The Catalyst Killing

I

At a quarter to eight on Tuesday, 11 August 1970, I was once again on my way to the office, having wolfed down my breakfast. I had woken half an hour before the alarm clock, and immediately decided that I wanted to be in control of the agenda by being in the office before Danielsen.

There were no messages of any interest waiting for me on my desk. The morning papers only carried short notices about ‘two highly suspicious deaths in Valdres’, without mentioning any connection to me or to Marie Morgenstierne’s murder. Professor Arne Næss was on his way to show his support for the demonstrators in Mardøla, and the Institute for Nuclear Energy had suggested that building a nuclear power station in Porsgrunn could solve the country’s energy problems. And in Sweden, the debate regarding a ban on motorsport events had flared up again following a dramatic fatal accident during a rallycross race in Karlskoga. The fact that one of the five dead was a Norwegian guaranteed a front-page report in Dagbladet.

In short, there was no spectacle in the morning papers. The operator, however, reported a rise in the number of calls from journalists, even before eight o’clock.

I formulated a brief press release to confirm that two as yet unnamed people had been shot in Valdres, and that the police had linked these two deaths with that of Marie Morgenstierne in Oslo five days earlier. It was not possible to release any further details in light of the ongoing investigation. The investigation team had, however, been reinforced following the two latest murders, and the police believed there was a good chance that the case would be solved before the end of the week.

My hand trembled slightly as I wrote the final sentence. I was aware that this might buy me a couple of days, but that the pressure would quickly mount if there was still no good news by the time the weekend came round. Part of me trusted Patricia’s reassurances that the murder of Marie Morgenstierne would be solved in a matter of days now. And part of me would be happy if we managed to get through the next couple of days without a major catastrophe, given the situation.

I had secretly hoped that Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen might be ill or have taken an unexpected holiday, but was of course disappointed. That only happened once every leap year, if that. Danielsen was already sitting in our boss’s office when I knocked on the door at a quarter past eight to get the press release approved. Luckily, my boss had no comments to make, and Danielsen limited himself to pointing out two possible comma errors.

My boss then confirmed that the investigation had been expanded to include Danielsen. To Danielsen, he pointed out that I was still leading the investigation. We both nodded quickly, and shook hands with forced friendliness.

For the next fifteen minutes I told Danielsen what I thought he needed to know about the case so far. I then repeated that it would be natural to call Frans Heidenberg and Christian Magnus Eggen in for questioning again, and asked if he could take on this important part of the investigation at such short notice. He nodded eagerly, and then left the office once he had the addresses and a copy of the photograph from Falko Reinhardt’s hotel room. I myself ran more than walked back to my office to carry on with the investigation, having first agreed with my boss that he would get an update during the lunch break at midday.

II

I had thought of giving the sad news to Kristine Larsen first, and then hearing if she had anything more to add. She had not heard about her lover’s dramatic death the evening before, and was still sleeping with a smile on her lips, according to the female prison warden. I thought it was going to be difficult enough to tell Kristine Larsen the news without having to wake her from a pleasant dream as well. So I left the quiet unit without having been in her cell, but instructed the warden that no one should talk to her until I returned.

I was no less apprehensive about telling Falko’s parents of the death of their only child. But it was easier than I had anticipated. They seemed to support each other in an impressive way through what must have been the most terrible hour of their lives. They were standing side by side and hand in hand in the hallway when I arrived, and looked at me with serious eyes.

‘Falko has gone forever this time, hasn’t he?’ the father asked, in a quiet voice.

I nodded, and braced myself for a dramatic outburst or breakdown that never came. I saw tears in Falko’s mother’s eyes, and deep, deep despair in his father’s. But they stood there, their thin hands locked together.

I told them that it had been midnight before I came back to Oslo, following my hunt for their son’s murderer, and I had been unable to find a priest who could come in my place.

They nodded and said that was understandable, and that it was better to get the news from me than from a priest. Given a choice, they would rather it was me, Arno Reinhardt said, and pursed his lips.

They had expected the worst after hearing about the suspicious deaths in Valdres on the news the evening before, and had sat up all night waiting to hear more, on the radio, on the telephone or at the door.

Astrid Reinhardt asked me to tell them what had happened. They both listened without asking any questions or criticizing anything that I told them, which was really only a brief outline. Falko had been wearing a summer jacket when he went out of the door here, they said, and had his wallet and the car keys in the pocket.

Otherwise, they had little to add that might be of any benefit to the investigation. The note with ‘Heftye 66’ meant nothing to them, other than that it was his supervisor’s name. They knew him superficially from his time in the communist party and found it hard to believe that he might have anything to do with their son’s death. But they found any of it hard to understand.

‘In a way, we have always thought it would end like this,’ Falko’s mother remarked, with a heavy sigh. I looked at her questioningly. It was his father who answered. After decades of marriage, they seemed to have reached the stage where each knew exactly what the other was thinking.

‘We said to each other when we saw him for the first time that we never believed we would experience such joy, and that we didn’t know what we had done to deserve it. Our Falko was the most beautiful child in the world, brighter and stronger than all the others. We worshipped him, but we clearly never really understood him. We were not wise or clever enough to do that. And now our only son is dead, and we can’t even help you catch the murderer. We didn’t manage to win our son’s trust enough for him to confide in us the danger he was in, so we couldn’t protect him. We will have to live on our memories from all the happy years we had with him.’

Arno Reinhardt’s voice was shaking terribly, but did not break. His wife nodded in agreement and lovingly put her arm around him. ‘Despite all our failings, we did have many more happy years with him than those who have never had a child,’ she said.

The silence was tense, and yet resigned.

Finally I said that I would do my utmost to hold the murderer to account, and added that it appeared that Falko had been trying to warn me of some imminent catastrophe when he was killed. And I hoped that this catastrophe could be prevented, on the basis of what I now knew, so that their son’s contribution would be recognized even in death.

They nodded simultaneously.

‘We are not even able to feel hate for the murderer. Our son has gone forever. All his life, he was distrusted by many, just as we ourselves have been, because of his political views and visions of a better world. It would be an enormous relief if you could highlight that and give us some answers about what actually happened. And until you return, we will sit here with our questions,’ his mother said, and looked me straight in the eye.

The air in the flat felt more and more oppressive. I said that I would do my best and that I would telephone them immediately if there was anything more they could help me with, but for now, I had to leave and get on with my work and, if possible, prevent any more deaths.

They nodded together again.

I stood up, took them both by the hands and gave my condolences once more on their great loss.

They were remarkably composed again when I left. On my way out I passed the last photograph of Falko, which had now been added to the collection but hung at the end, by itself. His eyes challenged me, and their eyes pleaded with me as I walked out of the flat.

III

Kristine Larsen was awake in her cell by the time I got back to the station at around half past nine. The prison warden told me with a sigh that she still appeared to be in a good mood. I asked the warden to let her know I would be there in five minutes, but I waited seven, and stopped twice in the corridor before I went in.

Kristine Larsen was dressed and sitting smiling on the bed when I came in. She gave me a cheerful wave. It is possible she noticed immediately how serious I was. Her smile certainly vanished and her voice was tense when she asked if there was any news of Falko.

I did not trust that she would be able to answer any questions after she had heard the truth, so I started by saying that the investigation had entered a new and even more dramatic phase, and that I first had to ask her a couple of questions. She looked at me intensely with a knitted brow.

I started by telling her that Marie Morgenstierne had been two months pregnant when she died, and asked who she thought might be the father, if we assumed that it was not Falko.

She nodded gratefully and said that it was somewhat unexpected, but that she did not think it could be Falko who was the father. As he had not contacted her, it was hard to believe that he had been there for anything more than a few days.

She found it hard to imagine that Trond Ibsen or Anders Pettersen might be Marie Morgenstierne’s lover, but guessed that it must be one of them all the same. She said this because she had never seen or heard that Marie Morgenstierne mixed with any other men. She was known as the ‘lone wolf’ by her fellow students at university.

Kristine Larsen took longer to answer my question as to whether Marie Morgenstierne might have suspected that she was having a relationship with Falko before she died. She finally answered that she had thought a lot about this in prison, and reached the conclusion that Marie Morgenstierne had become more distant with her during the spring and early summer. She had wondered if her friend had realized, and had feared a confrontation. But nothing more had happened. If Marie Morgenstierne had a new lover herself, that would be a good explanation, Kristine Larsen added hopefully.

‘But please don’t keep me in suspense any longer. Do you have any news of my darling Falko?’ she asked, when I could not think of any more questions. There was a tense, almost frightened undertow to her voice when she asked this.

It would be hard to hide the truth any longer, and I did not think it would be any better if I tried to drag it out.

So I told her the truth – that I was now trying to prevent some kind of national catastrophe that Falko had wanted to warn me about, but that he had unfortunately been killed before he could do that.

For the first few seconds, things were better than I had anticipated. The colour drained from Kristine Larsen, and she hid her face in her hands and mumbled that she had feared that might happen and that she of course had never expected to be able to keep him.

But then suddenly her slim frame teetered on the edge of the bed, and she fainted.

Kristine Larsen slipped towards the floor before I could stop her. I lifted her gently back up onto the bed, without her showing any sign of regaining consciousness. I stood there, looking at her, for a few seconds.

Then I more or less crept out of the cell, and whispered to the prison warden that she should call a nurse to be on the safe side. When she came to again Kristine Larsen could be released, if she was in a fit state. But it was possible that she might have to be admitted to hospital, and it was equally possible that she might feel safest if she stayed here for a few hours more.

The warden looked somewhat surprised, but nodded and touched her hat in an uncertain salute. I felt a bit of a coward when I left without looking back. But in truth there was little more I could do for Kristine Larsen here, and I still had three murders and a planned attack to solve.

IV

My desk was just as empty when I got back to the office. No messages. It suddenly dawned on me that I should perhaps let someone else know about the most recent developments, and that was Marie Morgenstierne’s father, the bank manager Martin Morgenstierne. I assumed that he would not want a long report, but realized it would be formally correct to give him a brief update if he wanted it.

