I found only one thing of any interest in the late Marie Morgenstierne’s flat. And although it was very interesting indeed, it was hard to gauge how important it was.
Under the pillow on Marie Morgenstierne’s bed was a small white envelope that had been both franked and postmarked. Her name and address were typed on the front. There was no sender’s name or address on the back.
My first thought was that it was perhaps a love letter from a new lover or admirer. However, what was written on the piece of paper inside the envelope was again typed, and was short and to the point:
‘Was it you who betrayed Falko? If so, the time has come to confess your sins and tell the truth before 1 August, or else…’
The sheet of paper was small and white, and could have been bought in any bookshop. And the typeface was the most usual kind. I did not believe for a moment that the sender had left any fingerprints on the paper, or that there was anything more to be gained from it.
I stood in the late Marie Morgenstierne’s bedroom with the letter in my hand and pondered whose hands had danced over the keys when the letter was written. Marie Morgenstierne had been sent a warning not many days before she died. The letter was not dated, but the postmark said 20 July 1970.
Rightfully or not, someone had this summer not only accused Marie Morgenstierne of high treason, but had also issued a threat and given her a deadline, which it would appear had not been met.
To me, the letter was at last evidence of a connection between her death and Falko Reinhardt’s disappearance. The problem was that we faced what Patricia had called the curse of public space. In theory, more or less anyone could have written and sent the letter. In practice, I watched the faces of Trond Ibsen, Kristine Larsen, Anders Pettersen, Arno Reinhardt and Astrid Reinhardt flash through my mind in quick succession.
The caretaker was still waiting outside the door in anticipation, but could not be of much help. He had heard about the tenant’s extreme political views from a cousin who was in the union, but had not seen evidence of them himself. She had been an exemplary tenant and, to his knowledge, had observed all the house rules. As far as guests were concerned, the caretaker apologized that it was not always easy for him and his wife to know all the comings and goings, as tenants had their own front door keys and could in practice let anyone in as long as they were quiet. Falko Reinhardt’s face was familiar to him from the newspapers, and both the caretaker and his wife had seen him there several times before he disappeared. The only other guest they had seen in the past couple of years was a long-legged, young blonde woman whom he might say was rather attractive. I nodded and noted that, reasonably enough, Kristine Larsen had been here.
