seemed to change completely in the course of the thirty minutes or so that I spoke to him. When I left, he stayed sitting by the table, totally confused, and it was easy to feel sorry for him. I understood him only too well: the case was equally confusing for me. But I still did not trust him.

VIII

I thought I could see people in the windows of both the neighbouring buildings when I parked my police car and knocked on the door of the SPP party office. I did not feel entirely comfortable with the situation.

There was no problem this time either, fortunately. The door was open. It was almost impossible to get into the office, as there were large piles of envelopes all over the floor. But the people who were stuffing the envelopes had obviously taken the weekend off. Three of the four desks were empty. At the fourth sat Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, eagerly working her way through a pile of papers in just a T-shirt, with her strange multicoloured sweatshirt thrown over the back of the chair. She was engrossed in the papers, with an impish look on her face, and had obviously not noticed me.

The sight of her gave me a rush of joy on an otherwise serious day. I realized I had come more because I wanted to see her than because I needed answers from her. But it never occurred to me to turn around.

She suddenly became aware of me, but was not startled at all. Her equanimity was impressive. I was hugely encouraged by the fact that her face lit up with an even bigger smile, and that she pushed the pile of papers to one side at the same time.

‘Hi. Anything new to report?’ she asked.

It was not the most gushing personal greeting I could imagine, but still a promising start.

So I replied that there was something new that I should perhaps tell her about, and in connection with that, I also had a few questions that I would like to ask her as soon as possible. And then hastily added that I really should get something to eat after what had been an incredibly demanding Sunday, and that perhaps she deserved a break and something to eat too.

This proved to be a good move. Five minutes later the SPP office was locked and the two of us were installed at a discreet corner table in a cafe a hundred yards down the street. Again, I vaguely noticed that there were people in the windows of both neighbouring buildings as we left the party office. I was not sure whether Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had noticed it or not. But I comforted myself with the thought that if she had, she certainly did not seem to be worried about being seen with me.

‘So, what’s happening?’ she asked, and looked at me expectantly. She continued to eat the plat du jour with laudable efficiency while she waited for an answer.

It occurred to me that I had in fact put myself in a very vulnerable position. I had talked so much to her on the trip to Valdres that I now did not have many questions I could ask without giving away more than I should about the case.

I asked again whether she had ever noticed any sign of romantic ties or interests within the group, other than Falko’s now known relationships with Marie Morgenstierne and Kristine Larsen.

She dutifully thought about it for a few seconds, then shook her head – and, naturally enough, asked if there was any reason why I was asking again.

This question only served to highlight my dilemma. I took a deep breath and launched in, told her that in order to move forward in the case, I had to tell her some more about it, but only on the condition that nothing of what I said would be passed on to anyone under any circumstances.

She nodded vehemently, crossed her heart and promised that she would not tell another living soul anything that I said, and then leaned impatiently over the table to hear more.

I started with some caution and told her that Marie Morgenstierne had been pregnant when she was killed, and asked Miriam if she had any idea of who the father could be. She fiddled with her pendant for a moment, and remarked with a sigh that it must obviously have happened after she had broken from the group. If one of the three men was the father of the child, she reckoned Falko to be the most likely candidate and Trond Ibsen to be the least likely. But that was something she thought rather than knew.

I then told her about yesterday’s dramatic events and the arrest of Kristine Larsen. She had clearly not heard about this, and looked genuinely surprised. Then she said what I expected and feared, in a controlled and firm voice: that she could not see Kristine Larsen as a murderer, and certainly not of a friend like Marie Morgenstierne.

I showed her the defaced photograph from Kristine Larsen’s flat. She took it in, and then offered the same opinion as Patricia – that it proved a deep jealousy, but that the leap from there to murder was enormous. Particularly for a young woman who, as far as one could see, had never handled a gun before.

I caught myself nodding in agreement. My belief that Kristine Larsen was the murderer was ebbing.

So far, I was on relatively safe ground with regard to what I had told her. The arrest of Kristine Larsen was in the process of becoming semi-official, as was Marie Morgenstierne’s pregnancy.

Towards the end of the conversation, however, I crossed a new threshold with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. And this happened when I lowered my voice and said that the investigation was very demanding because there was reason to believe that a major attack of some kind or other was being planned.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen now completely forgot her food and looked me directly in the eye. I hurried to say that it was still very uncertain what this involved, and that I could not say anything more about it at present. She nodded in understanding, and asked whether I knew which of the groups involved had initiated it.

I shook my head lightly.

She stared straight ahead, deep in thought, showing little interest in the food, and remarked that it must be hard to say anything about it.

‘From what you have told me, there seem to be three groups involved that all comprise a small cluster of people who believe that they have an almost God-given mission, and that the means are justified by the ends in each case. That is always a very dangerous situation,’ she concluded, pensively.

‘The Nazis, the communists – and who else were you thinking of?’ I asked.

‘Surely you have been in touch with the police security service by now!’ was her wry remark. She smiled mischievously and met my eyes again.

I could not help smiling, and even laughed for a moment. There was a lot of magic in the glance of this odd and charming young SPP member.

