The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) (32 page)

I was no less apprehensive about telling Falko’s parents of the death of their only child. But it was easier than I had anticipated. They seemed to support each other in an impressive way through what must have been the most terrible hour of their lives. They were standing side by side and hand in hand in the hallway when I arrived, and looked at me with serious eyes.

‘Falko has gone forever this time, hasn’t he?’ the father asked, in a quiet voice.

I nodded, and braced myself for a dramatic outburst or breakdown that never came. I saw tears in Falko’s mother’s eyes, and deep, deep despair in his father’s. But they stood there, their thin hands locked together.

I told them that it had been midnight before I came back to Oslo, following my hunt for their son’s murderer, and I had been unable to find a priest who could come in my place.

They nodded and said that was understandable, and that it was better to get the news from me than from a priest. Given a choice, they would rather it was me, Arno Reinhardt said, and pursed his lips.

They had expected the worst after hearing about the suspicious deaths in Valdres on the news the evening before, and had sat up all night waiting to hear more, on the radio, on the telephone or at the door.

Astrid Reinhardt asked me to tell them what had happened. They both listened without asking any questions or criticizing anything that I told them, which was really only a brief outline. Falko had been wearing a summer jacket when he went out of the door here, they said, and had his wallet and the car keys in the pocket.

Otherwise, they had little to add that might be of any benefit to the investigation. The note with ‘Heftye 66’ meant nothing to them, other than that it was his supervisor’s name. They knew him superficially from his time in the communist party and found it hard to believe that he might have anything to do with their son’s death. But they found any of it hard to understand.

‘In a way, we have always thought it would end like this,’ Falko’s mother remarked, with a heavy sigh. I looked at her questioningly. It was his father who answered. After decades of marriage, they seemed to have reached the stage where each knew exactly what the other was thinking.

‘We said to each other when we saw him for the first time that we never believed we would experience such joy, and that we didn’t know what we had done to deserve it. Our Falko was the most beautiful child in the world, brighter and stronger than all the others. We worshipped him, but we clearly never really understood him. We were not wise or clever enough to do that. And now our only son is dead, and we can’t even help you catch the murderer. We didn’t manage to win our son’s trust enough for him to confide in us the danger he was in, so we couldn’t protect him. We will have to live on our memories from all the happy years we had with him.’

Arno Reinhardt’s voice was shaking terribly, but did not break. His wife nodded in agreement and lovingly put her arm around him. ‘Despite all our failings, we did have many more happy years with him than those who have never had a child,’ she said.

The silence was tense, and yet resigned.

Finally I said that I would do my utmost to hold the murderer to account, and added that it appeared that Falko had been trying to warn me of some imminent catastrophe when he was killed. And I hoped that this catastrophe could be prevented, on the basis of what I now knew, so that their son’s contribution would be recognized even in death.

They nodded simultaneously.

‘We are not even able to feel hate for the murderer. Our son has gone forever. All his life, he was distrusted by many, just as we ourselves have been, because of his political views and visions of a better world. It would be an enormous relief if you could highlight that and give us some answers about what actually happened. And until you return, we will sit here with our questions,’ his mother said, and looked me straight in the eye.

The air in the flat felt more and more oppressive. I said that I would do my best and that I would telephone them immediately if there was anything more they could help me with, but for now, I had to leave and get on with my work and, if possible, prevent any more deaths.

They nodded together again.

I stood up, took them both by the hands and gave my condolences once more on their great loss.

They were remarkably composed again when I left. On my way out I passed the last photograph of Falko, which had now been added to the collection but hung at the end, by itself. His eyes challenged me, and their eyes pleaded with me as I walked out of the flat.

III

Kristine Larsen was awake in her cell by the time I got back to the station at around half past nine. The prison warden told me with a sigh that she still appeared to be in a good mood. I asked the warden to let her know I would be there in five minutes, but I waited seven, and stopped twice in the corridor before I went in.

Kristine Larsen was dressed and sitting smiling on the bed when I came in. She gave me a cheerful wave. It is possible she noticed immediately how serious I was. Her smile certainly vanished and her voice was tense when she asked if there was any news of Falko.

I did not trust that she would be able to answer any questions after she had heard the truth, so I started by saying that the investigation had entered a new and even more dramatic phase, and that I first had to ask her a couple of questions. She looked at me intensely with a knitted brow.

I started by telling her that Marie Morgenstierne had been two months pregnant when she died, and asked who she thought might be the father, if we assumed that it was not Falko.

She nodded gratefully and said that it was somewhat unexpected, but that she did not think it could be Falko who was the father. As he had not contacted her, it was hard to believe that he had been there for anything more than a few days.

She found it hard to imagine that Trond Ibsen or Anders Pettersen might be Marie Morgenstierne’s lover, but guessed that it must be one of them all the same. She said this because she had never seen or heard that Marie Morgenstierne mixed with any other men. She was known as the ‘lone wolf’ by her fellow students at university.

Kristine Larsen took longer to answer my question as to whether Marie Morgenstierne might have suspected that she was having a relationship with Falko before she died. She finally answered that she had thought a lot about this in prison, and reached the conclusion that Marie Morgenstierne had become more distant with her during the spring and early summer. She had wondered if her friend had realized, and had feared a confrontation. But nothing more had happened. If Marie Morgenstierne had a new lover herself, that would be a good explanation, Kristine Larsen added hopefully.

‘But please don’t keep me in suspense any longer. Do you have any news of my darling Falko?’ she asked, when I could not think of any more questions. There was a tense, almost frightened undertow to her voice when she asked this.

