Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

To my relief, the man with the stony face nodded his approval.

‘I will monitor the situation over the course of the day, but I think I agree with your opinion as long as there is no direct threat to the royal family. Please make sure that I am informed immediately of any new information that might give grounds for concern.’

Without waiting for a reply, he stood up and left the office, accompanied by my boss.

I was left sitting in the office on my own, with an ever greater sense of responsibility for the case and its potential for catastrophe.

Two minutes after my boss had left the office, I checked my pulse just to make sure, and it was still racing at 150. And that was even before I started to dial the number of the head of the police security service, Asle Bryne, at Victoria Terrace.

Asle Bryne gave a stifled sigh when he heard my voice on the telephone. It was just the encouragement I needed to complete my offensive.

‘I am sorry that I have to disturb you again, but you really have put both me and the investigation in a very difficult situation.’

‘I see,’ he said. His voice sounded somewhat resigned, but also guarded in anticipation of how much I knew.

‘I have every reason to believe that the security service agent was not only present on the evening that Marie Morgenstierne was shot, but also on the evening when Falko Reinhardt went missing. The agent is easy to identify physically, even though it seems he was running around in Valdres wearing a mask. One can only imagine what the press will make of it should the story get out.’

For the last time, I expected an outburst that never happened. There was an embarrassing silence on the line. I smiled at the phone and mentally chalked up Patricia’s win over the security service, 3-0. Asle Bryne gave what could only be described as a heavy sigh before he continued.

‘It is unfortunately true that one of our agents has overstepped his authority and made some mistakes in this case. But he is an excellent agent who for many years has contributed to the security of our land and its people. And you can take my word for it that he has nothing whatsoever to do with either the murder of Marie Morgenstierne or the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt!’

I heard myself say that I of course did not doubt his word, but that, given the developments in the case, I now had to meet this man in confidence to hear what information he could give me.

Then I heard Asle Bryne reply in a very faint voice that he totally understood that, and that the most important thing now was to make sure that the press and politicians did not get wind of it, and that I could of course meet the man in private if I came to Victoria Terrace at midday. To which I replied that I unfortunately already had a meeting at midday that was of crucial significance to the country and its people, but that one o’clock should be fine.

Asle Bryne’s reply was even curter than usual: ‘Fine,’ he said, and put down the telephone.

I sat with the receiver in my hand and laughed out loud. But it was not long before I was serious again. It was now past nine o’clock, and on my list of people to speak to before my meeting at eleven with the prime minister were two former Nazis and an elderly couple.

By five past nine, I had decided to drive over to Falko’s parents in Grünerløkka first, and then, if time permitted, to Frans Heidenberg and Christian Magnus Eggen.

But just as I stood up, the telephone on my desk started to ring. I registered that the mounting pressure in the case now resulted in a quickening of my pulse every time the telephone rang.

The first thing I heard was the pips from a telephone box. I waited for a moment, expecting to hear either Falko Reinhardt’s voice from the evening before, or an unknown, threatening man’s voice. But it was in fact Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s pleasant, measured voice that spoke: ‘Hi. I’m sure you are very busy today, so I won’t keep you long. But the library has just opened and I checked in the book, as I promised I would. And it really was on 5 August 1868 that Karl jumped, fell or was pushed over the cliff in Vestre Slidre. Source: Local history yearbook for Valdres, 1955, page 14.’

As Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen spoke, several things occurred to me in rapid and rather messy succession. First of all, she had obviously recognized my voice and taken it for granted that I would recognize hers. And secondly, her matter-of-fact voice had a calming effect on me in the midst of all the chaos. Thirdly, she must have been standing ready at the entrance when the library opened in order to have got this information by five past nine. And fourthly, I was going to Valdres again that day and wanted to ask her to come with me.

I opened my mouth to ask if she could come. But she beat me to it.

‘And is there anything new to tell? Or anything else that I can help you with today?’

The questions were asked in the same level, helpful and prosaic manner. And yet they felt like two cold showers in succession. The letters ‘SP’ began to echo in my mind. I sat there for a few seconds and wondered if this was just another manifestation of her desire for knowledge, or if it was a cynical attempt to get information about any developments in the case.

The fear of misjudging, and of a possible police scandal, got the better of me. Against my own will, I did not ask Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen if she would like to come to Valdres again. Instead I thanked her briefly for her help with the yearbook and said that there had been a number of developments, but that I was not able to talk about them on the telephone. I promised to contact her if and when I could tell her more.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen said that she perfectly understood, but her voice sounded less happy when she said it. And at that moment, the long pips told us that the line would be cut in a matter of seconds. She wished me good luck with the day’s work, said that she had to get back to the library and then put the receiver down before I had time to say goodbye.

I sat for a minute or two and wondered if I had done the right thing, or just made an enormous mistake. I obviously continued to ponder this subconsciously in the car, because after driving for three minutes I discovered that I was heading west towards the university instead of east towards the photograph gallery in Grünerløkka. I stuck resolutely to my decision, turned around at the first opportunity and went east.

Falko Reinhardt’s parents were waiting, and opened the door as soon as I arrived. The red rims round their eyes told of a sleepless night, and it seemed they were both still in the grip of very mixed emotions. It crossed my mind that I had never before seen such a well-harmonized and close couple. As if to illustrate this, they were holding between them a large, newly developed black and white photograph.

Falko was embracing his mother in the picture, but still looking at the camera squarely, evidently self-aware. He was still very much himself even after two years’ absence. The man in the photograph was tall, muscular and dark, with curly hair, and looked as though he was firmly convinced that he could fulfil a difficult and important task. I was not sure whether I would actually like Falko Reinhardt or not, when we finally met. But I certainly hoped that his confidence in this case was well founded. Despite Patricia’s accurate conclusions, the outcome of the investigation was entirely dependent on what Falko Reinhardt could and wanted to tell me.

I told them that Falko had called me just before midnight and that we had arranged to meet in Valdres that evening. They thanked me sincerely for letting them know and said that they were happy that he had been in touch. But they had no idea why we should meet that evening, or in Valdres. This new small puzzle within the greater puzzle seemed to make them more anxious about the situation.