It looked as though Asle Bryne’s eyebrows approved of this, but the smoke around him was now so dense that I could not have said for certain.
I swiftly changed the subject to talk about the circumstances surrounding Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. Pedersen immediately sank a little into his chair. Asle Bryne, on the other hand, perked up. Between two long puffs on his pipe, he said: ‘Procedures have unfortunately been broken, albeit with the best intentions and without any harm being done. Just tell the truth!’
Pedersen nodded gratefully, and immediately continued.
‘My behaviour was unprofessional in the extreme. But I had for months spent a lot of time on the group and was convinced they were going to plan something serious while they were at the cabin – perhaps, in the worst-case scenario, meet some foreign agents. I felt that my most important duty and responsibility was to protect society against them. Our budgets and work schedules did not allow surveillance of the group in Valdres, but I was off work that week and, following a struggle with my conscience, decided to go up there on my own initiative. Hence the mask, which was in clear breach of normal procedures. I did this partly so that they would not recognize me if they saw me, and partly to prevent any suspicion that the police security service was involved.’
I attempted to give an understanding nod.
‘And what was the outcome of your trip? Were there any indications of foreign contacts or that any of them were planning something serious?’
He shook his head.
‘The whole thing was, technically, a fiasco. I am still convinced that they went there to talk about something that they wanted to keep under wraps. But the cabin was far less accessible than I had thought, and the weather was terrible. I was not able to hide any microphones in the cabin, and I barely managed to get within sight of it. My first attempt to spy through the window ended with me being spotted by Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. So I beat a hasty retreat and drove back down to Oslo again. I only heard that Falko Reinhardt had gone missing on the radio the following day.’
‘A large car was seen driving down the valley in the middle of the night, after Falko had disappeared. Was that your car?’
He shook his head again.
‘I was driving my own car, which was a small Ford, and by the time that happened, I was already back in Oslo. I know nothing about the car you mentioned, or who might have been driving it. I do know, however, where Falko went when he left the others for a couple of hours earlier in the day, and whom he met there.’
He sent me a meaningful look. I tried to stay collected, and waved him on impatiently.
‘I watched him from a distance, with the help of ordinary binoculars, from my stakeout in the forest. He was walking fast and passed only twenty yards or so from me. Then he carried on out of the forest and across the fields of the neighbouring farm. There he met the farmer himself, who appeared a few minutes later with a mowing machine as a cover. It looked as though the meeting had been planned, and that they did not want anyone to see!’
He said this in almost a whisper. I gave a short nod of acknowledgement.
‘And was the farmer a well-built, older man?’
He nodded quickly.
‘His name is Henry Alfred Lien, and he is a convicted former member of the NS. I checked his name when I got back home. But, as far as we know, there is nothing to link him to any countries in the Eastern bloc or to radical, left-wing groups in Norway. So it is not at all clear what the meeting might have been about, and is hardly likely to be relevant.’
My nod was less approving, and I asked if he observed anything else of interest – for example, any romantic liaisons between members of the group.
For the first time, his otherwise earnest face broke into a small smile.
‘Such internal liaisons are very usual in groups like that, but seldom of relevance to us. I may have observed something of the kind, but it depends on who you are alluding to.’
I took a deep breath and started the list.
‘Trond Ibsen.’
He promptly shook his head.
‘Anders Pettersen?’
Again, he shook his head immediately. I noticed that my heart started to race when I mentioned the next name.
‘Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen?’
Another shake of the head, and this time he made a dismissive gesture with his hands to reinforce it.
‘She was definitely not the type to get involved in that kind of thing. I cannot understand what she was doing with the group in the first place.’
I keenly nodded my approval and suddenly liked him a little more. The situation was demanding and my dislike of surveillance considerable, but I had to admit that Stein Pedersen certainly seemed to have talents in the field.
‘Marie Morgenstierne?’
‘Only with her fiancé, and then it was far less public than is normal. But she came from a good family, after all, and was therefore very well behaved.’
I nodded. That was as I had imagined.
‘But, on the other hand, Kristine Larsen, and Falko . . .’
He chuckled, but very soon was serious again, in fact, almost angry.
‘Bingo. One almost has to admire his self-confidence, but morally it was rather repugnant. He had come back from a short afternoon walk hand-in-hand with his fiancée. Then two minutes after she had gone into the cabin, there he was in the shadows outside with his hand down Kristine Larsen’s trousers. She was so very in love that it was a wonder that no one else noticed it. But in a strange way, they all circuited him in awe. With the exception of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, who was in her own world with her books.’
Again, I nodded my approval. And then spoke the truth. Pedersen’s behaviour had been very unprofessional and as such unfortunate, but he had also been very observant and I had to thank him for some potentially useful information. The matter would henceforth be treated with absolute confidentiality, and would not be included in any formal minutes or reports, or brought to the attention of any officials. Unless, of course, he had anything more serious to hide.
