The Human Flies

I

My working day started earlier than usual on Good Friday, 12 April 1968. By ten to eight, I was at the office, where, to my relief, nothing of any note had happened. At eight o’clock on the dot, I got into my car, ready to start my solo expedition to Sweden. I went via 25 Krebs’ Street, where everything still seemed to be calm. But it definitely felt like something was brewing when I left Oslo.

My journey progressed at a steady pace. There was not much traffic, and the roads were clear of snow until I was well up into the mountains. Even though the snow was melting, I drove through a beautiful Norwegian winter landscape on my way up to Trysil. The border control with Sweden was symbolic. A customs officer saluted and waved me through without any further formality as soon as he saw the police car. There were no border guards to be seen on either the Norwegian or the Swedish side. It struck me that the control here would have been much stricter and far more frightening for those who fled occupied Norway in fear of their lives during the war. It was a strange feeling to be looking for tracks in the snow that had long since disappeared in pursuit of a mysterious border guide and two refugees who had vanished some twenty-four years earlier.

Once on the Swedish side, I drove for miles without seeing anyone. Then all of a sudden, the police station appeared, round a bend. It was just after one o’clock. The turnoff was marked with a police sign, and there were two unmistakable Swedish police cars parked outside. The station itself was more like a simple two-storey family house, and lay at the foot of one side of a long valley.

Chief of Police Hans Andersson had coffee and cakes waiting for me in his office. He was more or less as I had imagined: a slightly greying man in his sixties, about half a head shorter than me, but a bit heavier all the same. His back was still straight, his eyes still bright, his handshake firm and his smile friendly. But his voice was gentler than expected, and his first sentence even more unexpected.

‘Welcome. Always nice to get a visit from a fellow countryman!’

He chuckled at my surprise and explained.

‘Once upon a time, it was Hans Andersen from Norway – I started my training there. But then I met a beautiful young girl from these parts one Easter holiday and life turned out the way it did… I trained as a policeman in Gothenburg and have served here ever since.’

He quickly leaned over towards me and lowered his voice when he continued.

‘It has not always been easy. The dissolution of the union was only a couple of decades old and the older generation still harboured a good deal of prejudice against the Norwegians. My father-in-law said very early on that he could accept a Norwegian as his son-in-law, but he could not accept his grandchildren having a Norwegian surname. So Hans Andersen became Hans Andersson.’

He paused and chewed pensively on a bun.

‘Things got better for a while, but then the war broke out and it all got more complicated again. In the first two years of the war, there was considerable sympathy for the Germans, and a firm belief that they would win the war. You know, perhaps, that the Norwegian foreign minister Koht came to Sälen in 1940 only to be told that he was not welcome here and that the king could risk being imprisoned if he came to Sweden.’

I nodded and signalled that he should continue. I realized that this was going to be a long and interesting conversation.

‘Fortunately, the mood soon changed in 1942 to 1943. News of the executions and arrests in Norway drew more attention and it became increasingly obvious that the Germans were on the defensive. The orders from Stockholm came through that refugees coming from Norway should be welcomed and well looked after. We adopted a very pragmatic approach to the situation. The refugees were first registered properly here in the office on the ground floor. Then they were taken up to the living room in my flat upstairs to celebrate with coffee and food. More than once we put them up overnight in one of the guest rooms. There were many great moments, as I am sure you can imagine. I saw some of the happiest people I have ever seen in my life outside this building during the war.’

‘Do you remember when it was that you met Harald Olesen for the first time?’

He nodded and smiled happily.

‘I remember the date very well, because it was the day before Christmas Eve 1942. They had walked through the night and came down the side of the valley shortly after breakfast. We had just started decorating the Christmas tree when they came. I found out what his real name was much later. During the war, he was called Hawkeye here on the Swedish side. The name is from a Red Indian book and is very fitting. Harald Olesen’s profile resembled a hawk, and he had better eyesight than most. He was nearly fifty by then, but looked much younger. I have thought about it later – the code names were perhaps rather risky, even though we seldom used them. The name Hawkeye was well suited to Harald Olesen, and Deerfoot fitted his partner remarkably well. I once mentioned it to Harald Olesen, but he just laughed and said that no one would suspect Deerfoot of anything, and that in fact the name Catpaw would have been even better. Which was true. Deerfoot was in many ways a remarkable young man. He was incredibly light on his feet. In both summer and winter, Deerfoot seemed to float, and we often joked that he did not leave any tracks, not even in newly fallen snow. Never before or since have I seen a person dance so lightly over the snow as Deerfoot. It was always as if he was tightly sprung, ready to pounce. Like a featherweight boxer, if you see what I mean.’

I had seen some boxing matches and knew exactly what he meant. I had also understood quite quickly that Hans Andersson was not a fast storyteller and had a penchant for melodrama.

‘Very interesting. And was Deerfoot there the first time that you met Harald Olesen?’

He nodded eagerly.

‘Yes, both then and every time after. It was an interesting story. Harald Olesen always struck me as being a very intelligent and capable man. I was not at all surprised when he became a government minister after the war. But as a member of the Resistance, he had one real weakness, which he controlled because he was well aware of it. He told me on the third or fourth time that he was here, and I certainly had never noticed it. Harald Olesen had almost no sense of direction. If he had gone out into the mountains alone with the refugees, they may never have found their way anywhere. He would often call Deerfoot his map and compass. As I understood it, Deerfoot knew the mountains well from before the war, and also had a keen sense of direction.’

He paused and politely waited for me to finish writing my notes. I waved him on impatiently.

