Beate’s voice was trembling when she promised to give Patricia the message. Then there was another moment’s silence.
‘There’s something I would like to tell you, even though maybe I shouldn’t…’ Beate stammered.
She stopped, hesitant, until I asked her to continue. I had no idea what to expect, but did not imagine it could make things any worse.
Beate lowered her voice to little more than a whisper when she continued.
‘They called Miss from the hospital yesterday just before you came. I was standing right beside her and heard what was said. The doctor started by telling her that her father was extremely ill, and that the end was now perhaps only a matter of hours away rather than days. Then the director came onto the phone. He said that she should come now if she wanted to see him again.’
I felt a lump building in my throat. I was whispering now as well when I asked what Patricia had answered.
‘Miss said that she would of course come as soon as she could, but that she did not dare to leave the house and telephone until the case was closed and the murderer had been arrested. It could cost other people their lives and it was extremely important for you, she added. And she couldn’t tell you the truth because she was afraid it would distract you from such an important murder investigation. The director said that he understood and just hoped that she would get there on time. Then he asked her to send you his greetings, and to wish you all the best with the rest of your life.’
The lump in my throat was now enormous and hard. I struggled with it for what seemed like a small eternity before I managed to whisper a final question. And that was whether the conversation she had just recounted to me was the last time that Patricia and her father had spoken together.
Beate replied very quietly and slowly that yes, it unfortunately was.
I thanked her in a barely audible whisper for telling me. Then we put down the telephone at the same time with great care and no noise.
I just sat there for the rest of the evening, old images of Ragnar Sverre Borchmann’s dashing figure flickering through my mind, alternating with Patricia’s immobile expression earlier in the day. I sat beside the phone with my memories until well past midnight, in the hope that it would ring again. But it never did.
The fact that I had successfully closed my third murder investigation brought me as little joy in those few long hours as Patricia’s fortune would bring her. I thought to myself that one did not know what real loneliness was until one had sat alone in oppressive silence: alone in a room with a telephone that never rang, no matter how desperately one might want it to.
It was only many years later that I found out that in the course of my conversation with the maid, and throughout the evening that followed, Patricia had been sitting silently in her usual place by the telephone, chain-smoking. Around midnight, Beate had ventured to say that Patricia should perhaps call me. She had promptly been told that a maid who tried to make a career as a counsellor could just as easily end up without a job.
As I sat there alone in the silence, I felt like the loneliest person in the world. Finally I understood what Patricia had meant earlier in the day. There was no end to sad stories about parents and children in this investigation. And my great triumph was now overshadowed by tragedy. It really did feel as though everything had suddenly come crashing down.
Afterword
My third thriller is also, like the first two, a historical novel. I have again tried to present a realistic picture of Norwegian history forty-two years ago, but have also allowed myself creative licence. Those readers who know the geography of Oslo will be able to find the streets, but not the house numbers. Those who know their history will recognize some of the minor characters from political circles at the time. But they will also notice that certain details do not fit: for example, the head of the police security service in this book has far more in common with the man who developed the service before retiring in 1967 than the man who held the position in 1970.
And once again, the author is more than happy to receive honest feedback from readers. This can be sent via Facebook, or by email to hansolahlum@gmail.com.
While working on the novel, I have also benefited from the advice and support of many people. My most important adviser at the publisher Cappelen Damm was, as always, my excellent editor Anne Fløtaker. Anders Heger has also been a much-valued adviser, Sverre Dalin a sensitive and focused copy editor, and the knowledgeable Nils Nordberg has acted as an expert adviser.
As for my personal advisers, my greatest thanks go to my loyal primary adviser, Mina Finstad Berge, who once again has made some invaluable comments with regards to the language and content. A legendary inventor is said to have kept the plans for his machines in his head for several weeks after seeing the drawings, and could therefore predict any weaknesses they might have. I was inspired by this story to include one of my primary advisers in the plot this time, as an experiment, and Mina deserves special thanks for agreeing to participate in this unpredictable and revealing literary experiment.
I also owe a huge thanks to my good friends Ingrid Baukhol, Jorunn Bjørgum, Tone Bratteli, Lene Li Dragland, Marit Lang-Ree Finstad, Anne Lise Fredlund, Kathrine Næss Hald, Else Marit Hatledal, Hanne Isaksen, Bjarte Leer-Salvesen, Torstein Lerhol, Espen Lie, Kristine Kopperud Timberlid, Arne Tjølsen and Magnhild K. B. Uglem, as well as my sister, Ida Lahlum. Of these, Arne and Magnhild deserve particular thanks this time. I would also like to thank the historian and writer James Godbolt for his advice on radical left-wing groups in 1970, and the historian and writer Roy Andersen for his advice regarding what is said about the police security service.
My last crime novel, Satellite People, was hugely inspired by the queen of classic crime, Agatha Christie, and was accordingly dedicated to her. The plot of The Catalyst Killing is set in 1970 and makes the leap from a locked room to a public space. Rather than Agatha Christie and other earlier British crime writers, I drew inspiration this time from one of the greatest crime writers of the decade, the American Ross Macdonald (1915-83). Tragic family stories are a major theme in Macdonald’s novels, inspired both by Greek tragedies and by his own background. Following his example, I have made tragic stories of parents and children a pervasive theme of this book.
When I started writing, my intention was to dedicate The Catalyst Killing to Ross Macdonald. But then it dawned on me that my third novel should be dedicated to a representative from my group of advisers. It also developed into a political novel, which was never the case with Macdonald’s novels; and even though the book has in a many ways a depressing ending, there is a much stronger sense of optimism about the future than in Macdonald’s work.
Of all the representatives from various extremist milieux, it is Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen who represents hope. She is a young and idealistic person who is herself, without any thought of personal gain. The young Miriam clearly distances herself from dictatorship, violence and totalitarian ideologies, and in her free time works for a democratic party to fight for a fairer society. In this novel, she is a young SPP member in 1970, but she could equally have been a member of various other youth associations in 2012. And following the violent and bloody attack on our democratic and open society that we experienced in summer 2011, it is particularly important to nurture the hope for the future that she represents here in Norway today. The best possible response to the terrorism and extremism of our day is the peaceful political mobilization of new generations of socially engaged young people. And the author and other people involved in Norwegian cultural life must do their utmost to highlight this.