The Human Flies

I

On Sunday, 7 April, my working day started at Krebs’ Street around ten o’clock. I had, however, phoned to warn of my arrival and said to the caretaker’s wife that I needed to speak to her. So there she was sitting dutifully at her post, even though it was early on a quiet Sunday morning. She waved and smiled as soon as she saw me, but already from a distance I thought I could detect some uncertainty and fear in her movements. As planned, I got straight to the point.

‘Giving false statements to the police in criminal cases is called perjury and is a serious crime that can result in a prison sentence or heavy fine.’

There was little doubt that this hit the mark. The caretaker’s wife stared at me, paralysed, her face chalk white and her jaw twitching. I carried on swiftly.

‘But, as there are as yet no official written statements in this case, and it has been a very demanding situation for you, we may be able to overlook a little confusion at the start, if you now give me a complete and true account of when the residents came home on the evening of the murder…’

The caretaker’s wife pulled herself together with impressive speed and immediately started to talk like the clappers.

‘Thank you so much. I have been so worried, and regretted night and day that I didn’t tell you the truth straightaway. But as you said, it has not been an easy situation for me, as I had written on the list that Kristian came home at nine, and I had sworn to Kristian that I would say that it was right if anyone asked. How could we know that it would be the police who came and asked? And I was so sure that Kristian had nothing to do with the murder. So then I got all confused and simply didn’t know what to do, so I thought it would be best just to stick to what I had written down and promised. The fact that Kristian sometimes comes home earlier need not really affect anyone apart from him and his wife.’

I immediately used the opportunity to impress a little more.

‘And the young Miss Sara Sundqvist, of course.’

The caretaker’s wife had got over the worst of her shock and gave a fleeting smile before she continued.

‘It is incredible how much the detective inspector has already managed to discern. Yes, of course, but Miss Sara is such a charming and kind young lady. She has nothing to do with the murder; I’m absolutely certain of it.’

Her smile broadened before she carried on. Before she even started to talk, I guessed that she was dreaming about her own days of young love.

‘I noticed it, in fact, before I knew anything for sure. Sara seemed to fly down the stairs; her back was straighter and her smile brighter than before, so even an old croney like me could guess that there must be an unusually handsome man involved. I made the connection one morning when she came running down just after he had passed on his way out. The next morning, she came down unusually early, but stood waiting outside on the pavement until he came. And the next day again, she came first and he followed only a couple of minutes later. So then I knew that something was happening. I said nothing to either them or Mrs Lund, naturally. It was none of my business, and I didn’t want to make trouble for anyone.’

I nodded my understanding.

‘So far, well and good. Except then you started to falsify the lists and to lie to the police. But perhaps that was not your own idea?’

The caretaker’s wife shook her head firmly.

‘No, no, I would never have thought of anything like that myself. It was Kristian who came to me at the start of the following week. It was so touching; he was so open when he told me that he was head over heels in love with Miss Sara and had started an affair with her. He said that it was difficult and he had to think hard about what he should do. In the meantime, he asked me not to say a word to Mrs Lund about what I might see or hear, or to anyone else. I promised that I wouldn’t. But then he asked me to lie if anyone asked directly whether I had seen anything suspicious, and to write on my lists that he came home an hour later on the days when he called and told his wife he would be late. I put my foot down. Not to gossip about things that are none of your business is one thing, but I have never wilfully told a lie…’

There was a small silence between us.

‘And then…’ I prompted.

She nodded.

‘And then he took out his wallet and said that of course my help deserved a little reward. He thought that perhaps one hundred kroner a month would do the trick, with two hundred in advance as it was nearly Christmas. He took out four fifty-kroner notes.’

The caretaker’s wife sat thinking, without saying a word. A couple of tears rolled slowly down her wrinkled cheeks. Then she got up heavily from the chair and indicated that I should wait a minute. ‘I have a couple of photographs I need to show you,’ she mumbled, as she went past.

A few minutes later, she came back with two framed photographs in her hands. The first was an old, yellowing black-and-white wedding picture of a smiling young couple. The man was tall and dark, the woman a head shorter and much rounder.

‘That was in spring 1928,’ she said quietly. As if that explained it all.

‘The Labour Party had just formed their first government and the future looked bright. A lot of people asked me then, and over the years that followed, how I had managed to find such a good man as Anton. And he was back then: handsome, hard-working and reliable in everything he did. Everything was rosy for the next twelve years. He had a job; the children managed to avoid tuberculosis and grow up. We never complained, despite the long working hours.’

‘And then…’ I said again, still unsure of where this was leading.

‘Then the war came and Anton joined the Resistance. He asked me first, but I couldn’t say no when that was what he wanted and the country’s future was at risk. I have asked myself a thousand times since how life would have been if I had put my foot down and said no. As it was, his life was torn apart by the war, though we didn’t realize it at the time. My Anton was one of the ones who survived the war but could not live with the memories when peace came. He started to have nightmares and problems sleeping, which led to more cigarettes and more and more alcohol. I told you that he was away and you didn’t ask any more questions, but he is actually in hospital and won’t leave until he is in a coffin. I have told him so many times over the years that with the amount he smoked and drank, either his lungs or his liver would take him from us before he was sixty. He is sixty-two now, but it will be over in a few weeks, thanks to his liver and his lungs. If you need to talk to him, you should not put it off longer than necessary.’

She looked down for a moment, then quickly continued.

