Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

I looked at her, slightly confused. Her smile was utterly disarming.

‘I am sorry for using a concept that I made up myself, without thinking. I’ve used it so much that I forget it is not a given for everyone else. A catalyst murder is a murder that, intentionally or unintentionally, sparks or accelerates other dangerous processes. A catalyst murder can involve both very famous and completely unknown people. A prime example from world history is the murder of the Austrian crown prince, Franz Ferdinand, in 1914. It set in motion processes that only a few weeks later, with almost chemical predictability, sparked a world war that would cost millions of lives – without that ever having been the murderer’s intention. In much the same way, it feels as though the death of Marie Morgenstierne may have accelerated dangerous processes in several of the circles she moved in, either directly or indirectly, and the risk of an explosion will continue to increase by the hour until we find the murderer.’

I nodded and used the opportunity to impress her with some borrowed reason.

‘I perfectly understand what you mean. And the risk of an explosion is also mounting because Marie Morgenstierne moved in a grey zone between three circles that are all relatively small and driven by a perilously fervent belief in their cause.’

Patricia furrowed her brow and looked at me with something that resembled suspicion.

‘Did you come up with that by yourself? It is a valid point, and I have given it considerable thought myself. If you mean the old Nazis, young communists and police security service, we are talking about three extreme sectarian groups, each in their own way, where one or more individuals could easily get it into their head that the end justifies the means.’

I nodded again to show my agreement, without answering the question. It crossed my mind that Patricia and Miriam were in fact more similar than I had previously thought, despite being so different on the outside. And I definitely had no thought of mentioning that to either of them.

Patricia had finished her cup of coffee, but was still not finished for the evening.

‘It is difficult to say whether it was the intention of the person who shot Marie Morgenstierne or not. But something very dangerous is brewing in one or more circles out there. I have no doubt that we will find poor Marie Morgenstierne’s murderer within the next few days. But I am very worried that we may lose the fight against time with regard to preventing a greater catastrophe. We will get no further at the moment, but contact me as soon as you find any new information that I might be able to wrestle something more from.’

I took the hint, and stood up to leave just as the clock on the wall struck ten.

Despite our very different backgrounds, Patricia and I had started to understand each other rather well by now. As she talked, I had understood that she had a very definite theory about who had shot Marie Morgenstierne, but that she was not ready to air it yet. And after the day’s events, I shared her fear that the countdown to a major explosion might have started.

As I drove home alone through the dark, my thoughts continued to circle round the day’s events and tomorrow’s possibilities. It could prove to be a very interesting, if not very pleasant, Monday. I clearly had to speak to the two old Nazis again and put more pressure on the head of the police security service.

I locked the door to my flat in Hegdehaugen at twenty past ten. At twenty-five past ten, I got an unusually late telephone call.

The voice at the other end, which I had heard before, asked if this was ‘Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen’. But the voice sounded different on the telephone and the man who was calling was far more confused than when I first spoke to him. I knew who he was before he even said his name.

‘Please forgive me for phoning at this time, but it is because I have something that might help you with the investigation and could be very important. My wife and I have discussed it and neither of us felt it was right not to call you, even though it is late. This is Arno Reinhardt. And something absolutely incredible has just happened!’

He stammered and swallowed. I gave him the time he needed. Then suddenly everything tumbled out.

‘Falko came back to see us this evening! He’s alive and unharmed. At around nine o’clock, there he was standing at the door, out of the blue. He looked exactly the same as before, it was as if he had not been gone a day. My wife and I both thought it was a dream. But we hugged him and even took a picture of him before he disappeared again!’

It was easy to imagine the scene. And it was very moving, in the middle of a murder investigation.

I told him how pleased I was, and said that it must be an enormous relief for him and his wife. His voice sounded happy when he continued, but it also sounded bewildered and anxious.

‘Yes, thank you, it was the greatest moment of our lives, after taking him home with us in 1945, of course. But now he’s vanished again, and the mystery of who might have shot his fiancée remains… So we’re overjoyed, but worried about him all the same. We thought that we should tell you immediately, and ask you to let us know if there is anything we can do to help solve the case.’

I threw myself at this opportunity straight away and asked if Falko had said anything about where he had been or where he was going. However, it transpired that his parents, in a state of shock, surprise and joy, had not grasped much other than that their son was alive. He had told them in brief that he had first gone to the Soviet Union and from there on to China, as Norway was under great threat, and that he had come back now, despite this danger, because he had an important task to fulfil. The future of the nation might depend on it, he had said.

Falko Reinhardt had promised to come back again in a few days, and had asked to borrow the keys to his father’s car in the meantime, which they of course gave him. He had let them take one single picture and then, despite his parents’ protests, disappeared into the night as suddenly as he had come. He had assured them that everything was under control, but in their flustered state, they did not know if they dared to believe that. They had begged him to contact me and he had told them that he planned to do that, without giving any more details.

We finished the call at a quarter to eleven, with a mutual agreement to let one another know immediately if anything important happened.

I felt as confused as Arno Reinhardt sounded in those late evening hours. Things were hotting up on the trail of Falko Reinhardt in Oslo. But not only was it still unclear where he was hiding, but also whom it was he feared, and what he was waiting for before contacting me.

At eleven o’clock I decided that there was not much more I could do on the case that Sunday evening, and that the best thing would be to go to bed so that I was well rested for what would no doubt be a demanding Monday. I was in bed by ten past eleven, but was still lying wide awake at a quarter to twelve. The ongoing investigation was in danger of becoming an obsession.

And at ten to twelve, the telephone rang again. I jumped out of bed and raced into the sitting room to get it.

I reached the telephone after the sixth ring. The first thing I heard was some pips that told me that the call was being made from a telephone box. The second thing I heard was a voice that I had never heard before, but immediately recognized. It was just as I had imagined: educated and confident, with only a hint of an accent, but otherwise grammatically perfect Norwegian.

‘My apologies for calling so late, but as I am sure you understand, I have had a rather hectic day. My name is Falko Reinhardt, and I have reason to believe that you would still like to talk to me?’