Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

Then all of a sudden she was serious and grown up again.

‘I have only one question regarding the security service and Marie Morgenstierne, but it is important. Did the security service representative at any later point tell Marie Morgenstierne what he knew about Falko and Kristine? And if so, when? Ask him as soon as you have the opportunity, if the meeting with Falko has not cleared everything up in the meantime.’

I jotted down her question and promised to follow it up the next day. Then I asked if she could give me any advice for the Valdres meeting. She replied without any pause for thought.

‘Just one thing, but again, it is important. If you have time, go to see Henry Alfred Lien before you meet Falko, or otherwise, drive there immediately afterwards. Ask him first and foremost about the former Nazis and the mystery man in the photograph. But also ask him if he is willing to take a lie detector test stating that he did not drive Falko down the mountain the night he disappeared. And if possible, check his bookshelves to see if you can find the local history yearbook for Valdres, 1955!’

I replied that it was not likely that I would manage to drive up the mountain and question Henry Alfred Lien before six o’clock, but I promised to drive directly to his farm if Falko did not pitch up at the bottom of the cliff and explain everything.

‘Good,’ was Patricia’s response. Then she said no more.

There was something unsaid on the line between us. It felt as though she wanted to say more, only I was not sure what.

‘Well, then all that remains is to wish you a good trip to the mountains. Are you going alone this time, or together with someone else?’ she asked, finally.

I replied, perhaps somewhat curtly, that I was driving on my own this time and that I should probably be on my way very soon.

It sounded as though Patricia let out a sigh of relief before hastily wishing me good luck and then hanging up. I felt that we had drifted away from one another again.

With a stab of irritation at Patricia’s new jealousy, I wondered again if I should perhaps swing by the university library on my way to Valdres. But instead, I set off on my own at three o’clock as planned.

The drive to Valdres felt far less inspiring than the previous trip. Long before I passed the Tyri Fjord, I regretted not having asked Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen to join me.

The weather, however, was clement and the traffic minimal, so the journey was smooth once I left Oslo. And following a hectic day with many mood swings, it was good to be able to think about the case in silence. When I reached Vestre Slidre around half past five, I still did not have any clear theory as to who had shot Marie Morgenstierne.

I was now leaning towards the idea that the mysterious other man who was either Trond Ibsen or Anders Pettersen was also the murderer, but more for want of a better theory. And as for the possible assassination plan, I now feared that it involved the former Nazis more than the young communists and the police security service, but still without any idea of what was going to happen and when.

The closer I got to the foot of the mountains, the greater I felt my potential fall could be. When I parked the car at the end of the dirt track at a quarter to six, I held a deep wish that Falko Reinhardt would give me the whole explanation, or at least enough for me to piece together the rest of the puzzle with Patricia’s help. It dawned on me that an alarming amount was now dependent on what he could, and wanted to tell us; and that a short and somewhat frantic late-night telephone conversation was my only guarantee that he would actually meet me here.

The first touches of autumn colour were in evidence, but it was still a magnificent late-summer evening in Valdres. I scoured the landscape, unable to enjoy it, for the city boy Falko Reinhardt, and wondered why he had insisted on meeting me here. His calm, convincing voice the evening before had made an impression: I trusted that he was in control of the situation and would come.

However, it was now five to six and there was no sign of him or anyone else. I wandered around in a small circle and looked in every direction to make sure I had not missed him. The countdown ran from five to three minutes, and then from two to one, without anything happening.

I stood and watched the second hand progress steadily through the last seconds to six o’clock. I felt both a little disappointed and a little anxious when I could still see no sign of Falko anywhere. I hoped that, for one reason or another, he was simply delayed, but as the minutes ticked by I soon began to doubt this.

At five past six, I asked myself just how long I should stand there waiting for a man who might have no intention of coming. And I also suddenly felt worried about my own safety. Something I had not considered before occurred to me: that I myself might be subject to a sniper attack out here in this open terrain. I comforted myself with the thought that if I had been lured into a trap, they would have got me straight away. This did not make the idea of standing here much longer any more tempting.

At seven minutes past six, I decided that I would wait until ten past. If Falko Reinhardt had not shown up by then, I would drive up to Henry Alfred Lien’s farm in the hope that I could salvage something useful from this trip to Valdres. Then I would have to decide whether it made sense to come back again and see if Falko was here.

At nine minutes past six, I looked around in every direction. There was still no sign of Falko or anyone else. I raised my eyes to the top of the cliff, in the direction of Henry Alfred Lien’s farm and the Morgenstiernes’ cabin. Neither was visible from here. But at just over three hundred feet, the cliff was an impressive and frightening sight in the evening sun.

For a moment, my thoughts returned to Henry Alfred Lien and the story of his grandfather, who had stood down here just over a hundred years ago and watched the lad Karl jump, fall or be pushed over the edge.

I looked at my watch and saw that it was now ten past six.

It was when I looked up again that I saw the human body falling over the edge and down towards the rocks in front of me.

I could not tell whether it was a man or a woman. It was just a small dark shadow falling fast, feet first. I could not later be certain whether I had actually heard a scream or not. But that was what I thought, with the story of Henry Alfred Lien’s grandfather fresh in my mind.

I stood there as though paralysed and watched the person fall to a certain death on the rocks below, and heard a scream that certainly echoed in my ears. It felt like an eternity, although I later understood that the fall could not have taken much more than five seconds.

I recognized a man I had never seen alive before only as he hit the ground. His curly black hair was buffeted by the wind for the final seconds of the fall.

I stood there like a pillar as he fell.

A tiny movement on the periphery of my vision woke me up. I looked up to the top of the cliff and saw a small dark smudge of a person standing looking over the edge.

It was too high up for me to be able to see without binoculars whether it was a man or a woman, let alone make out any details. I was not sure if the person up there could see me, but I was absolutely sure that I could see a person standing up there at the edge of the cliff, staring down in my direction. It was a very strange feeling to see a murderer with my naked eye, without being able to recognize the person or make an arrest.

It did not last long. The smudge of a person soon moved back from the edge and out of my sight. And at the same time I heard a loud, painful moan. I realized that it must be Falko Reinhardt, who was lying where he had fallen without being able to move. I felt a stirring of hope and rushed over to him.