The Catalyst Killing

I

To my surprise, I was able to eat breakfast without being interrupted by any telephone calls on Monday, 10 August 1970. The newspapers had nothing new or alarming to report. The main focus was once again on international politics. The prospects of a so-called SALT agreement on nuclear disarmament were suddenly so good that the German chancellor Willy Brandt had had to cut short his holiday in Norway to travel to Moscow for further negotiations. The broadsheet Aftenposten had managed to snap him just before he left from the military airbase at Gardermoen. Otherwise, yesterday had been a dramatic day in the Norwegian Football Cup, with Gjøvik-Lyn beating Rosenborg as the greatest surprise.

The feeling that this was the calm before the storm intensified when I got to the station at half past eight. My boss was sitting waiting in my office, together with a besuited and very serious man I had never seen before.

‘Bryne agrees that there is every reason to be cautious. We have set up an appointment with Prime Minister Peder Borgen in his office at eleven o’clock, and then with the leader of the Labour Party, Trond Bratten, at Young’s Square at midday,’ my boss told me in an unusually formal manner.

‘But first of all, please tell the Head of Royal Security what he needs to know about our information, and what we have grounds to fear might happen within the next few days,’ he added promptly.

If the man sitting opposite me was a policeman, I had certainly never met him before. His posture hinted at a more military background. I guessed that he must be around fifty, and his face was devoid of any expression. His handshake was firm, but he did not introduce himself and I saw no reason to ask him any questions. Instead, I quickly told him the parts of the story that involved the risk of a future attack.

My boss and I both looked at our guest in anticipation when I had finished talking. His face was just as expressionless and grave.

‘The threat remains somewhat diffuse, but the situation is definitely to be taken seriously. Thank you for keeping us informed,’ he said, following a short pause. His voice was just as expressionless as his face, but was slightly more animated when he continued.

‘The crown prince is on a sailing holiday and has no official duties this week. We will, however, ensure extra cover for the coastal guard over the coming days. His Majesty the King only has two official engagements this week. He is due to open a new swimming pool in Asker at six o’clock this evening, and at the same time tomorrow evening will be the guest of honour at an event hosted by the Military Association of Oslo. Both events have been in the calendar for a long time. They can of course be cancelled on the grounds of illness or suchlike, but that might easily result in unfortunate rumours and speculation. With your knowledge of the case, do you have any thoughts as to whether His Majesty should cancel his appearance at one or both of the events, or not?’

I had not expected the question, and the whole situation suddenly felt rather absurd. The thought that the king might be subject to an attack was so dramatic that I nearly advised them to cancel everything. But then, the thought of being held responsible for disappointing the crowds of people who had turned up to see the king, with no good grounds, was not very appealing either.

In the end, I said that I would advise that the day’s event should go ahead as planned with reinforced security, and to wait and see how the situation developed before making any decision about the event tomorrow. I realized that I was now simply pushing the problem ahead to the next day, but also that I trusted Falko Reinhardt’s judgement that the possibility of an attack today was unthinkable.

To my relief, the man with the stony face nodded his approval.

‘I will monitor the situation over the course of the day, but I think I agree with your opinion as long as there is no direct threat to the royal family. Please make sure that I am informed immediately of any new information that might give grounds for concern.’

Without waiting for a reply, he stood up and left the office, accompanied by my boss.

I was left sitting in the office on my own, with an ever greater sense of responsibility for the case and its potential for catastrophe.

Two minutes after my boss had left the office, I checked my pulse just to make sure, and it was still racing at 150. And that was even before I started to dial the number of the head of the police security service, Asle Bryne, at Victoria Terrace.

II

Asle Bryne gave a stifled sigh when he heard my voice on the telephone. It was just the encouragement I needed to complete my offensive.

‘I am sorry that I have to disturb you again, but you really have put both me and the investigation in a very difficult situation.’

‘I see,’ he said. His voice sounded somewhat resigned, but also guarded in anticipation of how much I knew.

‘I have every reason to believe that the security service agent was not only present on the evening that Marie Morgenstierne was shot, but also on the evening when Falko Reinhardt went missing. The agent is easy to identify physically, even though it seems he was running around in Valdres wearing a mask. One can only imagine what the press will make of it should the story get out.’

For the last time, I expected an outburst that never happened. There was an embarrassing silence on the line. I smiled at the phone and mentally chalked up Patricia’s win over the security service, 3-0. Asle Bryne gave what could only be described as a heavy sigh before he continued.

‘It is unfortunately true that one of our agents has overstepped his authority and made some mistakes in this case. But he is an excellent agent who for many years has contributed to the security of our land and its people. And you can take my word for it that he has nothing whatsoever to do with either the murder of Marie Morgenstierne or the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt!’

I heard myself say that I of course did not doubt his word, but that, given the developments in the case, I now had to meet this man in confidence to hear what information he could give me.

Then I heard Asle Bryne reply in a very faint voice that he totally understood that, and that the most important thing now was to make sure that the press and politicians did not get wind of it, and that I could of course meet the man in private if I came to Victoria Terrace at midday. To which I replied that I unfortunately already had a meeting at midday that was of crucial significance to the country and its people, but that one o’clock should be fine.

Asle Bryne’s reply was even curter than usual: ‘Fine,’ he said, and put down the telephone.

I sat with the receiver in my hand and laughed out loud. But it was not long before I was serious again. It was now past nine o’clock, and on my list of people to speak to before my meeting at eleven with the prime minister were two former Nazis and an elderly couple.

III

By five past nine, I had decided to drive over to Falko’s parents in Grünerløkka first, and then, if time permitted, to Frans Heidenberg and Christian Magnus Eggen.

But just as I stood up, the telephone on my desk started to ring. I registered that the mounting pressure in the case now resulted in a quickening of my pulse every time the telephone rang.

The first thing I heard was the pips from a telephone box. I waited for a moment, expecting to hear either Falko Reinhardt’s voice from the evening before, or an unknown, threatening man’s voice. But it was in fact Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s pleasant, measured voice that spoke: ‘Hi. I’m sure you are very busy today, so I won’t keep you long. But the library has just opened and I checked in the book, as I promised I would. And it really was on 5 August 1868 that Karl jumped, fell or was pushed over the cliff in Vestre Slidre. Source: Local history yearbook for Valdres, 1955, page 14.’

As Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen spoke, several things occurred to me in rapid and rather messy succession. First of all, she had obviously recognized my voice and taken it for granted that I would recognize hers. And secondly, her matter-of-fact voice had a calming effect on me in the midst of all the chaos. Thirdly, she must have been standing ready at the entrance when the library opened in order to have got this information by five past nine. And fourthly, I was going to Valdres again that day and wanted to ask her to come with me.

I opened my mouth to ask if she could come. But she beat me to it.

‘And is there anything new to tell? Or anything else that I can help you with today?’

The questions were asked in the same level, helpful and prosaic manner. And yet they felt like two cold showers in succession. The letters ‘SP’ began to echo in my mind. I sat there for a few seconds and wondered if this was just another manifestation of her desire for knowledge, or if it was a cynical attempt to get information about any developments in the case.

The fear of misjudging, and of a possible police scandal, got the better of me. Against my own will, I did not ask Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen if she would like to come to Valdres again. Instead I thanked her briefly for her help with the yearbook and said that there had been a number of developments, but that I was not able to talk about them on the telephone. I promised to contact her if and when I could tell her more.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen said that she perfectly understood, but her voice sounded less happy when she said it. And at that moment, the long pips told us that the line would be cut in a matter of seconds. She wished me good luck with the day’s work, said that she had to get back to the library and then put the receiver down before I had time to say goodbye.

I sat for a minute or two and wondered if I had done the right thing, or just made an enormous mistake. I obviously continued to ponder this subconsciously in the car, because after driving for three minutes I discovered that I was heading west towards the university instead of east towards the photograph gallery in Grünerløkka. I stuck resolutely to my decision, turned around at the first opportunity and went east.

IV

Falko Reinhardt’s parents were waiting, and opened the door as soon as I arrived. The red rims round their eyes told of a sleepless night, and it seemed they were both still in the grip of very mixed emotions. It crossed my mind that I had never before seen such a well-harmonized and close couple. As if to illustrate this, they were holding between them a large, newly developed black and white photograph.

Falko was embracing his mother in the picture, but still looking at the camera squarely, evidently self-aware. He was still very much himself even after two years’ absence. The man in the photograph was tall, muscular and dark, with curly hair, and looked as though he was firmly convinced that he could fulfil a difficult and important task. I was not sure whether I would actually like Falko Reinhardt or not, when we finally met. But I certainly hoped that his confidence in this case was well founded. Despite Patricia’s accurate conclusions, the outcome of the investigation was entirely dependent on what Falko Reinhardt could and wanted to tell me.

