I managed to swallow my laughter. Instead I commented with a smile that she clearly took her studies very seriously – given that she also obviously read on her way from the university to the party office. Her reply was open-hearted and highly unexpected: ‘Before, I even read books in the shower!’
Fortunately, I managed to refrain from blurting out my spontaneous response: ‘Now that I would like to see!’ At the last moment I realized that it might be misconstrued and insulting. So instead I permitted myself a short burst of friendly laughter. She gave an ironic smile and added that she had stopped when it proved to be impractical. The books were fine as long as you kept them out of the water, but it took so much longer to shower when reading, so it was not rational. Another rather unfortunate consequence was that there was rarely enough warm water left for her parents and little brother.
Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen explained that she believed you had to be a rational idealist to make the world a better place in this day and age. And in order to demonstrate the point, she took out a large pile of papers as she said this and started to sort through them.
I watched the obviously very rational idealist for a few seconds with a mixture of surprise and fascination. She sorted with alarming speed. I thanked her once again for the information and wished her a good evening – and was only too well aware that I would be late for my meeting with the deceased’s father.
Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen looked up briefly from her pile of paper, waved and flashed me a crooked smile as I left the office. For want of any other leads, I interpreted it as a good omen for my investigation. I found it reassuring and credible, and not in the least suspect, that she was the only one who had remained calm on the night that Falko Reinhardt had disappeared. And for my own personal record, I noted that the sole dissenter in the group was rather beautiful as she sat there alone, smiling, even if it was by a desk in the SPP office.
It was ten past six by the time I rang the doorbell of Martin Morgenstierne’s house in Frogner.
The house was even larger than I had expected, and the host more correct. He was standing waiting at the door, gave me a firm handshake and immediately accepted my apology that I was a few minutes late owing to other commitments relating to the case.
Martin Morgenstierne was as impeccably dressed as I had imagined, in a black suit and tie. But he was unexpectedly tall and unexpectedly youthful. His hair was still black and his face was free of wrinkles, so he did not look a day over fifty, and his movements were still vigorous and dynamic. He seemed remarkably fit for a bank manager.
