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.
DAY EIGHT
The triumph and the tragedy
I
When I finally got to sleep early in the morning of Wednesday, 12 August 1970, my sleep was deep and dreamless. I was woken with a start, not by the alarm clock but by the telephone.
Instinctively I leaped out of bed when I heard it. Then I remembered what had happened the day before and dashed as fast as I could into the living room, in only my underpants. I got to the phone in time, on the fifth or sixth ring.
It occurred to me that it was strange that the alarm clock had not woken me. So I glanced over at the clock on the wall and discovered that it was twelve minutes to nine. Bernt Berg, the head surgeon, would not have started his morning shift yet. I was therefore terrified to hear his voice on the other end all the same.
‘This is the head surgeon, Bernt Berg. I hope I did not wake you. I got to work a little early today.’
His voice was just as monotonous and grave as when he had told me the evening before that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen might not survive the night. The complicity was no longer there. My heart sank and my pulse raced.
I realized that the surgeon had gone to work early so he could call me as soon as possible – yet he said nothing, waiting for me to ask, which was even more alarming. I asked with trepidation if there was any news of the patient.
He replied swiftly and briefly: ‘Yes, we managed to prevent blood poisoning and the crisis is over.’
Everything suddenly seemed surreal. For a moment I feared that I was dreaming. I banged my left arm on the edge of the table, and to my great relief, it hurt. And just then the alarm clock started to ring in the background. I was very definitely awake. And the doctor’s voice was very clear on the telephone.
‘I hear your alarm clock ringing,’ he said, with unflappable calm.
I apologized for the alarm clock and asked what he thought the patient’s chances of survival were now.
‘Almost one hundred per cent. A truly miraculous improvement,’ he replied.
The greatest sense of relief I had ever felt in my life swept me off my feet. I felt lighter and giddier than I had ever felt before. I put down the receiver and jumped up and punched the ceiling with joy.
Then I picked up the receiver again and said to Bernt Berg that he was an excellent doctor and one of the best people I had ever met.
Whether the surgeon found it pleasing or confusing to be told this by a policeman or not, he did not allow himself to be affected in any noticeable way.
‘There is a good chance that the patient will be able to talk to you for a few minutes if you come by sometime later on this afternoon. Have a good day in the meantime,’ he said, then put down the phone.
I stayed sitting by the telephone in only my underpants, giddy with relief, for about ten minutes before I managed to pull myself together. I let the alarm clock ring, suddenly loving the sound of it. When it finally stopped, I went into the bedroom and got dressed.
I felt it might be irresponsible to drive in my semi-ecstatic mood, so I walked to the nearest bookshop to buy a six-volume work on the history of Norweg
ian literature. Then I walked back the other way to buy flowers. As I then walked home, I realized that I had not yet eaten breakfast or looked at the newspapers.
It was a quarter to ten by the time I got back to the flat. I quickly ate three slices of bread while I skimmed the papers. My elation was in no way diminished to see that the Mardøla protest and SALT negotiations had now very definitely been squeezed to one side in the papers, and the attempted assassination of the Labour Party leader was all over the front pages. Longer articles inside explained that it was I who had personally managed to foil the attempt at the last minute, and that the arrested assassin had also admitted to both of the Valdres murders.
The fact that a female onlooker had helped to prevent the assassination, and been badly wounded as a result, was mentioned in both Aftenposten and Arbeiderbladet without any further details or the victim being named. But both promised to print more details about her, and the case in general, the next day. And both expressed heartfelt praise for the head of investigation’s efforts in connection with the Valdres murders and the attempted assassination in Oslo. They both concluded with the news that the arrested assassin was the father of the late Marie Morgenstierne, and that her murder had still not been solved.
I now felt I was in a fit state to drive a car again, but wanted if possible to have the murderer with me the next time I met Detective Inspector Danielsen. So I dialled Anders Pettersen’s number from my own phone. There was no answer at a quarter to ten, or at five to ten. But at five past ten, he suddenly picked up the phone.
Anders Pettersen sounded very sleepy indeed, or just plain hung-over. I was terse and said with some authority that there was every hope that the murder of Marie Morgenstierne would soon be solved, which I believed would be of interest. He gave a slow yes to this, and then another when I asked if he could be available for further questioning in half an hour.
II
I was interested to see whether Anders Pettersen would be at home when I rang his doorbell half an hour later. If he had done a runner, it would be as good as a confession.
Anders Pettersen was both sleepy and hung-over, but he had definitely not done a runner. The door was opened as soon as I rang the bell, and the inhabitant had managed to have a shower and put on a nearly presentable black suit in the meantime. He shook my hand and congratulated me with something akin to respect on foiling a ‘Nazi plot’ the day before.
I suddenly doubted whether he could be the murderer, which spawned an equal curiosity as to who else Patricia might have in mind. First of all, I had to see what kind of statement Anders Pettersen would give in his defence, given the circumstantial evidence against him.
It would be wrong to say that Anders Pettersen’s flat was tidy. There was a half-finished painting on an easel in the middle of the living room, and a long row of empty beer bottles lined up higgledy-piggledy by the kitchen door. He had, however, tidied the coffee table and the chairs. Once seated, we got straight to the point.
I started by saying that I had reason to believe he had not told me the whole truth with regards to Marie Morgenstierne, but that I was now giving him another chance to do so. He nodded hastily to show he understood.
