Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

She nodded.

‘Unfortunately, I also think I did. In fact I am increasingly certain that what I saw that night was real and not a nightmare.’

Then she stopped again and looked at me expectantly.

I gave her the little push she needed.

‘And that was…’

She met me, but still only halfway.

‘Well, it was in fact me rather than Kristine who had a headache. I normally sleep very heavily, and Kristine knew that. But I had a headache and it woke me up sometime in the middle of the night. I still don’t know when it was, but that doesn’t really matter. It was dark outside, so I guess it was the middle of the night.’

We were still beating about the bush. And my patience was wearing thin.

‘So, despite the fact it was dark, you still saw something that you did not expect to see, something so unexpected that you were not sure if you had dreamed it or not the next day. But you had seen it. And to stop me from putting words in your mouth, what you saw was…’

She cooperated, fortunately, as I was still unsure about what she was going to tell me.

‘Despite the dark, and with the proviso that I may have dreamed it, I saw Falko Reinhardt. In our room, in the bed – on top of Kristine.’

I should have realized. But the news was still a small shock, especially as it came from Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s delightful little mouth.

‘And Kristine certainly did not seem to be unhappy about the situation. It’s not surprising that the whole thing seemed rather unreal to me, and that I still struggle to believe that it was true.’

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s hand touched the cross she wore around her neck, consciously or unconsciously. Her voice was apologetic when she continued.

‘I have been so unsure as to whether I should tell you or not. It was bad enough to have to tell the police about a friend’s private life, but on top of that I really wasn’t sure if it was the truth or a dream.’

Again, I nodded. Then she did too.

We nodded in rhythm and drove in silence for a short while before I said that I fully understood her dilemma. On the other hand, the police was in fact me, and the context was an investigation into the murder of another friend of hers. In other words, she should tell me immediately if there was anything else of possible importance she had not mentioned.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen quickly replied that she could not think of anything else, but that she would tell me if she thought of something later.

So I followed up by saying that her explanation as to why she had not slept the following night was now clear enough, but that she could explain it for me again all the same.

I had expected a blush, or some other form of visible reaction. But there was nothing. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen answered without any awkwardness that she was quite curious by nature, and had found being so unsure very perplexing. So she had stayed awake in the hope of confirmation the following night.

‘But it didn’t happen. I can guarantee that Falko was not in our room the night he disappeared. And as far as I could hear, he was not out in the hall, either,’ she added hastily.

I asked how certain she was today that what she had seen that night was real and not a dream. She gave it some thought and then answered in a steady voice: ‘At least ninety per cent. There was a long dark hair on the sheet the following day, which could not be explained in any other way. And Kristine, who was otherwise normally so calm, seemed to be in more of a state than Marie in the hours after Falko had vanished. I was interested to see if she would say anything to me later. But she never said a word, and I didn’t want to ask.’

I nodded and said that I thought she had handled a difficult situation well. She thanked me warmly and gave me an almost mischievous little smile.

For the final short stretch up to Vestre Slidre, we drove in comfortable if pensive silence. It felt as though we were thinking the same thing. In short, Kristine Larsen might suddenly have had a strong motive for killing Marie Morgenstierne, especially if Falko Reinhardt was still out there somewhere.

A few minutes later we stopped outside the cabin where he had so mysteriously disappeared exactly two years and two days ago.

My expectations regarding the standard of Martin Morgenstierne’s cabin were considerable, but it surpassed them. It was more like a large family home with its four bedrooms, kitchen, living room and bathroom, complete with toilet and shower. But it would appear that it had been standing unused for two years now. According to Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, the bed linen belonged to the cabin and was the same as had been on the beds that fateful night. She still remembered the night in impressive detail, and promptly pointed out the living-room window where she had seen the masked man peer in earlier on in the evening.

We carried on to the bedrooms. Trond Ibsen and Anders Pettersen had each a room to themselves by the front door. Then there was the double room where Kristine Larsen and Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had slept, and the double room where Falko Reinhardt and Marie Morgenstierne had shared their last nights together.

I made an attempt to sneak past the door without any shoes on, but the floorboards creaked loudly under my feet and Miriam heard me straight away from the bed in the room where she had slept. It seemed unlikely that anyone could have sneaked out that way.

Miriam had been right about the window, much to her relief. It was high up on the wall and no more than twelve inches wide. I had to stand on a chair to reach it, and even then could barely stick my head out through the opening. It would not have been possible for Falko Reinhardt to squeeze his body out through the frame.

In short, two of three possible ways in which Falko Reinhardt could have left the cabin were swiftly eliminated. Miriam looked at me with great curiosity when I said that I had another theory to test. Then she sent me a pleading look when I asked to be left on my own in the room for a few minutes. She was, however, very disciplined and obedient by nature, and took her book out of her bag without protest when I shrugged apologetically and pointed to the living room.

I spent the next quarter of an hour making a crude investigation of the room’s walls, ceiling and floor. Everything looked pretty normal, and I was sceptical of Patricia’s theory to begin with. And my scepticism in no way diminished when I had tapped my way across all four walls, including the cupboard, and across the few feet of open floor.

However, my pulse started to race when I discovered first one and then two more loose nails in a floorboard under the bed where Falko and Marie had slept.

My excitement increased when it turned out that the double bed was not attached to the floor in any way.

I pulled it to one side and took out the four loose nails in the floorboard, and could then confirm that a space just wide enough and deep enough to hide a person had been dug out below. And none of the nails in the floorboard in question, nor the one beside it, had been hammered in properly.

I stood there looking down at the secret chamber. It was easy enough to picture it now. Falko Reinhardt had either discovered or dug out this space himself beforehand, and on the night of the storm, he had loosened the floorboards and slipped down there. I stood for some time and pondered why he might have done this.

I then went to get Miriam, told her about the cavity under the bed and asked her if she had ever seen or heard about it before. She looked at me, impressed, and with naked curiosity peered down into the secret hollow. She shook her head firmly and assured me that it was not something she had heard about – or even imagined existed.