Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

‘No, you could hardly say that. It is both striking and rather unnerving that none of the witnesses who were walking behind her have come forward. I have at least six possible explanations in my head, but lack the information either to confirm or reject any of them. We will just have to wait and see what you get out of the security service tomorrow, and what your trip to Valdres might bring.’

I took the hint and stood up.

‘You are of course welcome to come for supper tomorrow evening. But if you take Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen with you to Valdres, remember to drop her off well before you come here.’

I smiled and assured her that I would remember to do that. Patricia’s mouth smiled back, but not her eyes.

I quickly thanked her for the evening. It had given us both a lot to think about. The ice cream was left half-eaten in my bowl, and untouched in hers.

From time to time it still worried me that the professor and company director Ragnar Sverre Borchmann might feel some resentment towards me as a result of the stress and danger that my first murder investigation had entailed for his daughter. It was also possible that he might have heard about my late and hasty retreat at the end of my second murder case, and hold that against me too.

On my way out I therefore remarked to the maid, Beate, that I had not had the pleasure of meeting the man himself this time. I had noticed that the maid simply called him ‘the director’. It was no doubt a far grander title to her ear than professor.

She promptly told me that the director was away, and for ‘business reasons and the like’ it was all very hush-hush where he was, and why he was there.

I gave a complicit nod when she said this. Borchmann’s business empire was so extensive that he could be away on all sorts of business in any number of places both within the country and abroad, and I had more than enough to think about already without speculating on his whereabouts.

I therefore said that I wished the director and his business well, wherever he was in the world and whatever he was doing. Beate replied that they all did, and that he was after all not so very far away. The director telephoned his daughter every evening and had said how glad he was to hear that I had come by.

I heaved a sigh of relief, thanked her and asked her to pass on my best wishes should she have the opportunity. She assured me that she would do her best.

It was eight o’clock in the evening by the time I got home to my flat in Hegdehaugen. I would never have guessed that I would one day call the SPP party office from my own home. But I did it now with pleasure and excitement.

The telephone in the party office was answered after four rings and to my relief it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen herself who answered. After the solemn atmosphere at the end of my visit to Patricia, it was a delight to hear such a happy voice – particularly as it sounded even happier when she heard it was me, and that I was calling about the murder investigation.

She asked if the fact that I was calling meant that there had been new developments in the investigation. I replied that there had been some progress, but that regrettably I could not tell her anything more right now. But I added that I needed a guide for a trip to Valdres in the morning, and that perhaps I could tell her a little more then, if she was willing to volunteer to come with me.

There was silence at the other end of the line for a moment. A breathless silence.

I hastily said that she could of course take a book or two with her, and there would undoubtedly be time to read on the journey. And that it could be of considerable importance to the investigation.

She answered slowly that a murder investigation sounded interesting, and that Valdres was a beautiful place that she knew well. She should be able to take the day off from her studies, given that it was a Saturday and that she still had three months to get through the reading list for her only exam that autumn. As far as the party office was concerned, it might not be so easy, as there were more papers to be sorted than usual.

I immediately promised that she would be back by half past five, and that I would drive her straight to the office on our return from Valdres.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen let out a peculiar peal of laughter, and said that it would perhaps be better for her career in the party if she was dropped a couple of blocks away, given that it was a police car – but that she would, on that condition, be able to come. We agreed that I would pick her up outside Sogn Halls of Residence at half past eight the following morning. Then we put the phone down at almost the same time – and, it seemed, in equally good spirits.

It was only a few minutes after I had finished the conversation with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen that it struck me that I should perhaps also check whether the farmer, Henry Alfred Lien, would be there. Directory enquiries were able to give me his number. He answered the telephone when I rang, but was not particularly friendly. His voice was monotone, hard and serious; it sounded as if he had not laughed since 1945.

I explained my errand, assured him that he was not a suspect in any way, but said that I hoped that he would be able to answer a few questions tomorrow in connection with the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt and the death of Marie Morgenstierne.

Henry Alfred Lien was not as negative as I had feared, given the reports of his behaviour in 1968, but it was not a jolly conversation all the same. He had nothing to hide, he said, and was fed up of being accused of things he had not done. He had seen a photograph of the young lady in the paper and thought it was a great shame, but did not understand how he could be of any help in the matter. He had never met the woman and had never been in contact with her.

In the end, however, he agreed to meet me for half an hour around lunch time, on the rather peculiar condition that I did not come in a police car. His reputation in the parish was already bad enough, and gossip could spread like wildfire from farm to farm; he said this without the slightest inkling of humour. He then added that of course he did not want to be associated with the case in the media in any way.

Relieved, I assured him that that would not happen. Henry Alfred Lien gave me some brief instructions as to how to find the farm and repeated that he doubted he had anything of interest to tell – but, he concluded, as I was a policeman and was coming all the way from Oslo, it was only right to meet me.

Towards the end of the third day of the investigation, I felt a growing unease. But I did not think that I could do anything more of value that evening, so in anticipation of my trip the following morning, I called it a day at around ten o’clock.

Two busy days of investigation had taken more of a toll than I had noticed: having watched the news while half asleep on the sofa, I went to bed and was asleep by a quarter to eleven on Friday, 7 August.

But then I woke up with a jolt at two in the morning – as the woman from the Lijord Line was running for her life towards me and the train. When I saw her coming towards me in my dream, I thought at first that it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, but then saw that it was in fact Kristine Larsen who was staring at me in panic through the window.

Luckily, I woke up before she was also shot. But I did lie there for the next thirty minutes or so pondering the meaning of the dream, and what Patricia had said. And suddenly I got the strange and uncomfortable feeling that she might be right: it did feel as though there was a great storm brewing – but I had no idea where it might come from, or who would be hit.