The Human Flies

I

Saturday, 13 April was not only the day before Easter; it was also the investigation’s tenth day. For me, it started like any other Saturday. I had a lie-in and ate breakfast on my own at around ten o’clock. By half past ten I was in my office and could to my relief confirm that nothing new or of any note had happened there. After a quick telephone call to 25 Krebs’ Street at eleven o’clock, I knew that all the residents were at home. The caretaker’s wife was also informed that Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew would be coming, and she promised to put out a table and a couple of chairs for them.

At a quarter past eleven, I left the main police station in an unmarked car. Patricia, dressed in a simple green dress, was sitting waiting for me in the hallway when I arrived at Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. For a moment I was afraid when I saw Professor Ragnar Borchmann towering beside her, but he gripped my hand enthusiastically and happily gave me leave to borrow his only daughter ‘for up to four hours’. As Patricia wheeled herself out in front of us, he commented in a hushed voice that he had not seen her so cheerful and focused since the accident.

Our journey got off to a slow start. Some of the streets we had to pass were blocked off in honour of one of Oslo’s more recent signs of spring: another demonstration against the war in Vietnam. This was not a particularly big or well-planned protest and was dominated by a group of around twenty to thirty angry students. Patricia watched them soulfully through the car window when we were finally able to pass. It struck me that I had no idea what she thought about the war in Vietnam or other major events. I could imagine her both opposing and supporting the war, and being a supporter of both the Conservative Party and the Socialist Party. But I found it hard to believe that she would not have strong opinions about the Vietnam War and Norwegian political parties.

Patricia and I were both affected by the solemnity of the moment, and by the fact that within a matter of hours we could expect to be face to face with an unusually calculating double murderer. She commented later that I had apparently asked three times in the course of the journey whether she was sitting comfortably, and twice said that spring was definitely here now. After which it was a great relief to her when I finally asked a more relevant question that had been bothering me all of the previous evening. It was in connection with her observation that each of the residents in Krebs’ Street were human flies. Based on the revelations of recent days, I could accept that the description was to a greater or lesser extent suited to the caretaker’s wife, the now dead Konrad Jensen, as well as to Darrell Williams, Kristian Lund and Sara Sundqvist. The description might also possibly fit Andreas Gullestad, given his father’s early death and his own accident. But I found it hard to see the fat cat’s daughter, Karen Lund, in this light.

Patricia had to agree with me in part, but she believed, all the same, that as Mrs Lund’s fate was so intertwined with that of her husband, she could also be seen as a human fly, by virtue of her marriage. She added that if Kristian Lund now proved to be the devious double murderer, it was impossible to imagine that his wife was not a conspirator. She would, in the first instance, have given him a false alibi for the murder of Harald Olesen. As for the murder of Konrad Jensen, Kristian Lund was apparently at work when the shot was fired. In which case, it must have been his wife who killed him. Unless he of course was in cahoots with another neighbour, she added without specifying anyone.

I nodded and acknowledged that there was still every reason to suspect all the residents. A minute later, we stopped outside their front door.

II

The caretaker’s wife welcomed us and shook my hand with great warmth. Not unexpectedly, our reception from Cecilia and Joachim Olesen was somewhat more restrained, but both of them were there, as promised. It was with some relief that I noted that Joachim had come without a bag of any kind and was dressed in a simple suit, so it would be hard to hide a gun. Cecilia Olesen had obviously put more time into preparing herself. She was beautifully made up and dressed in an elegant, if somewhat old-fashioned dress. I noticed that Patricia tried to hide a small smile when she saw her.

All three were taken by surprise when Patricia was wheeled in, but they greeted her with a friendly smile and I introduced her as my young secretary, Patricia Pettersen, and added that she was temporarily confined to a wheelchair as a result of a skiing accident. It must be said that Patricia had put considerable thought into the role. She had a clipboard, a thick notepad and five different-coloured pens in her lap, and dutifully took notes from the moment she was wheeled into 25 Krebs’ Street.

I asked the caretaker’s wife and Cecilia and Joachim Olesen to wait by the entrance and then wheeled Patricia into the lift and we went up to the first floor.

Patricia’s brief instruction on our way up was: ‘Just tell her that you know that she has lied and that she was given money by Harald Olesen, then ask if she has anything to add to her statement from the night of his murder. Now, this is important – always position my wheelchair just inside the door and you yourself stand or sit opposite the person you are talking to, if possible diagonally across from me,’ she added in a quiet voice, as the lift stopped.

I nodded and felt the tension percolating through my body. I suggested that Patricia should tap her pen on the pad twice when she wanted to move on to another flat. This time she nodded and immediately tapped her pad with her pen twice and smiled.

About thirty seconds later, we rang the doorbell of Flat 2A.

Sara Sundqvist was lightly made up and wearing a black dress that flattered rather than hid her bust. When she opened the door, she leaned over the threshold to give me a hug and said how happy she was to see me again. I wondered what Patricia was writing down at that moment and had to admit to myself that Sara’s demeanour was impressively relaxed if she was in constant fear of being revealed as a murderer. She was naturally rather taken aback when she saw Patricia, but immediately shook her hand when it was explained to her who Patricia was.

‘I have been to Sälen and spoken to the chief of police there, and apparently someone else has been there too…’ I started.

No more was needed for her front to fall and the tears to run. With a dramatic shrug, Sara Sundqvist threw open her hands and apologized for not telling me that she had been to Sälen. She was frightened that she would become a suspect if it was discovered that she knew about this episode from Harald Olesen’s past and had hoped that she would never be found out. She knew the story about Deerfoot and had tried, without success, to get Harald Olesen to tell her about him. She dearly wanted to meet Deerfoot if he was still alive, partly to thank him for having saved her life, and partly in the hope of finding out more about what happened to her parents. But Harald Olesen had dismissed the question and spoken in a way that might indicate that Deerfoot was dead. If Deerfoot was alive, she had no idea who he was or what he was called.

I then asked if she had blackmailed Harald Olesen and omitted to tell me. She admitted that she had been given money by him, but denied that she had blackmailed him. One day when she had knocked on his door to ask about her parents and Deerfoot, he had handed her a thick envelope, which, to her shock, contained fifty thousand-kroner notes. She had gone back with the envelope the following day, but he had asked her to keep the money and forget the whole thing. She put the money in the bank, but could not forget the whole thing. It had only served to strengthen her impression that Harald Olesen knew more about her parents’ fate than he was letting on.

