The Human Flies

I

Saturday, 6 April 1968 started earlier than expected. I had set the alarm clock for eight, but was woken by the telephone a quarter of an hour earlier. The caller was patient and the phone continued to ring until I had struggled out of bed and answered it. I immediately recognized the deep and commanding voice on the other end.

‘I do apologize for disturbing you so early on a Saturday morning, but this may be of considerable interest to you. Am I speaking to Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen?’

I confirmed that I was he as I tried desperately in my still sleepy state to recall where on earth I had heard that voice before. Fortunately, I did not have to wonder for long.

‘This is Professor Ragnar Sverre Borchmann. First of all, may I congratulate you on your most recent promotion. I hope, however, that we can still be on first-name terms and that you remember me as a guest in your childhood home?’

I most certainly did. Professor Director Ragnar Borchmann was an industrious and renowned university friend of my father’s. He had not been a frequent visitor to my childhood home, but had always caused quite a stir when he did come.

‘I’m calling about the tragic murder of Harald Olesen. And while I do not wish to raise false hopes, I think I may possibly be able to help in the investigation. It is of course entirely up to you to judge whether you feel it is worth your while, in relation to following up other important leads.’

If the truth be told, I did not have many other important leads and at this point was willing to listen to any reliable person who might be able to move the investigation forward. What is more, I was keen to hear pretty much anything that Professor Director Ragnar Borchmann might have to say. But above all, I was extremely curious as to what he may be able to tell me about the case. So without further ado, I said that I would be more than happy to put aside some time to meet him, for example between eleven and twelve.

‘Excellent. Eleven o’clock precisely it is. For reasons that will become apparent, we will have to meet here at my home, but I would be happy to send a car for you should that be necessary.’

I replied politely that it would not be necessary, double-checked that the address was still 104-8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street and promised to be there at eleven precisely.

II

As expected, the newspapers had a much bigger spread about the case today. They all carried photographs of 25 Krebs’ Street, and most of them had old wartime pictures of Harald Olesen on the front page. The headlines varied from ‘Resistance Hero Murdered in His Own Home’ to ‘Unsolvable Murder Mystery in Krebs’ Street’. The name of the detective inspector leading the investigation was fortunately mentioned in favourable terms à la ‘apparently very capable young detective’. One of them had even included the fact that I was known as ‘K2’ among my younger colleagues and that I was said to be a man who could deal with major challenges and dizzying heights.

The newspapers made depressing reading for the remaining residents of 25 Krebs’ Street. The deceased’s neighbours remained anonymous, but the address and photographs would make it easy enough for anyone interested to identify them. The papers would be disheartening reading for Konrad Jensen in particular. Several of them carried the news that the residents of 25 Krebs’ Street included a previously convicted Nazi. No one gave his name. One of the main newspapers did, however, mention that the previously convicted Nazi now worked as a taxi driver – and printed a photograph of his parked car.

Harald Olesen’s nephew and niece were in their forties and gave an immediate impression of prosperity and reliability when they came into my office at nine o’clock. The niece, who was tall and blonde, was called Cecilia Olesen and worked as an office manager for the Oslo Cooperative Housing Association. Her brother was the same height, somewhat darker and more serious. With regard to his civil status, Joachim Olesen said that he was married and had two children under school age. His sister had been married and had a daughter, but had taken back her maiden name following a divorce. The niece and nephew both said that they had had good, if sporadic, contact with their uncle. He had withdrawn somewhat following the death of his wife, but still had relatively regular contact with the family. He had spoken very little about the other residents in the building.

The niece and nephew were also both of the opinion that Harald Olesen had been downcast of late, but believed that this had a natural, medical explanation. After a Christmas party the year before, he had told them that he had been diagnosed with cancer and may not live to see next Christmas. So the news of his death was not entirely unexpected, though obviously the circumstances had been a shock, and a blow to the whole family.

The niece and nephew had both understood without anything having been said that they were his closest relatives and could therefore expect a substantial inheritance. They had, however, never wished to ask about it, and he had not said anything explicit. He had inherited a large amount of money from his father and had never been a big spender, despite earning well for many years himself. The family therefore had reason to believe that he was a very wealthy man. They had only received a short and businesslike message from their uncle’s lawyer stating that in accordance with the deceased’s wishes, the will would be read at the law firm’s offices six days after his death, more specifically on Wednesday, 10 April at midday.

I made a note about the cancer, which was the most important new piece of information from the niece and nephew. The other important piece of information was that Harald Olesen had the year before asked for the family’s permission to work on his own biography. This was prompted by a request from a young history student by the name of Bjørn Erik Svendsen. Without prying too much, the niece and nephew had later understood that the book was underway and that Harald Olesen had had several open-hearted conversations with his biographer and also given him access to parts of his archive.

The niece and nephew had nothing more of any relevance to tell. I said goodbye to them around ten and promised to inform them as soon as there was anything new to report in connection with the murder investigation. The history student Bjørn Erik Svendsen was added to the top of my list of people to contact as soon as possible. It struck me as odd that I still had not heard from him two days after the murder. Fortunately, this little mystery was quickly cleared. It transpired that a message from a woman who had called as she absolutely had to talk to me was from a certain Hanne Line Svendsen, and she was Bjørn Erik Svendsen’s mother. She said that her son had gone to an international socialist youth conference in Rome, but had been informed of the murder by telephone and telegram. He was expected home late on Sunday evening and would come to the police station first thing on Monday morning. Bjørn Erik Svendsen had said, on a very bad line from Rome, that it was possible that he had some important information about Harald Olesen’s early life and would of course make this available to the investigation. I reluctantly accepted the news that Mr Bjørn Erik Svendsen could not be contacted before Monday morning. I tried to see it as positive that new information regarding Harald Olesen was on its way to Norway.