Stein Pedersen brightened. He assured me earnestly that he had nothing to hide, and that he had committed no crime. I said that we could then see the matter as closed, but reserved the right to get in touch with him to ask more questions, should this prove necessary in connection with the murder investigation.
Asle Bryne put down his pipe, nodded curtly and held out his hand. Like an echo, Stein Pedersen did the same. He wrote down two telephone numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
I left Victoria Terrace with plenty to think about. I had been given a few more details and also a new and very interesting insight into the police security service. Having heard Stein Pedersen talk about his mission, it was even harder to imagine him as a killer. I was very relieved to discover that his account did not contradict any of the others on any point. But it had taken a suspiciously long time to get that statement from him, and I still did not trust that he had told me everything. And the strange coincidence between the initials of his name and those on Falko Reinhardt’s to-do list hounded me all the way back to the main police station.
X
It was a quarter past two by the time I got back to my office. So there was still an hour left before I had to drive to Valdres. And it was, to my relief, unexpectedly quiet in the station.
As soon as I could I popped in to see Kristine Larsen in her cell, to update her on the latest developments concerning Falko. She perked up, the colour returned to her cheeks, and she asked me to give Falko her greetings as soon as I saw him.
I hinted that we could now arrange for her release on bail. She thanked me, but added that as she was safe here, she would rather stay where she was until the case had been solved and Falko had returned. Her parents had been informed of the situation and were extremely worried that she too might be shot.
‘Just think how tragic it would be if, after two years of waiting, I was released only to be murdered hours before Falko ca
me back to me,’ she added, with an almost playful smile.
Her argument suited me well. I preferred not to have to explain her release either internally or externally, until I had a new suspect to arrest. I had by now almost dismissed the theory that Kristine Larsen was the murderer, having heard a third version from the security service agent. Despite her jealousy and betrayal of the late Marie Morgenstierne, it was almost impossible not to feel sympathy for this clearly besotted young woman, who had been waiting for two years for her beloved to return. I hoped in my heart that Falko would be with her again within the next twenty-four hours, and that he would prove worthy of her love.
On my way back to the office, I bumped into Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen in the corridor, apparently by accident. With one of his most ingratiating smiles, he said he hoped that the investigation was progressing well. He had heard that someone had been held on remand for a couple of days now, and hoped that this meant that the person in question would be charged shortly and the case could be closed.
I assured him that we were keeping the arrestee on remand, rather than pressing formal charges, with good reason. With a bitter taste in my mouth, I added that I hoped that his door was still open should I need any advice. He promised me that he would be there whenever needed, ‘with an open door and an empty desk’.
In a way, our parting in the corridor felt just as false as my parting from Frans Heidenberg at his house. Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen knew that I would never ask him for help if I could avoid it, and I knew that he knew.
I hurried on to my boss’s office and gave him a report on the day’s developments. He approved of my methods and plans, both with regard to the trip to Valdres and to keeping Kristine Larsen on remand until the case was solved. Otherwise, like me, he was concerned about the danger of a major attack of some kind or another. The risk of an assassination that the police could not prevent hung like a dark and threatening cloud over both of us. This had to be balanced against the possibility of sparking unfounded fears among the royals, top politicians and the population at large.
My boss agreed with the advice that I had given to the prime minister and opposition leader, but asked that he be informed as soon as possible after I had spoken to Falko Reinhardt. I could ring at any time in this evening, no matter how late, if there was anything new to report. We shook hands on that. My boss’s confidence in me was certainly a great support in the midst of so much uncertainty.
After the visit to my boss, I telephoned Patricia from my office and gave her the most important new information. She was once again very interested in the police security service’s work. The teenage gossip in Patricia reared her head again: she chortled down the line when I told her the story of Falko and Kristine at the cabin.
Then all of a sudden she was serious and grown up again.
‘I have only one question regarding the security service and Marie Morgenstierne, but it is important. Did the security service representative at any later point tell Marie Morgenstierne what he knew about Falko and Kristine? And if so, when? Ask him as soon as you have the opportunity, if the meeting with Falko has not cleared everything up in the meantime.’
I jotted down her question and promised to follow it up the next day. Then I asked if she could give me any advice for the Valdres meeting. She replied without any pause for thought.
‘Just one thing, but again, it is important. If you have time, go to see Henry Alfred Lien before you meet Falko, or otherwise, drive there immediately afterwards. Ask him first and foremost about the former Nazis and the mystery man in the photograph. But also ask him if he is willing to take a lie detector test stating that he did not drive Falko down the mountain the night he disappeared. And if possible, check his bookshelves to see if you can find the local history yearbook for Valdres, 1955!’
I replied that it was not likely that I would manage to drive up the mountain and question Henry Alfred Lien before six o’clock, but I promised to drive directly to his farm if Falko did not pitch up at the bottom of the cliff and explain everything.
‘Good,’ was Patricia’s response. Then she said no more.
