The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) (6 page)

The second-last picture of him was dated 1 May 1968 and showed Falko, again at a lectern, in front of a large gathering of young people.

The last one was dated 29 July 1968, and had been taken here in the living room by the table. The picture showed Falko Reinhardt, Marie Morgenstierne and his parents. They looked at least five years younger in the photograph and were smiling widely.

And there the collection ended abruptly. The fourth wall of the living room, where they had obviously hoped to hang pictures from Falko Reinhardt’s adult life, was an empty white wall. I stood between his parents, silent and lost in thought, as I looked at it. I felt their longing for their lost son, and it seemed that they understood that I understood. The atmosphere when we then sat down at the table was moving, despite the deep gravity of the situation.

I expressed my sympathy for their troubles and my hope that he might still come back alive. Mr Reinhardt thanked me and said that they had for a long time hoped and believed that he was still alive. Their son had been so young, so vital and alive, when he disappeared, that it was hard to imagine he was dead. But as days became weeks, months and years, the doubt grew stronger. It seemed incomprehensible that their son would not let them know if he was alive out there, somewhere. They had had many wild ideas as to what might have happened, without ever really finding an explanation they could believe. It now seemed most likely that he had been kidnapped or killed by some powerful enemy, but they couldn’t understand how it had happened. His wife nodded in agreement.

I asked who they thought that enemy might be. Without hesitation, he replied the Nazis were a possibility, as the family had always fought against them and his son was, after all, writing his as yet incomplete thesis about them. As far as they had understood, he had made some important discoveries, but he recommended that I contact his supervisor if I wanted to know more about the thesis. Falko had always been a considerate son and had not wanted to involve them in it too much. They had also understood that he needed to live his own life and did not want to put any pressure on him.

They had of course supported his political activities, even though this involved a new left-wing perspective they did not understand. Falko had always shown a great interest in China, even as a child, whereas for them it was a distant, foreign land. They had at first been sceptical of the notion that Moscow communism might benefit from ideas from China, but had eventually been persuaded by their son’s long and well-reasoned arguments. They were therefore very happy that he established his own group to embrace the positive aspects of both China and the Soviet.

Anders Pettersen was a childhood friend who had been in and out of the flat since he was ten. They had of course also seen a lot of Marie Morgenstierne in the two years before Falko disappeared. They only knew the others in the group by name, and their son had unfortunately not talked much about them or the group’s work. They could not remember having met Trond Ibsen, Kristine Larsen or Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen.

With regard to Marie Morgenstierne, Falko’s parents, like most other people their age, hoped that their son would have his own family and they would become grandparents. They had been very happy when he came home one day in autumn 1966 and told them that he had a girlfriend. They admitted they had been less positive when they heard about her upper-class background, but were then pleasantly surprised by her character and opinions. They were delighted when Falko and Marie announced their engagement in autumn 1967. They had talked about a wedding in late autumn 1968 or early spring 1969, but no date had been set.

The Reinhardts had never had any direct contact with Marie Morgenstierne’s family. They had not made any moves themselves, nor had they felt there was any interest from the other side. Marie Morgenstierne spoke very little about her family, but they had understood that she was an only child and that she had had very little contact with her father since her mother died. Whether the father or other family members might come to the wedding or not was a question that had been discussed at their last meal together, which took place here, on 29 July 1968. Marie Morgenstierne had shrugged and commented that her father could come if he wanted, as could her uncles and aunts. Falko’s parents had thought this was a good answer.

Falko Reinhardt had disappeared a week later. And now, two years on, his fiancée had been shot and killed. It seemed to be as inexplicable to Falko’s parents as it was to me. They thought that she had perhaps been murdered by someone who wanted to stop the group, but had nothing to back up this theory.

I thanked them warmly for all they had told me and promised to get in touch immediately should I discover anything that might cast more light on their son’s fate. They, in turn, thanked me and promised to contact me if they thought of anything else that might be of interest. It felt as though we had become closer somehow in the course of my visit.

I asked, almost in passing, where they had been the day before. They both nodded in understanding and said that they had been together at home yesterday evening, as they were most evenings. One of them was always at home, in case Falko or anyone else who knew something about what had happened to him got in touch. They were generally to be found here. Arno Reinhardt had sold his photography business shortly before his son’s disappearance. They had not been active in politics since they were excluded from the NCP along with other Furubotn followers in 1949. So they seldom went out unless it was to go shopping or some other necessary errand.

It struck me that the Reinhardts fitted perfectly with two of Patricia’s concepts from our previous murder investigations. Both parents had orbited Falko like satellites from the day he was born in 1944 until his disappearance in 1968. And since his disappearance they had become human flies who circled round and round what had happened, without being able to move on.

I felt a deep sympathy for them, and was increasingly puzzled by what had happened to their son. And yet my visit had in no way brought me closer to a solution. I still lacked anything that might resemble a theory about either what had happened when Falko Reinhardt disappeared, or what had happened when Marie Morgenstierne was killed.

XIV

When I left the Reinhardts’ museum of photographs in Seilduk Street, there was still an hour left until my meeting with Marie Morgenstierne’s father. But there was now a reasonable hope that I might find Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen at the SPP office in Pilestredet.

I would never have dreamed that I would ever want to go there. And my first attempt was a bit of a fiasco. The door was locked and the lights were off, and there was no response to my rather aggressive use of the doorbell.

I was standing outside on the pavement wondering if I should drive to the address I had in Sogn Halls of Residence, when a bus stopped a short way down the street.