But the magic passed; she looked away, and then resumed eating. It did, however, still feel as though we were now a little closer. Enough for a quick hug and a longer ‘good luck with the next stage of the investigation’ when we parted outside the cafe around five.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had obviously been given food for thought as well. I noted with a small chuckle that she walked past the party office on the way back. As I drove on, I speculated on whether she was thinking about me, or the case. I hoped it was the former, but guessed it was the latter.

Whatever the case, I felt remarkably calm having spoken so openly with her. I felt much the same way as I did about Patricia, though different at the same time: that Miriam would not betray my trust. I had to admit, thinking of my previous murder case, I had misjudged a couple of young women in the past, but I felt almost a hundred per cent certain that I had not done so this time.

IX

I arrived at Victoria Terrace at five to six, and was shown into Asle Bryne’s office without delay. He was waiting there in his swivel chair, his smoking pipe and bushy eyebrows in place. To my disappointment, he was alone in the room.

Patricia had obviously guessed correctly that the man with the suitcase was a member of the security service, but that was not enough to coax him out into daylight.

We did not shake hands; Asle Bryne nodded curtly at the chair in front of the desk, and I sat down in the spirit of cooperation. We looked at each other across the desk for quite some time. This time, it was he who broke the silence.

‘You are to be praised for your work and for the discreet manner in which you have handled this new information so far. There are no doubt others, both at the main police station and in the military intelligence, who would instead have tried to use the case to blacken the name of both myself and the police security service.’

I nodded to show my continued cooperation. He puffed on his pipe and his voice was a touch sharper when he continued.

‘I have decided, all the same, to have this meeting with you alone. I alone am the head of the security service. It is my responsibility and I cannot under any circumstances put the life of an employee who has simply done his duty for his country and organization on the line, as is the risk here.’

I tightened my lips and was about to say something, without having any idea of exactly what, but Asle Bryne stopped me and quickly carried on talking himself.

‘Since we spoke this morning, I have, however, been in touch with the employee in question and taken a written statement from him. This is for strictly confidential use only and you may read it here and now, when only we are present. If you have any further questions once you have read it, we will then have to see if I can answer them on behalf of the security service. Are the conditions clear?’

Without waiting for an answer he opened the desk drawer, took out two typewritten pages, and placed them, text down, on the desk between us.

This was less than I had hoped for, but definitely more than I had feared. And even though I now had some pretty good cards up my sleeve, I still wanted to avoid a confrontation with the head of the security service, if at all possible. So I nodded and turned the pages over.

The statement was quick to read. The undersigned, ‘XY’, confirmed that he was the man with the suitcase at the scene of the crime on the evening of 5 August and that he had received a tape from Marie Morgenstierne only minutes earlier. The handover took place as she walked past him on the road. At the time of the handover, there was no one to be seen behind them, and in front they could only see a woman with a guide dog.

As was usual, XY had then continued to walk down the road once he had received the tape, but at a slower pace than Marie Morgenstierne. A man with a walking stick and wearing a long coat had come between them at the crossroads. The man had been too far away for XY to see any detail. He had assumed, given the stick, that the man was either old or had trouble walking, and had not identified him as a risk.

A tall, fair-haired woman had then passed him from behind. He recognized her as Kristine Larsen from earlier observations. She passed him at great speed, and was as good as running after Marie Morgenstierne. Both Kristine Larsen’s hands were visible and she was not carrying a weapon of any description, and looked so harmless that she had not introduced any drama into the situation.

XY had heard Kristine Larsen shout ‘Marie’ at more or less the same moment that Marie Morgenstierne suddenly broke into a run. He had instinctively started to run himself, only to bump into the blind woman. XY had then stopped running, as he saw that Kristine Larsen had also stopped. Following his instructions to avoid all possible attention, he had held back with the tape while Marie Morgenstierne ran on, apparently with no one in pursuit.

The people that XY had seen at the scene of the crime were listed at the end of the report. In addition to Marie Morgenstierne, this included Kristine Larsen, who had stopped running; the man with the long coat and stick, who carried on walking unperturbed at a steady pace; and the blind woman, who also stopped and seemed very bewildered. There were also two men down two opposite side roads.

The latter two were both too far away for XY to say anything as to their identity, other than that they were both young, dark-haired men who were above average height. He was, however, slightly taken aback by the fact that they were both standing waiting, rather than walking. As far as he could tell, neither of them made any attempt to follow Marie Morgenstierne. XY thought that she had seen the train and was running to catch it, and had, despite some confusion, not deemed the situation to be dramatic.

I read through the report twice, with interest and frustration. It confirmed a lot of what I already knew, without adding much else. Any suspicions against Kristine Larsen now foundered on the fact that she could apparently not have seen the tape being handed over and clearly did not have a gun in her hand. It was difficult then to understand why the sight of her might have provoked such a sudden and terrible fear in Marie Morgenstierne. There were also purely technical issues that undermined the theory that Kristine Larsen was the murderer, including the fact that she came to a standstill when Marie Morgenstierne started to run.

I had to admit to myself that XY’s report supported not only Kristine Larsen’s statement, but also Patricia’s theory regarding Falko Reinhardt. It was tempting to believe that he was one of the two men who, according to XY’s report, had been standing in one of the side streets. The only remaining question of any importance was: who was the other man, whom I had not heard about before? I concluded, in brief, that the rather sketchy description did not rule out either Trond Ibsen or Anders Pettersen, but could equally fit ten thousand other men in the Oslo area. I understood now what Patricia had meant by the curse of public space.

