The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) (27 page)

I shook my head and sent him a piercing look. He took a deep breath and carried on.

‘Frans’s perfidious fiancée was pregnant when he was arrested – in the fourth month, no less. According to the law of the day, killing a foetus was a crime, even in Norway. But that did not prevent the death of Frans’s only child while he was being held on remand, with the help of both the police and the health service. Frans and I have paid our taxes for decades and have had to take care to uphold all kinds of strange laws, but have never had any rights ourselves, not even to our children’s lives. So you might perhaps try to understand why, today, we are not particularly cooperative with the police and do not feel much sympathy for those left behind by communists. And now it may well be best for us both if you just leave me in peace!’

I gave a short nod to this as I turned on my heel and walked away. It was now twenty to eleven, and I would soon be very short of time to make my meeting with the prime minister. But I had got an interesting glimpse of the bitter person behind Christian Magnus Eggen’s mask, and I did feel a smattering of understanding for both him and Frans Heidenberg. I had also lost all my illusions of what these bitter and lonely old men might be capable of doing in relation to a society they felt had let them down, and that they hated with a vengeance.

I was becoming increasingly curious and worried about the mysterious fourth man. I left the photograph lying on the passenger seat where I could see it, and studied it at every traffic light. There was still not much to be had. Both Frans Heidenberg and Christian Magnus Eggen had indicated that he was an older man, around their age. But the photograph did not prove or disprove this. The only lead was a right hand with no wedding ring or any other form of visible distinction. It could, in theory, as easily belong to a twenty-year-old as to a seventy-year-old.

It did feel as though I had touched on something significant that morning. But what exactly it was, I still could not say.

VII

I had to use my blue light for the last part of the journey in order to get to the meeting on time. At one minute to eleven, I stood for the first time at the door of the prime minister’s office.

The office was smaller than I had imagined. A very correct secretary asked me to go straight into the prime minister’s personal office. And when I went in, the prime minister was sitting alone at his simple desk.

Even though I, as a city lad, had never considered voting for the Farmers’ Party, or the Centre Party as they were now called, I had considerable sympathy for the down-to-earth farmer, Peder Borgen. This was in no way diminished by meeting him. In sharp contrast to the representative for the royal family’s security service, Norway’s prime minister stood up and shook my hand heartily.

I knew only too well that the prime minister was facing a very demanding autumn and winter. It was widely acknowledged that growing disagreement between parties in the coalition government would soon come to a head in the debate about Norway’s position regarding the Common Market. My father, who had a good nose for politics, and also good contacts in several parties, had expressed several times this summer his belief and hope that the government would fall apart in good time before Christmas. And any avid newspaper reader could see that following their good results in the autumn elections, the Labour Party was now putting on the pressure in the Storting and preparing to take over the reins very soon. Given all this, the prime minister seemed to be remarkably relaxed and calm.

I began by remarking that I would not take up more of his time than strictly necessary. He replied, however, that he had nothing special that had to be done today, and that he would like to hear what I had to tell about the case.

My plans for a brief ten-minute orientation soon went out the window, but through no fault of my own. The prime minister interrupted me repeatedly with the strangest detailed questions about the facts of the case and my thoughts on them. It took a full forty minutes before we were finished. The prime minister remained calm when I spoke of the danger of an attack or sabotage and explained that it might, in the worst-case scenario, involve him or other members of the government.

When I asked about his public engagements over the next few days, he conferred briefly with his secretary and then said it was quieter in summer and he had no official engagements today, whereas the next day he was giving a talk at a Norwegian Farmers’ Union seminar and then was doing the honours at the official opening of a small national park at six.

I noted down the times and said that he would have to decide for himself whether he thought it was sensible to participate in the planned events or not. This triggered a sudden and unexpected change in the prime minister’s mood. Suddenly he looked anxious and almost upset. He said that the decision to cancel two such arrangements that he had promised to attend was very serious indeed, and that it should be discussed and looked at in more detail.

I had some problems in keeping a straight face, but told the prime minister that he would have to make a decision before the next day’s events. This seemed to heighten his anxiety even more. He said that might well be the case, but it was therefore all the more important to think things through and discuss the matter thoroughly before making a decision. I said, taking professional confidentiality into account, he could discuss it with his family and other members of the government, the party leadership and the prime minister’s office. Peder Borgen thanked me and promised to do that. He then asked if I would be available for further discussion if necessary.

I replied that I was honoured and would of course talk more about the case to him if he so wished, but that it might be difficult to reach me on my telephone due to the ongoing investigation. He said he understood and jotted down my telephone numbers right away. I was rather surprised then to receive a handwritten note with the prime minister’s own numbers on it, clearly marked ‘home’ and ‘work’.

I was even more astonished to hear him say that I could call whenever it suited, whether it was about the case or other issues that might interest me. In the end it was decided that I should try to call him around two the following day, and in the meantime make sure that he was informed immediately if there was any more news in relation to possible attacks and demonstrations. At the door, he shook my hand heartily again and thanked me for ‘a very interesting hour in good company’.

It was only then that it struck me that it was now two minutes to midday, and that I would be late for my next important appointment, even though Young’s Square lay relatively close by. I left the prime minister’s office with a favourable impression of the man himself, but also wondering if Norway’s leader was perhaps a little too dialogue-oriented and patient.

VIII

I arrived at the People’s Theatre building on Young’s Square at three minutes past twelve, and was immediately ushered into the office of the Labour Party leader, Trond Bratten. I almost ran in and apologized for being late, due to an overrun at the prime minister’s office.