‘There were many refugees who benefited from Deerfoot’s infallible sense of direction, and who were openly grateful. We raised the flag here every day as a discreet signal to any refugees who might cross the border. There was great excitement here many a time when the people making their way down the side of the valley saw the flag and realized that they had finally arrived safely in Sweden. I remember the first time especially well, because one of the refugees they had with them was so young. He was only sixteen at the time, in 1942. He told me himself when he came back ten years later with his wife and child to thank us and give us presents.’

I nodded in recognition. It was a touching story, but I had heard it before. It was clearly the same refugee who had been hidden by the caretaker and his wife, in the basement of the building in Oslo where Harald Olesen was later shot. It now felt like we were getting very warm and Deerfoot would soon be in sight.

‘This is all very interesting, but I would like some more details about this Deerfoot. As far as I have understood, you never knew his real name. But what else can you tell me about him? His age, where he came from and suchlike. And did he have an American accent by any chance?’

Hans Andersson shook his head apologetically.

‘Deerfoot spoke Norwegian without an accent, and as far as I can remember, without any distinct dialect either. He could have come from anywhere in eastern Norway. He was cagey and said very little about himself. But I have actually found an old photograph of him!’

I watched dumbfounded as he got up and went over to the desk and pulled an old black-and-white photograph from a drawer with something akin to awe.

‘I don’t remember taking the photograph, but we must have done at the time. I was given it by the young refugee when he came back years later, and I dug it out again after your telegram came. So it must be from 23 December 1942. The young refugee is on the right and Deerfoot on the left.’

He slid the photograph that held the secret across the table, face down.

‘You will perhaps understand what Harald Olesen meant when he said that no one would suspect Deerfoot of anything – and why I said that he was a remarkable young man,’ he commented, with a mischievous smile.

I flipped the photograph over in a flash and immediately understood what he meant.

The theory that Darrell Williams was Deerfoot could be shelved.

The refugee was an extremely happy, smiling dark-haired youth of sixteen in the yellowing picture from 23 December 1942. He was clearly not yet fully grown, but was still the taller of the two youths in the picture.

There was a flash from a silver pendant round Deerfoot’s neck, but no trace of a smile on his face. The youth who stared at the camera from underneath a dark fringe was very focused and serious. In December 1942, Deerfoot had been a lean and dark young lad, with not even a hint of facial hair. I would estimate his age to be thirteen at the least and fifteen at the most.

Hans Andersson smiled momentarily at my surprise and carried on speaking before I could ask a question.

‘I don’t know what Deerfoot was called, or where he came from, or how old he was. The first time I asked about his age, he just laughed it off and joked that he was ten and big for his age. I never got a proper answer later either. He grew a little in the year that I knew him, but I cannot imagine that he was any older than sixteen the last time I saw him, in winter 1944.’

He came over to me and pointed at the photograph.

‘I never saw him without that pendant. It seemed to be a kind of talisman that he always wore. You can see how serious and grown-up his face is in the photograph. That was the one we saw most. He was very deeply affected by growing up in the war, but he also had a younger, jocular face that sometimes appeared. He was not an easy person to get hold of.’

I had no trouble in believing that. Deerfoot was certainly not an easy person get hold of, and even less to arrest. His facial features were very vague on the photograph and did not remind me of anyone I had met thus far in the investigation. Which was all the more irritating because I increasingly had the feeling that this serious boy in the photograph from 1942 in some way held the key to solving the murder of Harald Olesen now in 1968. This prompted me to think of an important question.

‘What was your impression of the relationship between the two of them – Harald Olesen and Deerfoot, that is?’

Hans Andersson nodded pensively.

‘Good question – I have often wondered about it. In 1942 and 1943, it seemed to be a good old-fashioned father-son type of relationship. In fact, I even heard Deerfoot talk about Harald Olesen as “father” several times, and Harald Olesen accepted this with a smile. But Deerfoot was clearly not Harald Olesen’s son. Harald Olesen once told me that he sadly had no children of his own, which was confirmed in the papers after his death. I thought that perhaps for that time during the war, Deerfoot was somehow the son he had always wished he had had. So I imagined that Deerfoot was an orphan, especially as he never spoke about his family. But that may of course also have been because he was being careful.’

Despite his young age, it seemed that Deerfoot had also been remarkably good at covering his tracks after the war. Which gave immediate associations to the mysterious murder in 1968.

‘So the last time you saw Deerfoot was here in winter 1944. Was that also when Sara Sundqvist came here?’

He nodded again, but was very sombre all of a sudden.

‘Yes, but to hear that story you need to come outside with me.’

Hans Andersson got up without waiting for an answer, picked up some binoculars that were waiting on the desk and walked ahead of me down the corridor towards the main door. I picked up my notebook and followed him.

II

Hans Andersson and I stood together looking up at the sides of the valley, which were still covered in snow.

‘The valley here is beautiful on good days like today, but the mountains can be hell when the winter storms are blowing,’ he reflected.

I nodded in agreement, in the hope that he would continue. I was becoming increasingly impatient to hear more about the young Deerfoot’s war experiences, and about Sara Sundqvist and the fate of her parents. He noticed this perhaps and picked up the thread.

‘You will hear the story shortly, but the valley and the weather are actually very important factors. As you can see, the pass is extremely steep over there.’

That was certainly no exaggeration. The main path down the side of the valley was as steep as a ski slope and ended in a small cliff that dropped about sixteen feet. Scree could be seen sticking up through the white snow below. Hans Andersson pointed at it with a warning.

