I looked at Patricia, impressed, as she slowly and thoughtfully chewed her last mouthful of duck.
‘That sounds reasonable enough. But how can you be so sure? And, what’s more, how did you know before the pathologist that she had been shot, and with an unusual weapon?’
Patricia was looking at me patronizingly already.
‘I thought it was fairly obvious that she had been shot, but the argument does entail further implications that we should bear in mind. As you yourself saw, Marie Morgenstierne was running in fear for her life, even though there was no one behind her. However, she was still cool-headed enough to skip from side to side, clearly to make herself a less easy target for the person with the gun. It had to be a gun, really, as the murderer was obviously quite far behind her. But he or she would obviously be taking quite a chance by walking around Smestad with an ordinary hunting rifle. So it is therefore reasonable to assume that it was a more unusual weapon, one that could in some way remain concealed from other passers-by. In theory it could of course be a powerful revolver or pistol, even though that would require an unusually good shot. So what sort of murder weapon it was, and what it looked like, is a mystery in itself.’
Patricia smiled smugly, finished the water in her glass, and quickly continued before I made any attempt to interrupt her.
‘The blind witness can of course not help us with that, but her statement is still very revealing. Something happened to make Marie Morgenstierne break from a steady walk into a mad dash for her life. As the blind lady, with her excellent hearing, could not hear the train, Marie Morgenstierne could presumably not see it either. So she was not running to catch the train – it just suddenly appeared in front of her, and she realized it was her only chance to save her life. We know she panicked, obviously for some justifiable reason, while she was walking happily down the road – but that does not necessarily need to be linked to any of the people walking behind her. She could have seen someone else waiting down a side road, or behind a hedge. But something happened that alerted Marie Morgenstierne to danger, and made her run. And I would dearly love to know what it was. It would seem that it was something that the others there did not understand, but she immediately knew what it meant.’
‘Someone she knew, in other words?’ I ventured.
Patricia shrugged disarmingly and shook her head at the same time.
‘It would certainly seem that it was someone she knew, but not just that. Most of us know one or two people we would rather not meet, but very few of us would suddenly flee in panic at sight of them in a public place. Marie Morgenstierne apparently saw someone she knew, and for one reason or another she immediately knew that he or she was carrying a gun that could be aimed at her at any moment. Who and what was it that Marie Morgenstierne saw yesterday evening? That is now the most pressing question. And it undeniably makes the fact that three of the four people we know were on the street have not come forward in response to the repeated call for witnesses on the radio and television even harder to fathom. Goodness knows what their reasons are. One would think . . .’
Patricia stopped mid-sentence and sat deep in thought for a while. She opened her mouth for a moment, then shut it firmly. I had learned during our last investigation that Patricia hated to make mistakes, and would therefore often keep her arguments to herself until she was absolutely certain they were watertight. So I tried to prompt her by asking a question and airing my own views.
‘Surely the shout indicates that at least one person on the street knew who she was?’
Patricia nodded.
‘Clearly at least one of them knew who she was, and I suspect others did too. The shout is a mystery in itself, which the blind witness alone cannot help to explain. She heard the shout and Marie breaking into a run almost simultaneously. Was the shout prompted by the fact that Marie suddenly started to run? Or did Marie start to run because she heard the shout? Or did something else happen that only two people on the street understood the significance of, making Marie break into a run and the other person shout her name?’
I ventured to comment that Kristine Larsen was a woman, had been in the vicinity, and knew Marie Morgenstierne. Patricia looked at me sharply.
‘That is certainly a possibility to be considered, and I can assure you that I have. But first of all, the blind lady is not entirely sure that the person who shouted was a woman. And secondly, there are many other women in the world who might equally have shouted to Marie. Did you for example ask whether Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had an alibi for last night?’
I had to admit that I had forgotten to do so. I told myself that I had no reason to believe she had been at the scene of the crime, and what it is more, found it hard to believe that she had anything to do with the murder. But I was wise enough not to mention this to Patricia. Instead, I promised that I would ask her tomorrow.
‘Please do,’ Patricia said, without any apparent enthusiasm. Then she suddenly continued, ‘And ask her two more questions at the same time. One: was the window in the room where Falko Reinhardt and Marie Morgenstierne were sleeping big enough for Falko to have climbed out? Two: ask if she is absolutely sure that she fell asleep that night, and whether she can confirm Kristine Larsen’s statement that she did not hear Falko out in the hall from the time they went to bed until they discovered he was missing?’
I looked at Patricia in surprise and with something akin to disapproval.
‘Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen said clearly enough that she went to sleep around midnight, and Kristine Larsen, who had a headache, saw her lying there asleep. So surely there is no great mystery there?’
There was a pause while the maid came in to clear the plates after the main course and give us each a dessert plate of ice cream and cake. Even in this new age, Patricia was upper-class enough not to say anything while the servants were in the room. However, she drummed her fingers impatiently on the table to ensure it did not take too long, then eagerly continued her reasoning as soon as the maid had closed the door.
