‘You mean on his sixty-fifth birthday? Yes, my uncle and I did have a brief conversation about it. Falko had been very secretive and evasive about his work for a few months, so naturally I was curious. I had thought of asking Falko face to face when no one else was around, but never found the opportunity before he disappeared.’
‘And you can rule out that it had anything to do with his disappearance?’
Trond Ibsen furrowed his brow and looked at me.
‘It is of course not possible to rule out completely that developments in Falko’s thesis had anything to do with his disappearance. But I would guess the opposite to be true. And the fact that I knew about these developments definitely had nothing to do with it. I had nothing to do with his disappearance whatsoever, and did not tell anyone about the thesis in the meantime.’
I did not have any more questions, and Trond Ibsen did not have any more answers to the ones I had already asked. We sat and looked at each other in charged silence.
He asked with a wisp of worry in his voice whether he was suspected of having done something criminal. I chose to answer ‘not at present’, but asked him to remain available for possible further questioning. He nodded, and enquired if there was anything more I would like to ask. When I said no, he stood up and rapidly left the office.
I now had a greater understanding of how the case was gnawing at the remaining members of the group, now that one was dead, one was missing and one was in custody. But I still did not feel that I could trust any of them.
Just after half past eleven, the telephone on my desk rang. The call was from a rather flustered technician who felt it was his duty to tell me about a finding that was potentially of great interest. The cassette had been wiped, but not very well. On the edge of the tape was an incomplete, but still recognizable, fingerprint. It belonged to one of the five members of the group around Falko, who had all provided fingerprints after his disappearance in 1968.
When I heard who had left the fingerprint, I sat deep in thought for a few minutes with the telephone receiver in my hand. Then I dialled Patricia’s number and asked if it would be possible to have a quick lunch meeting, as there had been a sensational new development in the case.
V
‘So, whose fingerprints do you think we found on the police security service’s recording of Marie Morgenstierne’s last meeting?’ I asked, and reached out to help myself to a piece of cake.
Patricia’s eyes were steady and confident when they met mine. She answered before I had reached the cake.
‘Almost certainly Marie Morgenstierne’s own fingerprints. I have for several days now suspected that it was she herself who was in contact with the security service. But to have this confirmed is still a very important step forward, so congratulations.’
I thanked her for the rare compliment and hurried on without waiting for any possible jibes.
‘So the others were right that there was a mole in the group, but they were wrong about who it was. It was Marie Morgenstierne, not Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, who was the informer. And if any of them had discovered this, they could all have a possible motive for murder.’
Patricia nodded, and chewed thoughtfully on a piece of cake before she answered.
‘Betrayal is always a possible motive for murder, particularly in sect-like political and religious groups such as this one. And it would now appear that Marie Morgenstierne was an informer. But that does not mean that she was one before Falko Reinhardt disappeared. You should put pressure on the head of the security service and demand to know when she became their informant. You are in a far better position to force him to tell you the truth now. Particularly if you then add that a representative of the security police was obviously at the scene of the crime.’
I looked in astonishment at Patricia, who sighed heavily.
‘Dear detective inspector, the situation should be fairly clear by now. Given that Marie Morgenstierne took the recording with her when she left the meeting, she must have passed it on to someone before she started to run. It is no coincidence that there was a man with a suitcase walking behind her, and that he still has not come forward. He is of course the person she gave the tape to. And therefore a very interesting witness. Ask to speak to him as soon as possible!’
I nodded, fascinated, wondering desperately how I should present this to the head of the police security service without setting myself up for a fall if Patricia’s reasoning proved for once to be wrong.
‘But today’s finding also makes it far more likely that Kristine Larsen is the murderer after all. She had a clear motive if she saw the tape changing hands, and in that case, Marie Morgenstierne also had reason to fear her reaction. And what do you say to this? I found it in her wardrobe.’
I laid the photograph, in which Marie Morgenstierne had been blacked out with a felt pen, on the table. Patricia looked at it and gave a pensive nod.
‘Not very nice. And not very smart either, if after shooting Marie Morgenstierne, Kristine Larsen left this in a place where it obviously would be found in the event of a house search. She is definitely guilty of being vehemently jealous of Marie Morgenstierne, but still highly likely not to be guilty of her murder.’
I noted the formulation ‘highly likely not’ and commented that it was still a possibility that could not be ruled out.
Patricia squirmed restlessly in her wheelchair, but granted me a reluctant nod.
‘In this case, we should both be aware that nothing can be ruled out. And one should never trust pacifism either, in the case of a jealous woman in love. But I still cannot get it to tally with the overwhelming fear that seized Marie Morgenstierne on the street. The man from the police security service was a fair way behind her, and the blind woman was between them. So the tape must have been handed over a good deal earlier. If Marie Morgenstierne realized that Kristine Larsen had seen the handover and understood the significance of it, why did she then only start to run a few hundred yards later? Could the sight of Kristine Larsen have been so terrifying, even if Marie Morgenstierne did not know that she had seen the handover? Or . . .’