Even on this otherwise sad day, I almost burst out laughing when I saw the only passenger who got off. It was the first time I had ever recognized someone because I could not see their face. This was because she was reading an unusually large and thick book as she got off the bus and crossed the road. All that was visible below the book covers was a pair of blue jeans and a multicoloured sweatshirt, and above, some fair hair.

Judging from the front cover, the book was a single-volume work on nineteenth-century English literature. It certainly looked as though it contained most of what could be written about the subject.

When she was only a few feet away, I could not resist saying: ‘Miss Filtvedt Bentsen, I presume?’

She came to an abrupt halt, lowered the book and looked at me, more than a little bewildered. The twinkle in her eye rapidly changed to curiosity when I produced my police ID. The first thing I heard her say was a surprise nonetheless.

‘How exciting. Am I about to be arrested? In which case, what for?’

She looked up at me with a teasing smile, but was serious again as soon as I said that I unfortunately had to ask her some questions regarding the investigation into the death of Marie Morgenstierne.

‘Oh, so it was poor Marie? I heard that a young woman had been murdered at Smestad on the radio while I was eating my lunch today. They didn’t give her name, but I was anxious to know whether it could have been her or Kristine Larsen. Then I reasoned that the chances of that were very slim. What a terrible thing to happen, and I will of course answer any questions you might have about the case.’

I stared at her, fascinated, and then shook the hand she held out towards me. Her handshake was firm and her expression somehow both concentrated and relaxed at the same time. I was surprised to notice a necklace with a small cross around her neck. I had heard that there were Christian socialists in the SPP, but had never encountered one before.

It occurred to me that she also disproved the claim that one of my colleagues had made that if there were attractive women in the SPP, he had certainly never seen one. Her fair hair fluttered in the wind. It seemed to me that there was something refreshing and free-spirited about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, something that made me more interested in her than the other three members of the group.

I nodded my agreement as soon as she pulled a key from her jacket pocket and suggested that we should go and sit down in the party office.

The SPP office was even smaller, dustier, more overflowing with paper and more deserted than I had imagined. There was no danger of us being interrupted as we sat on our chairs by a desk that looked like it was about to collapse.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had now very definitely closed her book and given me all her attention. She leaned across the desk with obvious interest and concentration. I of course could not be seen to be any different. So five minutes after meeting for the first time, we were thus suddenly sitting in deep and focused conversation, our faces only inches from each other.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen quickly proved to have a considerably more nuanced view of Falko Reinhardt than the others who had been at the cabin when he disappeared. She agreed that he was an extremely intelligent and charismatic person, and obviously also very well read. He was perhaps one of the best linguists she had ever met. As a socialist, however, he was both too simplistic and too egoistic, and the group had acted too much like a personal fan club and too little like a political work group. The leader of the group was, according to Miriam, ‘one of those people who believed that the road was built because he started his car’.

Also, if Falko Reinhardt was a genius, he was a very distracted genius, according to Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. She commented with a more sadistic than sympathetic tinkle of laughter that he often wrote lists about things, but the problems were rarely solved as he then forgot where he had put the lists.

In addition, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen thought that when they were at the cabin, and in the weeks leading up to the trip, Falko had been troubled by something, but she did not know whether it was political or personal. She had on one occasion asked him outright, but he had not wanted to answer.

As for Marie Morgenstierne, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen considered her a sensible and philosophical young woman who, ‘like far too many other young women today’, had lived in the shadow of her boyfriend. However, she thought that the relationship between Falko and Marie had been good up to the point of his disappearance. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had never met Marie Morgenstierne’s parents, nor Falko Reinhardt’s – or certainly not as far as she knew, she added with a mildly ironic smile. She had had regular contact with Marie herself until the split in spring 1969, after which they had never spoken again.

Marie Morgenstierne was, in Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s opinion, generally careful and considerate in what she said about others. She had, however, on one occasion after a couple of glasses of wine, intimated that she suspected that one of the other members of the group knew something about Falko’s disappearance. But when Miriam tried to follow this up, Marie had swiftly backtracked, and neither of them ever mentioned it again.

All contact was broken after spring 1969. Miriam knew nothing about what Marie had done in the intervening eighteen months, and she therefore feared that she would not be of much help to the murder investigation.

She looked a little sad when she said this; the case had obviously piqued her curiosity. I personally had absolutely no wish to finish our conversation, and so asked how Miriam had interpreted the events leading up to her leaving the group. She looked at me and asked what importance that might have to me or the murder investigation, but then jokingly added that she no doubt remembered things very differently from the rest of the group.

As she remembered it, Anders Pettersen had held one of his ‘long, passionate and nebulous’ lectures. His argument, in short, was that everything the USA did was wrong and that President Nixon’s hands were stained with human blood. China, on the other hand, was the new Soviet and a land of opportunity, and Mao was the greatest leader of our time. The SPP, with its half-hearted support, had proved to be a class traitor both in terms of the working class in Norway and the hundreds of millions of liberated workers in the Soviet and China. Anders’ conclusion, therefore – and he believed that Falko would have wanted the same – was that the group should split from the SPP.

As she remembered it, Miriam herself had replied that politics were more about making things right than being right. They should therefore join with the SPP and take part in the election campaign rather than splintering into an unaffiliated group which was not even a party, and which had no realistic chance of winning representation in that year’s election. Then she had added that there should be no doubt about the democratic stance of Norwegian socialists, and that if one used one’s eyes, it was easy to see that China and the Soviet were one-party systems and that both Mao and Brezhnev also had blood on their hands. She admitted that this was somewhat provocative, but that it was undeniably both true and important. I had no problem in agreeing with her.