The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) (33 page)

‘Well, it would be untrue to say that. They were very uncooperative to begin with, and even though things did improve, there is little that is new. They either do not remember, or do not want to remember, anything about the fourth person in the photograph. And as for alibis for yesterday, they both have one. They had a meal together at the Grand Café between four and six, and I have confirmed this with the head waiter there. I asked, just in case, if the staff could remember having seen them there with others, but they couldn’t. It is of course difficult to remember months back, when the place is so popular. And by the way, Mr Eggen commented that we only had to ask the officers watching his house if we wanted to know when he went out.’

We all smiled slightly sheepishly. I said that I knew nothing about his house being under surveillance.

‘Generally, the two of them have very little confidence in society, the police in particular. They obviously feel they are being persecuted for their political views. And given their background, it is easy to have some sympathy, no matter what one might believe and think about their politics.’

My boss and I both looked at Danielsen with slightly raised eyebrows. He quickly changed tack.

‘Neither of them is particularly nice, though one of them is more polite than the other. Having said that, their criminal offences are now well in the past, and I am not convinced in any way that they have much to hide now.’

I stared at him, my eyes wide, but noticed with some concern that my boss seemed to show more interest. Danielsen obviously noticed this too, and straightened up in his chair before continuing with his argument.

‘Both have been law-abiding citizens for twenty-five years, both have an alibi for yesterday, and it could well be no more than a form of protest that they refuse to tell us about the person they had dinner with all that time ago. Strictly speaking, the photograph really only proves that they had a meal with a man who is now dead. I have another theory that might fit just as well.’

Danielsen now had our full attention. Ingeniously, he waited until both my boss and I had asked him to tell us his alternative theory before carrying on.

‘I think it is more likely that we will find the murderer among the young communists than these relatively frail old ex-Nazis. I accept your theory that Henry Alfred Lien passed on information to Falko Reinhardt. But there is nothing to disprove that Reinhardt might have killed both Lien and his fiancée, Marie Morgenstierne. The pieces all fall into place if he himself was then killed by one of the other communists. Arresting Kristine Larsen was obviously a mistake, and she should be released immediately. After all, she was in prison in Oslo when Reinhardt and Lien were shot. Trond Ibsen and Anders Pettersen do not seem to be very trustworthy and, unless otherwise proved, they could well have killed Falko Reinhardt. If one of them had inherited Marie Morgenstierne and was the father of her unborn child, then jealousy or revenge could be a motive.’

I asked Danielsen if this meant that he thought there was no danger of an imminent attack. Again, he was annoyingly prompt with his answer.

‘Well, there are two possibilities, if my theory is right. This Reinhardt fellow seems to have been so self-centred that he may have made up the whole story of an attack just to get attention. But it is also possible that he knew that one of the others in his group was planning an attack, and that is why he was killed. So my answer is that I do not believe in the idea of a Nazi plot, but that I am open to the idea that an attack of some sort is being planned. And in that case, we need a breakthrough in the investigation, as time is of the essence.’

He was very pleased with himself as he looked from the boss to me, and then back to the boss. I heard myself say that it seemed pretty improbable to me. But I immediately felt very uncertain, and I was extremely worried that Danielsen might present a theory, only a few hours into the investigation, that proved to be true.

Danielsen gave a serene smile.

‘The case is obviously complex, so of course I cannot guarantee that my first theory is right. But in complicated cases like this, it is often wise to keep different options open. So, unless you have anything up your sleeve that disproves my theory, allow me to suggest that we each continue to work on our respective theories this afternoon. You can continue working with the so-called Nazi network, while I have another round with the communists. It would in any case be beneficial to learn whether they have alibis for yesterday.’

My boss sent me a questioning look. I swallowed quickly, and replied that while I was not convinced by this alternative theory, I of course did not object to splitting the work this way. Danielsen smiled broadly before carrying on.

‘Splendid. Just one thing more: any conflicts and conspiracies in the communist group may well go back to the time before Falko disappeared, so with your permission, I would like to have a serious talk with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen as well.’

For a moment I started to wonder if I would be suspected of anything next. And I hoped fiercely that Danielsen would then not suspect me of being a little bit in love with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, because in that case, I would find it very difficult to disprove.

I was as relaxed as I could be in my reply. I said that I had questioned her on several occasions without discovering anything of interest, and that I would be very surprised if he found anything, but that he was of course free to look for her at either the university library or the SPP office. He thanked me with forced friendliness, and noted down the addresses for Trond Ibsen and Anders Pettersen.

‘I should manage to do this rather quickly, if I am efficient, and the risk of an attack means that the case should be prioritized . . . Shall we say we’ll have another meeting at a quarter to three?’ he said. He then stood up without waiting for an answer.

I nodded without thinking. He had already left the room before I realized that this would delay my meeting with Patricia.

I had to admit that Danielsen was a man of considerable capacity when it came to work and the ability to think independently. But that did not stop him from being an even greater thorn in my side than I had expected.

I rang Patricia, quickly explained the situation to her and said that it was not likely that I could be there much before half past three. She accepted this and again asked me to telephone straight away if anything happened that might give us a breakthrough. Patricia added that I must use my time as well as I could, and try to find the answer to her question about the police security service. I promised to do that. If the truth be told, there was not much else I could follow up on by myself.

VI

I got through to the police security service agent on the number he had given on my second attempt, at one o’clock. Understandably, he did not say his name when he answered the telephone, but I immediately recognized his voice. It was clear that he recognized mine too. I heard a stifled sigh and an almost harassed ‘well, well’ on the other end when I explained that he still was not suspected of anything, but that there was a question I had to ask, following the two most recent murders.