Patricia fell silent – into deep thought. She had definitely forgotten about her slice of cake now, even though it was only half eaten. I could see her mind processing the new information at top speed, running through the various possibilities.
‘Or . . .’ I prompted.
‘Or it was the far more surprising sight of Falko Reinhardt waiting in one of the side streets that frightened her. Or someone else in another side street or behind a hedge, whom neither the blind woman nor Kristine Larsen could see. There are still a number of possibilities. But either Kristine Larsen is lying so much that her nose will soon start to grow, or Falko Reinhardt is at large somewhere out there. And if that is the case, the mystery is greater than ever. Why has he not contacted the police, given that he was then an eyewitness to his fiancée’s murder, or now that his lover has been arrested?’
‘The most likely explanation in the latter case would simply be that he was not there, because the whole story about him being there was made up by Kristine Larsen to deflect any suspicion from herself,’ I said, cautiously.
Patricia seemed both to nod and shake her head.
‘That is possible, of course. But it strikes me as being equally likely that Kristine Larsen did in fact see Falko, and that he is out there, but he is waiting for something to happen before making contact. This Falko chap seems to be a rather self-centred person with a sense of melodrama. But what on earth could he be waiting for? It must be something major if he first hides away for two years, and then continues to do so even after a murder.’
Patricia looked almost frightened. I jumped when, out of the blue, she slapped her hand down on the table.
‘Pass! There are too many unresolved questions here, and I will make no headway unless some of them are answered. If it does transpire that Kristine Larsen either had a gun in her hand that was clearly visible, or she saw the handover of the tape, then
I will start to take your theory that she is the murderer more seriously. In the meantime, however, I will concentrate on other possible solutions while you try to find someone who can give you more relevant information. The security service would seem to be the best lead now, but put increasing pressure on both Kristine Larsen and the other remaining Falkoists through the course of the afternoon.’
This was a very clear hint. I stood up to leave, but Patricia stopped me halfway with her hand.
‘Come back for supper at seven, if you can. And in the meantime, call me immediately if anything new crops up.’
I realized that Patricia’s voice was trembling – as was her hand. She noticed the surprise in my eyes and continued without prompting: ‘It could be my general fear of things I do not understand. It does have something to do with who or what scared Marie Morgenstierne so much, but more with the question as to why Falko disappeared and why he is not making himself known now. It seems to me that we are running against time to prevent an even greater catastrophe.’
This whisper of fear in Patricia made a strong impression on me. I followed the maid out of the room with unusual alacrity, and overtook her just before the front door.
VI
Once back in the office, I made the phone call I had been dreading most of all: to the head of the police security service, Asle Bryne. I called him at home. I feared that he might not appreciate being called at home early on a Sunday afternoon, particularly when it concerned a difficult case, and had made up my mind to put down the phone if he had not answered after five rings. But he picked up the receiver on the fourth ring. The situation was not made any easier by the fact that instead of saying who he was, he opened the conversation with a curt ‘Who is it?’
His voice, however, banished any doubts I may have had that I had got the wrong number. I resisted the temptation to slam down the receiver, and instead launched myself out into deep waters.
‘This is Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen. I met with you at your office yesterday. I apologize profusely for having to disturb you at home on a Sunday, but we have some new information in the murder case I am investigating, which could put the security service in a rather unfortunate light, should it become known. I thought I should discuss the matter with you immediately and try to minimize the negative consequences it could have for both our organizations.’
For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the telephone. I braced myself for a furious outburst that never came.
‘I see,’ Asle Bryne said, eventually. And then said no more.
After a few seconds I realized that he was waiting for me to continue in order to ascertain how much I knew. It felt as though I was teetering on the edge of the cliff in Valdres when I spoke: ‘The current investigation has first of all discovered that the murdered Marie Morgenstierne herself acted as a security service informant for a while. And secondly, and more importantly, a member of the security service appears to have been present at the scene of the crime when she was killed.’
Again, there was silence. Absolute silence. Delightful, liberating silence. And the silence lasted for a long time.
‘I see,’ Asle Bryne said, once more. And then was silent again.
I obviously had to launch myself into a new attack, and did so.
‘It is still my hope that we can keep this from the press and politicians. But then I need any information that may help to solve the case quickly, now.’
‘I see,’ Asle Bryne’s voice repeated. ‘What do you need, then?’ he added hastily.
‘I need to know the details of your contact with Marie Morgenstierne. But first and foremost, I have to speak to the man who was at the scene of the crime about what he might have seen and heard.’
‘I see,’ Asle Bryne said yet again, still sounding remarkably cool and collected.
‘Come to my office at six o’clock this evening, and I will give you all the help I can,’ he continued swiftly.
Then he put down the phone without waiting for confirmation.
