XII
It was by now half past eleven. I sat on my own in my office and thought about the situation.
Kristine Larsen had accepted being taken into custody with unexpected dignity, saying that at least in prison she no longer need fear the faceless murderer as she had every second since the news of Marie Morgenstierne’s death. But she continued to maintain that she was innocent, and that the murderer was still out there somewhere.
She begged me in earnest to continue with the investigation. And with even more urgency, she asked that Falko Reinhardt be informed of where she was, if he was found. She had to see him as soon as he turned up. He would no doubt then be able to corroborate her version of what had happened the evening that Marie Morgenstierne died.
At twenty-five past eleven, I rang Patricia. She picked up the telephone on the second ring. It sounded as though she was stifling a yawn, but she soon perked up when I started by saying: ‘Following some dramatic developments this evening I have now arrested the person I believe to be Marie Morgenstierne’s murderer!’
I waited for some sign of delight, but it never came.
‘Gracious, do tell!’ Patricia said, instead.
Then she listened silently to my brief account of my meeting with Kristine Larsen and her ensuing statement.
‘Very interesting indeed. But who have you arrested as a result?’ she asked, when I had finished.
‘Kristine Larsen, of course,’ I replied.
There was not a sound to be heard on the line for a moment or two. Not a sound.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, what have you done now?’ Patricia exclaimed in disbelief.
Something, I realized, was terribly wrong. But the indications that Kristine Larsen was guilty were so clear to me that I was not going to give up without a fight.
‘The case is of course not solved yet, in terms of all the details. But even so, you cannot deny that Kristine Larsen had both the motive and the opportunity to shoot Marie Morgenstierne.’
This gave about two seconds’ respite. Then Patricia’s voice slammed back into my ear like the recoil from a gun.
‘Absolutely. Kristine Larsen could have shot Marie Morgenstierne. But why on earth would the sight of Kristine Larsen have caused Marie Morgenstierne suddenly to panic and run for her life? Have you thought about that?’
I had not given that side of the matter any thought at all. And now that I was forced to think about it, I found no good answer.
The memory of the terrified Marie Morgenstierne hammering on the train doors in desperation popped up in my mind. Kristine Larsen’s harmless appearance could not possibly have made Marie Morgenstierne run for her life. Particularly not when she had in fact left the meeting with Kristine Larsen, had turned down the offer of a lift, and then walked slowly and calmly towards the station.
Either something inexplicable had happened in the meantime that alerted Marie Morgenstierne to the fact that Kristine Larsen was now going to shoot her – or it was, quite simply, not Kristine Larsen from whom Marie Morgenstierne was fleeing.
The floor was heaving beneath my feet when I asked Patricia if she had any plans for Sunday. She replied that she had no plans that could not be changed, and that I was very welcome to come for lunch around midday if that suited. Then she added that I should bring with me any fingerprints that had been found, and anything else of interest that I might discover in the meantime.
I promised to do so. Then I put down the receiver and sank back into my chair.
Kristine Larsen remained on remand. There were still reasonable grounds to suspect her, but it was with a heavy heart that I went out into the dark just before midnight.
I kept my eyes peeled as I walked the short distance to my car – and thus realized that I obviously still assumed that the person who had shot Marie Morgenstierne three days ago was out there somewhere, in the dark. And that I still had no idea who it was.
I continued to ponder who it was who had shot Marie Morgenstierne as I drove home and got ready for bed, and until I eventually fell asleep. In the minutes immediately before I slept, I was able to relax a little when I recalled Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s calm face and mischievous smile. But after all the evening’s drama, it was still Kristine Larsen’s terrified eyes that stared at me and followed me into my dreams.
DAY FIVE
A running man and a torn photograph
I
Sunday, 9 August 1970 was certainly not one of the quietest Sundays of my life. The dramatic events of the previous day continued to rattle around my head as I slept. I was out of bed before eight, and in the office by a quarter to nine.
My long run in pursuit of Kristine Larsen at Smestad the evening before had been, not unexpectedly, registered and reported. Three newspapers and nine private individuals from Smestad had already called the switchboard at the main police station to ask if it was true that a young woman from Smestad had been arrested in the case.
I, for my part, had already started to regret my action, and wanted it to receive as little attention as possible. So I issued instructions to say that a person had been taken in for questioning the evening before, but that no formal charge had as yet been made and that it was not possible to give any more details in light of the ongoing investigation.
The arrestee proved to be remarkably calm and composed despite a restless night’s sleep. Kristine Larsen had nothing to add or withdraw from the statement she had given the night before. In her dreams she had three times fled from the faceless murderer, she told me. She still insisted that she had done nothing wrong. But given how unsafe life now felt outside the prison walls, she would be quite happy to stay here for a few days more.
With an apologetic smile, she repeated her hope that I would soon find out who had murdered Marie Morgenstierne and that I would tell Falko of her whereabouts as soon as I found him. I promised to do this. The conversation ended on almost a friendly note. When I said that it might be necessary to do a house search, she pointed out the front door key on her confiscated key ring without hesitation. Kristine Larsen did not want a lawyer, but did ask if she could telephone her mother to explain the situation.