I told them that Falko had called me just before midnight and that we had arranged to meet in Valdres that evening. They thanked me sincerely for letting them know and said that they were happy that he had been in touch. But they had no idea why we should meet that evening, or in Valdres. This new small puzzle within the greater puzzle seemed to make them more anxious about the situation.

Otherwise, they did not have much news to tell. Their son had suddenly turned up at their door without warning the night before, giving them the best shock of their lives. Then he had disappeared out the door with the key to his parents’ blue Peugeot half an hour later. They had asked where he was going to spend the night, but he had replied that it was safest and best for them if they did not know. He had promised to take good care of himself and asked them to be careful about who they let in. They had asked him to contact the police as soon as possible, which he had promised to do. On his way out, he had added that he had something big and important to do for the country, but that everything would be sorted within forty-eight hours.

I asked whether he had had anything more to say about his fiancée’s dramatic death. They both looked down and with something akin to humiliation said that he had not mentioned it, and that they in their confusion had not asked. Their astonishment and joy at seeing their only son again had been so great that they had had no thought for anything else until he had gone. Later, when they talked through the night, they concluded that Marie Morgenstierne’s death was now even more inexplicable than before. They were utterly convinced, though, that Falko had nothing to do with it, and tended to think now that his fiancée must have been murdered for other reasons that had nothing to do with him. Their initial theory that some political enemies were intent on liquidating the whole group had foundered, as Falko himself was alive.

The conversation then dried up, with a few repetitions. I declined the offer of coffee, saying I had a long and busy day ahead. Still in perfect harmony, they nodded together with understanding.

‘Given our story, we hope you understand why we have never trusted the police. For the past couple of decades, the police in Norway, as in so many other countries west of the Iron Curtain, have only been there to repress people like us, and have never been there for us when we needed help. But we do have confidence in you. We trust that you will come back with our son alive and close the case so that any danger that threatens him disappears. Only then can we relax and enjoy life.’

Astrid Reinhardt smiled gently as she said this. Her husband was silent in his consent. It felt like a very personal and significant vote of confidence, but I also felt that the pressure on me was mounting. I rushed out to the car.

V

I deliberately started my second round of visits to the former Nazis with the architect Frans Heidenberg in Skøyen. I reckoned that there was more chance of getting something out of him than his far more temperamental friend, Christian Magnus Eggen.

The house was just as impressive as it had been the first time, and the lawn was newly cut. Frans Heidenberg opened the door with same friendly smile, then showed me into the same grand living room. But it was never likely to be such a pleasant and relaxed visit as the first time round, and that certainly proved to be the case.

I did not have much time, so I got straight to the point and reminded my host that when I last came to see him he had told me that he had not met the Valdres farmer, Henry Alfred Lien, since the war. He nodded, and then pointed out that that was of course as far as he could remember. He had spoken to so many people at social occasions in the past twenty-five years that it was impossible to remember everyone, given his ageing memory.

I put the photograph that had been left behind by Falko Reinhardt in Room 27 down on the table in front of us. With a slight edge to my voice, I expressed my hope that his memory was at least good enough to be able to confirm whom he had eaten with at a restaurant this summer.

I caught a glimpse of a different and far less friendly Frans Heidenberg as soon as I put down the picture. For a few seconds, his mouth was drawn and his eyes got flinty. But he kept up appearances and controlled his voice extremely well when he spoke after a short pause for thought.

Frans Heidenberg’s explanation of the picture was that he and Christian Magnus Eggen had gone to the Grand Café for a good dinner, and had started chatting to two other gentlemen in the bar who were friendly and made a good impression. So they had chatted for a while, but he had no reason to pay attention to their names and certainly could not remember them now. He ‘remembered vaguely’ that one of them did have a Valdres dialect, and would in no way protest if I said that he was Henry Alfred Lien. But when he had answered the question the last time I was there, he had done so in good faith.

I pretended to believe Frans Heidenberg and asked with forced camaraderie if he knew anything about the fourth person in the picture. He gave me his friendliest smile back and shook his head apologetically. The fourth person at the table had apparently been an older man in a suit, who he thought came from Oslo. It wasn’t easy to guess his age and the man had said very little about himself. And it was difficult for him to give me a more detailed physical description. He talked rather vaguely about a dark-haired man, somewhere between sixty and seventy, but there were so few details that it could hardly be called a description. Unfortunately his eyes were not what they used to be, and he did not like to be impolite and stare too much at people.

We got stuck in this rather stilted, mutually guarded mode of communication. I understood that Frans Heidenberg was either lying outright or, at the very least, failing to divulge some important information. But I also realized that, for the moment, I had no way to prove it. And he knew this, too. So we continued for a few minutes, locked in a war of wills; in the pleasantest of voices, I asked for more details, and he apologized that he could not remember or had not noticed anything else. Sadly, his sight, hearing and memory were no longer what they used to be.

My final question was whether Christian Magnus Eggen appeared to know the other two men from before, and if so, to what extent. Frans Heidenberg again gave an apologetic shrug and said that he had no idea. If it was important, I could of course pay Eggen a visit and ask him myself. I saw the hint of a mocking smile playing both on his lips and in his eyes when he said this, but yet again, it was something that could not be pinned down.

I took Heidenberg at his word and said that I would do just that, and asked him to keep our conversation confidential. The conversation ended fittingly enough with him promising to do this, when we both knew perfectly well that he would break that promise as soon as I left the house.

Frans Heidenberg accompanied me to the door like the perfect host, held out his hand and wished me good luck with the investigation and a good day. After a moment’s hesitation, I took it. Shaking his hand now felt like biting into a sour apple. As I walked down the driveway, I suddenly disliked Frans Heidenberg even more than Christian Magnus Eggen. But this did not mean that I looked forward to meeting the latter.

VI

It was half past ten when I rang Christian Magnus Eggen’s doorbell in Kolsås. I did not have much time left before my appointment at the prime minister’s office. However, I did not anticipate that this would be a long conversation. And in that sense, I was not disappointed.

Christian Magnus Eggen opened the door and leaned on his stick. He made no sign of inviting me in, and I had no desire whatsoever to go in.

He set the tone by asking if I had anything new to tell him about the murder of his old friend, Marius Kofoed, in spring 1945 – in which case, he would be happy to talk to me.

I replied with measured calm that the case was not my responsibility, and furthermore was now time-barred, so he could perhaps, happily or unhappily, talk to me about more recent murder cases. Christian Magnus Eggen rolled his eyes, denied any knowledge of any more recent murder cases and said he was curious to know if I had any proof linking him to such cases.

I held the photograph up in front of him and asked how this fitted with his previous statement that he had not seen Henry Alfred Lien since the war.

I had thought that Christian Magnus Eggen would have coordinated his explanation with that of Frans Heidenberg. But instead he chose another strategy.

‘This very personal photograph, which you have somehow or other managed to get hold of, simply shows that I have gone to a restaurant with other people. And as far as I know, that is still legal, even here in Norway. I have not registered any new exemption laws that forbid people from eating in restaurants, and they would no doubt have been reported in Morgenbladet and Aftenposten. I do not see any connection between this picture and any criminal activities that have gone on either this summer or before. If you are investigating the murder of that young communist woman, it is hard to see how a photograph of four elderly men in a restaurant could possibly be of any relevance. Or perhaps you can explain it to me?’

I replied that it was I who was there to ask questions and that it would not be in his favour if he refused to answer these in an ongoing investigation. This did not humour him in any way.

‘In that case you will have to present it before a judge and see if there is strong enough evidence for you to summon me as a witness. In the meantime, I have no desire to give any information to you, the police or anyone else about which friends I see and when.’

I made a final attempt and asked if he could give me a more detailed description of the person who was unidentifiable in the picture. It could well be of even more interest to check him out of the case than Eggen himself.

‘I could, but I do not want to. And what is more, I do not want to prolong this conversation with you any more.’

Christian Magnus Eggen’s eyes shone with an almost childlike defiance when he said this. I understood then and there that his hatred for society that had been building over the years had now found an outlet, and was directed at me.

I ventured to remind him that when a young person was murdered, the parents and other close friends and relatives were left bereft.

He seemed taken aback by this. He leaned heavily on his stick for a few moments, then sank down into a chair in the hallway. His voice was suddenly grave and sad when he spoke again. But it had not lost any of its intensity or speed.

‘I know absolutely nothing about the murder you are investigating and have nothing to say that might help those left behind. But I have to say that my sympathy for the parents of murdered communists is somewhat limited. Which might perhaps have something to do with the fact that my only son was shot by the communists in the war.’

Christian Magnus Eggen now seemed to be both upset and tired at once. He gasped for air a couple of times and then continued.

‘And as you mentioned those left behind, parents and children, let me tell you about another old murder… My friend Frans may well have already told you that his fiancée had disappeared when he got out of prison after the war. But he is such a considerate person that he perhaps did not mention the child?’

I shook my head and sent him a piercing look. He took a deep breath and carried on.

