The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) (3 page)

VI

Marie Morgenstierne’s last political meeting had taken place in a dusty two-room office in Smestad. Five wooden chairs, now empty, were positioned around a small desk. I commented to Trond Ibsen that it obviously had not been a large meeting. He smiled, not without irony, and replied that it was true; there were not many who had realized that the future lay in combining the best elements of Soviet and Chinese communism. It had been Falko’s great vision. The small group that had gathered around him was still somewhat scornfully called the ‘Falkoists’ by other left-wing radicals, and had at various times been ostracized by the Moscow supporters in the Norwegian Communist Party and the pro-China communists in the SYL. The people who had attended yesterday’s meeting were the same small flock of visionaries and believers who had been his friends – Marie Morgenstierne, Anders Pettersen, Kristine Larsen and Trond Ibsen himself. The fifth chair had always been Falko Reinhardt’s and so was routinely left empty in case of his return.

I looked at Trond Ibsen, bemused. He was a slightly overweight, apparently very easygoing and clean-shaven young man. Apart from a single badge that said ‘Victory for FNL!’ and some unusually sharp-edged academic spectacles, there was little in his appearance to indicate that he was in any way radical or fanatical. He smiled disarmingly and shrugged.

‘The business with the chair was initially for Marie, and for Anders to a certain extent, as he also had a very close relationship with Falko. Then it just became a tradition we all took for granted. It is quite usual after accidents and disappearances for those left behind to continue to wait and hope that their loved one will come back again one day.’

‘Even a psychologist?’ I remarked.

His nod was slightly sheepish.

‘Even a psychologist. Psychologists are also human. We are simply a little better than others at understanding ourselves and other people. One would hope,’ he added swiftly, with another charming smile.

Trond Ibsen gave the impression of being a socially gifted man. He was at once suitably serious when I asked if he thought that Falko Reinhardt was alive. Trond Ibsen replied that he had at first, but now doubted it more and more. It was perhaps not so easy for the layman to see, he said, adjusting his glasses, but it had been obvious to him that Falko had been troubled by something in the weeks before he disappeared. Something he knew was weighing on him. It was therefore easy to assume that assassination or abduction were the most likely possibilities. Bearing in mind the topic of Falko’s thesis, it was not hard to imagine some kind of Nazi conspiracy – not that he wanted to point a finger at anyone.

I asked immediately if his dark mood in the weeks before his disappearance might not also support the theory of suicide. Trond Ibsen straightened his glasses again and said that that would generally be a fair assumption. Everyone who had had the pleasure of knowing Falko Reinhardt would, however, dismiss this theory out of hand. He had never met a more charismatic and vibrant person, and what was more, Falko Reinhardt himself believed that he still had so much to do in this life.

Moreover, Trond Ibsen was of the opinion that ‘dark mood’ was perhaps an imprecise description. It was absolutely clear to him, however, as he had studied psychology, that Falko had had something on his mind. Falko had been very aware of his responsibility as leader in such situations – he preferred to grapple with things alone until he had come to some conclusion, and not to bother others unnecessarily. But given the force of his personality and sharp intellect, he normally found the answer within a few hours, or certainly within a couple of days. This time, it had been hanging over him for several weeks, so it must have been something extremely difficult and important. Trond Ibsen finished with a serious note in his voice.

As far as Marie Morgenstierne was concerned, Trond Ibsen did not like to use the word ‘incomprehensible’ about anything to do with humanity, but he almost had to here. It was hard to imagine why anyone would want to take the life of such a friendly and kind person. By a process of elimination, one might think that it was the group itself that was the target. But why she would have been killed first was a mystery. As far as he was aware, Marie Morgenstierne had had no personal enemies either within their political movement or otherwise – if she did, it would have to be her capitalist father, with whom she had had strained relations for years now. But it seemed highly unlikely that he would have killed his own daughter. Parents rarely killed their own children, and if they did they were usually alcoholics or people who were seriously mentally ill, the psychologist explained. Marie Morgenstierne’s mother had died a few years ago, and she had no siblings. When she had had a glass or two, Marie sometimes complained that it was hard enough to be the child of two reactionary capitalists, let alone the only child. Marie Morgenstierne could be very open with the other members of the group in such situations, but was otherwise quiet and reserved, he added swiftly.