I rang the bank first, but was told by the switchboard operator that the bank manager was not well and had taken both yesterday and today off. It was the first time he had taken sick leave for more than ten years, the switchboard lady said in a quiet voice. His daughter’s death had no doubt affected him more than he liked to show, she now almost whispered. I asked her to let him know that I had called if he was in the office again tomorrow.

After some hesitation, I tried to call Martin Morgenstierne at home, but put the telephone down when it had not been answered after five rings. I actually had nothing new to tell him about the murder of his daughter. And it seemed very unlikely to me that he would be able to tell me anything that might help me in the hunt for the person or people out there who were now planning an attack.

A few minutes later, I got a far more interesting telephone call. On the other end was the sheriff in Valdres. He sounded very flustered today.

‘We have examined both the crime scenes and found something that could be of great interest. I have already sent it with my son in a car to Oslo, but I thought that I should call and let you know as well.’

I said that was kind, and asked what they had found.

‘I really am impressed by… just as you said, we found a jacket that clearly belongs to Falko Reinhardt. It had been blown about, but then was stopped by a boulder some yards away from the cliff. The jacket was wet from the rain, so you can forget the idea of any fingerprints. But the pockets were zipped, and what was inside is intact. And if you can guess which three things we found in the pockets, I am your humble servant.’

I felt the pressure, but in my mind I thanked Patricia with all my heart as I replied: ‘I think that you found a wallet and a key ring that included the car key, and I hope that you also found a page from a notebook with some strange handwritten notes.’

There was a small gasp at the other end, and then an even more impressed voice.

‘I have no idea how things are done in Oslo, but you certainly have managed to impress a mere country sheriff. That is precisely what we found. They told me nothing, but I am sure it will mean something to you. I examined them quickly and then sent them with my son to the main police station in Oslo. The wallet contained a driver’s licence and some banknotes in several currencies, as well as some boat tickets that would indicate that he sailed from the Soviet Union to Germany, and arrived in Oslo a couple of weeks ago. But there was not much more in there. The page with the handwritten notes did not name any people or places, so you mustn’t expect to get a great deal out of it.’

I asked if the page looked as though it had been torn from a diary and if the sheriff had transcribed the text. There was a moment’s silence at the other end, before he hesitantly continued.

‘Yes, it could well have been a diary, the edge was torn and the page had several dates on it. But I am afraid that I did not write down the text. I should of course have done so. I just thought that as there was nothing obvious there, it would be best to send the jacket to you immediately.’

I felt enormously irritated with the sheriff, but could only forgive him when he carried on hastily: ‘It was a mistake, I realize that now. And I apologize deeply. But you will have the jacket and its contents soon enough now. My son drove directly from the scene of the crime, and he left about an hour ago now, and was told that it was urgent. So he should be there in no more than two.’

The sheriff sounded disheartened and he really had done his best to help me. So I thanked him sincerely, and promised to contact him as soon as there were any new developments in the case. He was almost touched by this and repeated that I should have the jacket and the diary page by around half past one. I told him that the fact that it had been found was a huge breakthrough in the investigation.

We finished the call on a good note, though I was silently annoyed at not knowing what it said on the missing diary page.

I telephoned Patricia and gave her a brief report about what had happened so far. She sounded very stern, but whistled appreciatively on hearing about the jacket. She asked me to come over with it as soon as possible, and she would ensure that a late lunch was waiting.

We would have plenty of time to look at the diary page before the opposition leader’s speech at half past four, but not before the prime minister’s speech at three, I said.

Patricia sighed into the receiver and said that it was hard to justify the sudden cancellation of such an important event without a definite threat. But she added that I should come as soon as I could if the missing page proved to contain anything of interest.

V

There was a spread of open sandwiches on the table in my boss’s office when I got there at two minutes to midday. And Danielsen was already sitting comfortably in the chair closest to our boss.

I told them that Falko’s jacket had been found, and that it might well contain something of interest, without giving any more details; but that other than that, I had no news of any significance. Both nodded, but did not show much interest in the jacket.

I asked Danielsen, not without some schadenfreude, if he had made any progress in his meetings with the two former Nazis. He took his time.

‘Well, it would be untrue to say that. They were very uncooperative to begin with, and even though things did improve, there is little that is new. They either do not remember, or do not want to remember, anything about the fourth person in the photograph. And as for alibis for yesterday, they both have one. They had a meal together at the Grand Café between four and six, and I have confirmed this with the head waiter there. I asked, just in case, if the staff could remember having seen them there with others, but they couldn’t. It is of course difficult to remember months back, when the place is so popular. And by the way, Mr Eggen commented that we only had to ask the officers watching his house if we wanted to know when he went out.’

We all smiled slightly sheepishly. I said that I knew nothing about his house being under surveillance.

‘Generally, the two of them have very little confidence in society, the police in particular. They obviously feel they are being persecuted for their political views. And given their background, it is easy to have some sympathy, no matter what one might believe and think about their politics.’

My boss and I both looked at Danielsen with slightly raised eyebrows. He quickly changed tack.

‘Neither of them is particularly nice, though one of them is more polite than the other. Having said that, their criminal offences are now well in the past, and I am not convinced in any way that they have much to hide now.’

I stared at him, my eyes wide, but noticed with some concern that my boss seemed to show more interest. Danielsen obviously noticed this too, and straightened up in his chair before continuing with his argument.

‘Both have been law-abiding citizens for twenty-five years, both have an alibi for yesterday, and it could well be no more than a form of protest that they refuse to tell us about the person they had dinner with all that time ago. Strictly speaking, the photograph really only proves that they had a meal with a man who is now dead. I have another theory that might fit just as well.’

Danielsen now had our full attention. Ingeniously, he waited until both my boss and I had asked him to tell us his alternative theory before carrying on.

‘I think it is more likely that we will find the murderer among the young communists than these relatively frail old ex-Nazis. I accept your theory that Henry Alfred Lien passed on information to Falko Reinhardt. But there is nothing to disprove that Reinhardt might have killed both Lien and his fiancée, Marie Morgenstierne. The pieces all fall into place if he himself was then killed by one of the other communists. Arresting Kristine Larsen was obviously a mistake, and she should be released immediately. After all, she was in prison in Oslo when Reinhardt and Lien were shot. Trond Ibsen and Anders Pettersen do not seem to be very trustworthy and, unless otherwise proved, they could well have killed Falko Reinhardt. If one of them had inherited Marie Morgenstierne and was the father of her unborn child, then jealousy or revenge could be a motive.’

I asked Danielsen if this meant that he thought there was no danger of an imminent attack. Again, he was annoyingly prompt with his answer.

‘Well, there are two possibilities, if my theory is right. This Reinhardt fellow seems to have been so self-centred that he may have made up the whole story of an attack just to get attention. But it is also possible that he knew that one of the others in his group was planning an attack, and that is why he was killed. So my answer is that I do not believe in the idea of a Nazi plot, but that I am open to the idea that an attack of some sort is being planned. And in that case, we need a breakthrough in the investigation, as time is of the essence.’

He was very pleased with himself as he looked from the boss to me, and then back to the boss. I heard myself say that it seemed pretty improbable to me. But I immediately felt very uncertain, and I was extremely worried that Danielsen might present a theory, only a few hours into the investigation, that proved to be true.

Danielsen gave a serene smile.

‘The case is obviously complex, so of course I cannot guarantee that my first theory is right. But in complicated cases like this, it is often wise to keep different options open. So, unless you have anything up your sleeve that disproves my theory, allow me to suggest that we each continue to work on our respective theories this afternoon. You can continue working with the so-called Nazi network, while I have another round with the communists. It would in any case be beneficial to learn whether they have alibis for yesterday.’

My boss sent me a questioning look. I swallowed quickly, and replied that while I was not convinced by this alternative theory, I of course did not object to splitting the work this way. Danielsen smiled broadly before carrying on.

‘Splendid. Just one thing more: any conflicts and conspiracies in the communist group may well go back to the time before Falko disappeared, so with your permission, I would like to have a serious talk with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen as well.’

For a moment I started to wonder if I would be suspected of anything next. And I hoped fiercely that Danielsen would then not suspect me of being a little bit in love with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, because in that case, I would find it very difficult to disprove.

I was as relaxed as I could be in my reply. I said that I had questioned her on several occasions without discovering anything of interest, and that I would be very surprised if he found anything, but that he was of course free to look for her at either the university library or the SPP office. He thanked me with forced friendliness, and noted down the addresses for Trond Ibsen and Anders Pettersen.

‘I should manage to do this rather quickly, if I am efficient, and the risk of an attack means that the case should be prioritized… Shall we say we’ll have another meeting at a quarter to three?’ he said. He then stood up without waiting for an answer.

I nodded without thinking. He had already left the room before I realized that this would delay my meeting with Patricia.

I had to admit that Danielsen was a man of considerable capacity when it came to work and the ability to think independently. But that did not stop him from being an even greater thorn in my side than I had expected.

I rang Patricia, quickly explained the situation to her and said that it was not likely that I could be there much before half past three. She accepted this and again asked me to telephone straight away if anything happened that might give us a breakthrough. Patricia added that I must use my time as well as I could, and try to find the answer to her question about the police security service. I promised to do that. If the truth be told, there was not much else I could follow up on by myself.

VI

I got through to the police security service agent on the number he had given on my second attempt, at one o’clock. Understandably, he did not say his name when he answered the telephone, but I immediately recognized his voice. It was clear that he recognized mine too. I heard a stifled sigh and an almost harassed ‘well, well’ on the other end when I explained that he still was not suspected of anything, but that there was a question I had to ask, following the two most recent murders.

His sigh reinforced my suspicion that there might be something lurking here. This feeling was strengthened even more when I asked him if he could guarantee that he had never at any point told Marie Morgenstierne what he knew about the relationship between her fiancée and Kristine Larsen.