‘Frans’s perfidious fiancée was pregnant when he was arrested – in the fourth month, no less. According to the law of the day, killing a foetus was a crime, even in Norway. But that did not prevent the death of Frans’s only child while he was being held on remand, with the help of both the police and the health service. Frans and I have paid our taxes for decades and have had to take care to uphold all kinds of strange laws, but have never had any rights ourselves, not even to our children’s lives. So you might perhaps try to understand why, today, we are not particularly cooperative with the police and do not feel much sympathy for those left behind by communists. And now it may well be best for us both if you just leave me in peace!’

I gave a short nod to this as I turned on my heel and walked away. It was now twenty to eleven, and I would soon be very short of time to make my meeting with the prime minister. But I had got an interesting glimpse of the bitter person behind Christian Magnus Eggen’s mask, and I did feel a smattering of understanding for both him and Frans Heidenberg. I had also lost all my illusions of what these bitter and lonely old men might be capable of doing in relation to a society they felt had let them down, and that they hated with a vengeance.

I was becoming increasingly curious and worried about the mysterious fourth man. I left the photograph lying on the passenger seat where I could see it, and studied it at every traffic light. There was still not much to be had. Both Frans Heidenberg and Christian Magnus Eggen had indicated that he was an older man, around their age. But the photograph did not prove or disprove this. The only lead was a right hand with no wedding ring or any other form of visible distinction. It could, in theory, as easily belong to a twenty-year-old as to a seventy-year-old.

It did feel as though I had touched on something significant that morning. But what exactly it was, I still could not say.

VII

I had to use my blue light for the last part of the journey in order to get to the meeting on time. At one minute to eleven, I stood for the first time at the door of the prime minister’s office.

The office was smaller than I had imagined. A very correct secretary asked me to go straight into the prime minister’s personal office. And when I went in, the prime minister was sitting alone at his simple desk.

Even though I, as a city lad, had never considered voting for the Farmers’ Party, or the Centre Party as they were now called, I had considerable sympathy for the down-to-earth farmer, Peder Borgen. This was in no way diminished by meeting him. In sharp contrast to the representative for the royal family’s security service, Norway’s prime minister stood up and shook my hand heartily.

I knew only too well that the prime minister was facing a very demanding autumn and winter. It was widely acknowledged that growing disagreement between parties in the coalition government would soon come to a head in the debate about Norway’s position regarding the Common Market. My father, who had a good nose for politics, and also good contacts in several parties, had expressed several times this summer his belief and hope that the government would fall apart in good time before Christmas. And any avid newspaper reader could see that following their good results in the autumn elections, the Labour Party was now putting on the pressure in the Storting and preparing to take over the reins very soon. Given all this, the prime minister seemed to be remarkably relaxed and calm.

I began by remarking that I would not take up more of his time than strictly necessary. He replied, however, that he had nothing special that had to be done today, and that he would like to hear what I had to tell about the case.

My plans for a brief ten-minute orientation soon went out the window, but through no fault of my own. The prime minister interrupted me repeatedly with the strangest detailed questions about the facts of the case and my thoughts on them. It took a full forty minutes before we were finished. The prime minister remained calm when I spoke of the danger of an attack or sabotage and explained that it might, in the worst-case scenario, involve him or other members of the government.

When I asked about his public engagements over the next few days, he conferred briefly with his secretary and then said it was quieter in summer and he had no official engagements today, whereas the next day he was giving a talk at a Norwegian Farmers’ Union seminar and then was doing the honours at the official opening of a small national park at six.

I noted down the times and said that he would have to decide for himself whether he thought it was sensible to participate in the planned events or not. This triggered a sudden and unexpected change in the prime minister’s mood. Suddenly he looked anxious and almost upset. He said that the decision to cancel two such arrangements that he had promised to attend was very serious indeed, and that it should be discussed and looked at in more detail.

I had some problems in keeping a straight face, but told the prime minister that he would have to make a decision before the next day’s events. This seemed to heighten his anxiety even more. He said that might well be the case, but it was therefore all the more important to think things through and discuss the matter thoroughly before making a decision. I said, taking professional confidentiality into account, he could discuss it with his family and other members of the government, the party leadership and the prime minister’s office. Peder Borgen thanked me and promised to do that. He then asked if I would be available for further discussion if necessary.

I replied that I was honoured and would of course talk more about the case to him if he so wished, but that it might be difficult to reach me on my telephone due to the ongoing investigation. He said he understood and jotted down my telephone numbers right away. I was rather surprised then to receive a handwritten note with the prime minister’s own numbers on it, clearly marked ‘home’ and ‘work’.

I was even more astonished to hear him say that I could call whenever it suited, whether it was about the case or other issues that might interest me. In the end it was decided that I should try to call him around two the following day, and in the meantime make sure that he was informed immediately if there was any more news in relation to possible attacks and demonstrations. At the door, he shook my hand heartily again and thanked me for ‘a very interesting hour in good company’.

It was only then that it struck me that it was now two minutes to midday, and that I would be late for my next important appointment, even though Young’s Square lay relatively close by. I left the prime minister’s office with a favourable impression of the man himself, but also wondering if Norway’s leader was perhaps a little too dialogue-oriented and patient.

VIII

I arrived at the People’s Theatre building on Young’s Square at three minutes past twelve, and was immediately ushered into the office of the Labour Party leader, Trond Bratten. I almost ran in and apologized for being late, due to an overrun at the prime minister’s office.

The party leader himself was sitting at his desk behind great piles of paper, looking very relaxed about the whole thing. He remained seated and just nodded almost imperceptibly at the chair on the other side of the desk. I hesitated for a moment, then went over to the desk, held out my hand and introduced myself. His handshake was brief and limp, accompanied by a careful, almost shy smile.

‘Trond Bratten,’ he said in a quiet voice, as though it was something to be ashamed of.

The loud reaction came instead from the third person in the room whom I suddenly realized was there – his wife, Ragna Bratten. She leaped up from her chair by the wall, pumped my hand and commented that it was rather unfortunate that the country’s future prime minister had to wait.

Despite being in the middle of an increasingly hectic investigation, my fascination at meeting the leader of the Labour Party was even greater than my delight at meeting Peder Borgen. I had voted for Trond Bratten’s party at every election in the 1960s. I had always had a strong liking for him, both politically and personally. It was a joy to hear his arguments in speeches and debates. And what I knew about his life, from his childhood in relative poverty in Vestfold and the years as a prisoner of war in Germany to his position as chairman of the party and many years in office as minister of finance, engendered my deep respect. For as long as I could remember, Trond Bratten had been a member of the Labour Party leadership and one of Norway’s leading politicians. It felt like a great honour to meet such a living legend from Norway’s political life.

I mustered my courage and said this to him. The response was very positive. Trond Bratten himself smiled, slightly abashed, and his wife patted me enthusiastically on the shoulder.

My planned orientation was done in ten minutes here. The party chairman closely followed everything I said, and nodded pensively a couple of times. But he sat and listened without asking any questions or making any comments.

When I had finished my orientation, I looked at him questioningly, without getting a response. Trond Bratten sat without saying a word, almost without moving, even when I asked him if he had any public engagements in the coming days. Again, it was his wife who broke the silence.

‘My husband has only one public engagement over the next few days, but it is an extremely important one that must not be cancelled under any circumstances.’

Trond Bratten gave the tiniest of nods, but still said nothing.

I turned and looked askance at his wife, who then continued.

‘You may perhaps have read that my husband was seriously ill in the Easter holidays and then had to take several months off work. Well, the political situation has fortunately been rather quiet so far this year. It looks as though autumn and winter, however, might be more dramatic, as the Europe question is once again high on the agenda and the coalition government is falling apart at the seams. On top of this, my husband’s sick leave has led to malicious rumours that his health is now permanently impaired, so the deputy leader and other ambitious men have started to position themselves to take over. The former party leader and several older rivals who envy my husband’s unique abilities and position are also jostling in the wings. My husband is due to give his first major speech since his illness at Frogner Square tomorrow at five o’clock and it has been a long time in the planning. It is an attempt to appeal to new workers’ organizations in the west end, but will also be a large-scale mobilization of the labour movement. The unions in several workplaces have put on transport for employees to get there after work to hear my husband’s speech, which he has spent several hours preparing. No matter what reason was given, it would be a catastrophe if it did not go ahead as planned, which could have untold negative consequences for both the party and the nation.’

This tumbled out at speed and with passion. I looked at Trond Bratten, who at first simply nodded.

‘Norwegian democracy must never again allow itself to be intimidated into silence. And the leader of the Norwegian Labour Party is responsible for ensuring that democracy is not intimidated into silence!’ he said suddenly, with great conviction.

For a second, I recognized the Trond Bratten of his best and most pointed debates on the radio and television. His wife clapped with delight and I found myself almost doing the same. I stopped myself just in time, and instead asked if he had any other commitments in the next few days.