Yesterday’s meeting had lasted no more than an hour and nothing of note had happened. The members had first talked about the fact that it was the second anniversary of Falko’s disappearance, and had then gone on to discuss the autumn’s events and demonstrations and other work. There had been no disagreement worth mentioning. The meeting had finished at ten o’clock and the four participants had left and gone their separate ways. Trond Ibsen was the only one with a car and had, as usual, asked if he could give anyone a lift, but they had all declined. Kristine lived only a few hundred yards away, Anders was on his bike and Marie wanted to take the train. She had set off alone in the direction of the station, and he had seen neither of the others or anyone else go in the same direction. He quickly added that it was some way to walk, so anything could have happened later.

Before we finished, I took the opportunity to ask Trond Ibsen if the addresses of the other members were still correct. He looked quickly at the list and gave a short nod. ‘As far as I know,’ was his comment when he pointed at Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s name.

That prompted me to ask why she had not been at the meeting. This triggered a slightly uneasy and irritated expression on Trond Ibsen’s face.

‘Because she is no longer one of us!’ he replied, in a hard voice.

This naturally aroused my curiosity and I asked what had happened.

‘When the great schism between the Socialist People’s Party and the Socialist Youth League happened last year, all five of us met to decide on our allegiance. We had formally started as a group with the SYL. I had not imagined that any of us would want to follow Finn Gustavsen and the other reactionary, useless SPP members. Anders gave a longish speech about why we should follow the young, true revolutionaries, and added that Falko would without a doubt have wanted us all to follow this path together as a group of independent socialists. We thought that that was that. But then Miriam put up her hand and gave one of her short, incisive arguments, and concluded that we should join the SPP and run their election campaign. There was complete silence after this. I then spoke for some time in support of Anders, and urged everyone to march together on the road that would lead to a better society. Then I asked all who were in agreement to remain seated, and those who were not to stand up and leave.’

It occurred to me that I had never heard Finn Gustavsen described as either a reactionary or useless; and also that the otherwise so relaxed Trond Ibsen now looked both exercised and upset.

‘And then?’ I asked.

‘Well, then the girl got up, said goodbye and left! And that is the last time I spoke to her. I believe the same is true for the others as well, but you will of course have to ask them.’

I assured him that I would, but asked all the same if he happened to know where I might be able to find this Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen.

His smile was both roguish and sarcastic. ‘As I said, I have not been in contact with her for the past year, but I would guess that it should be easy enough. If I know Miriam, she will be sitting in the university library between half past eight and five, and will be at the SPP office from a quarter past five until ten. And I believe that between half past ten at night and half past seven in the morning, she will be alone in her bed at Sogn Halls of Residence, but I most certainly have never checked the latter. You won’t miss her. She is the one reading a book not only as she walks out of the library, but also when she crosses the road!’

Trond Ibsen laughed charmingly at his own little joke. But I had seen a glimpse of the harder and more fanatical man hidden behind this jovial facade. In addition, I had a strong suspicion that he was holding something back from me. Twice he seemed to be about to add something, and twice he refrained from doing so.

I thanked him for the information he had given me. Without being asked, he said that he would of course be happy to answer any more questions, either at his home in Bestum or his office in Majorstua.

My curiosity regarding Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had been piqued – the girl who had stood up and left, and who apparently read books as she crossed the street. I had in the meantime concluded that I should speak to all the members of the group as soon as possible, and Kristine Larsen was the one who lived closest.

VII

I stopped at a phone box on the corner and dialled the number I had been given for Kristine Larsen. She picked up the telephone on the third ring, without much enthusiasm, as far as I could tell. But she was clearly at home and immediately said that she had heard that Marie Morgenstierne was dead. When I said that I was in the neighbourhood and asked if I could come by, she said yes, with a quiet sigh.

