I put the photograph that had been left behind by Falko Reinhardt in Room 27 down on the table in front of us. With a slight edge to my voice, I expressed my hope that his memory was at least good enough to be able to confirm whom he had eaten with at a restaurant this summer.
I caught a glimpse of a different and far less friendly Frans Heidenberg as soon as I put down the picture. For a few seconds, his mouth was drawn and his eyes got flinty. But he kept up appearances and controlled his voice extremely well when he spoke after a short pause for thought.
Frans Heidenberg’s explanation of the picture was that he and Christian Magnus Eggen had gone to the Grand Café for a good dinner, and had started chatting to two other gentlemen in the bar who were friendly and made a good impression. So they had chatted for a while, but he had no reason to pay attention to their names and certainly could not remember them now. He ‘remembered vaguely’ that one of them did have a Valdres dialect, and would in no way protest if I said that he was Henry Alfred Lien. But when he had answered the question the last time I was there, he had done so in good faith.
I pretended to believe Frans Heidenberg and asked with forced camaraderie if he knew anything about the fourth person in the picture. He gave me his friendliest smile back and shook his head apologetically. The fourth person at the table had apparently been an older man in a suit, who he thought came from Oslo. It wasn’t easy to guess his age and the man had said very little about himself. And it was difficult for him to give me a more detailed physical description. He talked rather vaguely about a dark-haired man, somewhere between sixty and seventy, but there were so few details that it could hardly be called a description. Unfortunately his eyes were not what they used to be, and he did not like to be impolite and stare too much at people.
We got stuck in this rather stilted, mutually guarded mode of communication. I understood that Frans Heidenberg was either lying outright or, at the very least, failing to divulge some important information. But I also realized that, for the moment, I had no way to prove it. And he knew this, too. So we continued for a few minutes, locked in a war of wills; in the pleasantest of voices, I asked for more details, and he apologized that he could not remember or had not noticed anything else. Sadly, his sight, hearing and memory were no longer what they used to be.
My final question was whether Christian Magnus Eggen appeared to know the other two men from before, and if so, to what extent. Frans Heidenberg again gave an apologetic shrug and said that he had no idea. If it was important, I could of course pay Eggen a visit and ask him myself. I saw the hint of a mocking smile playing both on his lips and in his eyes when he said this, but yet again, it was something that could not be pinned down.
I took Heidenberg at his word and said that I would do just that, and asked him to keep our conversation confidential. The conversation ended fittingly enough with him promising to do this, when we both knew perfectly well that he would break that promise as soon as I left the house.
Frans Heidenberg accompanied me to the door like the perfect host, held out his hand and wished me good luck with the investigation and a good day. After a moment’s hesitation, I took it. Shaking his hand now felt like biting into a sour apple. As I walked down the driveway, I suddenly disliked Frans Heidenberg even more than Christian Magnus Eggen. But this did not mean that I looked forward to meeting the latter.
VI
It was half past ten when I rang Christian Magnus Eggen’s doorbell in Kolsås. I did not have much time left before my appointment at the prime minister’s office. However, I did not anticipate that this would be a long conversation. And in that sense, I was not disappointed.
Christian Magnus Eggen opened the door and leaned on his stick. He made no sign of inviting me in, and I had no desire whatsoever to go in.
He set the tone by asking if I had anything new to tell him about the murder of his old friend, Marius Kofoed, in spring 1945 – in which case, he would be happy to talk to me.
I replied with measured calm that the case was not my responsibility, and furthermore was now time-barred, so he could perhaps, happily or unhappily, talk to me about more recent murder cases. Christian Magnus Eggen rolled his eyes, denied any knowledge of any more recent murder cases and said he was curious to know if I had any proof linking him to such cases.
I held the photograph up in front of him and asked how this fitted with his previous statement that he had not seen Henry Alfred Lien since the war.
I had thought that Christian Magnus Eggen would have coordinated his explanation with that of Frans Heidenberg. But instead he chose another strategy.
‘This very personal photograph, which you have somehow or other managed to get hold of, simply shows that I have gone to a restaurant with other people. And as far as I know, that is still legal, even here in Norway. I have not registered any new exemption laws that forbid people from eating in restaurants, and they would no doubt have been reported in Morgenbladet and Aftenposten. I do not see any connection between this picture and any criminal activities that have gone on either this summer or before. If you are investigating the murder of that young communist woman, it is hard to see how a photograph of four elderly men in a restaurant could possibly be of any relevance. Or perhaps you can explain it to me?’
I replied that it was I who was there to ask questions and that it would not be in his favour if he refused to answer these in an ongoing investigation. This did not humour him in any way.
‘In that case you will have to present it before a judge and see if there is strong enough evidence for you to summon me as a witness. In the meantime, I have no desire to give any information to you, the police or anyone else about which friends I see and when.’
I made a final attempt and asked if he could give me a more detailed description of the person who was unidentifiable in the picture. It could well be of even more interest to check him out of the case than Eggen himself.
‘I could, but I do not want to. And what is more, I do not want to prolong this conversation with you any more.’
Christian Magnus Eggen’s eyes shone with an almost childlike defiance when he said this. I understood then and there that his hatred for society that had been building over the years had now found an outlet, and was directed at me.
I ventured to remind him that when a young person was murdered, the parents and other close friends and relatives were left bereft.
He seemed taken aback by this. He leaned heavily on his stick for a few moments, then sank down into a chair in the hallway. His voice was suddenly grave and sad when he spoke again. But it had not lost any of its intensity or speed.
‘I know absolutely nothing about the murder you are investigating and have nothing to say that might help those left behind. But I have to say that my sympathy for the parents of murdered communists is somewhat limited. Which might perhaps have something to do with the fact that my only son was shot by the communists in the war.’
Christian Magnus Eggen now seemed to be both upset and tired at once. He gasped for air a couple of times and then continued.
‘And as you mentioned those left behind, parents and children, let me tell you about another old murder… My friend Frans may well have already told you that his fiancée had disappeared when he got out of prison after the war. But he is such a considerate person that he perhaps did not mention the child?’
I shook my head and sent him a piercing look. He took a deep breath and carried on.
‘Frans’s perfidious fiancée was pregnant when he was arrested – in the fourth month, no less. According to the law of the day, killing a foetus was a crime, even in Norway. But that did not prevent the death of Frans’s only child while he was being held on remand, with the help of both the police and the health service. Frans and I have paid our taxes for decades and have had to take care to uphold all kinds of strange laws, but have never had any rights ourselves, not even to our children’s lives. So you might perhaps try to understand why, today, we are not particularly cooperative with the police and do not feel much sympathy for those left behind by communists. And now it may well be best for us both if you just leave me in peace!’