‘First of all, my work for my country does not leave me any time for women. And what is more, were that not the case, young communist women would certainly not be my preference!’ he objected.
It looked as though Asle Bryne’s eyebrows approved of this, but the smoke around him was now so dense that I could not have said for certain.
I swiftly changed the subject to talk about the circumstances surrounding Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. Pedersen immediately sank a little into his chair. Asle Bryne, on the other hand, perked up. Between two long puffs on his pipe, he said: ‘Procedures have unfortunately been broken, albeit with the best intentions and without any harm being done. Just tell the truth!’
Pedersen nodded gratefully, and immediately continued.
‘My behaviour was unprofessional in the extreme. But I had for months spent a lot of time on the group and was convinced they were going to plan something serious while they were at the cabin – perhaps, in the worst-case scenario, meet some foreign agents. I felt that my most important duty and responsibility was to protect society against them. Our budgets and work schedules did not allow surveillance of the group in Valdres, but I was off work that week and, following a struggle with my conscience, decided to go up there on my own initiative. Hence the mask, which was in clear breach of normal procedures. I did this partly so that they would not recognize me if they saw me, and partly to prevent any suspicion that the police security service was involved.’
I attempted to give an understanding nod.
‘And what was the outcome of your trip? Were there any indications of foreign contacts or that any of them were planning something serious?’
He shook his head.
‘The whole thing was, technically, a fiasco. I am still convinced that they went there to talk about something that they wanted to keep under wraps. But the cabin was far less accessible than I had thought, and the weather was terrible. I was not able to hide any microphones in the cabin, and I barely managed to get within sight of it. My first attempt to spy through the window ended with me being spotted by Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. So I beat a hasty retreat and drove back down to Oslo again. I only heard that Falko Reinhardt had gone missing on the radio the following day.’
‘A large car was seen driving down the valley in the middle of the night, after Falko had disappeared. Was that your car?’
He shook his head again.
‘I was driving my own car, which was a small Ford, and by the time that happened, I was already back in Oslo. I know nothing about the car you mentioned, or who might have been driving it. I do know, however, where Falko went when he left the others for a couple of hours earlier in the day, and whom he met there.’
He sent me a meaningful look. I tried to stay collected, and waved him on impatiently.
‘I watched him from a distance, with the help of ordinary binoculars, from my stakeout in the forest. He was walking fast and passed only twenty yards or so from me. Then he carried on out of the forest and across the fields of the neighbouring farm. There he met the farmer himself, who appeared a few minutes later with a mowing machine as a cover. It looked as though the meeting had been planned, and that they did not want anyone to see!’
He said this in almost a whisper. I gave a short nod of acknowledgement.
‘And was the farmer a well-built, older man?’
He nodded quickly.
‘His name is Henry Alfred Lien, and he is a convicted former member of the NS. I checked his name when I got back home. But, as far as we know, there is nothing to link him to any countries in the Eastern bloc or to radical, left-wing groups in Norway. So it is not at all clear what the meeting might have been about, and is hardly likely to be relevant.’
My nod was less approving, and I asked if he observed anything else of interest – for example, any romantic liaisons between members of the group.
For the first time, his otherwise earnest face broke into a small smile.
‘Such internal liaisons are very usual in groups like that, but seldom of relevance to us. I may have observed something of the kind, but it depends on who you are alluding to.’
I took a deep breath and started the list.
‘Trond Ibsen.’
He promptly shook his head.
‘Anders Pettersen?’
Again, he shook his head immediately. I noticed that my heart started to race when I mentioned the next name.
‘Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen?’
Another shake of the head, and this time he made a dismissive gesture with his hands to reinforce it.
‘She was definitely not the type to get involved in that kind of thing. I cannot understand what she was doing with the group in the first place.’
I keenly nodded my approval and suddenly liked him a little more. The situation was demanding and my dislike of surveillance considerable, but I had to admit that Stein Pedersen certainly seemed to have talents in the field.
‘Marie Morgenstierne?’
‘Only with her fiancé, and then it was far less public than is normal. But she came from a good family, after all, and was therefore very well behaved.’
I nodded. That was as I had imagined.
‘But, on the other hand, Kristine Larsen, and Falko…’
He chuckled, but very soon was serious again, in fact, almost angry.
‘Bingo. One almost has to admire his self-confidence, but morally it was rather repugnant. He had come back from a short afternoon walk hand-in-hand with his fiancée. Then two minutes after she had gone into the cabin, there he was in the shadows outside with his hand down Kristine Larsen’s trousers. She was so very in love that it was a wonder that no one else noticed it. But in a strange way, they all circuited him in awe. With the exception of Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, who was in her own world with her books.’
Again, I nodded my approval. And then spoke the truth. Pedersen’s behaviour had been very unprofessional and as such unfortunate, but he had also been very observant and I had to thank him for some potentially useful information. The matter would henceforth be treated with absolute confidentiality, and would not be included in any formal minutes or reports, or brought to the attention of any officials. Unless, of course, he had anything more serious to hide.
Stein Pedersen brightened. He assured me earnestly that he had nothing to hide, and that he had committed no crime. I said that we could then see the matter as closed, but reserved the right to get in touch with him to ask more questions, should this prove necessary in connection with the murder investigation.
Asle Bryne put down his pipe, nodded curtly and held out his hand. Like an echo, Stein Pedersen did the same. He wrote down two telephone numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
I left Victoria Terrace with plenty to think about. I had been given a few more details and also a new and very interesting insight into the police security service. Having heard Stein Pedersen talk about his mission, it was even harder to imagine him as a killer. I was very relieved to discover that his account did not contradict any of the others on any point. But it had taken a suspiciously long time to get that statement from him, and I still did not trust that he had told me everything. And the strange coincidence between the initials of his name and those on Falko Reinhardt’s to-do list hounded me all the way back to the main police station.
X
It was a quarter past two by the time I got back to my office. So there was still an hour left before I had to drive to Valdres. And it was, to my relief, unexpectedly quiet in the station.