In the meantime, I called the law firm Rønning, Rønning & Rønning. The Rønning I needed to speak to, Edvard Rønning Junior, was unfortunately not in the office. According to his secretary, he had flown to West Berlin a couple of days earlier. The secretary apologized and sheepishly explained that there were ‘several indications’ that Rønning Junior was going to meet one or more personal friends in Central Europe, but no one knew where he was going from the airport. When he had called the office about another case on the Friday morning, he had of course been informed of Harald Olesen’s death. Rønning Junior had immediately explained that Olesen’s will had recently been ‘reworded’ and, in accordance with the explicit wishes of the deceased, would be announced six days after his death.

Rønning Junior had promised that he would personally be present to read out the will in the law firm’s offices at midday on Wednesday, 10 April. He would send a telegram ‘as soon as possible’ with a short list of the people the deceased wished to be present at the reading of the will. If the police contacted the firm, he had asked that they be informed that the most recent version of the will was responsibly secured, that all the formalities were in place and that we were welcome to come to the reading of the will on Wednesday. He had then said that he had to ‘rush to an extremely important meeting’ and hung up. Unfortunately, the will was not to be found in his office, and the telegram had not arrived yet. Thus the firm could only apologize that they could not be of any further help in the investigation. Rønning Junior was ‘an exceptionally talented young lawyer, and rigorous with regard to formalities and discretion on behalf of his clients’, the secretary concluded apologetically. I had no problem in believing her, and saw little option other than to ask Rønning Junior to contact me immediately if anyone should speak to him before Wednesday morning.

Harald Olesen’s doctor was still on sick leave, but was willing to answer questions on his private phone. Having tussled briefly with his conscience, he felt that he could make a pragmatic exception to patient confidentiality, vis-à-vis the police, with regard to a patient who was in fact already dead, as was the case. He then confirmed that Olesen had been diagnosed with bowel cancer about a year ago. This had spread more rapidly than expected in recent months and Olesen had been told in December that the end might be only a matter of months away. Olesen had received this news with admirable dignity. He had remained seated, pensive, and then said that he had some important issues to consider and sort out before it was too late. The doctor thought this was quite a natural reaction and had not enquired as to what these might be.

The bank where Harald Olesen kept his account was closed. During a search of his flat, however, several documents had been found that answered most of the questions I would have asked of the bank. Olesen had apparently been a very organized person. Statements from the past five years were in a file in one of the desk drawers. These confirmed that Harald Olesen had died a rich man. The most recent statement was from March 1968 and showed a balance of just over a million kroner. What was more striking, however, was that the statements from 1966 and the first part of 1967 showed even greater wealth. Over the past six months, the sum in Harald Olesen’s account had fallen by at least 250,000 kroner, even though his civil service pension should have been more than enough to cover the outgoings of a widowed pensioner. And the strange thing was that there were no documents in the drawer that could shed any light on where this money had gone. The sum appeared to have been paid out in three large cash withdrawals. Harald Olesen had initially taken out 100,000 kroner in October 1967, then 100,000 in February 1968 and a further 50,000 one month later.

I immediately envisaged two possibilities. Either Olesen had started to bet or make risky investments in his old age or he had paid out a large amount to one or several people. The latter seemed to be more likely, and it then was natural to assume that the murder may in some way be linked to blackmail.

It was frustrating to feel that the investigation was receiving ever more important information while I was no further forward. However, it was now the back of half past ten and time to solve the only mystery that I could guarantee would be cleared up today, which was what Professor Director Ragnar Borchmann had to offer that would help to solve the murder of Harald Olesen. I pondered this as I drove to 104-8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street, without making much headway there either.

III

At well over six foot and close to twenty stone, Ragnar Borchmann was quite literally one of the most imposing characters I had met. But it was his personality and intellectual capacity that were most imposing. Ragnar Borchmann was the only son of a consul and director from one of Oslo’s most well-known families. He had inherited his father’s business empire, but ran it more or less as a hobby. His working hours were spent as a professor of economics, and he had a long list of books on his CV and an exemplary reputation. At the age of sixty-four, Professor Director Ragnar Borchmann was now, I dare say, one of the richest men in Oslo and one of the most admired intellectuals in Norway.

But Ragnar Borchmann had carried a great sorrow for many years. I first heard about this when I was ten. One Saturday evening, in sheer delight at the end of the war, he and his wife sat up late with myself and my parents. Both guests showed a touching interest in me, my schooling and future opportunities in life. Before I went to bed that night, my father said to me: ‘There are many things that I may envy about Ragnar Borchmann, but still I am the richer man. Because I have you.’ In his early twenties, Ragnar Borchmann had married a girl from a very good family who was also at the start of a promising academic career. The couple always appeared to be happy and harmonious, but they remained childless. A sorrow settled on them, which seemed to weigh more heavily on him. By 1948, Ragnar Borchmann was forty-four years old and had amassed an impressive legacy of books, property and money, but he did not have an heir, and it seemed had no prospect of getting one.