When I asked if she would like to amend her statement from the night of the murder, she looked confused and stammered that she had nothing to add. She apologized over and over again for lying to me in pure desperation, but she knew nothing more about who had murdered Harald Olesen and had nothing to do with it herself. She had never asked for the 50,000 kroner, and the will had been a shock.

I glanced over at Patricia, who just then tapped her pad with her pen twice. We thanked Sara for her time and asked her to stay in the flat and not to let anyone else in. She slouched in the chair and whispered that she had not murdered Harald Olesen and that she would not let anyone in other than me. She repeated this twice, like an oath, as I wheeled Patricia out of the flat.

III

‘She still knows more than she is letting on,’ Patricia said, as soon as we were in the lift.

I had to admit that this chimed well with my own gut feeling.

‘So, what do we do now?’ I asked.

Patricia looked determined.

‘Well, we can hope that if she has some time on her own to think, things might improve. She is terrified of something. I am tempted to say that it is either something she has done herself or something she has seen. But she is so frightened and tense that we need more information before we can push her any further. And perhaps we will find that where we are going now.’

It sounded so convincing that I just nodded and asked where we were going.

‘To the second floor,’ Patricia said, and impatiently stretched out her arm and pressed the lift button.

Patricia looked so small and thin in her wheelchair in the confines of the lift, but her voice was just as clear and firm as at home in the big library in the White House.

‘Start by welcoming him back and be nice, then ask him if he was at all sad when Harald Olesen was murdered. Remind him of his old conflict with Olesen and suggest that he moved here because of it, and that he had more than one gun in the flat when he first arrived. And finally, ask him who he saw coming towards Harald Olesen’s flat on the evening of the murder. My hope is that this will prompt some new and interesting information. Now, remember where to position me!’

Patricia’s mood was constantly switching from serious to sardonic. Suddenly she smiled and chuckled quietly.

‘To a certain extent, I understand why Kristian Lund was tempted into an affair – I felt almost jealous of her natural beauty and consummate technique. And by the way, she is, if nothing else, definitely guilty of being unhappily in love.’

My heart beat a little faster when she said that, but I did not want to be distracted by the topic for all manner of reasons. Fortunately, the lift stopped at that moment on the second floor. I pushed Patricia out and rang on the bell of the flat next door to Harald Olesen’s.

IV

Darrell Williams was truly a diplomat through and through. He smiled as soon as he saw me, shook my hand and apologized that his work had forced him to leave the country temporarily. He looked at my companion with greater scepticism, but reluctantly accepted my explanation about an injured secretary. It helped when I assured him that nothing from our conversation would be recorded in the official reports and that the notes were for internal use only.

I parked Patricia in the middle of the floor, while Darrell and I sat down on the same armchairs that we had sat in a few days before. This time, the gravity of the situation was clear. Our host was sober, and there was a large carafe of water on the table between us. I noted a tense nervousness behind our host’s smile that I had not experienced on previous occasions.

‘Welcome back. You no doubt understand that your disappearance, which was contrary to my orders, almost caused a very unfortunate situation.’

He looked at me without answering, waiting for me to carry on. Which I quickly did.

‘That being said, it is a pleasure to see you again, and we all hope that the case can now be concluded without any further complications. But that rather depends on you now giving us, better late than never, complete and truthful answers to our final questions.’

Darrell Williams nodded and leaned forward in concentration. I did not have the feeling that I was sitting opposite a human fly, but rather a lion or a bear or some other beast.

‘First question: did you feel any sorrow whatsoever when you heard that Harald Olesen had been murdered?’

Darrell Williams laughed briefly, then shook his head.

‘Absolutely not. He was a great man but not a good man. The story of his will, his son and his relatives only goes to show that. But I was surprised that he had been murdered. I have no idea who shot him and was definitely not there when it happened.’

He hesitated for a moment, but said nothing more. It gave me no choice other than to push him a little further.

‘But you were accommodated here in the flat next door to Harald Olesen in order to ensure that certain names and information did not get out. In the first months that you lived here, you kept two guns in the flat. Did you or your employer at any point consider murdering him as an option?’

Darrell Williams smiled bitterly and I got the impression that he almost nodded before he answered.

‘I am afraid that I can neither confirm nor deny that kind of question. I would like to reiterate that my accounts with Harald Olesen, both personal and professional, had been settled by the time he died. As you yourself saw when you searched my flat, the guns were no longer here at that point. And from what I understand, neither of them would be compatible with the bullet that killed Olesen in any case.’

I gave a cursory nod.

‘But if I am now to believe that you are innocent, and that you and the embassy had nothing to do with the murder… could you please think carefully through the evening of the murder one more time and inform us if there is anything you may have forgotten to tell us that might help to track down the real murderer.’

He gave an apologetic shrug.

‘Yes, there is, and I should have thought about it earlier. I saw one of my neighbours heading towards Harald Olesen’s flat shortly before the murder. There are several reasons why I have not mentioned this before. The first was that I did not want myself or the embassy to become any more involved than necessary, and I could of course not be sure that the person I saw passing was in fact the murderer. And later my antipathy towards Harald Olesen intensified. The palaver with the will must have been deeply upsetting for the son.’

My patience was dangerously close to breaking.

‘We want the truth on the table now. So this person whom you saw going towards Harald Olesen’s flat shortly before he was murdered was…’

He nodded and picked up the thread.

‘His son, Kristian Lund. It was very unusual to see him up here on the second floor, so I remembered it. It was not long before I went for my evening stroll. I cannot say the exact time, and of course do not know whether he was the one who fired the shot or not. As far as I could tell, he was not carrying a weapon, but he was wearing a winter overcoat that could hide pretty much anything.’

I swiftly glanced over at Patricia, whose eyebrows were knitted so tight that it was clear she was thinking furiously. Then she gently tapped her pad with her pen twice.

On the way out, I mentioned in passing that an old friend of his was down on the ground floor and that she would no doubt be very happy if he went to see her. This triggered first a smile and then a final defence – said with pure American pathos.

‘Despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding our first meeting, please do not judge me too harshly. I have lived all my adult life fighting dictatorship – first against the Nazis during the war and then against communism after the war. And in all these years, I have carried a great loneliness after losing my first love. It can make you a bit of a loner, even though you might at heart be a good person.’

He hesitated for a moment, then took out his wallet and from a pocket at the front produced a white folded sheet that he held out towards me.