His wife answered swiftly, ‘No. He will have to rest well after tomorrow’s speech.’

Trond Bratten nodded and smiled at her. For a moment, he seemed to forget that I was present in the room.

I noted down the time and place of the next day’s engagement and said, as was the case, that we so far had no indication of any targeted action against Trond Bratten or anyone else from the Labour Party. I promised to let them know if we got any new information. And I was bold enough to advise Mrs Bratten that until the situation was fully established, she should be especially mindful of her husband.

This hit the mark. She smiled back and assured me that she always kept an eye on him, but that she would keep an even closer eye in the days ahead. She would, as usual, drive him to and from the rally tomorrow herself, and would personally ensure that her husband’s good friends in the labour movement were watched like hawks.

We parted on a positive note at half past twelve. She followed me to the door, and he waved a couple of fingers gently from his place behind his desk. I had lost none of my respect or fascination for Trond Bratten when I descended the steps. The contrast with the prime minister was striking. But I found it easy to like them both. And I thought to myself that I had just seen a rare and fine example of a couple who worked well together despite a considerable difference in age and temperament. For several reasons, it had been an enjoyable break from the investigation.

IX

I barely had time to grab two dry buns from a baker’s shop for lunch before arriving at Victoria Terrace as agreed.

This time, Asle Bryne was not sitting alone in his office. Beside him sat a far younger man, with a prominent mole on his chin. I was relieved to discover that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was observant and still to be trusted.

I held out my hand to the new man, but was stopped by Asle Bryne’s authoritative hand.

‘Please wait a moment before you start talking: we first have to clarify the terms. The fact that I am allowing an employee to be at such a meeting is exceptional. But then, the situation is exceptional, and I understand your need to resolve it. I would like to state, however, that this man has done nothing criminal, but on the contrary has made a considerable and important contribution to our country and its people. I expect him to be treated with respect, and this conversation to remain strictly confidential. Are the terms clear?’

I gave a quick nod. Asle Bryne then made a great fuss of lighting his pipe, and disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. The man beside him held out his hand. His handshake was firm and strong, though I detected a slight tremor.

I sat down and asked first of all if he was the ‘XY’ who had written the report. He nodded. I proceeded to say that I now needed to know his name, in the strictest confidence. He turned and looked at Bryne, waiting for a response. Somewhere inside the grey cloud of smoke, Bryne’s great black eyebrows rose and fell.

‘My name is Pedersen. Stein Pedersen. But I would be extremely grateful if no one else heard it, as that would make my continued work in preventing a communist takeover very difficult.’

Both Bryne and I gave a nod, though mine was more reserved than his. I was surprised at how well I was managing to play my role. The opening was a small sensation. Were the initials SP just a coincidence, or was I now sitting opposite the man who planned to carry out an attack against someone or other, at some place, within the next few days? Was it really possible that such an attack would come from inside the police security service?

I focused my concentration and asked him first to tell me about his impressions from the evening that Marie Morgenstierne was shot. Stein Pedersen nodded, and repeated in a monotone voice the main points of his written report. He did not give any new details about the two men on the side roads, or about any of the other people who were on the road.

When I asked if anyone might have seen the cassette being handed over, he was ‘at least ninety-nine per cent’ certain that they could not have done so. It was done in passing, and he had not seen anyone ahead or behind them on the road either before or after it happened. Kristine Larsen had only appeared behind him several minutes later, and had then overtaken him quickly, with determined steps.

As for his earlier contact with Marie Morgenstierne, Stein Pedersen did not have anything of importance to add. She had contacted him a few weeks after Falko Reinhardt had disappeared, and had later routinely provided him with tapes, but it had been a very perfunctory contact with little extra information. He had been given her telephone number and had rung her on a few occasions, but claimed never to have been to her home. And he denied, somewhat horrified and indignant, that he had ever had any kind of romantic or physical relationship with her.

‘First of all, my work for my country does not leave me any time for women. And what is more, were that not the case, young communist women would certainly not be my preference!’ he objected.

It looked as though Asle Bryne’s eyebrows approved of this, but the smoke around him was now so dense that I could not have said for certain.

I swiftly changed the subject to talk about the circumstances surrounding Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. Pedersen immediately sank a little into his chair. Asle Bryne, on the other hand, perked up. Between two long puffs on his pipe, he said: ‘Procedures have unfortunately been broken, albeit with the best intentions and without any harm being done. Just tell the truth!’

Pedersen nodded gratefully, and immediately continued.

‘My behaviour was unprofessional in the extreme. But I had for months spent a lot of time on the group and was convinced they were going to plan something serious while they were at the cabin – perhaps, in the worst-case scenario, meet some foreign agents. I felt that my most important duty and responsibility was to protect society against them. Our budgets and work schedules did not allow surveillance of the group in Valdres, but I was off work that week and, following a struggle with my conscience, decided to go up there on my own initiative. Hence the mask, which was in clear breach of normal procedures. I did this partly so that they would not recognize me if they saw me, and partly to prevent any suspicion that the police security service was involved.’

I attempted to give an understanding nod.

‘And what was the outcome of your trip? Were there any indications of foreign contacts or that any of them were planning something serious?’

He shook his head.

‘The whole thing was, technically, a fiasco. I am still convinced that they went there to talk about something that they wanted to keep under wraps. But the cabin was far less accessible than I had thought, and the weather was terrible. I was not able to hide any microphones in the cabin, and I barely managed to get within sight of it. My first attempt to spy through the window ended with me being spotted by Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. So I beat a hasty retreat and drove back down to Oslo again. I only heard that Falko Reinhardt had gone missing on the radio the following day.’

‘A large car was seen driving down the valley in the middle of the night, after Falko had disappeared. Was that your car?’

He shook his head again.

‘I was driving my own car, which was a small Ford, and by the time that happened, I was already back in Oslo. I know nothing about the car you mentioned, or who might have been driving it. I do know, however, where Falko went when he left the others for a couple of hours earlier in the day, and whom he met there.’

He sent me a meaningful look. I tried to stay collected, and waved him on impatiently.

‘I watched him from a distance, with the help of ordinary binoculars, from my stakeout in the forest. He was walking fast and passed only twenty yards or so from me. Then he carried on out of the forest and across the fields of the neighbouring farm. There he met the farmer himself, who appeared a few minutes later with a mowing machine as a cover. It looked as though the meeting had been planned, and that they did not want anyone to see!’

He said this in almost a whisper. I gave a short nod of acknowledgement.

‘And was the farmer a well-built, older man?’

He nodded quickly.

‘His name is Henry Alfred Lien, and he is a convicted former member of the NS. I checked his name when I got back home. But, as far as we know, there is nothing to link him to any countries in the Eastern bloc or to radical, left-wing groups in Norway. So it is not at all clear what the meeting might have been about, and is hardly likely to be relevant.’

My nod was less approving, and I asked if he observed anything else of interest – for example, any romantic liaisons between members of the group.

For the first time, his otherwise earnest face broke into a small smile.

‘Such internal liaisons are very usual in groups like that, but seldom of relevance to us. I may have observed something of the kind, but it depends on who you are alluding to.’

I took a deep breath and started the list.

‘Trond Ibsen.’

He promptly shook his head.

‘Anders Pettersen?’

Again, he shook his head immediately. I noticed that my heart started to race when I mentioned the next name.

‘Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen?’

Another shake of the head, and this time he made a dismissive gesture with his hands to reinforce it.

‘She was definitely not the type to get involved in that kind of thing. I cannot understand what she was doing with the group in the first place.’

I keenly nodded my approval and suddenly liked him a little more. The situation was demanding and my dislike of surveillance considerable, but I had to admit that Stein Pedersen certainly seemed to have talents in the field.

‘Marie Morgenstierne?’

‘Only with her fiancé, and then it was far less public than is normal. But she came from a good family, after all, and was therefore very well behaved.’

I nodded. That was as I had imagined.

‘But, on the other hand, Kristine Larsen, and Falko…’

He chuckled, but very soon was serious again, in fact, almost angry.

‘Bingo. One almost has to admire his self-confidence, but morally it was rather repugnant. He had come back from a short afternoon walk hand-in-hand with his fiancée. Then two minutes after she had gone into the cabin, there he was in the shadows outside with his hand down Kristine Larsen’s trousers. She was so very in love that it was a wonder that no one else noticed it. But in a strange way, they all circuited him in awe. With the exception of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, who was in her own world with her books.’

Again, I nodded my approval. And then spoke the truth. Pedersen’s behaviour had been very unprofessional and as such unfortunate, but he had also been very observant and I had to thank him for some potentially useful information. The matter would henceforth be treated with absolute confidentiality, and would not be included in any formal minutes or reports, or brought to the attention of any officials. Unless, of course, he had anything more serious to hide.

Stein Pedersen brightened. He assured me earnestly that he had nothing to hide, and that he had committed no crime. I said that we could then see the matter as closed, but reserved the right to get in touch with him to ask more questions, should this prove necessary in connection with the murder investigation.