My childhood was spent in a decidedly upper-class home where strong emotions were seldom displayed in public. I can only remember seeing Mother and Father cry on one occasion – and then it was with tears of joy. One day in July 1949 I came home from school to the news that the forty-three-year-old Mrs Caroline Borchmann was expecting a baby. It was only then that I understood how heavily their childlessness had weighed on the Borchmanns and their immediate circle. I have never seen joy and anticipation emanate more than it did from the middle-aged couple that summer. I went to their daughter’s christening together with my parents in January 1950, as did around 250 other ‘close friends’ from the capital’s cultural, financial and intellectual elite. It was jokingly said that Oslo had never seen the like since the crown prince’s christening in 1937, but then that also seemed fitting, as we were, after all, talking about an emperor’s daughter. Choosing a name for their only child was obviously no easy task for two parents with such illustrious names on both sides. In the end, they settled on Patricia Louise Isabelle Elizabeth Borchmann.

‘The Borchmann girl’ had been reading books from the age of four, if my parents were to be believed. She was eight when she read her first Ibsen play. At the age of ten, she appeared on the front page of one of the national newspapers, without wishing to do so, under the headline ‘Super-Intelligent Director’s Daughter Challenges Single-Stream Comprehensive Schools’. The problem was that the school principal, with backing from the Ministry of Education, would only agree to move her up one year, whereas her parents and the teachers believed that jumping three would be more valuable. The following year, Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann appeared in the newspapers again, but this time on the sports pages, under headlines that ventured ‘The New Sonja Henie?’ The reports also mentioned that she was one of the nation’s rising stars in shooting, having achieved several high scores in the national youth championships.

One winter day in 1963, my mother and I met Patricia Louise and her parents on our way home from the skating rink. Professor Borchmann dominated the conversation, as always. However, in the course of his analysis of the day’s news – the future of the new Gerhardsen government following the Kings Bay Affair – the impossible occurred. Not only was he corrected in his review of the facts, he was also challenged in his analysis. And what was even more astonishing was that he took it with good humour, admitted his mistakes and even patted his critic happily on the head several times. This made a deep impression on my mother and me. ‘We’ll be hearing more about that girl,’ my mother said, as we watched them continue on their way.

Unfortunately, I only remember the episode and my mother’s words in light of the tragedy that would colour it forever. That was the last time that we saw Mrs Borchmann alive, and Patricia was never to skate again. A few days later, one of the Borchmann cars skidded on the black winter ice at a crossroads, resulting in a full-frontal collision with a spinning articulated lorry. The driver and Mrs Borchmann, who was in the front, were killed instantly, and the passenger in the back seat, Patricia Louise, was still in a coma five days later, fighting for her life. I have been told that two nights in a row the doctors declared that she was not likely to live to see the morning. Ten days after the accident, the newspapers carried a small notice that her condition was no longer critical, but the damage would probably be permanent. That was the last thing that anyone wrote about Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann.

I later heard from my mother that Patricia was paralysed from the waist down and had been taken out of school. Her father in his despair sought advice from a number of leading doctors, and in pure desperation also took her to see an old healer in Lillehammer and a younger healer in Snåsa. There was no chance of a recovery, so Patricia would have to live with the prospect of deterioration looming over her for the rest of her life. After that I had heard nothing more of either her or her father. Until he called early on the morning of 6 April 1968 to offer some unexpected help in solving the murder.

The facade of 104-8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street, where Ragnar Borchmann had both his home and business empire, was just as impressive as I recalled from my visits as a boy. The enormous building went by the name of ‘the White House’ among friends and acquaintances, because of its colour. The three separate houses had been joined by Ragnar Borchmann’s paternal grandfather, who now stood on a plinth in the cavernous hallway outside his grandson’s office. It struck me that entering the Borchmann household was like going back in time to the 1930s.

Professor Borchmann’s secretary showed me the quickest way to the director’s office. The staircase, with its twenty-three steps, was almost as long as I remembered from childhood. And when I reached the top, Ragnar Borchmann was by and large almost the same as well. There was a sombreness to him that I did not recognize from before, but his back was as straight, his hair and beard as black, his handshake as firm and his voice as powerful as I remembered.

‘Welcome, and once again congratulations on your recent promotion. I am absolutely certain that you will rise to this challenge. Now, shall I call you Kolbjørn or Detective Inspector Kristiansen?’

I assured him that I would take it as a compliment if he chose to call me Kolbjørn, but to be on the safe side, I would continue to call him ‘Professor Borchmann’. He smiled, but did not object.

‘First of all, I must apologize if I have lured you here under false pretences, but it was with the best of intentions. Sadly, I have nothing to contribute myself. I of course met Harald Olesen on and off over the past few decades, but saw less of him more recently. If you have not done so already, you should talk to Supreme Court Justice Jesper Christopher Haraldsen regarding the war years and Party Secretary Haavard Linde about politics and the party. But other than that, I am afraid I am of very little use to the case.’

I had not yet got as far as talking to either of the grand gentlemen mentioned, but he was absolutely right that I should contact them. So it was still a mystery as to why I was sitting here. Borchmann saw the confusion on my face and carried on hastily.

‘I am aware that this is both unorthodox and somewhat irregular, but it is Patricia and not me you should be talking to.’

My confusion was in no way diminished by his next comment – in the form of a totally unexpected question.

‘Have you ever met a person whose thoughts are constantly one step ahead, faster and more profound than your own? It is a fascinating and yet frightening experience to look in the eye of someone who, quite frankly, is more intelligent than you will ever be. You feel you are in good hands and helpless at the same time.’

I nodded vaguely. I did not like to say in so many words, but I knew that feeling only too well. For example, I felt it every time I spoke to Professor Director Borchmann.