‘That is the fastest way down from the mountain, but you take it at your own peril. When the snow is at its thickest, it is possible to jump off the cliff if you know how to land. But even then it is a very risky route. It is said that that is one of the reasons that a police station was built here in the first place, to make sure that no young hotheads decided to give it a try. The first time that Harald Olesen and Deerfoot were here, just before they left, I noticed Deerfoot staring up at the cliff as if enthralled. I was quick to say that he must never try jumping off it, unless he had the devil at his heels and it was a matter of life and death. He nodded soberly and promised me not to.’

Hans Andersson was quiet for a while and then pointed far up the mountainside.

‘People still come down from the mountains from up there. That is where I always spotted the small groups of refugees coming down during the war, with Harald Olesen and Deerfoot at the helm. It was as great a relief every time. When they appeared up there, they were already well into Sweden, so all danger was past. We used to say they walked as quickly as they could in Norway and as slowly as they wanted to in Sweden. The final stretch through the woods up there was simply a victory parade. Deerfoot always walked in front to show the way.’

The path came down where the side of the valley was least steep, down the slope through the woods. Even someone who was exhausted and not used to being on skis would be able to come down there without any danger of accidents. I waited with growing impatience to discover what the local topography had to do with the story. Fortunately, Hans Andersson soon started on his tale.

‘We had established quite a routine with the refugees by the last couple of years of the war. Everything had gone well up until then, so we had perhaps become a bit careless. I had an uncle in Elverum who lived on the refugee route and helped to get everything organized. He would call me when he had seen refugees passing, and in among all the talk of family and farms, he would slip in a message that would tell us who was on their way and how many were in the group. We would then sit up with food and refreshments and wait for them to arrive. These messages were coded, of course, in case the phones were tapped. But it has plagued me in later years that this was maybe how the tragedy started.’

He stood for a moment and stared despondently at the mountainside. Then he continued, but was in no rush.

‘It was early on the evening of 20 February 1944 when my uncle called, with a message that Deerfoot and his father had passed with two large sacks and one small one. This meant that Harald Olesen and Deerfoot had two adult refugees and a child with them. No more than an hour later, my uncle called again and sounded extremely agitated. The message was that a pack of six wolves had just passed outside the window. And so our greatest nightmare became reality. Harald Olesen and Deerfoot were by now in open terrain with the refugees, and a German military patrol was following their tracks.’

Hans Andersson was really slowing down now. Powerful memories were obviously pressing in.

‘And then…’ I prompted.

‘And then the worst winter storm of the year blew up,’ he said, with a heavy heart. ‘I had been up since five in the morning, but still did not get to sleep until four that night. I went out several times with my binoculars, but it was impossible to see anything on the mountain in the dark and whirling snow. The storm was a double-edged sword. The weather would make things very hard for their pursuers, but at the same time, it would be hell on earth to be out there with the German soldiers on your tail – especially with a screaming baby. The wind and cold were dangerous enough at night. When I finally went to bed at four, I was sure that I had seen Harald Olesen and Deerfoot for the last time. My wife woke me at ten in the morning to tell me that the wind had dropped, but that there was still no sign of life on the mountainside. I more or less gave up hope there and then.’

Hans Andersson did not say anything for what seemed like an hour. He stood staring up at the mountainside.

‘I still remember the morning of 21 February 1944 in detail. The wind had dropped completely over the space of a few hours. The sky was blue and the air was clear, but still treacherously cold and dry – the thermometer showed minus twenty-five degrees. So I waited in my office that day with dwindling hope. I have never really believed in God, but around two that afternoon, I experienced what perhaps might be called an epiphany. I suddenly felt very strongly that I had been given a kind of order to go outside to see if there was any sign of movement on the mountainside. It was impossible to remain in the office after that, so I grabbed my binoculars and went out.’

He handed me the binoculars and said firmly: ‘Look up at the top of the mountainside.’

I did as he told me. The weather was clear, but I still saw no sign of any people up there. He nodded.

‘The mountainside was just as deadly still that perishingly cold day in February 1944. Then all of a sudden I saw a slight movement through the binoculars that made me start. It turned out it was just a hare. But it seemed to be frightened, running from something in a way that made me wonder if there was more movement up there. Then a flock of ptarmigan was startled into the air. And suddenly he came sailing down from the mountain and the cold. A solitary man on skis – and he was going hell for leather like he had the devil at his heels!’

‘Harald Olesen?’ I asked. The grim possibility that he and little Sara were the only two who had come out of it alive suddenly struck me.

Hans Andersson shook his head.

‘That is what I thought at first. But I recognized the lightness of foot before I could even see him clearly through the binoculars. It was Deerfoot who came flying down over the seas of snow.’

I held the binoculars close to my eyes and could almost imagine Deerfoot skiing down the side of the valley from the mountain. I waited in breathless anticipation to hear the rest of the story of the time when he actually had.

‘At first, I hoped that I would see Harald Olesen and the other refugees coming up behind him. And then I started to fear that our worst nightmare was upon us and that the German soldiers in their desire to catch the guide had crossed the border and come into Sweden. An old fear was awakened. In the first years of the war, we had discussed what on earth we would do in such a situation and had never found a better answer than that we would immediately ring Stockholm. I remember thinking that they would have to appear soon if they were to keep him within shooting range. But there was no one behind him, neither friend nor foe. Normally the guide came with a small party, but this time Deerfoot was guide to no one. And still he kept pace like I have seen no champion do. I could not comprehend it and started to fear that he had lost his mind. Especially when I realized which path he planned on taking.’

I lowered the binoculars and looked at him, wide-eyed. He gave a sombre nod and pointed to the cliff.

