Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

‘Hi. Anything new to report?’ she asked.

It was not the most gushing personal greeting I could imagine, but still a promising start.

So I replied that there was something new that I should perhaps tell her about, and in connection with that, I also had a few questions that I would like to ask her as soon as possible. And then hastily added that I really should get something to eat after what had been an incredibly demanding Sunday, and that perhaps she deserved a break and something to eat too.

This proved to be a good move. Five minutes later the SPP office was locked and the two of us were installed at a discreet corner table in a cafe a hundred yards down the street. Again, I vaguely noticed that there were people in the windows of both neighbouring buildings as we left the party office. I was not sure whether Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had noticed it or not. But I comforted myself with the thought that if she had, she certainly did not seem to be worried about being seen with me.

‘So, what’s happening?’ she asked, and looked at me expectantly. She continued to eat the plat du jour with laudable efficiency while she waited for an answer.

It occurred to me that I had in fact put myself in a very vulnerable position. I had talked so much to her on the trip to Valdres that I now did not have many questions I could ask without giving away more than I should about the case.

I asked again whether she had ever noticed any sign of romantic ties or interests within the group, other than Falko’s now known relationships with Marie Morgenstierne and Kristine Larsen.

She dutifully thought about it for a few seconds, then shook her head – and, naturally enough, asked if there was any reason why I was asking again.

This question only served to highlight my dilemma. I took a deep breath and launched in, told her that in order to move forward in the case, I had to tell her some more about it, but only on the condition that nothing of what I said would be passed on to anyone under any circumstances.

She nodded vehemently, crossed her heart and promised that she would not tell another living soul anything that I said, and then leaned impatiently over the table to hear more.

I started with some caution and told her that Marie Morgenstierne had been pregnant when she was killed, and asked Miriam if she had any idea of who the father could be. She fiddled with her pendant for a moment, and remarked with a sigh that it must obviously have happened after she had broken from the group. If one of the three men was the father of the child, she reckoned Falko to be the most likely candidate and Trond Ibsen to be the least likely. But that was something she thought rather than knew.

I then told her about yesterday’s dramatic events and the arrest of Kristine Larsen. She had clearly not heard about this, and looked genuinely surprised. Then she said what I expected and feared, in a controlled and firm voice: that she could not see Kristine Larsen as a murderer, and certainly not of a friend like Marie Morgenstierne.

I showed her the defaced photograph from Kristine Larsen’s flat. She took it in, and then offered the same opinion as Patricia – that it proved a deep jealousy, but that the leap from there to murder was enormous. Particularly for a young woman who, as far as one could see, had never handled a gun before.

I caught myself nodding in agreement. My belief that Kristine Larsen was the murderer was ebbing.

So far, I was on relatively safe ground with regard to what I had told her. The arrest of Kristine Larsen was in the process of becoming semi-official, as was Marie Morgenstierne’s pregnancy.

Towards the end of the conversation, however, I crossed a new threshold with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. And this happened when I lowered my voice and said that the investigation was very demanding because there was reason to believe that a major attack of some kind or other was being planned.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen now completely forgot her food and looked me directly in the eye. I hurried to say that it was still very uncertain what this involved, and that I could not say anything more about it at present. She nodded in understanding, and asked whether I knew which of the groups involved had initiated it.

I shook my head lightly.

She stared straight ahead, deep in thought, showing little interest in the food, and remarked that it must be hard to say anything about it.

‘From what you have told me, there seem to be three groups involved that all comprise a small cluster of people who believe that they have an almost God-given mission, and that the means are justified by the ends in each case. That is always a very dangerous situation,’ she concluded, pensively.

‘The Nazis, the communists – and who else were you thinking of?’ I asked.

‘Surely you have been in touch with the police security service by now!’ was her wry remark. She smiled mischievously and met my eyes again.

I could not help smiling, and even laughed for a moment. There was a lot of magic in the glance of this odd and charming young SPP member.

But the magic passed; she looked away, and then resumed eating. It did, however, still feel as though we were now a little closer. Enough for a quick hug and a longer ‘good luck with the next stage of the investigation’ when we parted outside the cafe around five.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had obviously been given food for thought as well. I noted with a small chuckle that she walked past the party office on the way back. As I drove on, I speculated on whether she was thinking about me, or the case. I hoped it was the former, but guessed it was the latter.

Whatever the case, I felt remarkably calm having spoken so openly with her. I felt much the same way as I did about Patricia, though different at the same time: that Miriam would not betray my trust. I had to admit, thinking of my previous murder case, I had misjudged a couple of young women in the past, but I felt almost a hundred per cent certain that I had not done so this time.

I arrived at Victoria Terrace at five to six, and was shown into Asle Bryne’s office without delay. He was waiting there in his swivel chair, his smoking pipe and bushy eyebrows in place. To my disappointment, he was alone in the room.

Patricia had obviously guessed correctly that the man with the suitcase was a member of the security service, but that was not enough to coax him out into daylight.

We did not shake hands; Asle Bryne nodded curtly at the chair in front of the desk, and I sat down in the spirit of cooperation. We looked at each other across the desk for quite some time. This time, it was he who broke the silence.

‘You are to be praised for your work and for the discreet manner in which you have handled this new information so far. There are no doubt others, both at the main police station and in the military intelligence, who would instead have tried to use the case to blacken the name of both myself and the police security service.’

I nodded to show my continued cooperation. He puffed on his pipe and his voice was a touch sharper when he continued.

‘I have decided, all the same, to have this meeting with you alone. I alone am the head of the security service. It is my responsibility and I cannot under any circumstances put the life of an employee who has simply done his duty for his country and organization on the line, as is the risk here.’

I tightened my lips and was about to say something, without having any idea of exactly what, but Asle Bryne stopped me and quickly carried on talking himself.

‘Since we spoke this morning, I have, however, been in touch with the employee in question and taken a written statement from him. This is for strictly confidential use only and you may read it here and now, when only we are present. If you have any further questions once you have read it, we will then have to see if I can answer them on behalf of the security service. Are the conditions clear?’