‘Of course you have. I have perhaps felt it less often than others, but I too have experienced it. Unless the discussion involves my specialist areas, I experience it practically every time I talk to my eighteen-year-old daughter now. She not only reads twice as quickly as me, be it in Norwegian, English, German or French, she beats me hands down in the speed and quality of her comments on what we are reading. It frightens me a little, but also makes me tremendously proud.’

I felt extremely uncertain and was not sure of what to say, or how, so I kept my mouth shut. The professor continued without pause.

‘Nothing has interested Patricia more in recent years than unsolved crimes. She has read dozens of books on the history of crime, and at least a hundred detective novels. She has on more than one occasion predicted the outcome of big criminal cases on the basis of what she has read in the papers. She is particularly interested in the murder in Krebs’ Street. Partly because Harald Olesen was a friend of the family and partly because of the extraordinary circumstances surrounding the case. She has questions and comments that I cannot answer – including an entirely plausible solution as to how the murderer managed to leave the flat. But for all I know, it is perfectly possible that you and your colleagues have solved the mystery already and will shortly be making an arrest…’

He looked at me in anticipation. I tried to shake my head without appearing to be desperate.

‘In that case, I would be immensely grateful if you could discuss the case with Patricia for a short while, in all confidentiality of course. It need not take more than fifteen minutes of your time, and could be of considerable assistance.’

I thought quietly to myself that perhaps mandatory limits should be introduced for how highly a father could praise his child, but by now my curiosity about young Patricia and her world had been piqued. And I was no less curious as to how she had solved the mystery of the murderer’s disappearance, while I had found no solution. So I gave a friendly smile and replied that I would be more than happy to set aside fifteen minutes or so in all confidentiality to test the theory.

Professor Borchmann smiled, pressed my hand and, without further ado, rang a bell. A young, blonde maid in her twenties appeared a few seconds later. ‘Please show my guest into Miss Patricia Louise in the library straightaway,’ the professor said. Then he turned back to the paperwork on his desk with characteristic efficiency.

IV

Patricia Louise Isabelle Elizabeth Borchmann now lived in a tidy and serene little kingdom one storey above and a garden away from a grey and busy street in Oslo. She was sitting waiting at a table set for two, in the middle of a room that was larger than many of the gymnasiums that I have been in, surrounded by more books than in all the private libraries I have ever seen.

Young Patricia was in no way physically impressive. I guessed she would be a good head shorter than me if she could stand up, and her body was so slight that she could barely weigh more than seven stone. The family likeness with her father was undeniable. It was there in the black hair, but more than anything in her stern face and unwavering gaze. I couldn’t recall having seen a young girl with such a strong face – or any woman, for that matter.

As if by some unspoken agreement, we did not shake hands. I just nodded, and she pointed brusquely to a large armchair directly opposite her. She herself was sitting in her wheelchair, with a television set, as well as a wireless and stereo player, within reach. The table between us was large and obviously necessary. To her left was a telephone of the very latest model. In front of her, there were three ballpoint pens and a notebook, as well as a pile of at least six of that day’s newspapers. Judging by the selection of papers, Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann was open-minded and non-party political: she read everything from the reactionary Morgenbladet to the communist rag Friheten. On the right-hand side of the table lay three books, with bookmarks. The one on top was a French book, the title of which I could not understand, the one in the middle appeared to be a university textbook on sociology, and the one on the bottom was a collection of short stories in English by Stanley Ellin, of whom I had never heard. There was a large jug of water in the middle of the table, as well as a pot of coffee and a pot of tea.

‘Welcome. I am extremely grateful that you can give me a few minutes of your time. Do you have any particular preference when it comes to refreshment?’

I swiftly declined.

‘In that case, that is all for now, Benedikte. I will ring should there be anything else.’

The maid bobbed a silent curtsy and quickly retired. Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann was a lady of principles and discretion. She did not say a word until we were alone in the room. Then, like her father, she got straight to the point.

‘I don’t want to waste any more of your undoubtedly precious time than necessary. The picture given in the papers of the residents of the building is somewhat incomplete, so if I am to say anything of any value, I may need to be updated. The newspapers all mention the unsolved mystery of how the murderer could escape the flat undetected. The windows were closed and locked from the inside, and there were no broken panes to indicate that the shot came from outside. The door has a snib lock, which means that the murderer could have left the flat and locked the door behind him. But the other residents were at the door so soon after the shot that no one could have escaped that way unnoticed. Is that, in brief, a fair description of the mystery as to how the murder was committed? And is it still an unsolved problem for you and the investigation?’

I nodded quickly – twice. The Borchmann family obviously had a talent for giving simple, brief synopses and clarifying critical issues.

Young Patricia seemed to grow in her wheelchair. She chewed thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek for a moment before continuing.

‘This is a variant of the closed-room mystery, but not of the most difficult kind, as the security chain was not on. As Sherlock Holmes says, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” The murderer obviously left through the door, so in reality, there are only two possible ways in which that could have happened.’

I listened in fascination to her determined, self-assured voice. She was clearly excited and took the opportunity to take a couple of sips of cold water before continuing.

‘The first solution is very much like one of Agatha Christie’s best-known novels, in which all the characters have, for various reasons, conspired to kill the victim. In which case, you shouldn’t place too much emphasis on the other residents’ statements.’

I had hoped for something more realistic, which must have been obvious. She hurried on, without stopping for a drink.

‘But that kind of plot definitely works better in English novels than in daily life in Norway, and does not seem very likely in this case. There would also be a considerable risk with so many people involved, and the residents seem to be a very mixed bunch. If we let go of our paranoia and shelve the theory of a major conspiracy among the residents, there’s really only one possibility left.’

