The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) (4 page)

In answer to my final question about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s split with the group, Kristine Larsen said that she had possibly experienced the situation as being less dramatic than the others, but that she had also been taken aback and disappointed when Miriam stood up and left. She had known Miriam since they were around sixteen years old, and still found it hard to imagine that she would do anyone any harm.

This caught my interest and I asked what harm Miriam might have done, other than leave the group.

Kristine Larsen bit her lip and then started to backpedal furiously. She made it clear that she herself did not think that Miriam had done anything wrong, and as far as she knew, no one suspected Miriam of having anything whatsoever to do with Marie Morgenstierne’s death. But I should of course talk to Anders and Trond as well, she said, when I continued to look at her questioningly.

Then, all of a sudden, Kristine Larsen did not want to say anything more. She sat by the table pale, silent and with tears in her eyes. She had been so helpful until this point that I did not feel like pushing her any further, certainly not at the moment. So I did as she said, and drove in the direction of Anders Pettersen’s address.

This group of student activists was starting to interest me more and more. I thought it was more than likely that the group were in some way connected to Marie Morgenstierne’s death and Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance.

VIII

Anders Pettersen did not answer his telephone, but did open the door when I rang the doorbell of his flat near Grefsen. He apologized, explaining that he had just come home from a lecture on non-figurative painting at the Academy of Fine Art, and showed me a timetable that undeniably supported what he said.

This seemed reasonable enough, given that his flat was more or less full of self-signed paintings in a very non-figurative style. I had no idea what any of them were supposed to be, so could not make any comment on their artistic merit.

Anders Pettersen was almost the same height as me, had long dark hair, and was of a more stocky build than Trond Ibsen. It was easy to appreciate that under other circumstances he would appear both charismatic and handsome. Now, however, he seemed very affected by the current situation. He repeated several times that Falko’s disappearance in itself was strange, but after all he was someone who provoked powerful emotions in people and it would be easy enough to understand if he had enemies. But it was completely incomprehensible that anyone might think of killing Marie Morgenstierne. He thought it was possible that the intelligence services, or an opposing political group, might want to attack the group. He was increasingly convinced that that was the explanation for Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. But the murder of Marie Morgenstierne was inexplicable. If it was in some way related to Falko’s disappearance, why two years later? And if the intent was to strike at the group, why Marie Morgenstierne and not himself or Trond Ibsen?

Anders Pettersen seemed to be an intelligent if somewhat unsystematic thinker who had nothing against the sound of his own voice. Given his extremely radical political views and his agitated state of mind, his line of thought was not entirely unreasonable. But I was more interested in the facts.

Merely saying the name Falko Reinhardt for Anders Pettersen proved to be like pressing a button. He had known Falko since class three at school, and had always regarded him as a kind and wise elder brother. Falko was, for him, Norway’s answer to Che Guevara and a possible future leader on a par with Mao. The reason that he had now informally assumed leadership of the group in Falko’s absence was precisely because he had known Falko the longest, and could thus best imagine what he would have thought.

As for the disappearance itself, Anders Pettersen had little to add to what the others had already told me. He had initially refused to believe that Falko was dead in the period following his disappearance, but gradually the doubt had crept in. It seemed increasingly odd that Falko had not contacted him or the group if he was still alive. Falko might be in a secret American prison camp and unable to get out, but it seemed more and more likely that he had simply been killed. And Anders could imagine no satisfactory explanation of how any hypothetical kidnappers or murderers had managed to get Falko out of the cabin without being noticed.

In contrast to his impassioned response to questions about Falko Reinhardt and Marie Morgenstierne, Anders Pettersen’s reaction to my question about the split between the group and Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was unexpectedly cool. He shook his head thoughtfully and commented that he had been surprised when she got up and left, but that afterwards it had only served to strengthen a suspicion that he had had for some time.

Anders Pettersen gave me a meaningful and loaded look when he said this. His expression then became mildly patronizing when I asked what he meant by it. It had been clear to him and the other members of the group that they were being watched by the police security service from as early as 1968. However, even though they were on their guard, they had not noticed any direct surveillance. It had also been clear to Anders that there was an informant within the group who was reporting directly to the police – and he had come to believe that Falko shared this suspicion in the months before he disappeared.

Anders Pettersen had spent a lot of time pondering the mole theory after Falko went missing. His suspicion had focused on Miriam, who was also the most critical of the political stance that he and Falko had taken. The night that Falko had disappeared was the only time that Anders Pettersen could remember the otherwise so calm Trond Ibsen losing control; whereas Miriam, who was the youngest, had remained bizarrely unruffled throughout the night. When, at a later date, she stood up and left the group, he had taken that as confirmation that his theory was right.

Having said that, he added slowly and somewhat reluctantly that there was not necessarily any direct link between the supposition that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had spied on the group until she left in spring 1969, and Marie Morgenstierne’s dramatic death a little more than a year later. Marie’s death seemed more likely to be connected to Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance, though Anders was unable to say how. It was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen who claimed to have seen both the masked face in the window that evening and the shadow of a person out in the storm later that night. He advised me to take both of these incidents with a pinch of salt.

Anders Pettersen added in conclusion that he was pretty sure that the police security service, and therefore, naturally, the CIA, knew a considerable amount – if not everything – about the murder and the disappearance. And if I could get anything out of them, then perhaps something positive might come out of what was otherwise a tragic case. He also agreed with the others who had been present that the meeting the day before had been uneventful. He claimed to have seen Marie Morgenstierne for the last time outside the meeting place. They had waved goodbye to each other as usual as he got on his bike and she set off towards the station.