Her parents would no doubt be worried if they had heard about her panicked reaction yesterday, she remarked, especially if they been unable to get hold of her today.
As she sat there in front of me, it struck me that Kristine Larsen was a very considerate and unthreatening person. But I still felt far from sure that she was not the murderer. I recalled her much harder voice in the recording from Marie Morgenstierne’s last meeting, and the incredible will and energy she had demonstrated in her flight the day before. The motive was obvious, and the fact that she had sent a written threat to the victim still remained.
Following a brief summary of developments over the telephone, my boss agreed that there were still reasonable grounds for suspicion and remand, but that we should perhaps wait to issue a charge. He would talk to the public prosecutor’s office straight away. We no doubt thought the same thing as we put down the receiver. In other words, that holding a young woman on remand, whether she was guilty or not, would increase the pressure to solve the case.
II
Kristine Larsen had for one reason or another tidied her living room since my first visit. Her flat in Smestad reminded me of the late Marie Morgenstierne’s flat. This was also the home of a neat young woman who lived alone, and who lived a relatively well-regulated life and seldom had parties or overnight guests of any sort. The bed was made and the draining board was clear. The flat was smaller than Marie Morgenstierne’s flat, as were the bookshelves. A faint smell of smoke clung to the walls, which had not been evident in Marie Morgenstierne’s home. But otherwise, it occurred to me that in terms of their homes, Falko Reinhardt’s two women were almost interchangeable.
The only evidence of Falko himself was one single, rather unremarkable photograph of the group under an anti-Vietnam slogan. And the only other things on the walls were a black and white pic
ture of an older couple who I presumed were Kristine Larsen’s parents, and a new colour photograph of a woman with a small child. Given the similarity in the shape of the face and stature, I guessed it must be her sister.
I only found one thing of possible interest to the investigation in Kristine Larsen’s home. But then, it was of considerable interest.
Under a pile of underwear on a shelf in the wardrobe was a brown envelope with two photographs in it. One was a picture of Kristine Larsen and Falko Reinhardt in light summer clothes, possibly taken with a self-timer at a cafe somewhere. She had her hand affectionately on his shoulder. She was looking at him adoringly and he was looking straight at the camera, full of confidence. But his hand was visible around her bare waist.
This picture confirmed what Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen and Kristine Larsen had told me: in other words, that Falko Reinhardt had embarked on a relationship with Kristine Larsen, who was now being held on remand. Her situation was no worse and no better as a result.
However, the other picture that I found hidden in her wardrobe made Kristine Larsen’s position far more vulnerable. It had obviously also been taken with a self-timer, but this time all the Falkoists were in the picture. It had clearly been taken on the trip to Valdres when Falko disappeared. The furniture in the Morgenstiernes’ cabin was easily recognizable.
I registered with slight relief that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was sitting on her own in a chair to the far right of the picture. Typically enough, Anders Pettersen was leaning forward over the table whereas Trond Ibsen was leaning back in his chair on the left-hand side. And even more typically, Falko was sitting in the middle of the sofa, between Marie Morgenstierne and Kristine Larsen. There was no physical contact between any of them. Kristine Larsen was sitting close to Falko, but looked calm and collected. So far, so good.
Kristine Larsen’s problem was, however, that an attempt had been made to eradicate Marie Morgenstierne from the picture with the aggressive use of a black felt pen.
I took both photographs with me when I locked the door and left Kristine Larsen’s flat. It looked very empty and lonely without her. But my belief that it would be some time before she returned had been reinforced by the discovery of the photograph.
III
Once I was back in the office I decided to telephone Falko Reinhardt’s supervisor, who, according to Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, was also Trond Ibsen’s uncle. I took a gamble that Professor Johannes Heftye was not a regular churchgoer, and this proved to be true. He answered the telephone on the second ring, and without any hesitation said that he would be happy to answer a couple of quick questions in connection with the investigation.
There were a few moments of silence when I cut straight to the chase and asked if it was correct that he was Trond Ibsen’s uncle, and if so, whether they had at any point discussed Falko Reinhardt’s thesis.
The professor firstly confirmed that he was Trond Ibsen’s uncle. Then there were a few more moments of silence, before he confirmed that he had ‘once, and only for a few moments’ discussed Falko Reinhardt’s thesis with his nephew.
No names or other details from the research were discussed and he hastened to add that he could guarantee that the conversation was of no importance whatsoever to the investigation. The two had met at a ‘purely family do’ and had talked about mutual acquaintances, including Falko Reinhardt. Professor Heftye had taken it as given that Trond, who was in almost daily contact with Falko and shared his political vision, was familiar with the thesis. However, this proved not to be the case. Trond Ibsen had looked very bewildered when his uncle said that it would be interesting to see if there was anything to the theory that the old Nazi network from the war was still active.
