The Human Flies

I

On 11 April, Maundy Thursday, I enjoyed a good breakfast in peace, but the moment I got into work at nine o’clock, the drama started. At five past nine, the phone on my desk started to ring. At the other end, I heard the loud and determined voice of Supreme Court Justice Jesper Christopher Haraldsen, but to my enormous relief, he sounded unusually friendly.

‘Good morning, Detective Inspector. I thought I would just call to wish you a good Easter and to congratulate you on the swift conclusion of such an apparently complex murder case!’

I thanked him – and with a rising pulse waited for him to continue. I suspected that this was not the only reason that Jesper Christopher Haraldsen had interrupted his Easter holiday to phone me. And this promptly proved to be the case.

‘I, of course, also wanted to make sure that the case really has been solved, and to say that I am still available should you need any further advice. But when a convicted Nazi commits suicide and leaves behind a written confession in the very building where a Resistance hero has been found murdered, there is perhaps not much need for any further advice?’

Not only was my pulse evident now, but also my sweat. Following a lightning review of the situation, I decided to humour him a bit, but at the same time be diplomatic.

‘There is certainly no other suspect at the moment, but a number of very peculiar circumstances have come to light, and as a result of that, the investigation has not yet been closed.’

There was silence at the other end for a moment. Followed by the inevitable question – in a slightly sterner voice.

‘Well, I must say that sounds quite alarming, my young man. What sort of peculiar circumstances would merit a review of such compelling evidence? I do hope that this is in no way connected to the unfortunate coincidence that a representative of the American Embassy rents a flat in the same building?’

I sidestepped the question.

‘I hope that you, as a supreme court justice, will understand that I cannot go into details regarding the investigation at this point. But please rest assured that the option that the deceased Nazi was the murderer and therefore committed suicide is being thoroughly assessed. However, other crucial information has now come to light that means we must still keep all options open over the weekend, at least.’

Again there was a silence at the other end for a few seconds. Then he let me have it, in a voice that assailed my ear like a machine gun.

‘Well, then I certainly hope that there is at least another murder over Easter, or you may find that there is a new head of investigation after Easter.’

He slammed down the phone without giving me a chance to comment. I sat there paralysed for a moment. Then I rushed over to my boss’s office with unusual speed. Fortunately, he was in his office, and when I asked if it was possible to speak to him immediately, he was more than happy to do so. I jumped when the phone rang while we were sitting there and nodded in appreciation when he commented that he would not take any calls until we were finished.

I gave him a detailed account of the investigation and why I had chosen to continue it. He agreed with me and praised my discerning conclusions and my work so far. My boss told me he was relieved to hear me say that it was not likely that the American was involved in the murder, but fully supported my wish for him to remain in Norway until the case had been solved. We also agreed that for the moment it was probably best if the public and the rest of the force thought that the case had been closed following Konrad Jensen’s death, but that the investigation should continue to look for other potential murderers.

II

However, despite the support of my superior, it was hard to prevent the voice of Jesper Christopher Haraldsen from buzzing in my head for the next hour. At around half past eleven, I decided to phone Darrell Williams to try to establish whether or not he knew Haraldsen. The caretaker’s wife promptly answered the phone. I asked if all was well with her and she said that things could not be better. The money was due to be deposited in her account just after Easter. In the meantime, she was celebrating by planning how she was going to surprise her children and grandchildren with gifts.

The caretaker’s wife transferred me to Darrell Williams, but the phone just rang and rang. This made me feel uneasy. I called back the caretaker’s wife and asked her to go and ring on Darrell Williams’s doorbell. She did this and came back to say that there was no sign of life from inside the flat. Which was very odd, she said with audible anxiety in her voice. She had not seen the American leave the building, so if he was out, he must have left very early, or in the few minutes when she had not been at her post.

I said that I would ring again in half an hour and asked her in the meantime to go out and check whether there were any lights on in Darrell Williams’s flat. A nerve-tingling thirty minutes followed. When I rang back at twelve, the caretaker’s wife did not sound so happy anymore. She had now been out to have a look and the lights were on, but there was still no sign of life from Darrell Williams’s flat.

There was silence on the line for a moment. We both remembered only too well our discovery in Konrad Jensen’s flat two days earlier. The lights were the deciding factor. I asked her to be ready with the keys and immediately went down to the car to drive over there.

A quarter of an hour later, I was once again standing with a nervous caretaker’s wife outside a locked door. Once again I was armed with my service revolver. And once again there was not a sound to be heard from inside, even though I rang the bell and knocked on the door several times. At twenty-five past twelve, I asked the caretaker’s wife to open the door and crossed the threshold with trepidation, my gun ready in my hand.