His sigh reinforced my suspicion that there might be something lurking here. This feeling was strengthened even more when I asked him if he could guarantee that he had never at any point told Marie Morgenstierne what he knew about the relationship between her fiancée and Kristine Larsen.

Pedersen let out another heavy sigh and asked, unexpectedly, if we could meet rather than talk about this on the phone. I said that it was urgent, but that I could come down to Victoria Terrace straight away. Stein Pedersen seemed to think this was an even worse idea than talking about it on the telephone. He suggested instead that we could meet for a cup of coffee at a quarter past one at a cafe on Young’s Square. I promptly agreed to this. I was becoming increasingly curious as to what the police security service had not told me in their three statements so far.

Pedersen ambled in, discreetly disguised with upturned collar and sunglasses, at exactly a quarter past one. He seemed more relaxed and nicer once we were comfortably seated at a corner table with a coffee each, and no one within thirty feet of us. But he still spoke very quietly from the start.

‘I appreciate your discretion and goodwill. I know that this cafe is not bugged, which is more than I can promise of Victoria Terrace and my telephone there,’ he said, by way of introduction.

I looked at him, somewhat baffled, but saw no reason to pursue the subject of working practices in Victoria Terrace here and now. But he clearly did, if indirectly, when he leaned over the table and whispered: ‘I want to be honest with you and to help the investigation if I can. Can I take it that for the moment this is a conversation between you and me, and that he will not hear it from you?’

I nodded reassuringly. Pedersen lowered his voice even more, all the same.

‘In that case, between you and me, I can say that Marie Morgenstierne had known about the relationship between her missing fiancé and Kristine Larsen for several months. I told her in early May this year. But I would like to point out that it was not my idea to tell her.’

I looked at him, a little bewildered. His voice was even quieter when he spoke again.

‘When she was handing over the recording she suddenly asked me straight out if I had noticed any signs before he disappeared that he was having a relationship with someone else. It was an unexpected dilemma. At first I thought it was best not to answer. But then she was an informant who was doing us a service, and based on what I had seen, I had very little sympathy for him . . . So it was perhaps not standard practice, but understandable all the same?’

I nodded in agreement. He looked at me with something akin to gratitude.

‘The way he behaved was so morally shocking and provocative. And it did not help that she had obviously remained loyal to her fiancé, and suspected that one of the others had betrayed him. So I felt sorry for her, and had wondered on a couple of occasions whether I should tell her or not. I had not until then, but could not say no when she asked me directly.’

It was my turn to lean across the table and say in an equally quiet voice: ‘And I take it as given that communist women are not your personal preference, even if they are informants and have been badly treated by their fiancés. Certainly not officially, and when your boss is present.’

I feared an angry explosion, but to my relief he simply nodded slowly.

‘Well observed. Based on what I knew and what I saw, I became fond of her. But nothing ever happened, and it was never discussed. The leap was too great for both of us.’

I nodded. That sounded reasonable enough.

‘But as I am being honest with you . . . Well, I once asked her a question that might be of interest to you . . .’

I told him that all questions relating to Marie Morgenstierne were of interest to me now, and that nothing that he told me would be passed on to anyone else, unless strictly necessary. He nodded gratefully and continued in a whisper.

‘I saw that pompous psychologist, Trond Ibsen, hanging around her on several occasions. I wondered if it was him she was afraid of. So on one occasion I used the opportunity to ask if he was perhaps getting a bit close for comfort. She smiled and said that maybe he was, but that there was no danger that he would get any closer. He was bothersome, but definitely not dangerous, she said.’

‘So he was not the one she suspected of having something to do with Falko’s disappearance?’

He shook his head.

‘No, that certainly did not seem to be the case. What I said was true, she never actually told me who she thought it was. I don’t know for sure. But if you were to ask me, unofficially, who I thought she suspected . . .’

He looked at me expectantly, with an almost teasing smile. I immediately asked him who he thought it was that she suspected, but underlined that this was in no way official.

‘. . . then I would say that it was Kristine Larsen. Marie certainly said: “That’s what I thought. Thank you!” She did not appear to be angry or concerned, more relieved, in a way. I think it was something she had mulled over for a long time.’

I pondered these words. When I looked up again, Stein Pedersen was gone. I took it in good faith. I had, after all, got answers to my questions. And I could not be certain whether he had said goodbye or not.

VII

The jacket had still not arrived when I got back to my office at five to two. At two o’clock on the dot, I rang Prime Minister Peder Borgen, as arranged. He greeted me in a jolly voice, but then became thoughtful when I said that we would soon have to make a final decision regarding his talks. His relief was tangible when I said that we had not received any threats in connection with his engagement today.

We concluded that he would give his talk to the Norwegian Farmers’ Union, and that I would ring straight away should there be any reason to cancel the evening’s event. He was very pleased about this, and said that I could ring at any time. He repeated that other than these two events, he had practically nothing else in his diary this week.

At a quarter past two, a younger, slimmer version of the calm sheriff from Valdres came to my door with a sealed bag and gave a breathless apology, explaining that he had had a puncture near Hønefoss. I thanked him for his efforts and asked him to give my greetings to his father, then wished him a safe journey home. He once again apologized for the delay and then gingerly asked for my permission to go and see Karl Johans Gate, the main street in Oslo, before driving back.

The bag contained a light-coloured sports jacket, and the contents of its pockets were just as the sheriff had said. In the right-hand pocket was a key ring with two car keys. In the left-hand pocket was a wallet containing three hundred and fifty kroner in Norwegian banknotes, some Russian rubles and around ten German marks. I also found a Norwegian driver’s licence, issued in 1967, and a boat ticket that showed that Falko had arrived in Oslo on 26 July, following a ten-day voyage from Moscow via Kiel. This fitted well with the picture we had drawn so far, but got me no further.