‘This is the letter that you asked about. You can read it if you like,’ he said abruptly.

I looked over at Patricia, who quickly shook her head and tapped her pen on her notebook. I got the very strong feeling that Darrell Williams had carried the letter wherever he went for the twenty years since he received it – and that it possibly was the first time that he had asked someone else to read it. But I no longer had any reason to doubt his word that there was nothing more in his past that was of any significance to Harald Olesen’s murder. He seemed to both understand and appreciate this. We shook each other by the hand before the door closed behind Patricia and me.

V

Patricia was in a good mood and giggled as we went into the lift. I looked at her sternly. She shrugged.

‘In the middle of all this tragedy, there is a really sweet love story. I think it is better to have a happy ending twenty years too late than never at all. She is still younger than my mother was when she had me. You must promise to tell me how things work out for those two.’

I promised to do that – on the condition that she would soon tell me who the murderer was. She was immediately serious again.

‘I do not know for certain quite yet. What he told us was not what I had expected, so we are still missing a link. I can, however, tell you where we are going now, and that is the first floor.’

I was not very impressed. That was exactly what I had just thought myself.

‘And this time to Mr and Mrs Lund?’

Patricia smiled.

‘Of course. This should be relatively simple. Confront him with the fact that he was in Harald Olesen’s flat on the night of the murder, and her with the fact that she is lying when she says that he did not go out. Leave me just by the door as usual, and make sure that you can see them both at the same time.’

I agreed that it sounded like a good plan of action and pressed the button for the first floor.

VI

The Lunds came to the door together. They also accepted my brief explanation about the injured secretary. They asked us in without any protests or obvious pleasure. I positioned Patricia just inside the door, sat down on one side of the coffee table and indicated to the Lunds that they should sit together on the sofa opposite. They automatically did as I told them. When they were seated, Mrs Lund reached out for her husband’s hand. He squeezed hers gratefully.

I started by emphasizing how serious the case was.

‘The investigation has reached a critical stage and we now have every reason to believe that Konrad Jensen did not kill Harald Olesen. Much of what has been said earlier can be forgiven, if we now get the full truth.’

They nodded at the same time and moved almost imperceptibly closer together.

‘So, I will start by saying that I have clear indications that you, Kristian Lund, lied when you said that you had not spoken to Harald Olesen on the evening of the murder. I also have reason to believe that you, Karen Lund, lied when you said that your husband did not leave the flat after he had come home on the evening of the murder.’

Their reactions were very different. She blushed deeply and frantically shook her head, whereas his face lost all colour and he nodded. She was the first to speak.

‘I don’t know who it is who has been lying, but you are on the wrong track now, Detective Inspector! My husband was here with me from the time he came home until we heard the gunshot.’

It was said with such passion that I found it hard not to believe her. The ashen-faced Kristian Lund, who was now cornered and almost unrecognizable, resolved the situation.

‘She is telling the truth,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I am the one who lied again,’ he added, even closer to a whisper.

All three of us stared at him. Fortunately, he quickly continued with the explanation.

‘I went up to the second floor and spoke to Harald Olesen on the night of the murder. But it was before he was killed. I went directly from Sara’s flat and was only there for a minute or so. Then I came back down here and was together with my wife until we heard the shot ring out.’

I gave him a stern look.

‘And what happened during your final meeting with Harald Olesen?’

His smile was twisted.

‘There and then it was pleasant enough and I felt pleased when I came back here afterwards. He opened the door as soon as I rang the bell, but looked surprised when he saw it was me. He said he was expecting someone else for an important meeting and did not have time to talk. I said that it would not take long, as all I wanted was confirmation that he had changed his will as I had asked. He thought about it for a moment or two, then smiled and assured me that he had changed his will. I thanked him and said that I was glad, then left. And I took his word for it until I heard the final will being read out. The old swine had neglected to tell me that he had changed the will yet again, thereby denying me my rightful inheritance!’

I thought quickly through what had happened at the reading of the will – Kristian Lund’s reaction and the other facts that I knew – and realized that it all fitted very well with this last explanation. But I could not remember just then if this was his fourth or fifth version.

I looked questioningly over at Patricia. She held my eye but did not tap her pen. There was a short silence before Patricia did exactly what I had hoped she would: spoke.

‘We can almost definitely conclude that you did not commit the murder. But you are still covering for the person you met on the way down from Olesen’s flat on the evening he was murdered.’

No one was taken aback by the fact that Patricia had spoken. Kristian Lund’s reaction was too dramatic for that. He lost what little colour he had left in his face, dropped his wife’s hand and collapsed back on the sofa. I immediately seized the opportunity to take command again.

‘Exactly who was it you saw on the evening of the murder, and why are you covering for them?’

I fixed Mrs Lund with a beady eye, but her attention was taken up by her husband and her husband alone. Kristian Lund swallowed three times before he managed to say anything. The silence was crackling by the time he finally croaked a short, tiny and devastating word.

‘Sara.’

The name exploded like a bomb in the static silence between us. Mrs Lund’s voice a few seconds later resembled a machine gun.

‘I do not believe it! Have you known all this time that it was her who killed your father and not said a word to me? You could have sent that witch to prison over a week ago! And instead, you have lied to me and the police in order to protect her. Is that really the truth?’

Kristian Lund nodded almost imperceptibly and then looked up at me with pleading eyes, not daring to look at his wife.

‘We had not arranged it, and I certainly did not expect it. I had just come down to the first floor when I bumped into her at the door. We smiled briefly at each other as we passed. It was only when I had opened the door that I realized that she had gone up the stairs, not down. I did not think anything more of it at the time, but obviously it become more significant after the murder and then the reading of the will.’

I held his gaze and hurried to say something before the increasingly red Mrs Lund beat me to it.

‘But you are still not telling us why.’

Kristian Lund’s voice was barely audible, but was clear all the same in the tense silence.

‘Partly because I was such an obvious suspect myself. I had been to his door too. If she said that and claimed that he was dead when she arrived, who would you believe then? I think we both realized what a fateful web we were caught in. So we met as soon as we could for a minute out in the hallway the day after the murder. She had the door ajar when I came home. We agreed not to betray each other, and that was it.’

Then he stopped himself. I coaxed him on.

‘So it was partly because you were scared of your own situation and partly because you still had feelings for her and could not bring yourself to hand over the woman you loved to the police. Is that right?’