Asle Bryne put down his pipe, nodded curtly and held out his hand. Like an echo, Stein Pedersen did the same. He wrote down two telephone numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

I left Victoria Terrace with plenty to think about. I had been given a few more details and also a new and very interesting insight into the police security service. Having heard Stein Pedersen talk about his mission, it was even harder to imagine him as a killer. I was very relieved to discover that his account did not contradict any of the others on any point. But it had taken a suspiciously long time to get that statement from him, and I still did not trust that he had told me everything. And the strange coincidence between the initials of his name and those on Falko Reinhardt’s to-do list hounded me all the way back to the main police station.

X

It was a quarter past two by the time I got back to my office. So there was still an hour left before I had to drive to Valdres. And it was, to my relief, unexpectedly quiet in the station.

As soon as I could I popped in to see Kristine Larsen in her cell, to update her on the latest developments concerning Falko. She perked up, the colour returned to her cheeks, and she asked me to give Falko her greetings as soon as I saw him.

I hinted that we could now arrange for her release on bail. She thanked me, but added that as she was safe here, she would rather stay where she was until the case had been solved and Falko had returned. Her parents had been informed of the situation and were extremely worried that she too might be shot.

‘Just think how tragic it would be if, after two years of waiting, I was released only to be murdered hours before Falko came back to me,’ she added, with an almost playful smile.

Her argument suited me well. I preferred not to have to explain her release either internally or externally, until I had a new suspect to arrest. I had by now almost dismissed the theory that Kristine Larsen was the murderer, having heard a third version from the security service agent. Despite her jealousy and betrayal of the late Marie Morgenstierne, it was almost impossible not to feel sympathy for this clearly besotted young woman, who had been waiting for two years for her beloved to return. I hoped in my heart that Falko would be with her again within the next twenty-four hours, and that he would prove worthy of her love.

On my way back to the office, I bumped into Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen in the corridor, apparently by accident. With one of his most ingratiating smiles, he said he hoped that the investigation was progressing well. He had heard that someone had been held on remand for a couple of days now, and hoped that this meant that the person in question would be charged shortly and the case could be closed.

I assured him that we were keeping the arrestee on remand, rather than pressing formal charges, with good reason. With a bitter taste in my mouth, I added that I hoped that his door was still open should I need any advice. He promised me that he would be there whenever needed, ‘with an open door and an empty desk’.

In a way, our parting in the corridor felt just as false as my parting from Frans Heidenberg at his house. Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen knew that I would never ask him for help if I could avoid it, and I knew that he knew.

I hurried on to my boss’s office and gave him a report on the day’s developments. He approved of my methods and plans, both with regard to the trip to Valdres and to keeping Kristine Larsen on remand until the case was solved. Otherwise, like me, he was concerned about the danger of a major attack of some kind or another. The risk of an assassination that the police could not prevent hung like a dark and threatening cloud over both of us. This had to be balanced against the possibility of sparking unfounded fears among the royals, top politicians and the population at large.

My boss agreed with the advice that I had given to the prime minister and opposition leader, but asked that he be informed as soon as possible after I had spoken to Falko Reinhardt. I could ring at any time in this evening, no matter how late, if there was anything new to report. We shook hands on that. My boss’s confidence in me was certainly a great support in the midst of so much uncertainty.

After the visit to my boss, I telephoned Patricia from my office and gave her the most important new information. She was once again very interested in the police security service’s work. The teenage gossip in Patricia reared her head again: she chortled down the line when I told her the story of Falko and Kristine at the cabin.

Then all of a sudden she was serious and grown up again.

‘I have only one question regarding the security service and Marie Morgenstierne, but it is important. Did the security service representative at any later point tell Marie Morgenstierne what he knew about Falko and Kristine? And if so, when? Ask him as soon as you have the opportunity, if the meeting with Falko has not cleared everything up in the meantime.’

I jotted down her question and promised to follow it up the next day. Then I asked if she could give me any advice for the Valdres meeting. She replied without any pause for thought.

‘Just one thing, but again, it is important. If you have time, go to see Henry Alfred Lien before you meet Falko, or otherwise, drive there immediately afterwards. Ask him first and foremost about the former Nazis and the mystery man in the photograph. But also ask him if he is willing to take a lie detector test stating that he did not drive Falko down the mountain the night he disappeared. And if possible, check his bookshelves to see if you can find the local history yearbook for Valdres, 1955!’

I replied that it was not likely that I would manage to drive up the mountain and question Henry Alfred Lien before six o’clock, but I promised to drive directly to his farm if Falko did not pitch up at the bottom of the cliff and explain everything.

‘Good,’ was Patricia’s response. Then she said no more.

There was something unsaid on the line between us. It felt as though she wanted to say more, only I was not sure what.

‘Well, then all that remains is to wish you a good trip to the mountains. Are you going alone this time, or together with someone else?’ she asked, finally.

I replied, perhaps somewhat curtly, that I was driving on my own this time and that I should probably be on my way very soon.

It sounded as though Patricia let out a sigh of relief before hastily wishing me good luck and then hanging up. I felt that we had drifted away from one another again.

With a stab of irritation at Patricia’s new jealousy, I wondered again if I should perhaps swing by the university library on my way to Valdres. But instead, I set off on my own at three o’clock as planned.

XI

The drive to Valdres felt far less inspiring than the previous trip. Long before I passed the Tyri Fjord, I regretted not having asked Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen to join me.

The weather, however, was clement and the traffic minimal, so the journey was smooth once I left Oslo. And following a hectic day with many mood swings, it was good to be able to think about the case in silence. When I reached Vestre Slidre around half past five, I still did not have any clear theory as to who had shot Marie Morgenstierne.

I was now leaning towards the idea that the mysterious other man who was either Trond Ibsen or Anders Pettersen was also the murderer, but more for want of a better theory. And as for the possible assassination plan, I now feared that it involved the former Nazis more than the young communists and the police security service, but still without any idea of what was going to happen and when.

The closer I got to the foot of the mountains, the greater I felt my potential fall could be. When I parked the car at the end of the dirt track at a quarter to six, I held a deep wish that Falko Reinhardt would give me the whole explanation, or at least enough for me to piece together the rest of the puzzle with Patricia’s help. It dawned on me that an alarming amount was now dependent on what he could, and wanted to tell us; and that a short and somewhat frantic late-night telephone conversation was my only guarantee that he would actually meet me here.

The first touches of autumn colour were in evidence, but it was still a magnificent late-summer evening in Valdres. I scoured the landscape, unable to enjoy it, for the city boy Falko Reinhardt, and wondered why he had insisted on meeting me here. His calm, convincing voice the evening before had made an impression: I trusted that he was in control of the situation and would come.

However, it was now five to six and there was no sign of him or anyone else. I wandered around in a small circle and looked in every direction to make sure I had not missed him. The countdown ran from five to three minutes, and then from two to one, without anything happening.

I stood and watched the second hand progress steadily through the last seconds to six o’clock. I felt both a little disappointed and a little anxious when I could still see no sign of Falko anywhere. I hoped that, for one reason or another, he was simply delayed, but as the minutes ticked by I soon began to doubt this.

At five past six, I asked myself just how long I should stand there waiting for a man who might have no intention of coming. And I also suddenly felt worried about my own safety. Something I had not considered before occurred to me: that I myself might be subject to a sniper attack out here in this open terrain. I comforted myself with the thought that if I had been lured into a trap, they would have got me straight away. This did not make the idea of standing here much longer any more tempting.

At seven minutes past six, I decided that I would wait until ten past. If Falko Reinhardt had not shown up by then, I would drive up to Henry Alfred Lien’s farm in the hope that I could salvage something useful from this trip to Valdres. Then I would have to decide whether it made sense to come back again and see if Falko was here.

At nine minutes past six, I looked around in every direction. There was still no sign of Falko or anyone else. I raised my eyes to the top of the cliff, in the direction of Henry Alfred Lien’s farm and the Morgenstiernes’ cabin. Neither was visible from here. But at just over three hundred feet, the cliff was an impressive and frightening sight in the evening sun.

For a moment, my thoughts returned to Henry Alfred Lien and the story of his grandfather, who had stood down here just over a hundred years ago and watched the lad Karl jump, fall or be pushed over the edge.

I looked at my watch and saw that it was now ten past six.

It was when I looked up again that I saw the human body falling over the edge and down towards the rocks in front of me.

I could not tell whether it was a man or a woman. It was just a small dark shadow falling fast, feet first. I could not later be certain whether I had actually heard a scream or not. But that was what I thought, with the story of Henry Alfred Lien’s grandfather fresh in my mind.

I stood there as though paralysed and watched the person fall to a certain death on the rocks below, and heard a scream that certainly echoed in my ears. It felt like an eternity, although I later understood that the fall could not have taken much more than five seconds.