Asle Bryne showed unexpected patience as he waited in silence while I read the report through twice. He was enveloped in a thick cloud of smoke when I looked up.

I said in all honesty that the report was very informative with regards to events at the scene of the crime, but that I needed more information about Marie Morgenstierne’s earlier contact with the security service.

Asle Bryne filled his pipe again and puffed pensively a couple of times. Then he replied that it would be dangerous and potentially damaging to recruitment if the police security service were to give out information about their contact with informants.

I retorted that as one of his informants had now been shot, it would certainly not be positive in any way should it get out that a member of the security police had been present at the scene of the crime. It would be even less positive if it got out that they then did not do everything they could to help solve the crime.

Bryne gave a curt nod, let out a heavy sigh and put his pipe down on the desk. Suddenly he seemed like a tired old man, a grandfather havering as to which family secrets he should divulge to younger generations. He looked at me in anticipation before drawing breath and speaking.

‘You may well be right about that. We never recruited Marie Morgenstierne – she volunteered herself. Exactly where she was later shot, and to the same person that she met there on this occasion. According to our man’s report of 12 September 1968, it was a few weeks after her fiancé disappeared. Our man had followed her after a political meeting. Just by the station at Smestad, she stopped, waited for him to catch up, then said: ‘You’re from the police security service, aren’t you, so maybe we can help each other? I think Falko is dead or has been abducted, and I suspect that one of the others in the group is behind it!’ Then she offered to help us with information that might help to solve the mystery.’

We were both silent for a moment. Asle Bryne lit his pipe again and continued to puff pensively on it.

I asked, with a rising pulse, whether Marie Morgenstierne had at any point indicated whom she suspected. Asle Bryne shook his head glumly.

‘She did not want to tell us whom she suspected, nor why she had her suspicions. It was our job to find out if there was anything to it, she said. So that is how the partnership started. She discreetly handed over recordings of their meetings. She never asked for a penny in return, and was never offered it either. I never met her myself. Her only contact was the person she gave the recordings to. We did not like her and never trusted her, and the feeling was no doubt mutual. She was, as far as we can understand, a fervent communist to the end. But we needed the tapes and she seemed to be obsessed with finding out what had happened to her fiancé and who was responsible.’

‘And she never got an answer?’

‘Not as far as we know, and certainly not from any of us. The information she gave us never provided an answer as to what had happened to her fiancé and we never managed to establish which of the others might be responsible. The security service is none the wiser about what might have happened to him and has mainly focused on the potential threat to society that the activities of the remaining members of the group might pose.’

‘Have you otherwise found any evidence that this group constitutes a threat to Norwegian society?’

Asle Bryne livened up again, thumped his pipe down on the table and leaned forward.

‘Of course they constitute a threat to society. One never knows what a group of fanatical, revolutionary communist sympathizers like that might decide to do. They are at worst traitors to their country, and at best useful idiots for other traitors. It is alarming enough in itself that the group is interested in international issues relating to Vietnam and other countries in Asia, as well as the Soviet Union. We have not yet found anything to confirm that the group or members of the group are planning any definite action. But we have every reason to fear that they might, and as such it is our duty to our country and people to keep an eye on them!’

I was about to answer, but bit my tongue at the last moment. I remembered Patricia’s remarks that a major action might be in the planning, but that it was difficult to say by whom or against what. I had some new, important information: Marie Morgenstierne had definitely been an informant for the security police, but only after her fiancé had disappeared. And most important of all, she had later suspected one of the other four of being responsible for her fiancé’s death or abduction. The faces of Trond Ibsen, Anders Pettersen, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen and Kristine Larsen flashed through my mind.

For a brief moment I regretted having been so open with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen earlier in the afternoon; nevertheless, my suspicions were still focused largely on the other three. I wondered whether Trond Ibsen or Anders Pettersen might be the other mystery man down the side road at the scene of the crime, and changed my mind yet again about Kristine Larsen being a potential murderer. I thanked the head of the police security service for the information and left Victoria Terrace, deep in thought.

X

‘The cook has not outdone herself today, to be fair, but you are still eating suspiciously little,’ Patricia remarked halfway through the main course.

I dutifully took another couple of mouthfuls of the delicious venison, and thoughtlessly excused myself, saying that I had had to eat a little something earlier in the afternoon in connection with the investigation.

Patricia looked at me with raised eyebrows, but fortunately did not ask any questions.

I gave her a simplified account of the afternoon’s developments, without saying that I had asked Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen out for something to eat. It was not something I wanted to tell Patricia, nor did it feel like something she would want to know. We eagerly talked about the case over the rest of the meal.

‘The case is of course complicated, and enough to make you lose your appetite,’ I said.

She nodded vigorously.

‘I absolutely agree. The picture is now somewhat clearer regarding the police security service, but they are still holding so much back that one could be forgiven for wondering if they are hiding something serious. Let us hope that this can finally be cleared up when you talk to the man with the suitcase tomorrow.’

I stared at Patricia, astounded.

‘And how exactly do you think I am going to do that? The head of the security service seemed very unwilling to cooperate on that point.’

Patricia let out a great sigh.