He nodded. That was when Mrs Lund slapped her husband across the face in an outburst of fury. Fortunately, the slap seemed to wake him up. The healthy red colour returned to his cheeks; he straightened himself up and was more alert when he looked at me.

‘We have pursued you from pillar to post for nine days now, Kristian Lund. Is there anything else of importance that you still have not told us?’

He shook his head firmly.

‘I have passed the point of no return now and am teetering on the edge. I have nothing more to add other than that I deeply regret what I have done and apologize profusely – to you and even more to my wife.’

I had my doubts about this apology and it looked like his wife did too. He noticed this and immediately added: ‘When you arrest Sara, send her my greetings and tell her that I never want to see her again. I will send my lawyer to talk to her in prison regarding the will.’

I instinctively felt nothing but contempt for Kristian Lund and was about to reply that he could tell her himself when he was serving a sentence for perjury and hampering a murder investigation. However, I realized in time that it was perhaps just as well not to aggravate the situation any more right now. His wife seemed to calm down marginally after this last statement, but she was still one of the most furious young women I had ever seen – which sadly is not saying much. The situation felt more and more depressing. And then in the background I heard a strange sound. I eventually realized that it was Patricia, who was tapping her pen for the fifth time. We found our own way out, without turning round.

VII

Patricia did not hold back. As soon as we were in the lift, she burst out laughing.

‘Thus far you have provided me with good and interesting entertainment. So she could forgive him for lies, blackmail, infidelity and possible murder, but not for loving and protecting another woman. I desperately wanted to stay and see what happened, but we still have a ruthless murderer to catch.’

I nodded, slightly bewildered, and stretched out to press one of the lift buttons.

‘Which floor are we going to this time?’

Patricia smiled.

‘Why, this one, of course. But it is useful to be able to talk for a couple of minutes without being disturbed. We are going to see Sara Sundqvist again, and this time she better have a very good explanation if a remand cell at 19 Møller Street is not to be her next stop. Just confront her with Kristian Lund’s latest version, keep your eye on her and listen to what she has to say. I will intervene if necessary.’

I nodded, but my voice was thick when I asked my short question.

‘She really is on thin ice now, isn’t she?’

Patricia mulled it over for a while before answering.

‘Today, her situation has gone from bad to worse. But the day is not over yet, and I am loath to give up on my main theory. So I am very interested to hear what she has to say in her defence, now that her former lover has pushed her to the edge ahead of him. There really is only one thing she can say now to stop herself from falling – and that has to be the truth.’

I replied that I understood what she meant. This was a pure lie, which I later could only justify to myself by saying that the whole situation had been so confusing.

VIII

Sara Sundqvist’s smile was just as friendly as before when she opened her door. I was so impatient to solve the case that I forgot everything that Patricia and I had agreed about positioning and started to talk as soon as we were in the hall.

‘I am deeply disappointed, Sara. You have lied to us again.’

She looked at me uneasily, but clearly did not understand.

‘Kristian Lund has told us that he went up to see Harald Olesen on the evening of the murder and that he saw you on your way up there as he came down. We have every reason to believe that it is the truth.’

An expression of horror flooded her face. Her voice was distant and hesitant when she spoke.

‘I never dreamed that he would dare. Has he really broken his word and betrayed me?’

I nodded gravely, and my frown deepened.

‘He asked me to tell you that he never wants to see you again, that he is looking forward to you being arrested and that he will send his lawyer to meet you in prison to demand the return of his rightful inheritance.’

It was as if Sara Sundqvist’s slim frame had been struck by a triple blow in the boxing ring. She swayed perilously and had to steady herself against the wall. I resisted the urge to reach out and support her.

‘But… I don’t understand! That he wanted to maybe, but that he dared…’

I have to admit that I did not understand it all myself. As Sara Sundqvist was unarmed, unsteady and leaning against the wall, there seemed to be little danger, so I glanced quickly over at Patricia. She looked as though she understood more, but was watching Sara Sundqvist like a hawk.

‘But… it is a relief. Because now I can tell you everything I have wanted to all along!’

I thought it better not to comment on this statement, but indicated impatiently that she should continue. Which she did – and managed to say an impressive amount without drawing breath.

‘It is true that I went to see Harald Olesen that evening. I decided to go up and ask him once again about Deerfoot and my parents. I did not know that Kristian had gone up there already, but realized that he had when I met him on his way down. We just smiled at each other and carried on our separate ways. When I got to Harald Olesen’s flat, he was still alive, but refused to let me in. We argued at the door for a few minutes. He said he was expecting an important guest at any moment, but asked me to come back in the morning. I felt that it was a step forward and left. It was obvious that his health was deteriorating, and he was clearly anxious about his guest. In fact, he was frightened. I remember that it made me feel anxious as well, because he was so secretive and his hand was shaking so badly. But it was not me who killed him. It must have been his mysterious guest, whom I met on the way down.’

Suddenly, Sara Sundqvist seemed to be frightened herself. Her voice trembled when she continued with the story.

‘It was all very alarming. I realized that something was amiss when I saw the man whom Harald Olesen was expecting. His very appearance chilled me and inspired fear and secrecy. He was wearing a blue raincoat with a hood, and had a scarf wrapped round his head so that it was impossible to see his face. I had a strong premonition of catastrophe; it felt like Judgement Day to be honest. I ran down the stairs and buried myself under the duvet with a pillow over my head and hoped for the best. It was no shock when I heard the gunshot, and even less when you came to the door to tell me that he had been killed.’

I gave her a hard and threatening stare, but was met only with pleading, terrified eyes.

‘Do you have any idea who he was?’

Sara shook her head in distress.

‘Until now I have thought…’

She looked down and fell silent. I had to cough a couple of times before she continued.

‘Well, the legs were definitely a man’s legs. He was about as tall as me, but it was not possible to see much more because of the raincoat and hood and scarf. At first, I thought he was a stranger who had come from outside, but then you came and said that the murderer must have come from inside the building. And that scared me even more. Konrad Jensen was too short, Darrell Williams too tall, and Andreas Gullestad cannot walk. So that meant there was no one it could possibly be other than Kristian, who had returned in disguise so he would not be recognized.’

The argument was reasonable enough, unless of course the nephew or someone else had managed to get in from outside. But I no longer dared to take anything as given in this case.

‘Could it perhaps have been Konrad Jensen in high boots or something similar?’

She shook her head again.