I recognized a man I had never seen alive before only as he hit the ground. His curly black hair was buffeted by the wind for the final seconds of the fall.

I stood there like a pillar as he fell.

A tiny movement on the periphery of my vision woke me up. I looked up to the top of the cliff and saw a small dark smudge of a person standing looking over the edge.

It was too high up for me to be able to see without binoculars whether it was a man or a woman, let alone make out any details. I was not sure if the person up there could see me, but I was absolutely sure that I could see a person standing up there at the edge of the cliff, staring down in my direction. It was a very strange feeling to see a murderer with my naked eye, without being able to recognize the person or make an arrest.

It did not last long. The smudge of a person soon moved back from the edge and out of my sight. And at the same time I heard a loud, painful moan. I realized that it must be Falko Reinhardt, who was lying where he had fallen without being able to move. I felt a stirring of hope and rushed over to him.

Any hope of survival soon vanished. His body and legs had been mangled in the fall, and he was bleeding from the chest and neck. But the hope that he might be able to tell me the little I needed to know still lived as I bent down over him. Blood was dribbling from his mouth, but his eyes were still alive.

Falko Reinhardt whispered a word as soon as I reached him. His voice gave way at the end of the word, but I heard it loud and clear all the same.

‘The window.’

We stared into each other’s eyes for an intense moment. I gripped his shoulders without it making things any better. His shoulder had obviously been broken or dislocated. His body was heavy, burning hot, and limp.

‘What about the window? Which window?’ I almost shouted at him.

I thought for a moment that he could no longer hear me. His eyes slid closed as I spoke and a terrible shudder ran through his body.

‘Look out for the window!’ Falko Reinhardt whispered in a barely audible voice, his eyes shut.

Then he died.

XII

It was a miracle that Falko Reinhardt had managed to stay alive as long as he did. Not only was he injured from the fall, he also had two bullet wounds: one in the foot and the other in his chest. He was wearing jeans, a shirt and boots, but no jacket.

I found only one thing in his pockets, but it was all the more sensational for that. In his right trouser pocket was a Walther pistol with three bullets missing from the magazine. It was an unexpected find which left me even more baffled and anxious about the situation.

I had no choice other than to leave the body where it was on the scree. I ran to the car and drove to a telephone box just over a mile back down the road. From there I alerted the local police and hospital, having first got their numbers from the operator.

I then called Patricia. To my relief, she was obviously ready and waiting, and answered the phone on the second ring. I told her quick as a flash what had happened.

I had expected a pensive silence, but instead I got a swift and hard command.

‘You cannot do anything more for Falko now. Leave him where he is and drive to the top of the cliff straight away. But drive via Henry Alfred Lien’s farm – and drive fast. I think you may get there too late to talk to him, but there is still a slight chance. If Henry Alfred Lien can and wants to tell you what he knows, we may be able to solve this tonight. If not, we still have absolutely no idea what tomorrow might bring!’

As Patricia talked, I realized that this was the only sensible thing to do. By the time she stopped, I was almost frightened by the gravity and alarm in her voice. So I drove back up the mountain at well over the speed limit.

XIII

I vaguely registered that it was ten past seven when I swung into the drive up to Henry Alfred Lien’s farm. I hoped that no one had ever driven so fast up to the house. But in the last few minutes I had started to get the same feeling that Patricia had had. Even if Henry Alfred Lien was the person I had seen at the top of the cliff, I would still get there too late to meet him. I had a strong feeling that he had vanished, without knowing where he had gone or why.

As soon as I got to the farm, I saw the first warning that something was amiss: a car that had not been there the last time I visited. It was a blue Peugeot which looked like it had more years behind it than it had to come. It was a direct link to the now dead Falko Reinhardt, and made it even more unlikely that Henry Alfred Lien was still there.

Henry Alfred Lien was not out in the yard waiting to greet me, as he had been the last time. In fact, there was no one to be seen or heard on the farm.

With Falko Reinhardt’s final words etched in my mind, I quickly surveyed all the windows before going up to the front door. There was no sign of any danger. All the windows were closed, with the curtains drawn.

I rang the old-fashioned doorbell and waited for a minute or two without any response. This only served to heighten the feeling that the bird had flown the nest. I rang the bell again and rapped hard on the door, without expecting an answer. There was still no reaction from inside.

That was when I noticed the second warning: the door was not locked.

The lights were on in the hallway and living room. This reinforced the impression that Henry Alfred Lien had left his home in a hurry. I nodded when I went into the living room and saw that the table where I had sat a couple of days ago was again set for coffee and cake for two. Either the expected guest had not come, or the person in question had shared such dramatic news that the party was over before it began. The cups, the plates and the cakes were all untouched.

It was only when I popped my head round the door into the kitchen as a matter of routine that I understood I had totally misinterpreted and underestimated the situation.

Henry Alfred Lien had not left his home in a hurry. He was still there.

There was no mistaking his broad body, even though he was lying face down. I put my fingers to his neck and could quickly confirm that there was no pulse, and that all life had left his body. It was already getting cold. I did not need to look long for the cause. When I turned him over, the bullet hole in his forehead resembled an accusing third eye.

I let go of the second victim of the evening and hid my face in my hands for a moment. The whole situation felt like a surreal nightmare, and I sincerely hoped it was. But I did not wake up. So once I had established that there were no weapons or other people on the ground floor, I went over to the late Henry Alfred Lien’s living-room table to use his phone.

XIV

As expected, the sheriff was out on a call, but his wife answered the phone and promised to give him the message about a second suspicious death as soon as possible. She almost burst into tears when I told her where he should come and who it involved. Even though Henry Alfred Lien’s story during the war was well known, and even though he had kept a low profile as a widower in recent years, he had been a highly respected man and no one in the local community had a bad word to say about him. He had been a good man who had done some unfortunate things during the war, but it was hard to imagine who would want to kill him now.

I replied that it was in truth a very odd and tragic case, and that I had to get on with the investigation. She thanked me. When I put down the telephone, I felt even more uncertain about who Henry Alfred Lien actually was and what had happened to him.

My conversation with the hospital was less friendly. The operator recognized my voice, and suspected that I was a morbid prankster when I called to tell them about a second murder in the space of an hour. Fortunately, I managed to convince him, and he finally agreed to send the ambulance over as soon as it returned from the last callout.

And then, once again, I called Patricia. This time she answered after one ring, with an impatient: ‘Well, what is going on?’

I told her that I had found Henry Alfred Lien and that I was now sitting alone in his house. Patricia let out a deep sigh.

‘That’s just as I thought – and feared. The number of murders is rising, and the danger that it might continue to rise over the next few days is high. Come here as soon as you get back to Oslo, and I will have dinner waiting for you, no matter how late it is. In the meantime, check to see if Henry Alfred Lien has the local history yearbook for Valdres, 1955 in his bookshelf. But more importantly, search for a diary, a note or any other document that might tell us a bit more about what happened – and about what might happen!’

There was a moment’s silence as I contemplated what this meant. Patricia took a deep breath and continued.

‘The identity of the fourth person in that photograph is now perhaps the most pressing question in Norway. Christian Magnus Eggen and Frans Heidenberg know, but I doubt that anyone could get it out of them in time. Judging by what has happened, Falko Reinhardt and Henry Alfred Lien also knew, but were killed before they had a chance to tell you. I have no idea who this is or where he or she is; it could be almost anyone out there. But I am increasingly fearful of the consequences if we do not soon find out. And these two murders can leave no one in any doubt that this is something major!’

On hearing Patricia’s words, I felt fear tugging at me, not least because it was more audible in her voice towards the end than I had ever heard it before. So I thanked her, put down the receiver and set about investigating the scene of the crime.

XV

Patricia had of course been right. In the largest bookshelf, Henry Alfred Lien had a series of local history yearbooks for Valdres. The 1955 edition was also there. And even though a rubber had been used in the margins of the article in question about Karl and his dramatic death in the mountains, it was impossible to hide the fact there had once been notes there and parts of the text had been underlined.

Finding any diaries or other notes proved to be a bit harder. Henry Alfred Lien was not a writer by nature. He did not appear to own a typewriter. Other than a shopping list on the kitchen counter, I found no handwritten notes in the living room or kitchen.

He had, however, made himself a simple office on the first floor, and in the desk drawer I found several books filled with his elegant, old-fashioned handwriting. They mostly involved bookkeeping and taxes, but also production figures for the farm, and they showed that he had been doing well even in the last year. According to his post office savings book, Henry Alfred Lien had over three hundred thousand kroner in his bank account when he died. But I found no photographs or notes that might shed light on his dramatic death.

In the bottom drawer was a notebook with handwritten diary entries from 1967 to the present day. Henry Alfred Lien’s entries were short, often just keywords, and he seldom wrote more than four or five pages a year. I quickly read through what he had written in previous years, but found nothing of interest. In connection with the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt in summer 1968, Henry Alfred Lien had noted that he had been questioned and taken a lie detector test in Oslo, but there was no new information.

