The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) (36 page)

When B got back to the window, he saw the woman with the book. And instantly cursed her.

Following the collision with the detective inspector, the woman had first simply picked up her book and watched him run on, bewildered. But now she was making her way through the crowd towards the stage, where Bratten was still waiting.

The compère was a well-known union man, a big fat idiot who had no doubt lived on taxpayers’ money for years. He was standing ready by the stage, but made no sign of moving. It was one minute to half past four.

The man by the window stood there with the gun in his hand for the next thirty seconds. Down on Frogner Square, the compère had still not gone up onto the stage to introduce the party leader. Bratten was standing between his wife and some others in the shadows below the stage. The woman with the book was snaking her way through the crowd with unexpected force.

On the positive side, there was still no noise from the corridor. Kristiansen still had a long way to go before he got into the room.

And finally, the compère now went out onto the stage to undeservedly rapturous applause down on Frogner Square.

XIII

Without knowing whether the murderer was on the second or the third floor, I instinctively headed for the right-hand door on the second floor. The door was locked, but I could hear sounds from inside.

I rapped on the door and shouted: ‘Open up, this is the police! We know you are in there! Open the door immediately!’

Suddenly all was quiet inside. I heard heavy steps across the floor. But I could not tell whether they were moving towards the window or the door, nor did I know if it was the right floor. My desperation rocketed when I then looked at my watch just as the second hand passed half past four. Then, without saying any more, I threw my entire body weight against the door. It shuddered, but remained locked. It was a wooden door with a new frame, which looked like it could take a thump or two.

After this, however, I heard a frightened man’s voice shout from inside: ‘Don’t knock down the door, I’ll be there as soon as I can unlock it.’

There were a few seconds of fumbling by the door before it opened. In the opening stood a thin, obviously frightened man in overalls, with a small paintbrush in his hand. He calmed down a bit when he saw my police ID, but his voice and body were still trembling. The man mumbled that he was a joiner and janitor for the building, and he was only trying to varnish the new window frames while the workmen were on holiday.

I pushed him briskly to one side and ran into the room.

It was an unfinished office of around two hundred square feet. And there was no one else, nor any weapons, to be seen.

Just then, we heard thunderous applause from outside.

I ran over to the window. My arms were stiff with fear, but my legs were still working. My legs and my eyes. In a trance, I saw that the applause was fortunately only for the compère, a large and stocky union representative who was standing by the lectern to introduce the party leader’s speech. I could only just see Bratten standing by the stage with his wife, and some papers under his arm.

I vaguely registered a woman with a book in her hand who at that moment broke through the last rows of the audience and stopped right in front of the party leader. And all of a sudden I realized that it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen.

Then I heard more applause, which woke me from my trance. I spun round, once more thrust the even more bewildered janitor aside and ran up the stairs to the third floor.

XIV

The murderer stood at his post by the window with the gun in his hand. There was still no noise to be heard on the third floor. But he had heard sounds from the floor below, which clearly indicated that Kristiansen was working his way up the building, with or without reinforcements.

The compère had fortunately not prolonged the embarrassment down on Frogner Square. The applause soon turned into a rhythmic clapping and stamping of feet when he introduced the party leader. But the woman with the book had just managed to get through. She was now engaged in an apparently animated conversation with the leader’s wife – the party leader himself a reticent onlooker.

Bratten’s wife did not seem particularly keen to stop him from going onstage. Nor did the audience around them. Several of them shook their fists at the girl with the book, and the applause and calls for the party leader increased in volume. But the party leader hesitated. And the girl with the book did not give up. She threw up her hands and twice pointed quite clearly at the building.

The murderer pushed himself up against the window frame and swiftly hunkered down. His mind was in overdrive trying to deal with the unexpected situation. His pulse rose even more when he heard footsteps running down the corridor, following by a pounding on the door.

Trond Bratten had to die before Detective Inspector Kristiansen broke into the room. But the woman with book and intense body language did not give in, and Bratten was still hesitating.

‘This is the police. We know you are in there! Open the door and come out, or we’ll break down the door!’

Kristiansen’s voice was powerful and determined. It carried easily through the door.

For a second, the man by the window considered opening the door and shooting Detective Inspector Kristiansen. He would then have the time he needed until Bratten got up onto the stage. But the murderer had no idea whether Kristiansen was armed or not, or whether he had more policemen with him. And a shot being fired up here in the building would probably be heard down on Frogner Square. And in that case, the party leader would dive for cover.

The man by the window rejected the idea. Instead, he weighed up the possibility of aiming the gun right now.

It would be far harder to shoot Bratten standing where he was beside the stage than by the lectern. But it should be possible to hit the pathetic coward there, too. The party leader’s wife was standing side on to him, covering half his body. But to the right of her, he could aim straight at Bratten’s head and chest, past the woman with the book.

Bratten said something or other to the woman with the book. But he made no sign of going up onto the stage. It was so contemptible and typical of him, not to be able to make up his own mind but to let the women do it for him.

There was another thud from the door. Someone had thrown their shoulder, or some heavy object, against it. The door held, but another thump put increasing pressure on the hinges.

With a deft move, the man raised the gun and aimed the barrel out of the window at Trond Bratten’s head. The murderer was taken aback to realize that his hand was shaking and cursed this sign of weakness. The seconds ticked as he tried to get a clear aim at his target. He cocked the gun so that he could fire immediately if anyone burst into the room.

Trond Bratten had to, and would, die, but he could only fire one shot. The party leader’s wife and the woman with the book made it hard to get a clear aim. The woman with the book suddenly reminded the murderer of his own dead daughter.

