The Catalyst Killing - [37]

I immediately promised that she would be back by half past five, and that I would drive her straight to the office on our return from Valdres.

Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen let out a peculiar peal of laughter, and said that it would perhaps be better for her career in the party if she was dropped a couple of blocks away, given that it was a police car – but that she would, on that condition, be able to come. We agreed that I would pick her up outside Sogn Halls of Residence at half past eight the following morning. Then we put the phone down at almost the same time – and, it seemed, in equally good spirits.

XIII

It was only a few minutes after I had finished the conversation with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen that it struck me that I should perhaps also check whether the farmer, Henry Alfred Lien, would be there. Directory enquiries were able to give me his number. He answered the telephone when I rang, but was not particularly friendly. His voice was monotone, hard and serious; it sounded as if he had not laughed since 1945.

I explained my errand, assured him that he was not a suspect in any way, but said that I hoped that he would be able to answer a few questions tomorrow in connection with the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt and the death of Marie Morgenstierne.

Henry Alfred Lien was not as negative as I had feared, given the reports of his behaviour in 1968, but it was not a jolly conversation all the same. He had nothing to hide, he said, and was fed up of being accused of things he had not done. He had seen a photograph of the young lady in the paper and thought it was a great shame, but did not understand how he could be of any help in the matter. He had never met the woman and had never been in contact with her.

In the end, however, he agreed to meet me for half an hour around lunch time, on the rather peculiar condition that I did not come in a police car. His reputation in the parish was already bad enough, and gossip could spread like wildfire from farm to farm; he said this without the slightest inkling of humour. He then added that of course he did not want to be associated with the case in the media in any way.

Relieved, I assured him that that would not happen. Henry Alfred Lien gave me some brief instructions as to how to find the farm and repeated that he doubted he had anything of interest to tell – but, he concluded, as I was a policeman and was coming all the way from Oslo, it was only right to meet me.

Towards the end of the third day of the investigation, I felt a growing unease. But I did not think that I could do anything more of value that evening, so in anticipation of my trip the following morning, I called it a day at around ten o’clock.

Two busy days of investigation had taken more of a toll than I had noticed: having watched the news while half asleep on the sofa, I went to bed and was asleep by a quarter to eleven on Friday, 7 August.

But then I woke up with a jolt at two in the morning – as the woman from the Lijord Line was running for her life towards me and the train. When I saw her coming towards me in my dream, I thought at first that it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, but then saw that it was in fact Kristine Larsen who was staring at me in panic through the window.

Luckily, I woke up before she was also shot. But I did lie there for the next thirty minutes or so pondering the meaning of the dream, and what Patricia had said. And suddenly I got the strange and uncomfortable feeling that she might be right: it did feel as though there was a great storm brewing – but I had no idea where it might come from, or who would be hit.

DAY FOUR: An interesting trip to the mountains – and another running woman

I

My working day started unusually early on Saturday, 8 August. I got out of bed at a quarter past seven, and twenty minutes later was sitting at the breakfast table. Dagbladet expressed disquiet at the situation in South Vietnam and feared that the changes necessary there would not happen as long as the USA continued to support the corrupt regime. Morgenbladet, on the other hand, printed a critical commentary on the dictatorship in North Vietnam and was concerned that many more lives would be lost if the USA did not get the support it needed to continue its heroic war effort.

For want of any new developments, the murder of Marie Morgenstierne had fallen out of the headlines – which suited me very well for the moment. I hastily pushed the papers to one side after reading a scathing article in Aftenposten about a Swedish policewoman who had fallen head over heels in love with a well-known criminal. He had been arrested following a police raid on the policewoman’s flat, and she was now on indeterminate sick leave. The article prompted unfortunate memories in me, but was a useful reminder of just how serious these matters could be.

At a quarter to eight, I was therefore eager to start my working day. It occurred to me that I should at least inform Marie Morgenstierne’s father of what had happened so far.

I got hold of Martin Morgenstierne at home at ten to eight. He said that he was on his way to the bank, but asked if there was any news about the murder investigation or if there were any more questions he could answer.