The lights were on in all the rooms. There was no apparent difference from the day before. The furniture was all in the same place, the books and papers were untouched, and there was some washing-up left from his last meal in the kitchen, but his fur coat was no longer on the coat stand by the door. And most importantly, Darrell Williams himself was nowhere to be seen, not in the hall, not in the bathroom, not in the bedroom or the kitchen. I left the living room until last and half expected to find Darrell Williams collapsed in a chair – just as I had found Konrad Jensen two days earlier on the floor below. But fortunately, all the chairs were empty. Between the bottles on the table lay a short letter with a brief attempt at an explanation.

Honourable Detective Inspector Kristiansen,

I apologize sincerely that I am duty-bound to follow a new order from my employer and to leave Norway immediately without being able to inform you in advance. I would like to reiterate my assurance that I have no knowledge of the circumstances surrounding Harald Olesen’s death, and leave the country confident that you will find his murderer without my cooperation within the next few days.

With my deepest respect,

Darrell Williams

I read the letter four times. The first two times with increasing disbelief, the last two with increasing anger. I went out to reassure the caretaker’s wife that there had not been another death, but that Darrell Williams had had to go away at short notice. Then I went back down to the car and drove faster than the speed limit and traffic permitted to the American Embassy.

III

My anger at Darrell Williams’s disappearing act survived the journey remarkably well, just as it did my meeting with the building’s facade and the American Embassy staff. I informed the receptionist briefly, and possibly a touch too curtly, that I was Detective Inspector Kristiansen and was investigating the murder of Harald Olesen and that I would wait here until Embassy Counsellor George Adams had the time to meet me. It was a bold strategy. Behind my bravado, my heart pounded for the endless, long-drawn minutes that followed until someone came to tell me that ‘Mr Adams’ was in his office and would be happy to see me immediately.

The desk was just as big, the handshake just as firm, the face just as void of expression and the voice just as drawling as on my last visit.

‘What a pleasure to see you again, Detective Inspector. Congratulations on your breakthrough in the investigation, which was reported in the papers yesterday. Now, how can we help you today?’

I studied him, without seeing any cracks in his diplomatic armour.

‘Well, to begin with, you can explain to me why Darrell Williams has disappeared and then tell me where and why he has gone.’

George Adams rubbed his hands.

‘“Disappeared” is perhaps the wrong word. I can confirm that Darrell Williams has left the country, and we of course know where he is. There is no drama attached to the situation. As Mauritius has become an independent state, the USA has established an embassy there and Mr Williams was asked to assume the position of ambassador.’

I nodded grimly; it was about as audacious as I had expected.

‘In which case, why did the embassy not find it necessary to inform me or the police of this?’

George Adams rubbed his hands even harder and looked even more smug.

‘We of course apologize if such notification should have been given, but we saw no grounds to disturb such an important person as yourself in a situation where we had every reason to believe that the murder case had been solved in the best possible way, without Mr Williams being involved at all. Furthermore, we had no reason to believe that you would appreciate being informed at midnight on Maundy Thursday.’

I quickly realized that any display of anger or irritation was pointless and decided to play the diplomat myself. This time, I fortunately had a far better card up my sleeve than before.

‘I am afraid there appears to have been a regrettable breakdown in communication. I informed Darrell Williams late last night of a dramatic development in the murder investigation that made it necessary for all the residents of 25 Krebs’ Street who were there on the night of the murder to remain in town until after the Easter weekend.’

George Adams gave an apologetic shrug and smiled blithely.

‘I am very sorry to hear that. As you say, there appears to have been a regrettable breakdown in communication. Might I add that there is a simple explanation as to why Mr Williams did not mention this at the time. He was called to Mauritius by telephone at two o’clock this morning and left Norway on a six-o’clock flight. Obviously, the opportunity to become an ambassador was so unexpected and attractive that he immediately forgot everything else.’

I gave an even more exaggerated shrug and smiled even more blithely.

‘These things happen, and obviously no one is to blame, but the misunderstanding is indeed very unfortunate as it may trigger unwarranted anti-American reactions from politicians and the press in Norway. That was what I had hoped to avoid by telling Mr Williams yesterday.’

It felt for the first time like I had hit a weak point in George Adams’s armour. He kept his friendly smile, but his movements were more tense.

‘The embassy would naturally do whatever necessary to avoid such a development. Would you be able to explain what the problem is?’

