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Easter Crime: The Bergen Train Was Looted Last Night

Each year, as Easter approaches, most people around the world think of chocolate eggs, family gatherings, amid moments of spiritual reflection.

But in Norway, something far darker creeps in with the snow — murder in the form of the country’s national obsession with crime fiction so intense that it has its own seasonal name: Påskekrim — Easter Crime.

While most cultures associate Easter with rebirth, Norwegians associate it with grisly murders, twisted detectives, and psychological thrillers.

During Easter week, Norway transforms into a true crime lover’s paradise: bookstores brim with new mystery novels, national TV stations roll out murder series marathons, and even milk cartons print short crime stories.

Thousands escape for the holidays to isolated mountain cabins with snow-covered views, a warm drink, and a stack of crime books in hand.

How did it all begin?

On the Sunday before Easter in 1923, a publisher ran an ad for a new crime novel titled “The Bergen Train Was Looted Last Night” (Bergenstoget plyndret i natt), disguised as a front-page newspaper headline.

In a move not unlike Orson Welles’ famous War of the Worlds broadcast years later, many believed it was real. It caused a sensation, and the book sold like crazy as people packed for their easter holiday mountain cabins, and a literary tradition was born.

Ever since, Norwegian publishers have timed their biggest crime releases for Easter, and Norwegians have gladly kept reading.

Just something to think about as you reach for your hot cross buns — even at this time of year, someone out there is curling up for the long weekend with a good murder instead.

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In Loving Memory: The ‘I Do’ That Never Came

by Davros Dark

On the evening of February 23, 1929, Constable Jack Holman had finished his shift. His duty officially ended at 11 p.m., and by all rights, he should have been on his way home—perhaps already picturing the week ahead, when he and his beloved fiancée, Pearl Wilson, were to be married.

But fate had other plans.

At 11:15 p.m., Holman was unexpectedly called back to duty. Alongside two fellow officers, he was dispatched to investigate a reported disturbance on Grenfell Street.

At the scene, they found an abandoned motorcycle. Playing it safe, the officers proceeded to impound the machine and take it to the City Watchhouse. Holman volunteered to ride it in. The motorcycle, however, was temperamental—refusing to start and forcing the men to push it a distance before it finally roared to life.

Those lost minutes would prove fatal.

As Holman rode off into the night, the delay placed him directly in the path of the very disturbance they’d been sent to check—McGrath and his cronies. Shots rang out. One bullet struck Holman in the stomach. Gravely wounded, he still managed to rise and chase his assailant nearly 50 yards before collapsing on the road.

He died within the hour.

Holman had served just two years in the police force. Described as a courteous and capable officer with every promise of advancement, his death sent shockwaves through South Australia. Thousands attended his funeral. Every department of the South Australian Police Force was represented. Yet amid the sea of uniforms the most broken heart belonged to Pearl Wilson.

They were to be married within days.

Pearl’s grief lingered long after the headlines faded. On the first anniversary of Holman’s death, she placed a tender tribute In Memoriam:

“In loving memory of Jack, who passed away February 23rd, 1929.
Loved in life, cherished in death,
A beautiful memory is all we have left.”

By the third anniversary, the tribute had become more formal:

“In memory of Constable Jack, who died on the 24th of February 1929.
You live with us in memories still.
Not just today, but always will.
Inserted by Pearl and Wilson family.”

Gone was the intimacy of “Jack.” Now, he was “Constable Jack.” The message came not just from Pearl, but from “Pearl” AND the “Wilson family.” A subtle shift—yet perhaps a telling one. Had she remarried? Perhaps this was her way of saying one final goodbye? We can only speculate. History leaves no answers for this.

As for McGrath, he was found guilty and sentenced to death. The sentence was commuted to life imprisonment, and he was released after serving just 13 years.

But Jack Holman never got the years he was owed. And Pearl’s life was changed irrevocably. Their story ended just when it was meant to begin.

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To uncover more Adelaide Crime History, consider booking tickets to Adelaide’s True Crime Tour here @ https://darkstories.com.au/adelaide-true-crime-tour/.

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The Beginning of the End of Martha Rendell

by Davros Dark

How an Unexpected Mother–Son Reunion Brought Down a Monster

On a seemingly ordinary day—1st May 1909—Sarah Morris was making her way to her West Perth home after a long day at work.

