The Last Pilgrim (26 page)

“A little mystery,” he said as he leaned close and flicked his silver lighter. She drew on her cigarette, and for a second their eyes met.

He looked away.

Loud laughter issued from the open door to the dining room. Several officers could be heard breaking into spontaneous song.

“I love mysteries,” she said.

“All right,” said the man, brushing ash from his trouser leg. “I’m the head of a company that exports something to Germany. Something that you have in great quantities here in this country. Or, to be more precise, we export something made from this something that you have so much of.”

“Fish,” she said.

He laughed quietly and stubbed out his cigarette.

“Well, not exactly. And don’t worry, it’s a civilian company, though under military control, of course.” He took the silver case from his pocket, took out another cigarette, and lit it.

“You said the company is under military control?” Agnes tilted her head and feigned confusion without taking it too far. “I truly have no idea.”

“Try again,” said the man, giving her a smile. There was something disarming about his face, something honest and boyish. But what was hiding behind that trusting mask?
Darkness and death,
she suddenly thought, then quickly pushed that thought aside.

“I know you’ll get it,” said the man. He ran his hand over his hair, as if to reassure himself that it was as perfect as it had been before he left for Lande’s house that evening.

“No, I really don’t know,” said Agnes.

“Here’s a hint. We Germans are big on receiving orders, which have to be written—”

“Forests,” said Agnes. “Paper. You’re exporting paper!” She leaned toward him, placed her hand on his arm, and laughed.

“Right,” said the man.

Agnes let her laughter fade away before she removed her hand.

“What was your name again? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten . . .”

“Waldhorst,” he said, holding out his hand. “Peter Waldhorst.”

“Paper. How interesting,” she said. “How long have you been in Norway?”

“Since the fall of 1940.”

“You speak excellent Norwegian,” she told him.

“Language is the key to doing business in a foreign country.”

“Then I think you must be a very successful businessman, Mr. Waldhorst.”

He thanked her and gave her another trustworthy, boyish smile.

A group of people came out onto the terrace, talking and laughing loudly. Waldhorst turned to look at them.

Waldhorst,
thought Agnes.
You’re just the sort of man that Archibald Lafton warned me about.

CHAPTER 31

Wednesday, June 11, 2003

Ullevål Hospital

Oslo, Norway

Traffic was backed up along Finnmarksgata, and Tommy Bergmann only got as far as the pedestrian overpass between the Munch Museum and Tøyen Park before coming to a standstill. He lit a cigarette and looked once again at the text from Hadja. It was a good thing he’d replied so quickly. If he had waited until this morning, he would undoubtedly have turned down her invitation. And he needed to get on with his life. He couldn’t carry on this way.

The nurse at the reception desk tilted her head to one side as she introduced herself. A swiftly growing headache gripped his temples. A steady stream of people passed by on either side of him. Bergmann stood there at the desk like an exhausted tourist in his own town, surprised and dumbfounded by all the people in what yesterday had been a deserted hospital. He was especially surprised by the nurse, who was now smiling at him.

“Tommy? Don’t you recognize me?” she said with a drawling Nordland accent. Her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore rimless glasses, and her dark eyes shone with warmth. He knew he’d seen her somewhere before, but was suddenly overcome with shyness. In fact, he’d crossed paths with her several times and even been over to her place for dinner a few times. She was one of Hege’s friends, not a close friend, but still part of her social circle. An awkward silence ensued, primarily because he couldn’t begin to remember her name. There was also the fact that he was the one who’d been left behind. And that this woman knew that he had mistreated Hege. He had once promised a child—an abused and murdered child—that he would never become the sort of man who beat up women. Yet here he stood in front of this dark-haired nurse, and they both knew that he, Tommy Bergmann, was indeed that sort of man. And it was unforgivable. Disappointment seemed to be etched into her expression. He had no doubt been on his best behavior whenever they’d met before. He’d been gentle and charming and generous. But that was all merely a mask, and a monster lay beneath it. Who could forgive a man like that?

