The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) (40 page)

The memory of his reaction was clear in Anders Pettersen’s face as he spoke. His eyes opened wide and his voice changed to a whisper.

‘I didn’t even think he was alive – let alone that he would show up. We spotted each other at the same time, and both of us were startled. We stood there staring at each other, and only looked away when Marie hurtled past at full speed. We were both totally bewildered, I guess. Neither of us followed her. Falko disappeared in the opposite direction, and I jumped onto my bike and pedalled home. Then I called her again and again throughout the evening, but there was no reply. I fell asleep fearing for my darling’s life, and woke up to my greatest nightmare.’

I found Anders Pettersen more and more complex. His otherwise zealous political language every now and then slipped into almost pathetic romantic clichés. It happened again when he said that was all he had to tell me, and that he hoped that it would help me to find ‘my beloved’s murderer’.

Then he simply sat there, with his eyes suddenly swimming in tears.

I asked him to stay within the city boundaries and to keep himself available for further questioning, but was not sure whether he even heard me. In any case, I had no more questions for him at that moment. I left him sitting there by the coffee table like a statue, and found my own way out.

I strongly suspected that Anders Pettersen had escaped into a happy fantasy world where people were queuing up to buy his paintings, where the group was able to mobilize the masses under his leadership to revolution in Norway, and where Marie Morgenstierne was once again naked and wild in his bed. But I no longer suspected him of killing her. And I was even keener to know who had done it.

III

It was now midday, and the table was set for lunch at Patricia’s. She had not asked, and I had not told her, any more about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. Instead she listened in grave silence to my account of my meeting with Anders Pettersen.

‘So, did I get the answers you needed to finally uncover the murderer’s identity?’ I eventually asked.

Patricia’s face was grim as she finished her cup of coffee, but her answer was short and simple: ‘Yes.’

I looked at her, taken aback, as she poured another cup of coffee.

‘Eureka – I have the answer to what is almost a Greek tragedy. This case just gets worse and worse the clearer the answer becomes,’ she concluded.

I had to admit that this left me none the wiser. So I asked her straight out who was responsible for Marie Morgenstierne’s death.

‘The person I have always most feared it to be. There were so many possible alternatives along the way, but now only one realistic one remains. And of course it had to be the most depressing one.’

Patricia sighed again, and drained another cup of coffee in one go. Then she leaned over the table towards me.

‘The crucial question has always been not who killed her, but who or what did she see that so terrified her, as you yourself saw?’

Patricia’s voice was starting to break. As was my patience.

‘But who and what
did
she see? I have to know if we are going to close this case today.’

For a moment, Patricia pressed her serviette to her face. Then she found her voice again and pressed on.

‘A few yards behind her down the street, she saw what would be a harmless sight to anyone else: an elderly man with a stick. Marie Morgenstierne had feared that this man or his wife would kill her because they wrongly suspected her of killing their only son. Despite her newfound happiness, she was constantly on edge because she had not told them that she had a new lover, but they had discovered it all the same. So that was the situation when she suddenly saw a man behind her whom she had never seen at Smestad before, but whom she knew had killed before. He had himself told her about his experiences in the fight against the enemy during the Spanish Civil War. She saw a man who was old, but she knew perfectly well that he did not need a stick. And she saw a cunning murder weapon that he had perhaps shown her himself at some point: a walking stick that housed a salon rifle. Marie did not see anyone or anything else now: just that. And it is not surprising that she then started to run for her life.’

Patricia breathed out slowly, and then continued. I sat there staring at her in fascination.

‘Unfortunately, she started running a second too late to save herself. If she had started a second earlier, she and her unborn child – and the others who have been killed – might still be alive. And you would not have had to drive over to Grünerløkka now to arrest an old married couple who are no doubt devastated at having lost their only son so recently. The story might have been different and far happier if other coincidences had not happened, for example, if Mrs Reinhardt had not walked by when Anders and Marie were holding hands that summer day. Or if Mr Reinhardt had seen his missing son standing there only a few yards away on the evening he killed Marie.’

We sat and looked at each other in sombre silence. I realized that she was of course right. But I could not understand how I had failed to think of this possibility at an earlier stage myself.

I relived my painful encounter with the terrified woman on the Lijord Line seven days earlier. It struck me that the story might have been very different if I had had the sense to pull the emergency brake. It seemed highly unlikely that Patricia had not thought of this. And I was very grateful to her for not having mentioned it at all.

I said that it was a truly sad story, and that I would have to conclude it now by going to Grünerløkka.

Patricia gave a slight nod, and asked in a quiet voice if I would be needing her help any more.

I said that I realized the case had been very demanding for her, and that she no doubt wanted it to be over as soon as possible. I would, however, appreciate talking to her a little bit more once I had arrested the murderer, in order to fill in the final missing details.

She let out a heavy sigh, nodded in resignation and asked me to come back as quickly as possible. She said nothing more, but sat there in silence, waiting.

IV

There was no great drama at Seilduk Street in Grünerløkka when I arrived there at a quarter past one. Arno Reinhardt was on his own when he opened the door this time. He said that his wife was grief-stricken, and had gone to lie down. I told him that we could talk without her for the moment.

He nodded gratefully and showed me into the living room. In a strange way, it felt like we both knew why I was there. As we walked down the hall, I noticed an old travel bag standing there, packed and ready.

I said that we now had information that meant we sadly had to question him again about his whereabouts on the day that Marie Morgenstierne was murdered.

He indicated that he understood.

I added that four police constables were now standing on duty outside the building, as was the case.

