Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

I was shocked, both by my own oversight and by Patricia’s extreme reaction. But her conclusion, as she now presented it, was very convincing. The possibility of being able to close the case soon was suddenly within reach. So I jumped up, and more or less ran through the corridors and down the long stairs of the Borchmann home.

I vaguely registered that Patricia shouted something to me as I ran out of the room. The two sentences continued to rattle around my brain as I bounded down the stairs, and it was only when I was out in the driveway that they fell into place.

‘If you find Falko, please ask him if he recognized anyone other than Marie at the scene of the crime. But first, ask him if he knows what they are planning and when it is going to happen!’

The hotel manager had gone away for the weekend, and would not be back until Monday morning. It was a shame, the young, dark-haired receptionist commented with a jaunty little smile, because he was her uncle and would no doubt have set great store in being here right now. She soon became serious again and added that the mysterious guest in Room 27 was still here, as far as she knew. He had paid until tomorrow and had put his empty breakfast tray back out again this morning. I asked if she had a spare key to the room. She nodded gravely.

I said that there was not likely to be any drama, and that the guest was at present not suspected of anything criminal. It might, however, be advantageous if a representative from the hotel was there as a witness when I knocked on the door of Room 27. She nodded and put her hand to her mouth in a moment of anticipated adventure. ‘Almost like a James Bond film,’ was her quiet remark. Then she was once again the same rational receptionist who was responsible for her uncle’s hotel. She found a key that was marked ‘Spare 27’, put out a sign that said ‘back shortly’, and pointed me in the direction of the room.

We mounted the stairs in concentrated silence and walked down the corridor past rooms 1-10. She pointed out Room 27 for me with a slightly trembling finger as soon as we passed Room 23. It was clearly a quiet summer weekend in the hotel: there was no one to be seen, and not a sound to be heard in the corridor.

The atmosphere was somewhat uncanny as we stood there outside Room 27. My companion made her way discreetly to the end of the corridor and pressed a light switch. This certainly helped. The whole corridor was lit up by three large ceiling chandeliers. But nothing more of any interest was to be seen in the corridor as a result. And it still felt slightly unreal to be standing outside Room 27. The door was a very ordinary brown hotel door. It could be hiding either an empty hotel room, or the solution to both the murder and missing-person mysteries.

As we stood there for a few moments more, I considered whether I should do something I had thought about on the way over: that is, to call out a stronger police presence before knocking on the hotel door. But the situation did not feel dramatic or in any way threatening. There was much to indicate that the bird might have flown the nest already – if, indeed, it had ever been here. If the hotel room was empty, or we found a poor, nervous tourist in there, a stronger police presence would be an overreaction that Danielsen and other envious colleagues might use to poke fun at me. And if Falko Reinhardt really was behind the locked door, he was contained. It seemed rather unlikely that he would attack a policeman in such a situation, even if he was armed.

There was still not a sound to be heard from inside the room. The receptionist’s hand was shaking a little, her eyes darting between me and the door. A strange understanding had developed between two people who had never met before. It struck me I did not even know the young receptionist’s name – and that she might in fact be in danger if she followed me into the room. I did think, however, that the risk was microscopic. And I was extremely curious as to who or what was hiding in the hotel room. She was now visibly trembling, but pulled herself together and gave me an encouraging smile. I took a deep breath and hesitated one more time. Then I changed my focus and knocked on the door.

The knocking produced no reaction. All remained quiet in Room 27.

My voice sounded like a peal of thunder in the tense silence.

‘We know that you are there, Falko Reinhardt. Open the door immediately. This is Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen, and I need to speak to you about the planned attack!’

The receptionist let out a small gasp and looked up at me with large blue eyes, as if I really were James Bond in a film. But the situation was real enough. And all was still quiet in Room 27.

The idea that I had arrived a few hours too late and that the room was now empty was increasingly convincing. However, the tension ratcheted up a further notch when I tried the door handle. The door was locked. And it was not possible to see anything through the keyhole, because the key had been inserted from the inside.

I waved my hand for the spare key. It was with some relief that she put it between my fingers. I pushed it into the lock and heard the key on the inside fall out. At the same time, I also heard more noises from inside the room.

The receptionist instinctively gripped my arm, but nothing dramatic happened. The sounds from inside the room were not easy to identify. It could have been drawers and wardrobes being opened and closed again. I was suddenly seized by a fear that the receptionist might get injured when the door opened. So I as good as lifted her to one side and out of sight of the door. Then I turned the key.

The light in Room 27 had been switched off. But it was easy enough to look around the room, which was a good hundred square feet, in the light from the corridor. And the room was empty. There were no personal belongings to be seen on the bed, chairs or desk by the window, and there was no trace of Falko Reinhardt or any other person.

My eyes turned instinctively to the bathroom door. I pulled it open. But there was no trace of anyone either on the floor or in the bathtub. The only sign that a guest had been there was a red toothbrush and a half-used tube of toothpaste. A forgotten electric shaver indicated that it was a man who had left the room in such a hurry. But the man himself was nowhere to be seen.

When I went back out into the room I almost collided with another person, but quickly regained my composure when it proved to be the receptionist. She pointed at the balcony door with a trembling hand.

I was so annoyed with myself at having overlooked this possible escape route that I almost swore out loud. The balcony door was ajar. I rushed over and looked out. The drop down to the lawn below was barely nine feet. I leaped over the railing and ran across the lawn down to the street.

I caught a glimpse of the fleeing hotel guest from Room 27 on the road outside the hotel. He was just turning into a side street about fifty yards away, and he was running fast. But he turned to look back for a moment, and I recognized him straight away. He was a tall, dark and muscular man, with long, curly hair that made him easy to recognize.

I ran after him down to the side road, but quickly had to face up to the fact that pursuing him any further was hopeless. Falko Reinhardt had a head start of at least fifty yards, and was not to be seen anywhere. He could have run in any direction.

I carried on running, but now heading back to the car to alert police patrols in the area via the radio. I quickly made contact and could give them a description, but had to accept that the chances were slim. There were only four patrols out on a Sunday evening, and I had a strong suspicion that Falko Reinhardt had planned his escape route. Whether he was in any way responsible for his fiancée’s death or not was still unclear, but what was clear was that he had been ready to escape from his hotel room at short notice if necessary.