‘No, no. There was something to indicate that he came from inside. The man in the raincoat was not wearing shoes – he only had black socks on his feet.’

Silence fell in the room. Sara was trembling, which was not hard to understand given what she had told us about her experience, and now I instinctively put my arm round her. She immediately leaned against me, warm and trusting, and seemed to calm down a bit. But the bliss only lasted for a second or two before Patricia’s voice filled the room for the first time. I quickly came to myself and instinctively stepped away from Sara’s dangerously warm and soft body.

‘Was there anything else about this man that was alarming?’

Sara stared straight ahead and nodded several times, gratefully.

‘Yes. The man in the raincoat was light as a feather and danced more than walked – like a cat or a boxer. He seemed to glide down the corridor. It made me think about Deerfoot. But as he did not live in the building, the only possible explanation that I could find was that it was Kristian who was walking like that on purpose so he would not be recognized.’

‘Eureka!’

This outburst was completely unexpected and hung in the air for a moment. Sara and I looked at each other, bewildered. The next thing we heard was Patricia hitting the pad with her pen again and again, as if the pen were a drumstick.

‘Brilliant – that is just what we needed! You are obviously innocent. The man in the blue raincoat shot Harald Olesen shortly after you saw him. And I know where to find him!’

At first, Sara looked like she might float up and away. And then she did – and landed beaming with her arms round my neck. I could hear some clucking sounds in the background, which meant that Patricia was enjoying the spectacle. The chuckling stopped mysteriously as soon as Sara came to her senses and sheepishly lowered her feet to the floor again.

I have to admit that my first thought was that it was Kristian Lund who was going to be arrested, after all. My second thought was that I did not object to that in any way. However, Patricia’s next words quickly put an end to that theory.

‘So, now we can finally go and meet this Mr Deerfoot. And if you would like to meet him too, Sara, please join us.’

Sara looked at me and then gave me a quick hug when I said that of course she could come. We all rushed out in convoy to the lift.

IX

‘Are we going down to the ground floor, then?’ I asked.

Patricia nodded quickly and Sara looked as if she would follow us to the ends of the earth without protesting.

When the lift door opened, we were met with a delightful scene. Darrell Williams and Cecilia Olesen were sitting opposite each other talking as if they would never stop. The caretaker’s wife had discreetly retired, and Joachim Olesen was looking pointedly out of the window. Darrell Williams was unrecognizable. Suddenly, he was the world’s most amusing and charming man, even from a distance. Just as we emerged, he leaned forward and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. Patricia clucked contentedly again and pulled at my hand.

‘It really was a good idea to get the niece and nephew to come here too,’ she said, with a smile.

When I started to move towards them, she held me back firmly by the hand.

‘Wait a while – we can talk to them later. Don’t disturb their bliss. Let us rather pay a visit to the one neighbour I have not yet met.’

It was in fact Joachim Olesen whom I had expected to talk to, but I quickly gave this up as Patricia was pointing eagerly at the first door on the right.

X

Andreas Gullestad opened the door with his usual jovial smile and immediately invited all three of us in. He accepted my explanation of Patricia in the wheelchair without question and added with self-irony that it was good to meet a wheelchair user who still wanted to contribute to society. I caught a wry smile passing between them.

While Gullestad went out into the kitchen to get some cups and to make coffee, I installed Patricia by the door. Sara and I sat down by the table in the living room. Our host came in again from the kitchen with the coffee and poured us all a cup. I was still impatient to prove my theory that Joachim Olesen was Deerfoot and could not understand what new information Patricia expected to find here.

It was only when Andreas Gullestad had settled and then asked what he could help me with today that I suddenly realized that something was wrong – very wrong indeed.

It came quite literally in a flash, when the ceiling light caught something silver that our host was wearing round his neck.

Either he had not been wearing the necklace on previous visits or I had simply not noticed. I sat there staring at the pendant as if hypnotized. Andreas Gullestad, meanwhile, looked annoyingly relaxed and not in the slightest bit threatening as he sat there in his wheelchair.

‘I am afraid that I have a number of difficult questions to ask you today…’

Andreas Gullestad looked up at me in surprise, and his face stiffened. But he replied, with a friendly smile, that he would do his best to help me – whether the questions were difficult or not.

‘Do you still maintain that the name Deerfoot is unknown to you?’

If I had hoped for some kind of breakthrough, I was disappointed. Andreas Gullestad furrowed his brows. He did not blink, and his voice was just as friendly.

‘I am afraid I am going to have to disappoint you again there. I may perhaps have heard about this person by another name, but the description you have given me so far is still a bit hazy. Do you have any more details that might jog my memory?’

I was more than happy to provide these.

‘Deerfoot was a young guide who helped Harald Olesen when he had to cross the border into Sweden during the war. They made several trips together, the last of which was in February 1944 and ended in tragedy in the mountains between Trysil and Sälen. Not only were three German soldiers killed, but also two Jewish refugees. Deerfoot heroically skied over the mountains with their baby under his anorak and thereby managed to save her life. Does that ring any bells?’

Andreas Gullestad shook his head firmly.

‘No, I am afraid I do still maintain that this Deerfoot is unknown to me. I grew up not so far from there and heard many credible and incredible stories about what went on in the area. I cannot guarantee that I still remember them all, but I would have remembered that one if I had heard it. Do you have any questions from the more recent past that I might be able to answer?’

I nodded and made a swift decision to attack from a different angle.

‘Absolutely. We can instead talk about the mysterious man in the blue raincoat whom you said you had seen here in the building over the Whitsun weekend last year, but not since.’

He nodded pensively, with some reluctance.

‘If I was to say that he was seen wandering the corridors again on the evening that Harald Olesen was murdered, and that if you saw him last year you must have been looking in a mirror, and that it was you who threw a blue raincoat out in the rubbish… what would you say then?’

Andreas Gullestad pulled himself up slightly in his chair, put his right hand to his thigh and lifted his left hand to point at something.

‘Then I would say there has been a terrible misunderstanding that I hope can be resolved immediately. I do have a blue raincoat, but as you can see, it is still hanging on the coat hook by the door!’

He was pointing towards the door behind Patricia. Instinctively, I turned round, but could not see a blue raincoat. Nor could I see any coat hooks that the raincoat might hang on. Instead, I saw the shock on Patricia’s face. But it was only when I heard a loud whimper from Sara, followed by a strange thud that I could not place, that I spun my head back round. But it was too late.