‘The boundary that defines sleep is blurred, to say the least. And saying that you have gone to bed is even vaguer. There is, however, a considerable difference between lying in bed with your eyes closed and being asleep, in that you are no longer aware of sounds and movements in the room. I am neither a clairvoyant nor paranoid, but while I am in no doubt that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had put down her book and closed her eyes two hours earlier, I do not think she was fast asleep at the point when it was discovered that Falko Reinhardt had disappeared. Nor, for that matter, do I believe that Kristine Larsen was lying awake because of a headache. She seems to have coped very well in the hours after it was discovered, despite the claimed headache and lack of sleep. And leaving the door open to ease a headache is a new one on me, as it increases the risk of noise. Ask Miriam if Kristine had wanted to keep the door ajar on previous nights at the cabin as well, and whether she had noticed any obvious signs of this supposed headache.’
I could not understand what she was driving at, but carefully noted down the questions on a piece of paper. Experience from earlier investigations had shown that Patricia’s apparently bizarre questions and whims could prove to be enormously important.
‘What do you make of the coincidence regarding the dates of Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance and Marie Morgenstierne’s murder?’ I asked. For me, this was the greatest mystery, along with how Falko Reinhardt had left the cabin.
Patricia rubbed her hands.
‘It is one of the most striking things about the case, and one of the most important questions that needs to be solved. I don’t believe in coincidence, and certainly not in supernatural connections. Given the situation, I am fairly sure that there is a direct and man-made link between these two strange events. But what sort of connection remains to be seen. I have too little information to know which of my many possible explanations is right. But I do think that Falko Reinhardt’s personality in part holds the key, as do the circumstances surrounding his disappearance.’
‘Does that mean that you may have an explanation as to how Falko Reinhardt disappeared from the cabin?’ I asked, hopefully.
Patricia gave a scornful snort.
‘I already have three possible solutions as to how he left the cabin. But if the answers to the questions you are going to ask are what I expect them to be, then I can possibly eliminate two of them. And in that case, we will be a good deal closer to solving the case. And by the way, all three possible explanations are based on the assumption that Falko Reinhardt disappeared off into the storm that night of his own volition, with or without help from anyone else in the cabin. This of course does not rule out the possibility that something serious happened to him, either outside the cabin or later. He may have gone out to meet someone who it then transpired wanted to kill him. However, I do believe that the chances that Falko Reinhardt is still alive out there somewhere are as great as the danger that he is dead.’
‘Well, where do you think he is, then?’
Patricia shook her head.
‘I have no idea where in the world Falko Reinhardt might be right now. His disappearance is in itself a locked-room mystery that then spills out into public space. Nor do I have any idea at the moment why he disappeared. But I am not concerned about that. Assuming that we are both still alive in a fortnight, we should have solved both the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt and the murder of his fiancée Marie Morgenstierne.’
This conclusion was immensely comforting, on the basis of previous experience – though I did suspect that Patricia trusted her own ability far more than mine. I did not pursue the matter. Instead, I asked what I should do the next day, apart from asking Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen the questions I had noted down.
The answer came faster than expected.
‘Start with that and Marie Morgenstierne’s flat. Then check with Falko’s parents, and anyone else who might know, whether his passport was left behind and if there is any indication that his money or other possessions have disappeared. Then speak to Falko’s supervisor at the university and see what you can find out about the names mentioned in his thesis. The lead of a possible Nazi network should be followed up. And then, most exciting of all, but also perhaps most demanding . . .’
I looked at her in anticipation. She swallowed her last two spoonfuls of ice cream before she continued.
‘. . . you should in fact do exactly as Anders Pettersen suggested, and request to see any information the police security service might have. My guess is you will not find the answer as to whether there was a mole in the group or not; but ask, all the same. And take a note of anything that they say might be of interest. I have a theory, and if it is right, it will also be a considerable step forward.’
‘Is the theory perhaps, like everyone else’s, that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was the mole?’ I felt my heart beat a little harder when I asked this question. To my great relief, Patricia snorted again.
‘Not at all. It is incredible how irrational and paranoid even intellectually gifted people can become in group situations. I do not trust this Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen for a second, but “absurd” is in fact a good description of that claim. There is nothing in the world to say that she had any sympathies with the police security service, even though she broke away from the group. The SPP is presumably watched just as closely. If, by any chance, she had been an agent with a mission to spy on the group, she would of course have remained seated, rather than leaving such a good post. If there was a mole in the group, it would seem more likely that it was one of the four who remained, not the one who left.’
I sent Patricia a look that was at once questioning and firm. She teased me a little, staring into the air thoughtfully without saying a word. I realized that she had a theory about the mole’s identity, but was not yet willing to reveal it. So I stood up, made it clear that I was getting ready to go, and remarked that it was going to be a long working day tomorrow.
Patricia stopped me halfway with her hand and one of her short and completely unexpected questions: ‘The question for today is, was Marie Morgenstierne wearing a watch when she died?’