By the time I left Anders Pettersen, I was even more intrigued by the group and its members. And even more curious about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, the only person I had not yet met of the four remaining who had been out in the storm that night in Valdres. I reckoned that it would be easier to find her in her room, or at the SPP office later in the day, than to run around looking in the university libraries. Furthermore, I had some important telephone calls to make. So I drove straight to the main police station from Grefsen and arrived back at around half past two.

IX

Marie Morgenstierne’s family had still not been in touch. And her father Martin Morgenstierne was still not answering the telephone, even though I had now called around ten times. It was starting to be a significant problem that we had not managed to contact the deceased’s closest family. The priest had knocked on Martin Morgenstierne’s door around midnight the night before and then again at half past seven in the morning, without finding any sign of life.

Given the time of year, it seemed likely that Martin Morgenstierne was either abroad or at a cabin without television, radio or a telephone. His employer was most likely to know where he was. As there were still not so many bank managers in Oslo, I asked one of the secretaries to go through the list and ring all of the banks in the city, if necessary.

In the meantime, I myself called the number provided for Falko Reinhardt’s parents in Grünerløkka. Here the telephone was answered on the third ring. An earnest woman’s voice announced ‘Reinhardt’. I introduced myself and said that if she and her husband were at home today, I would very much like to come and speak to them in connection with the murder of Marie Morgenstierne. She replied equally earnestly that she and her husband had heard about the murder on the radio, but did not know that it was Marie Morgenstierne who had been killed until just now. She added that since their son’s disappearance, they were generally always at home.

There was silence for a moment. I asked if it would be suitable to come at either four or five o’clock. She replied, still very serious, that I could come at four, or at five, or whenever I liked. I said that I reckoned it would be sometime between four and five. She said that they would be happy to talk to me, but did not sound as though she meant it. Then she put the phone down before I had a chance to thank her.

The secretary helping me trace Martin Morgenstierne was young and eager, and only a few minutes after I had finished my telephone call, she was standing at my door with the address and telephone number of the bank where Martin Morgenstierne was manager. It was not one of the largest in town, but was well known all the same and had a good reputation.

I rang the bank’s switchboard and said that I was from the police and it was urgent. Then I got straight to the point and asked if they knew where Martin Morgenstierne, the manager, was.

There was silence for a moment, then the switchboard operator replied that the bank manager was in his office, as he always was during office hours unless he had important meetings elsewhere.

It was my turn to be lost for words. But eventually I asked if she could put me through to him.

It was a strange and by no means pleasant experience to hear the bank manager’s calm voice answer with ‘Bank Manager Morgenstierne here.’

I started by saying: ‘This is Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen and I am afraid that I have some very bad news for you regarding a personal matter . . .’

The bank manager’s voice sounded a touch sharper, but his response was just as measured when he asked if I was alluding to the death of his daughter, in which case his secretary had already informed him. She had been told by a friend of his who was an editor and had called to offer his condolences. He did not think that he would have anything of interest to contribute to the investigation as he had unfortunately only had very sporadic contact with his daughter in recent years. That being said, he would of course answer any questions the police might wish to ask.

There was a brief pause when neither of us said anything. I was at a loss as to what to say to a man I had never spoken to before, who had found out only hours ago from his secretary that his daughter was dead and yet had just carried on with his working day as though nothing had happened.

I offered my condolences all the same and assured him that that the investigation would be given the highest priority, then asked if I could meet him as soon as possible. He replied that he had an important meeting in the bank at half past three, but that he should be back home in Frogner by half past five at the latest. I suggested that I should come there at six and he said that would be fine.

I sat deep in thought, with the receiver in my hand and the tone in my ear, after Martin Morgenstierne had put down the phone. The case seemed to be getting more and more convoluted, the more parties I got to know. The investigation was not yet half a day old and it was already clear that it involved several mysteries and a gallery of fascinating characters. I felt a tremendous sense of relief that I had Patricia behind me. And then I started to wonder who it was knocking on my door.

X

This time the door-knocker turned out to be Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen. I had silently hoped that he was on summer holiday in some faraway place, but now remembered that he never went on holiday at any time of year for fear of missing out on a career opportunity.

He had come primarily to ‘sympathize’ with me about being given sole responsibility for the murder of Marie Morgenstierne, which would no doubt be a very demanding case. Danielsen also wanted to make sure that I knew about the possible connection to Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance, as he himself had led that investigation. I was as friendly as could be, thanked him and assured him that I would be in touch should any relevant questions crop up. However, I had already had the pleasure of reading his written report, which was so informative and detailed that I had everything I needed for the present. He smiled and thanked me and told me that the door to his office was always open, should I need any assistance.

He then added, with the falsest smile, that some potentially good news had just come in. A witness had come forward who had been walking behind Marie Morgenstierne on the way to the station the evening before.

I asked jokingly why he had not brought the witness in with him straight away. He replied that unfortunately there were certain practical problems in connection with the witness, and it would therefore perhaps be best if I came out and met her myself.

I smelt a rat, and asked if the witness was under the influence or indisposed for any other reason. Danielsen cheerily shook his head and said that the witness was a sober and undoubtedly reliable person, but was still, to put it politely, ‘problematic as an eyewitness’. It would perhaps be best if I went out to the reception area to meet her myself. He could scarcely hide the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth when he said this.