It was a very different room that I saw The friendly, harmless Andreas Gullestad had vanished, and his wheelchair had toppled back onto the floor. In the middle of the room stood a man of around my height, his legs like a panther ready to pounce. His face was so changed that it took a few seconds before I recognized him. Andreas Gullestad’s relaxed expression was gone. Despite the different hair colour and rounder cheeks, I could now recognize the young Deerfoot’s intense and focused face from the old photograph. However, the biggest and most worrying change was that I was looking straight down the barrel of a.45-calibre Kongsberg Colt.

XI

‘This is my father’s old army pistol, and it was hidden in a pocket inside the cushion in my wheelchair. I have literally been sitting on the murder weapon for ten days!’

He said this with a shadow of a smile on his lips, but in a voice that was very different and could hardly be described as jolly. It was tense and serious – and threatening rather than friendly. Andreas Gullestad had become a totally different person when he threw back his wheelchair and pulled out a gun. I did not doubt for a moment that this was a man who had shot people before – and was willing to do so again. His finger was ready on the trigger. The only positive thing was that he appeared to be prepared to talk. And with a racing heart, I threw myself at this opening.

‘I know that it is the gun that killed Harald Olesen, but how many people did it kill during the war?’

He nodded in acknowledgement.

‘Four. It was me who shot all three soldiers during the incident in 1944. I could live with that, even though they still haunt my dreams from time to time. War is war, and occupiers are occupiers. What was far worse was that I also shot the mother of your young Swedish friend.’

There was another whimper from Sara. The twitch in Deerfoot’s face was like an echo. It was obvious that he was reliving painful old memories. I tried desperately to encourage him to continue.

‘I had a feeling that Harald Olesen’s report in Sweden was misleading… but what actually happened?’

He shook his head slowly.

‘The report was about five minutes from the truth. If it had been right, everything would have been different. The fact that there was an exchange of fire and three German soldiers were killed is true. What is not true is that the refugees we had with us were shot at the same time. We had shot them ourselves a few minutes before.’

Sara’s whimpering increased. Deerfoot’s hand trembled slightly and he continued in an unsteady voice.

‘It has haunted me every hour of the day for the whole of my life since – and it was Harald Olesen’s fault, all of it. He took their lives and ruined mine at the same time. And he had to die for his sins.’

I said nothing more for fear of provoking him. Fortunately, he was still delving deep into his memory.

‘It was hell on earth, and I have relived it every day since and almost every night… The endless journey with those hopelessly slow refugees who had never used skis before. Harald and I could easily have escaped from the Germans, but we could not leave the refugees behind. At one point, he said to me that all hope was lost and that I should escape while I could, but I told him that I would stay with him and with them to the bitter end. We hoped that we might be spared when the storm blew up and three of the Germans turned back, but the other three carried on and were getting closer by the hour. We thought that we could hide at the top, but they were gaining ground as we hauled the refugees up with us. They fired at us from further down the mountainside when we finally got to the summit. Then it soon became impossible to see anything, and almost impossible to carry on in the storm. I knew exactly where we were – a matter of miles from the Swedish border – but we would not be able to make it with the refugees in a howling snowstorm. We hid behind a rocky outcrop, with the two increasingly desperate refugees and a crying baby, for the rest of the night, knowing full well that our pursuers might find us at any time. Hour after hour we sat there, each with a gun in our hand, ready to shoot if we suddenly came under fire. Finally, we dared to carry on in the morning once the storm had dropped. Harald hoped that the Germans had turned back, but I had my doubts. It is hard to give up the hunt when you have come so far and are so near. We were all together, exhausted and nervous, when it happened.’

We listened with bated breath. He swallowed several times before he continued.

‘I still do not know exactly what happened, but suddenly, Harald Olesen and the man we had with us were arguing in raised voices. Then there was a shot. And Harald Olesen stood there, paralysed, with a smoking gun in his hand, staring at a dead man in the snow. Then I saw the wife of the fallen refugee screaming and waving her fists at Harald. So I gave it a moment’s thought, then shot her in the head. I have since often wondered why I shot her. I looked up to Harald, not just as a leader, but also as a father figure. My instinct was to protect him under any circumstance. But then, she was unarmed, and I knew that she was. So the answer has to be that I was scared that her screams would let them know where we were, and I was sick and tired of being held back by her and therefore wanted her dead.’

Deerfoot swallowed again before carrying on, but his feet were still dancing – and his finger was still on the trigger.

‘So there I stood. Both refugees lay dead in the snow, and the mother still had a crying baby at her neck. Harald Olesen stood as if petrified, looking down at them. Then I heard the sound of voices and skis from around the crag. For a moment I thought about killing myself, but then decided to risk the small chance that I had to survive. I ran over to the nearest snowdrift and threw myself down behind it. I was lying there when they appeared. Harald Olesen was still in his own world. I realized that my only hope was to kill all three of them by myself – and I only had six bullets left in the gun.’

Deerfoot’s story was almost as tense as the situation we now found ourselves in, and very frightening indeed. He blinked a couple of times, but his hand was now steady and his finger remained on the trigger.

‘The three soldiers were young: two were around twenty-five, and one was barely a day over twenty-one. An unexpected sight awaited them: two dead refugees in the snow and Harald Olesen standing there, out of his senses. I was not that far away from them and kept my aim as long as I dared. But when one of them pointed to my tracks in the snow, there was no time to think anymore. So I fired at the one who was closest, then quickly moved my aim to the next. The first one fell straightaway, and the second before he could pull his gun, but the third managed to do this and fired at me several times. Twice I just managed to throw myself to the side in the snowdrift before the bullets hit the spot where I had been. In the end, I stood up and aimed at him. My first shot missed. He spun round and aimed. We shot at each other at the same time. I felt the pressure as the bullet sliced past my ear, but my bullet hit him in the cheek. He stood there and swayed for a moment, with his gun trained on me, but then fell, the blood shooting up into the air. When I fired again, I hit him in the middle of the forehead. The scene that met my eyes when I came out from behind the snowdrift was gruesome. Five dead people in the snow. The only man standing was Harald Olesen, and he was apparently still paralysed.’

A hard expression slipped over Deerfoot’s face. His story was dramatic and it struck me that it was possibly the first time he had told it to anyone. His eyes were fixed on me – and the gun was still alarmingly pointed at me.