‘I know what you are thinking: why am I sitting here when my husband is in hospital? Well, it is partly that I have never liked hospitals. But most of all, it is because I can’t bear to see him. He is just a shadow of what he once was, and the only thing left in his life is pain. I always go the minute they call and say that he wants to see me, which is not very often, but it won’t make it any easier for us when it happens either. One of us has to keep things going, for the sake of the children and the people here. So that is why I would rather sit here with this old photograph. I want to remember him as he once was, not as what he has become.’

The tears were streaming down her cheeks now and I did not know what to do to stop them. I waited for a couple of minutes and then pointed tentatively to the other picture. It was a more recent photograph of an easily recognizable older woman and four dressed-up children sitting on the floor smiling, in front of a Christmas tree and a pile of presents.

‘Anton’s life went to pieces after the war, and with it so did mine and our family life. And in last few years the fight has only got harder. He struggled to do his work, and every kroner he could get his hands on went on cigarettes and booze. Christmas and New Year have always been the highlight of the year, as all our children and grandchildren come here, and out of consideration to them he managed to stay relatively sober for those few days. But last autumn, I was at my wits’ end. We owed money and I had no more friends I could ask for a loan. I desperately needed eighty kroner to pay off the most urgent creditors before Christmas and a hundred more for the Christmas presents and food. I had no idea how I was going to get hold of even fifty kroner. I had nothing left of any value that could be pawned. And then, like a miracle, Kristian stood right here and gave me four fifty-kroner notes. So I swallowed my pride and accepted it. It felt terrible to peddle lies for Christmas and I cried myself to sleep more than once. But then the grandchildren could celebrate Anton’s last Christmas with him, with better food and bigger presents than ever before. And I comforted myself with the thought that people had accepted hush money for worse reasons.’

I looked at the picture of the caretaker’s wife with her grandchildren and realized that it was true that many other people would certainly have accepted dirtier money for far more dubious reasons than that. So I told her the truth – that on a personal level it was very easy to understand and that we could no doubt overlook the legal implications, as long as it was simply a matter of amending an oral statement. And on the condition that we now and in the future were told the truth and nothing but the truth. The caretaker’s wife was mightily relieved and crossed her heart and promised to do so.

‘The fact that your husband was active in the Resistance during the war is new to me. Was he in contact with Harald Olesen at the time, do you know?’

The caretaker’s wife beamed at the thought of the old days and gave me a proud smile before continuing.

‘But of course I know. It was in fact Harald Olesen who asked my husband to join. I can still remember them shaking hands on it, at the kitchen table right here. I helped a bit myself later on. On several occasions we hid refugees in the cellar, until Olesen found a way to get them over the border to Sweden. Anton was just one of many helpers at the time. Harald Olesen was always on the go and managed to build up a big network between here and the border. I have often thought that he must have been a remarkably strong man to not only have coped with all that responsibility during the war, but also to have managed to live with the memories of everything he had experienced.’

I realized that we might be on to something interesting now – something that could lead to a motive for murder.

‘Given the way things turned out later, did you or Anton ever direct your frustration at Olesen?’

The caretaker’s wife shook her head adamantly.

‘We never felt any ill will towards him. How could we? It was the war, and how could anyone know what would happen to Anton later? We were proud to live in the same building as Harald Olesen, even though we lived in the basement, three floors below him. Even in the past few years, Anton would always pick up and drink less whenever he spoke to his old hero. Olesen never really understood how bad things were with Anton, but he did realize that life was difficult in the basement. And he gave us more and more wonderful presents for our birthdays and Christmas each year. Harald Olesen was a good man, always was, and I haven’t got a word to say against him and cannot understand who would murder him. I cannot think of anyone from the war who might be of importance to the murder, but maybe my husband knows more.’

I nodded. The caretaker, Anton Hansen, who was currently in hospital, was someone I needed to talk to as soon as possible. I only had one crucial question left to ask his wife.

‘But what about Mrs Lund? Did you never think of her?’

‘Of course I thought about her and the baby, and more than once it struck me that what he was doing was an enormous betrayal to them both. But Kristian is a good man, someone who has worked his way up. He works long days and has no doubt found it difficult to live up to the expectations of his parents-in-law. The only time her parents came here, they looked at me and the building in disgust. And Kristian took such good care of his sick mother – the last time she was here, he more or less carried her in. He’s never had a father, you see, so it’s not been easy for him. There is not a bad bone in his wife, and she is very sweet with the child, but she has never been denied anything she wants in life, and she has no idea what it is like to have an alcoholic husband or to grow up without a father. Kristian would have to do something very wrong for me to side with her against him. I have thought many a time that he would be far better suited to the hard-working Swedish student than the doll that he’s married to who has never had a problem.’

I thought to myself that the class war was still alive and kicking, at least in this basement flat in Torshov. And that the more I learned about the residents, the less relations on the stairs were what they seemed. The caretaker’s wife and her ‘absent’ husband could also be far more significant players than I had at first assumed.

The caretaker’s wife smiled sadly when I said that as a matter of procedure, I would have to see all the residents’ bank books, including hers. She got up heavily and pulled a worn red post-office savings book out from a drawer and handed it to me.

‘There is not much to brag about there for a lifetime’s savings, but it is more than I had when Anton was still at home,’ she said, with a tired, tight smile.

