It occurred to me that I had never heard Finn Gustavsen described as either a reactionary or useless; and also that the otherwise so relaxed Trond Ibsen now looked both exercised and upset.
‘And then?’ I asked.
‘Well, then the girl got up, said goodbye and left! And that is the last time I spoke to her. I believe the same is true for the others as well, but you will of course have to ask them.’
I assured him that I would, but asked all the same if he happened to know where I might be able to find this Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen.
His smile was both roguish and sarcastic. ‘As I said, I have not been in contact with her for the past year, but I would guess that it should be easy enough. If I know Miriam, she will be sitting in the university library between half past eight and five, and will be at the SPP office from a quarter past five until ten. And I believe that between half past ten at night and half past seven in the morning, she will be alone in her bed at Sogn Halls of Residence, but I most certainly have never checked the latter. You won’t miss her. She is the one reading a book not only as she walks out of the library, but also when she crosses the road!’
Trond Ibsen laughed charmingly at his own little joke. But I had seen a glimpse of the harder and more fanatical man hidden behind this jovial facade. In addition, I had a strong suspicion that he was holding something back from me. Twice he seemed to be about to add something, and twice he refrained from doing so.
I thanked him for the information he had given me. Without being asked, he said that he would of course be happy to answer any more questions, either at his home in Bestum or his office in Majorstua.
My curiosity regarding Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen had been piqued – the girl who had stood up and left, and who apparently read books as she crossed the street. I had in the meantime concluded that I should speak to all the members of the group as soon as possible, and Kristine Larsen was the one who lived closest.
I stopped at a phone box on the corner and dialled the number I had been given for Kristine Larsen. She picked up the telephone on the third ring, without much enthusiasm, as far as I could tell. But she was clearly at home and immediately said that she had heard that Marie Morgenstierne was dead. When I said that I was in the neighbourhood and asked if I could come by, she said yes, with a quiet sigh.