Pedersen let out another heavy sigh and asked, unexpectedly, if we could meet rather than talk about this on the phone. I said that it was urgent, but that I could come down to Victoria Terrace straight away. Stein Pedersen seemed to think this was an even worse idea than talking about it on the telephone. He suggested instead that we could meet for a cup of coffee at a quarter past one at a cafe on Young’s Square. I promptly agreed to this. I was becoming increasingly curious as to what the police security service had not told me in their three statements so far.

Pedersen ambled in, discreetly disguised with upturned collar and sunglasses, at exactly a quarter past one. He seemed more relaxed and nicer once we were comfortably seated at a corner table with a coffee each, and no one within thirty feet of us. But he still spoke very quietly from the start.

‘I appreciate your discretion and goodwill. I know that this cafe is not bugged, which is more than I can promise of Victoria Terrace and my telephone there,’ he said, by way of introduction.

I looked at him, somewhat baffled, but saw no reason to pursue the subject of working practices in Victoria Terrace here and now. But he clearly did, if indirectly, when he leaned over the table and whispered: ‘I want to be honest with you and to help the investigation if I can. Can I take it that for the moment this is a conversation between you and me, and that he will not hear it from you?’

I nodded reassuringly. Pedersen lowered his voice even more, all the same.

‘In that case, between you and me, I can say that Marie Morgenstierne had known about the relationship between her missing fiancé and Kristine Larsen for several months. I told her in early May this year. But I would like to point out that it was not my idea to tell her.’

I looked at him, a little bewildered. His voice was even quieter when he spoke again.

‘When she was handing over the recording she suddenly asked me straight out if I had noticed any signs before he disappeared that he was having a relationship with someone else. It was an unexpected dilemma. At first I thought it was best not to answer. But then she was an informant who was doing us a service, and based on what I had seen, I had very little sympathy for him… So it was perhaps not standard practice, but understandable all the same?’

I nodded in agreement. He looked at me with something akin to gratitude.

‘The way he behaved was so morally shocking and provocative. And it did not help that she had obviously remained loyal to her fiancé, and suspected that one of the others had betrayed him. So I felt sorry for her, and had wondered on a couple of occasions whether I should tell her or not. I had not until then, but could not say no when she asked me directly.’

It was my turn to lean across the table and say in an equally quiet voice: ‘And I take it as given that communist women are not your personal preference, even if they are informants and have been badly treated by their fiancés. Certainly not officially, and when your boss is present.’

I feared an angry explosion, but to my relief he simply nodded slowly.

‘Well observed. Based on what I knew and what I saw, I became fond of her. But nothing ever happened, and it was never discussed. The leap was too great for both of us.’

I nodded. That sounded reasonable enough.

‘But as I am being honest with you… Well, I once asked her a question that might be of interest to you…’

I told him that all questions relating to Marie Morgenstierne were of interest to me now, and that nothing that he told me would be passed on to anyone else, unless strictly necessary. He nodded gratefully and continued in a whisper.

‘I saw that pompous psychologist, Trond Ibsen, hanging around her on several occasions. I wondered if it was him she was afraid of. So on one occasion I used the opportunity to ask if he was perhaps getting a bit close for comfort. She smiled and said that maybe he was, but that there was no danger that he would get any closer. He was bothersome, but definitely not dangerous, she said.’

‘So he was not the one she suspected of having something to do with Falko’s disappearance?’

He shook his head.

‘No, that certainly did not seem to be the case. What I said was true, she never actually told me who she thought it was. I don’t know for sure. But if you were to ask me, unofficially, who I thought she suspected…’

He looked at me expectantly, with an almost teasing smile. I immediately asked him who he thought it was that she suspected, but underlined that this was in no way official.

‘… then I would say that it was Kristine Larsen. Marie certainly said: “That’s what I thought. Thank you!” She did not appear to be angry or concerned, more relieved, in a way. I think it was something she had mulled over for a long time.’

I pondered these words. When I looked up again, Stein Pedersen was gone. I took it in good faith. I had, after all, got answers to my questions. And I could not be certain whether he had said goodbye or not.

VII

The jacket had still not arrived when I got back to my office at five to two. At two o’clock on the dot, I rang Prime Minister Peder Borgen, as arranged. He greeted me in a jolly voice, but then became thoughtful when I said that we would soon have to make a final decision regarding his talks. His relief was tangible when I said that we had not received any threats in connection with his engagement today.

We concluded that he would give his talk to the Norwegian Farmers’ Union, and that I would ring straight away should there be any reason to cancel the evening’s event. He was very pleased about this, and said that I could ring at any time. He repeated that other than these two events, he had practically nothing else in his diary this week.

At a quarter past two, a younger, slimmer version of the calm sheriff from Valdres came to my door with a sealed bag and gave a breathless apology, explaining that he had had a puncture near Hønefoss. I thanked him for his efforts and asked him to give my greetings to his father, then wished him a safe journey home. He once again apologized for the delay and then gingerly asked for my permission to go and see Karl Johans Gate, the main street in Oslo, before driving back.

The bag contained a light-coloured sports jacket, and the contents of its pockets were just as the sheriff had said. In the right-hand pocket was a key ring with two car keys. In the left-hand pocket was a wallet containing three hundred and fifty kroner in Norwegian banknotes, some Russian rubles and around ten German marks. I also found a Norwegian driver’s licence, issued in 1967, and a boat ticket that showed that Falko had arrived in Oslo on 26 July, following a ten-day voyage from Moscow via Kiel. This fitted well with the picture we had drawn so far, but got me no further.

It was the diary page that grabbed my attention. The writing was unmistakably that of Henry Alfred Lien, and the style characteristically brief. In 1970, he had only made three notes:

17 May 1970: Met A, B, and D. A and D strongly in favour of implementation, B hesitant.

7 June 1970: Another meeting with A, B and D. A and D almost aggressive in applying pressure. B still sceptical, but in agreement – feared consequences for families.

8 August 1970: Telephone call from A. Had talked to D and B, and reported that B was now ready for action!

I noted that the date of the middle entry in Henry Alfred Lien’s diary coincided with the date on Falko Reinhardt’s photograph – and given that they were both dead, this could not be down to chance. But other than that, I had to admit that the sheriff had been right. There really was not much here that would help us to identify the people mentioned. And there was certainly no lead on what it was they were planning, or when it would be implemented.

The page reminded me of Falko’s note with the mysterious reference to ‘Heftye 66’. I rang Professor Johannes Heftye and confronted him with this. The professor sounded genuinely bewildered, but confirmed that he had been sixty-six until only a few weeks ago. He had, however, turned sixty-seven now and he had no idea why his former student should have this handwritten note. He had not had any form of contact with Falko since he disappeared, and had certainly not made any arrangements to meet him during the next few days.

When I asked him about the previous day, Professor Heftye told me that he had been working at home. He lived alone and, other than a couple of telephone calls in the early afternoon, he had not spoken to anyone, so unfortunately he did not have an alibi from two o’clock for the rest of the day. He hastily added that he did not have a car, and could not drive anymore, even if he had had one – and so, in short, could not have been to Valdres.

I assured him that he was not suspected of anything at all, but that we had to check these things as a matter of procedure following the last two deaths. He said he understood, though his voice was a touch sceptical. As for today, the professor said that he had been in his office all day so far, and reckoned that he would stay there until late this evening. He added somewhat brusquely that he had never in his life owned a firearm of any sort, and certainly had never been suspected of using one.

It felt as though the relationship between Professor Heftye and myself had taken an unfortunate turn after a more promising start. I found it hard to imagine, however, that he was a criminal, and even harder to imagine him as a murderer running around in the mountains of Valdres. Falko’s note remained a mystery.

It was nearly a quarter past three by now, and there was still little progress to report on my part. Despite my growing anxiety about an imminent attack, I quietly hoped that Danielsen had not made much progress either.

VIII

I took it as a good sign that I was in the boss’s office before Danielsen this time. He arrived, however, two minutes late and at great speed, with an unnerving grin on his face. I felt my heart pounding when I asked if there was any news from his side.

‘Well, as far as Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen is concerned, I can only say that I agree with your evaluation. She was so unconcerned about the questions to begin with that it aroused my suspicions. She gave me the telephone numbers of two people who had been in the SPP office with her in the evening, and they immediately confirmed that she had been there. But as we are investigating a radical left-wing group, I am not sure that two SPP members are an entirely convincing alibi. However, two staff at the university library could confirm that she had left at five, and as such would not have had time to get up to Valdres by six o’clock without the use of a fighter plane. Otherwise, I have to say she made an unexpectedly favourable impression, and broke with the group a long time ago.’

My heart stopped thumping quite as hard after this account. I nodded in agreement, but was impatient to hear more. It followed swiftly.

‘Anders Pettersen, on the other hand, gave the impression of being an extremely political and temperamental man. I think he could be capable of most things. In this case, however, his alibi was solid: he had been at a well-attended art exhibition between six and eight, and had met several friends and acquaintances there.’

He said no more, but the corners of his mouth twitched in that irritating way he had.

‘On the other hand… ’ I prompted, in the end.

‘Yes. I am almost convinced that the somewhat suspect psychologist, Trond Ibsen, is, if not a psychopath, very possibly a murderer. He looked at me with distrust from the moment I entered his office, and was clearly very unsettled by both me and my questions. As far as an alibi is concerned, the books showed that he left the office unusually early yesterday at around half past two. He drove off in his new car, which could easily have got him to Valdres within three hours. He said to both his secretary and me that he had gone home. But the secretary whispered to me that she had seen him drive towards the city centre, which was the opposite direction from his home. And most striking of all, he would not say what he had done for the rest of the day, other than denying that he had been in Valdres or knew anything about the murders there. He might consider answering you, but categorically refused to answer me.’

Danielsen made a dramatic pause and visibly enjoyed the attention we both gave him when he continued.

‘I thought about arresting him on the spot, but decided instead to get a constable to keep him and his car under surveillance for the rest of the day. Ibsen also informed me that he would be working late today, until at least seven o’clock, perhaps even later. So in the event that the attack is in any way related to him, today’s events should be under control.’

