Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

‘Strictly speaking, I cannot rule out that the woman I spent yesterday evening with was not married, though I would be very surprised. The problem is that I in fact don’t know her name and she would hardly be a reliable witness if the police were to find her. But I couldn’t claim that I had been at home alone, because if that had then come out in the papers, she could accuse me of making false statements.’

He sent me a pleading look, then buried his face in his hands. It was only then that I understood the situation.

‘So what you are telling me is that you spent yesterday evening with a woman you had paid to keep you company?’

His head and hands nodded for a couple of seconds. Then suddenly, everything poured out.

‘Tactfully put, yes. It would be extremely embarrassing and potentially a disaster for my practice if it were to get out. My relationship with women is hopeless. I have never been caressed by a woman other than those I have paid. And believe it or not, this was the first time I had actually done it. It was my first ever physical encounter with a woman, and I have regretted it ever since. But this murder investigation has just made everything even more unbearable, and reminded me of my last and greatest humiliation.’

My mind started to put the pieces together.

‘Of course, when Marie Morgenstierne finally got over Falko, she chose Anders Pettersen and not you?’

He nodded. This was followed by another furious outpouring. The psychologist was obviously letting all his pent-up frustrations out now.

‘That was the final and hardest straw. The fact that Kristine Larsen preferred the missing Falko was less of a blow. Anders is politically simple, generally lazy, constantly broke and not particularly talented as an artist. And he gloated in the most disgusting, arrogant way. I don’t understand what she saw in him, and it felt like the greatest and most demeaning of all my failures with women!’

This was said with great indignation. I feared he was going to explode, and allowed him some time to settle down again before I continued.

‘So what you are saying now is that Anders Pettersen had managed to do what you wanted most in the world, that is, to go to bed with Marie Morgenstierne. And that it is very likely that he is the father of her unborn child?’

His nod was instant and, it seemed to me, a little spiteful.

‘Yes. That fits with the timescale. It was at the start of June. I saw it in his smile first. And then he told me straight out: by the way, I have now been where you have always wanted to go. A delightful, undulating landscape. I might just settle there for good. I understood immediately what he meant, and hated him more than ever.’

Trond Ibsen had now hit rock bottom, only to bounce back. When he carried on speaking, he suddenly became the psychologist, with only the hint of an undertone in his voice.

‘Bedding her was possibly Anders’ greatest physical achievement. He felt that he was Falko’s successor in both political and personal terms. He no doubt wanted their relationship to be public, but I don’t for a moment imagine that he wanted to become a father. He often said that having children was a form of egotism that could not be combined with revolutionary work, and should therefore be left until after the revolution. So it could well be that you now have the motive and the murderer you are looking for.’

I nodded.

‘It will be followed up. But you do understand that this does not exonerate you? Based on what you have just said, jealousy could be your motive, and that clearly does not rule out the possibility that you killed Marie Morgenstierne.’

Trond Ibsen gave yet another deep sigh, but looked me squarely in the eye when he replied.

‘Formally, you are of course right. But then I would definitely have killed him, and not her. And, given my history with her and others, I obviously wouldn’t want any kind of investigation that involved us. I have always feared that it would end like this, with me being acquitted of murder, but exposed to ridicule. As far as women are concerned, I’m useless and I know it. But I have honestly never killed any of the women who have rejected me, even though there are quite a few now, and some of them have been very cruel.’

This was said with great emotion. Trond Ibsen’s mask was definitely crumbling in front of my eyes. The man who emerged was complex, and held secrets that no one would have expected. But even when I saw Trond Ibsen unmasked, I still did not see a murderer.

So I said that I would do my utmost to prevent the secrets of his private life from getting out. He brightened up visibly, thanked me and said once again that he had now told me things that could cause him great embarrassment and spell disaster for his new practice.

So our conversation ended on a relatively good note. He promised that he would be available for further questions over the next few days, should that be necessary, and wished me luck with the investigation. I made my way home, feeling a mixture of sympathy and contempt for him. But I was remarkably sure that Patricia was right, and that Danielsen’s theory that Trond Ibsen was the murderer was a red herring.

To my astonishment, I was asked to wait for a moment – a rare occurrence indeed – when I turned up at Patricia’s as agreed at half past nine. When I was shown into the room three minutes later, Patricia was sitting waiting with coffee and cakes, and apologized that she had had to take an unexpected phone call.

She had fully regained her composure, and congratulated me straight away on the day’s great success. But it did strike me that there was something, if not exactly unfriendly, perhaps rather slightly brusque about her this evening. She listened dutifully to my detailed account of the drama at Frogner Square, and repeated afterwards briefly that one could only hope that the patient would recover.

While waiting to hear more from the hospital, I tried to think as little as possible about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. So instead I congratulated Patricia on her brilliant reasoning that had foiled the attempted assassination of the leader of the Labour Party. She shrugged dismissively, and looked uncomfortable.

‘I should have picked up on the time and place earlier. As soon as I knew that Bratten was going to give a speech at Frogner Square today and heard the words Heftye 66, I should have realized that it was the street and not the person. The fact that it might refer to the age of one of the parties involved was distracting, but I should have seen the connection. And I should have guessed earlier that the SP stood for Super Pater. The pieces only fell into place suddenly when I discovered the explanation for the letters in Henry Alfred Lien’s diary. B fitted perfectly with bank manager, who was also the man Falko had called Super Pater, and what’s more, he lived in Frogner. I have not been very focused for the past couple of days, so please excuse my outburst; it’s simply frustration at myself.’

We then moved on to discuss the investigation of Marie Morgenstierne’s murder.

Patricia nodded approvingly when I told her about my visit to Trond Ibsen and then swiftly took up the thread.

‘Just as I thought – so the solution should be just around the corner now. We can rule out the idea that Falko Reinhardt was the father of Marie Morgenstierne’s unborn child. And Trond Ibsen’s history is such that it gives us every reason to believe that he was certainly not Marie Morgenstierne’s lover.’

I interrupted her and asked how she could so categorically dismiss the possibility that Falko was the father. She lit up with an almost childish grin.

‘The simple fact that he was still a long way from Norway, according to the tickets found in his pocket, when some man peeled off his fiancée’s panties here in Oslo. On the other hand, there is more and more to indicate that Anders Pettersen was there when that happened. Confront him with it, and with the fact that he was standing in one of the side streets when she started to run. I don’t know if he saw Falko, or if Falko saw him; nor do I know if Marie Morgenstierne saw either of them. But I am almost certain that it was him standing there.’