‘With pleasure. I have no reason to believe that Darrell Williams is in any way involved with the murder, but a situation may arise over the weekend in which the press once again turns a critical eye on the investigation and I may be obliged to ask some important questions of all the witnesses. If Mr Williams is no longer here, it would of course give rise to suspicion and possible speculation. The press would then ask if I had informed Williams that he was not allowed to leave the country and as a guardian of the law, I would have to tell the truth. And that in turn could easily lead to unfortunate rumours and more speculation.’

George Adams gave a sharp nod to indicate that he understood the problem and then leaned forward over the desk. It was clear that he was wracking his brains to find a solution. I still had an ace of spades up my sleeve and saw no reason to save it, given the way things had gone.

‘However, the misunderstanding is all the more regrettable as I have, in the course of the investigation, got wind of information that could indicate a degree of cooperation between Harald Olesen and American intelligence agencies in the past, which may also have involved certain leading politicians in both Norway and the USA. There may be details of activities in Norway and lists of who was involved. As far as I can tell, this is of little significance to the murder investigation, and I had hoped that it would be possible to exclude it from my reports. But should the press decide to take a more critical look at the case, this may be difficult. And that would be extremely unfortunate, given the upcoming election in the USA and the already excessive anti-American feeling abroad in Norway…’

I had obviously hit the jackpot. George Adams’s head immediately dropped noticeably, and his gaze was almost fearful. It was impossible not to be impressed at how well he continued to express himself even though the tension in his voice was now obvious.

‘The embassy would like to thank you for informing us immediately, and we will of course do our best to avoid a situation in which sensitive personal information falls into the wrong hands and creates any extreme reactions. Could you please advise us on how best to avoid such a situation?’

I nodded with exaggerated willingness.

‘Well, let us hope first of all that Mr Williams has not yet boarded the flight to Mauritius and that it will be possible to get him a return ticket to Oslo as soon as possible. If he was back in his flat in Oslo by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, for example, we should be able to control the situation. Otherwise, the situation could become very dramatic and uncomfortable should it be necessary to issue a warrant through Interpol. It is only reasonable to assume that enemies of the USA here in this country and elsewhere would soon notice such a warrant for an American diplomat. In which case, the situation could quickly spiral out of control in both political circles and the press. In the worst-case scenario, a list of Harald Olesen’s contacts in Norway and America and information about what they have done may get out.’

George Adams immediately nodded three times, his head sinking with every nod. By the third, his chin almost hit the desk.

‘Then I won’t take up any more of your time and will myself immediately review the situation and investigate ways in which to get Darrell Williams back to Oslo as soon as possible in order to avoid any further complications. On behalf of the American Embassy, I would once again like to thank you for your goodwill, and I will inform you immediately when we have an overview of the situation.’

This time the embassy counsellor’s hand was definitely sweaty. I managed to keep a straight face until I had left the building and was back in my car driving away – but no longer.

A new howl of laughter was triggered that afternoon in my office when a secretary came in at half past two with an urgent telegram from the American Embassy. The message was short:

DARRELL WILLIAMS LANDING AT FORNEBU TOMORROW 2.30PM AND WILL IMMEDIATELY BE DRIVEN TO HIS FLAT STOP THANK YOU FOR COOPERATION AND AGAIN APOLOGIES FOR MISUNDERSTANDING STOP GEORGE ADAMS

My irritation at Williams’s disappearance had definitely now turned into joy at the way the case was progressing. I was filled with childish delight and pride at the fact that I had forced the mighty American Embassy to retreat. Just then, my secretary came in with another urgent telegram. I asked, not without trepidation, if it was also from the embassy, but was told that it was from the Swedish Police. I ripped open the telegram immediately. It was longer than the one from the American Embassy, and even more dramatic:

SARA SUNDQVIST TAKEN IN CHARGE AT A SMALL POLICE STATION IN SÄLEN FEBRUARY 1944 STOP CHIEF OF POLICE HANS ANDERSSON STILL IN SERVICE AND REMEMBERS MANY DETAILS STOP HAS MET HARALD OLESEN AND DEERFOOT BUT DOES NOT KNOW HIS NAME STOP ANDERSSON ASKS YOU TO COME TO SÄLEN IN PERSON AS SOON AS POSSIBLE STOP SWEDISH POLICE STOCKHOLM

I looked at my watch and saw that as it took four to five hours to get to Sälen, it was too late to drive there and back today. So I hastily wrote a return telegram in which I confirmed that I would get to Sälen around lunchtime tomorrow. And then I phoned Patricia to hear if she had any good advice to help me on my way.

IV

My afternoon meeting at the White House lasted no longer than an hour – even though it included an excellent three-course meal of onion soup, salmon and rice cream. It felt a little as though we were celebrating the imminent closure of the case. However, the atmosphere was far from riotous. Patricia laughed, as I had hoped, at the story of my new and far more productive meeting with the embassy counsellor, but soon became deadly serious again.

