Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

My working day started unusually early on Saturday, 8 August. I got out of bed at a quarter past seven, and twenty minutes later was sitting at the breakfast table. Dagbladet expressed disquiet at the situation in South Vietnam and feared that the changes necessary there would not happen as long as the USA continued to support the corrupt regime. Morgenbladet , on the other hand, printed a critical commentary on the dictatorship in North Vietnam and was concerned that many more lives would be lost if the USA did not get the support it needed to continue its heroic war effort.

For want of any new developments, the murder of Marie Morgenstierne had fallen out of the headlines – which suited me very well for the moment. I hastily pushed the papers to one side after reading a scathing article in Aftenposten about a Swedish policewoman who had fallen head over heels in love with a well-known criminal. He had been arrested following a police raid on the policewoman’s flat, and she was now on indeterminate sick leave. The article prompted unfortunate memories in me, but was a useful reminder of just how serious these matters could be.

At a quarter to eight, I was therefore eager to start my working day. It occurred to me that I should at least inform Marie Morgenstierne’s father of what had happened so far.

I got hold of Martin Morgenstierne at home at ten to eight. He said that he was on his way to the bank, but asked if there was any news about the murder investigation or if there were any more questions he could answer.

I explained that some unexpected information had cropped up, and asked whether he was certain that he had not heard or seen anything to indicate that there was a new man in his daughter’s life in the past couple of years. He repeated that he had had more or less no contact with her during that period, or with anyone else in her immediate circle. He could thus not rule out that there was a new man in her life; but he had not heard or seen anything to indicate this, and if it was the case, he had no idea who it might be.

There was a moment’s silence. Then he asked, understandably enough, what sort of unexpected information had led to this rather surprising question.

I could not very well lie to a man who had lost his only child no more than a few days ago. So I told him the truth: that the autopsy had shown that his daughter was pregnant when she was murdered.

His reaction was instant and unexpectedly passionate, given how calm and controlled he had been only hours after hearing of his daughter’s death.

‘It can’t be true! Oh – the shame for the family!’ he almost bellowed into the receiver.

We were both silent with shock for a moment. He regained his composure with impressive speed.

‘Please excuse my outburst, but this on top of everything else only makes things worse for myself and the rest of the family. As you understand, I have no idea who the child’s father is. Are there are any more questions I can help you with? Otherwise, I really should be on my way to the office.’

I said that I had no further questions for the time being and apologized for disturbing him so early on a Saturday morning. He replied that he was grateful to be informed, but that he would be even more grateful if the news could remain strictly confidential. It would only add to the strain on himself and his siblings’ families if this got out, particularly if the newspapers started to speculate and ask questions about the case.

I told him that I unfortunately could not promise that I would be able to keep it out of the newspapers forever, but that I would do my utmost to keep it from becoming public knowledge.

Martin Morgenstierne’s thanks were polite and succinct.

Then we had nothing more to say to each other, and so ended the call.

I was left with my slice of dry toast and cup of lukewarm coffee – and the feeling that it had been a greater shock and blow to the conservative Martin Morgenstierne to learn that his daughter was pregnant than that she had been killed.

Sogn Halls of Residence came into view at twenty-seven minutes past eight. I had driven a little faster than I should have, in order not to be late.

It was a grey morning, the sky above the halls of residence was overcast and there was drizzle in the air. The students who had stayed there over summer had presumably gone home to their parents for the weekend, or were sleeping off the festivities of Friday night.

Much to my relief, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had done neither. She was standing there alone in the cool morning air, wearing a blue raincoat with no hood and holding a small string bag in one hand. I took it as a good sign that she was there early, and was not looking around for somewhere she could read.

She looked momentarily confused when I pulled up, but her face lit up when she recognized me.

As she got in, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen remarked that she had been expecting a police car. I told her that I had taken a civilian car so I could drop her off at the office door that afternoon, and added that I was disappointed to see that she had not been reading while she waited.

She laughed her peculiar laugh and retorted that it would be unwise to let the books be damaged by the rain, and as they were borrowed from the university library, it would also show a lack of solidarity. She was almost triumphant when she produced a huge tome about English literature in the nineteenth century from her string bag, but, much to my relief, made no attempt to open it. Then we sped away from the Oslo drizzle, towards the mountains of Valdres and the two-year-old riddle of a disappearance.

I thought it safest to wait with any critical questions until we were well out of Oslo. So I started by asking my passenger to tell me a bit about herself. This proved to be the right approach. The next hour or so was filled with pleasant chat about her parents and brother in Lillehammer, more details about her life at the university and predictions of how the SPP might do in the coming election. The weather brightened as we started to climb the narrow road up towards Valdres.

The mood in the car was very jolly. But then, on a rather desolate stretch of road, I finally ‘thought’ of a little question that I had in fact been dreading asking for the past two hours. I asked as kindly as I could about a tiny and possibly irrelevant detail – that is, was the door to the bedroom where Kristine Larsen and Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had slept still ajar in the morning, the day before Falko disappeared?

There was a resounding silence. For about thirty seconds, the only sound to be heard was the steady purring of the engine. The atmosphere felt all the more intense as we were passing through a desolate landscape. It suddenly felt as though we were the only two people in the world. Her voice was somewhat tense, though still controlled, when she finally broke the pregnant silence.

‘No. The door that had been ajar the night before was closed in the morning, even though I woke up before Kristine. I’m afraid it is possibly not a completely irrelevant detail.’

I gave her a meaningful nod, but was still not quite sure where this was leading. She was fortunately now on a roll, and carried on without prompting.

‘I really didn’t mean to hide anything from you. But it’s quite a step to talk to the police about a friend’s private life. Especially as I am still not sure whether I saw what I thought I saw, or whether I dreamed it.’

This time my nod was encouraging and I assured her that I did not blame her in anyway. But I added that it could be very important, and that I was certain that she had seen what she thought she had seen.