‘There has been a complication, and there is an acute danger of blood poisoning as a result. I have little hope that she will make it through the night.’
He said no more. It felt as though the earth was collapsing under my feet as I stood there, talking in a hushed voice to a middle-aged man in the darkness of the hospital car park.
I gave him a pleading look. He continued without me having to ask.
‘There is still a slim chance. She is physically fit, and mentally strong. But all the same, you should be prepared for the possibility that she might die tonight.’
I vaguely registered that an odd feeling of complicity had developed between me and this chronically calm man of few words. I now got the impression that the stony face and monotonous voice were a defence mechanism, and that behind this he was a passionate man with deep empathy for each of his patients.
I thanked him for all he had done, no matter how things might end. He said that regardless of the outcome, he would try to call me as soon as possible when he was due back at the hospital at nine the next morning.
Then we silently parted and went to our separate cars in the dark.
I drove home alone through the night, which even though it was summer, felt darker than I could ever remember.
Once back at my flat in Hegdehaugen, I ate two slices of bread and sat by myself in an armchair by the window. I suddenly felt overcome by sheer exhaustion, but could not sleep all the same. So I stayed there, looking out into the dark.
I barely gave a thought to Marie Morgenstierne’s murder. After my experiences today, I had more or less blind faith in Patricia’s assurances that it would be solved tomorrow. My thoughts were filled instead with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. Images of her from our first confusing meeting outside the party office, and my last glimpse of her lying in a coma in hospital crowded my mind.
It was past midnight, and only one light shone into the dark from a flat in the neighbouring building. In a strange way, this resolute, lone light came to symbolize my hope. I therefore jumped up when it suddenly went out at a quarter to one. I have never been superstitious, but when the light went out, my anxiety surged. I was almost paralysed by the idea that Miriam’s life had also gone out.
At half past one I finally managed to haul myself to bed, but was still far from being able to sleep. I initially set the alarm for half past seven, but then got up and changed it to eight, and then to ten to nine.
When I got back into bed, I realized I could not remember the last time I had cried, or why. Nor could I remember the last time I had prayed, or what for. But I cried and prayed desperately until I eventually fell asleep around half past three in the morning of Wednesday, 12 August 1970. It was the wounded Miriam for whom I cried and prayed. Three times I swore to God and to myself that I would race to her bedside with flowers, and a book, as soon as she regained consciousness – if she ever did.
With sleep, I was finally able to let go of the horrible images of Miriam lying motionless, and of her blood on the asphalt in Frogner Sqare – as well as the even more horrible feeling that it would be my fault if she died in the night.
DAY EIGHT: The triumph and the tragedy
I
When I finally got to sleep early in the morning of Wednesday, 12 August 1970, my sleep was deep and dreamless. I was woken with a start, not by the alarm clock but by the telephone.
Instinctively I leaped out of bed when I heard it. Then I remembered what had happened the day before and dashed as fast as I could into the living room, in only my underpants. I got to the phone in time, on the fifth or sixth ring.
It occurred to me that it was strange that the alarm clock had not woken me. So I glanced over at the clock on the wall and discovered that it was twelve minutes to nine. Bernt Berg, the head surgeon, would not have started his morning shift yet. I was therefore terrified to hear his voice on the other end all the same.
‘This is the head surgeon, Bernt Berg. I hope I did not wake you. I got to work a little early today.’
His voice was just as monotonous and grave as when he had told me the evening before that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen might not survive the night. The complicity was no longer there. My heart sank and my pulse raced.
I realized that the surgeon had gone to work early so he could call me as soon as possible – yet he said nothing, waiting for me to ask, which was even more alarming. I asked with trepidation if there was any news of the patient.
He replied swiftly and briefly: ‘Yes, we managed to prevent blood poisoning and the crisis is over.’
Everything suddenly seemed surreal. For a moment I feared that I was dreaming. I banged my left arm on the edge of the table, and to my great relief, it hurt. And just then the alarm clock started to ring in the background. I was very definitely awake. And the doctor’s voice was very clear on the telephone.
‘I hear your alarm clock ringing,’ he said, with unflappable calm.
I apologized for the alarm clock and asked what he thought the patient’s chances of survival were now.
‘Almost one hundred per cent. A truly miraculous improvement,’ he replied.
The greatest sense of relief I had ever felt in my life swept me off my feet. I felt lighter and giddier than I had ever felt before. I put down the receiver and jumped up and punched the ceiling with joy.
Then I picked up the receiver again and said to Bernt Berg that he was an excellent doctor and one of the best people I had ever met.
Whether the surgeon found it pleasing or confusing to be told this by a policeman or not, he did not allow himself to be affected in any noticeable way.
‘There is a good chance that the patient will be able to talk to you for a few minutes if you come by sometime later on this afternoon. Have a good day in the meantime,’ he said, then put down the phone.
I stayed sitting by the telephone in only my underpants, giddy with relief, for about ten minutes before I managed to pull myself together. I let the alarm clock ring, suddenly loving the sound of it. When it finally stopped, I went into the bedroom and got dressed.
I felt it might be irresponsible to drive in my semi-ecstatic mood, so I walked to the nearest bookshop to buy a six-volume work on the history of Norwegian literature. Then I walked back the other way to buy flowers. As I then walked home, I realized that I had not yet eaten breakfast or looked at the newspapers.
It was a quarter to ten by the time I got back to the flat. I quickly ate three slices of bread while I skimmed the papers. My elation was in no way diminished to see that the Mardøla protest and SALT negotiations had now very definitely been squeezed to one side in the papers, and the attempted assassination of the Labour Party leader was all over the front pages. Longer articles inside explained that it was I who had personally managed to foil the attempt at the last minute, and that the arrested assassin had also admitted to both of the Valdres murders.
The fact that a female onlooker had helped to prevent the assassination, and been badly wounded as a result, was mentioned in both Aftenposten and Arbeiderbladet without any further details or the victim being named. But both promised to print more details about her, and the case in general, the next day. And both expressed heartfelt praise for the head of investigation’s efforts in connection with the Valdres murders and the attempted assassination in Oslo. They both concluded with the news that the arrested assassin was the father of the late Marie Morgenstierne, and that her murder had still not been solved.
I now felt I was in a fit state to drive a car again, but wanted if possible to have the murderer with me the next time I met Detective Inspector Danielsen. So I dialled Anders Pettersen’s number from my own phone. There was no answer at a quarter to ten, or at five to ten. But at five past ten, he suddenly picked up the phone.