The Catalyst Killing (K2 and Patricia series Book 3) (30 page)

There was a moment’s silence as I contemplated what this meant. Patricia took a deep breath and continued.

‘The identity of the fourth person in that photograph is now perhaps the most pressing question in Norway. Christian Magnus Eggen and Frans Heidenberg know, but I doubt that anyone could get it out of them in time. Judging by what has happened, Falko Reinhardt and Henry Alfred Lien also knew, but were killed before they had a chance to tell you. I have no idea who this is or where he or she is; it could be almost anyone out there. But I am increasingly fearful of the consequences if we do not soon find out. And these two murders can leave no one in any doubt that this is something major!’

On hearing Patricia’s words, I felt fear tugging at me, not least because it was more audible in her voice towards the end than I had ever heard it before. So I thanked her, put down the receiver and set about investigating the scene of the crime.

XV

Patricia had of course been right. In the largest bookshelf, Henry Alfred Lien had a series of local history yearbooks for Valdres. The 1955 edition was also there. And even though a rubber had been used in the margins of the article in question about Karl and his dramatic death in the mountains, it was impossible to hide the fact there had once been notes there and parts of the text had been underlined.

Finding any diaries or other notes proved to be a bit harder. Henry Alfred Lien was not a writer by nature. He did not appear to own a typewriter. Other than a shopping list on the kitchen counter, I found no handwritten notes in the living room or kitchen.

He had, however, made himself a simple office on the first floor, and in the desk drawer I found several books filled with his elegant, old-fashioned handwriting. They mostly involved bookkeeping and taxes, but also production figures for the farm, and they showed that he had been doing well even in the last year. According to his post office savings book, Henry Alfred Lien had over three hundred thousand kroner in his bank account when he died. But I found no photographs or notes that might shed light on his dramatic death.

In the bottom drawer was a notebook with handwritten diary entries from 1967 to the present day. Henry Alfred Lien’s entries were short, often just keywords, and he seldom wrote more than four or five pages a year. I quickly read through what he had written in previous years, but found nothing of interest. In connection with the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt in summer 1968, Henry Alfred Lien had noted that he had been questioned and taken a lie detector test in Oslo, but there was no new information.

By far the most interesting thing in Henry Alfred Lien’s diary was a page that was not there.

The diary ended suddenly in April 1970, and the next page had been torn out.

I stood pondering for a long time when it might have been torn out and by whom. It could of course have been torn out and destroyed by Henry Alfred Lien himself. But it was also possible that it had been removed earlier in the day by the person who had shot him. In which case, I sorely wanted to know where the missing page was now, and what secrets it might reveal.

XVI

The sheriff arrived with the ambulance at ten past eight. He was a sombre older man who gave an impression of solidity, and seemed more than willing to cooperate with a detective inspector from Oslo. We called for a forensics team from Lillehammer, but were told that we should not expect them until tomorrow morning.

I left the sheriff in charge of the farm and then walked the few hundred yards to the top of the cliff to see if I could find anything there. Rain was forecast overnight, and I had no illusions as to what the technicians would then be able to find in the morning.

The Morgenstiernes’ cabin was locked. I opened it with my key, but found nothing to indicate that Falko or anyone else had been inside.

It was a very strange feeling to stand alone afterwards at the top of the cliff in the evening breeze. There had obviously been a violent struggle up here earlier in the day that had ended with Falko Reinhardt’s fall and death. It would appear that Falko Reinhardt had first parked his car at Henry Alfred Lien’s farm and then, for some unknown reason, either run or walked here to the edge of the cliff.

I found a couple of footprints on the path that went past the cabin and on to the edge of the cliff, which were very similar to Falko Reinhardt’s in size and shape. And I found some other footprints which were also of men’s shoes, but slightly smaller than Falko’s. I found more of these footprints in the moss a couple of yards away from the cliff. But there were no clear prints from Falko’s large feet there.

