Arild Bratberg had obviously not been a systematic man or writer. He had left behind a substantial collection of books, but only a small pile of handwritten papers. The writing was simple, with a mixture of small and capital letters. I found seven postcards with Christmas greetings on them, all addressed to Gaustad, all written by either his mother or Maja Karstensen. There were also four pages, torn out from magazines, of crosswords that had been abandoned halfway. The pile also contained three reminders for electricity bills, the last of which was very pointed. Then I found two rough drafts of a will that did indeed leave ‘my flat and contents, 325 kroner in my post office savings account and the two ten-kroner notes under the coffee tin, and anything else of value that I might own, to my precious neighbour, Maja Karstensen’.
At the bottom of the pile lay a small, plain sheet of paper with nothing on it but a name and a date. It left me transfixed, however, for a couple of minutes.
Then I put down the rest of the papers in the pile and took the single sheet of paper with me. I went back to Mrs Maja Karstensen and asked if she recognized the name on the piece of paper.
She thought about it long and hard and, in the end, said that she could not recall ever having met the man, but that Arild had mentioned his name. Could it perhaps be someone who worked at the Schelderup office during the war? I nodded, thanked her for her help and rushed away.
I was very impatient to get an explanation as to why there was a piece of paper with only ‘Hans Herlofsen, 12 February 1969’ written on it in the late Arild Bratberg’s flat. But I would have to wait for a few more hours to find out. It was already half past two, and I had agreed to meet a woman at three o’clock who had been waiting twenty-eight years for my visit.
At first glance, Mona Varden looked younger than I had expected. She was fifty-two, but in a photograph could easily have been mistaken for a woman in her forties, with her black hair and pale skin. There was, however, something about her face and movements that was heavy and serious, which aged her when you met her in the flesh. She gave a small smile when she saw me. I got the impression that she had not laughed for years – perhaps not since the end of the war. Her hand was heavy and firm, and rested in mine for a few moments.
‘Thank you so much for coming. I am so grateful that a young policeman such as yourself wants to make amends for the neglect of your seniors, even though I do realize that it is the more recent murders that have sparked this interest in my husband’s death.’