‘My relief at seeing Deerfoot soon gave way to desperation as I watched him speeding towards the cliff. It would be treacherous even to try jumping it at the end of February. The scree was bare at the bottom and then gradually got covered by snow. It was simply madness that Deerfoot, exhausted as he must be after coming over the mountains and with the wrong skis on, would even dare to attempt it. I tried to wave to him to stop, but he was already mustering strength and speed for the jump.’

There was no one to be seen on the mountainside or by the cliff today, and yet, as I listened to the story, I could see it so clearly, Deerfoot sailing over the edge.

‘It was the most terrifying moment of my life, standing here watching him launch himself over the edge of the cliff. At first, it looked as though he was heading straight for the stones. But he had obviously jumped on skis before and leaned forwards over his skis as he cut through the air. The skis just grazed the last big stones. He landed safely on the snow and remained crouching until he lost speed, and then he stood straight up again, pushing himself to get here as fast as he could. I thought he had lost his marbles. But when I was able to see his face clearly in the binoculars, there was no sign of fear or panic, just the manic determination to get down to me as quickly as possible. Once down in the valley, he fair flew along, his arms moving so fast that you could scarcely see them.’

He stopped abruptly and shook his head.

‘It’s still incredible that I did not understand what was going on. Do you?’

I shook my head slowly, without even thinking about it.

‘I still did not understand when he was down here on the fields and only yards from me. Then the world around me stopped when he pulled a lifeless baby, bundled up in a scarf and a woolly sweater, from inside his anorak.’

I looked down at the snow for a moment, and possibly admitted to myself that, like him, I should have realized. Fortunately, he immediately carried on.

‘If there is one dramatic event in my life I will never forget, that is it. Deerfoot slapped the baby on the cheeks twice, without any reaction, but still did not give up hope. “There’s still warmth in her,” he said, in a remarkably calm voice. Then he handed the baby to me and told me to put her in warm water. I was still paralysed and stood there without moving for a few seconds. Deerfoot told me again in a louder voice that I had to get her into hot water immediately. It almost sounded like an order. But it was only when he reached out to take the little girl back that I came to life and ran up the stairs with her.’

Despite the gravity of the situation, a broad grin slipped over Hans Andersson’s face.

‘Fortunately, my wife was bathing our son right then. You can imagine what she must have thought when I came charging in with another baby and threw her into the water, clothes and all. But she quickly understood the situation and tried to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. For several minutes there was no sign of life. Then there was a spasm in one of her tiny hands. And she started to howl.’

‘So little Sara came down from the mountains alive?’ I said.

He nodded solemnly.

‘Little Sara came down from the mountains alive – but only in the nick of time. Five minutes later, it may have been too late, the doctor who examined her said. But I tend to believe my wife, who says that even two minutes later would have been too late.’

‘How did Deerfoot react?’ I asked.

Hans Andersson pointed at the snow just by the wall of the house.

‘He lay there absolutely exhausted, flat on his back on the snow, and was still breathing heavily when I came out again. It was only then that I fully understood how physically gruelling the ski run over the mountains must have been. All the same, he was strangely relaxed and clear in the head. When I asked him whether he had prayed to God, he whispered that he no longer believed in God. And when I then said that the child would survive, he nodded and whispered that it gave the whole tragedy meaning after all. He stayed lying on the snow for some minutes more, but quickly bucked up after a cup of hot coffee. I jokingly said that he must never think of jumping the cliff again. He replied with a cursory smile that he had no intention of doing so. But then he added, gravely, that it had been a matter of life and death, and that the devil had indeed been at his heels. He had felt confident for the first part of the journey, so long as he heard the baby crying and felt her movements. But this was followed by a stage where he only heard the odd whimper, and then he heard nothing. She lay quite still against his stomach and he could feel her getting colder. He had quickly recognized the danger and skied as though possessed to get her to safety as fast as possible.’

Hans Andersson frowned and rolled his eyes.

‘I said, as did my wife and the doctor when he came, that what Deerfoot had done was truly a heroic deed. A new Birkebeiner endurance test was what the doctor called it. I did not know what he meant and had to look it up in a history book to discover the story of how King Sverre’s supporters carried the little Prince Håkon over the mountains in the winter of 1206. But Deerfoot smiled as soon as that was mentioned, and said, as was only too true, that there were several Birkebeiners so they could at least take turns in holding the baby. This, and other small comments that he made, reinforced the impression I had that he came from a well-to-do home and had a good education.’

This seemed like a reasonable assumption. My curiosity about Deerfoot was considerable, but at that moment was overtaken by my curiosity regarding his companion.

‘What about Harald Olesen? What had happened to him? He was obviously still alive.’

Hans Andersson nodded.

‘When Deerfoot recovered again, to my great relief he told me that Harald Olesen had survived and was on his way over the mountains. They had been caught in a very dramatic situation up there. Three of the German soldiers had turned back with the onslaught of the storm, but the three others had continued. After sheltering from the storm overnight in the mountains, there had then been an exchange of fire that had left the three German soldiers and two refugees dead. Harald Olesen had stayed behind to bury them, while Deerfoot had taken the little girl and gone ahead. He hoped that Harald Olesen would be able to find his way here by following his tracks. Which he did, three or four hours later. He had obviously taken it slower and chosen the less risky path through the woods. The story he told was the same as that Deerfoot had told. Once the storm had died down around dawn, they had been caught in an exchange of fire, and whereas he had managed to shoot the three German soldiers, he had not been able to prevent the two refugees being shot. He had laid the five bodies out at the back of a cave and then followed Deerfoot’s tracks. I made a short account of events for the record and contacted Stockholm. As far as I understood, the exchange of fire had been on the Norwegian side of the border, and Stockholm soon lost interest once they established that no Swedish citizens were involved.’