I stared at her with renewed interest, my thoughts racing as she poured and drank another half-glass of water. And yet her question was completely unexpected.

‘Have many of the other residents complained about being disturbed by the baby on the first floor?’

Patricia smiled briefly and a touch condescendingly when she saw the confusion on my face, before continuing swiftly.

‘Or, more to the point, does sound travel exceptionally well in 25 Krebs’ Street? Does the building have unusually thin walls and good acoustics?’

I started to get a vague idea of where she was going, but I still did not see how it would end. I thought about it, then shook my head. None of the residents had complained about the baby making a noise.

‘But then how can a shot fired from a revolver in a flat on the second floor be heard clearly as a loud explosion in the hallway two storeys below?’

It was a good question. A very good question in fact, one that I should have thought of myself. But before I had time to understand its full significance, her voice broke my thoughts.

‘Interestingly, the residents, press and even the police have all made the same classic and logical mistake. If you hear a gunshot and then shortly afterwards find a man who has been shot, it is easy to conclude that he was killed by the shot that was heard. Logical, but not necessarily true. In other words, Harald Olesen did not die from the shot that the other residents heard at a quarter past ten. He was killed by another, less audible gunshot that was fired earlier in the evening, presumably using a silencer. Wouldn’t you have used a silencer if you were going to shoot a man in his flat and had every intention of getting away unnoticed afterwards?’

Of course I would. It was painfully obvious when she explained it so clearly and simply, and it grieved me that I had not seen it before. However, a glaring question did occur to me soon after.

‘Then where on earth did the shot that they all heard come from? We have searched Mr Olesen’s flat and all the others with a fine-tooth comb and have found no evidence of a radio transmitter or surveillance equipment.’

Patricia smiled again. ‘I guessed as much. And that shows that we are dealing with a remarkably well-planned murder that was carried out by an exceptionally cold-blooded murderer. But did there happen to be a record player in Harald Olesen’s flat, with a record on the turntable?’

That hit me like a well-aimed punch in the solar plexus. I had seen and made note of the record player and record, but not understood their significance. I nodded and wiped my forehead dry. It was embarrassing that Patricia had seen so much here in her own closed room that I had failed to see, despite several visits to the scene of the crime. And I now discovered that she could also apparently read minds.

‘It’s strange how often it is easier to see the connections when you are sitting with all the elements in tidy order, without any interference or impressions from the scene of the crime. But the notion of using a sound recording to alter the time of a murder is familiar enough, from one of Agatha Christie’s earlier novels in particular. Now, if you go back to 25 Krebs’ Street and play the record that is still lying on the turntable in Harald Olesen’s flat, I would gladly bet my wheelchair and half my inheritance on the fact that you will sooner or later hear another gunshot.’

I didn’t offer to take her up on the bet. I fortunately had no need for a wheelchair, and I unfortunately would never have as much money as half her inheritance. What is more, I did not for a second doubt that she was right. I mumbled my thanks and stood up to leave. She called for the maid straightaway. While we waited, Patricia wrote down a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

‘This is the direct number to my telephone. I would appreciate it if you could call me once you have confirmed my theory about the record player. Then we can see if there is any more I can help you with.’

I vaguely registered that we were already on more informal terms, and that it felt completely natural, despite the somewhat grand-old-days feel of the Borchmann home. I nodded, tucked the slip of paper carefully into my wallet and silently and obediently followed the maid out. I still felt as though I had been hypnotized by the time I reached the car, but understood keenly enough that my apparently unsolvable murder mystery had taken a great leap forward towards a possible conclusion.

V

When I arrived at 25 Krebs’ Street around two, everything appeared to be as calm as before. The caretaker’s wife was sitting in her place by the door and immediately let me into Harald Olesen’s flat. There was no sign of any of the other residents. I had some new questions for a few of them, but for the moment there was no room in my head for anything other than Harald Olesen’s record player.

The record player was still there, with the recording by the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra on the turntable. With a pounding heart and shaking hand, I carefully lowered the needle. I expected the label to be fake and the record to be soundless at the start, but I had another shock in store when an irresistible waltz immediately filled the room. The volume was nearly on full, and the record was obviously real enough. So now I expected that the music would fall silent and the gunshot would ring out at the end of the record. Having turned down the volume, I waited with growing anticipation for a gunshot that never came. The needle lifted and returned to its place without further drama once the final bar had been played.

To begin with, I was disappointed. Then I laughed, despite the setback it meant for me, as the cocksure Miss Patricia’s creative theory had not held. I put the record on again and increased the volume before going over to Harald Olesen’s telephone and dialling the number on the slip of paper in my wallet.

Patricia picked up the phone before the second ring. I could actually hear her surprise, prompted by the music, and so talked louder than necessary to drown it out.

‘I am in Harald Olesen’s flat and have turned on the record player and listened to the whole record. And as you can hear, it seems to be a red herring.’

There was silence for a moment on the other end of the line. It is possible that Patricia doubted herself and her theory for a matter of seconds, but it certainly did not last long.

‘But that has to be it. There is no other credible solution. Is the record player free-standing, or is it part of one of these newfangled stereo systems with a cassette player?’

I glanced quickly over at the record player and was immediately gripped by uncertainty. The record player was indeed part of a big new stereo system with a cassette player – and there was a cassette in the player. Patricia’s response was as quick as a flash when she heard this.

