‘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.
The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) Page 26