Other colleagues were more or less queuing up to congratulate me when I left my boss’s office. In short, the day at the station was almost perfect.
It was half past three before I could drive over to Patricia’s, and ten past four by the time I stepped into her library. She had coffee and cake waiting on the table, but still did not look like she was in a celebratory mood. Without saying a word, she indicated impatiently that I should sit down.
I told her in brief, and without too many details, about the arrest. She nodded but asked no questions, and seemed almost impatient to be done with the whole thing.
‘Many congratulations on another success. But unlike our last case, this does not call for celebration,’ she commented curtly.
She let out a deep sigh, then continued.
‘Your latest triumph is framed by tragedy. The Reinhardts were broken by their son’s disappearance, took the law into their own hands and killed another man’s only daughter. This, paradoxically, made him pull the trigger and set in motion a chain reaction that culminated with Martin Morgenstierne taking the life of the Reinhardts’ only son. The two young people are gone forever, and their three broken parents are in prison. And Henry Alfred Lien’s valiant attempt to atone for his old sins by preventing the assassination of the leader of the Labour Party ended in Lien losing his own life, instead of being forgiven by his son. Even the fate of the two former Nazis could perhaps have been different if sad family histories had not left them bitter old men. This case seems to have no end of devastating stories of parents and children.’
I allowed myself to point out that we had after all cleared up all the crimes, and what is more, averted the attempted assassination of the Labour Party leader at the last moment. I hastened to add that this was largely all thanks to her brilliant conclusions, and that I would never have managed to solve the case without her.
Patricia’s smile was tenuous. She thanked me for the compliment, but still seemed to be in a sombre mood. Something was clearly bothering her, and I was beginning to suspect what it might be. There was an important unanswered question between us, and I now waited with increasing irritation to see if Patricia would bring it up.
Which she did, with yet another sigh, at five past four.
‘And how is the unfortunate Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, who was caught in the firing line? Is there any news from the hospital about her chances of survival?’
I nodded happily, and was about to answer, when something totally unexpected happened.
The telephone on Patricia’s desk started to ring.
Never, in all my many previous visits, had I heard her telephone ring. And I had therefore, for some reason, imagined that I was the only one who knew the number and might use it. I was rather annoyed with the telephone for having the audacity to ring at such an inconvenient moment. At the same time, my curiosity was piqued as to who it might be.
Patricia lifted the receiver on the second ring and held it to her ear. Much to my relief, it was a very brief conversation. Patricia listened to the short message given by the person at the other end. She nodded pensively. Her reply was brief and polite.
‘That is just as we thought. Thank you so much for letting me know, all the same.’
There seemed to be no drama. The person at the other end continued talking, but I was not able to make out the words.
Patricia listened for a few seconds more, but then interrupted briskly: ‘Thank you. Hopefully everything will be all right. I will call you back later today.’
She put down the telephone and apologized for having answered it, but gave no explanation as to who had called or what it was about.
For a short while afterwards she sat deep in thought, staring straight ahead. Then she returned to where we had left off the conversation.
‘Yes, we were talking about Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. Have you heard any more about her condition?’
I said yes, and that all was well with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, given the circumstances. There was a danger that she would suffer from the injuries to her neck and shoulders for a while, and that it would be some time before she could write again. But she had regained consciousness an hour ago and was now definitely out of danger after the operation. She would survive, and live a meaningful life.
‘Good,’ Patricia said.
She said it so perfunctorily, without the slightest bit of feeling. This only fanned my earlier irritation that she had so obviously delayed asking the question.
I also had the strong feeling that she would have preferred it if I had said that Miriam would not survive. And so, for the first time in my life, I was truly angry with Patricia.
Later, I could not remember my exact words. But I had one of my rare, furious outbursts and said exactly what I thought and felt at that moment: that Patricia had always disliked Miriam and been jealous of her. And that I thought that she had now shown an alarming lack of human empathy for a young woman who might suffer permanent injuries and had nearly lost her life, thanks to her heroic attempt to foil a political assassination. I apparently finished this rant by asking Patricia whether she had any consideration for people in the world outside this house.
Patricia heard me out, remaining unusually still for an unusually long time.
‘Consideration. Yes. One of us is certainly not showing any consideration here,’ she said in the end. Then she was quiet again.
My rage had passed, but my anger on the part of the wounded Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen remained. So I said that I would shortly have to show consideration to some other people, and pay someone a visit.
Whether it was my intention that Patricia would understand the context or not, I was not able to say in retrospect. But she had of course understood instantly.
‘Pay someone a visit today… Yes, of course. At Ullevål Hospital, perhaps?’
I nodded, almost defiantly, I realized, as soon as I had done it. I was still very angry with her.
‘And so everything crashes around me,’ Patricia said, with a deep sigh. Her head fell forward onto her chest as she said it.
I did not understand, and she said nothing more in explanation. Instead she kept her mouth firmly shut, as if in panic.
We sat there in tense silence for a few seconds. Then I made a point of standing up.
‘Please, just go if you must, if that is how you want it to be. It is important to visit, especially if it is someone you care for,’ Patricia said.
Then once again she sat quite still in her wheelchair.
I left, with quicker steps than usual.
I turned around just outside the door, went back into the room and thanked her again for all her help with the investigation. But later I doubted if she had even heard me. For once she said nothing in response, but continued to sit huddled in her wheelchair. She seemed to have withdrawn entirely into her own world.
I thought I saw a tear run down her left cheek. But I might have been mistaken, and in my agitation, I did not feel the need to approach her. Her comment about everything crashing around her only seemed to confirm her egoism, as the situation now stood.
Patricia looked like the loneliest person in the world, sitting there in her library among all her books and with the remains of our coffee on the table. But when I thought of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen lying lifeless on the asphalt in Frogner Square, and her subsequent fight for life in a hospital bed, I thought that Patricia deserved to be left with her own thoughts today. And in any case, I was certain that the maid was there and would appear as soon as I had left.
So I closed the door behind me a little more loudly than necessary, and left the house without turning back.