I felt my head was still spinning, but looked at the clock and suggested that we should try to meet at half past nine. She said that would be fine, but that she would be there all the same if I could get there any earlier.
To my surprise, Trond Ibsen was still in his office at a quarter past eight, and picked up the telephone. I said that it had been a long and dramatic day, as he might have heard, but that I was now following a lead on Marie Morgenstierne’s murder and had to talk to him as soon as possible.
I added that I would be happy to send Detective Inspector Danielsen, but had understood that he would prefer to give a statement to me. Trond Ibsen sighed, then replied that he would most definitely prefer to give his statement to me, and that he was currently alone in his office if I could come there.
XVIII
Trond Ibsen was sitting in a large armchair behind his desk when I came in, and immediately put aside the patient journal he was reading. I stayed well away from the sofa, but felt rather inferior all the same when I sat down on a far smaller chair in front of the desk.
But this time, the psychologist did not seem particularly arrogant. For a change, he seemed rather nervous. His hand trembled as he congratulated me on the day’s breakthrough, which he had also heard on the radio. He had not been aware that the person who had been critically wounded was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, and this news seemed only to increase his unease. He repeated twice that he sincerely hoped that she would survive, and also that he himself still knew nothing about any of the murders.
I replied that yesterday’s murders had now been solved, but that where he had been himself the day before remained a mystery. He let out a deep sigh.
‘I hoped that would be of less interest now that the murderer had been caught. So, well, I was absolutely not in the Valdres area. I was in fact indoors with a woman here in Oslo, and for personal reasons I had hoped that I would not need to tell the police or anyone else about her.’
His eyes begged me.
A thought fluttered through my mind. Kristine Larsen was still being held on remand yesterday, and there were not many other young women involved in the case. A terrible thought was forming.
‘Are you saying that you were with… a former female member of the group yesterday?’
He shook his head and sank even deeper into the chair.
‘No, if only that had been the case, I would gladly have told you. I did try my luck once upon a time, but there was never any interest from her side. But she was more gracious in her rejection that either Marie Morgenstierne or Kristine Larsen were. I really do hope that she pulls through.’
My nodding agreement was perhaps a little too enthusiastic, so I peered at him sternly.
‘In that case, I have no idea who it might be and why it might be so troublesome. If the woman concerned is married, we must surely be able to check your alibi without her husband knowing about it?’
Trond Ibsen drew an even heavier sigh and sank still further into the chair.
‘Strictly speaking, I cannot rule out that the woman I spent yesterday evening with was not married, though I would be very surprised. The problem is that I in fact don’t know her name and she would hardly be a reliable witness if the police were to find her. But I couldn’t claim that I had been at home alone, because if that had then come out in the papers, she could accuse me of making false statements.’
He sent me a pleading look, then buried his face in his hands. It was only then that I understood the situation.
‘So what you are telling me is that you spent yesterday evening with a woman you had paid to keep you company?’
His head and hands nodded for a couple of seconds. Then suddenly, everything poured out.
‘Tactfully put, yes. It would be extremely embarrassing and potentially a disaster for my practice if it were to get out. My relationship with women is hopeless. I have never been caressed by a woman other than those I have paid. And believe it or not, this was the first time I had actually done it. It was my first ever physical encounter with a woman, and I have regretted it ever since. But this murder investigation has just made everything even more unbearable, and reminded me of my last and greatest humiliation.’
My mind started to put the pieces together.
‘Of course, when Marie Morgenstierne finally got over Falko, she chose Anders Pettersen and not you?’
He nodded. This was followed by another furious outpouring. The psychologist was obviously letting all his pent-up frustrations out now.
‘That was the final and hardest straw. The fact that Kristine Larsen preferred the missing Falko was less of a blow. Anders is politically simple, generally lazy, constantly broke and not particularly talented as an artist. And he gloated in the most disgusting, arrogant way. I don’t understand what she saw in him, and it felt like the greatest and most demeaning of all my failures with women!’
This was said with great indignation. I feared he was going to explode, and allowed him some time to settle down again before I continued.
‘So what you are saying now is that Anders Pettersen had managed to do what you wanted most in the world, that is, to go to bed with Marie Morgenstierne. And that it is very likely that he is the father of her unborn child?’
His nod was instant and, it seemed to me, a little spiteful.
‘Yes. That fits with the timescale. It was at the start of June. I saw it in his smile first. And then he told me straight out: by the way, I have now been where you have always wanted to go. A delightful, undulating landscape. I might just settle there for good. I understood immediately what he meant, and hated him more than ever.’
Trond Ibsen had now hit rock bottom, only to bounce back. When he carried on speaking, he suddenly became the psychologist, with only the hint of an undertone in his voice.
‘Bedding her was possibly Anders’ greatest physical achievement. He felt that he was Falko’s successor in both political and personal terms. He no doubt wanted their relationship to be public, but I don’t for a moment imagine that he wanted to become a father. He often said that having children was a form of egotism that could not be combined with revolutionary work, and should therefore be left until after the revolution. So it could well be that you now have the motive and the murderer you are looking for.’
I nodded.
‘It will be followed up. But you do understand that this does not exonerate you? Based on what you have just said, jealousy could be your motive, and that clearly does not rule out the possibility that you killed Marie Morgenstierne.’
Trond Ibsen gave yet another deep sigh, but looked me squarely in the eye when he replied.
‘Formally, you are of course right. But then I would definitely have killed him, and not her. And, given my history with her and others, I obviously wouldn’t want any kind of investigation that involved us. I have always feared that it would end like this, with me being acquitted of murder, but exposed to ridicule. As far as women are concerned, I’m useless and I know it. But I have honestly never killed any of the women who have rejected me, even though there are quite a few now, and some of them have been very cruel.’
This was said with great emotion. Trond Ibsen’s mask was definitely crumbling in front of my eyes. The man who emerged was complex, and held secrets that no one would have expected. But even when I saw Trond Ibsen unmasked, I still did not see a murderer.
So I said that I would do my utmost to prevent the secrets of his private life from getting out. He brightened up visibly, thanked me and said once again that he had now told me things that could cause him great embarrassment and spell disaster for his new practice.
So our conversation ended on a relatively good note. He promised that he would be available for further questions over the next few days, should that be necessary, and wished me luck with the investigation. I made my way home, feeling a mixture of sympathy and contempt for him. But I was remarkably sure that Patricia was right, and that Danielsen’s theory that Trond Ibsen was the murderer was a red herring.