‘Well, let us hope that your intuition is right and that Darrell Williams is not the murderer. Otherwise it may in fact be difficult to avoid a public scandal.’

A piece of potato got stuck in my throat.

‘I think it is safe to say that he is not. I did seriously start to wonder if Darrell Williams was the murderer when he was given help by the embassy to leave the country. But in that case, they would hardly have agreed on the spot to have him sent back…’

Patricia chewed her salmon thoughtfully.

‘This is a slightly risky situation. Darrell Williams is a truly cold-hearted player if he did commit the murders and comes back all the same, and there is already much to indicate that he is a cool player. What has happened is that the embassy now trusts you, and you trust the embassy. Your successful tactic today more or less knocks one of the remaining theories on the head, namely that Harald Olesen was murdered by Darrell Williams because of the old information and things that had to be kept secret. Which in turn reinforces the impression given in the diary that the situation had already been resolved and the papers burned before Harald Olesen was murdered. But the embassy must have totally misjudged the situation and believed that if Darrell Williams disappeared from the scene, the negative focus would not be as great. Or they knew about his old conflicts with Harald Olesen and were afraid that he may have actually murdered him. Which cannot be entirely ruled out, can it?’

For a moment I lost my appetite and pushed the rest of the delicious salmon to one side. We could unfortunately not rule this out, and it would be a very embarrassing scenario, especially given my performance at the American Embassy today. I comforted myself with the thought that if Darrell Williams should prove to be the murderer, the situation would be more embarrassing for the embassy. Practically everything I had said or done in the course of the investigation could be justified in relation to the general public and my superiors. However, the idea of being accused of hoodwinking the embassy of Norway’s most powerful ally in connection with a murder case was not an attractive one, it had to be said. I hastily replied to Patricia that it seemed highly unlikely and she gave a sombre shake of the head.

‘There are several other theories that would imply other murderers that I, at present, find more plausible. But this one is still not impossible. Hopefully, we will be in a better position to judge this tomorrow evening – if you are able, in the meantime, to establish whether Deerfoot is Williams or not.’

Patricia pushed her plate out of the way and leaned over the table towards me.

‘Above all else, there are two things you must try to establish in Sweden, both of which may be decisive. First, note down all the known details regarding Sara Sundqvist and what may have happened to her parents. And second, everything you can find out about Deerfoot, which may help us to discover his identity. Now that we finally have confirmation of his existence and had found someone who has actually met him, it will be interesting to see where it leads.’

We raised our glasses to that and ate our rice cream in comfortable silence. Before I left, Patricia asked me to phone her from Sälen if she could be of any help and to come here as soon as I returned to Oslo. I promised to do so with a light heart. I did not like to say so, but thinking about where the investigation might have been today without Patricia’s vision was a terrifying thought. If I would ever have managed to work out how the murder was committed was an open question. A creeping minor worry was the extent to which Patricia might want her role to be highlighted, but thus far she had said nothing to indicate a desire for public recognition.

What had dominated until now was the increasing desire to find the murderer. I recaptured some of the excitement from my first hare hunt when I was a youth and felt an ever more obsessive drive to lock the handcuffs round the wrists of this mysterious person who had taken the lives of both Harald Olesen and Konrad Jensen without being noticed. Because Konrad Jensen had also been murdered, I no longer doubted that for a minute. In fact, it was almost shameful to think that I had resisted accepting Patricia’s reasoning for so long.

Before leaving, I said to her that I would do a final check of the building before driving to Sälen. She nodded her approval. It was perfectly reasonable to ask the residents to keep themselves available for questioning from Friday afternoon over the weekend. However, she strongly advised me not to tell them where I was going in the meantime. Any references to Sweden or Sälen might alarm one or more of the residents. We parted in high spirits, full of optimistic expectations for what tomorrow would bring.

V

The evening round at 25 Krebs’ Street was without drama. The building seemed to be poised in the calm before the storm, and now that there was life in only four of the seven flats, it did not take long. It was raining heavily outside, and the prevailing atmosphere was grey and heavy.

The caretaker’s wife was in her flat in the basement, and nodded with relief when she heard the news that Darrell Williams was on his way back, and promised to make a note of when he arrived. Otherwise, she largely answered yes to all my questions. Everything was tranquil in the building now.

Andreas Gullestad opened his door almost as soon as I rang the bell, with his usual smile and offer of coffee and cake. He said that he had registered, with some anxiety, my visit earlier on in the day and that the lights in Darrell Williams’s flat had not come on later in the evening. He thanked me when I told him that Williams would be back the next day and assured me that he would be here and waiting for the final interviews over the course of the weekend. ‘I seldom go anywhere at the weekend, anyway,’ he commented, with his jovial smile and a chuckle. This sounded very familiar, but it took a couple of minutes before I realized that Patricia had made exactly the same point a few days earlier.