He hesitated, but then continued with a little smile.

‘And by the way, Anders Pettersen also said that he would rather deal with you in the future. So you seem to be far more popular and easy to get on with than me, certainly as far as younger male left-wing radicals are concerned.’

My first instinct was to answer that one could only hope the same was true of female left-wing radicals. And then I wanted to say that he, on the other hand, seemed to be more popular with the older male Nazis. But I did not allow myself to get rattled. So instead I replied that given their history, it was to an extent easy to understand their scepticism, no matter what one might believe or think of their political opinions. I added swiftly that none of them had entirely convinced me either, and that one should in principle keep that lead open.

Then I put my only trump card on the table: the page from the diary that had been found in Falko Reinhardt’s jacket. I said that new information had, however, been found that reinforced the theory that the Nazis were involved.

My boss and Danielsen quickly looked over the page. Danielsen pulled a face and had to admit that the entry regarding the meeting on 7th June did fit extremely well with the date on the photograph. However, he felt that ‘the content of the document was otherwise so vague that it could hardly provide the basis for anything more than a general suspicion.’

At twenty past three, we concluded that we should meet again at nine o’clock the following day. In the meantime, I would continue with the Nazis as the main focus of my investigation, but I also promised to interview Trond Ibsen again.

As for the advice we would give to top politicians regarding any public engagements over the next few days, our boss said that it was up to me to assess the situation regularly, but it was after all a very drastic step to cancel a major event without there being a definite threat. Danielsen nodded, and added that he for his part still believed that the danger of an attack was minimal, as long as Trond Ibsen was under surveillance.

We said our goodbyes. There was no direct animosity, but the atmosphere was tense due a certain amount of rivalry. I got the feeling that behind the jovial facade, the other two thought the same as me. The danger of an attack seemed to be mounting by the hour, without us getting any closer to knowing when, where or who.

IX

I left the police station just after half past three. The drive to Patricia’s was unexpectedly slow. For the last few blocks, the stream of cars, bicycles and pedestrians was unusually heavy. I finally realized why when I passed two groups of young Labour supporters only yards apart on their way to Frogner Square. The hordes of people on their way to the rally where Trond Bratten was going to speak were a reminder of the gravity of the situation.

I turned on the police radio and to my relief discovered that all was quiet. There was nothing to indicate that anything dramatic had happened in connection with the prime minister’s speech at the Norwegian Farmers’ Union. But I knew that Borgen, Bratten and other well-known people had public engagements over the next few days, and I did not look forward to living with the constant fear of what might happen.

Just before I parked the car in the parking space closest to 104-8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street, the police radio suddenly went dead. This was not due to sabotage, but rather a defective wire that could be changed as soon as I returned to the station. But it did not feel like a good sign. I was not in the best of moods when I rang the doorbell at ten to four.

Patricia did not appear to be any more cheerful. She gave me a grim and silent nod as I came in, and the door had barely closed behind the maid when she fired her first question.

‘Well, has the missing page from the diary shown up? I hoped that you would take the time to call me as soon as it did!’

I replied that the messenger had had a puncture on the way to town and that otherwise, there was not much to be gleaned from it. She nodded, and held out her hand with impatience. I gave her the slightly crumpled page. She did not say thank you, but instead asked to have Falko’s note and the photograph as well.

I then told her about the day’s developments over the meal, but I was unfortunately unable to savour the taste of the superb loin steak. As far as I could see, Patricia only ate a few mouthfuls. She listened intently to what I had to say, but barely looked at me. Her eyes were fixed on the page from the diary, and only occasionally looked over at Falko’s note and the photograph.

‘As far as Marie Morgenstierne is concerned, the picture is getting clearer. If you get the answers I expect from Trond Ibsen and Anders Pettersen, we may even have this solved by this evening. And I can assure you that this Danielsen is very definitely on the wrong track, if not also the wrong planet,’ she said, when I had finished giving my account at around twenty past four.

That was of course music to my ears. However, it appeared that Patricia had no intention of saying any more about the matter. She sat there staring at the page from the diary.

‘But the matter of the attack is more urgent, and it really is not possible to get much more out of this mysterious document. The answer must be there staring us in the face right now, but very annoyingly, I can’t see it. The dates are interesting enough in themselves.’

I nodded and said that the middle one was the same as on the photograph. She nodded impatiently.

‘Yes, obviously, any child could see that. But that’s not all that is of interest; 17 May has been our national day since 1814, and on 7 June we mark our independence from Sweden in 1905. These Nazis have certainly chosen to meet on symbolic days. But 8 August means nothing to me, other than that it is only a matter of days ago, and was after Falko Reinhardt had come back and Marie Morgenstierne had been murdered.’

‘The document says nothing really about any of the people,’ I said.

Patricia sighed and gave me a curt nod.

‘It seems reasonable to assume that A and D, who wanted to take action, are Messieurs Eggen and Heidenberg, and that they have tried to persuade the fourth man in the picture to join them. But what more do we know about him? That he is probably slightly younger and more physically fit than they are. That he is not wearing a wedding ring on his hand, but does have a family of some kind. That could still be any one of tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of men in eastern Norway. And Falko has for some reason used the abbreviation SP for this person.’

‘And the letters on the page do not refer to any known names. It seems to me rather that he has just used the first four letters of the alphabet?’

Patricia shook her head in irritation.

‘Yes and no. Henry Alfred Lien talks about A, B and D. Where is C then?’

‘Maybe he is C himself?’ I suggested.

Patricia was not convinced by this either.

‘Possibly, but if he was referring to himself you would have thought he would use A or D. It seems strange to use C about yourself, particularly if you never otherwise use the letter…’

Patricia’s focus switched intently between the pages and the photograph.

‘Wait a minute! Their professions. Of course: A is for architect or Heidenberg, D is for director Eggen… What do you think B stands for, then?’

Suddenly it all fell into place within three seconds.

First, I saw sparks in Patricia’s eyes.

Then she screamed.

And then she asked me in a terrified whisper: ‘What time is it?’

I looked at Patricia, and wondered if the pressure of the past few days had resulted in some kind of nervous breakdown. Patricia was wearing a gold watch on her left arm, but she did not check it; she sat as if paralysed from the neck down. Only her eyes were alive, her eyes and her voice.

‘What is the time?’

When she repeated the question, the whisper was even quieter and the fear even more tangible.

I looked at my watch and told her that it was twenty-five past four.

That was evidently all that was needed for Patricia to come back to life. She suddenly leaned forward across the table in an almost aggressive manner.

‘Then run for your life and country! You have only five minutes before he shoots Trond Bratten!’

I was the one who was now paralysed for a few seconds. Patricia leaned forward and was even more forceful.

‘Run! I would run with you if I could. The address is 66 Thomas Heftye’s Street by Frogner Square. He’ll fire from a window. Look up and see if you can see an open window. But for God’s sake, man, run now!’

I ran. As I leaped to my feet, I asked who was going to shoot from the window.

Patricia almost screamed the answer – and pointed wildly at the door.

The pieces all fell into place in my head within a couple of seconds. Then I ran as fast as I could ever remember having run. I ran out of the house, down the road towards Frogner Square.

X

The murderer stood by the window of 66 Thomas Heftye’s Street with a gun in his hand, and looked down over the mass of people below.

He glanced at his watch. It was twenty-five past four.

Only five minutes to go until the man in the window would shoot the Labour Party leader on the stage down there in Frogner Square. He felt remarkably calm, all the same.

B had never met Trond Bratten, but had still hated and scorned the man ever since the war. It rankled with him endlessly that a country bumpkin and small farmer’s son who did not have even basic school exams could become minister of finance, and then promptly fail to take the advice of the entire banking sector. And what was even more pathetic was that the small, thin man had to hide behind his wife in any given situation because he lacked any great oratory skills, but still insisted that he should be prime minister, rather than any of the better-qualified men in the country. To the murderer, Bratten was the symbol of a new era where ambitious upstarts and speculators were succeeding in taking power over the country, without either the education or the cultural heritage and wisdom that coming from a good family gave.

Ever since he was a child, the man at the window had felt immense contempt for people who did not recognize and accept their place in society. And he had hated Trond Bratten as good as all his adult life – both for his disproportionate ambition, and for every word he uttered as a politician. It all sounded like polished Marxism.

But this was not just a matter of personal contempt and political hate. Trond Bratten’s death was now necessary in order to secure the future of the country. The murderer had thought a lot about it over the years, and then more recently discussed it at length with his late father’s friends, Christian Magnus Eggen and Frans Heidenberg. All three had hated and scorned Trond Bratten for many years, but they were now starting to fear him. They all agreed that the government’s days were numbered. If Trond Bratten was allowed to live, he would become Norway’s prime minister within the next couple of years.

This was in itself a terrible thought, but also a tragedy because of the consequences it would have for the nation. A split between the right-wing parties and the Labour Party’s ascent to power could herald a new and long period in government for the party: at the very least, as long as the last one. The financial cost of the party’s taxes and charges would be catastrophic for business. But what was worse was that Trond Bratten, with his ridiculous hero status from the war, could now become the prime minister who would abandon the country’s independence and guide it into a new union. In a matter of decades, this would leave the country open to mass immigration from other countries all over the world. And it would be a national catastrophe. The murderer had himself been in the USA and seen the results of the increasing numbers of black and yellow faces on the streets. Criminality had mushroomed, and no white man could feel safe on the streets of any American city. The murderer did not want Oslo to look like that when he was an old man.

Fortunately there was only one man who stood in the way. Trond Bratten reigned supreme within his own ranks. His deputy was young and inexperienced. If Bratten fell, the Labour Party would no longer have a leader to unite them and would perhaps even be thrown into a bitter leadership struggle. The best that one could hope for was that this, combined with the debate on the union, would spell the beginning of the end for the party.

