‘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 responsibility 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.
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.