I had to agree with her after a quick check. According to her post-office savings book, the caretaker’s wife from the basement had forty-eight kroner in her account, and that really was not a lot to boast about for a hard-working life. All the same, she had managed to save what little she could over the past few months. Five months previously, her balance had been four kroner. Wherever the 250,000 kroner that had disappeared from Harald Olesen’s account in the past year had gone, it certainly was not concealed in this savings account.

I had thought of going up to the Lunds to ask a few questions and then on to Sara Sundqvist, but the caretaker’s wife had noted that Kristian Lund had driven to work around nine, after ringing his secretary and asking her to meet him there, even though it was Sunday. On his way out, he had commented that he was behind with the stocktake and needed some time to himself to think. After a hasty consultation with myself, I decided that Kristian Lund was the next person I should speak to. So I asked the caretaker’s wife to phone him at work. I told him in brief that I had to talk to him as soon as possible, and it would perhaps be just as easy if I came to see him at the sports shop. There was silence on the other end of the line before he took the hint and replied that that would be fine. I told him I would be there in about a quarter of an hour, and he assured me that his secretary would keep an eye out for me and open the door.

II

The sports shop where Kristian Lund was manager was airy and modern, with double doors and a large display window facing onto a well-frequented street. It crossed my mind that a position as manager here was no doubt well paid and a good springboard for furthering a career in business, but I did not have time to reflect on this. Kristian Lund’s secretary turned out to be a petite blonde of about twenty-five and appeared at the door within seconds. Her body was slim and firm, as was the hand that she held out when she told me brightly that her name was Elise Remmen and that ‘our darling shop manager’ was waiting for me in his office. I followed her shapely back through the shop and down a long corridor of office doors. Elise Remmen enthused that the sports business was on the offensive and that this chain was leading the competition, so several other shops had recently moved their administration here.

On this Sunday, however, it was only in the shop manager’s office that the light was on and the door was open.

Kristian Lund stood waiting with his hand held out over the desk. I struggled to recognize him at first. Secure in his own work environment and with the murder now a few days past, he suddenly gave the impression of being a well-built, relaxed and solid man I could trust. Had it not been for the fact that I had met him before – and had he not been caught in the act of lying.

Kristian Lund held his mask well while his irritatingly nice secretary was in the room. She asked whether I would like a coffee or a tea and smiled so invitingly that I almost said yes. Kristian Lund then informed his secretary in a loud, clear voice that this was simply a matter of routine questions in connection with the murder of his neighbour and asked her to close the door behind her and carry on with the stocktake. She chirped ‘of course’ and flew out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.

As soon as we were alone, Kristian Lund changed character. His eyes became sharper and his movements more tense. This reinforced my impression that he was quite the human chameleon, with a talent for changing his appearance according to the circumstances.

Neither of us wanted to start the conversation, so we each sat there contemplating the other for a couple of minutes. Kristian Lund fished out a cigarette and lit it. It was like a fencing duel in which neither of us wanted to make the first advance, though one of us would have to eventually.

‘So, how can I help you today?’ he asked, in the end.

I instantly took the opportunity to launch a frontal attack. ‘First of all, I would like to know why you lied about your mother when we last spoke.’

A twitch rippled across Kristian Lund’s face. Then he shook his head a couple of times.

‘Hmm, lied… Well, perhaps I didn’t tell you all that I should have done. I realized that afterwards, that I should have mentioned that she was a member of the NS and was sentenced for treason after the war. A good detective such as yourself would of course find that out. But I didn’t think that my mother’s views during the war had anything to do with the murder case, which seemed complicated enough as it was. And what is more, I am fed up with the fact that I, even after my mother’s death, have to answer for things she did in her youth. I have tried to separate my life from it, and that has not always been easy!’

Suddenly, there was a trace of the same bitterness in Kristian Lund’s voice that I had heard in Konrad Jensen’s.

‘I do not deny that my mother was once a Nazi, and that she worked for an inhumane regime whose ideology I deplore, but to me, she was never a Nazi; she was just my mother. And not many I know have a better or kinder mother, especially given all the problems she had after the war. We lived with my grandparents for three years before my mother got an underpaid job as a cleaner. I don’t know how many times I heard or saw people shout abuse at her on the street. And I, who was not even born in 1940, was eleven before I made a friend who was allowed to ask me home. Things did get better after that. Two friends came to my twelfth party, five to my thirteenth and nine to my fourteenth, but there was always a shadow that Mother could not shake off. When I was confirmed and my mother stood up alone in church, several of the parents booed.’

He shook his head in indignation – and continued to let off new steam and old hurt.

‘I swore that I would never allow myself to be broken, but instead would show everyone what I was made of. And I have succeeded. My success was Mother’s only triumph after the war. She was persecuted and struggled with various complexes for years. And when the worst of it was finally over, she got cancer, thanks no doubt to all the cigarettes: I grew up in a cloud of smoke.’

He looked at his cigarette with sudden disgust and stubbed it out aggressively in the ashtray on his desk.

‘I keep trying to stop, but it’s not that easy… You must excuse us if we seem a little nervous at the moment – it has been a difficult winter. Just as things were starting to settle after my mother’s funeral and the christening of our boy, this murder happens. Mother fought bravely to the end, but was unlucky. Her last wish was that she would live long enough to see and hold her first grandchild. She lived four weeks longer than the doctor said she would, but our baby was born too late – by only three days. It has been an extremely demanding and painful time.’