‘Then the cassette player has to be the answer. Play the cassette that is there, but turn down the volume in order not to terrify the whole building if – I mean when there is a gunshot. Call me again when you have played the cassette. But of course, if there is no gunshot on the cassette either, there is no need for you to waste any more time in calling me again.’

Thus spoke Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann – without drawing breath. Then she put down the phone without saying goodbye.

I looked at the stereo, full of doubt, but then turned off the record player and rewound the cassette to the start. The cassette looked genuine enough, and the German writing promised Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. It seemed to take an eternity to rewind. When it had finally rewound to the start, I reduced the volume by a couple of notches and sat down to wait for the cassette to crank into action. It started, as expected, with Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. I immediately wondered if this was the most valuable use of my time. However, the music stopped with a loud click after only a couple of minutes. The cassette then crept forwards as slowly as could be for the next twenty-five minutes. At first, I paced around the room, but as the tape got ever closer to the end, I moved ever closer to the large loudspeakers of the stereo player.

I expected the tape to stop at any moment when suddenly there was another muffled click, followed by a loud gunshot.

Despite having turned down the volume, it exploded like an atomic bomb in my ears. I jumped and then watched paralysed as the cassette stopped. I stood there for five minutes, puzzling over whose hand might have started this tape recording the last time it played.

When I eventually managed to pull myself together and phone back, she answered the phone on the first ring. ‘Was the gunshot at the very end?’ she asked.

I mumbled a subdued ‘yes’, an even more muffled ‘congratulations’ and a somewhat louder explanation that the gunshot was right at the end of a cassette of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. I could almost feel the receiver quiver as she breathed out.

‘Thank goodness for that. I was almost starting to get worried. Remember to check the cassette and stereo player for fingerprints, but do not be disappointed if there are none. We are dealing with a particularly Machiavellian murderer.’

I replied that that was quite clearly the case, but that it did help to know how he had escaped and to have adjusted the time of the murder to nearly twenty-five minutes earlier. This seemed to confuse her somewhat.

‘Hold on a minute. Firstly, I am not at all certain that the murderer is a he, and secondly, where did you get the twenty-five minutes from?’

I smiled to myself that I was ahead of her this time and informed her that the cassette had a playing time of twenty-five minutes. I waited for the ‘aha’ exclamation, but instead got only a small sigh of relief and another ruthless question.

‘But we have no evidence that the murderer put on the cassette immediately after he or she carried out the murder, do we?’

And of course I had to admit that we didn’t. The murderer could in theory have waited for as long as he – or she – wanted in the flat before starting the cassette and leaving. Equally, the tape might have been wound forward so that the murder took place only minutes before the gunshot. Suddenly, it became of far more interest that the pathologist had only been able to narrow the time of death down to between eight and eleven. Patricia and I promptly agreed that any of the residents who did not have a watertight alibi for the period from eight until ten past ten must be seen as potential murderers. We also quickly agreed that I should return and discuss the situation with her before talking to the neighbours again.

VI

Half an hour later, I was back sitting in the library at the White House in front of Princess Patricia. She was nibbling happily on a large carrot, like an unusually self-satisfied rabbit. With the carrot in her left hand, she wrote down key words at perfect speed with her right, while I sipped my tea and repeated the neighbours’ statements. It occurred to me more than once that this was a breathtaking breach of standard investigation procedure, which could cause enormous problems for me should it ever get out. But it also struck me as unthinkable that either the father or daughter would ever let the secret slip. My childhood trust in the Borchmann family was deeply ingrained. Furthermore, I firmly believed that there was more help to be had here. And last of all, I had to admit to myself, and mark my words to myself alone, that help may be needed if Harald Olesen’s clearly cunning murderer was to be caught.

Patricia proved for the first time to be a good listener, as she patiently heard out my long account of what had been found in the case so far. Several times I noticed a twinkle in her eyes, but when I made signs of stopping, she motioned impatiently for me to continue.

‘That was very interesting and informative on certain points,’ she said, when I had finished, sometime around four o’clock. I chose to take that as a huge compliment.

‘So, who killed Harald Olesen?’ I asked pointedly.

She gave me a small smile as she shook her head apologetically.

‘Investigating a murder when the perpetrator is unknown is in many ways similar to painting a portrait. On Thursday night, we had a blank canvas, but have now managed to sketch a few characteristics, which will then lead to more. Even though it may all become clear soon, it may still take a considerable amount of hard work before the face is distinct enough. Despite the adjusted timeframe, it remains hard to see how the murderer could get in before the murder without being seen – or escape afterwards. Given what we know, he or she can still only be one of the other residents. But we have to keep our options open. As the murder took place sometime between eight and ten past ten, everyone who was in the building – with the exception of the baby, of course – had the opportunity, in theory.’

I looked at her and hesitated, but then ventured a slight objection.

‘Don’t you think we can rule out the man in the wheelchair?’

She shook her head and pushed back her own chair.

‘Not at all. Nothing that we know thus far rules out the possibility that a man in a wheelchair, who is otherwise healthy, might have committed the murder, alone or in collaboration with others. You must ask him in more detail about how he came to be in a wheelchair and just how serious it is. Even the caretaker’s wife, until proven innocent, is a potential murderer.’

Patricia was on a roll now and carried on tirelessly.

‘So, in the spirit of Agatha Christie, the main question therefore must be, who stood to gain so much from Harald Olesen’s death that they murdered him? And by extension, why was there a need to kill him now – when he did not have long to live anyway?’

‘Perhaps the murderer did not know he was ill?’ I suggested.

Patricia nodded, but then shook her head.