‘Do you remember the young German soldier I mentioned to you, the one who had tried to comfort me when they came to get my father? He was one of the three who had pursued us now – the second one to be shot. He was still alive when I went over to him. He tried to say something to me. “En…” He started twice without managing to say the word. I have later thought that he was perhaps trying to say “Entschuldigung” – that he was trying to apologize to me, who had shot him. It was an awful situation; he was not much more than a boy himself. I put my gun to his head and looked away while I pulled the trigger. He still comes back to haunt me – only last night I was woken by the sight of his face.’

Once again Deerfoot’s eyes became glazed, but they were still looking straight at me, and I was in no doubt that he would shoot me immediately if I so much as took a step towards him. I nodded as calmly as I could in the hope that he would continue the story.

‘The worst shock was still to come, though. After I had fired my final shot, I looked up and saw that Harald Olesen had raised his gun and was aiming at me. He said something vague about me having seen him kill a refugee so I had to die. I expected him to pull the trigger and kill me at any moment. God knows what I said. My guess is that it was probably that he had seen me kill her and that it was our shared secret. And that he would never find his way back on his own and that the baby would freeze to death in the cold without me. I think it was the latter that made him finally lower his gun and hand me the child. In which case it was the baby who saved me, and I then saved her in turn. You apparently know the rest of what happened. He stayed behind to bury the dead in a nearby cave. I skied for my life all the way to Sälen, first to get out of Harald Olesen’s firing range and then to save the baby’s life. It became an obsession: having killed her mother, I at least had to do something to save her life.’

Deerfoot was back in the present and reacted immediately when I carefully raised my hands.

‘Stay still! Both I and the gun have killed before!’

His voice was controlled, but had a dangerous undercurrent of desperation. I nodded as soothingly as I could. It was hard to see how we would get out of this alive. The only hope was to keep the dialogue going. Suddenly, Sara’s soft voice came to my aid.

‘Thank you for saving my life. I forgive you for killing my mother – you were young and you were in a situation in which you feared for your own life. Finally knowing what happened will help to ease the burden of grief. Do you remember where the cave is?’

Deerfoot cast half a glance in her direction. A tear twinkled in her eye as she spoke. But he continued to keep his focus on me – and his finger itching on the trigger.

‘I know exactly where the cave is. But you will only find remnants of the clothes and bones of the five people who were fated to die there together one winter day in 1944. I have never been back, but have never managed to move on from there all the same. I was a wreck in 1946 and 1947, when the papers were writing about the two border guides who killed the Feldmann couple. And in later years I have lived with the memories, every hour and every day – and with the fear of being discovered one day and ending up as a new Feldmann murderer on the front of every newspaper.’

He fell silent. His finger started to tremble on the trigger.

I carried on talking, out of sheer desperation.

‘Why did you not leave the pistol behind when you killed Harald Olesen?’

A painful expression flooded Deerfoot’s face.

‘That was my initial plan: the perfect murder camouflaged as suicide. The problem was that I then began to wonder how easy it would be to trace the army pistol back to my father’s time in the army. If it could be traced back to him, I was finished. I thought about procuring an unregistered weapon, but Harald Olesen was at death’s door and was under considerable pressure from the young Miss Sara here. He wanted to ease his conscience and tell her the truth before he died. So in the end, I did not dare wait any longer. It had to be the perfect murder without a murder weapon at the scene of the crime, instead of the perfect murder with the weapon at the scene of the crime. As for Jensen, buying an unregistered weapon would not have been easy, as I could not go out. The solution was to buy a more recent model from a half-witted childhood friend, who both before and after the murder accepted my explanation that I needed it to feel safe in Oslo. I had to go to Gjøvik to arrange it, hence my trip home last weekend.

‘When you have already killed several people at a young age and then used the rest of your adult life trying to live with the memories and hide the truth, you become a bit of a lone wolf. It is all about survival and protecting yourself from possible dangers. Harald Olesen’s death does not upset me so much now. After all, he did not have long to live. And it was largely his betrayal that made me the monster I am. But in the end, it was my fear of being exposed that made me pull the trigger; I shot him when he told me that he had finally decided to tell Sara the whole story. So in a way, I shot him in self-defence, having tried every other means. But I admit that there was also a latent need to avenge my broken life.’

He stopped and let his finger play with the trigger. His story was finished. I immediately tried to extend it.

‘Then you committed another murder, to avoid the risk of being arrested for the first?’

He nodded brusquely, twice, and then blinked his eyes furiously.

‘That has plagued me far more than the murder of Harald Olesen. No matter how repulsive Konrad Jensen was, and no matter how dismal his future prospects, he should have been able to live out the last years of his life here in peace, with all his bitterness and complexities. But your investigation seemed to be making dangerous progress. A scapegoat was needed, and as a former Nazi, he was clearly the best candidate. I made the plan even before I murdered Harald Olesen, and wrote the suicide note for Konrad Jensen when I was in Gjøvik last weekend. He was terrified of everyone and everything after the murder, but also desperately lonely. And he could not imagine, like other greater men, that a friendly and sophisticated cripple could be a murderer. So while the caretaker’s wife was out doing the shopping, I knocked on his door. He was wary at first, but then opened up when he saw that it was me and all I wanted was a cup of coffee and a chat in these uncertain times. He signed the suicide note with the gun to his forehead, without having any idea of what he was signing, and died without pain only seconds later, without ever knowing. It was a sad end to a tragic life. But Konrad Jensen became the necessary sacrifice for a greater and more important cause – that is, my life, my freedom and my honour.’

He stopped talking; a deathly silence fell in the flat. I made a final attempt to stop him from shooting.

‘I have four armed policemen standing guard on the street outside. You will be caught without much trouble – and your punishment will be worse for every murder you commit.’

He nodded, but did not smile – nor did he show any sign of desperation or weakness.

‘I guessed that that would be the case. So I really am back in that snowdrift in 1944 that I have revisited in my dreams so many times since. I have to try to shoot my way out, against all odds, and I have nothing to lose in trying. There are too many corpses in my wake for me to turn back now. Four policemen in a town does not feel that hopeless when you have survived against three soldiers in the mountains at the age of sixteen.’

His answers were becoming shorter, and his tone harder. My brain was frantically trying to come up with new questions to keep the conversation alive – and finally found one.

‘But how on earth did you manage to convince the world that you were crippled?’

He suddenly smiled, and a hint of pride glowed in his face.