‘I apologize profusely for not having told you the truth before. This was partly due to my lack of trust in the police, but more than anything, due to the shock when Falko came back.’
‘You feared his reaction if he discovered that you had started a relationship with his fiancée in his absence?’
I held my breath in anticipation of a fierce denial. But instead he nodded, and shrugged with open palms to underline the point.
‘I am not easily frightened. It was more shock than fear. We had all been in Falko’s shadow: he was our guiding light when he was here. Everything changed when he disappeared. Time passed. Whenever we met, we of course always expressed our hope that he would come back. But after eighteen months with no sign of life, we all thought he was gone for good. The group needed someone new to lead our fight for a fairer society – and Marie needed a new man to support her in life.’
He fell silent, then hesitated, but did eventually carry on with determination.
‘If we had known that Falko was still alive and would come back, we would never have done it.’
He repeated this twice, as if to ensure that both he and I believed it. I wanted to move on, so allowed myself to be easily convinced.
‘I believe you, and it is perfectly understandable that you all thought he was dead. So you started a relationship with his fiancée in the belief that he was gone forever. And you initiated it, didn’t you?’
He nodded.
‘She was very attractive, and her personality shone all the more when she emerged from Falko’s long shadow. Slowly things developed between us. I played the role of sacrificial friend for a long time, but during the spring I began to hint that she needed to build a life without Falko. She dismissed this initially and seemed to think of me purely as a friend. She was cold towards me physically whenever I touched her. She said several times, almost as an apology, that the uncertainty about Falko’s fate made it impossible for her to think of anyone else. Towards the end of April, I thought to myself that never before had I spent so much time talking to a woman and getting so little in return. Then suddenly in the middle of May, things started to move, and then they moved fast. One Tuesday she phoned me to say that she thought I was right, that Falko would not come back alive. On the Thursday she told me that now, in retrospect, she recognized some of the less positive aspects of Falko’s character, and that as he had left us guessing for so long, it was perhaps no bad thing if he didn’t come back. And by the Saturday, when I greeted her with a hug, she was suddenly smouldering . . .’
A smug grin slipped over his face. For a moment, his eyes became dreamy and unfocused. But then he snapped back into the present again, his face grave once more.
‘So it was me who initiated things in the spring, but by the summer she was far keener than me. And I enjoyed it, believe me. She was my dream woman, in terms of her personality and politics. But the uncertainty about Falko was there all the time, and then it seemed to bother me more than her. She talked about making our relationship public and once even asked if I would move in with her. All of a sudden, it seemed she had no inhibitions. But he’d been like a big brother to me when we grew up, and still was. So I hesitated and asked if we could keep it secret until the second anniversary of his disappearance. She agreed reluctantly.’
I suddenly remembered Patricia’s question, and asked who else had known about the relationship. A sneering smile played on his lips.
‘We assumed that the police security service, and thus also the CIA, knew as a matter of course. You’ll have to ask them yourself when they found out. But I’m guessing it was before we did.’
I did not laugh. He was serious again.
‘I reckoned that Kristine had guessed, but I never mentioned it to her and I don’t think Marie did either. They had been close friends, but seemed to be drifting a bit. I did, however, mention it to Trond. He had shown obvious interest in Marie himself so I thought he had a right to know, in a way. But as I said, our psychologist has a bit of a complex when it comes to women and did not like to be reminded of his numerous failures in that area. So I was sure that he wouldn’t pass it on to anyone.’
I nodded, both to him and myself. The painter’s version was more idealized, but it still fitted with what Trond Ibsen had told me.
I waved him on, but he just looked at me and waited. I could not help asking, even though my pulse still raced whenever I mentioned her name.
‘Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen?’
He shook his head.
‘We had no contact with that class traitor and revisionist. I haven’t spoken to her for over a year, and I don’t think that any of the others have either. Certainly not about that. Of course, we hope that she’ll survive being shot by a Nazi, but otherwise – well, no thank you.’
I pushed on.
>
‘What about Marie’s father?’
He gave a scornful laugh.
‘On the subject of Nazis . . . No thank you, absolutely no way. Neither of us wanted to talk to him, and certainly not about this. She commented that we could tell him with a wedding invitation when the time came – and that we could invite him without worrying about whether he would turn up.’
‘Your parents?’
He shook his head with a faint smile.
‘I’ve taken a few too many girlfriends home in my time. My parents told me that they didn’t want to meet any more until I was engaged. Marie wanted to meet them, but I held back. But . . .’
I looked at him expectantly.
‘But I do think that Falko’s parents might have known about us. We were standing hand in hand on a street corner one warm summer’s day in July, when suddenly we realized that the woman who had passed us was Falko’s mother. We weren’t sure if she had seen us and it didn’t seem natural for any of us to keep in touch any more. We didn’t hear anything from them. Marie took the episode as an argument for us soon to go public, but I was still reluctant.’
‘Then she discovered she was pregnant. When did you find out?’
He started, then shrugged – and now, at last, he became emotional.
‘Believe it or not, only when you told me yesterday. It was more of a shock than it perhaps should have been, given that she wanted us to be open about our relationship. And having played it so cool only weeks earlier, by the early summer she was dynamite – like a wild animal in bed sometimes. The neighbour below me here said with obvious envy that he hoped I would soon find myself a quieter lover.’
The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) Page 30