By far the most interesting thing in Henry Alfred Lien’s diary was a page that was not there.

The diary ended suddenly in April 1970, and the next page had been torn out.

I stood pondering for a long time when it might have been torn out and by whom. It could of course have been torn out and destroyed by Henry Alfred Lien himself. But it was also possible that it had been removed earlier in the day by the person who had shot him. In which case, I sorely wanted to know where the missing page was now, and what secrets it might reveal.

XVI

The sheriff arrived with the ambulance at ten past eight. He was a sombre older man who gave an impression of solidity, and seemed more than willing to cooperate with a detective inspector from Oslo. We called for a forensics team from Lillehammer, but were told that we should not expect them until tomorrow morning.

I left the sheriff in charge of the farm and then walked the few hundred yards to the top of the cliff to see if I could find anything there. Rain was forecast overnight, and I had no illusions as to what the technicians would then be able to find in the morning.

The Morgenstiernes’ cabin was locked. I opened it with my key, but found nothing to indicate that Falko or anyone else had been inside.

It was a very strange feeling to stand alone afterwards at the top of the cliff in the evening breeze. There had obviously been a violent struggle up here earlier in the day that had ended with Falko Reinhardt’s fall and death. It would appear that Falko Reinhardt had first parked his car at Henry Alfred Lien’s farm and then, for some unknown reason, either run or walked here to the edge of the cliff.

I found a couple of footprints on the path that went past the cabin and on to the edge of the cliff, which were very similar to Falko Reinhardt’s in size and shape. And I found some other footprints which were also of men’s shoes, but slightly smaller than Falko’s. I found more of these footprints in the moss a couple of yards away from the cliff. But there were no clear prints from Falko’s large feet there.

It seemed reasonable to assume that the other prints belonged to the person I had seen standing at the edge of the cliff after Falko Reinhardt’s fall. But there was no way of being certain, and even if it was the case, it gave no pointer as to that person’s identity.

I wandered around at the top of the cliff, without really knowing what I was looking for. In an otherwise clean landscape devoid of human traces, the small piece of paper fluttering in the breeze behind a boulder immediately caught my eye.

My mind naturally jumped to the missing page from Henry Alfred Lien’s diary. However, it transpired that this piece of paper was smaller and of a different type. It was a plain white sheet, of the sort I had found in the late Falko Reinhardt’s hotel room. And the writing was his too, and once again was extremely brief, written in keywords that were a mixture of numbers and letters:

1108

Heftye 66

Professor Johannes Heftye’s face immediately popped up in my mind. Given the rare surname and the fact that the number 66 coincided with his age, it was hard to avoid the conclusion that Falko Reinhardt was alluding to his supervisor here. And 1108, according to Falko’s usual shorthand for dates, was then 11 August – which was tomorrow. But the link between the date, the supervisor and the note were still a mystery to me.

As I walked around on my own up there by the edge of the cliff, it started to drizzle. This quickly developed into proper rain, and I was soaked to the skin by the time I got back down to the car and Henry Alfred Lien’s farm. This did not help to lift my spirits. I drove back to Oslo in wet clothes and a grim mood.

As I drove, the theory that Falko Reinhardt had shot Henry Alfred Lien developed in, and occupied, my mind. He had parked his car there, and the pistol in his pocket had been three bullets short when he fell down the cliff a few hundred yards away. The three fired shots would be two to Falko Reinhardt’s own body, and one to Henry Alfred Lien’s head. But somehow the idea of suicide did not seem right. Falko Reinhardt had certainly not struck me as a suicide candidate when I had spoken to him the evening before. On the contrary, he had seemed to be bursting with a powerful will to carry out an important mission for his nation and then reap the honour. It seemed highly unlikely that he would ask me to come to Valdres only to take his own life by jumping over a cliff; and it was also very impractical to shoot yourself in the foot before such a jump. In any case, the presence of the person I had seen standing there more or less ruled out the possibility of suicide.

So the most likely scenario remained that Falko had first intended to meet Henry Alfred Lien, and then me. He had, for unknown reasons, ended up killing Henry Alfred Lien. But who had then shot Falko Reinhardt? And why had Falko Reinhardt gone with that person to the edge of the cliff? What secret was so great that both Henry Alfred Lien and Falko Reinhardt had to be murdered today, in order to keep it from getting out?

The questions about what had happened, and why, were starting to mount up. And on top of them came the question of what I should do now. I stopped at a telephone box in Hønefoss and managed to get hold of a priest in Grünerløkka via the operator. I told him what had happened, and asked if he could break the tragic news to Falko Reinhardt’s parents. However, he turned out to be the conservative and categorical type, and he firmly refused to have anything to do with the case. The whole Reinhardt family had left the state church, and the priest himself had had a serious argument with the parents when they refused to let their son be confirmed. They had asked him to leave and made it very clear that they would not open the door should he knock on it again. Before he left, he had warned them that their son might go straight to hell as a result, so it would be impossible to lie and say anything else to them now. And certainly not so late at night. I ended the call, and drove on.

For the rest of the trip, I dreaded being the messenger of death – to Falko’s parents as well as to Kristine Larsen. The world would quite possibly collapse for all three of them.

The fact that it was so late was my excuse: it was past eleven o’clock when I finally drove into town. I would have to tell them in the morning, and use the rest of the evening on the investigation. I drove straight to 104 -108 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street.

XVII

Patricia had kept her word, and was waiting patiently. The maid Beate opened the door immediately when I rang the bell, and assured me that she would serve dinner as soon as it had been heated. It was only then I realized that I had not eaten for nearly ten hours. And then, on top of all my other worries, I was suddenly beset with anxiety about how Patricia’s father might view my late visit. Professor Director Ragnar Sverre Borchmann was still someone I would not care to provoke or get on the wrong side of.

I cautiously asked the maid if the professor had already gone to bed. She replied that the professor was away, then added with a shrewd little smile that the director would certainly not object to my visit, however late it was, had he been here. This was a token of encouragement and recognition from a childhood hero that I still held in high esteem. I asked Beate to pass on my greetings the next time he rang home. With another smile, she promised to do this.

The dinner that later appeared on the table was a superb roast pork. But this time, it was only for me. Patricia had obviously eaten already. She took careful sips from a cup of black coffee, but otherwise remained motionless in her wheelchair. I could not remember having seen her so serious before. Her concentration was intense.

‘There is much to indicate that Falko Reinhardt killed Henry Alfred Lien. But who then killed Falko afterwards? It could hardly be suicide?’ I said, eventually.

Patricia choked on her coffee and only made things worse by trying to speak before she had properly cleared her throat. It seemed to me that her nerves were on edge. Her voice, however, was just as sharp and confident as usual when she managed to use it.

‘Falko Reinhardt definitely did not kill himself. And nor did he kill Henry Alfred Lien. The situation now is very frustrating, as I can tell you more or less what happened, but not the most important thing, which is who shot Henry Alfred Lien and Falko Reinhardt. And this double murderer might be at large out there. It is most likely to be a person we have not met and do not know the name of. And now that both Falko Reinhardt and Henry Alfred Lien are dead, I have no idea how we might find out. This person is clearly both driven and dangerous, and everything seems to indicate that he is planning to do something terrible in the next few days. One obvious danger is that we are talking about a hired assassin of some sort.’

‘You mean the man who has been removed from the photograph?’ I asked.

Patricia nodded.

‘Of course, we cannot be certain, but it does seem highly likely. The former Nazis were probably right when they said they were not responsible for Marie Morgenstierne’s death. But they have obviously survived as a network, and have for many years played with ideas and plans about how to take their sweet revenge on society. Marie Morgenstierne’s death and the attention it has been given has in some way accelerated the process, and things could explode at any moment now. The key to the two deaths today and the planned attack are buried somewhere in all this.’

She let out a measured breath, and then carried on.

‘It was obviously not the king’s engagement in Asker this evening. They reported on the radio that the opening of the swimming pool had been a great success. So Falko was right when he said that there was no danger of an attack today. But now that Falko himself is dead – anything might happen from tomorrow on.’

I dared to venture that the initials SP in Falko’s first note fitted with Stein Pedersen, whom the police security service had wanted to protect for so long. Patricia gave a thoughtful nod.

‘Yes, it is an odd coincidence, and one should be wary of ruling things out in such circumstances. But all the same, the idea of an assassin being employed by the police security service does seem a bit unlikely. And how did Falko then get the person’s name? And why did he not just tell us?’

I had to admit that I had no answers. Instead, I asked her about the other note that referred to Heftye, which could hardly mean anyone other than Falko Reinhardt’s supervisor, given the number 66? There were not many other Heftyes left in Oslo, I dared to add.

Patricia pulled out the telephone directory for Oslo and Akerhus from the shelf behind her, and looked it up.

