Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

The man by the window did not think that he could get away with such a heroic deed, but the possibility of succeeding was very real. It was a seductive thought, that he might be able to walk home calmly after the assassination and go in to work as normal in the morning, while the whole of Norway and half of Europe talked about the murder of the leader of the Labour Party and speculated about what sort of cunning, daring man might do such a thing.

No matter what happened, he was standing here now, by an open window on the third floor, ready to raise the gun as soon as Trond Bratten went up onto the stage. If Bratten did this as planned, everything else would be simple. The angle was perfect, and the lectern stood there like the bull’s eye at a shooting range. He could see the leader of the Labour Party standing with his wife just below the stage, papers under his arms. It was so typical that he could not even do the simplest thing without a manuscript and hours of preparation.

The man in the window looked impatiently at his watch and saw that it was still only twenty-eight minutes past four.

It was when he looked up again that he noticed a worryingly fast movement on the periphery of his vision, down on Frogner Square.

I later remembered remarkably little from my wild dash towards Frogner Square. When I got out onto the street, I remembered in a flash that the car was too far away and that the car radio was not working anyway.

So I carried on running down the street. I heard the soles of my shoes hitting the asphalt, without feeling that they were part of my body. I ran past people on the pavement, without ever thinking that they were people and that I might bump into them. When I then saw Frogner Square, I accelerated.

People continued to slip away in front of me until one of them, on the edge of the crowd in Frogner Square, did not see me in time. I vaguely noticed that she was holding something in her hands, and that she was just standing there without moving. And then we collided.

For a moment I stared straight into a pair of familiar eyes. I first saw confusion, then a spark of happiness, and then visible disappointment as I ran on. And somehow I still did not register that it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen I had bumped into.

Following the collision, I stopped and looked around but saw none of the four constables that I knew had been assigned to the rally. To make my way through the throng of people was never an option I considered. The sea of people in front of me looked impenetrable, and I had no idea where Trond Bratten might be. I was entirely focused on 66 Thomas Heftye’s Street, a four-storey brick building that faced onto Frogner Square. I saw two open windows, one to the right on the second floor and the other to the right on the third floor. Not a person was to be seen in either of them.

As I forced open the front door, I ran past a wall clock. It was one minute and forty seconds to half past four. I set my aim for the second floor and, still without feeling my feet, bounded up the steps two at a time.

The murderer recognized the running man as soon as he saw him, and once again felt the adrenalin surge through his body.

It was Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen, who had come to his house to talk to him only a few days ago. The one that the newspapers, with their renowned lack of style, called ‘K2’. Kristiansen had seemed pretty stupid to him, but the murderer had later suspected that he might be smarter than he first appeared. The murderer had said more than he intended in the course of their conversation.

Christian Magnus Eggen had told him on the telephone yesterday that Kristiansen was on the right track, but they did not think he would manage to piece it all together in time. So his presence now was something of a shock, especially as he was heading at full speed towards the building. There was an odd little interruption when the detective inspector bumped into a young woman in the crowd who was standing there reading a book. But Kristiansen almost immediately carried on running towards the building.

The man by the window paradoxically felt some relief when he saw Kristiansen carry on. His greatest fear was that someone would warn Trond Bratten and stop him from getting up onto the stage. When Kristiansen appeared, the murderer instinctively feared that he would plough through the crowd and do just that. He heaved a sigh and relaxed when the detective inspector then carried on running towards the building, and he noted that there were no uniformed police to be seen in the sea of bodies.

The door to the room was locked from the inside and was solid. Even if the detective inspector found the right door in time, he would take an age trying to get it open.

B would in practice have no hope of escaping via the back stairs after the murder. But that was a sacrifice that he now, as a widower with no children, was prepared to make for the great cause. If his peers and countrymen wanted to condemn and punish him, he was certain that he was doing the country a service that he would later be thanked for. He would leave behind no descendants, but his name would be remembered and praised by many for generations to come.

The murderer hurried over to the door to make sure it was locked.

When B got back to the window, he saw the woman with the book. And instantly cursed her.

Following the collision with the detective inspector, the woman had first simply picked up her book and watched him run on, bewildered. But now she was making her way through the crowd towards the stage, where Bratten was still waiting.

The compère was a well-known union man, a big fat idiot who had no doubt lived on taxpayers’ money for years. He was standing ready by the stage, but made no sign of moving. It was one minute to half past four.

The man by the window stood there with the gun in his hand for the next thirty seconds. Down on Frogner Square, the compère had still not gone up onto the stage to introduce the party leader. Bratten was standing between his wife and some others in the shadows below the stage. The woman with the book was snaking her way through the crowd with unexpected force.

On the positive side, there was still no noise from the corridor. Kristiansen still had a long way to go before he got into the room.

And finally, the compère now went out onto the stage to undeservedly rapturous applause down on Frogner Square.

Without knowing whether the murderer was on the second or the third floor, I instinctively headed for the right-hand door on the second floor. The door was locked, but I could hear sounds from inside.

I rapped on the door and shouted: ‘Open up, this is the police! We know you are in there! Open the door immediately!’

Suddenly all was quiet inside. I heard heavy steps across the floor. But I could not tell whether they were moving towards the window or the door, nor did I know if it was the right floor. My desperation rocketed when I then looked at my watch just as the second hand passed half past four. Then, without saying any more, I threw my entire body weight against the door. It shuddered, but remained locked. It was a wooden door with a new frame, which looked like it could take a thump or two.

After this, however, I heard a frightened man’s voice shout from inside: ‘Don’t knock down the door, I’ll be there as soon as I can unlock it.’

There were a few seconds of fumbling by the door before it opened. In the opening stood a thin, obviously frightened man in overalls, with a small paintbrush in his hand. He calmed down a bit when he saw my police ID, but his voice and body were still trembling. The man mumbled that he was a joiner and janitor for the building, and he was only trying to varnish the new window frames while the workmen were on holiday.