There was another short pause before Hans Andersson carried on.

‘By the evening, the baby was doing well and crawling around on the rug with our little son. It warmed your heart to watch her. But otherwise, the atmosphere was oppressive. Harald Olesen and Deerfoot stayed the night in separate rooms. Both seemed to be troubled. I thought to myself that it was not so strange, given what they had been through. I asked tentatively if they thought it wise to return to Norway after this, but they were both adamant that they would set off again after breakfast the next day. But I was in for another shock before they left.’

I was following his words with intense interest.

‘It was a complete coincidence that I witnessed this. I had opened a window upstairs to throw out my shaving water when I saw Harald Olesen and Deerfoot. They had gone out and were standing by the house wall just over there by the corner. I could not hear what they were saying, but quickly realized that it was an emotionally charged conversation. If you have been a teenager yourself and have had teenage children, you will certainly have experienced a few serious confrontations. But this was still one of the most dramatic conversations I have ever observed. Deerfoot, who otherwise was always so calm, was suddenly beside himself with rage. He pointed a threatening finger right in Harald Olesen’s face, and his other hand was balled into a fist, which he waved around, and he was talking fast and hard like a machine gun. Harald Olesen himself barely said a word. He was leaning against the wall, his face drained of colour, and was shaking so much that I was afraid he would faint at any minute. It was quite an unbelievable sight. I had never seen either of them like this before. When I bid them farewell half an hour later, everything was as normal. Deerfoot had his mischievous smile again and fooled around with the little girl for a while before he left. It almost made me wonder if what I had seen was a strange dream of some sort. But it was not. Once they had left, I came over here to the wall. There were obvious signs that they had been here, and Harald Olesen’s shoes had sunk deep into the snow.’

I nodded. The fact that Deerfoot had got angry and threatened Harald Olesen would seem to fit relatively well with what had happened twenty-four years later.

‘Was that the last you saw of them both?’

Hans Andersson nodded.

‘Yes – that is to say, almost. Neither of them came back here during the war, and I have not seen or heard of Deerfoot since then. But I did meet Harald Olesen again some years after the war. I happened to be visiting my family in Oslo when he was giving a lecture in town. I went up to speak to him afterwards. He recognized me and thanked me for all my help during the war, but was obviously busy and not inclined to chat. Over the years I had often wondered what had happened to Deerfoot, so I tried to ask. But he just mumbled in a quiet voice that it was a sad story. Then he excused himself, as he had to be somewhere else, and made a dash for it.’

We were both silent for a while. It was clear that Harald Olesen did not want to talk about the disastrous trip and his guide, and no doubt he had his reasons. I wracked my brains to think what these might be, and who, now that Harald Olesen was dead, might know more about it and about Deerfoot.

‘The refugee who came with Deerfoot and Harald Olesen in 1942 – do you know where we might find him?’

Hans Andersson gave an apologetic shake of the head.

‘He was the son of an Austrian refugee and was called Helmut Schmidt. He lived in Vienna the last time I heard from him, but I doubt there is much to be gained there. Helmut was not with them that night, and when he came here after the war, he did not know what Deerfoot was really called, or where to find him. Helmut would gladly have travelled to the ends of the earth to give him more than a token of his gratitude, he said. He would never forget that cold and pitch-black night when Deerfoot miraculously guided him safely over the mountains to freedom. They had set off together after he had been dropped by a car on a country road near Elverum. Deerfoot had appeared on his own, out of nowhere, on skis. It was impossible to say where he came from.’

I cursed silently. This Deerfoot really was frustratingly good not only at showing the way, but also at covering his own tracks.

Hans Andersson and I stood without saying anything for some minutes, looking up at the snowy mountainside in silent understanding. We were no doubt both thinking that the strange story of the young Deerfoot’s war efforts was in some way of great significance to the murder of Harald Olesen, but it was not easy to fathom how. Whether Deerfoot was still alive twenty-four years later or not, and where in the world he might be, remained an unsolved mystery. I had at last caught a glimpse of this mysterious figure here in Sälen, only to lose sight of him again. Deerfoot had, light-footed as ever, gone back up the snowy mountainside one freezing-cold day in 1944 and all trace of him stopped there.

Hans Andersson and I exchanged looks. He understood what I was thinking and pointed up to the mountain pass.

‘Deerfoot followed some way behind Harald Olesen when they set off for the mountains again that morning. I stood here with my binoculars and watched him disappear over the pass. I have no idea what happened to him after that, but I still wonder every year when I stand here and see the first signs of spring.’

I promised to let him know if I found out any more about Deerfoot, and then asked what had happened to Sara Sundqvist afterwards.

‘That too is a sad story, though of course it was a wonder that her life had been saved. She was the sweetest little girl and played happily here on the floor with my son for several weeks. My wife and I often talked of adopting her, but that did not happen in the end. From the information that Harald Olesen gave about her parents, it was clear that they not only were refugees, but also Jews. When he heard this, my father-in-law was beside himself. So we gave up the idea of keeping the little girl and sent her to the adoption agency in Gothenburg. Which caused us great pain. For many years we had no idea what had happened to little Sara. But apparently she was taken in by good people, and despite such a difficult start in life, things are going well for her now.’

I suddenly felt the icy claws of suspicion grip my heart and asked perhaps a little too quickly how he could know that, and this time his answer was short and swift.