I found all this very interesting and wanted to deal with some more details about Kristian Lund’s situation, which was without doubt not easy.

‘Do your parents-in-law know about your mother’s history?’

Kristian’s laughter was as unexpected as it was short and bitter.

‘I dreaded telling them for a long time, but it was not a problem – and there was no reason for it to be. My father-in-law is worth over four million and earned at least three- quarters of that trading with the occupying forces during the war. His companies broke all records in terms of turnover and profit. But do you think he was sentenced or abused by anyone after the war? Oh no, no one dared to reproach a factory owner from Bærum. A single mother from Drammen, on the other hand, was fair game for anyone. It is a shameful story. But I still do not see what my mother’s sad fate has to do with the murder of my neighbour.’

I nodded, trying to be sympathetic.

‘Nor do I, really. But I would like to know more about your father, if only to ensure that it has nothing to do with the case.’

He laughed again and shook his head firmly.

‘That won’t be easy. Apparently no one other than my mother knows my father’s name, and she is dead. That was the only bone of contention I had with my mother. I understood from a comment she once made that it was someone that she had had a relationship with for some time, and that it could not have been anyone else, but she never told me his name. I nagged and nagged her when I was a teenager. When things were at their worst, I refused to talk to her for a month because she would not tell me. But Mother was stubborn. The only answer she gave was that he had betrayed her and had never cared about me, so it would only make things worse if I knew who he was. Then, when I was around eighteen or nineteen, I said that I agreed with her and seldom asked after that. I tried to convince myself that if that was how he had behaved, he was not the father I would want anyway. But it remained a big question in my life, particularly when I went to business school and was the only one in the class who could not ask his father for money.’

This was becoming more and more interesting. The question of Kristian Lund’s father was yet another little mystery that I wanted to clear up.

‘And you have no idea either?’

He shook his head.

‘I spent a lot of time thinking about it in my youth. Physically, I am fair like my mother and look very like her, so there was not much to be had there. But one of my science teachers once remarked that with a smart brain like mine, I must have an exceptionally intelligent father. I lived on that compliment for a long time, and it was true. My mother was attractive when she was young, and always kind, but she was not particularly intelligent. She helped me with my homework when I was small, but was not of much help once I had finished primary school. Whereas I was top of my class in practically every subject, certainly in middle school. So it is highly likely that my father was – or is – an intelligent man. But otherwise, I have no idea. I was conceived sometime around May or June 1940, so that leaves a number of options. It could have been a German soldier, a Norwegian Nazi-sympathizer or some other Norwegian. My mother and grandparents spoke very little about that time later, so I do not have much to go on. Nowadays I try to think about it as little as possible. And I hope it is of no relevance to the murder case.’

I nodded.

‘We both hope so. But we also have to talk about a certain young woman who lives – and was at home – in the building in which the murder took place, and whom you definitely lied about when we first spoke together.’

The reaction was instant. There was a flash in Kristian

Lund’s eyes. With a slightly shaky hand he lit a new cigarette and took a couple of puffs before he answered.

‘I know what you are talking about. Was it the caretaker’s wife or Sara herself who told you?’

I shook my head.

‘Neither of them. I drew my own conclusions based on the information I had, and probability.’

He nodded with approval.

‘Impressive of you and reassuring for me. I am beginning to believe that you will indeed find the murderer. But that has nothing to do with the murder either. It is, of course, information that may be of some importance in terms of alibis and the like, and I apologize for lying, but I have got myself into rather a sticky situation. My wife does not need to know anything about this, does she?’

I agreed, but added quickly: ‘On the condition that it is of no relevance to the murder. And that you now give me a better account, which is more honest than the last one!’

He nodded vehemently. It appeared that Kristian Lund had no problems talking about deeply personal things. My impression that he was somewhat egocentric but also an intelligent and socially gifted person was reinforced.

‘I realize that the fact that I am having an extramarital affair with a woman who lives next door does not inspire confidence. Especially as I have such an attractive, good wife and a sweet little boy. I am afraid the explanation may take some time.’

I indicated that I was in no rush. Kristian Lund’s life was something that interested me more and more. He nodded gratefully, leaned back in his chair and thought for a few moments before starting.

‘It started sometime last year with a rather generous dose of good old-fashioned desire.’

He sat in silence for a moment. Then his face tightened before he carried on in a self-pitying vein once again.

‘But in fact it all goes back to my mother and my childhood. For many years I was the boy who none of the girls wanted to touch or admit that she liked. By the time I turned seventeen, I had still not kissed a girl. One experience in particular left its mark, even though it was completely innocent. When I was fourteen, we went on a school trip and all the boys in the class got a goodnight hug from one of the girls. Except me. “There are limits. Even for hugs,” she said with a cold, sarcastic smile. Everyone laughed. I cried all night and swore that one day I would be a success. Then when I was eighteen, everything suddenly changed. I played in a band and was the star of the football team. I had accumulated such a vast lack of intimacy that I exploited my advantage for all it was worth. The girl who refused to give me a hug when we were fourteen was one of several who then lay moaning under me when she was nineteen.’

He broke into a smile. It was obvious that this episode was one of the better memories from his youth.

‘I am certain there was an underlying need for self-vindication and revenge on my part, but also physical desire. I was an active young man with a strong libido. Young women soon excited me more than football matches. But then I got older and wiser, and my hormones settled. The atmosphere at business school was more mature and serious, and after I met Karen, I never touched anyone else. Until…’

The word hung in the air for a moment before he finished.