Kristine Larsen lived on her own in a one-bedroom flat on the second floor. She came from a small family and had inherited the flat recently from her late grandmother, she added by way of explanation for the rather untidy living room. We sat down instead at a tidier kitchen table, where two coffee cups stood waiting.

Kristine Larsen was around five foot ten, blonde, slim and rather attractive and friendly. She was, however, obviously affected by the situation. She repeated twice that she would of course answer me as best she could, but that she was not used to being questioned by the police, and it had been a shock to learn that Marie Morgenstierne had been killed. Both Trond Ibsen and Anders Pettersen had called her, but she had already heard the news about a young woman who had been found dead at Smestad on the radio and immediately known who it was. As a result, she had remained at home instead of going to her lectures.

I assured her that we had all the time in the world, and she calmed down a bit. I quickly got the impression that behind her cautious manner was a rather strong-willed woman. She also appeared to have a good memory, and to be a reliable witness.

As far as Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance was concerned, Kristine Larsen said that it was still a complete mystery to her. She had been staying in the next room with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, but had been kept awake by a headache that night. She had left the door out to the hallway ajar because she needed air. She recognized all the others’ footsteps and could hear any movement outside her room after she had gone to bed. She had heard Marie Morgenstierne going to the kitchen to get a glass of water, Anders Pettersen going to the toilet and Trond Ibsen going out to get some fresh air for a few minutes. Her roommate Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had read in bed from ten until midnight, and then gone to sleep. Falko Reinhardt had apparently stayed in his room after he retired just before midnight, and there was no sign of life from him until Marie Morgenstierne raised the alarm that he had disappeared around two in the morning.

As for Marie Morgenstierne, Kristine Larsen had known her since high school. Marie Morgenstierne had met Falko Reinhardt shortly after she started university, and despite their very different social backgrounds, they immediately hit it off. They did seem to fall in love with an unusual passion, Kristine Larsen remarked with a careful little smile. Marie’s parents seemed to think that it was Falko who had led their daughter astray politically. She had, however, been moving rapidly towards socialism for about a year already before she met him, and they had in fact met at a meeting for radical students. Marie’s political views were her own, as far as Kristine Larsen could tell, but she had been very influenced by her boyfriend up until the time he disappeared. He was also a very dominant figure in the group. However, even though she remained in his shadow, Marie Morgenstierne had a far stronger personality than one might first assume, given her gentle nature.

It was a great tragedy that Marie Morgenstierne’s mother had died in the middle of this dramatic period. Marie said that she could not bear to go to her mother’s funeral and had, as far as Kristine knew, had very little contact with her father since. Kristine Larsen had been to Marie Morgenstierne’s childhood home many times when they were teenagers and had met her parents. They were nice and kind in their own way, but ‘terribly reactionary capitalists’, and her father in particular appeared to be very strict. Kristine Larsen had known Marie longer and better than she had Falko and as far as she knew, she had never met his parents.

I had noted that possible motives for the murder might be a new lover, or the rejection of a suitor. I took the opportunity to ask Kristine Larsen if she thought that there was perhaps a new man in Marie Morgenstierne’s life.

Kristine Larsen answered swiftly that she thought it as good as impossible that there had been anyone else either before Falko disappeared, or immediately after. She did, however, add slightly hesitantly that in recent months she had started to wonder if there might be another man in Marie Morgenstierne’s life. The thought had struck her because Marie’s moods had swung markedly back and forth over the course of the summer. One moment there was something brooding about her, the next she was unusually happy and carefree.

Kristine Larsen otherwise agreed with Trond Ibsen that Marie Morgenstierne’s last political meeting had been very undramatic and could not possibly have had anything to do with her death. Kristine had herself walked home alone to her flat. She had asked Marie if she wanted to come back for some coffee or a beer, but Marie had said that she had to be somewhere else. Kristine had been a bit taken aback and then thought that there might be a new man in the picture, but had not wanted to ask. She deeply regretted that now, she added in a quiet voice.