Trond Bratten had to, and would, die, but he could only fire one shot. The party leader’s wife and the woman with the book made it hard to get a clear aim. The woman with the book suddenly reminded the murderer of his own dead daughter.
It struck B that he would not be sitting here if he had not first lost his wife and then his daughter. He had always held back out of consideration to his family. It was the person who had shot his daughter who had triggered all of this. But now there was no going back for a man with no family and no means of retreat. He had nothing to lose.
Memories of his daughter burned behind his eyes. The murderer now had a clear aim at Bratten’s forehead. But his hand was shaking more than ever before.
XV
In desperation, I threw myself against the door for the third time. It shuddered, but the hinges held.
It was only when I was about to hurl myself against it for the fourth time that I realized there was someone else in the corridor. A small, terrified janitor, with a large bundle of keys in his hand.
I almost screamed at him: ‘The key to this door, quick! There’s a man in there who is going to kill Trond Bratten!’
The janitor was so shocked that he dropped the keys on the floor. It took a couple of seconds before he picked them up and then a couple more before he found the right key. I expected to hear a shot at any moment, but the gun was not fired.
Finally the janitor found the right key. I snatched it from him. My hand was shaking so much that I could hardly get it into the lock, but when I did, it turned easily.
I opened the door and stormed into the room.
Martin Morgenstierne was sitting alone by the open window, with a gun in his hands. He turned his head and glanced back when I charged in.
For a moment, I feared that he would turn the gun on me.
But he looked back out of the window to Frogner Square, took his final aim and curled his finger round the trigger.
I leaped forward and grabbed hold of him just as he fired the gun. I was horrified to hear the shot and the sound of the screams that followed from outside. But I did not have time to think about it. The gun was gone, and I was lying on the floor on top of an unarmed Martin Morgenstierne.
The fight that followed was fortunately brief. He was a generation older than me and had obviously been entirely focused on firing. He had also landed in an awkward position underneath me. I felt a surge of fury and hate for him, and with zero sympathy, wrenched his arm up behind his back in the hope of breaking it.
‘I give myself up,’ he said, and it struck me that he was frighteningly calm and controlled, given that he had just shot the opposition leader.
Whereas I was shaking so much that I fumbled in frustration for a few moments before I managed to get the handcuffs on him. Meanwhile, we heard the sounds of running feet and screams from outside.
When I eventually stood up, he remarked: ‘It would seem that I got him.’ He was still alarmingly calm, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
I feared that I had come a second too late to prevent the death of the party leader, but still did not know what had happened outside the window. So I hauled him up without answering.
We stood side by side in silence and looked out of the window.
What we saw was not what either of us had expected, and it grieved us both.
After the gunshot, the crowd had obviously panicked and scattered from the stage. There were only three people in the cleared space.
Trond Bratten had dropped the manuscript for his speech, but he was still standing, leaning against the stage, very much alive.
The party leader’s wife was standing in front of him with outstretched arms, like a human shield in the event of more gunshots.
A large book lay open on the ground in front of her. And Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was lying on the ground beside the book.
Her fair hair fluttered in the wind, but she herself was not moving, lying on her stomach, as a dark stream of blood poured from her head onto her sweatshirt.
It was a terrible sight, and everything inside me froze instantly. Which was perhaps a good thing. I remembered later a wild urge to throw Martin Morgenstierne out of the window, and then to jump out myself. All I remembered from those unreal seconds was that feeling. And Martin Morgenstierne saying, in an almost apologetic voice, ‘She looks like my daughter. I deeply regret that. He was the only one who was supposed to die.’
XVI
The wall clock at the main police station showed half past six as I made my way to my boss’s office. He beamed and offered me his hand. The story of how I had saved the life of the opposition leader Trond Bratten, and at the same time solved both of yesterday’s murders, had already been broadcast on the radio and TV. Congratulatory telegrams were streaming in. Unless the nascent rumours that the crown princess was pregnant were confirmed, it would headline the evening news, and be on the front page of all the major newspapers tomorrow. But no matter what, I had been right all along and was a role model for the country’s police force.
Normally my boss’s effusive congratulations would have had me in seventh heaven. But this time I remained downcast, almost depressed. I thanked him and told him the truth: that the fate of the badly wounded young woman hung heavily on my conscience.
He nodded appreciatively and said that I not only was I an exceptionally good policeman, I was also an exceptionally good person. I thanked him once again, but certainly did not feel like one.
My boss asked in an irritatingly casual manner if there was any news about the ‘wounded party’. I replied that she had still been alive on arrival at hospital, but that it was touch and go whether she would survive or not.
We sat in silence for a while after this.
As we sat there, I ran through the two terrifying moments I had experienced with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen.
The first was when I looked out of the window at 66 Thomas Heftye’s Street and saw her lying on the asphalt below, covered in blood and not moving. It suddenly felt as though it was my fault and I was entirely responsible if she died. I was the one who had bumped into her, and what I had told her had prompted her to push her way forward to stop Trond Bratten from getting onto the stage. And I was the one who had pushed the assassin to one side so that the bullet hit her. I thought I would never smile again if she died. I had never met her parents, or her little brother. But all the same, I could feel how painful it would be to have to tell them of her death.
The second horrifying moment was at Ullevål Hospital, when I got there just after the ambulance. After waiting for fifteen minutes, I was able to speak to the surgeon and senior doctor for a couple of minutes while preparations were being made for the operation. It was an unnerving experience.
The surgeon, Bernt Berg, was in his fifties, and his measured movements instilled confidence and trust. He had a very grave face, and only replied in short sentences when asked a question. He reminded me a little of Martin Morgenstierne, which made the situation feel even more alarming and unreal.
I said that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had been shot while trying to save Trond Bratten from being assassinated, and that her survival was also extremely important for my ongoing investigation. Given this, I asked him to call me at the station as soon as there was any news following the operation.
His face was devoid of expression and emotion when he replied ‘yes’ to this.
I then asked what he thought the chances were that she would survive.
With equal equanimity, he said: ‘About fifty-fifty, if we are able to remove the bullet.’
So I asked him what the chances were of that.
His voice still sounded unmoved when he told me: ‘There is an imminent danger that she will die soon if we cannot remove it. The bullet is lodged just beside her main artery.’