‘Have you really not considered the reason why the head of the security service seems so unwilling to cooperate and would not let you meet the man with the suitcase? You tell the good Mr Bryne tomorrow that you know that this man has a large mole on his face and remind him of the potential scandal that might ensue should it ever get out that he was also at the cabin in Valdres on the night that Falko Reinhardt went missing. My guess is that you will be able to talk to him pretty quickly after that. I am less certain, however, about how much help it will be.’

I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. It struck me that if Patricia’s intelligence had increased from the time she was eighteen until she was twenty, so had her arrogance. Fortunately, she continued in a softer tone.

‘The picture is becoming more detailed, but also more complex and confusing. The same is true of the picture at the scene of the crime on the evening that Marie Morgenstierne was shot.’

I nodded in agreement.

‘Just when we have now identified one of those present, we have discovered a new shadow in the wings. Do you have any ideas about who this other man in the side road might be?’

Patricia’s smile was secretive.

‘I nearly always have my theories, but these are at present so uncertain that I cannot share them with anyone else yet – particularly as there is a considerable chance that it was just a random passer-by who happened to be standing there. I am currently more interested in the man who it is becoming ever clearer was there, and who is perhaps out there somewhere with the solution: in other words, Falko Reinhardt himself. But based on the information given, I unfortunately have no way of knowing where he might be. Once again, the curse of public space.’

I commented that the information from the police security service also allowed for the possibility that Marie Morgenstierne might have suspected Kristine Larsen of being responsible for Falko’s disappearance.

Patricia replied that it was of course a possibility that Marie Morgenstierne’s suspicions were of considerable importance, even though it would seem that they were unfounded: Falko was alive, and had disappeared of his own free will. But it was first of all highly unlikely that the person Marie Morgenstierne suspected was also the person who killed her. And, furthermore, there were other people whom Marie Morgenstierne had reason to suspect just as much as Kristine Larsen.

I asked Patricia outright if she was now alluding to Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. She looked at me, slightly surprised, and to my relief, shook her head.

‘No, it was not primarily her I was thinking of. On the contrary, she is perhaps the least likely of the four. If that was where Marie Morgenstierne’s suspicions lay, it seems unlikely that she would continue to act as an informer for the police security service for a year after Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had left the group.’

I had not thought of that, but apparently was too enthusiastic in my nodding. Patricia sighed heavily again and continued.

‘Marie Morgenstierne may of course have started to act as an informant because she was suspicious of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, and then continued for other reasons. But no matter what this Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen may or may not have on her conscience, or what she believed, there is nothing at all to indicate that she had anything to do with Falko’s disappearance. It is, however, not impossible that she might have something to do with Marie Morgenstierne’s death. But I have to say it seems unlikely.’

We left it at that. For a moment, Patricia suddenly seemed to be deflated. She sat in silence with her dessert, before pushing it aside after only a few mouthfuls of ice cream.

‘I am allergic to something there is far too much of in this case, and that is coincidences. The strangest of all is that you yourself were there on the train when Marie Morgenstierne came running for her life. You have never actually told me what you were doing at Smestad that evening.’

I chortled briefly and told her in five sentences the story of the overwrought hotel manager and his suspicious guest.

Never before had I experienced such a rapid and dramatic change in Patricia’s mood. Within two seconds she went from sitting in her wheelchair, disheartened and almost resigned and passive, to leaning forward over the table, breathless and on the verge of angry.

‘And in the five days that you have come here, you have not thought once to tell me this remarkable story?’

‘But – the hotel manager is completely paranoid and rings about things like this every three months or so,’ I stammered.

Patricia was not pacified by this. She hit the table, making the dessert bowls jump.

‘As a great many people in both the United States and the Soviet Union can confirm, being paranoid does not prove in any way that one is not being persecuted! Did this bizarre guest give a name, by the way?’

‘Frank Rekkedal,’ I said, and at that moment realized my blunder.

Patricia became so agitated and spoke so fast that I almost feared she might leap out of her wheelchair and over the table to get at me.

‘If it had been illegal not to see the simplest of connections, you would have to arrest yourself right now! Frank Rekkedal, hardly – the guest’s name is Falko Reinhardt and he is even more confident and theatrical than I thought! Go to the hotel immediately and let’s hope he is still there. And if he is, it may be decisive in solving the murder, and in preventing something even more dramatic that is being planned by someone out there right now.’

I was shocked, both by my own oversight and by Patricia’s extreme reaction. But her conclusion, as she now presented it, was very convincing. The possibility of being able to close the case soon was suddenly within reach. So I jumped up, and more or less ran through the corridors and down the long stairs of the Borchmann home.

I vaguely registered that Patricia shouted something to me as I ran out of the room. The two sentences continued to rattle around my brain as I bounded down the stairs, and it was only when I was out in the driveway that they fell into place.

‘If you find Falko, please ask him if he recognized anyone other than Marie at the scene of the crime. But first, ask him if he knows what they are planning and when it is going to happen!’

XI

The hotel manager had gone away for the weekend, and would not be back until Monday morning. It was a shame, the young, dark-haired receptionist commented with a jaunty little smile, because he was her uncle and would no doubt have set great store in being here right now. She soon became serious again and added that the mysterious guest in Room 27 was still here, as far as she knew. He had paid until tomorrow and had put his empty breakfast tray back out again this morning. I asked if she had a spare key to the room. She nodded gravely.