‘Until Sara stood there one day, glimmering on the stairs, and said that she had just moved in. I felt a surge of excitement and desire stronger than ever before.’

He leaned over the table towards me.

‘You are further from those days than I am, but you must at least once have stood slightly too close to one of those annoyingly beautiful temptresses between seventeen and twenty-three… who appears to have unwittingly tightened her belt too much, undone three buttons on her blouse and be standing a bit too close. With a provocative smile that seems to say that you can see this much whenever you like, but no more.’

I waved him on without answering. I indeed had stood too close to at least one young lady who fitted that description. And I noted that we were now on very familiar terms.

‘No girl provoked me or turned me on more when I was a lad. Sometimes I lied and made promises that I had no intention of keeping, even when I was sober. I believed that if a girl was giving out mixed messages, she had to accept that the opposite party might do the same. So I played the game, and gained more than I lost, I would say. Certainly, more than once they got a taste of their own medicine and were left crying in their own trap. Sara gave exactly that impression when she stood there in front of me. She was older, taller and more dignified in a way, in her long black dress with only two buttons open at the neck. But her smile had the same teasing, tempting effect, and the impact was all the greater because she otherwise appeared so respectable and intelligent. Her smile seemed to say that no one had been here before and being the first would not be easy. It felt like an open challenge as she stood there no more than an arm’s length from me, with her perfect curves under wraps. I have always been attracted to tall, dark women, and suddenly here I was facing my dream woman who was taller and darker than any I had met before. So I fell hopelessly in love, right there on the stairs, with her soft hand in mine. I found myself thinking, as I had in my youth, That smile is going to change and that dress is coming off!’

Talking about his conquests obviously put Kristian Lund in a better mood and he continued his story briskly. I saw no reason to interrupt him as yet.

‘A couple of hours after that first encounter, the worst of the shock had died down. But when my wife fell asleep, I lay awake beside her for hours thinking about the beautiful and tantalizing Sara. The following morning, when I was about to drive to work, she so happened to come out at the same time as me. So I played it instinctively, asked where she was going and said that I needed to pop by somewhere close to the university, so perhaps she would like a lift. Her smile was even more provocative than the day before and she immediately got into the car. We hit it off straightaway and had more to talk about than expected. I extended what was already a very long detour by adding a couple of extra turns, so I was almost half an hour late to work. I blamed the unexpected heavy traffic, which was as close to the truth as I could get. The next morning, I left home twenty minutes earlier in the hope that she would pop up again. An unusually beautiful young woman was waiting impatiently for me by my car. Two long, slim feminine legs dressed in tight denim trousers that emphasized her great shape, stamping on the pavement to keep warm. She nodded and gave me the most irresistible smile when I appeared by the car. I smiled back, got in behind the wheel and indicated that she should get in beside me. And off we drove together – as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I think it was when I saw her standing there on the second day that I knew that I would win – if I wanted to win and played my cards right. So I carried on playing the game, inspired. I drove her to the university and mentioned when I would be leaving the next morning. The second day, I got a hug, and on the third, a kiss on the cheek.’

He fell abruptly silent, but then continued happily when I asked him what had happened on the fourth day.

‘It all started as a bit of fun and a way of switching off during a very difficult period when I had too much to think about. It was only a few months since my mother had died. I was probably annoyed with my wife, who only thought about our boy and not about me. It was also a busy time with long days at work. The idea that a woman as beautiful as Sara might be interested in me gave me a boost. So a few days later, I let slip that my wife was taking our son to visit a friend in Bygdøy that afternoon. Sara gave me a knowing smile and suggested that I take the opportunity to come by and have a coffee with her. I am still not sure how far we had thought of going, but the invitation to coffee was our last chance to turn back in time. Sitting in the car, I could have said that it might not be appropriate. Or I could have not knocked on Sara’s door after I had driven my wife out to Bygdøy. But once I had crossed the threshold, and she stood there with her enticing smile, wearing the same dress as the first time we met… there was no going back. We had some coffee and then some wine and we sat on the sofa, but soon we were intoxicated by each other. Somehow we managed to lose our inhibitions after only two glasses of wine. I remember that she sat on my lap and I tried to whisper that we had to stop this now or her dress would end up on the floor and I would be on top of her before we knew it, but my intention was hardly to warn her off. The next thing I remember is that both her dress and the smile had disappeared and she was lying almost naked, moaning on the bed. I had no awareness of anything other than the two of us, and my only desire was to get her knickers off. And when they slid down her thighs…’

A dreamy expression slipped over Kristian Lund’s face. For a few moments he sat behind his desk lost in his own thoughts. Then he smiled with momentary self-irony.

‘Even if one of us had wanted to, it was by then far too late to stop, both mentally and physically. Only brute force could have held me back, and it would have required handcuffs and a horde of constables. It was wrong, of course, thinking of my wife and baby son. But strangely enough, I have never regretted it either. She is far stronger than she appears, both physically and mentally. It was wilder than anything I had experienced in the bedroom before. To feel my tall, dark dream woman underneath me, minute after minute, until I finally collapsed exhausted with a loud groan, was truly the greatest love and triumph I have ever felt in my life. It felt as though I really was the first to be allowed in, and to scale such dizzy heights. Which is what she told me later, and I do believe it was true.’