Suddenly, a young boy approached her. She didn’t recognise his face at first—until he revealed his name: George. He was her 14-year-old son.

Since April 1906, when a separation order had been granted, Sarah had not seen or heard from any of her five children—three girls and two boys. She had been ordered away from the family home. Early attempts to keep in touch only led to the children being beaten by their father, Arthur Morris. Not wanting to bring more harm upon them, she stayed away, believing her absence would spare them further misery.

Now, here stood George—clearly distressed, desperate, and begging for help.

He refused to return to his father’s East Perth home, where Arthur now lived with housekeeper-turned-mistress, Martha Rendell. George was adamant: he would rather sleep on the streets than go back if she would not help him.

What Sarah didn’t know was that three of her children had already died slow, agonising deaths under Martha’s so-called care in the intervening years. George was certain he would be next.

Shocked into action, Sarah went straight to the Perth Police Court and applied for custody of her son. Despite noting her past absence, the magistrate declared it “highly desirable” that the boy not be returned to his father’s custody. He refused to explain his decision in open court, only deepening the mystery.

Rumours quickly began to swirl through the streets of Perth. What was being hidden? What was really happening inside that East Perth home?

The reunion of mother and son proved to be the beginning of the end for Martha Rendell—a woman who would go down in Perth’s history as the very embodiment of the evil stepmother. Behind closed doors, she had slowly and methodically tortured her stepchildren to death under the guise of discipline and care.

Within a few months, the bodies of the deceased children were exhumed. The investigation that followed led to the arrest and trial of Arthur Morris and Martha Rendell. In court, overwhelming witness testimony and damning evidence led to Martha’s conviction and execution.

A desperate boy’s plea, delivered to his long-lost mother on a quiet Perth street, would spark the unravelling of one of Western Australia’s most notorious crimes.

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To uncover more Perth Crime History, please consider booking tickets to Perth’s True Crime Tour here @ https://darkstories.com.au/perth-true-crime-tour/.

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Queensland’s Sliding Doors Moment: Wiretap City

by Davros Dark

In the 1970s, a gripping arm wrestle was unfolding behind closed doors. Would corruption prevail, or could the anti-corruption forces reclaim the heart and soul of Queensland policing?

The fightback took shape in the early 1970s with the formation of the Whitrod-led CIU (Criminal Intelligence Unit). Their weapon of choice: the wiretap.

The years that followed would prove to be an incredible lost opportunity—what we might now call a sliding doors era. For a time, the anti-corruption forces had successfully neutralised key members of the infamous Rat Pack who were running the Vice Squad’s corruption rackets—either forcing them into retirement or banishing them to remote Queensland country outposts where they could do no harm.

Wiretapping had proven to be a valuable weapon. But despite having what seemed like unlosable, ironclad, open-and-shut cases—backed by wiretap evidence—several high-profile prosecutions were lost.

Wiretapping in Vice City Fortitude Valley

By 1976, the relationship between Commissioner Whitrod and Premier Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen had completely broken down. The Premier was increasingly interfering in police affairs, demanding the use of the police force as a bulwark against critics and political opponents. Then came the tipping point: Joh recalled one of the rats from the wilderness of country QLD and appointed him Assistant Police Commissioner—directly under Whitrod.

It was intolerable. Whitrod resigned in protest. The end result? The Premier promoted head rat Terry Lewis one more rung to take on the newly vacated top policing job in the state—appointing Terry Lewis as the new Police Commissioner. Like a pied piper, Lewis played his tune—and the rats returned en masse.

The sliding doors moment wasn’t just missed; it was slammed shut. Political corruption was now entrenched at every level, fusing police, underworld, and cabinet interests to a scale never before achieved. Fortitude Valley became further entrenched as the vice capital of Queensland.

But as history would record, the corruption of this era would eventually come crashing down—almost by accident—a decade later. It wouldn’t fall in a single blow—but once the first domino tipped, the downfall of Vice City was unstoppable.

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To uncover more Brisbane Crime History, please consider booking tickets to Vice City Fortitude Valley’s True Crime Tour here @ https://darkstories.com.au/vice-city-fortitude-valley-true-crime-tour/.