Hans Lahlum - The Catalyst Killing

‘The fact that she ran for her life made no impression on you?’ I asked.

He nodded, and buried his face in his hands for a moment.

‘To me it was just confirmation of her guilt. When fighting against the Falangists in the Spanish Civil War we learned that those who ran fastest were the guiltiest. I had thought of hearing what she had to say for herself. But when she started to run, I was left in no doubt. It was my doing, and mine alone. My wife didn’t even know that I went out that evening,’ he added, hastily.

I wanted to believe this, but did not know whether I could. Fortunately, I did not have to decide. His wife appeared at that moment, fully dressed and sombre, and sat down beside him without hestitation.

‘No matter what happens, we will always stand together, for better or for worse. It’s true, I did not know that my husband went out that night. But I was the first one to suspect that she had betrayed our son. I was the one who was convinced when I saw her standing there, holding hands with another man we knew nothing about. I was the one who asked my husband on the second anniversary of my son’s disappearance how long he had thought of letting those who were guilty go free. And when he came back that evening, it was I who said that he had done the right thing, and promised to help him conceal it.’

I looked at him. He nodded imperceptibly. Their fingers were now firmly entwined.

There was a strange, slightly unreal atmosphere in the room. There I was having an apparently relaxed conversation with an elderly couple, in the process of closing a complex murder case, and yet was experiencing one of the worst moments of my life.

I had nothing more to ask them. This was clearly a terrible tragedy.

She was the one who broke the silence.

‘Do you mind if we ask you a question? It could mean so much to us in the middle of all this… Is it really the case that our son might have been alive today, if we had not made such a fatal misjudgement?’

I had to think about this for a moment before I answered. I could not lie to two people who were guilty of murdering a young, pregnant woman. I could have said that their son would also still be alive had it not been for his own misjudgements, his exaggerated belief in his ability to sort things out alone and his inability to trust others, including his own parents and fiancée. But I thought that criticizing their son or his upbringing would not make things any easier. So I told them the truth: that it was sadly their fatal decision to take the law into their own hands that had resulted in the death of their son, and all that followed.

It was only then that they started to cry. And in a peculiar way, their tears made it easier. My sympathy for them waned when, seven days after killing an innocent young woman, the only thing they could cry for was the loss of their son.

I stood up and said that it was time to go.

They remained seated, holding each other tight.

He asked in a quiet voice if they could have a few minutes alone together first. And in a strange way, it felt as though we understood each other.

I thought about it for a moment or two. I definitely thought more about myself and the police than about them. Then I said that human life was sacrosanct for a country and its people where the rule of law applied, and that too many lives had been lost in this tragic case already. They gave an almost apathetic, synchronized nod, then stood up without any further protest.

On our way out, we stopped for a moment by all the photographs on the wall. None of us could bear to look at the last photographs. We stood instead looking at the first picture, the one of a little Falko with his smiling parents on their return to Oslo in 1945. They were holding hands in exactly the same way tonight. But their hands were old now, and Falko was no longer there. Arno Reinhardt picked up the old travel bag with one hand and held onto his wife’s with the other as he left his home for the last time.

Back at the main police station, a couple of hours were spent on congratulations, press releases and other formalities. My boss gave me flowers and endless congratulations on solving the final murder. He said that I would be on the front pages of all the national papers on Monday as a result, and that with three successful murder investigations under my belt I would soon be the country’s most famous policeman. It would only be a matter of time before I was promoted, despite my young age, and several people had suggested me for the rank of detective chief inspector.

Danielsen was nowhere to be seen, but according to unconfirmed rumours had handed in a sick note for the rest of the week. I resisted the temptation to suggest that he should be sent to Mardøla on his return. My boss was all smiles, happier than I had ever seen him before, and might easily decide that sending both Danielsen and me to Mardøla was a good way to resolve our conflict.

Other colleagues were more or less queuing up to congratulate me when I left my boss’s office. In short, the day at the station was almost perfect.

It was half past three before I could drive over to Patricia’s, and ten past four by the time I stepped into her library. She had coffee and cake waiting on the table, but still did not look like she was in a celebratory mood. Without saying a word, she indicated impatiently that I should sit down.

I told her in brief, and without too many details, about the arrest. She nodded but asked no questions, and seemed almost impatient to be done with the whole thing.

‘Many congratulations on another success. But unlike our last case, this does not call for celebration,’ she commented curtly.

She let out a deep sigh, then continued.

‘Your latest triumph is framed by tragedy. The Reinhardts were broken by their son’s disappearance, took the law into their own hands and killed another man’s only daughter. This, paradoxically, made him pull the trigger and set in motion a chain reaction that culminated with Martin Morgenstierne taking the life of the Reinhardts’ only son. The two young people are gone forever, and their three broken parents are in prison. And Henry Alfred Lien’s valiant attempt to atone for his old sins by preventing the assassination of the leader of the Labour Party ended in Lien losing his own life, instead of being forgiven by his son. Even the fate of the two former Nazis could perhaps have been different if sad family histories had not left them bitter old men. This case seems to have no end of devastating stories of parents and children.’

I allowed myself to point out that we had after all cleared up all the crimes, and what is more, averted the attempted assassination of the Labour Party leader at the last moment. I hastened to add that this was largely all thanks to her brilliant conclusions, and that I would never have managed to solve the case without her.

Patricia’s smile was tenuous. She thanked me for the compliment, but still seemed to be in a sombre mood. Something was clearly bothering her, and I was beginning to suspect what it might be. There was an important unanswered question between us, and I now waited with increasing irritation to see if Patricia would bring it up.

Which she did, with yet another sigh, at five past four.

‘And how is the unfortunate Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, who was caught in the firing line? Is there any news from the hospital about her chances of survival?’

I nodded happily, and was about to answer, when something totally unexpected happened.

The telephone on Patricia’s desk started to ring.

Never, in all my many previous visits, had I heard her telephone ring. And I had therefore, for some reason, imagined that I was the only one who knew the number and might use it. I was rather annoyed with the telephone for having the audacity to ring at such an inconvenient moment. At the same time, my curiosity was piqued as to who it might be.