“Oh, sure,” said Bergmann. “Of course I recognize you.” He managed a brief smile. Someone bumped into him from behind. He turned to see an old man coming out of the cafeteria, pushing a walker in front of him. It made Bergmann think of the walker he’d seen near the butchered body of Carl Oscar Krogh.

“Are you . . . ?” said the nurse whose name he couldn’t remember.

Bergmann shook his head, even though he wasn’t certain what she was hinting at.

“No. I’d like to talk to Marius Kolstad. He’s in intensive care. I spoke to him yesterday.”

She gave him another smile, making him feel embarrassed.

“Is this related to a case?” she asked, looking at the computer screen in front of her.

“I just need to ask him a few questions,” said Bergmann.

She stopped tapping on the keyboard.
No, don’t say it,
he thought.

“Marius Kolstad is dead,” said the nurse. “He died last night.”

Bergmann groaned.

So Kolstad had left this world, taking with him secrets that Bergmann would have given almost anything to know.

“Well, at least he’s no longer suffering,” he said. The nurse nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, but then seemed to decide otherwise.

“Say hello to Hege if you see her,” said Bergmann.

He left without another word. But when he reached the exit, he changed his mind and went back, walking straight past the reception desk to the cafeteria. It was just his luck that Kolstad should die practically right in front of his nose. Kolstad said that he and Krogh had talked only about the same old things.
That was a damned lie,
thought Bergmann
. A damned, stinking lie.

At the newsstand he bought a BIC lighter and a copy of
Dagbladet
.

The word “SHOCKER” appeared across the front page in huge type. Inside was a photo of the police chief and Reuter at last night’s press conference. Bergmann scanned the text without really reading what it said. Krogh was killed with sixty-two stab wounds. The police chief had asked people to phone in if they had any information. According to the reporter who covered police headquarters, the police were depending entirely on tips from the public, but for the sake of the ongoing investigation, she couldn’t divulge any details.

He tossed the newspaper in a trash can only steps from where he’d purchased it.

After having a smoke, sitting on the same bench where he’d sat last time, Bergmann remembered what Krogh’s daughter had said. There was a man who knew more about Krogh than his own children: the history professor Torgeir Moberg. And he was only a few blocks away.

Out of sheer contrariness, Bergmann switched on his vehicle’s flashing blue light when the traffic backed up in the intersection between Kirkeveien and Sognsveien. As the cars moved aside to let him get through, he thought that this was the closest he’d come to a breakthrough in this damned case.

CHAPTER 32

Wednesday, June 11, 2003

Humanities Department

University of Oslo

Oslo, Norway

“Rubbish,” said Torgeir Moberg. “Pure rubbish. The connection between Carl Oscar Krogh and Kaj Holt has nothing to do with this. You need to look elsewhere. Do you understand?” The poorly concealed agitation in his voice made it sound even more shrill than it already was. Bergmann shook his head. He’d seen Moberg on TV several times, and he’d always seemed gentle and reserved, showing no aggression toward people who had some cause to defend.

Moberg stood at the window, looking out at the square between the Humanities and Sociology Departments. A few students were crossing the cobblestone square three stories below. For a moment Bergmann thought about how different his life would have been if he’d studied here instead of applying to the police academy, as he had almost on a whim.

“So you’re saying—” Bergmann broke in once again, not unkindly but with an air of resignation.

“I’m saying that people need to stop poking around in the past of a man who’s been dead for nearly sixty years. What good can possibly come of it? When is everyone going to let poor Kaj Holt rest in peace?”

Moberg turned toward Bergmann with a slightly melancholy smile on his face. His expression was that of someone trying in vain to convince others of something important, even though they had no basis for understanding the matter. He stroked his well-groomed beard, which was completely white, as were the few remaining strands of hair on his head.

“Coffee?” he asked, once again sounding amenable and friendly.

I wonder what he’s going to try next,
thought Bergmann. He nodded and then cast a quick glance at his notebook. The only thing he’d written down was the word “rubbish.”

“But why was Krogh stopped from investigating Holt’s death?”