The man in the window had in his youth been fully prepared to kill people. He had been a sniper and an extremely diligent soldier. Already in his late teens, he had pushed his mental boundary and abandoned any blocks to taking human life. During the Second World War he had never been in combat, and the next great war that he had anticipated, with a mixture of fear and glee, had never happened. So he ended his military career. But he had continued to carry with him an immense curiosity as to how it would feel to kill a man. For many years, it had seemed unlikely that this would ever happen. But he had always carried it within himself. If he was not born to be a murderer, then he certainly had been trained and prepared to become one from his youth.

B had not killed anyone until the evening before. And then he had killed two people within minutes. He had been curious to know how it felt. But when he did kill his first victim, it was entirely according to plan and without drama. He had felt no sympathy for either of the men he had killed. After the murders, he had thought, just as he had before, that a fat country farmer and a long-haired student were not very important people, no more than a couple of small pawns that had to be sacrificed for the great cause.

The uninvited guest had left a murderer, and it had involved very little drama. He had seen Henry Alfred Lien as a traitor to the cause and decided in cold blood that the farmer had to die. He had not had anything against killing Lien, but he had not felt any great hatred for him either.

A measure of hatred had come later – when he suddenly stood face to face with Falko Reinhardt in the living room. Reinhardt had recognized him, seen the gun and run. The murderer had felt his hatred and contempt for the long-haired young man flare up. And he had known that the man now must die so he could not blow the whistle. The situation had instilled a different tension.

The murderer had pursued his victim, relishing the fact that he could keep pace with a younger man, and had first shot him in the foot. He had meant to kill him with the bullet to his chest, but had hit him a little too low. Reinhardt lay there, paralysed and helpless, only yards from the cliff. That was when the murderer had had the idea to cover all his tracks by pushing the victim over the edge. He was very pleased with himself and his quick thinking. He had got rid of the gun along with the victim when he heaved Reinhardt over the cliff. There was every reason to hope that Reinhardt would not be found until after Trond Bratten had been assassinated. And if he was found before this, the pistol in his pocket would support theories of murder and suicide.

It had been quite a shock for him to look over the edge and see someone else down there on the scree, close to where Reinhardt had landed. The murderer had immediately run to his car and taken off with a pulse well over 150. The fear of being caught and stopped before the planned attack had nearly driven him to despair in the first few minutes. But then he reasoned that Reinhardt had to be dead, and that the person down there could not possibly have recognized him from that distance. B had after all exceptional vision himself, and had only been able to see that there was a person down there, without being able to recognize him or her. His pulse had gradually slowed as he drove away from Valdres without any more drama, and without seeing any police cars.

He did not go home in the event that the police might have in some way tracked him down, and instead stayed overnight in a hotel near Hønefoss, under a false name. The atmosphere among the few guests at dinner was relaxed. None of the guests or staff appeared to recognize B in any way, and there were no policemen to be seen. B had fallen asleep without difficulty when he went to bed, and had slept long and well after the day’s excitement. After checking out, he had eaten an excellent lunch at the hotel without being disturbed. Then he had driven back into town two hours before the planned attack.

Everything had gone as hoped and planned. It was an office building that was under renovation, and the workmen were still on holiday.

The murderer had an escape route that would take no more than a minute, out the door and down the back stairs. All being well, he would be able to use it and then slip out and vanish into the mass of people below. A middle-aged man in a suit would hardly be the first to be suspected.

The man by the window did not think that he could get away with such a heroic deed, but the possibility of succeeding was very real. It was a seductive thought, that he might be able to walk home calmly after the assassination and go in to work as normal in the morning, while the whole of Norway and half of Europe talked about the murder of the leader of the Labour Party and speculated about what sort of cunning, daring man might do such a thing.

No matter what happened, he was standing here now, by an open window on the third floor, ready to raise the gun as soon as Trond Bratten went up onto the stage. If Bratten did this as planned, everything else would be simple. The angle was perfect, and the lectern stood there like the bull’s eye at a shooting range. He could see the leader of the Labour Party standing with his wife just below the stage, papers under his arms. It was so typical that he could not even do the simplest thing without a manuscript and hours of preparation.

The man in the window looked impatiently at his watch and saw that it was still only twenty-eight minutes past four.

It was when he looked up again that he noticed a worryingly fast movement on the periphery of his vision, down on Frogner Square.

XI

I later remembered remarkably little from my wild dash towards Frogner Square. When I got out onto the street, I remembered in a flash that the car was too far away and that the car radio was not working anyway.

So I carried on running down the street. I heard the soles of my shoes hitting the asphalt, without feeling that they were part of my body. I ran past people on the pavement, without ever thinking that they were people and that I might bump into them. When I then saw Frogner Square, I accelerated.

People continued to slip away in front of me until one of them, on the edge of the crowd in Frogner Square, did not see me in time. I vaguely noticed that she was holding something in her hands, and that she was just standing there without moving. And then we collided.

For a moment I stared straight into a pair of familiar eyes. I first saw confusion, then a spark of happiness, and then visible disappointment as I ran on. And somehow I still did not register that it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen I had bumped into.

Following the collision, I stopped and looked around but saw none of the four constables that I knew had been assigned to the rally. To make my way through the throng of people was never an option I considered. The sea of people in front of me looked impenetrable, and I had no idea where Trond Bratten might be. I was entirely focused on 66 Thomas Heftye’s Street, a four-storey brick building that faced onto Frogner Square. I saw two open windows, one to the right on the second floor and the other to the right on the third floor. Not a person was to be seen in either of them.

As I forced open the front door, I ran past a wall clock. It was one minute and forty seconds to half past four. I set my aim for the second floor and, still without feeling my feet, bounded up the steps two at a time.

XII

The murderer recognized the running man as soon as he saw him, and once again felt the adrenalin surge through his body.

It was Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen, who had come to his house to talk to him only a few days ago. The one that the newspapers, with their renowned lack of style, called ‘K2’. Kristiansen had seemed pretty stupid to him, but the murderer had later suspected that he might be smarter than he first appeared. The murderer had said more than he intended in the course of their conversation.

Christian Magnus Eggen had told him on the telephone yesterday that Kristiansen was on the right track, but they did not think he would manage to piece it all together in time. So his presence now was something of a shock, especially as he was heading at full speed towards the building. There was an odd little interruption when the detective inspector bumped into a young woman in the crowd who was standing there reading a book. But Kristiansen almost immediately carried on running towards the building.

The man by the window paradoxically felt some relief when he saw Kristiansen carry on. His greatest fear was that someone would warn Trond Bratten and stop him from getting up onto the stage. When Kristiansen appeared, the murderer instinctively feared that he would plough through the crowd and do just that. He heaved a sigh and relaxed when the detective inspector then carried on running towards the building, and he noted that there were no uniformed police to be seen in the sea of bodies.

The door to the room was locked from the inside and was solid. Even if the detective inspector found the right door in time, he would take an age trying to get it open.

B would in practice have no hope of escaping via the back stairs after the murder. But that was a sacrifice that he now, as a widower with no children, was prepared to make for the great cause. If his peers and countrymen wanted to condemn and punish him, he was certain that he was doing the country a service that he would later be thanked for. He would leave behind no descendants, but his name would be remembered and praised by many for generations to come.

The murderer hurried over to the door to make sure it was locked.

When B got back to the window, he saw the woman with the book. And instantly cursed her.

Following the collision with the detective inspector, the woman had first simply picked up her book and watched him run on, bewildered. But now she was making her way through the crowd towards the stage, where Bratten was still waiting.

The compère was a well-known union man, a big fat idiot who had no doubt lived on taxpayers’ money for years. He was standing ready by the stage, but made no sign of moving. It was one minute to half past four.

The man by the window stood there with the gun in his hand for the next thirty seconds. Down on Frogner Square, the compère had still not gone up onto the stage to introduce the party leader. Bratten was standing between his wife and some others in the shadows below the stage. The woman with the book was snaking her way through the crowd with unexpected force.

On the positive side, there was still no noise from the corridor. Kristiansen still had a long way to go before he got into the room.

And finally, the compère now went out onto the stage to undeservedly rapturous applause down on Frogner Square.

XIII

Without knowing whether the murderer was on the second or the third floor, I instinctively headed for the right-hand door on the second floor. The door was locked, but I could hear sounds from inside.

I rapped on the door and shouted: ‘Open up, this is the police! We know you are in there! Open the door immediately!’

Suddenly all was quiet inside. I heard heavy steps across the floor. But I could not tell whether they were moving towards the window or the door, nor did I know if it was the right floor. My desperation rocketed when I then looked at my watch just as the second hand passed half past four. Then, without saying any more, I threw my entire body weight against the door. It shuddered, but remained locked. It was a wooden door with a new frame, which looked like it could take a thump or two.

After this, however, I heard a frightened man’s voice shout from inside: ‘Don’t knock down the door, I’ll be there as soon as I can unlock it.’

There were a few seconds of fumbling by the door before it opened. In the opening stood a thin, obviously frightened man in overalls, with a small paintbrush in his hand. He calmed down a bit when he saw my police ID, but his voice and body were still trembling. The man mumbled that he was a joiner and janitor for the building, and he was only trying to varnish the new window frames while the workmen were on holiday.

I pushed him briskly to one side and ran into the room.

It was an unfinished office of around two hundred square feet. And there was no one else, nor any weapons, to be seen.

Just then, we heard thunderous applause from outside.

I ran over to the window. My arms were stiff with fear, but my legs were still working. My legs and my eyes. In a trance, I saw that the applause was fortunately only for the compère, a large and stocky union representative who was standing by the lectern to introduce the party leader’s speech. I could only just see Bratten standing by the stage with his wife, and some papers under his arm.

I vaguely registered a woman with a book in her hand who at that moment broke through the last rows of the audience and stopped right in front of the party leader. And all of a sudden I realized that it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen.

Then I heard more applause, which woke me from my trance. I spun round, once more thrust the even more bewildered janitor aside and ran up the stairs to the third floor.

XIV

The murderer stood at his post by the window with the gun in his hand. There was still no noise to be heard on the third floor. But he had heard sounds from the floor below, which clearly indicated that Kristiansen was working his way up the building, with or without reinforcements.