‘Eleven, including the professor. That is not many. But the number sixty-six is only nearly right – if the professor celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday a few days before Falko disappeared in 1968, then he must have turned sixty-seven a couple of weeks ago. A somewhat distracted Falko could of course have thought that he was still sixty-six. Do check with the professor where he was today, and what his plans are for tomorrow. But what on earth would he have to do with an attack? If I were to imagine an old radical left-wing history professor being involved in a terrorist attack, it would certainly not be in cooperation with old Nazis. And I do not understand why Falko would use the abbreviation ‘SP’ for Professor Johannes Heftye. Nor, for that matter, why he would then write out the name when he otherwise appears to use abbreviations for people in his notes.’

And neither did I. The new note was more and more mysterious.

‘What happened in Valdres, then?’ I asked.

For a moment, Patricia looked confused, but then she straightened up and leaned across the table.

‘Sorry, I thought that was fairly obvious. All the pieces fit here. We have discussed at length who was the security service’s mole in Falko Reinhardt’s group – but not who was Falko Reinhardt’s mole in the Nazi network. But it was obviously Henry Alfred Lien, who saw this as his chance to be forgiven by his anti-Nazi son. It is possible that this was the main reason for him taking up again with his friends from the war years. He and Falko Reinhardt were both useful to each other. Falko Reinhardt was tipped off by Henry Alfred Lien in 1968 that the Nazi network was considering some form of action. Relations within the group may also have contributed to Falko Reinhardt’s decision to disappear. After discussing this with Henry Alfred Lien – and possibly with some practical assistance – he escaped from the cabin in the most ingenious way, and disappeared down the mountain and out of the country. The incident in the local history yearbook certainly corroborates the theory of cooperation. Henry Alfred Lien knew the old story and Falko, with his sense of drama, got an idea that he could not resist. Falko dreamed about coming back as a national hero; Henry Alfred Lien hoped he would be forgiven by his son. They kept in touch, and Falko returned when he heard earlier this summer that an attack by the former Nazis was imminent. Are you following so far?’

I nodded, and waited with bated breath for the continuation.

‘Today, Falko was due to have a final meeting with Henry Alfred Lien before his meeting with you, when he would tell you what he knew about the planned attack. The plot is so big that he expected to be some kind of national hero if he single-handedly uncovered it. But Henry Alfred Lien’s role as double agent had been discovered, possibly because Christian Magnus Eggen and Frans Heidenberg found out about the photograph. Henry Alfred Lien had set the table for his meeting with Falko when he suddenly stood face to face with someone completely different altogether: someone who had come to kill him, and did so. Falko arrived just after this, and was unarmed and suddenly facing an armed murderer. They both immediately understood the context and gravity of the situation. Falko must have run out of the house in a blind panic, and was pursued and shot, first in the foot and then in the chest. In the meantime, he managed to lose the note that you found. The murderer then, in cold blood, dragged the wounded Falko the last few yards to the cliff, stuffed the gun into his pocket and pushed him over the edge. It was an impressively quick-witted attempt to make it look as though Falko Reinhardt had shot Henry Alfred Lien and then taken his own life, or at least to cover his own tracks. Both bodies could have lain there for days, until it was all over, if you had not been there.’

She had convinced me. I could, having been there myself, imagine the scene, but I still could not see the murderer’s face.

‘And no one else would have been able to see the connection, if you had not been here!’

Patricia nodded, but her smile was reluctant.

‘Thank you, but it remains to be seen how far it will get us. We still do not have the most important information, and I cannot squeeze much more out of what we already know.’

‘What about the missing page from the diary?’

Patricia’s nod was keener this time.

‘Presumably it says all that we need to know and is one of the things we can hope to find now. If the murderer took it, we are likely never to see it again. But if the diary contained something important about the plans, it is far more likely that Falko knew about the diary rather than the murderer. Imagine for a moment that Falko found Henry Alfred Lien dead, but thought that the murderer had gone and that he was alone in the house. He would then find the diary to safeguard it. He met the murderer on the way out. There is every reason to hope that this might have happened.’

‘But then what happened to the diary page? Falko did not have it when he died, in which case it is possible that the murderer took it from him.’

Patricia nodded, with a grim expression on her face.

‘It is not only possible, it is highly likely. But is it really the case that Falko only had the pistol in his pocket when you found him?’

It was my turn to nod.

‘He was not wearing a jacket and the pistol was the only thing I found in his trouser pockets.’

Patricia gave a crooked smile.

‘Then we have another mystery, which could either be irrelevant or our saving grace. Where on earth is Falko’s jacket?’

I looked at her astonished. She continued quickly.

‘Falko had a car, but no car keys. And he had pockets, but no wallet. He must have had a jacket with him, and both the wallet and the keys must still be in the jacket. And probably also the page from the diary – if, as we hope, he had it. Where is the jacket? Did the murderer take it? Or did he leave it in the house, or did he lose it somewhere on the way to the cliff? It is perhaps clutching at straws, but it might work. Could you check with the sheriff in Vestre Slidre?’

I nodded. Patricia pushed the telephone across the table towards me.

I got hold of the sheriff just as he was going to bed. The deceased’s jacket had not been found, but he agreed that its absence was strange, and said that he would personally organize a search for it as soon as he went back to the scene of the crime in the morning. They had found nothing of note, but he promised to phone immediately if they did.

I thanked him, and put the receiver down. Patricia and I then sat in oppressive silence for a while. It was close to midnight and the situation was electric, but neither of us had anything more to say about it.

I thought that the possibility of the jacket was brilliant, but it was a very thin straw indeed. And otherwise, we had no clues about the murderer, and were not likely to find any here tonight.

I realized, without either of us saying anything, that Patricia was thinking the same. We were getting to know each other rather well by now.

So I thanked her for her help and said that I had to call my boss and get a few hours’ sleep, but that I would telephone her as soon as anything of importance cropped up. She said that she would be sitting waiting by the phone from half past seven, and that we could only hope that we would get some new information in time to identify the murderer and prevent a catastrophe. Otherwise we were facing a hopeless fight against time and evil, she remarked with a sigh.

‘One could cancel all public engagements for the king, the prime minister and the opposition leader for the next two days. But one cannot lock them and all other potential targets up for the whole summer and autumn. Norway is an open country, full of important people who are constantly expected to make public appearances. If the attacker wants to take innocent lives, he could attack any holiday village or scout camp. And there are windows everywhere, so Falko’s final words are not of much use to us either.’

We had to accept that there were an alarming number of possibilities for a person who was well prepared and wanted to carry out an attack, and that we would not get any further that evening. I promised to ring her as soon as there was any news in the morning, and said that I still hoped and believed that we could solve the case without any further deaths. My voice sounded more confident than I was. The car felt unusually lonely and the dark unusually threatening as I drove home that night.

XVIII

It was well past midnight by the time I got home, but I still had one more telephone call to make – to my boss.

My boss was also obviously affected by the frustration of this potentially dangerous situation in which we knew that something was being planned, but had no idea about who was going to attack, or where and when. He answered the telephone as soon as it rang, and asked me to update him on the latest developments. He had only heard a brief announcement on the radio, in the last news of the day, that there had been a couple of deaths in Valdres.

I told him what had happened, and expanded on Patricia’s theory about possible connections – without mentioning her name, or being as cocksure.

My boss was impressed, much to my relief, in particular that I had thought about the missing jacket and the possible significance of this.

‘You have obviously thought of most things and done a good job. No one could have done better. But all the same…’

I felt my throat tightening. I knew what was coming and hated it intensely.

‘… All the same, we now have three unsolved murders and the danger of further action. There will be a tidal wave of questions tomorrow from our own people and the press. And I cannot justify letting you continue with the investigation without reinforcements.’

I was about to protest, but realized it was pointless. My boss had given me his trust for many days now, with no results. And it would seem odd if the investigation was not stepped up and prioritized following two more murders. So I said that I perfectly understood, but hoped that I would still be allowed to lead the investigation. He replied straight away.

‘Of course. I have absolute confidence in you and ask that you continue to report to me. You will be our contact with the local police in Vestre Slidre, and you can decide how many people you need here in Oslo. But from tomorrow, Detective Inspector Danielsen will be your deputy in the investigation. You can decide yourself how best to use him, but he will be part of the team.’

This made my blood boil, but I managed to control myself enough to thank my boss for allowing me to continue leading the investigation, and to say that I was sure I could find useful things for Danielsen to do. In a flash of inspiration, I said that the two Nazis should be called in for questioning again the next day, and that perhaps Danielsen could do that. My boss agreed and then wished me good night.

I could not help but chortle when I thought of Danielsen’s new task, but my good humour did not last long. I fell asleep around two o’clock in the morning of Tuesday, 11 August 1970. It was six and a half hours until I would greet what had the potential to be a very demanding day at work, with a still entirely unpredictable outcome.