“Because Krogh had a tendency to get manic. Of course it’s terrible when one of your best friends—someone with whom you’ve gone to the very limits of human experience—suddenly decides to kill himself when victory is won.”

“I thought there were mysterious circumstances surrounding his death,” said Bergmann.

Moberg held up his hand, his brow furrowed. One of his bushy eyebrows was a good deal lower than the other, which gave him an odd appearance.

“Where did you read that?”

“Not sure,” said Bergmann. “On the Internet.”

Moberg exhaled loudly through his nose.

“
Mysterious
circumstances?” he said, as if tasting the word. “That’s not really the right term, is it?”

“I would probably call his death suspicious,” replied Bergmann.

“So where exactly did you read this?” Moberg asked again, trying to meet Bergmann’s eye. But he had turned to look at a number of framed photographs hanging on the wall, and if Bergmann wasn’t mistaken, Carl Oscar Krogh appeared in several of them.

He decided to ignore Moberg’s smug question.

“I figure that a man like Krogh would have had a few enemies.”

“Enemies? Now listen here,” said Moberg. He chuckled. “A man like Carl Oscar will always have enemies. People with opposing views, old Nazis, and God knows who else. But none who could . . . well, you know.”

Bergmann looked down at his notebook. He saw no reason to add anything to the one word he’d already written. Rubbish. With that single word, Moberg had given himself away. The Holt case was anything but rubbish.

“So you’re saying that Kaj Holt wasn’t murdered, and that Krogh shouldn’t have poked around in the case?”

“Come on now,” said Moberg. “Holt was what we used to call manic-depressive, though today we would say he was suffering from bipolar disorder. He left his wife in May 1945 and ended up sleeping on benches and crashing at friends’ places. He went on a drinking binge and who knows what else. I can personally show you the investigative material on Holt and refer you to his medical records from prior to the war up through 1941.” Moberg threw up his hands. “The man was a genius, but he was also extremely suicidal.”

“But . . .” said Bergmann. He sank back in his chair.

“But what?” said Moberg with a faint smile.

“Then why did Krogh contact Marius Kolstad after those three skeletons were found in Nordmarka?”

Moberg opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“I suppose they were in touch about a variety of things,” he said, though he sounded less confident than he intended.

“Do you know who I think they talked about?” asked Bergmann.

Moberg sighed heavily, as if Bergmann were a child who ought to be shipped off to a reform school.

“Kaj Holt,” he said.

“Do you know anything about the three people who were found in Nordmarka? Agnes Gerner and the two others? Gustav Lande’s daughter and his maid?”

“No,” said Moberg. “Not a thing.”

“Huh. So you don’t either,” said Bergmann.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Bergmann hesitated before replying.

“We think that . . .” he began, but then stopped.

“That there’s a link between the murder of Carl Oscar, the three skeletons in Nordmarka, and Kaj Holt’s so-called mysterious death?” said Moberg so hastily that Bergmann realized he had underestimated the man. “Forget about Holt,” he went on. “That’s my best advice. It won’t get you anywhere.” He stroked his beard, which was so meticulously groomed that it suggested he was a very vain man.

“You don’t like these inquiries about Holt?” said Bergmann.

“It’s just . . .” said Moberg. “I’m merely trying to help you, and really . . .” He let the sentence fade.

“Have you given any thought to who might have a motive for killing Krogh?”

“No,” said Moberg. He looked away as Bergmann studied him. Moberg was not the sort of person to keep things inside. That was evident from his body language. As if the seat of his chair had suddenly grown spikes, he jumped up and took a few steps around the massive desk. Then he stopped and gave Bergmann a pained look. Finally he sat down on the edge of the desk.

“I understand it was pretty bad, up there at Carl Oscar’s place . . .”

“He was killed in an especially vicious manner,” said Bergmann. “That much I can tell you. One of the worst scenes I’ve ever encountered, in fact. And I’ve seen almost everything. Unfortunately.”

Moberg looked genuinely sad. He sat there motionless, perched on the edge of the desk, staring at a spot on the floor.