I said that there was not likely to be any drama, and that the guest was at present not suspected of anything criminal. It might, however, be advantageous if a representative from the hotel was there as a witness when I knocked on the door of Room 27. She nodded and put her hand to her mouth in a moment of anticipated adventure. ‘Almost like a James Bond film,’ was her quiet remark. Then she was once again the same rational receptionist who was responsible for her uncle’s hotel. She found a key that was marked ‘Spare 27’, put out a sign that said ‘back shortly’, and pointed me in the direction of the room.

We mounted the stairs in concentrated silence and walked down the corridor past rooms 1-10. She pointed out Room 27 for me with a slightly trembling finger as soon as we passed Room 23. It was clearly a quiet summer weekend in the hotel: there was no one to be seen, and not a sound to be heard in the corridor.

The atmosphere was somewhat uncanny as we stood there outside Room 27. My companion made her way discreetly to the end of the corridor and pressed a light switch. This certainly helped. The whole corridor was lit up by three large ceiling chandeliers. But nothing more of any interest was to be seen in the corridor as a result. And it still felt slightly unreal to be standing outside Room 27. The door was a very ordinary brown hotel door. It could be hiding either an empty hotel room, or the solution to both the murder and missing-person mysteries.

As we stood there for a few moments more, I considered whether I should do something I had thought about on the way over: that is, to call out a stronger police presence before knocking on the hotel door. But the situation did not feel dramatic or in any way threatening. There was much to indicate that the bird might have flown the nest already – if, indeed, it had ever been here. If the hotel room was empty, or we found a poor, nervous tourist in there, a stronger police presence would be an overreaction that Danielsen and other envious colleagues might use to poke fun at me. And if Falko Reinhardt really was behind the locked door, he was contained. It seemed rather unlikely that he would attack a policeman in such a situation, even if he was armed.

There was still not a sound to be heard from inside the room. The receptionist’s hand was shaking a little, her eyes darting between me and the door. A strange understanding had developed between two people who had never met before. It struck me I did not even know the young receptionist’s name – and that she might in fact be in danger if she followed me into the room. I did think, however, that the risk was microscopic. And I was extremely curious as to who or what was hiding in the hotel room. She was now visibly trembling, but pulled herself together and gave me an encouraging smile. I took a deep breath and hesitated one more time. Then I changed my focus and knocked on the door.

The knocking produced no reaction. All remained quiet in Room 27.

My voice sounded like a peal of thunder in the tense silence.

‘We know that you are there, Falko Reinhardt. Open the door immediately. This is Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen, and I need to speak to you about the planned attack!’

The receptionist let out a small gasp and looked up at me with large blue eyes, as if I really were James Bond in a film. But the situation was real enough. And all was still quiet in Room 27.

The idea that I had arrived a few hours too late and that the room was now empty was increasingly convincing. However, the tension ratcheted up a further notch when I tried the door handle. The door was locked. And it was not possible to see anything through the keyhole, because the key had been inserted from the inside.

I waved my hand for the spare key. It was with some relief that she put it between my fingers. I pushed it into the lock and heard the key on the inside fall out. At the same time, I also heard more noises from inside the room.

The receptionist instinctively gripped my arm, but nothing dramatic happened. The sounds from inside the room were not easy to identify. It could have been drawers and wardrobes being opened and closed again. I was suddenly seized by a fear that the receptionist might get injured when the door opened. So I as good as lifted her to one side and out of sight of the door. Then I turned the key.

The light in Room 27 had been switched off. But it was easy enough to look around the room, which was a good hundred square feet, in the light from the corridor. And the room was empty. There were no personal belongings to be seen on the bed, chairs or desk by the window, and there was no trace of Falko Reinhardt or any other person.

My eyes turned instinctively to the bathroom door. I pulled it open. But there was no trace of anyone either on the floor or in the bathtub. The only sign that a guest had been there was a red toothbrush and a half-used tube of toothpaste. A forgotten electric shaver indicated that it was a man who had left the room in such a hurry. But the man himself was nowhere to be seen.

When I went back out into the room I almost collided with another person, but quickly regained my composure when it proved to be the receptionist. She pointed at the balcony door with a trembling hand.

I was so annoyed with myself at having overlooked this possible escape route that I almost swore out loud. The balcony door was ajar. I rushed over and looked out. The drop down to the lawn below was barely nine feet. I leaped over the railing and ran across the lawn down to the street.

I caught a glimpse of the fleeing hotel guest from Room 27 on the road outside the hotel. He was just turning into a side street about fifty yards away, and he was running fast. But he turned to look back for a moment, and I recognized him straight away. He was a tall, dark and muscular man, with long, curly hair that made him easy to recognize.

I ran after him down to the side road, but quickly had to face up to the fact that pursuing him any further was hopeless. Falko Reinhardt had a head start of at least fifty yards, and was not to be seen anywhere. He could have run in any direction.

I carried on running, but now heading back to the car to alert police patrols in the area via the radio. I quickly made contact and could give them a description, but had to accept that the chances were slim. There were only four patrols out on a Sunday evening, and I had a strong suspicion that Falko Reinhardt had planned his escape route. Whether he was in any way responsible for his fiancée’s death or not was still unclear, but what was clear was that he had been ready to escape from his hotel room at short notice if necessary.