There was something unsaid on the line between us. It felt as though she wanted to say more, only I was not sure what.
‘Well, then all that remains is to wish you a good trip to the mountains. Are you going alone this time, or together with someone else?’ she asked, finally.
I replied, perhaps somewhat curtly, that I was driving on my own this time and that I should probably be on my way very soon.
It sounded as though Patricia let out a sigh of relief before hastily wishing me good luck and then hanging up. I felt that we had drifted away from one another again.
With a stab of irritation at Patricia’s new jealousy, I wondered again if I should perhaps swing by the university library on my way to Valdres. But instead, I set off on my own at three o’clock as planned.
XI
The drive to Valdres felt far less inspiring than the previous trip. Long before I passed the Tyri Fjord, I regretted not having asked Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen to join me.
The weather, however, was clement and the traffic minimal, so the journey was smooth once I left Oslo. And following a hectic day with many mood swings, it was good to be able to think about the case in silence. When I reached Vestre Slidre around half past five, I still did not have any clear theory as to who had shot Marie Morgenstierne.
I was now leaning towards the idea that the mysterious other man who was either Trond Ibsen or Anders Pettersen was also the murderer, but more for want of a better theory. And as for the possible assassination plan, I now feared that it involved the former Nazis more than the young communists and the police security service, but still without any idea of what was going to happen and when.
The closer I got to the foot of the mountains, the greater I felt my potential fall could be. When I parked the car at the end of the dirt track at a quarter to six, I held a deep wish that Falko Reinhardt would give me the whole explanation, or at least enough for me to piece together the rest of the puzzle with Patricia’s help. It dawned on me that an alarming amount was now dependent on what he could, and wanted to tell us; and that a short and somewhat frantic late-night telephone conversation was my only guarantee that he would actually meet me here.
The first touches of autumn colour were in evidence, but it was still a magnificent late-summer evening in Valdres. I scoured the landscape, unable to enjoy it, for the city boy Falko Reinhardt, and wondered why he had insisted on meeting me here. His calm, convincing voice the evening before had made an impression: I trusted that he was in control of the situation and would come.
However, it was now five to six and there was no sign of him or anyone else. I wandered around in a small circle and looked in every direction to make sure I had not missed him. The countdown ran from five to three minutes, and then from two to one, without anything happening.
I stood and watched the second hand progress steadily through the last seconds to six o’clock. I felt both a little disappointed and a little anxious when I could still see no sign of Falko anywhere. I hoped that, for one reason or another, he was simply delayed, but as the minutes ticked by I soon began to doubt this.
At five past six, I asked myself just how long I should stand there waiting for a man who might have no intention of coming. And I also suddenly felt worried about my own safety. Something I had not considered before occurred to me: that I myself might be subject to a sniper attack out here in this open terrain. I comforted myself with the thought that if I had been lured into a trap, they would have got me straight away. This did not make the idea of standing here much longer any more tempting.
At seven minutes past six, I decided that I would wait until ten past. If Falko Reinhardt had not shown up by then, I would drive up to Henry Alfred Lien’s farm in the hope that I could salvage something useful from this trip to Valdres. Then I would have to decide whether it made sense to come back again and see
if Falko was here.
At nine minutes past six, I looked around in every direction. There was still no sign of Falko or anyone else. I raised my eyes to the top of the cliff, in the direction of Henry Alfred Lien’s farm and the Morgenstiernes’ cabin. Neither was visible from here. But at just over three hundred feet, the cliff was an impressive and frightening sight in the evening sun.
For a moment, my thoughts returned to Henry Alfred Lien and the story of his grandfather, who had stood down here just over a hundred years ago and watched the lad Karl jump, fall or be pushed over the edge.
I looked at my watch and saw that it was now ten past six.
It was when I looked up again that I saw the human body falling over the edge and down towards the rocks in front of me.
I could not tell whether it was a man or a woman. It was just a small dark shadow falling fast, feet first. I could not later be certain whether I had actually heard a scream or not. But that was what I thought, with the story of Henry Alfred Lien’s grandfather fresh in my mind.
I stood there as though paralysed and watched the person fall to a certain death on the rocks below, and heard a scream that certainly echoed in my ears. It felt like an eternity, although I later understood that the fall could not have taken much more than five seconds.
I recognized a man I had never seen alive before only as he hit the ground. His curly black hair was buffeted by the wind for the final seconds of the fall.
I stood there like a pillar as he fell.
A tiny movement on the periphery of my vision woke me up. I looked up to the top of the cliff and saw a small dark smudge of a person standing looking over the edge.
It was too high up for me to be able to see without binoculars whether it was a man or a woman, let alone make out any details. I was not sure if the person up there could see me, but I was absolutely sure that I could see a person standing up there at the edge of the cliff, staring down in my direction. It was a very strange feeling to see a murderer with my naked eye, without being able to recognize the person or make an arrest.
The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) Page 22