The Last Pilgrim by Gard Sveen

dead. There were only two reasons to have missing persons declared dead: to achieve a sense of peace so the survivors could get on with their lives, or to get hold of their money.
    Yet someone had reported them missing in the first place. That was a start. It was most likely this Gustav who had reported the woman with the ring missing. The problem was how to track down this illustrious Gustav’s last name without having to phone every person in Norway named either Gerner or Caspersen.
    He got up from his chair and patted all his coat pockets. No tobacco pouch. He swore softly, unable to recall where he had left it. On the roof terrace, he thought. He’d put the pouch down on one of the tables up there.
    Just as he took hold of the door handle, the phone on his desk rang. He hesitated a moment and then went back to check the display. It was someone from the archive calling him back. He ignored it and opened his web browser instead. It might be worth a try—certainly better than loafing on the roof terrace. He typed “Agnes Gerner” in the search field. Then he quickly shut his eyes, as if hoping for a miracle when he opened them again.
    Nothing. Not a single hit.
    Then he typed in “Johanne Caspersen.”
    Nothing. Next he tried Gustav with the last names of the two women.
    Finally “Cecilia Lande.”
    “Did you mean Cecilie Lande?” the search engine responded.
    “No,” said Bergmann out loud. “I did not mean Cecili e Lande.”
    Once again the phone rang. He picked it up as he stared at the text on the screen.
    “I saw you had called?” said the voice on the other end. Bergmann recognized the woman from some summer party he’d attended.
    “Yeah” was all he said.
    “Did you call to ask me something?”
    “I’m working on a case from 1942,” he said, keeping his voice neutral.
    She gave a short laugh. “Tommy . . .”
    He didn’t reply.
    “What sort of case?” she asked.
    “The three bodies that were found in Nordmarka.”
    “The National Archives,” she said.
    “The National Archives?”
    “Yeah, the Oslo archive has merged with the National Archives at Sognsvann.”
    “Damn!” he exclaimed. “Of course, of course.”
    “Excuse me?” she said, but he put the receiver gently back in the cradle.
    Of course, he thought. Why didn’t I think of that? Cecilia Lande. He hadn’t yet tried her last name with Gustav. It was worth a try.
    He typed the name “Gustav Lande” in the Google search field.
    He closed his eyes. He could clearly smell the dug-up dirt from Nordmarka; he could see the child’s hand sticking up between the ribs of the second woman, either Agnes or Johanne.
    He opened his eyes and looked at the screen.
    Four hits. Four little hits. But the name was right.
    “Bingo.”
    So this Gustav had been Gustav Lande, and he was the father of Cecilia Lande. That must be the way it fit together. And he must have been married to one of the two women.
    Bergmann studied the list. Four hits weren’t much, but they were a hell of a lot better than none. As he clicked on the first link, he sat for a while as though petrified.
     
Gustav Lande (1905-1944). Businessman and primary stockholder in Knaben Molybdenum Mines, Inc., and Nasjonal Samling (NS) patron. Committed suicide in July 1944. Known for his close association with the Occupation forces. Source: Torgeir Moberg,
Those Who Played the Enemy’s Game
(1980).

CHAPTER 13
    Thursday, May 31, 1945
    The Stable
    Östermalm Police District
    Stockholm, Sweden
     
    He was already at the door when he changed his mind. What had he just done? Detective Inspector Gösta Persson paused for a few seconds on the threshold, clutching the brim of his hat in his fingers. A hard rain was pouring onto the sidewalk. It made the choice easy.
    I’m not even hungry anymore, Persson thought, turning on his heel and heading inside. He strode down the corridor with determined steps, looking straight ahead without nodding or greeting the people he passed. By the