It seemed reasonable to assume that the other prints belonged to the person I had seen standing at the edge of the cliff after Falko Reinhardt’s fall. But there was no way of being certain, and even if it was the case, it gave no pointer as to that person’s identity.

I wandered around at the top of the cliff, without really knowing what I was looking for. In an otherwise clean landscape devoid of human traces, the small piece of paper fluttering in the breeze behind a boulder immediately caught my eye.

My mind naturally jumped to the missing page from Henry Alfred Lien’s diary. However, it transpired that this piece of paper was smaller and of a different type. It was a plain white sheet, of the sort I had found in the late Falko Reinhardt’s hotel room. And the writing was his too, and once again was extremely brief, written in keywords that were a mixture of numbers and letters:

1108

Heftye 66

Professor Johannes Heftye’s face immediately popped up in my mind. Given the rare surname and the fact that the number 66 coincided with his age, it was hard to avoid the conclusion that Falko Reinhardt was alluding to his supervisor here. And 1108, according to Falko’s usual shorthand for dates, was then 11 August – which was tomorrow. But the link between the date, the supervisor and the note were still a mystery to me.

As I walked around on my own up there by the edge of the cliff, it started to drizzle. This quickly developed into proper rain, and I was soaked to the skin by the time I got back down to the car and Henry Alfred Lien’s farm. This did not help to lift my spirits. I drove back to Oslo in wet clothes and a grim mood.

As I drove, the theory that Falko Reinhardt had shot Henry Alfred Lien developed in, and occupied, my mind. He had parked his car there, and the pistol in his pocket had been three bullets short when he fell down the cliff a few hundred yards away. The three fired shots would be two to Falko Reinhardt’s own body, and one to Henry Alfred Lien’s head. But somehow the idea of suicide did not seem right. Falko Reinhardt had certainly not struck me as a suicide candidate when I had spoken to him the evening before. On the contrary, he had seemed to be bursting with a powerful will to carry out an important mission for his nation and then reap the honour. It seemed highly unlikely that he would ask me to come to Valdres only to take his own life by jumping over a cliff; and it was also very impractical to shoot yourself in the foot before such a jump. In any case, the presence of the person I had seen standing there more or less ruled out the possibility of suicide.

So the most likely scenario remained that Falko had first intended to meet Henry Alfred Lien, and then me. He had, for unknown reasons, ended up killing Henry Alfred Lien. But who had then shot Falko Reinhardt? And why had Falko Reinhardt gone with that person to the edge of the cliff? What secret was so great that both Henry Alfred Lien and Falko Reinhardt had to be murdered today, in order to keep it from getting out?

The questions about what had happened, and why, were starting to mount up. And on top of them came the question of what I should do now. I stopped at a telephone box in Hønefoss and managed to get hold of a priest in Grünerløkka via the operator. I told him what had happened, and asked if he could break the tragic news to Falko Reinhardt’s parents. However, he turned out to be the conservative and categorical type, and he firmly refused to have anything to do with the case. The whole Reinhardt family had left the state church, and the priest himself had had a serious argument with the parents when they refused to let their son be confirmed. They had asked him to leave and made it very clear that they would not open the door should he knock on it again. Before he left, he had warned them that their son might go straight to hell as a result, so it would be impossible to lie and say anything else to them now. And certainly not so late at night. I ended the call, and drove on.

For the rest of the trip, I dreaded being the messenger of death – to Falko’s parents as well as to Kristine Larsen. The world would quite possibly collapse for all three of them.

The fact that it was so late was my excuse: it was past eleven o’clock when I finally drove into town. I would have to tell them in the morning, and use the rest of the evening on the investigation. I drove straight to 104 –108 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street.

XVII

Patricia had kept her word, and was waiting patiently. The maid Beate opened the door immediately when I rang the bell, and assured me that she would serve dinner as soon as it had been heated. It was only then I realized that I had not eaten for nearly ten hours. And then, on top of all my other worries, I was suddenly beset with anxiety about how Patricia’s father might view my late visit. Professor Director Ragnar Sverre Borchmann was still someone I would not care to provoke or get on the wrong side of.