I heaved a sigh of relief and looked at the time. It was still only half past two. I still had time for a couple of meetings with the group around Falko Reinhardt before the end of the working day. The one I wanted to speak to most was without a doubt Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, but I had more crucial questions to ask Anders Pettersen. So in the end I dialled his number, and when I had established that he was at home, I headed over there.
VII
Anders Pettersen sat leaning forward in a chair beside his untidy coffee table and stared at me in disbelief. It was not a pleasant situation, and became even less so when he started to speak.
‘That is completely absurd. No one could honestly believe that Kristine would kill anyone, let alone a member of our group. If you believe that, you have either been duped by a conspiracy or are part of one yourself. Kristine is the most consistent, helpless pacifist I have ever met, and I have met quite a few. We all knew that she would not be up to much in the great struggle when world revolution reached Norway. She had been in touch with another revolutionary group before, but was told that they had no use for pacifists.’
The man was politically provoking and personally unbearable, but I chose to ignore both aspects for the moment. There was a considerable risk that he was right about Kristine Larsen and my chances of getting anything out of him about the rest of the group would not increase with confrontation. I therefore replied that the question as to whether Kristine Larsen would be charged or not was still open, but that there was much to indicate that jealousy and rivalry within the group had played a part. He looked at me with a little more interest when I said this.
So I then asked Anders Pettersen the same question that I had asked Trond Ibsen earlier in the day: if he had ever noticed any signs of romantic relationships within the group other than that between Marie Morgenstierne and Falko Reinhardt.
His reaction was more or less the same. He rolled his eyes and looked as though he was about to dismiss the whole question, but then paused for thought and frowned for a moment.
‘I never thought I would mention this to anyone outside the group, and certainly not to a policeman. But this is an extremely serious situation as one of us has been murdered, and I should do everything I can to disprove the clearly mistaken view that Kristine is the prime suspect.’
I nodded in agreement, said that he should absolutely do that, and assured him that for the time being it would be an unofficial statement and would not be written down or shared with the other members of the group. This prompted a sudden sense of confidentiality between us. Anders Pettersen leaned even further forward over the table and lowered his voice when he spoke.
‘I have never heard or seen anything to indicate that Kristine had any kind of romantic ties, if that is what you mean. Not with anyone, either in or out of the group. But there is a romantic secret in the group that you should perhaps know about, as it might be of some importance here . . .’
He looked at me, his eyes almost twinkling, and continued to talk even faster and more intensely, but in a whisper.
‘Our psychologist has a complex, and it is called women. Trond comes from a very good family, has plenty of money and a good education and all that. And, as far as others are concerned, he is without a doubt an extremely good psychologist. And as you have perhaps noticed, he appears to get on relatively well with other men. But his relationships with women have been less happy in all the years I’ve known him. As far as we know, he has never had a lover of any kind, through no lack of interest on his part. Trond is either too laid-back and distant, or too eager and intense in his dealings with women. In recent years, he seems to have focused more on his psychology and has been outvoted by the group more and more often. Since Falko’s disappearance, I’ve had a growing sense that he is part of the group not so much out of political interest, but rather romantic interest.’
‘So what you are saying is that . . . he may have been romantically attached to the late Marie Morgens
tierne?’
Anders Pettersen nodded and gave a derisive smile.
‘He definitely had a romantic interest in Marie Morgenstierne; or perhaps a crush on her is a better way of putting it. And on Kristine Larsen. And his later contemptuous talk of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was perhaps also an attempt to hide the fact that he had tried it on with her too, without any success. I know him and his complex so well that I could see it, without even having a basic degree in psychology.’
This was said with an undertone of triumph. Once again I felt the tension and rivalry between the two remaining male members of the group, even when only one of them was present.
It seemed that we were getting close to something now in a case that really needed a boost and to pick up pace. So I threw down the trump card that I had had up my sleeve for several days now, and asked whether, if Marie Morgenstierne had been pregnant when she was killed, Trond Ibsen might be the father.
The reaction was unexpectedly instant and marked. His head sank down towards the table.
He asked if it was really true, and if so, how far gone she was.
I told him the truth, that she was pregnant, but probably only in the fifth or sixth week.
Anders Pettersen looked even more confused at this. He replied that he thought that Trond Ibsen was in love with Marie Morgenstierne, but that he had not thought he had a chance. Then he suddenly took this back and said that one could never rule out anything in such situations, and that this was becoming ever more mysterious. If Marie Morgenstierne had been pregnant when she died, he could not rule out the possibility that Trond Ibsen was not only the father but also potentially the murderer, though both things seemed highly unlikely to begin with. The first explanation that came to mind with regard to her pregnancy was that Falko had come back. He shook his head firmly when I asked if he had seen any indication of this, and added that it would be very odd if that were the case and Falko had not been in touch.
Anders Pettersen seemed to change completely in the course of the thirty minutes or so that I spoke to him. When I left, he stayed sitting by the table, totally confused, and it was easy to feel sorry for him. I understood him only too well: the case was equally confusing for me. But I still did not trust him.
The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) Page 16