The man by the window paradoxically felt some relief when he saw Kristiansen carry on. His greatest fear was that someone would warn Trond Bratten and stop him from getting up onto the stage. When Kristiansen appeared, the murderer instinctively feared that he would plough through the crowd and do just that. He heaved a sigh and relaxed when the detective inspector then carried on running towards the building, and he noted that there were no uniformed police to be seen in the sea of bodies.
The door to the room was locked from the inside and was solid. Even if the detective inspector found the right door in time, he would take an age trying to get it open.
B would in practice have no hope of escaping via the back stairs after the murder. But that was a sacrifice that he now, as a widower with no children, was prepared to make for the great cause. If his peers and countrymen wanted to condemn and punish him, he was certain that he was doing the country a service that he would later be thanked for. He would leave behind no descendants, but his name would be remembered and praised by many for generations to come.
The murderer hurried over to the door to make sure it was locked.
When B got back to the window, he saw the woman with the book. And instantly cursed her.
Following the collision with the detective inspector, the woman had first simply picked up her book and watched him run on, bewildered. But now she was making her way through the crowd towards the stage, where Bratten was still waiting.
The compère was a well-known union man, a big fat idiot who had no doubt lived on taxpayers’ money for years. He was standing ready by the stage, but made no sign of moving. It was one minute to half past four.
The man by the window stood there with the gun in his hand for the next thirty seconds. Down on Frogner Square, the compère had still not gone up onto the stage to introduce the party leader. Bratten was standing between his wife and some others in the shadows below the stage. The woman with the book was snaking her way through the crowd with unexpected force.
On the positive side, there was still no noise from the corridor. Kristiansen still had a long way to go before he got into the room.
And finally, the compère now went out onto the stage to undeservedly rapturous applause down on Frogner Square.
XIII
Without knowing whether the murderer was on the second or the third floor, I instinctively headed for the right-hand door on the second floor. The door was locked, but I could hear sounds from inside.
I rapped on the door and shouted: ‘Open up, this is the police! We know you are in there! Open the door immediately!’
Suddenly all was quiet inside. I heard heavy steps across the floor. But I could not tell whether they were moving towards the window or the door, nor did I know if it was the right floor. My desperation rocketed when I then looked at my watch just as the second hand passed half past four. Then, without saying any more, I threw my entire body weight against the door. It shuddered, but remained locked. It was a wooden door with a new frame, which looked like it could take a thump or two.
After this, however, I heard a frightened man’s voice shout from inside: ‘Don’t knock down the door, I’ll be there as soon as I can unlock it.’
There were a few seconds of fumbling by the door before it opened. In the opening stood a thin, obviously frightened man in overalls, with a small paintbrush in his hand. He calmed down a bit when he saw my police ID, but his voice and body were still trembling. The man mumbled that he was a joiner and janitor for the building, and he was only trying to varnish the new window frames while the workmen were on holiday.
I pushed him briskly to one side and ran into the room.
It was an unfinished office of around two hundred square feet. And there was no one else, nor any weapons, to be seen.
Just then, we heard thunderous applause from outside.
I ran over to the window. My arms were stiff with fear, but my legs were still working. My legs and my eyes. In a trance, I saw that the applause was fortunately only for the compère, a large and stocky union representative who was standing by the lectern to introduce the party leader’s speech. I could only just see Bratten standing by the stage with his wife, and some papers under his arm.
I vaguely registered a woman with a book in her hand who at that moment broke through the last rows of the audience and stopped right in front of the party leader. And all of a sudden I realized that it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen.
Then I heard more applause, which woke me from my trance. I spun round, once more thrust the even more bewildered janitor aside and ran up the stairs to the third floor.
XIV
The murderer stood at his post by the window with the gun in his hand. There was still no noise to be heard on the third floor. But he had heard sounds from the floor below, which clearly indicated that Kristiansen was working his way up the building, with or without reinforcements.
The compère had fortunately not prolonged the embarrassment down on Frogner Square. The applause soon turned into a rhythmic clapping and stamping of feet when he introduced the party leader. But the woman with the book had just managed to get through. She was now engaged in an apparently animated conversation with the leader’s wife – the party leader himself a reticent onlooker.
Bratten’s wife did not seem particularly keen to stop him from going onstage. Nor did the audience around them. Several of them shook their fists at the girl with the book, and the applause and calls for the party leader increased in volume. But the party leader hesitated. And the girl with the book did not give up. She threw up her hands and twice pointed quite clearly at the building.
The murderer pushed himself up against the window frame and swiftly hunkered down. His mind was in overdrive trying to deal with the unexpected situation. His pulse rose even more when he heard footsteps running down the corridor, following by a pounding on the door.
Trond Bratten had to die before Detective Inspector Kristiansen broke into the room. But the woman with book and intense body language did not give in, and Bratten was still hesitating.
‘This is the police. We know you are in there! Open the door and come out, or we’ll break down the door!’
Kristiansen’s voice was powerful and determined. It carried easily through the door.
For a second, the man by the window considered opening the door and shooting Detective Inspector Kristiansen. He would then have the time he needed until Bratten got up onto the stage. But the murderer had no idea whether Kristiansen was armed or not, or whether he had more policemen with him. And a shot being fired up here in the building would probably be heard down on Frogner Square. And in that case, the party leader would dive for cover.
The man by the window rejected the idea. Instead, he weighed up the possibility of aiming the gun right now.
It would be far harder to shoot Bratten standing where he was beside the stage than by the lectern. But it should be possible to hit the pathetic coward there, too. The party leader’s wife was standing side on to him, covering half his body. But to the right of her, he could aim straight at Bratten’s head and chest, past the woman with the book.
Bratten said something or other to the woman with the book. But he made no sign of going up onto the stage. It was so contemptible and typical of him, not to be able to make up his own mind but to let the women do it for him.
There was another thud from the door. Someone had thrown their shoulder, or some heavy object, against it. The door held, but another thump put increasing pressure on the hinges.
With a deft move, the man raised the gun and aimed the barrel out of the window at Trond Bratten’s head. The murderer was taken aback to realize that his hand was shaking and cursed this sign of weakness. The seconds ticked as he tried to get a clear aim at his target. He cocked the gun so that he could fire immediately if anyone burst into the room.