I waited for a continuation that never came. Kristian Lund remained in his dream world for a while longer.

‘And then…’

He looked up, distracted, at once accusing and apologetic.

‘Then we lay there shamelessly naked for a few hours more. We smoked and talked about life and love, until I looked at my watch and discovered that I should have picked up my wife in Bygdøy five minutes earlier. Fortunately, Karen accepted my excuse that I had lain down for a while and lost track of time without question. Though in many ways, it was in fact true…’

He gave what I assumed was meant to be a disarming smile, but I would not be sidetracked.

‘But this was not on the day of the murder, was it?’

He immediately understood what I meant and shook his head with a grave expression.

‘No, not at all. It was on 12 November last year. I went to bed with my wife as normal that night, but slept very little. My mind was elsewhere. At first, I thought I could avoid Sara for a few days in the hope that it would pass, leaving nothing but a sweet memory. I tried getting up half an hour earlier than usual the next morning, but there she was again, waiting. I thought I might explain to her that we could not carry on meeting, but instead the opposite happened. In the course of the journey, I realized that she was the great love of my life, in both body and mind. It was the first time that I had not only fallen in love with and been physically attracted to a woman, but also felt that we shared a destiny. The love of my life was right there in front of me, living in the same building. Two days later, I was in her bed again. And since then I have bitterly regretted the fact that I was already married to someone else when I met her. Sara would of course like me to marry her, but understands that it is not easy to leave a wife and child.’

‘And in this case, you would also be leaving a rather large sum of money, would you not?’

I had expected an angry outburst, but instead he gave a crooked smile and gently shook his head.

‘A very large sum of money to be more precise. My wife is an only child and my father-in-law is a canny businessman who has used every opportunity given to him during and after the war effectively. And I must admit that the thought has crossed my mind. Those who say that money means nothing have not grown up poor. But now I have a well-paid job and good financial prospects. So, in fact, it is not something that weighs heavily in this case. In some ways, Karen’s father’s wealth makes it far simpler. She will never suffer financially, no matter what I do. Sara, on the other hand, lives on a student loan and what money her adoptive parents can afford. I have realized that if I am to let her go, I must at least give her a decent sum to help her on her way.’

Kristian Lund sat pondering for a while before carrying on. And I thought to myself that I could not recall having ever met such a romantic cynic before.

‘It is heaven and hell at the same time. I have everything – the great love of my life with Sara and domestic bliss with my wife and son. But every day I am torn between them, and live in constant fear of being discovered. It is an unbearable existence that cannot go on for much longer. In the meantime, I simply keep brushing the problem to one side. The greatest risk was that the caretaker’s wife would notice. She is always there, and is both alert and wise. But we understand each other well; she reminds me of my deceased mother. Things are tight and she is in constant need of money, like Mother. So I reached an agreement with her that would give me an alibi, should my wife, or anyone else for that matter, start prying. Of course, I had little idea then that it would be the police who came and asked the questions.’

So far, everything was in perfect accord with what the caretaker’s wife had told me, but Kristian Lund still had one more question to answer.

‘We have now confirmed that Harald Olesen was killed earlier in the evening than first assumed. The gunshot that was heard was from a cassette tape, and Olesen was killed at some point between eight and ten o’clock that evening. How does that sit with your alibi?’

Kristian Lund rolled his eyes and thought for a moment.

‘I declare myself guilty of adultery and lies, but absolutely innocent with regard to the murder of my neighbour. I guess I do still have an alibi of sorts. Not only the caretaker’s wife, but also Darrell Williams and Konrad Jensen saw me come in at eight, and Sara could also confirm that I was in her company from then until nine o’clock. I dare say that there was a minute or two between the time that I left Sara and came home to my wife. But surely it would not even be theoretically possible for me to have entered Harald Olesen’s flat, committed a murder and left again within that time?’

I nodded rather vaguely.

‘Hardly. But I am sure that you do understand the uncertainty here. And we cannot simply rely on the statements of two women who both have potential motives for helping you.’

He nodded in agreement.

‘I do understand that, and also that I do not appear to be entirely trustworthy. I should have told you about Mother and Sara. But even though I have lied to you, and even though I am not proud of some of the things that I have done in my life, I could never kill another person. And as far as the murder of Harald Olesen is concerned, I have a clean conscience. I was just as shocked and baffled as the others when I heard the shot. In addition, it must still be hard to see any motive for me to murder him?’

I had to agree with that, but his question reminded me of something I had almost forgotten.

‘That certainly seems to be the case. However, I must still ask that you and all the other residents let us check any bank accounts you have.’

Kristian Lund jumped and immediately looked more wary. He sounded exasperated and almost aggressive when he replied.

‘I am sorry – I do not understand why that is necessary. What could you find in my account that could be of any relevance whatsoever to the murder?’

I felt that I was getting very hot now. I gave him my most piercing look and replied curtly: ‘I am afraid that we cannot divulge that for technical reasons. All I can say is that we are routinely checking the accounts of all the residents.’

For a few seconds Kristian Lund looked deeply perplexed. Then he shook his head in irritation.

‘I must say that I feel that this is becoming too personal. And I have work to do, so I am afraid that I will not be able to answer any more questions this morning. I would just like to point out that I know nothing about Harald Olesen’s murder. And in my vulnerable position, it is hurtful that you do not believe me. I will consider the situation and discuss it with my wife, but for now I am afraid that I cannot give you access to our bank accounts. In the meantime, you may think whatever you like is the reason for this.’