I went back into the hotel by the main entrance and found the receptionist still standing, bewildered, in the middle of the room. She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw me and put a trembling arm round me. I was touched by her care in the midst of all the chaos. I took time to explain the situation and added that it would appear that the guest had not been armed, so there had been no immediate danger to her or myself. On hearing this, she calmed down impressively quickly and asked for permission to go back to the reception desk. There might be someone waiting there, and if not, she would try to contact the manager by phone. I thanked her for her help, asked her to send my greetings to the manager, and then turned my attention back to the hotel room.

Falko Reinhardt had either had very few belongings in the room, or had been very good at taking them with him. There was nothing to be found in the wardrobe or the two desk drawers. But under the pillow of his unmade bed, I found two things that immediately piqued my interest.

The first was a handwritten note with the following cryptic text:

1008: KK. Warn of attack and that SP is the murderer!

The tiny note gave me an enormous shock. I stood there looking at it for several minutes. I remembered what Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had said about Falko’s to-do lists, and could confirm it to be true. He had written a to-do list in order to remember something important, and had forgotten where he had put it in the rush.

I could not get the initials SP to tally with any known suspect; but they could of course refer to someone unknown to me. And if not, it was alarmingly obvious to think of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen herself, as the only person in the case who was a member of the SPP. It made me even more anxious to note that it did not say ‘the hitman’, simply ‘the murderer’. That meant that the person in question might also be a woman.

The other object that lay hidden under the pillow in Room 27 provided a degree of relief, but also a new mystery. It was a black and white photograph, dated ‘07.06.1970’, and there was no trace of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen in the picture. It showed what was clearly a meeting, with four people round a table at one of Oslo’s finer restaurants. But only three faces were visible, and all three were known to me.

As soon as I saw the photograph, I felt a strange sympathy for a man I had never met or spoken to – and that was Henry Alfred Lien’s son in Trondheim. His father had obviously not only cooperated with the occupying forces during the war, but had also told me barefaced lies only two days ago about his contact with other Nazis after the war. In the photograph, Henry Alfred Lien was sitting squarely, with a wary smile on his face, between Frans Heidenberg and Christian Magnus Eggen.

Another person in a grey suit was sitting beside Eggen, to the far left of the photograph. Judging by appearances, the fourth person was also a man. But his bare hand, without any rings or markings of any sort, gave no indication as to his identity. His face was not in the picture. The corner had been torn off, so the fourth man remained faceless.

I stood and studied the picture for a few minutes.

Then I took both it and Falko’s forgotten to-do list, and wandered deep in thought back down the hotel corridor.

The receptionist stopped me to say that she had spoken to the hotel manager, who looked forward to hearing more details about the day’s drama and its significance for the country when he returned home. She then thanked me for the ‘day’s action film’ and added in a quiet voice that she would be delighted to talk more to me once the case was solved and closed.

The proposition was not at all unattractive. Her body was slim and her breasts looked firm in her uniform jacket, and her otherwise pretty face became mysteriously alluring when she now gave me a small, mischievous smile. But I had too much to think about and too many people to worry about to consider the possibility at any greater length. The receptionist vanished from my mind as soon as she vanished from my sight. On my way to the car, my thoughts ping-ponged between Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen and Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann. And in the end, I drove back to the latter, with the to-do list and photograph on the seat beside me.

XII

‘Hmmhh,’ was Patricia’s surprisingly protracted response. It was now half past nine on what had turned into a long and hectic Sunday.

Patricia had drunk two cups of coffee while she listened in tense silence to my report from the hotel. Then she drank another half cup while she studied the photograph and to-do list that I had found there.

The coffee in my own cup was still warm and sweet, but Patricia now seemed cold and bitter. For a moment, she reminded me of a grumpy Norwegian teacher when she looked at Falko’s list one last time, then let it fall to the table.

‘Well, any schoolchild could understand the first bit. 1008 is the tenth of August, which is tomorrow. And KK is Kolbjørn Kristiansen, which is you.’

I nodded in agreement and pretended to have understood this all along. Patricia looked at me, somewhat taken aback, but was quick to continue.

‘So, Falko was planning to contact you tomorrow. That much is clear, and good news. But the rest is not so clear or such good news.’

‘So you have no idea either who this SP might be – or what is being planned?’

Patricia gave an almost annoyed shake of the head.

‘There is not much to go on here. It seems most likely that SP is someone’s initials, in which case we don’t know whose. There are presumably thousands of people in Oslo alone whose initials are SP, so it is like looking for a needle in a haystack. It could be that SP is the fourth person in the picture, but then we still do not have much to go on. And there might not be any connection between the photograph and the note, even though it is natural to assume that there is. By the way…’

Patricia stopped speaking and stared intensely at the faceless fourth person in the photograph, as if she was trying to scare the truth out of it.

‘By the way…’ I prompted tentatively.

‘By the way, I was wondering who might have taken the photograph and who has torn off the corner. Was the photograph already like that when Falko got hold of it, or was it he who tore off the corner? And if so, why did he do it? You must ask him if and when you speak to him. But for goodness’ sake, start by asking about this attack that someone is planning against someone else, somewhere out in the real world.’

