I found only one thing of any interest in the late Marie Morgenstierne’s flat. And although it was very interesting indeed, it was hard to gauge how important it was.
Under the pillow on Marie Morgenstierne’s bed was a small white envelope that had been both franked and postmarked. Her name and address were typed on the front. There was no sender’s name or address on the back.
My first thought was that it was perhaps a love letter from a new lover or admirer. However, what was written on the piece of paper inside the envelope was again typed, and was short and to the point:
‘Was it you who betrayed Falko? If so, the time has come to confess your sins and tell the truth before 1 August, or else . . .’
The sheet of paper was small and white, and could have been bought in any bookshop. And the typeface was the most usual kind. I did not believe for a moment that the sender had left any fingerprints on the paper, or that there was anything more to be gained from it.
I stood in the late Marie Morgenstierne’s bedroom with the letter in my hand and pondered whose hands had danced over the keys when the letter was written. Marie Morgenstierne had been sent a warning not many days before she died. The letter was not dated, but the postmark said 20 July 1970.
Rightfully or not, someone had this summer not only accused Marie Morgenstierne of high treason, but had also issued a threat and given her a deadline, which it would appear had not been met.
To me, the letter was at last evidence of a connection between her death and Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. The problem was that we faced what Patricia had called the curse of public space. In theory, more or less anyone could have written and sent the letter. In practice, I watched the faces of Trond Ibsen, Kristine Larsen, Anders Pettersen, Arno Reinhardt and Astrid Reinhardt flash through my mind in quick succession.
II
The caretaker was still waiting outside the door in anticipation, but could not be of much help. He had heard about the tenant’s extreme political views from a cousin who was in the union, but had not seen evidence of them himself. She had been an exemplary tenant and, to his knowledge, had observed all the house rules. As far as guests were concerned, the caretaker apologized that it was not always easy for him and his wife to know all the comings and goings, as tenants had their own front door keys and could in practice let anyone in as long as they were quiet. Falko Reinhardt’s face was familiar to him from the newspapers, and both the caretaker and his wife had seen him there several times before he disappeared. The only other guest they had seen in the past couple of years was a long-legged, young blonde woman whom he might say was rather attractive. I nodded and noted that, reasonably enough, Kristine Larsen had been here.
The caretaker could not remember having seen any other friends. To my relief, he looked slightly bewildered when I asked him if he had at any point seen a young woman who read books as she walked.
There was one thing of interest that the caretaker could tell me about the deceased tenant. And it was of great potential interest. On several occasions that spring, both he and his wife had thought they heard unknown footsteps on the stairs that stopped on the first floor, and Marie Morgenstierne’s flat was the only one on that floor that was inhabited. They had both, a couple of times, caught a glimpse of someone they thought was the visitor as he left the building. If it was he, the guest was taller than average, but they could not say much more as he had left in the dark and was wearing a hat and coat. The caretaker was fairly sure that he or his wife, or both of them, had heard the footsteps on three or four occasions – the last time being only a week or so ago.
I remembered Patricia’s conclusions from the night before. So I asked if it was possible that this guest might be Falko, as they remembered him.
The caretaker raised his eyebrows, thought about it for a while, and even went in to ask his wife. In the end, however, he reluctantly had to confess that they could not say yes or no to that. There were so many footsteps to remember in the building and it was a long time since they had heard Falko’s, he explained, apologetically.
When I asked for a spare key so the flat could be examined, I was given one straight away. I had no real hope of finding any technical evidence, as the flat looked too clean and tidy for that. But I did harbour a small hope that a fingerprint might help to reveal the identity of this mysterious guest – even, perhaps, of the murderer.
III
There was still a fortnight until the start of the autumn semester, and so it was far easier than I had expected to find my way round the university library. I was told that the section where the literature students usually sat had around forty places. Only one of these was occupied at a quarter past eleven.
Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, still dressed in blue jeans and a multicoloured sweatshirt, sat in the middle of a deserted landscape of empty chairs like a silent and lonely queen. There was a thick notepad in front of her and around it, an encyclopedia and five French dictionaries.
The sole occupant of the library was reading with such concentration that she did not notice me, even when I was only a few steps away. I stood there for a minute without attracting her attention, before I alerted her to my presence with a half-whispered: ‘Do you perhaps know where I might find Miss Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen?’
If I had expected her to start in surprise, I was disappointed. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was obviously of a far more balanced nature than I thought, and what is more, she was familiar with the silence rule. It would take more than a whispering policeman in the library to unnerve her. She looked up, nodded with a quick smile, pointed to the exit and stood up. I obediently followed behind her, taking it as a good sign that, after a moment’s hesitation, she had left the encyclopedia and all five dictionaries on the desk.
Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen felt that it was too early in the day for a longer break, so turned down the offer of lunch in the refectory. I saw it as positive that she then said yes to a coffee and a piece of cake – especially as she ate incredibly slowly and pensively.
My first question was about the size of the windows in the cabin in Valdres. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen took her time, chewed on a couple of mouthfuls, and then answered that she unfortunately did not dare say for sure. The windows had been small, and were relatively high, so she doubted that it would be possible for a man of Falko Reinhardt’s size to get out that way. But she could not be certain. Whatever the case, the window had been shut from the inside when she went into the bedroom around two o’clock that morning. So if that was how he had escaped, he would have needed Marie’s help, she added, with an inquisitive smile.
I did not say anything to the contrary, but asked instead what she herself had been doing at ten o’clock the night before.
I asked with my heart in my throat, and once again anticipated a strong reaction – which did not happen this time either. Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen looked at me with even greater curiosity and asked if I really suspected her of murder? I tried to defuse the situation by saying that I did not, but that I had to ask her as a matter of routine, for the reports.
She replied that good reporting procedures were important in all organizations, and then added on a more serious note that her alibi was unfortunately not perfect. She had been in a meeting with several other people at the party office from six until eight, but had then carried on working alone until ten, when she caught a bus and a train back to her student flat. And at the moment, she was the only one in her corridor who had returned after the holidays.
In theory, there was nothing to have stopped her from being at Smestad around ten. But she had not been there, she said, and suddenly looked very serious indeed.
I thought to myself that Patricia would hardly be impressed by this alibi. And that I personally was relieved that Miriam had not given a boyfriend as an alibi and that there was still no hint of any boyfriend.
I turned the conversation back to their trip to the cabin, and asked whether she or Kristine Larsen had slept closest to the door. She looked a
t me, somewhat startled, but replied without hesitation that she had been closest to the window, and Kristine closest to the door. She told me in response to my follow-up question that Kristine Larsen had wanted to sleep with the door ajar the night before the disappearance as well.
My next question felt a bit intrusive. But I trusted Patricia, and so I asked if I was correct in thinking that on the night of Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had also been awake, even though she had had her eyes closed.
Miriam Filtvedt now looked at me with open curiosity and admiration. But her voice was just as calm, and her reply just as measured: she had turned out the light around midnight, but had not been able to sleep, and had thus lain awake. To avoid disturbing her roommate, she had been as still as she could. And given an academic proviso that she might have dropped off or confused people’s footsteps, she could therefore confirm Kristine Larsen’s claim that Falko Reinhardt’s footsteps had not been heard out in the hallway in the hours before he disappeared.
She could not help asking how I, two years later, could know that she had been awake. But then she answered this herself in the same breath, saying that I presumably could not say in light of the ongoing investigation.
I nodded meaningfully, noted down her answers, and reserved the right to contact her again should any more questions arise. She nodded, said that I now knew where to find her if that was the case, and then disappeared back into the library as if to illustrate the point.
Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen left half a cup of coffee and some cake on the table in her wake. They reinforced the feeling that she had now been given something to think about, even though I could not for the life of me see her as guilty of murder – or any other crime, for that matter.
IV
After Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had gone back to the library, I treated myself to another cup of coffee and a couple of rolls for lunch. In the time it took me to eat this, I decided that I would follow up the old Nazi lead before going to the police security service. I was mentally putting it off, and used the excuse that it might be handy to have a clear overview of all the possible threats first.
I therefore went straight from the refectory to the history department. Professor Johannes Heftye was, as luck would have it, alone in his office and said straight away he would be happy to talk to me. He was a grey-haired, grey-bearded and well-dressed man in his sixties, with the Second World War as his speciality. He had also once been a Communist Party politician.
The professor’s memory was impressive, as far as I could tell. He immediately remembered not only Falko Reinhardt, but details about his unfinished thesis and the last supervision he had had with him. The thesis was about an NS network from the Second World War, a subject that both the student and supervisor thought was fascinating and important. Falko had called the professor out of the blue one evening during the holidays and asked if he could get guidance as soon as possible about some sensational new findings.
Professor Heftye’s curiosity was immediately piqued and they had met here at the university on 2 August – three days before Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. Falko had been unusually excited and said that he had discovered things that might indicate that parts of the network were still active. He had then added in a hushed voice that it looked as though some of them were discussing options for a major offensive of some sort.
His supervisor got the impression that this might be an assassination or sabotage of some kind, but the usually so self-assured Falko Reinhardt was uncharacteristically vague about what kind of plans they might have and when it might happen. When, in addition, Falko Reinhardt did not want to say where he had got the information, his supervisor asked him to think about it and check all the information again, then come back when he had more to report.