‘The traffic accident was real and unpleasant enough. I was run over one day when I had suddenly been overwhelmed by memories from the war in the middle of a crossroads. For a while the doctor feared that I would be left in a wheelchair. I understood myself that things were improving and that I would recover again. But it struck me that keeping the wheelchair would be the perfect camouflage – certainly until my score with Harald Olesen had been settled. It was not so difficult. Who doubts the injuries of a man who has been in an accident and has received treatment, who is still a wheelchair user and does not ask for any money from the State? But you should have studied the signature more, because it is a fraud!’

He broke into a smile again – this time, a terrible, twisted, triumphant smile that sent a chill down my spine.

‘Never underestimate a man who appears to be a cripple. Harald Olesen once gave me that advice during the war. That was your only mistake in the investigation, but it was a fateful one.’

And then suddenly our conversation was over. For a couple of torturous seconds Deerfoot improved his aim at my chest. It was a terrifying feeling, watching the finger curl round the trigger right in front of you. I would not wish it on my worst enemy. The fear was paralysing. But suddenly a new sound filled the room. It was Patricia’s blessed strong and determined voice.

‘I am aiming at your head, Deerfoot. You can shoot him, but then I will shoot you. Your flight is over now. The best thing you can do, not only for yourself, is to hand him the gun.’

Deerfoot started and for an eternal moment seemed to be paralysed too. He glanced to one side, towards the door, to make sure that there really was a gun pointing at him. Then he focused his attention on me again.

We probably stood like this on the edge of eternity for no more than ten seconds, but it could as well have been an hour. I was only feet away from Deerfoot and was now ready to pounce myself. The instinct to try to knock the gun from his hand if he lowered it or looked to the side again grew stronger. Deerfoot’s eyes once again glazed over. He seemed to be lost in his own world. But the gun in his hand was still pointing at my chest, and his finger was still on the trigger. I felt that he really was back behind that snowdrift in 1944 and was dithering between giving himself up, turning the gun on himself or trying to shoot his way out.

Then he seemed to make his decision. Very slowly, he lowered the barrel of the gun to the floor. I took a step forward as soon as it was no longer pointing at me. I did not have time to think when Deerfoot, without warning, danced two steps to the side, hunkered down and in a flash aimed the gun towards the door. It was pure instinct, and the fear of seeing Patricia die, that made me throw myself towards him.

I hit him with full force just as the shot was fired. The bullet flew upwards and hit the ceiling above Patricia. Again, on pure instinct, I hit out at his firing arm. The gun flew out of his hand, bounced along the floor and fortunately slid under the sofa.

The next thing I heard was Patricia’s hardest and iciest voice: ‘Stay exactly where you are now and do not move, Deerfoot – and hold out your hands in front of you. Or I will shoot you in the leg!’

I expected even more high drama in the next few seconds, but as if by magic, Deerfoot changed instantly. He was once again the relaxed and friendly Andreas Gullestad. He calmly held both his hands out in front of him and appeared to be almost relieved when I eventually managed to pull out the handcuffs and put them on him. Suddenly, it seemed that he had accepted his fate.

‘Do not underestimate a woman who really is a cripple either!’ Patricia exclaimed, as we passed her wheelchair on the way out. I hugged her as soon as I could once I had thrust our captive out into the hall. And I experienced my last shock of the day. In stark contrast to Patricia’s level voice and calm face, I could feel the emotion in her body. I had never felt such a racing and pounding pulse in anyone. The heartbeat in her tiny thin body was thundering and furious.

XII

Out in the hallway, Andreas Gullestad had apparently once again regained his composure. When I eventually thought to inform him that he was under arrest for the murders of Harald Olesen and Konrad Jensen, he added voluntarily: ‘Do not forget the murder of a refugee and being an accomplice to the murder of a second refugee, plus the attempted murder of a police officer and two other people today. This will cost me dear.’ Out in the entrance, he praised me for having positioned a lady sharpshooter, disguised as a cripple, out of sight by the door.

When I came out with the handcuffed Andreas Gullestad, it caused quite a stir among the people waiting by the front door. Especially when he calmly reassured them that the case had now definitely been solved and the murderer had been arrested, and then went on to congratulate me on a successful investigation.

The neighbours queued up to congratulate me once the murderer had been driven away by two constables and the circumstances had been explained to them. Darrell Williams was particularly heartfelt in his congratulations when he pumped my hand and thanked me for all my help. On seeing him and Cecilia Olesen standing together smiling, I felt for a moment something of what Deerfoot must have felt when he saved young Sara’s life in 1944 – it truly was an ill wind that blows no good.

This feeling did not diminish when, a few seconds later, I saw a smiling Sara Sundqvist coming down the stairs towards me. She embraced me warmly and whispered that Patricia wanted to leave the building and go home as soon and as discreetly as possible. We were able to do this fifteen minutes later, once I had with some authority cleared the hall of residents with vague references to ‘wrapping up the investigation’.

I was naturally relieved and on top form when I finally got into the car with Patricia, but still I noticed that things were remarkably quiet in the back seat. Even though Patricia was the one who had kept her head during the arrest in Andreas Gullestad’s flat, on reflection she now seemed to be the one most deeply affected by the day’s drama. She sat in complete silence for the first part of the journey. Then she interrupted my attempts to make contact with a cursory comment that she was tired and needed time to digest what had happened. She suggested that I pop in to see her at noon the following day, when I would be given a decent lunch and the answers to any remaining questions. In the meantime, she advised that I only talked about the case in broad brush-strokes and that I played down her role in the investigation as far as possible, particularly with regard to the media. I of course promised with a light heart to do just that.

We said goodbye in an unusually subdued mood. However, when Beate opened the door and took charge of the wheelchair, Patricia gave a fleeting smile and thanked me for ‘a particularly interesting and eventful trip into town’.

The rest of the evening was spent informing my police colleagues and journalists of the sensational development. I ignored any requests for details of the actual arrest and instead gave a quick presentation of the murderer’s confession and a rough outline of his story. I was showered with compliments and words of praise, in particular for the fact that I had continued the investigation in secret following the murder of Konrad Jensen. I gave my boss a fifteen-minute report, in which Patricia’s role had been minimized to the extent that I did not even mention that she was present during the arrest. He told me I was a credit to the force and shook my hand three times. It was the night before Easter, and I finally got to bed around twelve, full of optimism for my future in the force and what the papers would say on Tuesday.