Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

For the rest of the trip, I dreaded being the messenger of death – to Falko’s parents as well as to Kristine Larsen. The world would quite possibly collapse for all three of them.

The fact that it was so late was my excuse: it was past eleven o’clock when I finally drove into town. I would have to tell them in the morning, and use the rest of the evening on the investigation. I drove straight to 104 -108 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street.

Patricia had kept her word, and was waiting patiently. The maid Beate opened the door immediately when I rang the bell, and assured me that she would serve dinner as soon as it had been heated. It was only then I realized that I had not eaten for nearly ten hours. And then, on top of all my other worries, I was suddenly beset with anxiety about how Patricia’s father might view my late visit. Professor Director Ragnar Sverre Borchmann was still someone I would not care to provoke or get on the wrong side of.

I cautiously asked the maid if the professor had already gone to bed. She replied that the professor was away, then added with a shrewd little smile that the director would certainly not object to my visit, however late it was, had he been here. This was a token of encouragement and recognition from a childhood hero that I still held in high esteem. I asked Beate to pass on my greetings the next time he rang home. With another smile, she promised to do this.

The dinner that later appeared on the table was a superb roast pork. But this time, it was only for me. Patricia had obviously eaten already. She took careful sips from a cup of black coffee, but otherwise remained motionless in her wheelchair. I could not remember having seen her so serious before. Her concentration was intense.

‘There is much to indicate that Falko Reinhardt killed Henry Alfred Lien. But who then killed Falko afterwards? It could hardly be suicide?’ I said, eventually.

Patricia choked on her coffee and only made things worse by trying to speak before she had properly cleared her throat. It seemed to me that her nerves were on edge. Her voice, however, was just as sharp and confident as usual when she managed to use it.

‘Falko Reinhardt definitely did not kill himself. And nor did he kill Henry Alfred Lien. The situation now is very frustrating, as I can tell you more or less what happened, but not the most important thing, which is who shot Henry Alfred Lien and Falko Reinhardt. And this double murderer might be at large out there. It is most likely to be a person we have not met and do not know the name of. And now that both Falko Reinhardt and Henry Alfred Lien are dead, I have no idea how we might find out. This person is clearly both driven and dangerous, and everything seems to indicate that he is planning to do something terrible in the next few days. One obvious danger is that we are talking about a hired assassin of some sort.’

‘You mean the man who has been removed from the photograph?’ I asked.

Patricia nodded.

‘Of course, we cannot be certain, but it does seem highly likely. The former Nazis were probably right when they said they were not responsible for Marie Morgenstierne’s death. But they have obviously survived as a network, and have for many years played with ideas and plans about how to take their sweet revenge on society. Marie Morgenstierne’s death and the attention it has been given has in some way accelerated the process, and things could explode at any moment now. The key to the two deaths today and the planned attack are buried somewhere in all this.’

She let out a measured breath, and then carried on.

‘It was obviously not the king’s engagement in Asker this evening. They reported on the radio that the opening of the swimming pool had been a great success. So Falko was right when he said that there was no danger of an attack today. But now that Falko himself is dead – anything might happen from tomorrow on.’

I dared to venture that the initials SP in Falko’s first note fitted with Stein Pedersen, whom the police security service had wanted to protect for so long. Patricia gave a thoughtful nod.

‘Yes, it is an odd coincidence, and one should be wary of ruling things out in such circumstances. But all the same, the idea of an assassin being employed by the police security service does seem a bit unlikely. And how did Falko then get the person’s name? And why did he not just tell us?’

I had to admit that I had no answers. Instead, I asked her about the other note that referred to Heftye, which could hardly mean anyone other than Falko Reinhardt’s supervisor, given the number 66? There were not many other Heftyes left in Oslo, I dared to add.

Patricia pulled out the telephone directory for Oslo and Akerhus from the shelf behind her, and looked it up.

‘Eleven, including the professor. That is not many. But the number sixty-six is only nearly right – if the professor celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday a few days before Falko disappeared in 1968, then he must have turned sixty-seven a couple of weeks ago. A somewhat distracted Falko could of course have thought that he was still sixty-six. Do check with the professor where he was today, and what his plans are for tomorrow. But what on earth would he have to do with an attack? If I were to imagine an old radical left-wing history professor being involved in a terrorist attack, it would certainly not be in cooperation with old Nazis. And I do not understand why Falko would use the abbreviation ‘SP’ for Professor Johannes Heftye. Nor, for that matter, why he would then write out the name when he otherwise appears to use abbreviations for people in his notes.’

And neither did I. The new note was more and more mysterious.

‘What happened in Valdres, then?’ I asked.

For a moment, Patricia looked confused, but then she straightened up and leaned across the table.

‘Sorry, I thought that was fairly obvious. All the pieces fit here. We have discussed at length who was the security service’s mole in Falko Reinhardt’s group – but not who was Falko Reinhardt’s mole in the Nazi network. But it was obviously Henry Alfred Lien, who saw this as his chance to be forgiven by his anti-Nazi son. It is possible that this was the main reason for him taking up again with his friends from the war years. He and Falko Reinhardt were both useful to each other. Falko Reinhardt was tipped off by Henry Alfred Lien in 1968 that the Nazi network was considering some form of action. Relations within the group may also have contributed to Falko Reinhardt’s decision to disappear. After discussing this with Henry Alfred Lien – and possibly with some practical assistance – he escaped from the cabin in the most ingenious way, and disappeared down the mountain and out of the country. The incident in the local history yearbook certainly corroborates the theory of cooperation. Henry Alfred Lien knew the old story and Falko, with his sense of drama, got an idea that he could not resist. Falko dreamed about coming back as a national hero; Henry Alfred Lien hoped he would be forgiven by his son. They kept in touch, and Falko returned when he heard earlier this summer that an attack by the former Nazis was imminent. Are you following so far?’

I nodded, and waited with bated breath for the continuation.

‘Today, Falko was due to have a final meeting with Henry Alfred Lien before his meeting with you, when he would tell you what he knew about the planned attack. The plot is so big that he expected to be some kind of national hero if he single-handedly uncovered it. But Henry Alfred Lien’s role as double agent had been discovered, possibly because Christian Magnus Eggen and Frans Heidenberg found out about the photograph. Henry Alfred Lien had set the table for his meeting with Falko when he suddenly stood face to face with someone completely different altogether: someone who had come to kill him, and did so. Falko arrived just after this, and was unarmed and suddenly facing an armed murderer. They both immediately understood the context and gravity of the situation. Falko must have run out of the house in a blind panic, and was pursued and shot, first in the foot and then in the chest. In the meantime, he managed to lose the note that you found. The murderer then, in cold blood, dragged the wounded Falko the last few yards to the cliff, stuffed the gun into his pocket and pushed him over the edge. It was an impressively quick-witted attempt to make it look as though Falko Reinhardt had shot Henry Alfred Lien and then taken his own life, or at least to cover his own tracks. Both bodies could have lain there for days, until it was all over, if you had not been there.’