I said that it was a truly sad story, and that I would have to conclude it now by going to Grünerløkka.
Patricia gave a slight nod, and asked in a quiet voice if I would be needing her help any more.
I said that I realized the case had been very demanding for her, and that she no doubt wanted it to be over as soon as possible. I would, however, appreciate talking to her a little bit more once I had arrested the murderer, in order to fill in the final missing details.
She let out a heavy sigh, nodded in resignation and asked me to come back as quickly as possible. She said nothing more, but sat there in silence, waiting.
IV
There was no great drama at Seilduk Street in Grünerløkka when I arrived there at a quarter past one. Arno Reinhardt was on his own when he opened the door this time. He said that his wife was grief-stricken, and had gone to lie down. I told him that we could talk without her for the moment.
He nodded gratefully and showed me into the living room. In a strange way, it felt like we both knew why I was there. As we walked down the hall, I noticed an old travel bag standing there, packed and ready.
I said that we now had information that meant we sadly had to question him again about his whereabouts on the day that Marie Morgenstierne was murdered.
He indicated that he understood.
I added that four police constables were now standing on duty outside the building, as was the case.
My eyes moved to the wall of photographs, and to the last picture of Marie Morgenstierne together with Falko and his parents, here in the flat. Arno Reinhardt followed my gaze.
‘I can always turn my back to that wall, but I can never get away from her. Not here, not in the other rooms, not out on the street,’ he began quietly. ‘I waited and waited. One day before he disappeared, Falko mentioned that he suspected that his fiancée was a mole. I couldn’t prove anything, but the idea that she was, and that she had something to do with his disappearance, took root. So I sneaked out and followed her, and saw her handing something over to a man who passed her on the street after one of their meetings. And still I hesitated. It was only when…’
His voice broke, and I had to finish the sentence for him.
‘It was only when your wife came home and told you that she had seen your son’s fiancée hand in hand with another man – your son’s friend, no less – that you were galvanized into action?’
He looked down, and said nothing.
I did not know what else to say. So in the end, I stated the obvious: that he should not have taken the law into his own hands. Slowly he raised his head, showing a bitter smile.
‘We communists have always had to take the law into our own hands, because the police have never done it for us. But I punished an innocent person. Even if the law grants me mercy because of my age, I will never be able to forgive myself. I could live with the fact that I had killed someone who was guilty. But then, just when I was overjoyed to see my son again, my world fell to pieces when I realized I had shot an innocent person.’
‘The fact that she ran for her life made no impression on you?’ I asked.
He nodded, and buried his face in his hands for a moment.
‘To me it was just confirmation of her guilt. When fighting against the Falangists in the Spanish Civil War we learned that those who ran fastest were the guiltiest. I had thought of hearing what she had to say for herself. But when she started to run, I was left in no doubt. It was my doing, and mine alone. My wife didn’t even know that I went out that evening,’ he added, hastily.
I wanted to believe this, but did not know whether I could. Fortunately, I did not have to decide. His wife appeared at that moment, fully dressed and sombre, and sat down beside him without hestitation.
‘No matter what happens, we will always stand together, for better or for worse. It’s true, I did not know that my husband went out that night. But I was the first one to suspect that she had betrayed our son. I was the one who was convinced when I saw her standing there, holding hands with another man we knew nothing about. I was the one who asked my husband on the second anniversary of my son’s disappearance how long he had thought of letting those who were guilty go free. And when he came back that evening, it was I who said that he had done the right thing, and promised to help him conceal it.’
I looked at him. He nodded imperceptibly. Their fingers were now firmly entwined.
There was a strange, slightly unreal atmosphere in the room. There I was having an apparently relaxed conversation with an elderly couple, in the process of closing a complex murder case, and yet was experiencing one of the worst moments of my life.
I had nothing more to ask them. This was clearly a terrible tragedy.
She was the one who broke the silence.
‘Do you mind if we ask you a question? It could mean so much to us in the middle of all this… Is it really the case that our son might have been alive today, if we had not made such a fatal misjudgement?’
I had to think about this for a moment before I answered. I could not lie to two people who were guilty of murdering a young, pregnant woman. I could have said that their son would also still be alive had it not been for his own misjudgements, his exaggerated belief in his ability to sort things out alone and his inability to trust others, including his own parents and fiancée. But I thought that criticizing their son or his upbringing would not make things any easier. So I told them the truth: that it was sadly their fatal decision to take the law into their own hands that had resulted in the death of their son, and all that followed.
It was only then that they started to cry. And in a peculiar way, their tears made it easier. My sympathy for them waned when, seven days after killing an innocent young woman, the only thing they could cry for was the loss of their son.
I stood up and said that it was time to go.
They remained seated, holding each other tight.
He asked in a quiet voice if they could have a few minutes alone together first. And in a strange way, it felt as though we understood each other.
I thought about it for a moment or two. I definitely thought more about myself and the police than about them. Then I said that human life was sacrosanct for a country and its people where the rule of law applied, and that too many lives had been lost in this tragic case already. They gave an almost apathetic, synchronized nod, then stood up without any further protest.
On our way out, we stopped for a moment by all the photographs on the wall. None of us could bear to look at the last photographs. We stood instead looking at the first picture, the one of a little Falko with his smiling parents on their return to Oslo in 1945. They were holding hands in exactly the same way tonight. But their hands were old now, and Falko was no longer there. Arno Reinhardt picked up the old travel bag with one hand and held onto his wife’s with the other as he left his home for the last time.
V
Back at the main police station, a couple of hours were spent on congratulations, press releases and other formalities. My boss gave me flowers and endless congratulations on solving the final murder. He said that I would be on the front pages of all the national papers on Monday as a result, and that with three successful murder investigations under my belt I would soon be the country’s most famous policeman. It would only be a matter of time before I was promoted, despite my young age, and several people had suggested me for the rank of detective chief inspector.
Danielsen was nowhere to be seen, but according to unconfirmed rumours had handed in a sick note for the rest of the week. I resisted the temptation to suggest that he should be sent to Mardøla on his return. My boss was all smiles, happier than I had ever seen him before, and might easily decide that sending both Danielsen and me to Mardøla was a good way to resolve our conflict.