‘Because she came here and I told her the story too. It must have been a couple of years ago now. It was apparently the first time she had heard her parents’ names and been told how she came to be adopted in Gothenburg. She was naturally very interested in Harald Olesen, and even more so in Deerfoot.’

He realized that something was amiss and shot me a questioning look.

‘I called the head office to check before I told her anything. But they were of the same opinion as me: that she had a right to know what we knew of her story. It was all such a long time ago, and did not involve anything criminal, certainly not here in Sweden.’

I found it hard to disagree, but that did not prevent me from feeling a surge of anger and disquiet. Sara Sundqvist had lied to me again – and this time the discovery did not put her in a good light at all.

I said that he had done the right thing, to help put his mind at rest. Then I asked without further ado if I could borrow his office to make an important phone call to Oslo.

III

As I dialled the number, I imagined Patricia sitting alone waiting by the phone in the White House. As expected, she answered on the second ring, and listened with bated breath to my short version of Hans Andersson’s story. To my slight annoyance, she guessed that the child was inside Deerfoot’s anorak long before he had made it down from the mountain, even though he took considerably less time in my version than in Hans Andersson’s. Nor did the news that Sara Sundqvist had beaten us to it and already been here seem to come as a great surprise.

The line was quiet for a moment when I finished the story. Then Patricia was off again.

‘Congratulations on making such good progress in the investigation. So Deerfoot was a child soldier with severe mood swings during the war, who was probably left scarred by memories and had a deep hatred for Harald Olesen. An undeniably strong starting point. But we still must not take it as given that he is the murderer. I really only have one question for Hans Andersson. Did he ever see what kind of gun Deerfoot and Harald Olesen had with them?’

I should of course have remembered to ask that myself. I put the receiver down on the desk and stuck my head round the door into the side room to ask Hans Andersson the question. Barely a minute later, I was back on the line.

‘No. He always assumed that at least Harald Olesen was armed, and possibly also Deerfoot, but he never saw any guns and never asked about them either. So we do not know whether they were armed or not, and if they were, with what.’

Patricia’s sigh could be heard all the way from Oslo.

‘Of course they were armed. It is extremely unusual to win in a shootout with three German soldiers without having a gun yourself. As Hans Andersson never saw any guns, it would be fair to say that they had handguns of some sort or another. But the million-dollar question is what kind of revolver or pistol they had. If Hans Andersson had known, you might have been able to arrest the murderer this evening. But now there are several real possibilities, even though one seems to be the most likely. There will be overtime for us tonight, but I hope I can encourage you with the prospect of an arrest tomorrow. Come here as soon as you get back to Oslo and I will ask Benedikte to prepare a simple supper. Eight o’clock should be doable?’

I said that I thought so and we put the phone down at the same time. I thanked Hans Andersson for all his help and promised to keep him updated on any developments, then hurried out to the car.

Crossing the border back into Norway was just as unproblematic as it had been going out, but I was still very perplexed. It was clear that Sara Sundqvist would have difficulties explaining herself. She now had a much clearer revenge motive, given that she knew that Harald Olesen had been present when her parents died, though it remained unclear whether he was responsible for this or not. I was buoyed by the fact that Patricia was clearly still working with several alternatives, which included the persistently mysterious Deerfoot as a possible murderer.

That Deerfoot could be the man in the blue raincoat was an obvious possibility. However, it seemed to me that we were still a long way from arresting anyone. Deerfoot’s identity and abode today were still unknown, as it was now absolutely clear that it could not be Darrell Williams. The positive side of this was that I could relax, as the danger of a public scandal and new confrontation with the American Embassy had as good as evaporated.

It was only when I was halfway between Trysil and Elverum that it dawned on me that the discovery of Deerfoot’s age allowed for a possible new protagonist who thus far had remained on the periphery. But the impact of this was so powerful that I and the car almost ended up in a ditch. Despite my eagerness to get back to Oslo, I made an unplanned stop by the side of the road and looked through my papers. I was suddenly unsure of how old Harald Olesen’s nephew, Joachim, was. Was he older or younger than his sister? The tension grew when I saw in the census records that he was eighteen months younger than his sister, and was born in July 1928.

In February 1944, Joachim Olesen would have been fifteen years old. That fitted well, as did the close relationship he appeared to have had with Harald Olesen at the time. The relationship had clearly become more estranged latterly, which seemed reasonable if Harald Olesen had let his nephew down badly in winter 1944. Joachim Olesen could possibly have wanted revenge in relation to both his own and his sister’s experiences. What is more, he also stood to gain from the expected inheritance. And he had demonstrated that he had a quick temper and mood swings at the reading of the will.

I realized that an obvious possibility was that though the ‘D’ in Harald Olesen’s diary stood for ‘Deerfoot’, in reality it was his own nephew who stood behind the code name. The fact that Joachim Olesen had been present as himself in several other situations did not mean that he was not the man in the blue raincoat whom Andreas Gullestad had seen. And it fitted well that the raincoat had been found at 25 Krebs’ Street on the evening of the murder. It would be hard to place any more importance on the fact that his sister had more or less the same type of blue raincoat. But it did strike me as relevant and possible that the siblings might have bought the same type of raincoat, without her being aware of the significance.

However, the not-quite-so-minor practical problem remained as to how Joachim Olesen had managed to get in and out of the building on the evening of the murder without being seen. But as everything else seemed to fit so well, I felt that it was a problem that could be solved, for example if he was in cahoots with the caretaker’s wife or another of the neighbours. As for the murder of Konrad Jensen, I thought it was quite possible that Joachim Olesen had managed to sneak both in and out of the building unnoticed, either first thing in the morning or when the caretaker’s wife was out shopping.