‘That is, of course, perfectly possible, but I still believe that it is more likely that the murderer knew about the illness, and that, paradoxically, was the very reason why things had to happen fast.’

Naturally, I could not resist asking why. I was not entirely sure what sort of answer I expected; it definitely was not the one I got.

‘Because there was no murder weapon at the scene of the crime.’

Again she smiled at my confusion. Her smile seemed to me to be a rather arrogant and unlikeable side of her nature, but I was too interested in what she had to say to give it any further thought.

‘I have to admit that the conclusion is somewhat speculative, given there are so many unknown factors, but it is very odd. If you had found a murder weapon near the body, the case would probably have been interpreted as an obvious suicide. Leaving a weapon behind would have been a far more obvious choice than this advanced idea involving the stereo player. The fact that the murderer did not use the option of leaving the gun behind would indicate that the murder was committed earlier than planned. The only other explanation I can think of is that the murderer wanted to demonstrate that it was a murder and not a suicide. No matter what, the question as to why it happened now is currently almost inseparable from the question of why it happened. His will and the money that was missing from his account are obviously both of great interest in this connection. You should follow up both questions as soon as possible after the weekend. In the meantime, I suggest that you ask the neighbours if they can provide the investigation with information regarding their finances. It will be of considerable interest simply to see who answers “yes” or “no” to this.’

I nodded, and immediately followed up with a new question.

‘Do you think that this is essentially about money?’

Patricia thoughtfully nibbled on her carrot for a minute or so before answering.

‘The money may be decisive, but I think it is a lead more than a solution, and that this is about something more important and more serious. In any case, there are already several clues that point back to the war.’

I thought to myself once again that people who claimed that money was not important for some reason always seemed to have plenty of it. But before I could decide whether to mention it or not, she pushed on to new heights.

‘In short, I do not think we are looking for someone who functions normally. I believe we are looking for a human fly.’

Despite the fact that my knowledge of zoology is perhaps better than average, I have to confess that this was an unknown species to me – and I certainly did not understand why she was talking about it now. Having wracked my brains for a minute or so, I had to swallow the bitter pill and ask what she meant. She attempted to give an apologetic smile, without much success.

‘I am sorry – I wasn’t thinking. It is a concept that I made up myself and have used so much since that I forget that it is not something that other people understand. But I do think that it may be relevant here. There are a good many people who at some point in their lives have experienced something so painful and traumatic that they never get over it. They become human flies and spend more or less the rest of their life circling round what happened. Like flies round a rubbish tip, to use a simple analogy. I think that Harald Olesen himself, behind his suit and mask, was in fact a human fly. And I have a strong suspicion that he was killed by another one.’

I now understood what she meant – and immediately saw a possible link to my own preliminary theories.

‘Which would point to Konrad Jensen?’

Patricia wagged her head thoughtfully before answering.

‘Yes and no. At the moment, Konrad Jensen is the most obvious human fly among the neighbours. But I suspect that he is not the only one, and I for various reasons doubt that he is the right one. It would be more plausible that he was the murderer if we could find a direct link between his background in the war and Harald Olesen’s.’

I had to agree with what she had said so far. And it suddenly occurred to me that I should ask what her thoughts were regarding the blue raincoat. She lit up when I mentioned it and gave me a much longed-for compliment.

‘You are absolutely right – it may be crucial. Once we have established who threw the blue raincoat away, I think we will be hard on the heels of the murderer. The problem is that it was not found until Friday morning. And I am sure that you did not go through the residents’ wardrobes on Thursday evening in search of a blue raincoat?’

This was my opportunity for a welcome small victory.

‘Of course we did not search their wardrobes for a blue raincoat that we knew nothing about, but I think we can say with reasonable certainty that it was not to be seen in any of the neighbours’ flats late on Thursday night. No one has made a note of a large blue raincoat, and it would not be particularly easy to hide something like that in the event of a house search.’

For a moment I thought that Patricia was about to get out of her wheelchair. For about thirty seconds her eyes flashed and her body tensed.

‘Brilliant,’ she almost whispered. ‘It is still not a determining factor, but may prove to be.’

I waited for further explanation, but soon realized that this would not be forthcoming. So instead I asked what she made of the neighbours’ statements. This time she was quick to answer.

‘There are still an extraordinary number of secrets in that building. The fact that all those people have ended up in the same building is suspicious in itself. The American diplomat is perhaps strangest of all, but the student from Sweden, rentier from Oppland and millionaire’s daughter from Bærum do not really belong on the east side of the river in Torshov either. Some of them may have ended up there by chance – that goes without saying – but that is certainly not the case for all of them. In fact, I suspect that only one of the residents has been completely open and honest so far.’

She stopped abruptly, no doubt knowing that I would ask who. When I did, she gave me the most tantalizing smile and tore a page from her notebook. With her left hand hiding the page, she dashed off some words before folding the paper. Then she rang the bell for the maid. While we waited, Patricia beamed at me with the most disarming and innocent smile.

‘Please forgive my somewhat eccentric behaviour, but it is a shot in the dark that may be wrong. And if that is the case, my speculations must not be allowed to bias your ongoing investigation.’

As soon as there was a knock on the door, she stopped the conversation and held the folded sheet out to the maid.

‘Please put this in a sealed envelope and send it to Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen at Oslo Police. You will find the address in the telephone directory. Send the letter this evening on your way home.’

Benedikte looked from Patricia to me, obviously confused.

‘Benedikte, do not try to think for yourself, as it has never been very successful. Benedikte should just do as she is told and then everything will be fine,’ Patricia instructed, in a harsh voice.