The compère had fortunately not prolonged the embarrassment down on Frogner Square. The applause soon turned into a rhythmic clapping and stamping of feet when he introduced the party leader. But the woman with the book had just managed to get through. She was now engaged in an apparently animated conversation with the leader’s wife – the party leader himself a reticent onlooker.

Bratten’s wife did not seem particularly keen to stop him from going onstage. Nor did the audience around them. Several of them shook their fists at the girl with the book, and the applause and calls for the party leader increased in volume. But the party leader hesitated. And the girl with the book did not give up. She threw up her hands and twice pointed quite clearly at the building.

The murderer pushed himself up against the window frame and swiftly hunkered down. His mind was in overdrive trying to deal with the unexpected situation. His pulse rose even more when he heard footsteps running down the corridor, following by a pounding on the door.

Trond Bratten had to die before Detective Inspector Kristiansen broke into the room. But the woman with book and intense body language did not give in, and Bratten was still hesitating.

‘This is the police. We know you are in there! Open the door and come out, or we’ll break down the door!’

Kristiansen’s voice was powerful and determined. It carried easily through the door.

For a second, the man by the window considered opening the door and shooting Detective Inspector Kristiansen. He would then have the time he needed until Bratten got up onto the stage. But the murderer had no idea whether Kristiansen was armed or not, or whether he had more policemen with him. And a shot being fired up here in the building would probably be heard down on Frogner Square. And in that case, the party leader would dive for cover.

The man by the window rejected the idea. Instead, he weighed up the possibility of aiming the gun right now.

It would be far harder to shoot Bratten standing where he was beside the stage than by the lectern. But it should be possible to hit the pathetic coward there, too. The party leader’s wife was standing side on to him, covering half his body. But to the right of her, he could aim straight at Bratten’s head and chest, past the woman with the book.

Bratten said something or other to the woman with the book. But he made no sign of going up onto the stage. It was so contemptible and typical of him, not to be able to make up his own mind but to let the women do it for him.

There was another thud from the door. Someone had thrown their shoulder, or some heavy object, against it. The door held, but another thump put increasing pressure on the hinges.

With a deft move, the man raised the gun and aimed the barrel out of the window at Trond Bratten’s head. The murderer was taken aback to realize that his hand was shaking and cursed this sign of weakness. The seconds ticked as he tried to get a clear aim at his target. He cocked the gun so that he could fire immediately if anyone burst into the room.

Trond Bratten had to, and would, die, but he could only fire one shot. The party leader’s wife and the woman with the book made it hard to get a clear aim. The woman with the book suddenly reminded the murderer of his own dead daughter.

It struck B that he would not be sitting here if he had not first lost his wife and then his daughter. He had always held back out of consideration to his family. It was the person who had shot his daughter who had triggered all of this. But now there was no going back for a man with no family and no means of retreat. He had nothing to lose.

Memories of his daughter burned behind his eyes. The murderer now had a clear aim at Bratten’s forehead. But his hand was shaking more than ever before.

XV

In desperation, I threw myself against the door for the third time. It shuddered, but the hinges held.

It was only when I was about to hurl myself against it for the fourth time that I realized there was someone else in the corridor. A small, terrified janitor, with a large bundle of keys in his hand.

I almost screamed at him: ‘The key to this door, quick! There’s a man in there who is going to kill Trond Bratten!’

The janitor was so shocked that he dropped the keys on the floor. It took a couple of seconds before he picked them up and then a couple more before he found the right key. I expected to hear a shot at any moment, but the gun was not fired.

Finally the janitor found the right key. I snatched it from him. My hand was shaking so much that I could hardly get it into the lock, but when I did, it turned easily.

I opened the door and stormed into the room.

Martin Morgenstierne was sitting alone by the open window, with a gun in his hands. He turned his head and glanced back when I charged in.

For a moment, I feared that he would turn the gun on me.

But he looked back out of the window to Frogner Square, took his final aim and curled his finger round the trigger.

I leaped forward and grabbed hold of him just as he fired the gun. I was horrified to hear the shot and the sound of the screams that followed from outside. But I did not have time to think about it. The gun was gone, and I was lying on the floor on top of an unarmed Martin Morgenstierne.

The fight that followed was fortunately brief. He was a generation older than me and had obviously been entirely focused on firing. He had also landed in an awkward position underneath me. I felt a surge of fury and hate for him, and with zero sympathy, wrenched his arm up behind his back in the hope of breaking it.

‘I give myself up,’ he said, and it struck me that he was frighteningly calm and controlled, given that he had just shot the opposition leader.

Whereas I was shaking so much that I fumbled in frustration for a few moments before I managed to get the handcuffs on him. Meanwhile, we heard the sounds of running feet and screams from outside.

When I eventually stood up, he remarked: ‘It would seem that I got him.’ He was still alarmingly calm, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

I feared that I had come a second too late to prevent the death of the party leader, but still did not know what had happened outside the window. So I hauled him up without answering.

We stood side by side in silence and looked out of the window.

What we saw was not what either of us had expected, and it grieved us both.

After the gunshot, the crowd had obviously panicked and scattered from the stage. There were only three people in the cleared space.

Trond Bratten had dropped the manuscript for his speech, but he was still standing, leaning against the stage, very much alive.

The party leader’s wife was standing in front of him with outstretched arms, like a human shield in the event of more gunshots.

A large book lay open on the ground in front of her. And Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was lying on the ground beside the book.

Her fair hair fluttered in the wind, but she herself was not moving, lying on her stomach, as a dark stream of blood poured from her head onto her sweatshirt.

It was a terrible sight, and everything inside me froze instantly. Which was perhaps a good thing. I remembered later a wild urge to throw Martin Morgenstierne out of the window, and then to jump out myself. All I remembered from those unreal seconds was that feeling. And Martin Morgenstierne saying, in an almost apologetic voice, ‘She looks like my daughter. I deeply regret that. He was the only one who was supposed to die.’

XVI

The wall clock at the main police station showed half past six as I made my way to my boss’s office. He beamed and offered me his hand. The story of how I had saved the life of the opposition leader Trond Bratten, and at the same time solved both of yesterday’s murders, had already been broadcast on the radio and TV. Congratulatory telegrams were streaming in. Unless the nascent rumours that the crown princess was pregnant were confirmed, it would headline the evening news, and be on the front page of all the major newspapers tomorrow. But no matter what, I had been right all along and was a role model for the country’s police force.

Normally my boss’s effusive congratulations would have had me in seventh heaven. But this time I remained downcast, almost depressed. I thanked him and told him the truth: that the fate of the badly wounded young woman hung heavily on my conscience.

He nodded appreciatively and said that I not only was I an exceptionally good policeman, I was also an exceptionally good person. I thanked him once again, but certainly did not feel like one.

My boss asked in an irritatingly casual manner if there was any news about the ‘wounded party’. I replied that she had still been alive on arrival at hospital, but that it was touch and go whether she would survive or not.

We sat in silence for a while after this.

As we sat there, I ran through the two terrifying moments I had experienced with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen.

The first was when I looked out of the window at 66 Thomas Heftye’s Street and saw her lying on the asphalt below, covered in blood and not moving. It suddenly felt as though it was my fault and I was entirely responsible if she died. I was the one who had bumped into her, and what I had told her had prompted her to push her way forward to stop Trond Bratten from getting onto the stage. And I was the one who had pushed the assassin to one side so that the bullet hit her. I thought I would never smile again if she died. I had never met her parents, or her little brother. But all the same, I could feel how painful it would be to have to tell them of her death.

The second horrifying moment was at Ullevål Hospital, when I got there just after the ambulance. After waiting for fifteen minutes, I was able to speak to the surgeon and senior doctor for a couple of minutes while preparations were being made for the operation. It was an unnerving experience.

The surgeon, Bernt Berg, was in his fifties, and his measured movements instilled confidence and trust. He had a very grave face, and only replied in short sentences when asked a question. He reminded me a little of Martin Morgenstierne, which made the situation feel even more alarming and unreal.

I said that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had been shot while trying to save Trond Bratten from being assassinated, and that her survival was also extremely important for my ongoing investigation. Given this, I asked him to call me at the station as soon as there was any news following the operation.

His face was devoid of expression and emotion when he replied ‘yes’ to this.

I then asked what he thought the chances were that she would survive.

With equal equanimity, he said: ‘About fifty-fifty, if we are able to remove the bullet.’

So I asked him what the chances were of that.

His voice still sounded unmoved when he told me: ‘There is an imminent danger that she will die soon if we cannot remove it. The bullet is lodged just beside her main artery.’

I thanked him, once again asked him to call me as soon as there was any news, and wished him luck with the operation. He nodded briskly and left without saying any more.

The surgeon inspired both fear and confidence at the same time. I thought he seemed like a man who knew what he was doing, someone who was not likely to lose control or tremble, no matter what happened.

I caught a brief glimpse of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen as she was wheeled into the operating theatre. This vaguely reassured me. The bleeding had stopped. I could see she was still breathing. And even though she was in a coma, her face still seemed to emanate strong will. Otherwise, she lay completely still, with bandages around her neck and shoulders.

I felt totally impotent and feared that I might faint if she should suddenly die there in front of me. So I turned and walked away as quickly as I dared down the corridor.

I was suddenly roused from my thoughts when the telephone on my boss’s desk started to ring. And I jumped when he then immediately said: ‘Yes, he is right here. I’ll pass on your message immediately.’

He saw the fear in my eyes and hastily carried on: ‘The Labour Party and the Confederation of Trade Unions send their thanks and congratulations. Flowers are on the way!’

I needed to think about something else and said that we should perhaps discuss the murder of Marie Morgenstierne again. My boss nodded.

‘Even after all this upheaval, you still think about your duties. I have called Danielsen, who was unfortunately unable to come at such short notice.’

I saw the hint of a smile on my boss’s face when he said this. We both knew that Danielsen lived alone, and never went anywhere other than work.

‘He asked me to congratulate you on solving the case, but added that the mystery of Marie Morgenstierne’s death remained unsolved. I take it there is still nothing to indicate that her father had anything to do with it?’

