‘Well, as far as Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen is concerned, I can only say that I agree with your evaluation. She was so unconcerned about the questions to begin with that it aroused my suspicions. She gave me the telephone numbers of two people who had been in the SPP office with her in the evening, and they immediately confirmed that she had been there. But as we are investigating a radical left-wing group, I am not sure that two SPP members are an entirely convincing alibi. However, two staff at the university library could confirm that she had left at five, and as such would not have had time to get up to Valdres by six o’clock without the use of a fighter plane. Otherwise, I have to say she made an unexpectedly favourable impression, and broke with the group a long time ago.’
My heart stopped thumping quite as hard after this account. I nodded in agreement, but was impatient to hear more. It followed swiftly.
‘Anders Pettersen, on the other hand, gave the impression of being an extremely political and temperamental man. I think he could be capable of most things. In this case, however, his alibi was solid: he had been at a well-attended art exhibition between six and eight, and had met several friends and acquaintances there.’
He said no more, but the corners of his mouth twitched in that irritating way he had.
‘On the other hand… ’ I prompted, in the end.
‘Yes. I am almost convinced that the somewhat suspect psychologist, Trond Ibsen, is, if not a psychopath, very possibly a murderer. He looked at me with distrust from the moment I entered his office, and was clearly very unsettled by both me and my questions. As far as an alibi is concerned, the books showed that he left the office unusually early yesterday at around half past two. He drove off in his new car, which could easily have got him to Valdres within three hours. He said to both his secretary and me that he had gone home. But the secretary whispered to me that she had seen him drive towards the city centre, which was the opposite direction from his home. And most striking of all, he would not say what he had done for the rest of the day, other than denying that he had been in Valdres or knew anything about the murders there. He might consider answering you, but categorically refused to answer me.’
Danielsen made a dramatic pause and visibly enjoyed the attention we both gave him when he continued.
‘I thought about arresting him on the spot, but decided instead to get a constable to keep him and his car under surveillance for the rest of the day. Ibsen also informed me that he would be working late today, until at least seven o’clock, perhaps even later. So in the event that the attack is in any way related to him, today’s events should be under control.’
He hesitated, but then continued with a little smile.
‘And by the way, Anders Pettersen also said that he would rather deal with you in the future. So you seem to be far more popular and easy to get on with than me, certainly as far as younger male left-wing radicals are concerned.’
My first instinct was to answer that one could only hope the same was true of female left-wing radicals. And then I wanted to say that he, on the other hand, seemed to be more popular with the older male Nazis. But I did not allow myself to get rattled. So instead I replied that given their history, it was to an extent easy to understand their scepticism, no matter what one might believe or think of their political opinions. I added swiftly that none of them had entirely convinced me either, and that one should in principle keep that lead open.
Then I put my only trump card on the table: the page from the diary that had been found in Falko Reinhardt’s jacket. I said that new information had, however, been found that reinforced the theory that the Nazis were involved.
My boss and Danielsen quickly looked over the page. Danielsen pulled a face and had to admit that the entry regarding the meeting on 7th June did fit extremely well with the date on the photograph. However, he felt that ‘the content of the document was otherwise so vague that it could hardly provide the basis for anything more than a general suspicion.’
At twenty past three, we concluded that we should meet again at nine o’clock the following day. In the meantime, I would continue with the Nazis as the main focus of my investigation, but I also promised to interview Trond Ibsen again.
As for the advice we would give to top politicians regarding any public engagements over the next few days, our boss said that it was up to me to assess the situation regularly, but it was after all a very drastic step to cancel a major event without there being a definite threat. Danielsen nodded, and added that he for his part still believed that the danger of an attack was minimal, as long as Trond Ibsen was under surveillance.
We said our goodbyes. There was no direct animosity, but the atmosphere was tense due a certain amount of rivalry. I got the feeling that behind the jovial facade, the other two thought the same as me. The danger of an attack seemed to be mounting by the hour, without us getting any closer to knowing when, where or who.
IX
I left the police station just after half past three. The drive to Patricia’s was unexpectedly slow. For the last few blocks, the stream of cars, bicycles and pedestrians was unusually heavy. I finally realized why when I passed two groups of young Labour supporters only yards apart on their way to Frogner Square. The hordes of people on their way to the rally where Trond Bratten was going to speak were a reminder of the gravity of the situation.
I turned on the police radio and to my relief discovered that all was quiet. There was nothing to indicate that anything dramatic had happened in connection with the prime minister’s speech at the Norwegian Farmers’ Union. But I knew that Borgen, Bratten and other well-known people had public engagements over the next few days, and I did not look forward to living with the constant fear of what might happen.
Just before I parked the car in the parking space closest to 104-8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street, the police radio suddenly went dead. This was not due to sabotage, but rather a defective wire that could be changed as soon as I returned to the station. But it did not feel like a good sign. I was not in the best of moods when I rang the doorbell at ten to four.
Patricia did not appear to be any more cheerful. She gave me a grim and silent nod as I came in, and the door had barely closed behind the maid when she fired her first question.
‘Well, has the missing page from the diary shown up? I hoped that you would take the time to call me as soon as it did!’
I replied that the messenger had had a puncture on the way to town and that otherwise, there was not much to be gleaned from it. She nodded, and held out her hand with impatience. I gave her the slightly crumpled page. She did not say thank you, but instead asked to have Falko’s note and the photograph as well.
I then told her about the day’s developments over the meal, but I was unfortunately unable to savour the taste of the superb loin steak. As far as I could see, Patricia only ate a few mouthfuls. She listened intently to what I had to say, but barely looked at me. Her eyes were fixed on the page from the diary, and only occasionally looked over at Falko’s note and the photograph.
‘As far as Marie Morgenstierne is concerned, the picture is getting clearer. If you get the answers I expect from Trond Ibsen and Anders Pettersen, we may even have this solved by this evening. And I can assure you that this Danielsen is very definitely on the wrong track, if not also the wrong planet,’ she said, when I had finished giving my account at around twenty past four.
That was of course music to my ears. However, it appeared that Patricia had no intention of saying any more about the matter. She sat there staring at the page from the diary.