I really had no idea what to make of either Kristian Lund or his accounts, but I realized that I was going to get no further with him here and now, and had more than enough to be getting on with. So I asked him to stay in the office for the next couple of hours, without phoning anyone at 25 Krebs’ Street, and got up to leave.

The young Miss Elise Remmen was standing beaming right outside the door and showed me out with great efficiency. And it must be said that as I followed her as she sashayed through the shop, I did wonder how well she actually knew Kristian Lund. He seemed to have a highly developed and enviable knack of keeping the company of attractive women. But I chose only to exchange pleasantries about sport and sports equipment with Elise Remmen, rather than ask troublesome questions about her boss. It suited us both. She twittered away, happy as a lark, and said I would be welcomed back whenever I had the opportunity. If my thoughts had not been caught up in a murder investigation, I may well have been tempted.

With the exception of his reluctance to allow me access to his bank account, I found Kristian Lund’s revised statement to be relatively credible. All that remained was to establish what the other residents in 25 Krebs’ Street, in particular the young Miss Sara Sundqvist, might have to add to their earlier statements.

III

When I got to 25 Krebs’ Street, I made a brief visit to the Lunds’ flat first. Karen Lund was at home with her young son, and both were in a splendid Sunday mood. Mrs Lund listened to my story of the stereo’s secret with an open mouth, while her son was obviously less impressed and babbled away happily. It was swiftly established that, given the circumstances, it was now technically possible that Karen Lund could have carried out the murder before her husband came home at nine. She assured me, however, that she was not capable of murder, and that if she was going to carry out a murder, she would certainly have to make sure she had a babysitter first.

There was not much more to be had there, and I have to admit that I stayed no longer than strictly necessary. It felt awkward standing with the carefree Mrs Lund, now that I knew her husband was not the loyal family man she believed him to be. As she followed me to the door, I faced a bit of a dilemma when Karen Lund asked if the misunderstanding regarding when her husband had come home on the evening of the murder had been cleared up. I avoided saying anything definite as best I could by replying that there was no longer any doubt that he came home to the flat at nine o’clock on the evening in question. She seemed to be relieved to hear that and smiled brightly. I found myself wondering whether Mrs Lund really was as simple and happy as she seemed, or whether she might have a more serious and dangerous side.

More drama awaited on the first floor. Sara Sundqvist was still visibly shaken by the case and smiled very tentatively when she opened the door to me. However, now that the worst of the shock had passed, she had put on her black dress, leaving the top button undone, and I immediately understood how Kristian Lund had felt when I sat down beside her on the sofa. Her beauty was gracious and could undoubtedly be extremely tempting if she so wished.

It appeared that Kristian Lund had kept his word not to call. To begin with, Sara Sundqvist had very little to add to her previous statement. She was obviously taken aback when I told her about the stereo player, but smiled and complimented me on solving the mystery of how the murder was committed. She then had to admit that she did not have an alibi, as she had been at home from a quarter past four until after the body was found. And she had seen or heard no mysterious movements out in the hallway.

Sadly, she could not tell me much more about her parents. Her adoptive parents had been told only that they were a young Jewish couple, originally from Lithuania, with no other known children. Her parents were registered as dead in 1944, but no further details were recorded. She had been given the names Felix and Anna Marie Rozenthal, born in 1916 and 1918 respectively. Her own given name was Sara Rozenthal, and she had been born in 1943. But her adoptive parents had been given no other details, either about her parents’ disappearance or about how she ended up with a Swedish adoption agency in Gothenburg in 1944. She had wondered about it a lot in her youth. Following her twenty-first birthday, she had tried to find out more, with no success. She was told that there was no more information recorded anywhere, and as far as anybody knew, her parents had never been registered as domiciled in Sweden. She had gradually learned to accept the uncertainty surrounding her parents, tried to live her own life and regarded her kind adoptive parents as her only parents.

Her eyes slid over to the window as she spoke.

‘But as long as one does not know what happened or have a grave to go to, one can always daydream that they are still alive, somewhere,’ she added, in a quiet voice.

When I mentioned her bank account, she hesitated at first and then asked with a furrowed brow why I needed to see it. She responded swiftly to my reply that I could not answer that for reasons relating to the investigation. Rather reluctantly, she gave me a small Swedish bank book that showed a balance of 55,623 kroner. I allowed myself to comment that it was no mean sum for a student with no other income. She informed me then that she had first inherited some money from her adoptive grandfather and then received a whole year’s student grant in March, which together totalled 50,000. This did not sound improbable, and given that she had produced her bank book straightaway, I decided to accept the explanation for the time being.

‘However, we do, unfortunately, have to talk about your close relationship with one of your neighbours,’ I said in a sharper tone.

She paled and froze for a few seconds, and then asked how I had found out about it. I replied in all honesty that it was thanks to a wise analysis of known facts. I added that Kristian Lund had since been forced to admit the relationship, but that there was no reason for his wife to know about it – on the condition that she now gave me a complete and truthful account. Sara Sundqvist sighed with relief and regained some of her colour.

‘In many ways, it is a good thing that you found out. It has bothered me tremendously that I lied so much to you about it,’ she said, and moved fractionally closer to me on the sofa. She paused pensively for a couple of minutes. I let her take the time she needed without pressing. It was starting to dawn on me that she was a reflective young lady who did not like to make important decisions without thinking them through.