I shook my head.

‘Martin Morgenstierne confessed his part in yesterday’s two murders in the car on the way here, but fiercely maintains that he had nothing to do with his daughter’s death. It was, on the contrary, the loss of his daughter that removed the final hurdles that prevented him from carrying out the planned assassination. He had been under considerable pressure from Christian Magnus Eggen and Frans Heidenberg for some time. They have expressed their disappointment that the assassination was unsuccessful, but still maintain that it was justified and necessary. And this all corroborates what Henry Alfred Lien wrote in his diary.’

My boss nodded.

‘How did you work it out? Danielsen and I thought it seemed almost impossible to get anything out of the diary entries.’

I remembered what Patricia had shouted at me just as I left, ‘B is for bank manager, and SP is for Super Pater, that’s to say, Martin Morgenstierne!’ and quickly stitched together an official explanation that fitted.

‘Lien used abbreviations based on occupations. A was for architect and D was for director. So B could then well be bank manager. It also seemed to fit that SP in Falko Reinhardt’s note might stand for “Super Pater”, which was his nickname for Martin Morgenstierne. Luckily I realized this in the nick of time when I was only a few hundred yards away.’

My boss whistled and looked at me wide-eyed.

I was afraid that he would ask me for more details about where exactly I had been, so I hastily continued: ‘But yes, the murder of Marie Morgenstierne remains unsolved, even though her father has now been arrested for two other murders.’

My boss was back on track.

‘Yes, that’s where we were. Danielsen mentioned that he thought it was one of the other communists, that is to say Anders Pettersen or Trond Ibsen, who was behind it. And if you would like a day off after today’s drama, I could of course get him to follow this up tomorrow…’

I shook my head and assured him that I had every hope that we could clear up the remaining murder as well in the course of the week, given today’s developments. My boss smiled his approval.

‘Excellent. Then you will of course continue to be head of the investigation, and can use Danielsen wherever needed tomorrow.’

I nodded eagerly. When I got up to leave, the atmosphere was almost buoyant. So I jumped all the more when the phone rang again.

My boss picked up the receiver and immediately looked very grave. He answered: ‘Yes, he’s here. One moment, please.’

He passed the phone over to me.

‘From the hospital,’ he said.

The voice at the other end was just as I remembered it.

‘This is Bernt Berg, the head surgeon from Ullevål Hospital. You asked me to phone as soon as there was any news on the operation.’

Yes,’ I said, and held my breath.

‘The operation was successful and the bullet has been removed.’

‘Thank you so much for letting me know. But are the chances still fifty-fifty, as you said before the operation?’ I asked, forcing myself to breathe.

Yes. The next few hours are critical, but if there are no complications, this will improve,’ the monotone voice at the other end of the line told me.

I thanked him as politely as I could and asked once again if he could ring me if and when there were any changes.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

Then we both put the phone down.

I felt both relief and a whisper of optimism. But I knew all the same that there was still a danger that she might die in the course of the evening or overnight, and that it would now be even harder to accept.

I told my boss that there had been an improvement, but that the patient’s condition was still critical. Then I asked if I could take the rest of the day off, and continue with the investigation tomorrow. My boss immediately agreed to this and congratulated me again on the day’s extraordinary outcome.

It was undoubtedly well meant. But it occurred to me that poor, sweet Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s fate was of far less consequence to everyone else than the fact that an important man had escaped an attempted assassination unharmed.

XVII

I was eventually able to call Patricia at five to eight. She was once again in control of her mood, but seemed unexpectedly muted. I told her that I had got there just in time to prevent Trond Bratten from being shot. She replied, slightly sarcastically, that she had now heard that twice on the radio and again on the evening news on television.

I apologized for not having rung her sooner, but explained that the situation had been a bit chaotic, what with the arrest of a double murderer and a critically wounded onlooker.

Patricia’s voice softened a little when she said that the onlooker had been mentioned on the television, but no details had been given.

I told her that it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, and that she had been shot while warning Trond Bratten not to go on stage.

‘Oh,’ Patricia stuttered, obviously taken aback, but still not sounding particularly concerned. Only after a short pause did she ask which hospital she was at, and how she was.

I told her that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was at Ullevål Hospital and that the first operation had been a success, but that there was still a risk that she might not live through the night.

Patricia pulled herself together. She said brusquely that it was of course perfectly understandable that I had not been able to call before, and that one could only hope that the patient would get better.

I came to her aid, thanked her once again for her invaluable contribution and asked if we should perhaps meet this evening or tomorrow to discuss the continued hunt for Marie Morgenstierne’s murderer.

Her reply was unexpectedly swift.

‘As soon as possible this evening, if you can. I have every hope then that we can solve the mystery by midnight. But first you must drive over to see Trond Ibsen and ask him what he was doing yesterday, and see what else he has to add.’

I felt my head was still spinning, but looked at the clock and suggested that we should try to meet at half past nine. She said that would be fine, but that she would be there all the same if I could get there any earlier.

To my surprise, Trond Ibsen was still in his office at a quarter past eight, and picked up the telephone. I said that it had been a long and dramatic day, as he might have heard, but that I was now following a lead on Marie Morgenstierne’s murder and had to talk to him as soon as possible.

I added that I would be happy to send Detective Inspector Danielsen, but had understood that he would prefer to give a statement to me. Trond Ibsen sighed, then replied that he would most definitely prefer to give his statement to me, and that he was currently alone in his office if I could come there.

XVIII

Trond Ibsen was sitting in a large armchair behind his desk when I came in, and immediately put aside the patient journal he was reading. I stayed well away from the sofa, but felt rather inferior all the same when I sat down on a far smaller chair in front of the desk.

But this time, the psychologist did not seem particularly arrogant. For a change, he seemed rather nervous. His hand trembled as he congratulated me on the day’s breakthrough, which he had also heard on the radio. He had not been aware that the person who had been critically wounded was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, and this news seemed only to increase his unease. He repeated twice that he sincerely hoped that she would survive, and also that he himself still knew nothing about any of the murders.

I replied that yesterday’s murders had now been solved, but that where he had been himself the day before remained a mystery. He let out a deep sigh.

‘I hoped that would be of less interest now that the murderer had been caught. So, well, I was absolutely not in the Valdres area. I was in fact indoors with a woman here in Oslo, and for personal reasons I had hoped that I would not need to tell the police or anyone else about her.’

His eyes begged me.

A thought fluttered through my mind. Kristine Larsen was still being held on remand yesterday, and there were not many other young women involved in the case. A terrible thought was forming.

‘Are you saying that you were with… a former female member of the group yesterday?’

He shook his head and sank even deeper into the chair.

‘No, if only that had been the case, I would gladly have told you. I did try my luck once upon a time, but there was never any interest from her side. But she was more gracious in her rejection that either Marie Morgenstierne or Kristine Larsen were. I really do hope that she pulls through.’

My nodding agreement was perhaps a little too enthusiastic, so I peered at him sternly.

‘In that case, I have no idea who it might be and why it might be so troublesome. If the woman concerned is married, we must surely be able to check your alibi without her husband knowing about it?’

Trond Ibsen drew an even heavier sigh and sank still further into the chair.

‘Strictly speaking, I cannot rule out that the woman I spent yesterday evening with was not married, though I would be very surprised. The problem is that I in fact don’t know her name and she would hardly be a reliable witness if the police were to find her. But I couldn’t claim that I had been at home alone, because if that had then come out in the papers, she could accuse me of making false statements.’

He sent me a pleading look, then buried his face in his hands. It was only then that I understood the situation.

‘So what you are telling me is that you spent yesterday evening with a woman you had paid to keep you company?’

His head and hands nodded for a couple of seconds. Then suddenly, everything poured out.

‘Tactfully put, yes. It would be extremely embarrassing and potentially a disaster for my practice if it were to get out. My relationship with women is hopeless. I have never been caressed by a woman other than those I have paid. And believe it or not, this was the first time I had actually done it. It was my first ever physical encounter with a woman, and I have regretted it ever since. But this murder investigation has just made everything even more unbearable, and reminded me of my last and greatest humiliation.’

My mind started to put the pieces together.

‘Of course, when Marie Morgenstierne finally got over Falko, she chose Anders Pettersen and not you?’

He nodded. This was followed by another furious outpouring. The psychologist was obviously letting all his pent-up frustrations out now.

‘That was the final and hardest straw. The fact that Kristine Larsen preferred the missing Falko was less of a blow. Anders is politically simple, generally lazy, constantly broke and not particularly talented as an artist. And he gloated in the most disgusting, arrogant way. I don’t understand what she saw in him, and it felt like the greatest and most demeaning of all my failures with women!’

This was said with great indignation. I feared he was going to explode, and allowed him some time to settle down again before I continued.

‘So what you are saying now is that Anders Pettersen had managed to do what you wanted most in the world, that is, to go to bed with Marie Morgenstierne. And that it is very likely that he is the father of her unborn child?’

His nod was instant and, it seemed to me, a little spiteful.

‘Yes. That fits with the timescale. It was at the start of June. I saw it in his smile first. And then he told me straight out: by the way, I have now been where you have always wanted to go. A delightful, undulating landscape. I might just settle there for good. I understood immediately what he meant, and hated him more than ever.’

Trond Ibsen had now hit rock bottom, only to bounce back. When he carried on speaking, he suddenly became the psychologist, with only the hint of an undertone in his voice.

‘Bedding her was possibly Anders’ greatest physical achievement. He felt that he was Falko’s successor in both political and personal terms. He no doubt wanted their relationship to be public, but I don’t for a moment imagine that he wanted to become a father. He often said that having children was a form of egotism that could not be combined with revolutionary work, and should therefore be left until after the revolution. So it could well be that you now have the motive and the murderer you are looking for.’

I nodded.

‘It will be followed up. But you do understand that this does not exonerate you? Based on what you have just said, jealousy could be your motive, and that clearly does not rule out the possibility that you killed Marie Morgenstierne.’

