The Last Pilgrim

by Gard Sveen

  At the newsstand he bought a BIC lighter and a copy of Dagbladet.

  The word “SHOCKER” appeared across the front page in huge type. Inside was a photo of the police chief and Reuter at last night’s press conference. Bergmann scanned the text without really reading what it said. Krogh was killed with sixty-two stab wounds. The police chief had asked people to phone in if they had any information. According to the reporter who covered police headquarters, the police were depending entirely on tips from the public, but for the sake of the ongoing investigation, she couldn’t divulge any details.

  He tossed the newspaper in a trash can only steps from where he’d purchased it.

  After having a smoke, sitting on the same bench where he’d sat last time, Bergmann remembered what Krogh’s daughter had said. There was a man who knew more about Krogh than his own children: the history professor Torgeir Moberg. And he was only a few blocks away.

  Out of sheer contrariness, Bergmann switched on his vehicle’s flashing blue light when the traffic backed up in the intersection between Kirkeveien and Sognsveien. As the cars moved aside to let him get through, he thought that this was the closest he’d come to a breakthrough in this damned case.

  CHAPTER 32

  Wednesday, June 11, 2003

  Humanities Department

  University of Oslo

  Oslo, Norway

  “Rubbish,” said Torgeir Moberg. “Pure rubbish. The connection between Carl Oscar Krogh and Kaj Holt has nothing to do with this. You need to look elsewhere. Do you understand?” The poorly concealed agitation in his voice made it sound even more shrill than it already was. Bergmann shook his head. He’d seen Moberg on TV several times, and he’d always seemed gentle and reserved, showing no aggression toward people who had some cause to defend.

  Moberg stood at the window, looking out at the square between the Humanities and Sociology Departments. A few students were crossing the cobblestone square three stories below. For a moment Bergmann thought about how different his life would have been if he’d studied here instead of applying to the police academy, as he had almost on a whim.

  “So you’re saying—” Bergmann broke in once again, not unkindly but with an air of resignation.

  “I’m saying that people need to stop poking around in the past of a man who’s been dead for nearly sixty years. What good can possibly come of it? When is everyone going to let poor Kaj Holt rest in peace?”

  Moberg turned toward Bergmann with a slightly melancholy smile on his face. His expression was that of someone trying in vain to convince others of something important, even though they had no basis for understanding the matter. He stroked his well-groomed beard, which was completely white, as were the few remaining strands of hair on his head.

  “Coffee?” he asked, once again sounding amenable and friendly.

  I wonder what he’s going to try next, thought Bergmann. He nodded and then cast a quick glance at his notebook. The only thing he’d written down was the word “rubbish.”

  “But why was Krogh stopped from investigating Holt’s death?”

  “Because Krogh had a tendency to get manic. Of course it’s terrible when one of your best friends—someone with whom you’ve gone to the very limits of human experience—suddenly decides to kill himself when victory is won.”

  “I thought there were mysterious circumstances surrounding his death,” said Bergmann.

  Moberg held up his hand, his brow furrowed. One of his bushy eyebrows was a good deal lower than the other, which gave him an odd appearance.

  “Where did you read that?”

  “Not sure,” said Bergmann. “On the Internet.”

  Moberg exhaled loudly through his nose.

  “Mysterious circumstances?” he said, as if tasting the word. “That’s not really the right term, is it?”

  “I would probably call his death suspicious,” replied Bergmann.

  “So where exactly did you read this?” Moberg asked again, trying to meet Bergmann’s eye. But he had turned to look at a number of framed photographs hanging on the wall, and if Bergmann wasn’t mistaken, Carl Oscar Krogh appeared in several of them.

  He decided to ignore Moberg’s smug question.

  “I figure that a man like Krogh would have had a few enemies.”

  “Enemies? Now listen here,” said Moberg. He chuckled. “A man like Carl Oscar will always have enemies. People with opposing views, old Nazis, and God knows who else. But none who could . . . well, you know.”

  Bergmann looked down at his notebook. He saw no reason to add anything to the one word he’d already written. Rubbish. With that single word, Moberg had given himself away. The Holt case was anything but rubbish.

  “So you’re saying that Kaj Holt wasn’t murdered, and that Krogh shouldn’t have poked around in the case?”

  “Come on now,” said Moberg. “Holt was what we used to call manic-depressive, though today we would say he was suffering from bipolar disorder. He left his wife in May 1945 and ended up sleeping on benches and crashing at friends’ places. He went on a drinking binge and who knows what else. I can personally show you the investigative material on Holt and refer you to his medical records from prior to the war up through 1941.” Moberg threw up his hands. “The man was a genius, but he was also extremely suicidal.”

  “But . . .” said Bergmann. He sank back in his chair.

  “But what?” said Moberg with a faint smile.

  “Then why did Krogh contact Marius Kolstad after those three skeletons were found in Nordmarka?”

  Moberg opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “I suppose they were in touch about a variety of things,” he said, though he sounded less confident than he intended.

  “Do you know who I think they talked about?” asked Bergmann.

  Moberg sighed heavily, as if Bergmann were a child who ought to be shipped off to a reform school.

