As soon as I could I popped in to see Kristine Larsen in her cell, to update her on the latest developments concerning Falko. She perked up, the colour returned to her cheeks, and she asked me to give Falko her greetings as soon as I saw him.
I hinted that we could now arrange for her release on bail. She thanked me, but added that as she was safe here, she would rather stay where she was until the case had been solved and Falko had returned. Her parents had been informed of the situation and were extremely worried that she too might be shot.
‘Just think how tragic it would be if, after two years of waiting, I was released only to be murdered hours before Falko came back to me,’ she added, with an almost playful smile.
Her argument suited me well. I preferred not to have to explain her release either internally or externally, until I had a new suspect to arrest. I had by now almost dismissed the theory that Kristine Larsen was the murderer, having heard a third version from the security service agent. Despite her jealousy and betrayal of the late Marie Morgenstierne, it was almost impossible not to feel sympathy for this clearly besotted young woman, who had been waiting for two years for her beloved to return. I hoped in my heart that Falko would be with her again within the next twenty-four hours, and that he would prove worthy of her love.
On my way back to the office, I bumped into Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen in the corridor, apparently by accident. With one of his most ingratiating smiles, he said he hoped that the investigation was progressing well. He had heard that someone had been held on remand for a couple of days now, and hoped that this meant that the person in question would be charged shortly and the case could be closed.
I assured him that we were keeping the arrestee on remand, rather than pressing formal charges, with good reason. With a bitter taste in my mouth, I added that I hoped that his door was still open should I need any advice. He promised me that he would be there whenever needed, ‘with an open door and an empty desk’.
In a way, our parting in the corridor felt just as false as my parting from Frans Heidenberg at his house. Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen knew that I would never ask him for help if I could avoid it, and I knew that he knew.
I hurried on to my boss’s office and gave him a report on the day’s developments. He approved of my methods and plans, both with regard to the trip to Valdres and to keeping Kristine Larsen on remand until the case was solved. Otherwise, like me, he was concerned about the danger of a major attack of some kind or another. The risk of an assassination that the police could not prevent hung like a dark and threatening cloud over both of us. This had to be balanced against the possibility of sparking unfounded fears among the royals, top politicians and the population at large.
My boss agreed with the advice that I had given to the prime minister and opposition leader, but asked that he be informed as soon as possible after I had spoken to Falko Reinhardt. I could ring at any time in this evening, no matter how late, if there was anything new to report. We shook hands on that. My boss’s confidence in me was certainly a great support in the midst of so much uncertainty.
After the visit to my boss, I telephoned Patricia from my office and gave her the most important new information. She was once again very interested in the police security service’s work. The teenage gossip in Patricia reared her head again: she chortled down the line when I told her the story of Falko and Kristine at the cabin.
Then all of a sudden she was serious and grown up again.
‘I have only one question regarding the security service and Marie Morgenstierne, but it is important. Did the security service representative at any later point tell Marie Morgenstierne what he knew about Falko and Kristine? And if so, when? Ask him as soon as you have the opportunity, if the meeting with Falko has not cleared everything up in the meantime.’
I jotted down her question and promised to follow it up the next day. Then I asked if she could give me any advice for the Valdres meeting. She replied without any pause for thought.
‘Just one thing, but again, it is important. If you have time, go to see Henry Alfred Lien before you meet Falko, or otherwise, drive there immediately afterwards. Ask him first and foremost about the former Nazis and the mystery man in the photograph. But also ask him if he is willing to take a lie detector test stating that he did not drive Falko down the mountain the night he disappeared. And if possible, check his bookshelves to see if you can find the local history yearbook for Valdres, 1955!’
I replied that it was not likely that I would manage to drive up the mountain and question Henry Alfred Lien before six o’clock, but I promised to drive directly to his farm if Falko did not pitch up at the bottom of the cliff and explain everything.
‘Good,’ was Patricia’s response. Then she said no more.
There was something unsaid on the line between us. It felt as though she wanted to say more, only I was not sure what.
‘Well, then all that remains is to wish you a good trip to the mountains. Are you going alone this time, or together with someone else?’ she asked, finally.
I replied, perhaps somewhat curtly, that I was driving on my own this time and that I should probably be on my way very soon.
It sounded as though Patricia let out a sigh of relief before hastily wishing me good luck and then hanging up. I felt that we had drifted away from one another again.
With a stab of irritation at Patricia’s new jealousy, I wondered again if I should perhaps swing by the university library on my way to Valdres. But instead, I set off on my own at three o’clock as planned.
XI
The drive to Valdres felt far less inspiring than the previous trip. Long before I passed the Tyri Fjord, I regretted not having asked Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen to join me.
The weather, however, was clement and the traffic minimal, so the journey was smooth once I left Oslo. And following a hectic day with many mood swings, it was good to be able to think about the case in silence. When I reached Vestre Slidre around half past five, I still did not have any clear theory as to who had shot Marie Morgenstierne.
I was now leaning towards the idea that the mysterious other man who was either Trond Ibsen or Anders Pettersen was also the murderer, but more for want of a better theory. And as for the possible assassination plan, I now feared that it involved the former Nazis more than the young communists and the police security service, but still without any idea of what was going to happen and when.
The closer I got to the foot of the mountains, the greater I felt my potential fall could be. When I parked the car at the end of the dirt track at a quarter to six, I held a deep wish that Falko Reinhardt would give me the whole explanation, or at least enough for me to piece together the rest of the puzzle with Patricia’s help. It dawned on me that an alarming amount was now dependent on what he could, and wanted to tell us; and that a short and somewhat frantic late-night telephone conversation was my only guarantee that he would actually meet me here.
The first touches of autumn colour were in evidence, but it was still a magnificent late-summer evening in Valdres. I scoured the landscape, unable to enjoy it, for the city boy Falko Reinhardt, and wondered why he had insisted on meeting me here. His calm, convincing voice the evening before had made an impression: I trusted that he was in control of the situation and would come.
However, it was now five to six and there was no sign of him or anyone else. I wandered around in a small circle and looked in every direction to make sure I had not missed him. The countdown ran from five to three minutes, and then from two to one, without anything happening.