Trond Ibsen gave yet another deep sigh, but looked me squarely in the eye when he replied.

‘Formally, you are of course right. But then I would definitely have killed him, and not her. And, given my history with her and others, I obviously wouldn’t want any kind of investigation that involved us. I have always feared that it would end like this, with me being acquitted of murder, but exposed to ridicule. As far as women are concerned, I’m useless and I know it. But I have honestly never killed any of the women who have rejected me, even though there are quite a few now, and some of them have been very cruel.’

This was said with great emotion. Trond Ibsen’s mask was definitely crumbling in front of my eyes. The man who emerged was complex, and held secrets that no one would have expected. But even when I saw Trond Ibsen unmasked, I still did not see a murderer.

So I said that I would do my utmost to prevent the secrets of his private life from getting out. He brightened up visibly, thanked me and said once again that he had now told me things that could cause him great embarrassment and spell disaster for his new practice.

So our conversation ended on a relatively good note. He promised that he would be available for further questions over the next few days, should that be necessary, and wished me luck with the investigation. I made my way home, feeling a mixture of sympathy and contempt for him. But I was remarkably sure that Patricia was right, and that Danielsen’s theory that Trond Ibsen was the murderer was a red herring.

XIX

To my astonishment, I was asked to wait for a moment – a rare occurrence indeed – when I turned up at Patricia’s as agreed at half past nine. When I was shown into the room three minutes later, Patricia was sitting waiting with coffee and cakes, and apologized that she had had to take an unexpected phone call.

She had fully regained her composure, and congratulated me straight away on the day’s great success. But it did strike me that there was something, if not exactly unfriendly, perhaps rather slightly brusque about her this evening. She listened dutifully to my detailed account of the drama at Frogner Square, and repeated afterwards briefly that one could only hope that the patient would recover.

While waiting to hear more from the hospital, I tried to think as little as possible about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. So instead I congratulated Patricia on her brilliant reasoning that had foiled the attempted assassination of the leader of the Labour Party. She shrugged dismissively, and looked uncomfortable.

‘I should have picked up on the time and place earlier. As soon as I knew that Bratten was going to give a speech at Frogner Square today and heard the words Heftye 66, I should have realized that it was the street and not the person. The fact that it might refer to the age of one of the parties involved was distracting, but I should have seen the connection. And I should have guessed earlier that the SP stood for Super Pater. The pieces only fell into place suddenly when I discovered the explanation for the letters in Henry Alfred Lien’s diary. B fitted perfectly with bank manager, who was also the man Falko had called Super Pater, and what’s more, he lived in Frogner. I have not been very focused for the past couple of days, so please excuse my outburst; it’s simply frustration at myself.’

We then moved on to discuss the investigation of Marie Morgenstierne’s murder.

Patricia nodded approvingly when I told her about my visit to Trond Ibsen and then swiftly took up the thread.

‘Just as I thought – so the solution should be just around the corner now. We can rule out the idea that Falko Reinhardt was the father of Marie Morgenstierne’s unborn child. And Trond Ibsen’s history is such that it gives us every reason to believe that he was certainly not Marie Morgenstierne’s lover.’

I interrupted her and asked how she could so categorically dismiss the possibility that Falko was the father. She lit up with an almost childish grin.

‘The simple fact that he was still a long way from Norway, according to the tickets found in his pocket, when some man peeled off his fiancée’s panties here in Oslo. On the other hand, there is more and more to indicate that Anders Pettersen was there when that happened. Confront him with it, and with the fact that he was standing in one of the side streets when she started to run. I don’t know if he saw Falko, or if Falko saw him; nor do I know if Marie Morgenstierne saw either of them. But I am almost certain that it was him standing there.’

I stared at Patricia, baffled, and asked how she could be so sure of that.

‘A theory that I have had more or less from the start. As I pointed out at an early stage, Marie Morgenstierne was walking extremely slowly and apparently happily towards the station, even though she was wearing a watch and knew that she would not make the next train. She was secretly hoping to bump into someone. And that someone was Anders Pettersen, who would have had the time to cycle round, precisely because she was walking so slowly. The fact that she said no to a lift from Trond Ibsen could of course have been a decoy, if she wanted to meet him in secret. But she also had to hand over the recording first. If it was Trond Ibsen she was going to meet, there would be no need to walk so slowly. As he had a car, he would have got there long before her anyway. This all fits with the other pieces that are gradually falling into place.’

I looked at her with admiration, and thought with a silent sigh that Danielsen might have the last laugh after all. But when I asked Patricia straight out if she thought that Anders Pettersen was Marie Morgenstierne’s murderer, she drew out her answer.

‘That is not what I said, nor, for that matter, my conclusion. As Falko said, there are two possibilities. And he no doubt thought that both were sad or tragic. The one decidedly sad alternative is that Falko’s best friend and admirer Anders Pettersen killed his fiancée, and thus also his own child. But there is still another alternative, which is no less sad or tragic…’

Patricia sat for a moment and stared gravely at something in the air in front of her. Then she drained her coffee cup and turned her focus back to me.

‘No matter how you look at it, there are a number of family tragedies here. The Morgenstierne daughter is murdered along with her unborn child, and the father is jailed for two other murders. Falko Reinhardt leaves behind him a broken-hearted lover and two depressed parents. Henry Alfred Lien was never forgiven by his son, although he longed and deserved to be. I can only imagine what the son will think when he hears the story.’

‘And, not to be forgotten, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen is hovering between life and death. I wonder how her parents are feeling now,’ I added.

Patricia nodded, and promptly carried on.

‘So, let’s follow Marie Morgenstierne’s murder through to the end, no matter how sad the truth might prove to be. Go and see Anders Pettersen, tonight if you can, and confront him with the fact that he was Marie Morgenstierne’s lover and the father of her unborn child. Ask him if he knew about the child, and if so, how he found out. And ask him who else knew about his relationship with Marie Morgenstierne, and when they found out. Come back here afterwards: then I should hopefully be able to tell you whether it was Anders Pettersen, or the other possible murderer, who shot Marie Morgenstierne. You can come no matter how late it might be.’

I looked at the clock. It was already nearly half past ten. I said that I thought it was a bit late to start a new round with Anders Pettersen now, after such a long and demanding day. It would have to be first thing tomorrow morning.

Patricia nodded and said that that was understandable, but asked me to go as early as possible.

I sent her a questioning look. She squirmed uncomfortably in her wheelchair.

‘There is something else I would like to do tomorrow morning if possible, but your murder investigation is of course more important, so just come when it suits you.’

For a moment, curiosity got the better of me, and I was tempted to ask Patricia what else it was she had to do tomorrow. For a moment I wondered whether she perhaps had a boyfriend of one sort or another, and felt a stab of jealousy.

Patricia said nothing, however; and I was not in the mood to push her to talk about it. So I thanked her for her hospitality and promised to be there as early as possible the next day.

At twenty-five to eleven, I stood alone by my car in Erling Skjalgsson’s Street and admitted to myself that there was a reason I did not want to go to see Anders Pettersen this evening. I felt it was more important that I went somewhere else. And I did drive home, but I drove home via Ullevål Hospital.

XX

I met Bernt Berg, the head surgeon, at eleven o’clock, as he was tearing across the hospital car park after his evening shift.

I said that I was glad to bump into him. To my surprise, he told me he had called me at home without getting an answer.

My heart was pounding as I asked if that meant there was good news. His answer was succinct: ‘No.’

I looked at him questioningly, and said that I hoped at least that the news was not too bad.

‘There has been a complication, and there is an acute danger of blood poisoning as a result. I have little hope that she will make it through the night.’

He said no more. It felt as though the earth was collapsing under my feet as I stood there, talking in a hushed voice to a middle-aged man in the darkness of the hospital car park.

I gave him a pleading look. He continued without me having to ask.

‘There is still a slim chance. She is physically fit, and mentally strong. But all the same, you should be prepared for the possibility that she might die tonight.’

I vaguely registered that an odd feeling of complicity had developed between me and this chronically calm man of few words. I now got the impression that the stony face and monotonous voice were a defence mechanism, and that behind this he was a passionate man with deep empathy for each of his patients.

I thanked him for all he had done, no matter how things might end. He said that regardless of the outcome, he would try to call me as soon as possible when he was due back at the hospital at nine the next morning.

Then we silently parted and went to our separate cars in the dark.

I drove home alone through the night, which even though it was summer, felt darker than I could ever remember.

Once back at my flat in Hegdehaugen, I ate two slices of bread and sat by myself in an armchair by the window. I suddenly felt overcome by sheer exhaustion, but could not sleep all the same. So I stayed there, looking out into the dark.

I barely gave a thought to Marie Morgenstierne’s murder. After my experiences today, I had more or less blind faith in Patricia’s assurances that it would be solved tomorrow. My thoughts were filled instead with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. Images of her from our first confusing meeting outside the party office, and my last glimpse of her lying in a coma in hospital crowded my mind.

It was past midnight, and only one light shone into the dark from a flat in the neighbouring building. In a strange way, this resolute, lone light came to symbolize my hope. I therefore jumped up when it suddenly went out at a quarter to one. I have never been superstitious, but when the light went out, my anxiety surged. I was almost paralysed by the idea that Miriam’s life had also gone out.

At half past one I finally managed to haul myself to bed, but was still far from being able to sleep. I initially set the alarm for half past seven, but then got up and changed it to eight, and then to ten to nine.

When I got back into bed, I realized I could not remember the last time I had cried, or why. Nor could I remember the last time I had prayed, or what for. But I cried and prayed desperately until I eventually fell asleep around half past three in the morning of Wednesday, 12 August 1970. It was the wounded Miriam for whom I cried and prayed. Three times I swore to God and to myself that I would race to her bedside with flowers, and a book, as soon as she regained consciousness – if she ever did.

With sleep, I was finally able to let go of the horrible images of Miriam lying motionless, and of her blood on the asphalt in Frogner Sqare – as well as the even more horrible feeling that it would be my fault if she died in the night.