The latter was said with resignation in her voice. Patricia had ventured beyond the safety of her home’s four walls, out into the world for what proved to be the very dramatic conclusion of our first investigation. The case had been solved, but only after a terrifying moment which I could only assume had plagued her for many nights since. We never talked about it. It was simply understood that Patricia’s place was here indoors. She had withdrawn from what she herself on occasion called the real world.

I did not want to talk about it now either. And as she had not mentioned the possibility that SP could stand for Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, as a member of the SPP, I for some unknown reason had no wish to point it out. So I thanked her for her help and stood up to leave.

Patricia raised her hand hastily and I immediately sat down again in the chair opposite her like an obedient child.

‘One more thing it might be worth thinking about… I am constantly struck by how different this case is from our last ones. But there are still human flies and satellite people involved. Magdalon Schelderup, who was the first to be murdered in the last case, was a rich and powerful old patriarch, who had a great many people spinning round him like satellites. Marie Morgenstierne, on the other hand, was a young woman without a family or social status. There was no one spinning around her, and she was not a star. But her murder may have been a catalyst killing, and in that case, it may have even more dramatic consequences for others than the murder of Magdalon Schelderup.’

I looked at her, slightly confused. Her smile was utterly disarming.

‘I am sorry for using a concept that I made up myself, without thinking. I’ve used it so much that I forget it is not a given for everyone else. A catalyst murder is a murder that, intentionally or unintentionally, sparks or accelerates other dangerous processes. A catalyst murder can involve both very famous and completely unknown people. A prime example from world history is the murder of the Austrian crown prince, Franz Ferdinand, in 1914. It set in motion processes that only a few weeks later, with almost chemical predictability, sparked a world war that would cost millions of lives – without that ever having been the murderer’s intention. In much the same way, it feels as though the death of Marie Morgenstierne may have accelerated dangerous processes in several of the circles she moved in, either directly or indirectly, and the risk of an explosion will continue to increase by the hour until we find the murderer.’

I nodded and used the opportunity to impress her with some borrowed reason.

‘I perfectly understand what you mean. And the risk of an explosion is also mounting because Marie Morgenstierne moved in a grey zone between three circles that are all relatively small and driven by a perilously fervent belief in their cause.’

Patricia furrowed her brow and looked at me with something that resembled suspicion.

‘Did you come up with that by yourself? It is a valid point, and I have given it considerable thought myself. If you mean the old Nazis, young communists and police security service, we are talking about three extreme sectarian groups, each in their own way, where one or more individuals could easily get it into their head that the end justifies the means.’

I nodded again to show my agreement, without answering the question. It crossed my mind that Patricia and Miriam were in fact more similar than I had previously thought, despite being so different on the outside. And I definitely had no thought of mentioning that to either of them.

Patricia had finished her cup of coffee, but was still not finished for the evening.

‘It is difficult to say whether it was the intention of the person who shot Marie Morgenstierne or not. But something very dangerous is brewing in one or more circles out there. I have no doubt that we will find poor Marie Morgenstierne’s murderer within the next few days. But I am very worried that we may lose the fight against time with regard to preventing a greater catastrophe. We will get no further at the moment, but contact me as soon as you find any new information that I might be able to wrestle something more from.’

I took the hint, and stood up to leave just as the clock on the wall struck ten.

Despite our very different backgrounds, Patricia and I had started to understand each other rather well by now. As she talked, I had understood that she had a very definite theory about who had shot Marie Morgenstierne, but that she was not ready to air it yet. And after the day’s events, I shared her fear that the countdown to a major explosion might have started.

As I drove home alone through the dark, my thoughts continued to circle round the day’s events and tomorrow’s possibilities. It could prove to be a very interesting, if not very pleasant, Monday. I clearly had to speak to the two old Nazis again and put more pressure on the head of the police security service.

XIII

I locked the door to my flat in Hegdehaugen at twenty past ten. At twenty-five past ten, I got an unusually late telephone call.

The voice at the other end, which I had heard before, asked if this was ‘Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen’. But the voice sounded different on the telephone and the man who was calling was far more confused than when I first spoke to him. I knew who he was before he even said his name.

‘Please forgive me for phoning at this time, but it is because I have something that might help you with the investigation and could be very important. My wife and I have discussed it and neither of us felt it was right not to call you, even though it is late. This is Arno Reinhardt. And something absolutely incredible has just happened!’

He stammered and swallowed. I gave him the time he needed. Then suddenly everything tumbled out.

‘Falko came back to see us this evening! He’s alive and unharmed. At around nine o’clock, there he was standing at the door, out of the blue. He looked exactly the same as before, it was as if he had not been gone a day. My wife and I both thought it was a dream. But we hugged him and even took a picture of him before he disappeared again!’

It was easy to imagine the scene. And it was very moving, in the middle of a murder investigation.

I told him how pleased I was, and said that it must be an enormous relief for him and his wife. His voice sounded happy when he continued, but it also sounded bewildered and anxious.

‘Yes, thank you, it was the greatest moment of our lives, after taking him home with us in 1945, of course. But now he’s vanished again, and the mystery of who might have shot his fiancée remains… So we’re overjoyed, but worried about him all the same. We thought that we should tell you immediately, and ask you to let us know if there is anything we can do to help solve the case.’