Mr and Mrs Lund came to the door together when I rang the bell, and proclaimed more or less in chorus that they had nothing more to say. Both appeared to be relieved when I told them that it looked as if the investigation would soon be over, and they promised to be available over the weekend. They informed me that they no longer dared to have their young son at home in the building and had therefore sent him to his grandparents in Bærum for Easter. Kristian Lund was in relatively good humour, having found a lawyer who thought that he had a strong case in terms of the will. His wife nodded in agreement, but added that the most important thing was that they still had each other and their little boy. Kristian Lund then said in a loud, clear voice that he deeply regretted having betrayed his wife and that he would never see Sara Sundqvist again. His wife put an affectionate arm round his waist and kissed him on the cheek. They seemed to be happy, and I really wanted to believe them. Yet I could not, completely. They had lied too much and failed to tell too much early on in the investigation.

I saved my visit to Sara Sundqvist until last. She opened the door a crack, with the safety chain still on. But when she heard my voice, she opened up and embraced me warmly. Sara was visibly tense. Her hands were shaking, and her heart was beating quickly: I could feel it through the thin material of her dress. She promised to stay at home all weekend, and had nothing new to tell me. Again, I really wanted to believe her, but no longer dared to take anything for granted in her case either.

There was a dramatic end to my visit, though, when Sara Sundqvist suddenly grabbed me by the arm and pointed out of the window.

‘Do you see that person in a dark trench coat down there on the pavement?’ she asked.

I started and looked to where she was pointing, and true enough, in the shadow of the neighbouring building stood a figure in a raincoat with a hood. Even though the light was dim, the coat was undeniably blue. It was either a man or a tall woman, but it was difficult to tell through the dark and rain.

Sara Sundqvist was either frightfully nervous or extremely good at pretending. It was apparently a great relief to her that I could also see the mysterious street guest in a raincoat.

‘Thank goodness it is not just my imagination running wild. Maybe it is merely a coincidence. It does seem rather strange that… that person has been standing there for several hours this afternoon. It wasn’t wrong of me to mention it to you, was it?’

I gave a reassuring shake of the head. It was definitely worth checking out. It may simply be someone from the neighbouring building who happened to be waiting there, or a journalist, or an overzealous newspaper reader. But it was undoubtedly odd that the person had been standing there for several hours – and, above all, was wearing a blue raincoat.

The person in the raincoat was standing still by his or her post when I took a final look out of the window with Sara. But when I then swung out onto the street following a hasty goodbye, the entrance to the neighbouring building was suddenly empty. I glanced briefly either way and caught sight of a figure in a raincoat and hood heading briskly towards the nearest bus-stop. I thought to myself that it was either a woman or a very light-footed man. Egged on by the thought that I may have caught sight of Deerfoot, I gave chase. The person in front of me noticed and picked up pace into a sprint. Just then, the bus pulled into the stop. The person in the raincoat ran for the bus and I ran after the person in the raincoat. As I closed in, I became certain that it was a woman running in front of me. A couple of moments later, the pursuit ended in confusion when she ran into the bus and I ran into her.

The bus drove on without the woman in the blue raincoat. A moment before she pushed down the hood, apologizing profusely, I recognized her. The long, fair locks of Cecilia Olesen tumbled into view.

She apologized for running away, and then for standing outside 25 Krebs’ Street, but it was nothing to do with anything criminal, she assured me. The reading of the will and then our conversation yesterday had rekindled old feelings and memories. She could find no peace at home, so she had asked a friend to babysit for the evening. And had stood here alone on the pavement, despite the rain, and stared at the building in the hope of catching a glimpse of Darrell Williams. She became more and more anxious as the hours passed and the flat remained in darkness. Then she panicked when I came out and started to follow her. Because it was dark, she had only recognized me when we collided at the bus – she said. She assured me that she had not been inside the building, neither today nor previously this year, either with or without a blue raincoat, which she maintained she had had for many years.

I told her not to come again tomorrow and promised that I would ask Darrell Williams to contact her later if he was innocent. She gave me a spontaneous hug and waved to me with gratitude when she got on the next bus a couple of minutes later. My hair was dripping when I walked back to my car and drove home. I had a long drive and a very interesting conversation in store for the ninth day of the investigation. In anticipation of my expedition to Sweden, pictures of all the surviving residents were still on the cards, as well as a joker card for the ever-evasive Deerfoot.