Professor Heftye could only apologize for this ‘small indiscretion’, but added that he ‘had immediately closed the conversation’.
I told him honestly that it was very unfortunate all the same, in the light of later developments.
I could practically hear the professor squirming on the line as he assured me that it could not possibly have anything to do with the case, as his nephew was far too intelligent to get involved with anything criminal or to pass on something that should not be passed on. He hoped that it would not be necessary for the institute to hear about it, as he had some powerful and reactionary enemies from the Labour Party there who would be sure to use it against him.
I replied that there was certainly no reason to inform the university at the moment, but that the professor had to lay his cards on the table immediately if there was anything else he had forgotten to tell me.
He assured me that there was nothing more and that he had not tried to hide anything from me on purpose. He had deemed it a minor indiscretion that was of no particular relevance, and so had not wanted to waste my time by mentioning it.
Finally, I asked if the professor could remember the date on which this brief but rather unfortunate conversation with his nephew had taken place. He was quiet for a moment before he replied that it must have been in connection with his sixty-fifth birthday, on 28 July 1968.
I pointed out to him that it was then only a week before Falko Reinhardt disappeared. He sighed and said tersely that he realized this, and was extremely sorry. We both hung up at the same time without saying goodbye. And just then, there was a knock at the door.
IV
Outside my door stood a constable, who said that a man had asked to speak to me immediately. This proved to be Trond Ibsen, who had once again turned up without being asked. I waved the constable off straight away and showed Ibsen into my office. Behind his placid exterior, I caught an inkling of the fervour I remembered from the end of our first meeting. His voice was controlled, but he started to speak before he even sat down.
‘An acquaintance of a friend called to say that a young woman from Smestad has been arrested in connection with the murder case. It can only be Kristine Larsen. And in that case I felt it was my duty to drive here immediately to point out there must have been a terrible mistake, which can only damage the police investigation in the long run.’
I looked at him and waited. He took a deep breath and continued, at an even faster pace, ‘Anyone with a basic knowledge of psychology would tell you that Kristine Larsen is about the least likely murderer you could find on the streets of Oslo. She is a vegetarian, a pacifist and opposed to any form of violence. We voted against her to kill an unusually irritating wasp on the windowsill in the cabin on the day that Falko disappeared. It is absolutely unthinkable that Kristine would have anything to do with Falko’s disappearance or Marie’s death. A court case against her would only end with her walking free, and would constitute a further blow to police credibility and a weakening of public trust.’
Having said this, he blanched a little. I humoured him, pretended to take notes, and assured him that this information would be taken into consideration before any decision was made regarding charges. I asked then if he knew if there had ever been any romantic liaisons in the group other than the well-known relationship between Falko and Marie.
At first, Trond Ibsen shook his head emphatically, and then looked very serious and pensive. I asked him to tell me what he was thinking. He hesitated, but then launched forth when I started to look increasingly agitated.
‘On my oath, I don’t know whether there have been any other romantic liaisons. Certainly not as far as I am concerned, and I think you can forget Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen in that context . . .’
He fell silent again and glanced around the room, as if he were looking for an emergency exit.
‘But . . .’ I prompted.
He nodded, and his response was then fast and intense.
‘But, now that you ask, it is easy to see that the apparently confident Anders suffers from a little brother complex. To an extent in relation to me, but mostly in relation to Falko, of course. Anders is the youngest in his family, he struggles financially, he did not get top marks at university and has only had modest success as an artist. H
e has without much joy tried to take over Falko’s role as leader in the group. The idea that he might also try to take over Falko’s fiancée in his attempt to achieve this has crossed my mind. I thought that Anders, who otherwise does not have much empathy, showed her a surprising amount of sympathy for a while. But I cannot imagine that it got him anywhere. He was three years below Falko, and she has immense self-control and comes from a better background, and is no doubt very particular about who she lets into bed. It would of course have been very controversial within the group, especially so long as Falko’s fate remained unknown. But for Anders it would certainly be the ultimate self-assertion, in terms of how he saw himself and how others saw him.’
I nodded and this time really did take notes.
‘But nothing in terms of Kristine, at any point?’
Trond Ibsen thought for a moment, but then shook his head again.
‘I have never seen Kristine with a boyfriend, or heard her say that she had one. It’s rather odd, really, as she is such a beautiful and kind girl. But she has dedicated herself to our cause and her studies. And as I have discovered myself, that doesn’t leave much time to find someone and have a relationship. Of course, Kristine admired Falko more than anything in the world, as we all did, but he was taken and I don’t think she was open to anyone else. At one point, I wondered if Anders might not be interested in her, but that was long before Falko disappeared, and I reckon he was given the cold shoulder.’
He laughed a little. I noted that there was clearly a rivalry between the two remaining men in the group. I swiftly changed the subject by remarking that he had not told me that Johannes Heftye was his uncle, or that he had spoken to him about developments in Falko’s thesis.
Trond Ibsen was definitely an intelligent and balanced man. He looked suitably confused for a moment, but then nodded and continued.
The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) Page 15