I looked at her, taken aback, and wondered secretly if this was some kind of a joke. It was beyond me to understand what significance this detail might have. But Patricia’s face remained focused and almost insistent, without a shadow of a smile, so I answered with forced gravity.
‘Yes. She was, after all, a woman of means and was wearing a rather expensive watch on her left wrist. And it was still working after she had been run over by a train. But I simply have to ask, in return, what on earth you think the practical significance of that is?’
Now, however, Patricia smiled broadly.
‘I thought the practical significance of that would also be obvious. But I am more than happy to explain to you if necessary and you so wish. So far we have, naturally enough, been more interested in why Marie Morgenstierne ran for her life to the train. But what is also interesting is why she was walking so slowly in the first place. Even though she had a watch and knew the time, she was walking at such a leisurely pace towards the train that she would not catch it, and so would have to wait some time for the next one. And she must have known that, as she had taken the train home from meetings many times before. So, one theory that is worth noting is that Marie Morgenstierne wanted to give the impression of heading straight to the train, whereas in reality, she was going to meet someone else or do something else at Smestad yesterday evening.’
I had to admit that this was a theory worth noting. But I felt rather confused. So I excused myself, saying that I was tired after a long day of investigation, and asked with a fleeting smile whether we could meet again and discuss this further tomorrow. By then I would also, hopefully, have some more information to add.
Patricia replied with a bigger smile that she in fact had no other important arrangements tomorrow and that it would suit her very well if I was to drop by sometime after six, for example. Unless the staff had fallen asleep on the job or gone on strike, there was even a hope that I might get a simple meal after my hard day’s work. I thanked her and promised to be there before seven o’clock the following evening. Then I followed the maid out, still pensive, but far more optimistic than when I came in.
I had an extraordinary amount to think about when I went to bed, alone, in my flat in Hegdehaugen at around eleven o’clock on Thursday, 6 August 1970. The faces of the various people I had met in the course of the day flashed through my mind. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s face stayed longest, even though she was the one I least suspected of being a murderer. But then I could not really imagine any of the people I had met so far as being Marie Morgenstierne’s extremely cold-blooded murderer. And if one of them was in fact behind it, I had no idea of who that might be.
And so, just before I fell asleep, I pondered what Patricia had said about the curse of public space, and concluded that the murderer was probably someone else, somewhere else out there in the dark. And I unfortunately had no idea as to how we might find him or her.
DAY THREE
More answers, more questions – and more suspects
I
I skimmed the newspapers at the breakfast table on Friday, 7 August 1970 and saw that the Mardøla protests still dominated the headlines, following an attack on the protestors’ camp by several hundred reportedly angry Romsdalers the night before. The defence minister had refused to send in troops to remove the activists, but a large group of policemen were on their way to prevent any further scuffles. Otherwise, the debate about Norway’s membership of the EEC had intensified after a speech given to Norway’s Rural Youth by the Conservative Party and parliamentary leader, Kåre Willoch, where he had highlighted the EEC negotiations as an important national concern that everyone should support.
Aftenposten and Arbeiderbladet both carried a matter-of-fact report about Marie Morgenstierne’s death at Smestad. Both papers had found out that ‘the well-known Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen’ had been given responsi
bility for the investigation and Aftenposten had, ‘based on previous experience, every hope that the case would be solved and those responsible arrested within a week’.
I put the papers to one side and set off for Kjelsås to start my working day. I still harboured a small hope that the flat where Marie Morgenstierne had lived might contain something to reveal the identity of her murderer.
Getting in proved to be no problem at all. One of the keys from Marie Morgenstierne’s wallet fitted the outside door. The caretaker was at his post and had read about the murder – and about me – in the newspaper, so immediately jumped up when I knocked on the door to his flat on the ground floor. He confirmed that the other key from Marie Morgenstierne’s wallet was to her flat. The only real challenge was to stop him coming in with me. In the end I managed to solve this by promising to come and get him if he could be of any help. He stayed outside the door just in case.
Once inside, my greatest problem was finding anything of any relevance in the flat. All my hopes were initially thwarted. Marie Morgenstierne had apparently been a tidy tenant, and there was not much of a personal touch in the flat. There were a couple of rather traditional paintings on the walls and three framed photographs of her and Falko, including an engagement picture, on the chest of drawers. Otherwise it seemed to be an entirely functional flat. Everything one expected to find in a single woman’s flat was neatly in place here – and nothing more.
Marie Morgenstierne had a bookshelf full of textbooks on politics and other political literature, including a series of selected works by Marx and Engels. And she had a respectable number of literary works on another bookshelf. She had a fair amount of clothes in the wardrobe in the bedroom, but less make-up in the bathroom than one might expect to find for a young woman of her age. There was no form of contraception anywhere, nor any other indication that she had a new boyfriend or lover in her life. Nor were there any personal letters or diaries that might cast light on the case. In short, there was absolutely nothing to point me in the direction of who it might have been who had shot the woman who lived here two days ago.
The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) Page 7