Falko had explained that one of the sources made things a bit complicated, but assured the professor that this was something really big. He had seemed uneasy, almost frightened, in a way that his supervisor had never seen before. On his way out, Falko had said in a quiet voice that he now seriously feared for his own safety. The professor had asked if he was talking about the Nazi network. Falko had replied that the right-wing extremists were a possible danger, but with a self-deprecating smile he had added that he no longer felt safe with left-wing radicals either.
And they were the last words he had heard Falko Reinhardt say, the professor remarked gloomily as he puffed on his pipe. He had more or less dismissed the comment about left-wing radicals as a joke. But he regretted not taking the information about the Nazi network more seriously, and still believed that there had to be some kind of connection with Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. He had, without much joy, tried to explain this to the rather unappealing young detective inspector who investigated the disappearance, he added.
I nodded cautiously in agreement. It was easy to believe that Detective Inspector Danielsen had not found the right tone as easily with the radical professor as he had with the reactionary bank manager Martin Morgenstierne.
The first draft of Falko Reinhardt’s thesis, around ninety pages long, still stood between two thicker works on Professor Heftye’s shelf. He assured me that he had a copy stored away safely at his house, and handed me the thesis as soon as I asked if I could borrow it for the investigation. He added that it was a pleasure to meet a policeman who appreciated the value of history. I was more than welcome to contact him whenever I wished for further information. I thanked him, picked up the thesis and beat a hasty retreat.
V
I sat in my office from half past eleven until one, reading through Falko Reinhardt’s draft thesis. The text was incomplete; a conclusion and several chapters were still missing. However, this did not detract from the impression that the author was intelligent and had a flair for language. Some of Falko Reinhardt’s charisma as a speaker also shone through in what he wrote.
The topic was definitely interesting, not only in terms of the current murder investigation. In the body of the thesis, Falko Reinhardt described the activities of a network of Norwegian Nazis from the upper echelons of society in eastern Norway. He had also started to work on an annex about how parts of the network had remained active throughout the 1950s and 1960s. And it was hinted quite heavily that members of the group had not just met, but had also remained politically active and had discussed possible new actions. However, what this meant in practical terms was not specified in the text and no sources were given in the annex. It was thus unclear what sort of activity they were engaged in or where Falko Reinhardt had found the information.
‘The wealthy farmer Henry Alfred Lien, from Vestre Slidre in Valdres’ was mentioned as a secondary character and local contact for the network during the war. He did not, however, appear to have played a leading role at that time, nor was he mentioned in connection with activities after the war. According to the draft, ‘the Big Four’ were the architect Frans Heidenberg, the company director Christian Magnus Eggen, the shipowner Lars Roden and the landowner Marius Kofoed, all from the west end of Oslo. Both their names and professions were decidedly upper-class. I immediately went to find the relevant files in the treason trial archives and police records. They, too, proved to be interesting reading.
Henry Alfred Lien had been an active local leader and spokesman for the Nasjonal Samling, and had been sentenced to six years’ imprisonment after the war. He was released in 1948.
The shipowner Lars Roden had also been a member of the NS, and had furthermore placed his ships at the disposition of the occupying forces. He was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment, but released in autumn 1947 due to ill health. He died two years later.
Marius Kofoed, the landowner, appeared to have been the one with most contacts in the NS and the occupying forces. He had, among other things, allowed his property to be used for troop mobilization and celebrations arranged by the NS. He was also deemed to be a personal friend of Quisling. Kofoed could most certainly have expected a stiffer sentence after the war had
he not been liquidated by anonymous perpetrators in January 1945. There was a short statement in his papers to say that the murder had in all likelihood been carried out by members of the Home Front, and that further investigation was not advised.
The architect Frans Heidenberg was also a man who had moved in Nazi circles, but his role was harder to pin down, other than being a member of the NS and designing some large buildings for the occupying forces. He had got away with only two years’ imprisonment after the war and had been released in autumn 1946.
The company director Christian Magnus Eggen had run his own business trading in jewellery and gold, with extensive dealings in Germany both before and during the war. He had also been a member of the NS, but had not had any formal responsibility. Despite a note to say that he was a friend of Quisling, he had got away with three years’ imprisonment and been released after two for lack of any more serious indictments.
In later files from the census rolls, Frans Heidenberg and Christian Magnus Eggen were recorded as having private addresses in Skøyen and Kolsås. And both were listed at the same addresses and with the same titles in the telephone directories for Oslo and Akerhus. According to the files, they were now 72 and 69 years old respectively. I found the lead interesting enough to reach for the phone.
Both Heidenberg and Eggen were at home and answered the telephone themselves. Neither of them sounded particularly pleased that I had called. But both agreed, curtly and correctly, to meet me once I had made it clear that they were not suspected of anything, but that the police would like to ask them some routine questions in connection with an ongoing murder investigation. I promised to do this as quickly as possible and asked that they both stay at home for the next couple of hours.
The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) Page 8