My eyes moved to the wall of photographs, and to the last picture of Marie Morgenstierne together with Falko and his parents, here in the flat. Arno Reinhardt followed my gaze.

‘I can always turn my back to that wall, but I can never get away from her. Not here, not in the other rooms, not out on the street,’ he began quietly. ‘I waited and waited. One day before he disappeared, Falko mentioned that he suspected that his fiancée was a mole. I couldn’t prove anything, but the idea that she was, and that she had something to do with his disappearance, took root. So I sneaked out and followed her, and saw her handing something over to a man who passed her on the street after one of their meetings. And still I hesitated. It was only when . . .’

His voice broke, and I had to finish the sentence for him.

‘It was only when your wife came home and told you that she had seen your son’s fiancée hand in hand with another man – your son’s friend, no less – that you were galvanized into action?’

He looked down, and said nothing.

I did not know what else to say. So in the end, I stated the obvious: that he should not have taken the law into his own hands. Slowly he raised his head, showing a bitter smile.

‘We communists have always had to take the law into our own hands, because the police have never done it for us. But I punished an innocent person. Even if the law grants me mercy because of my age, I will never be able to forgive myself. I could live with the fact that I had killed someone who was guilty. But then, just when I was overjoyed to see my son again, my world fell to pieces when I realized I had shot an innocent person.’

‘The fact that she ran for her life made no impression on you?’ I asked.

He nodded, and buried his face in his hands for a moment.

‘To me it was just confirmation of her guilt. When fighting against the Falangists in the Spanish Civil War we learned that those who ran fastest were the guiltiest. I had thought of hearing what she had to say for herself. But when she started to run, I was left in no doubt. It was my doing, and mine alone. My wife didn’t even know that I went out that evening,’ he added, hastily.

I wanted to believe this, but did not know whether I could. Fortunately, I did not have to decide. His wife appeared at that moment, fully dressed and sombre, and sat down beside him without hestitation.

‘No matter what happens, we will always stand together, for better or for worse. It’s true, I did not know that my husband went out that night. But I was the first one to suspect that she had betrayed our son. I was the one who was convinced when I saw her standing there, holding hands with another man we knew nothing about. I was the one who asked my husband on the second anniversary of my son’s disappearance how long he had thought of letting those who were guilty go free. And when he came back that evening, it was I who said that he had done the right thing, and promised to help him conceal it.’

I looked at him. He nodded imperceptibly. Their fingers were now firmly entwined.

There was a strange, slightly unreal atmosphere in the room. There I was having an apparently relaxed conversation with an elderly couple, in the process of closing a complex murder case, and yet was experiencing one of the worst moments of my life.

I had nothing more to ask them. This was clearly a terrible tragedy.

She was the one who broke the silence.

‘Do you mind if we ask you a question? It could mean so much to us in the middle of all this . . . Is it really the case that our son might have been alive today, if we had not made such a fatal misjudgement?’

I had to think about this for a moment before I answered. I could not lie to two people who were guilty of murdering a young, pregnant woman. I could have said that their son would also still be alive had it not been for his own misjudgements, his exaggerated belief in his ability to sort things out alone and his inability to trust others, including his own parents and fiancée. But I thought that criticizing their son or his upbringing would not make things any easier. So I told them the truth: that it was sadly their fatal decision to take the law into their own hands that had resulted in the death of their son, and all that followed.

It was only then that they started to cry. And in a peculiar way, their tears made it easier. My sympathy for them waned when, seven days after killing an innocent young woman, the only thing they could cry for was the loss of their son.

I stood up and said that it was time to go.

They remained seated, holding each other tight.

He asked in a quiet voice if they could have a few minutes alone together first. And in a strange way, it felt as though we understood each other.

I thought about it for a moment or two. I definitely thought more about myself and the police than about them. Then I said that human life was sacrosanct for a country and its people where the rule of law applied, and that too many lives had been lost in this tragic case already. They gave an almost apathetic, synchronized nod, then stood up without any further protest.

On our way out, we stopped for a moment by all the photographs on the wall. None of us could bear to look at the last photographs. We stood instead looking at the first picture, the one of a little Falko with his smiling parents on their return to Oslo in 1945. They were holding hands in exactly the same way tonight. But their hands were old now, and Falko was no longer there. Arno Reinhardt picked up the old travel bag with one hand and held onto his wife’s with the other as he left his home for the last time.

V

Back at the main police station, a couple of hours were spent on congratulations, press releases and other formalities. My boss gave me flowers and endless congratulations on solving the final murder. He said that I would be on the front pages of all the national papers on Monday as a result, and that with three successful murder investigations under my belt I would soon be the country’s most famous policeman. It would only be a matter of time before I was promoted, despite my young age, and several people had suggested me for the rank of detective chief inspector.

Danielsen was nowhere to be seen, but according to unconfirmed rumours had handed in a sick note for the rest of the week. I resisted the temptation to suggest that he should be sent to Mardøla on his return. My boss was all smiles, happier than I had ever seen him before, and might easily decide that sending both Danielsen and me to Mardøla was a good way to resolve our conflict.

Other colleagues were more or less queuing up to congratulate me when I left my boss’s office. In short, the day at the station was almost perfect.

It was half past three before I could drive over to Patricia’s, and ten past four by the time I stepped into her library. She had coffee and cake waiting on the table, but still did not look like she was in a celebratory mood. Without saying a word, she indicated impatiently that I should sit down.

I told her in brief, and without too many details, about the arrest. She nodded but asked no questions, and seemed almost impatient to be done with the whole thing.

‘Many congratulations on another success. But unlike our last case, this does not call for celebration,’ she commented curtly.