I threw myself at this opportunity straight away and asked if Falko had said anything about where he had been or where he was going. However, it transpired that his parents, in a state of shock, surprise and joy, had not grasped much other than that their son was alive. He had told them in brief that he had first gone to the Soviet Union and from there on to China, as Norway was under great threat, and that he had come back now, despite this danger, because he had an important task to fulfil. The future of the nation might depend on it, he had said.

Falko Reinhardt had promised to come back again in a few days, and had asked to borrow the keys to his father’s car in the meantime, which they of course gave him. He had let them take one single picture and then, despite his parents’ protests, disappeared into the night as suddenly as he had come. He had assured them that everything was under control, but in their flustered state, they did not know if they dared to believe that. They had begged him to contact me and he had told them that he planned to do that, without giving any more details.

We finished the call at a quarter to eleven, with a mutual agreement to let one another know immediately if anything important happened.

I felt as confused as Arno Reinhardt sounded in those late evening hours. Things were hotting up on the trail of Falko Reinhardt in Oslo. But not only was it still unclear where he was hiding, but also whom it was he feared, and what he was waiting for before contacting me.

XIV

At eleven o’clock I decided that there was not much more I could do on the case that Sunday evening, and that the best thing would be to go to bed so that I was well rested for what would no doubt be a demanding Monday. I was in bed by ten past eleven, but was still lying wide awake at a quarter to twelve. The ongoing investigation was in danger of becoming an obsession.

And at ten to twelve, the telephone rang again. I jumped out of bed and raced into the sitting room to get it.

I reached the telephone after the sixth ring. The first thing I heard was some pips that told me that the call was being made from a telephone box. The second thing I heard was a voice that I had never heard before, but immediately recognized. It was just as I had imagined: educated and confident, with only a hint of an accent, but otherwise grammatically perfect Norwegian.

‘My apologies for calling so late, but as I am sure you understand, I have had a rather hectic day. My name is Falko Reinhardt, and I have reason to believe that you would still like to talk to me?’

I very quickly assured him of this and asked where he was now. The answer was accompanied by quiet laughter.

‘The answer to that is obviously that I am in a telephone box right now, and I don’t have any more change than the two krone coins that I’ve already put in. But we should definitely meet tomorrow. And for reasons that will become apparent, we should meet in Valdres. Can you meet me at the bottom of the cliff there at six o’clock tomorrow evening?’

I croaked out a yes.

‘Great stuff. See you tomorrow, then. I will definitely be there, and will tell you everything. But there are a couple of things I need to confirm first. I also have to apologize for my rather hasty departure from the hotel room earlier on today, but I feared for my life and didn’t dare to trust that it was really the police. If I had walked into a trap today, there is so much that could have gone wrong, for the country as well as me.’

I told him to take good care of himself tomorrow as well, and asked whether he was certain that there would be no action before we met. To my relief, his voice was just as calm and confident when he continued.

‘I have of course considered the possibility. An attack is planned that will shake Norway, but it will not happen until the day after tomorrow at the earliest. Just come to Valdres tomorrow at six, and we will be national heroes, you and I, by the end of the week.’

There was no denying it sounded like an attractive opportunity, and Falko’s calm confidence certainly worked its magic – even on me, and even on the telephone at close to midnight. Just then, however, it was interrupted when the telephone pips were drowned out by the single tone that warned that your time was soon up.

I realized that he did not want to say any more tonight about the planned attack, so instead asked in a flash whether he had seen another man he knew when his fiancée was shot.

‘I saw a man I knew in another side road. In fact, I saw several people I knew at the scene. There are two possibilities as to who shot Marie, and both are very tr…’

The line went dead.

I sat there with a warm receiver in my hand and a cold dialling tone in my ear. And even more unanswered questions. Despite the potential drama involved in the planned attack, my thoughts drifted back to my encounter with the woman on the Lijord Line four days earlier.

What was it that Falko had tried to say about two possible answers to who shot Marie Morgenstierne? That both were troubled? Both were tragic? Both were now threats? Whatever the case, it felt natural to believe that Falko Reinhardt had, from where he was standing, recognized the man in the side road and had inferred that he might have murdered Marie. But it was also possible that he had seen and recognized Kristine Larsen, and that meant it could also have been her.

I decided that it was too late to ring Patricia that evening, but I needed to talk to someone, as I was in no state to sleep following my dramatic conversation with Falko Reinhardt. So at two minutes to midnight, I used the permission I had to telephone my boss if the situation so required.

My boss was awake, and after listening to a brief summary of the most important events of the day, he thanked me for the update, much to my relief. I suggested that indications of an imminent attack were now so concrete that we should perhaps inform the government. Then I hesitated slightly before saying exactly what I thought: that we should above all else try to prevent an attack that would shake up the whole country, and that we could put ourselves in a very vulnerable position if there was a catastrophe and it got out that we had not heeded the warnings. Again, to my relief, my boss agreed.

‘I will contact Asle Bryne first thing tomorrow morning. And if he is in agreement, we will then contact the prime minister and opposition leader – and the royal family,’ was his conclusion at ten past midnight. It was only then that it dawned on me just how serious this case was. It was half past twelve before I got into bed again, and a quarter to two before I finally fell asleep on the morning after Sunday, 9 August 1970.