  “Kaj Holt,” he said.

  “Do you know anything about the three people who were found in Nordmarka? Agnes Gerner and the two others? Gustav Lande’s daughter and his maid?”

  “No,” said Moberg. “Not a thing.”

  “Huh. So you don’t either,” said Bergmann.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Bergmann hesitated before replying.

  “We think that . . .” he began, but then stopped.

  “That there’s a link between the murder of Carl Oscar, the three skeletons in Nordmarka, and Kaj Holt’s so-called mysterious death?” said Moberg so hastily that Bergmann realized he had underestimated the man. “Forget about Holt,” he went on. “That’s my best advice. It won’t get you anywhere.” He stroked his beard, which was so meticulously groomed that it suggested he was a very vain man.

  “You don’t like these inquiries about Holt?” said Bergmann.

  “It’s just . . .” said Moberg. “I’m merely trying to help you, and really . . .” He let the sentence fade.

  “Have you given any thought to who might have a motive for killing Krogh?”

  “No,” said Moberg. He looked away as Bergmann studied him. Moberg was not the sort of person to keep things inside. That was evident from his body language. As if the seat of his chair had suddenly grown spikes, he jumped up and took a few steps around the massive desk. Then he stopped and gave Bergmann a pained look. Finally he sat down on the edge of the desk.

  “I understand it was pretty bad, up there at Carl Oscar’s place . . .”

  “He was killed in an especially vicious manner,” said Bergmann. “That much I can tell you. One of the worst scenes I’ve ever encountered, in fact. And I’ve seen almost everything. Unfortunately.”

  Moberg looked genuinely sad. He sat there motionless, perched on the edge of the desk, staring at a spot on the floor.

  “The last time I talked to Carl Oscar was a few weeks ago,” he said finally, getting up and walking over to the window. “And he was again obsessed with the Holt case.”

 
; Bergmann clutched his ballpoint pen in his right hand. He crossed out the word “rubbish” and wrote “Holt.” A tiny glimmer of hope made him feel suddenly lighter.

  “You talked to Krogh?” he asked.

  “I frequently talked to Krogh,” said Moberg, a bit indignant.

  “Did he call you, or did you call him?”

  “I called him. Carl Oscar wasn’t the type to call people at all hours of the day and night. I always called him. Not the other way around.”

  “You said it was a few weeks ago. Can you be more precise?”

  “Hmm. Maybe two weeks ago.”

  “Before or after the three skeletons were found in Nordmarka?”

  Moberg frowned. Again he did that breathing exercise of his, holding his breath and then letting it out.

  “Before or after May 16?”

  “After.”

  Bergmann leafed back through his notebook. So we’re back to square one, he thought, looking at the triangle he’d drawn. One corner said “Krogh,” the second “Nordmarka,” and the third, on top, was labeled “Kaj Holt.”

  “And he was once again obsessed with the Holt case?”

  Moberg nodded. “Do you really think there could be some connection?” he said in a low voice.

  “At the moment we’re not speculating,” said Bergmann.

  Moberg looked as if he had more questions about the three people found in Nordmarka. At least Bergmann imagined so.

  “So you know absolutely nothing about those three females?” Bergmann persisted. “Or who might have killed them?”

  “No.”

  “And Krogh didn’t say anything?”

  Moberg shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  “What about Gustav Lande? What do you know about him?”

  “No more than what has been published in the newspapers. And I’m probably the source of a lot of that information. Lande was a lawyer and merchant, an NS supporter with close ties to the business activities of the SS and to the German trade attaché both before and during the war. He owned the Knaben mines and many other enterprises, you know. He was very important to the Germans here in Norway. He opened a lot of doors for them, and he believed in the Greater Germanic Reich. What more could the Germans have asked for? Lande was an extremely prominent man, right up until he took his own life and disappeared from memory.”

  “But someone killed his fiancée, his daughter, and his maid.”

  Moberg nodded several times as he stroked his beard.

  “Gustav Lande was so important to the Germans that his family may have been targeted by the Resistance. Am I right?” Bergmann insisted.

  Moberg shifted restlessly.

  “Yes.”

  “The National Police investigated the case as a possible terrorist killing, as they called it. A man committed suicide at Nazi HQ while the interrogations were being conducted. I mean, it seems entirely possible that the Resistance killed those three people up in Nordmarka.”

  Moberg didn’t reply. Instead, he took off his glasses and rubbed his close-set eyes.

  “Do you think that Krogh may have known who killed them?” asked Bergmann.

  Moberg repeated his breathing exercise, as if he were a free diver about to plummet to an unknown depth. He held his breath for a long time. When he released it, his face was crimson, his breathing labored.

  “You must realize that this is a sensitive matter. It’s practically the last taboo subject in this country. Carl Oscar declined to deny the claim that I made in a book published in the seventies that he had liquidated Gudbrand Svendstuen. But aside from that indirect admission, he remained as silent as a clam. Nobody would run around boasting that they’d killed someone, Mr. Bergmann. To be honest, I can’t shed much light on the matter. And very little research has been done about who killed whom in Norway. Almost nothing compared to what we know happened in Denmark. When it comes to questions of liquidation, that is.”

