The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) (21 page)

This was a very clear hint. I stood up to leave, but Patricia stopped me halfway with her hand.

‘Come back for supper at seven, if you can. And in the meantime, call me immediately if anything new crops up.’

I realized that Patricia’s voice was trembling – as was her hand. She noticed the surprise in my eyes and continued without prompting: ‘It could be my general fear of things I do not understand. It does have something to do with who or what scared Marie Morgenstierne so much, but more with the question as to why Falko disappeared and why he is not making himself known now. It seems to me that we are running against time to prevent an even greater catastrophe.’

This whisper of fear in Patricia made a strong impression on me. I followed the maid out of the room with unusual alacrity, and overtook her just before the front door.

VI

Once back in the office, I made the phone call I had been dreading most of all: to the head of the police security service, Asle Bryne. I called him at home. I feared that he might not appreciate being called at home early on a Sunday afternoon, particularly when it concerned a difficult case, and had made up my mind to put down the phone if he had not answered after five rings. But he picked up the receiver on the fourth ring. The situation was not made any easier by the fact that instead of saying who he was, he opened the conversation with a curt ‘Who is it?’

His voice, however, banished any doubts I may have had that I had got the wrong number. I resisted the temptation to slam down the receiver, and instead launched myself out into deep waters.

‘This is Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen. I met with you at your office yesterday. I apologize profusely for having to disturb you at home on a Sunday, but we have some new information in the murder case I am investigating, which could put the security service in a rather unfortunate light, should it become known. I thought I should discuss the matter with you immediately and try to minimize the negative consequences it could have for both our organizations.’

For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the telephone. I braced myself for a furious outburst that never came.

‘I see,’ Asle Bryne said, eventually. And then said no more.

After a few seconds I realized that he was waiting for me to continue in order to ascertain how much I knew. It felt as though I was teetering on the edge of the cliff in Valdres when I spoke: ‘The current investigation has first of all discovered that the murdered Marie Morgenstierne herself acted as a security service informant for a while. And secondly, and more importantly, a member of the security service appears to have been present at the scene of the crime when she was killed.’

Again, there was silence. Absolute silence. Delightful, liberating silence. And the silence lasted for a long time.

‘I see,’ Asle Bryne said, once more. And then was silent again.

I obviously had to launch myself into a new attack, and did so.

‘It is still my hope that we can keep this from the press and politicians. But then I need any information that may help to solve the case quickly, now.’

‘I see,’ Asle Bryne’s voice repeated. ‘What do you need, then?’ he added hastily.

‘I need to know the details of your contact with Marie Morgenstierne. But first and foremost, I have to speak to the man who was at the scene of the crime about what he might have seen and heard.’

‘I see,’ Asle Bryne said yet again, still sounding remarkably cool and collected.

‘Come to my office at six o’clock this evening, and I will give you all the help I can,’ he continued swiftly.

Then he put down the phone without waiting for confirmation.

I heaved a sigh of relief and looked at the time. It was still only half past two. I still had time for a couple of meetings with the group around Falko Reinhardt before the end of the working day. The one I wanted to speak to most was without a doubt Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, but I had more crucial questions to ask Anders Pettersen. So in the end I dialled his number, and when I had established that he was at home, I headed over there.

VII

Anders Pettersen sat leaning forward in a chair beside his untidy coffee table and stared at me in disbelief. It was not a pleasant situation, and became even less so when he started to speak.

‘That is completely absurd. No one could honestly believe that Kristine would kill anyone, let alone a member of our group. If you believe that, you have either been duped by a conspiracy or are part of one yourself. Kristine is the most consistent, helpless pacifist I have ever met, and I have met quite a few. We all knew that she would not be up to much in the great struggle when world revolution reached Norway. She had been in touch with another revolutionary group before, but was told that they had no use for pacifists.’

The man was politically provoking and personally unbearable, but I chose to ignore both aspects for the moment. There was a considerable risk that he was right about Kristine Larsen and my chances of getting anything out of him about the rest of the group would not increase with confrontation. I therefore replied that the question as to whether Kristine Larsen would be charged or not was still open, but that there was much to indicate that jealousy and rivalry within the group had played a part. He looked at me with a little more interest when I said this.

So I then asked Anders Pettersen the same question that I had asked Trond Ibsen earlier in the day: if he had ever noticed any signs of romantic relationships within the group other than that between Marie Morgenstierne and Falko Reinhardt.

His reaction was more or less the same. He rolled his eyes and looked as though he was about to dismiss the whole question, but then paused for thought and frowned for a moment.

‘I never thought I would mention this to anyone outside the group, and certainly not to a policeman. But this is an extremely serious situation as one of us has been murdered, and I should do everything I can to disprove the clearly mistaken view that Kristine is the prime suspect.’

I nodded in agreement, said that he should absolutely do that, and assured him that for the time being it would be an unofficial statement and would not be written down or shared with the other members of the group. This prompted a sudden sense of confidentiality between us. Anders Pettersen leaned even further forward over the table and lowered his voice when he spoke.

‘I have never heard or seen anything to indicate that Kristine had any kind of romantic ties, if that is what you mean. Not with anyone, either in or out of the group. But there is a romantic secret in the group that you should perhaps know about, as it might be of some importance here . . .’

He looked at me, his eyes almost twinkling, and continued to talk even faster and more intensely, but in a whisper.