I cautiously asked the maid if the professor had already gone to bed. She replied that the professor was away, then added with a shrewd little smile that the director would certainly not object to my visit, however late it was, had he been here. This was a token of encouragement and recognition from a childhood hero that I still held in high esteem. I asked Beate to pass on my greetings the next time he rang home. With another smile, she promised to do this.

The dinner that later appeared on the table was a superb roast pork. But this time, it was only for me. Patricia had obviously eaten already. She took careful sips from a cup of black coffee, but otherwise remained motionless in her wheelchair. I could not remember having seen her so serious before. Her concentration was intense.

‘There is much to indicate that Falko Reinhardt killed Henry Alfred Lien. But who then killed Falko afterwards? It could hardly be suicide?’ I said, eventually.

Patricia choked on her coffee and only made things worse by trying to speak before she had properly cleared her throat. It seemed to me that her nerves were on edge. Her voice, however, was just as sharp and confident as usual when she managed to use it.

‘Falko Reinhardt definitely did not kill himself. And nor did he kill Henry Alfred Lien. The situation now is very frustrating, as I can tell you more or less what happened, but not the most important thing, which is who shot Henry Alfred Lien and Falko Reinhardt. And this double murderer might be at large out there. It is most likely to be a person we have not met and do not know the name of. And now that both Falko Reinhardt and Henry Alfred Lien are dead, I have no idea how we might find out. This person is clearly both driven and dangerous, and everything seems to indicate that he is planning to do something terrible in the next few days. One obvious danger is that we are talking about a hired assassin of some sort.’

‘You mean the man who has been removed from the photograph?’ I asked.

Patricia nodded.

‘Of course, we cannot be certain, but it does seem highly likely. The former Nazis were probably right when they said they were not responsible for Marie Morgenstierne’s death. But they have obviously survived as a network, and have for many years played with ideas and plans about how to take their sweet revenge on society. Marie Morgenstierne’s death and the attention it has been given has in some way accelerated the process, and things could explode at any moment now. The key to the two deaths today and the planned attack are buried somewhere in all this.’

She let out a measured breath, and then carried on.

‘It was obviously not the king’s engagement in Asker this evening. They reported on the radio that the opening of the swimming pool had been a great success. So Falko was right when he said that there was no danger of an attack today. But now that Falko himself is dead – anything might happen from tomorrow on.’

I dared to venture that the initials SP in Falko’s first note fitted with Stein Pedersen, whom the police security service had wanted to protect for so long. Patricia gave a thoughtful nod.

‘Yes, it is an odd coincidence, and one should be wary of ruling things out in such circumstances. But all the same, the idea of an assassin being employed by the police security service does seem a bit unlikely. And how did Falko then get the person’s name? And why did he not just tell us?’

I had to admit that I had no answers. Instead, I asked her about the other note that referred to Heftye, which could hardly mean anyone other than Falko Reinhardt’s supervisor, given the number 66? There were not many other Heftyes left in Oslo, I dared to add.

Patricia pulled out the telephone directory for Oslo and Akerhus from the shelf behind her, and looked it up.

‘Eleven, including the professor. That is not many. But the number sixty-six is only nearly right – if the professor celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday a few days before Falko disappeared in 1968, then he must have turned sixty-seven a couple of weeks ago. A somewhat distracted Falko could of course have thought that he was still sixty-six. Do check with the professor where he was today, and what his plans are for tomorrow. But what on earth would he have to do with an attack? If I were to imagine an old radical left-wing history professor being involved in a terrorist attack, it would certainly not be in cooperation with old Nazis. And I do not understand why Falko would use the abbreviation ‘SP’ for Professor Johannes Heftye. Nor, for that matter, why he would then write out the name when he otherwise appears to use abbreviations for people in his notes.’