  “Everything indicates that this was a liquidation,” said Bergmann. “And Krogh was murdered. That must be a sensitive matter too. Even more so, if I have to call you in for an official interview.”

  Moberg held up his hands.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “If, and I underscore the word if, those three were killed by the Resistance, then it’s highly likely that Carl Oscar knew who did it.”

  “Is it possible that Kaj Holt also knew who killed them?”

  Moberg nodded. Then he sat down in front of his computer. A few seconds later a page slid out of the printer behind him.

  “Look at this,” he said. “This is a list of the five people in Carl Oscar’s group who are still alive. But I don’t think they can or will tell you anything specific.”

  Bergmann took the piece of paper and glanced at the names. He had a feeling that he’d forgotten something.

  “Holt took a great deal of information with him to his grave. A great deal indeed,” said Moberg sadly. “Any historian would give his right arm to bring him back to life. Yes, I’d say there’s a hundred percent chance that Holt knew who liquidated them. I mean, if they were, in fact, liquidated.”

  “What did you tell Krogh about Holt? The last time you spoke on the phone.”

  “The same thing I always say whenever anyone gets obsessed with something,” Moberg said, giving him a brief smile.

  “And what’s that?”

  “That this mania will only prevent you from seeing things clearly.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t fall into the same trap that Carl Oscar did. Don’t waste your time on Kaj Holt. It was tragic enough that he took his own life. Don’t make it even worse.”

  Bergmann stared at Moberg for a moment, then back down at the list. Only five of them were still alive. All the others had a red cross printed next to their names. Krogh’s killer could be one of these five, he thought. In his notebook he wrote himself a reminder to have someone cross-check Krogh’s phone records with the visitor lists at the Oppsal nursing home. He leafed through some of the previous pages in his notebook. Something had flitted through his mind during the last half hour, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

  That’s it, he thought as he came upon a printout from the Internet that was stuck in between the cover and the first page of his notebook. The article about Holt quoted a book written by Moberg, but there was also a reference to another author by the name of Finn Nystrøm.

  “So,” said Bergmann. “I see that Finn Nystrøm is mentioned in connection with things that have been written about Holt.”

  He raised his eyes to look at Moberg.

  Moberg leaned his head against the back of his chair. Sunlight came in from the window to his right and lit up his face. Yet his expression had darkened, as if he were suddenly filled with rage, or maybe it was sorrow. Bergmann couldn’t tell for sure, but something was seriously wrong.

  “Does he still work here?” he asked.

  Moberg didn’t reply. He merely stared vacantly into the distance.

  A long silence ensued. Not a sound was heard, either outside or from the corridor.

  “No,” Moberg said at last. “Finn doesn’t work here . . .”

  “Where—”

  “He hasn’t worked here since 1981.” Moberg seemed to have pulled himself together, and he shifted his gaze back to Bergmann. “But he’s the one you should have talked to about all this. Not me.”

  “Talked about what?” said Bergmann, jotting down several exclamation marks after Finn Nystrøm’s name.

  “About Kaj Holt.”

  Bergmann felt his pulse hammering in his left temple. He leaned forward, suddenly aware there was no time to waste.

  “Where can I find—”

  “Finn?” said Moberg. A melancholy smile flitted across his face and disappeared. “He wrote his doctoral dissertation on Holt, but no one was very interested in it, other than me. Captain Kaj Holt didn’t fit into the generally accepted narrative about World War Two in Norway, you see. And he never will. Finn’s dissertatio
n is probably gathering dust somewhere in the university library. Provided he hasn’t had it removed and shredded. And God knows it was a miracle that he managed to get a PhD dissertation out of Holt’s story, considering the meager resources available. He made countless trips to Moscow, London, Stockholm, you name it.”

  “So where is he now?”

  Moberg held up his hand. Bergmann saw that the armpit of his pale-blue short-sleeved shirt was dark with sweat.

  “Finn was the most talented student I’ve ever had. I became a professor at a young age, but Finn . . . he was unique. I took him on as a research associate and coauthor of two books. And to be perfectly honest, he wrote most of the last one. He was juggling way too many things. He started as a research associate, then became an associate professor after he received his degree. In addition to teaching classes and writing books with me, he was working on a major research project.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Moberg. He got up, looking very tired now, more like the retiree he would be in a few weeks’ time. He went back to stand by the window. “It was damned cold that summer. Do you remember?” he asked. “Back in ’81?”

  “No,” said Bergmann.

  “I thought about it in the fall. That the summer had knocked the wind out of him, his project, his life. But I have no idea where he is now. I haven’t seen Finn in twenty-two years. He never came back after that summer. He’d cleaned out his office, so he must have had some sort of plan. I went over to his apartment several times. I called him. His parents were dead, and he had no siblings. Just a casual girlfriend, actually several. But Finn had disappeared. I went to the places he used to frequent. He was gone.”

  “Places he used to frequent? What do you mean?”

  “Everyone has his weaknesses, and Finn certainly had his.”

  Silence. Bergmann chose not to delve into what Finn’s weaknesses might be.