By the time I passed Hamar, I was almost convinced, and as I approached Oslo, I had to stop myself from driving straight to Joachim Olesen to take a statement. But the practical problems remained, which meant that I kept my dinner appointment at the White House.

I made a brief stop at the office, where there were still no important messages waiting. The public seemed to have accepted that the case was closed following Konrad Jensen’s death. I made a quick telephone call to the caretaker’s wife in 25 Krebs’ Street, to make sure that everything was all right. Darrell Williams had come back at five to four in a taxi that sped up to the entrance, and had made a very odd comment to her about just having made it, despite the plane being delayed. Fortunately, I managed to thank the caretaker’s wife and put down the receiver before I released a smug laugh.

IV

I made my dinner appointment with a ten-minute margin and arrived in an optimistic mood. Patricia, on the other hand, seemed to be more pessimistic. She played with the asparagus soup and, in between the first mouthfuls, looked sceptically at the photograph of Deerfoot from 1942. She was not able to get much from it either. The boy in the picture was young, and the image was also blurred. His hair was obviously dark, but the colour of his eyes and skin was not clear. Then she asked me to tell her the story from Sweden again, but more slowly this time and in some more detail. This took us through the rest of the soup and halfway through the roast pork.

It occurred to me that at times it might seem that Patricia had drunk too much cold water in her life. This impression was further bolstered by the fact that she drank six glasses during the course of the meal. At one point, I jokingly commented that Deerfoot, with his cross-country skiing, off-piste, combined and jumping, had covered half the Olympic programme. But this only raised a half-smile from Patricia, who added that the big question now was whether he was also a biathlete or not – and if he was, what, then, had he shot with?

In the middle of the main course, she asked a simple question, which was if I had at any point in the investigation seen a silver pendant similar to the one Deerfoot had round his neck in the photograph. With the proviso that I so far had had no reason to look for such a pendant, I told her that I could not recall having seen anything of the kind. Then I swiftly added that finding such a pendant so many years later might also be a shaky means of identification. She agreed with me, but then made the short and mysterious comment that the pendant may still be extremely important.

I asked Patricia what she thought might have happened on the fateful trip in 1944. She replied that it was difficult to know the details at this point, but that the bigger picture was relatively clear. From what they had been told, three soldiers and Sara Sundqvist’s parents had been killed during an exchange of fire. As was shown by his will, Harald Olesen had been dogged by guilt about this incident, both during and after the war. Following his death, Deerfoot was presumably the only person in the world who knew what had happened. The precise details were not so important at this point.

‘But I can more or less promise that Deerfoot will tell you all the details when we find him,’ Patricia added, with a glum and very serious expression on her face.

I noted straightaway that she had said ‘when’ and asked if that meant that she was sure that Deerfoot had survived the war and was still alive. She nodded firmly.

‘Despite his young age, Deerfoot appears to have been an unusually vigorous young man, even in 1944. To my knowledge, there is only one reason why a guide would choose to follow up at the rear, and that is when he fears being shot in the back. When Deerfoot agreed to go back with Harald Olesen, he took precautions. It would seem that any trust between them had been destroyed. I am now convinced first of all that the “D” in Harald Olesen’s diary really does stand for “Deerfoot”, and second, it is he who has been running around in the infamous blue raincoat these past couple of years. I also have little doubt as to his identity and address.’

I nodded in agreement. It was true – this fitted well with my theory about Joachim Olesen.

An oppressive silence followed, with close to ten minutes of expectant chewing. Ironically, it was only when ice cream was served for dessert that Patricia eventually thawed.

‘Please excuse me if I appear to be pensive. You have made great progress today. The murderer is just ahead of us now and we are catching up. By this time tomorrow, I hope that it will all be over, and I have a clear favourite as to whom it is who will be arrested. But we still lack answers to a few very important questions. It is such a frustrating situation to be so close yet not quite there. As you may have noticed, I hate drawing conclusions that may be wrong. I will therefore continue to mull on this theory in anticipation of the answers we will get tomorrow.’

Patricia paused for thought yet again and had an almost melancholy expression on her face when she continued.

‘The whole situation is so sad. Harald Olesen had done so much for his country and its people, both as a Resistance hero and a cabinet minister, and yet in the last year of his life, after his wife’s death and his retirement from public life, shadows from his past dominated. And in those final months he almost became a human fly himself. A group of human flies swarmed around him, with very intense feelings towards him linked to the past, all of whom could have had the motive and opportunity to murder him. In fact, at the time of Harald Olesen’s death, all of the residents of 25 Krebs’ Street could be described as human flies for different reasons. It is very depressing indeed.’

I interrupted this unhappy train of thought to ask if she had any suggestions as to how we might finally solve the murder. To my relief, she carried on in a far more optimistic voice.

‘The problem that remains is that some of the neighbours in 25 Krebs’ Street saw something on the evening of the murder, or to be more precise someone, and for various reasons still do not want to tell us about it. We need to force the answers from them in order to eliminate potential murderers until we are left with only one possibility. And this is how we will do it: you will go there tomorrow, armed with your service gun and two sets of handcuffs. You will call me once you are there and I will tell you who to talk to first and what questions to ask. Either the answers will make it perfectly clear to you who the murderer is and you can then make an immediate arrest, or we will have to move on to the next flat with more questions. In which case, telephone me if you are in any doubt as to what you should do or what you should ask.’

I looked at her with scepticism.

‘How many flats will I have to visit before I find the murderer?’

Patricia shrugged apologetically.