The party leader himself was sitting at his desk behind great piles of paper, looking very relaxed about the whole thing. He remained seated and just nodded almost imperceptibly at the chair on the other side of the desk. I hesitated for a moment, then went over to the desk, held out my hand and introduced myself. His handshake was brief and limp, accompanied by a careful, almost shy smile.

‘Trond Bratten,’ he said in a quiet voice, as though it was something to be ashamed of.

The loud reaction came instead from the third person in the room whom I suddenly realized was there – his wife, Ragna Bratten. She leaped up from her chair by the wall, pumped my hand and commented that it was rather unfortunate that the country’s future prime minister had to wait.

Despite being in the middle of an increasingly hectic investigation, my fascination at meeting the leader of the Labour Party was even greater than my delight at meeting Peder Borgen. I had voted for Trond Bratten’s party at every election in the 1960s. I had always had a strong liking for him, both politically and personally. It was a joy to hear his arguments in speeches and debates. And what I knew about his life, from his childhood in relative poverty in Vestfold and the years as a prisoner of war in Germany to his position as chairman of the party and many years in office as minister of finance, engendered my deep respect. For as long as I could remember, Trond Bratten had been a member of the Labour Party leadership and one of Norway’s leading politicians. It felt like a great honour to meet such a living legend from Norway’s political life.

I mustered my courage and said this to him. The response was very positive. Trond Bratten himself smiled, slightly abashed, and his wife patted me enthusiastically on the shoulder.

My planned orientation was done in ten minutes here. The party chairman closely followed everything I said, and nodded pensively a couple of times. But he sat and listened without asking any questions or making any comments.

When I had finished my orientation, I looked at him questioningly, without getting a response. Trond Bratten sat without saying a word, almost without moving, even when I asked him if he had any public engagements in the coming days. Again, it was his wife who broke the silence.

‘My husband has only one public engagement over the next few days, but it is an extremely important one that must not be cancelled under any circumstances.’

Trond Bratten gave the tiniest of nods, but still said nothing.

I turned and looked askance at his wife, who then continued.

‘You may perhaps have read that my husband was seriously ill in the Easter holidays and then had to take several months off work. Well, the political situation has fortunately been rather quiet so far this year. It looks as though autumn and winter, however, might be more dramatic, as the Europe question is once again high on the agenda and the coalition government is falling apart at the seams. On top of this, my husband’s sick leave has led to malicious rumours that his health is now permanently impaired, so the deputy leader and other ambitious men have started to position themselves to take over. The former party leader and several older rivals who envy my husband’s unique abilities and position are also jostling in the wings. My husband is due to give his first major speech since his illness at Frogner Square tomorrow at five o’clock and it has been a long time in the planning. It is an attempt to appeal to new workers’ organizations in the west end, but will also be a large-scale mobilization of the labour movement. The unions in several workplaces have put on transport for employees to get there after work to hear my husband’s speech, which he has spent several hours preparing. No matter what reason was given, it would be a catastrophe if it did not go ahead as planned, which could have untold negative consequences for both the party and the nation.’

This tumbled out at speed and with passion. I looked at Trond Bratten, who at first simply nodded.

‘Norwegian democracy must never again allow itself to be intimidated into silence. And the leader of the Norwegian Labour Party is responsible for ensuring that democracy is not intimidated into silence!’ he said suddenly, with great conviction.

For a second, I recognized the Trond Bratten of his best and most pointed debates on the radio and television. His wife clapped with delight and I found myself almost doing the same. I stopped myself just in time, and instead asked if he had any other commitments in the next few days.

His wife answered swiftly, ‘No. He will have to rest well after tomorrow’s speech.’

Trond Bratten nodded and smiled at her. For a moment, he seemed to forget that I was present in the room.

I noted down the time and place of the next day’s engagement and said, as was the case, that we so far had no indication of any targeted action against Trond Bratten or anyone else from the Labour Party. I promised to let them know if we got any new information. And I was bold enough to advise Mrs Bratten that until the situation was fully established, she should be especially mindful of her husband.

This hit the mark. She smiled back and assured me that she always kept an eye on him, but that she would keep an even closer eye in the days ahead. She would, as usual, drive him to and from the rally tomorrow herself, and would personally ensure that her husband’s good friends in the labour movement were watched like hawks.

We parted on a positive note at half past twelve. She followed me to the door, and he waved a couple of fingers gently from his place behind his desk. I had lost none of my respect or fascination for Trond Bratten when I descended the steps. The contrast with the prime minister was striking. But I found it easy to like them both. And I thought to myself that I had just seen a rare and fine example of a couple who worked well together despite a considerable difference in age and temperament. For several reasons, it had been an enjoyable break from the investigation.

IX

I barely had time to grab two dry buns from a baker’s shop for lunch before arriving at Victoria Terrace as agreed.

This time, Asle Bryne was not sitting alone in his office. Beside him sat a far younger man, with a prominent mole on his chin. I was relieved to discover that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was observant and still to be trusted.

I held out my hand to the new man, but was stopped by Asle Bryne’s authoritative hand.

‘Please wait a moment before you start talking: we first have to clarify the terms. The fact that I am allowing an employee to be at such a meeting is exceptional. But then, the situation is exceptional, and I understand your need to resolve it. I would like to state, however, that this man has done nothing criminal, but on the contrary has made a considerable and important contribution to our country and its people. I expect him to be treated with respect, and this conversation to remain strictly confidential. Are the terms clear?’

I gave a quick nod. Asle Bryne then made a great fuss of lighting his pipe, and disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. The man beside him held out his hand. His handshake was firm and strong, though I detected a slight tremor.