Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

There were no messages of any interest waiting for me on my desk. The morning papers only carried short notices about ‘two highly suspicious deaths in Valdres’, without mentioning any connection to me or to Marie Morgenstierne’s murder. Professor Arne Næss was on his way to show his support for the demonstrators in Mardøla, and the Institute for Nuclear Energy had suggested that building a nuclear power station in Porsgrunn could solve the country’s energy problems. And in Sweden, the debate regarding a ban on motorsport events had flared up again following a dramatic fatal accident during a rallycross race in Karlskoga. The fact that one of the five dead was a Norwegian guaranteed a front-page report in Dagbladet.

In short, there was no spectacle in the morning papers. The operator, however, reported a rise in the number of calls from journalists, even before eight o’clock.

I formulated a brief press release to confirm that two as yet unnamed people had been shot in Valdres, and that the police had linked these two deaths with that of Marie Morgenstierne in Oslo five days earlier. It was not possible to release any further details in light of the ongoing investigation. The investigation team had, however, been reinforced following the two latest murders, and the police believed there was a good chance that the case would be solved before the end of the week.

My hand trembled slightly as I wrote the final sentence. I was aware that this might buy me a couple of days, but that the pressure would quickly mount if there was still no good news by the time the weekend came round. Part of me trusted Patricia’s reassurances that the murder of Marie Morgenstierne would be solved in a matter of days now. And part of me would be happy if we managed to get through the next couple of days without a major catastrophe, given the situation.

I had secretly hoped that Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen might be ill or have taken an unexpected holiday, but was of course disappointed. That only happened once every leap year, if that. Danielsen was already sitting in our boss’s office when I knocked on the door at a quarter past eight to get the press release approved. Luckily, my boss had no comments to make, and Danielsen limited himself to pointing out two possible comma errors.

My boss then confirmed that the investigation had been expanded to include Danielsen. To Danielsen, he pointed out that I was still leading the investigation. We both nodded quickly, and shook hands with forced friendliness.

For the next fifteen minutes I told Danielsen what I thought he needed to know about the case so far. I then repeated that it would be natural to call Frans Heidenberg and Christian Magnus Eggen in for questioning again, and asked if he could take on this important part of the investigation at such short notice. He nodded eagerly, and then left the office once he had the addresses and a copy of the photograph from Falko Reinhardt’s hotel room. I myself ran more than walked back to my office to carry on with the investigation, having first agreed with my boss that he would get an update during the lunch break at midday.

I had thought of giving the sad news to Kristine Larsen first, and then hearing if she had anything more to add. She had not heard about her lover’s dramatic death the evening before, and was still sleeping with a smile on her lips, according to the female prison warden. I thought it was going to be difficult enough to tell Kristine Larsen the news without having to wake her from a pleasant dream as well. So I left the quiet unit without having been in her cell, but instructed the warden that no one should talk to her until I returned.

I was no less apprehensive about telling Falko’s parents of the death of their only child. But it was easier than I had anticipated. They seemed to support each other in an impressive way through what must have been the most terrible hour of their lives. They were standing side by side and hand in hand in the hallway when I arrived, and looked at me with serious eyes.

‘Falko has gone forever this time, hasn’t he?’ the father asked, in a quiet voice.

I nodded, and braced myself for a dramatic outburst or breakdown that never came. I saw tears in Falko’s mother’s eyes, and deep, deep despair in his father’s. But they stood there, their thin hands locked together.

I told them that it had been midnight before I came back to Oslo, following my hunt for their son’s murderer, and I had been unable to find a priest who could come in my place.

They nodded and said that was understandable, and that it was better to get the news from me than from a priest. Given a choice, they would rather it was me, Arno Reinhardt said, and pursed his lips.

They had expected the worst after hearing about the suspicious deaths in Valdres on the news the evening before, and had sat up all night waiting to hear more, on the radio, on the telephone or at the door.

Astrid Reinhardt asked me to tell them what had happened. They both listened without asking any questions or criticizing anything that I told them, which was really only a brief outline. Falko had been wearing a summer jacket when he went out of the door here, they said, and had his wallet and the car keys in the pocket.

Otherwise, they had little to add that might be of any benefit to the investigation. The note with ‘Heftye 66’ meant nothing to them, other than that it was his supervisor’s name. They knew him superficially from his time in the communist party and found it hard to believe that he might have anything to do with their son’s death. But they found any of it hard to understand.

‘In a way, we have always thought it would end like this,’ Falko’s mother remarked, with a heavy sigh. I looked at her questioningly. It was his father who answered. After decades of marriage, they seemed to have reached the stage where each knew exactly what the other was thinking.

‘We said to each other when we saw him for the first time that we never believed we would experience such joy, and that we didn’t know what we had done to deserve it. Our Falko was the most beautiful child in the world, brighter and stronger than all the others. We worshipped him, but we clearly never really understood him. We were not wise or clever enough to do that. And now our only son is dead, and we can’t even help you catch the murderer. We didn’t manage to win our son’s trust enough for him to confide in us the danger he was in, so we couldn’t protect him. We will have to live on our memories from all the happy years we had with him.’

Arno Reinhardt’s voice was shaking terribly, but did not break. His wife nodded in agreement and lovingly put her arm around him. ‘Despite all our failings, we did have many more happy years with him than those who have never had a child,’ she said.

The silence was tense, and yet resigned.

Finally I said that I would do my utmost to hold the murderer to account, and added that it appeared that Falko had been trying to warn me of some imminent catastrophe when he was killed. And I hoped that this catastrophe could be prevented, on the basis of what I now knew, so that their son’s contribution would be recognized even in death.

They nodded simultaneously.

‘We are not even able to feel hate for the murderer. Our son has gone forever. All his life, he was distrusted by many, just as we ourselves have been, because of his political views and visions of a better world. It would be an enormous relief if you could highlight that and give us some answers about what actually happened. And until you return, we will sit here with our questions,’ his mother said, and looked me straight in the eye.

The air in the flat felt more and more oppressive. I said that I would do my best and that I would telephone them immediately if there was anything more they could help me with, but for now, I had to leave and get on with my work and, if possible, prevent any more deaths.