It would be hard to hide the truth any longer, and I did not think it would be any better if I tried to drag it out.

So I told her the truth – that I was now trying to prevent some kind of national catastrophe that Falko had wanted to warn me about, but that he had unfortunately been killed before he could do that.

For the first few seconds, things were better than I had anticipated. The colour drained from Kristine Larsen, and she hid her face in her hands and mumbled that she had feared that might happen and that she of course had never expected to be able to keep him.

But then suddenly her slim frame teetered on the edge of the bed, and she fainted.

Kristine Larsen slipped towards the floor before I could stop her. I lifted her gently back up onto the bed, without her showing any sign of regaining consciousness. I stood there, looking at her, for a few seconds.

Then I more or less crept out of the cell, and whispered to the prison warden that she should call a nurse to be on the safe side. When she came to again Kristine Larsen could be released, if she was in a fit state. But it was possible that she might have to be admitted to hospital, and it was equally possible that she might feel safest if she stayed here for a few hours more.

The warden looked somewhat surprised, but nodded and touched her hat in an uncertain salute. I felt a bit of a coward when I left without looking back. But in truth there was little more I could do for Kristine Larsen here, and I still had three murders and a planned attack to solve.

IV

My desk was just as empty when I got back to the office. No messages. It suddenly dawned on me that I should perhaps let someone else know about the most recent developments, and that was Marie Morgenstierne’s father, the bank manager Martin Morgenstierne. I assumed that he would not want a long report, but realized it would be formally correct to give him a brief update if he wanted it.

I rang the bank first, but was told by the switchboard operator that the bank manager was not well and had taken both yesterday and today off. It was the first time he had taken sick leave for more than ten years, the switchboard lady said in a quiet voice. His daughter’s death had no doubt affected him more than he liked to show, she now almost whispered. I asked her to let him know that I had called if he was in the office again tomorrow.

After some hesitation, I tried to call Martin Morgenstierne at home, but put the telephone down when it had not been answered after five rings. I actually had nothing new to tell him about the murder of his daughter. And it seemed very unlikely to me that he would be able to tell me anything that might help me in the hunt for the person or people out there who were now planning an attack.

A few minutes later, I got a far more interesting telephone call. On the other end was the sheriff in Valdres. He sounded very flustered today.

‘We have examined both the crime scenes and found something that could be of great interest. I have already sent it with my son in a car to Oslo, but I thought that I should call and let you know as well.’

I said that was kind, and asked what they had found.

‘I really am impressed by . . . just as you said, we found a jacket that clearly belongs to Falko Reinhardt. It had been blown about, but then was stopped by a boulder some yards away from the cliff. The jacket was wet from the rain, so you can forget the idea of any fingerprints. But the pockets were zipped, and what was inside is intact. And if you can guess which three things we found in the pockets, I am your humble servant.’

I felt the pressure, but in my mind I thanked Patricia with all my heart as I replied: ‘I think that you found a wallet and a key ring that included the car key, and I hope that you also found a page from a notebook with some strange handwritten notes.’

There was a small gasp at the other end, and then an even more impressed voice.

‘I have no idea how things are done in Oslo, but you certainly have managed to impress a mere country sheriff. That is precisely what we found. They told me nothing, but I am sure it will mean something to you. I examined them quickly and then sent them with my son to the main police station in Oslo. The wallet contained a driver’s licence and some banknotes in several currencies, as well as some boat tickets that would indicate that he sailed from the Soviet Union to Germany, and arrived in Oslo a couple of weeks ago. But there was not much more in there. The page with the handwritten notes did not name any people or places, so you mustn’t expect to get a great deal out of it.’

I asked if the page looked as though it had been torn from a diary and if the sheriff had transcribed the text. There was a moment’s silence at the other end, before he hesitantly continued.

‘Yes, it could well have been a diary, the edge was torn and the page had several dates on it. But I am afraid that I did not write down the text. I should of course have done so. I just thought that as there was nothing obvious there, it would be best to send the jacket to you immediately.’

I felt enormously irritated with the sheriff, but could only forgive him when he carried on hastily: ‘It was a mistake, I realize that now. And I apologize deeply. But you will have the jacket and its contents soon enough now. My son drove directly from the scene of the crime, and he left about an hour ago now, and was told that it was urgent. So he should be there in no more than two.’

The sheriff sounded disheartened and he really had done his best to help me. So I thanked him sincerely, and promised to contact him as soon as there were any new developments in the case. He was almost touched by this and repeated that I should have the jacket and the diary page by around half past one. I told him that the fact that it had been found was a huge breakthrough in the investigation.

We finished the call on a good note, though I was silently annoyed at not knowing what it said on the missing diary page.

I telephoned Patricia and gave her a brief report about what had happened so far. She sounded very stern, but whistled appreciatively on hearing about the jacket. She asked me to come over with it as soon as possible, and she would ensure that a late lunch was waiting.

We would have plenty of time to look at the diary page before the opposition leader’s speech at half past four, but not before the prime minister’s speech at three, I said.

Patricia sighed into the receiver and said that it was hard to justify the sudden cancellation of such an important event without a definite threat. But she added that I should come as soon as I could if the missing page proved to contain anything of interest.

V

There was a spread of open sandwiches on the table in my boss’s office when I got there at two minutes to midday. And Danielsen was already sitting comfortably in the chair closest to our boss.

I told them that Falko’s jacket had been found, and that it might well contain something of interest, without giving any more details; but that other than that, I had no news of any significance. Both nodded, but did not show much interest in the jacket.

I asked Danielsen, not without some
schadenfreude
, if he had made any progress in his meetings with the two former Nazis. He took his time.