I agreed, and promised to be there at half past seven. Then I put down the phone and called in the witness again.
Aase Johansen listened intently to my questions and then answered them as quickly and concisely as she could.
She had not heard any noise from the train at the point when Marie Morgenstierne started to run. She had, however, heard it approaching about thirty seconds later, when most of the other confusing sounds had died down.
In answer to the second question, she said that the person had shouted ‘Marie’ at about the same time that Marie Morgenstierne had suddenly accelerated from a walk to a run. It was possible that she had heard one or two fast steps before the shout, but she registered them at the same time.
I noted down her address and telephone number in the event of any further questions, and then accompanied her and her dog out of the building and paid for a taxi to take them home. She beamed and thanked me for this, and wished me luck with the rest of the investigation. It felt good finally to meet a helpful and obviously truthful person on what had otherwise been a very demanding day so far.
It was half past three by the time I stood alone on the pavement and watched the blind witness and her guide dog disappear in a taxi. I still had three important meetings, the first with Falko Reinhardt’s parents, the second with Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, and finally with Marie Morgenstierne’s father. If her reputation was anything to go by, the former would still be in the university library, whereas Falko Reinhardt’s parents had said they were always at home. So I drove to see them first.
I had found the right address in Seilduk Street by a quarter to four. It was earlier than agreed, but the door was opened promptly all the same when I rang the bell.
Astrid Reinhardt had silver-grey hair, but was still a vigorous woman in her mid-sixties. She said she had seen me from the window. Her husband was not far behind her in the hallway. He greeted me with a noticeable accent, but otherwise in almost perfect Norwegian. One of the advantages of being a Dutchman was that it was easy to learn Norwegian, he commented with a shadow of a smile.
Meeting Falko Reinhardt’s parents in the hallway was less of a shock than entering their living room a few seconds later. I had heard that Falko Reinhardt was an only child and that his father was a photographer, but still obviously lacked the imagination to anticipate what was waiting there.