‘Our psychologist has a complex, and it is called women. Trond comes from a very good family, has plenty of money and a good education and all that. And, as far as others are concerned, he is without a doubt an extremely good psychologist. And as you have perhaps noticed, he appears to get on relatively well with other men. But his relationships with women have been less happy in all the years I’ve known him. As far as we know, he has never had a lover of any kind, through no lack of interest on his part. Trond is either too laid-back and distant, or too eager and intense in his dealings with women. In recent years, he seems to have focused more on his psychology and has been outvoted by the group more and more often. Since Falko’s disappearance, I’ve had a growing sense that he is part of the group not so much out of political interest, but rather romantic interest.’

‘So what you are saying is that . . . he may have been romantically attached to the late Marie Morgenstierne?’

Anders Pettersen nodded and gave a derisive smile.

‘He definitely had a romantic interest in Marie Morgenstierne; or perhaps a crush on her is a better way of putting it. And on Kristine Larsen. And his later contemptuous talk of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was perhaps also an attempt to hide the fact that he had tried it on with her too, without any success. I know him and his complex so well that I could see it, without even having a basic degree in psychology.’

This was said with an undertone of triumph. Once again I felt the tension and rivalry between the two remaining male members of the group, even when only one of them was present.

It seemed that we were getting close to something now in a case that really needed a boost and to pick up pace. So I threw down the trump card that I had had up my sleeve for several days now, and asked whether, if Marie Morgenstierne had been pregnant when she was killed, Trond Ibsen might be the father.

The reaction was unexpectedly instant and marked. His head sank down towards the table.

He asked if it was really true, and if so, how far gone she was.

I told him the truth, that she was pregnant, but probably only in the fifth or sixth week.

Anders Pettersen looked even more confused at this. He replied that he thought that Trond Ibsen was in love with Marie Morgenstierne, but that he had not thought he had a chance. Then he suddenly took this back and said that one could never rule out anything in such situations, and that this was becoming ever more mysterious. If Marie Morgenstierne had been pregnant when she died, he could not rule out the possibility that Trond Ibsen was not only the father but also potentially the murderer, though both things seemed highly unlikely to begin with. The first explanation that came to mind with regard to her pregnancy was that Falko had come back. He shook his head firmly when I asked if he had seen any indication of this, and added that it would be very odd if that were the case and Falko had not been in touch.

Anders Pettersen seemed to change completely in the course of the thirty minutes or so that I spoke to him. When I left, he stayed sitting by the table, totally confused, and it was easy to feel sorry for him. I understood him only too well: the case was equally confusing for me. But I still did not trust him.

VIII

I thought I could see people in the windows of both the neighbouring buildings when I parked my police car and knocked on the door of the SPP party office. I did not feel entirely comfortable with the situation.

There was no problem this time either, fortunately. The door was open. It was almost impossible to get into the office, as there were large piles of envelopes all over the floor. But the people who were stuffing the envelopes had obviously taken the weekend off. Three of the four desks were empty. At the fourth sat Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, eagerly working her way through a pile of papers in just a T-shirt, with her strange multicoloured sweatshirt thrown over the back of the chair. She was engrossed in the papers, with an impish look on her face, and had obviously not noticed me.

The sight of her gave me a rush of joy on an otherwise serious day. I realized I had come more because I wanted to see her than because I needed answers from her. But it never occurred to me to turn around.

She suddenly became aware of me, but was not startled at all. Her equanimity was impressive. I was hugely encouraged by the fact that her face lit up with an even bigger smile, and that she pushed the pile of papers to one side at the same time.

‘Hi. Anything new to report?’ she asked.

It was not the most gushing personal greeting I could imagine, but still a promising start.

So I replied that there was something new that I should perhaps tell her about, and in connection with that, I also had a few questions that I would like to ask her as soon as possible. And then hastily added that I really should get something to eat after what had been an incredibly demanding Sunday, and that perhaps she deserved a break and something to eat too.

This proved to be a good move. Five minutes later the SPP office was locked and the two of us were installed at a discreet corner table in a cafe a hundred yards down the street. Again, I vaguely noticed that there were people in the windows of both neighbouring buildings as we left the party office. I was not sure whether Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had noticed it or not. But I comforted myself with the thought that if she had, she certainly did not seem to be worried about being seen with me.

‘So, what’s happening?’ she asked, and looked at me expectantly. She continued to eat the
plat du jour
with laudable efficiency while she waited for an answer.

It occurred to me that I had in fact put myself in a very vulnerable position. I had talked so much to her on the trip to Valdres that I now did not have many questions I could ask without giving away more than I should about the case.

I asked again whether she had ever noticed any sign of romantic ties or interests within the group, other than Falko’s now known relationships with Marie Morgenstierne and Kristine Larsen.

She dutifully thought about it for a few seconds, then shook her head – and, naturally enough, asked if there was any reason why I was asking again.

This question only served to highlight my dilemma. I took a deep breath and launched in, told her that in order to move forward in the case, I had to tell her some more about it, but only on the condition that nothing of what I said would be passed on to anyone under any circumstances.

She nodded vehemently, crossed her heart and promised that she would not tell another living soul anything that I said, and then leaned impatiently over the table to hear more.

I started with some caution and told her that Marie Morgenstierne had been pregnant when she was killed, and asked Miriam if she had any idea of who the father could be. She fiddled with her pendant for a moment, and remarked with a sigh that it must obviously have happened after she had broken from the group. If one of the three men was the father of the child, she reckoned Falko to be the most likely candidate and Trond Ibsen to be the least likely. But that was something she thought rather than knew.

I then told her about yesterday’s dramatic events and the arrest of Kristine Larsen. She had clearly not heard about this, and looked genuinely surprised. Then she said what I expected and feared, in a controlled and firm voice: that she could not see Kristine Larsen as a murderer, and certainly not of a friend like Marie Morgenstierne.