It struck B that he would not be sitting here if he had not first lost his wife and then his daughter. He had always held back out of consideration to his family. It was the person who had shot his daughter who had triggered all of this. But now there was no going back for a man with no family and no means of retreat. He had nothing to lose.

Memories of his daughter burned behind his eyes. The murderer now had a clear aim at Bratten’s forehead. But his hand was shaking more than ever before.

XV

In desperation, I threw myself against the door for the third time. It shuddered, but the hinges held.

It was only when I was about to hurl myself against it for the fourth time that I realized there was someone else in the corridor. A small, terrified janitor, with a large bundle of keys in his hand.

I almost screamed at him: ‘The key to this door, quick! There’s a man in there who is going to kill Trond Bratten!’

The janitor was so shocked that he dropped the keys on the floor. It took a couple of seconds before he picked them up and then a couple more before he found the right key. I expected to hear a shot at any moment, but the gun was not fired.

Finally the janitor found the right key. I snatched it from him. My hand was shaking so much that I could hardly get it into the lock, but when I did, it turned easily.

I opened the door and stormed into the room.

Martin Morgenstierne was sitting alone by the open window, with a gun in his hands. He turned his head and glanced back when I charged in.

For a moment, I feared that he would turn the gun on me.

But he looked back out of the window to Frogner Square, took his final aim and curled his finger round the trigger.

I leaped forward and grabbed hold of him just as he fired the gun. I was horrified to hear the shot and the sound of the screams that followed from outside. But I did not have time to think about it. The gun was gone, and I was lying on the floor on top of an unarmed Martin Morgenstierne.

The fight that followed was fortunately brief. He was a generation older than me and had obviously been entirely focused on firing. He had also landed in an awkward position underneath me. I felt a surge of fury and hate for him, and with zero sympathy, wrenched his arm up behind his back in the hope of breaking it.

‘I give myself up,’ he said, and it struck me that he was frighteningly calm and controlled, given that he had just shot the opposition leader.

Whereas I was shaking so much that I fumbled in frustration for a few moments before I managed to get the handcuffs on him. Meanwhile, we heard the sounds of running feet and screams from outside.

When I eventually stood up, he remarked: ‘It would seem that I got him.’ He was still alarmingly calm, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

I feared that I had come a second too late to prevent the death of the party leader, but still did not know what had happened outside the window. So I hauled him up without answering.

We stood side by side in silence and looked out of the window.

What we saw was not what either of us had expected, and it grieved us both.

After the gunshot, the crowd had obviously panicked and scattered from the stage. There were only three people in the cleared space.

Trond Bratten had dropped the manuscript for his speech, but he was still standing, leaning against the stage, very much alive.

The party leader’s wife was standing in front of him with outstretched arms, like a human shield in the event of more gunshots.

A large book lay open on the ground in front of her. And Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was lying on the ground beside the book.

Her fair hair fluttered in the wind, but she herself was not moving, lying on her stomach, as a dark stream of blood poured from her head onto her sweatshirt.

It was a terrible sight, and everything inside me froze instantly. Which was perhaps a good thing. I remembered later a wild urge to throw Martin Morgenstierne out of the window, and then to jump out myself. All I remembered from those unreal seconds was that feeling. And Martin Morgenstierne saying, in an almost apologetic voice, ‘She looks like my daughter. I deeply regret that. He was the only one who was supposed to die.’

XVI

The wall clock at the main police station showed half past six as I made my way to my boss’s office. He beamed and offered me his hand. The story of how I had saved the life of the opposition leader Trond Bratten, and at the same time solved both of yesterday’s murders, had already been broadcast on the radio and TV. Congratulatory telegrams were streaming in. Unless the nascent rumours that the crown princess was pregnant were confirmed, it would headline the evening news, and be on the front page of all the major newspapers tomorrow. But no matter what, I had been right all along and was a role model for the country’s police force.

Normally my boss’s effusive congratulations would have had me in seventh heaven. But this time I remained downcast, almost depressed. I thanked him and told him the truth: that the fate of the badly wounded young woman hung heavily on my conscience.

He nodded appreciatively and said that I not only was I an exceptionally good policeman, I was also an exceptionally good person. I thanked him once again, but certainly did not feel like one.

My boss asked in an irritatingly casual manner if there was any news about the ‘wounded party’. I replied that she had still been alive on arrival at hospital, but that it was touch and go whether she would survive or not.

We sat in silence for a while after this.

As we sat there, I ran through the two terrifying moments I had experienced with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen.

The first was when I looked out of the window at 66 Thomas Heftye’s Street and saw her lying on the asphalt below, covered in blood and not moving. It suddenly felt as though it was my fault and I was entirely responsible if she died. I was the one who had bumped into her, and what I had told her had prompted her to push her way forward to stop Trond Bratten from getting onto the stage. And I was the one who had pushed the assassin to one side so that the bullet hit her. I thought I would never smile again if she died. I had never met her parents, or her little brother. But all the same, I could feel how painful it would be to have to tell them of her death.

The second horrifying moment was at Ullevål Hospital, when I got there just after the ambulance. After waiting for fifteen minutes, I was able to speak to the surgeon and senior doctor for a couple of minutes while preparations were being made for the operation. It was an unnerving experience.

The surgeon, Bernt Berg, was in his fifties, and his measured movements instilled confidence and trust. He had a very grave face, and only replied in short sentences when asked a question. He reminded me a little of Martin Morgenstierne, which made the situation feel even more alarming and unreal.