The silent Benedikte nodded apologetically, took the piece of paper and hastily withdrew. I felt the episode to be uncomfortable, even though this might be the way they normally spoke to each other. However, I already had more than enough problems without interfering in internal communications in the Borchmann household.

Patricia waited before saying any more until the door was safely closed behind Benedikte.

‘The post has already been collected today, so the letter will not be sent until Monday, which means that you will not receive it before Tuesday at the earliest. It may be that I have made a mistake, but it will be interesting to see whether my theories today tally with what happens between now and Tuesday. I would be very surprised if some of the residents had not decided to amend their original statement quite substantially by then.’

I remembered one of the loose threads that I was struggling to tie up and immediately drew her attention to it.

‘Kristian Lund is perhaps one of them. What do you make of the discrepancy as to when he came home on the evening of the murder? It’s three against two, and I am really not sure who to believe.’

Suddenly, Patricia burst into loud, mischievous laughter.

‘Perhaps I should not laugh. That is another story, but it may of course still prove to be important. If you think about it, it is not necessarily three against two in favour of Kristian Lund. The fact that his wife confirms that he came through the door at nine o’clock does not necessarily contradict the claims from the other two that he came in the front door an hour earlier. The only person to support his claim that he came in at nine is the caretaker’s wife, who you said seemed to be bothered by the situation. I think you should have a serious talk with her about it, then I think that it will be cleared up soon enough.’

I promised to do so, without entirely seeing the point.

‘But where was Kristian Lund in the meantime, then? He could hardly have used all that time to get from the front door to the first floor.’

Patricia laughed again – just as loudly and mischievously as before.

‘If that were the case, he would be even less able than Andreas Gullestad and myself combined. If Kristian Lund did come back at eight o’clock, he could in theory have been in any of the other flats in the building. In practice, however, there are really only two possibilities. One is extremely serious, and the other extremely embarrassing – and both are of great potential importance to the investigation.’

I stared at Patricia, more fascinated than ever. She gave me her most coquettish smile and on purpose munched the rest of her carrot at a very leisurely pace before continuing.

‘The first and more serious possibility is of course obvious… Kristian Lund was on the second floor in Harald Olesen’s flat. For reasons he cannot or does not dare to share with us. It is quite possible this is the case, but the second theory is more probable.’

My patience was in danger of running out. And it certainly did when she found this to be a suitable moment to conjure up another raw carrot and take another couple of pensive bites. My suppressed irritation at being teased by those more intelligent than me at middle school suddenly flared up again.

‘So where was Mr Lund between eight o’clock and nine o’clock according to your second and more embarrassing theory? Could the young Miss Borchmann be as kind as to let the head of investigation know?’

My sharp tone made Patricia frown for a moment. Then she smiled disarmingly again, but still with a mischievous undertone. Suddenly, she was just like any other normal, gossipy eighteen-year-old girl on a school trip.

‘According to my second and more embarrassing theory, he was of course on the first floor. In the bedroom of Flat 2A, to be precise – on top of Miss Sara Sundqvist!’

She burst out laughing again, this time presumably at the expression on my face.

‘It fits suspiciously well, does it not? It would explain her mysterious lover, and the remarkable fact that he has never been seen by the caretaker’s wife, or anyone else for that matter. It would also explain why Kristian Lund stubbornly denies in front of his wife that he came back any earlier.’

Of course it fitted suspiciously well. Including the reaction of the caretaker’s wife, now that I thought of it. The only thing it did not explain was why I had failed to recognize the possibility myself. And why the caretaker’s wife had lied. Kristian Lund had an increasing number of awkward inconsistencies to explain, even though I still could not bring myself to see the anxious young father as a cold-blooded murderer.

In wrapping up, Patricia agreed that it would be prudent to inform the press of the change in the time of the murder and the story behind it on Sunday, once I had confronted the neighbours. She said that I was ‘right’ that it was a better idea to increase pressure on the murderer than to give a false impression of safety. Secretly, I was more worried about what people and the media might think or believe if more days were to pass without any visible breakthrough in the investigation.

On Saturday, 6 April 1968, I left the White House around six o’clock in the evening. In stark contrast to the situation some twenty-four hours earlier, I drove home that evening secure in the knowledge that Harald Olesen’s murderer would be caught and face punishment sooner or later.

Just before I left, however, I made an error of judgement that bothered me for the rest of the evening. As I got up, I thought that I should perhaps emphasize the seriousness of the case to Patricia.

‘I have been entirely open with you and trust that you will not abuse that. You must never mention the content of our conversations to another living soul, with the exception of your father perhaps, if necessary.’

She gave me the most injured look I have ever received from a woman – and that, sadly, says enough in itself. Then she added, in a bitterly grave voice: ‘But my dear Detective Inspector… who on earth would I tell anything to?’

Ashamed, I glanced around the large room in which she sat so visibly on her own among all her books. Then I mumbled an apology and said thank you, before following the perpetually silent maid from the room. By the time I crossed the threshold, Patricia had already taken the bookmark out of the book that was on top of the pile and was munching demonstratively on a carrot, without having deigned to say a word.

When I went to bed at the end of the third day of the investigation, I was far more optimistic about the future outlook of the case, influenced by my meeting with Patricia. But I was also aware that we were on the trail of a particularly cunning murderer and that the road to an eventual arrest might be long. I had no idea, however, that it would take a further six days of high drama that resembled a bizarre game of chess between Patricia and the murderer – without them even being in the same room or in direct contact.