But just as I stood up, the telephone on my desk started to ring. I registered that the mounting pressure in the case now resulted in a quickening of my pulse every time the telephone rang.
The first thing I heard was the pips from a telephone box. I waited for a moment, expecting to hear either Falko Reinhardt’s voice from the evening before, or an unknown, threatening man’s voice. But it was in fact Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s pleasant, measured voice that spoke: ‘Hi. I’m sure you are very busy today, so I won’t keep you long. But the library has just opened and I checked in the book, as I promised I would. And it really was on 5 August 1868 that Karl jumped, fell or was pushed over the cliff in Vestre Slidre. Source: Local history yearbook for Valdres, 1955, page 14.’
As Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen spoke, several things occurred to me in rapid and rather messy succession. First of all, she had obviously recognized my voice and taken it for granted that I would recognize hers. And secondly, her matter-of-fact voice had a calming effect on me in the midst of all the chaos. Thirdly, she must have been standing ready at the entrance when the library opened in order to have got this information by five past nine. And fourthly, I was going to Valdres again that day and wanted to ask her to come with me.
I opened my mouth to ask if she could come. But she beat me to it.
‘And is there anything new to tell? Or anything else that I can help you with today?’
The questions were asked in the same level, helpful and prosaic manner. And yet they felt like two cold showers in succession. The letters ‘SP’ began to echo in my mind. I sat there for a few seconds and wondered if this was just another manifestation of her desire for knowledge, or if it was a cynical attempt to get information about any developments in the case.
The fear of misjudging, and of a possible police scandal, got the better of me. Against my own will, I did not ask Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen if she would like to come to Valdres again. Instead I thanked her briefly for her help with the yearbook and said that there had been a number of developments, but that I was not able to talk about them on the telephone. I promised to contact her if and when I could tell her more.
Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen said that she perfectly understood, but her voice sounded less happy when she said it. And at that moment, the long pips told us that the line would be cut in a matter of seconds. She wished me good luck with the day’s work, said that she had to get back to the library and then put the receiver down before I had time to say goodbye.
I sat for a minute or two and wondered if I had done the right thing, or just made an enormous mistake. I obviously continued to ponder this subconsciously in the car, because after driving for three minutes I discovered that I was heading west towards the university instead of east towards the photograph gallery in Grünerløkka. I stuck resolutely to my decision, turned around at the first opportunity and went east.
IV
Falko Reinhardt’s parents were waiting, and opened the door as soon as I arrived. The red rims round their eyes told of a sleepless night, and it seemed they were both still in the grip of very mixed emotions. It crossed my mind that I had never before seen such a well-harmonized and close couple. As if to illustrate this, they were holding between them a large, newly developed black and white photograph.
Falko was embracing his mother in the picture, but still looking at the camera squarely, evidently self-aware. He was still very much himself even after two years’ absence. The man in the photograph was tall, muscular and dark, with curly hair, and looked as though he was firmly convinced that he could fulfil a difficult and important task. I was not sure whether I would actually like Falko Reinhardt or not, when we finally met. But I certainly hoped that his confidence in this case was well founded. Despite Patricia’s accurate conclusions, the outcome of the investigation was entirely dependent on what Falko Reinhardt could and wanted to tell me.
I told them that Falko had called me just before midnight and that we had arranged to meet in Valdres that evening. They thanked me sincerely for letting them know and said that they were happy that he had been in touch. But they had no idea why we should meet that evening, or in Valdres. This new small puzzle within the greater puzzle seemed to make them more anxious about the situation.
Otherwise, they did not have much news to tell. Their son had suddenly turned up at their door without warning the night before, giving them the best shock of their lives. Then he had disappeared out the door with the key to his parents’ blue Peugeot half an hour later. They had asked where he was going to spend the night, but he had replied that it was safest and best for them if they did not know. He had promised to take good care of himself and asked them to be careful about who they let in. They had asked him to contact the police as soon as possible, which he had promised to do. On his way out, he had added that he had something big and important to do for the country, but that everything would be sorted within forty-eight hours.
I asked whether he had had anything more to say about his fiancée’s dramatic death. They both looked down and with something akin to humiliation said that he had not mentioned it, and that they in their confusion had not asked. Their astonishment and joy at seeing their only son again had been so great that they had had no thought for anything else until he had gone. Later, when they talked through the night, they concluded that Marie Morgenstierne’s death was now even more inexplicable than before. They were utterly convinced, though, that Falko had nothing to do with it, and tended to think now that his fiancée must have been murdered for other reasons that had nothing to do with him. Their initial theory that some political enemies were intent on liquidating the whole group had foundered, as Falko himself was alive.
The conversation then dried up, with a few repetitions. I declined the offer of coffee, saying I had a long and busy day ahead. Still in perfect harmony, they nodded together with understanding.
‘Given our story, we hope you understand why we have never trusted the police. For the past couple of decades, the police in Norway, as in so many other countries west of the Iron Curtain, have only been there to repress people like us, and have never been there for us when we needed help. But we do have confidence in you. We trust that you will come back with our son alive and close the case so that any danger that threatens him disappears. Only then can we relax and enjoy life.’
Astrid Reinhardt smiled gently as she said this. Her husband was silent in his consent. It felt like a very personal and significant vote of confidence, but I also felt that the pressure on me was mounting. I rushed out to the car.
V
I deliberately started my second round of visits to the former Nazis with the architect Frans Heidenberg in Skøyen. I reckoned that there was more chance of getting something out of him than his far more temperamental friend, Christian Magnus Eggen.
The house was just as impressive as it had been the first time, and the lawn was newly cut. Frans Heidenberg opened the door with same friendly smile, then showed me into the same grand living room. But it was never likely to be such a pleasant and relaxed visit as the first time round, and that certainly proved to be the case.
I did not have much time, so I got straight to the point and reminded my host that when I last came to see him he had told me that he had not met the Valdres farmer, Henry Alfred Lien, since the war. He nodded, and then pointed out that that was of course as far as he could remember. He had spoken to so many people at social occasions in the past twenty-five years that it was impossible to remember everyone, given his ageing memory.