‘In the worst case, five. They could all be housing a murderer, or at the very least someone who is hiding vital information.’

I was very glad that we were so close to catching the murderer in 25 Krebs’ Street, but the plan that Patricia proposed was less attractive. I suddenly thought of something that would be a vast improvement, and laughed in a jocular manner before I spoke.

‘That all sounds very complicated. It would be pretty hopeless if the head of investigation had to borrow a telephone to put a call through to an anonymous friend before making the next move. I accept the need to confront the various parties at the scene of the crime tomorrow, but we need to make one practical adjustment…’

Patricia looked at me warily. It was the first time I was ahead of her in the game and she seemed genuinely uncomfortable with the situation.

‘You have to come with me!’

The moment I said those words, a powerful shudder went through Patricia’s thin body. She sat staring at me from her wheelchair, not saying a word. I hurried on.

‘Not only is it the best solution, but also absolutely necessary. Various situations might arise where I simply cannot reach you in time by telephone. And what is more, it is entirely doable in practical terms. Andreas Gullestad manages to move around the building in his wheelchair, so why would you not be able to? We can give you a pen and paper and say that you are my secretary and have an injury. And just think how interesting it would be for you to be there when the case is concluded and to meet all the people you have spent so much time analysing over the past week…’

Patricia remained uncharacteristically silent in her wheelchair.

‘The fact is, it is very difficult to find a rational counterargument,’ she said in the end, with a serious face. Then her sardonic humour cut through and she laughed.

‘And I am not exactly spoilt for choice with invitations to do exciting things at the weekend anymore… All right, I will come with you!’

I spontaneously held out my hand before she had time to change her mind. Patricia’s hand was shaking, but was warm and full of enthusiasm. When I added that she should perhaps get her father’s permission first, she gave me a wry look and commented that ‘the fossil’ had only too often said that she should get out more. And in any case, he could no longer decide where she went and with whom. She did, however, promise to ‘let him know what he needs to know’.

Patricia insisted that I collect her myself, in an unmarked police car. In answer to my question as to why the latter was important, she chuckled and replied that the staff and neighbours would possibly celebrate and be only too happy to snap pictures of her being driven away in a police car. But then she switched in an instant and became deadly serious again.

‘And you must have two reliable armed officers posted by the outer doors tonight. I am still slightly unsure as to who the murderer is, but I am in no doubt that he or she is an exceptionally cold person who is capable of anything. And not only do we still not have the murderer, we do not have the murder weapon either…’

I nodded my consent.

The possibility that Joachim Olesen was the murderer still seemed the most plausible solution to me – except perhaps Sara Sundqvist, but I did not want to believe it was her. It worried me in every way that Patricia’s attention was so obviously focused on the building, even though that did not necessarily mean that the murderer was physically there.

‘The chance for a happy ending might perhaps increase if I asked Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew to come to 25 Krebs’ Street? I am sure that they could wait in the entrance or with the caretaker’s wife in her flat, in case we need to talk to them.’

For a moment Patricia looked confused. Then suddenly she burst out laughing again.

‘Now I understand what you meant. A happy ending, what a brilliant way of putting it. By all means ask them. And who knows, some questions may crop up that they might be able to answer. And aesthetically, it does feel fitting that we do a Poirot and gather all the surviving parties together before the arrest.’

I felt that this minor success could indicate that the ever-secretive Patricia was thinking along the same lines as me and suspected the nephew. We were both in good spirits when we agreed that I should collect her at half past eleven, so that we would be ready to start at Krebs’ Street by midday at the latest.

On my way out, I was unable to contain myself and asked one final question.

‘Have you decided which flat we should start with tomorrow?’

The answer was what I had expected, but not what I had hoped for.

‘I think we should start by seeing what Sara Sundqvist has to say in her defence this time.’

She may have seen the disappointment on my face, for she continued briskly.

‘Much depends on what she can tell us, and what she wants to, but it is by no means certain that we will end there.’

I carried my hope with me out into the dark. I made a quick stop at the now quiet police station to make three brief telephone calls. The first was to Cecilia Olesen, who this time sounded far happier to hear my voice. She cheered up even more when I told her that Darrell Williams had returned and that we expected to close the case over the course of the weekend. That said, she immediately and almost enthusiastically agreed to my request to come to the scene of the crime at a quarter to twelve the next day.

I was of course more curious about her brother, Joachim Olesen. His voice was measured, but by no means eager. I had a strong feeling that I could now see the murderer’s face clearly for the first time when he held back and said that he had already promised to prepare a balance sheet for the ministry on Saturday. He was silent for a while when I emphasized that it would be to everyone’s advantage if he was available for questioning in the final stages of the investigation. He gave in with a quiet sigh and said that in that case he would of course make himself available for the police.

The final telephone call was to the caretaker’s wife, who told me that all was peaceful in the building. She promised to be waiting with the key to each flat at a quarter to twelve, and to be at her post early to make sure that all the residents were at home.

In the end, I made a fourth call and ordered a constable to keep an eye on Joachim Olesen’s flat, and to follow him should he go out before he was due to meet us. I did not want to be missing a key witness in the grand finale of my first major murder investigation – and especially not the one who was my prime suspect.

When I finally fell asleep around two o’clock in the morning, I could still see the nephew’s secretive face in my mind’s eye. All the same, I thought carefully about each of the others who would be there. The face of the ever-elusive Sara Sundqvist was the last I pictured before I dropped off. If nothing else, I would be able to establish on the tenth day of the investigation whether she had become involved in the murders by sheer misfortune or whether she was a particularly devious murderer.