‘I hope you will be kind and not judge me too harshly. I have given considerable thought to his wife and son, and do feel bad for them,’ she admitted.

Then she was silent again.

‘But…’ I prompted, after a few moments.

‘But I can live with it. And in any case, she has almost everything: two parents, a child, lots of money and no worries about the past or the future. I deserve him more than she does. Kristian and I have both worked our way up from a difficult start in life. And she would probably be happy with any handsome and rich man, whereas I can only be happy with him.’

I resisted the momentary temptation to ask why she was so fond of Kristian Lund. She told me of her own accord: ‘It was not planned. It all started with a little social flirtation, of which I have had many without it leading to anything else. But this time it did. The flirtation spun out of control – in a wonderful way I have never experienced before. Suddenly, there we were one afternoon when his wife was away, without me quite realizing what was happening. But I have to take my fair share of the responsibility, as well as him. And I am ashamed to say that I do not regret it one bit, rather just hope that it will continue and that he will leave his wife. It is still a rollercoaster of highs and lows. I go to bed every evening with the hope that in the morning he will tell me that he is leaving his wife, and wake up every morning with the fear that today he will tell me that he is staying with her. Every time the doorbell or telephone rings, I jump and imagine that it is his wife and that all hell is about to break loose. I realize that it is not easy for him either, as his son is so young. But all is fair in love and war, and this is the one great love of my life. So I hope and believe still that he will choose me. In the meantime, I can scarcely think of anything else, day or night. Things cannot go on like this, I thought the day before the murder, and it has not got any easier since.’

I nodded in agreement. Whatever one’s view on the morality of it, it was very much in line with Kristian Lund’s account.

‘Could you please explain to me what it is that you like so much about him?’

To be fair, the question was not strictly related to the murder case, but I was increasingly curious about the phenomenon Kristian Lund and was still struggling to understand the various people involved in the case. Sara Sundqvist had definitely opened the way for heartfelt confidences now and carried on with enthusiasm.

‘He is everything that I have ever dreamed of in a man. There is the physical aspect, obviously. I have always been attracted to blond men of my height, and he has just the right physique and is so elegant. So I thought he was the most handsome man I had ever seen the first time I saw him. But I still would not have fallen for him if he had not also proved to be the nicest man in the world. He is intelligent, hardworking and kind. The fact that he has a wife and son in a way makes him even more reliable and trustworthy. He is the first person that I feel has truly understood me. Of course, we are very different in many ways, but we still understand each other so well. Probably due to our similar backgrounds from the war, I think. He has grown up without a father, and I have grown up without either of my parents.’

I understood what she meant. I actually felt my sympathies torn between the mistress and the wife living as they did, side by side on the first floor of 25 Krebs’ Street. The latter appeared to have few admirers here, other than her young son. The same was apparently true of the next person I was going to visit.

As I walked down the stairs, I pondered whether the ever more mysterious Sara Sundqvist had been aware of the fact that I too was a blond and well-built man of about her height.

IV

It took about ninety seconds from the time that I rang the bell at 1B until the door was opened. And I was soon to discover why. If the former member of the NS Konrad Jensen had been disillusioned and morose when I first visited him, he was now fearful, if not terrified. To begin with, he only opened the door a crack to ask who it was, and on hearing my voice, it took another whole minute before two scared eyes appeared. He rushed to lock the door behind me, putting on the safety chain before following me into the sitting room. Here he sank down heavily onto the sofa and hid his face in his hands.

‘Did you see Petter?’ he asked suddenly, in a choked voice.

I shook my head, having no idea what he meant. Konrad Jensen took his hands from his face, but stared blindly into space before continuing.

‘He’s parked on the second street to the right, and last night someone wrote, “Nazi murderer,” all over him, the caretaker’s wife told me. And this morning…’

His voice broke and he needed a minute to compose himself.

‘This morning, she came and told me that someone had battered him with a sledgehammer! All the windows have been smashed and the body bashed. This is the end for Petter. It would cost more to repair him than to buy a new car. You’ll have to have a look at him this evening, if you think there’s anything to be gained by it, because as soon as the insurance folk get here, it’ll be the scrapyard for him. I can’t bear to see him like that.’

The tears welled up in Konrad Jensen’s eyes. It seemed that the damage to his car was more of a shock than the death of Harald Olesen.

‘I know it’s pathetic for a grown man to cry over his car, but Petter was the only person I could trust, if you see what I mean. When he goes to the scrapyard, I won’t have any friends. I’ll wait to get a new car until this is all over, otherwise the same thing will just happen again. And I daren’t go out at the moment. I’ve been shopping at the Co-op for twenty years now, but on Saturday, the caretaker’s wife came and told me that they didn’t want to see me in the shop anymore. A number of customers had threatened to go elsewhere if they saw me there. My life is crashing around my ears, just when I had finally managed to get some kind of control!’

I promised to take a look at the car before I left and ask a constable to look into this act of vandalism. Konrad Jensen nodded with resignation, and sounded a touch calmer when he continued.

‘Thank you. I only hope that you find the murderer before the Resistance people or some young louts find me, or before life in here simply becomes unbearable!’

I tried to calm him more by saying that there was surely no reason to fear for his life and body. At which Konrad Jensen hauled himself up from the sofa. He dragged his feet out into the kitchen and came back with a small bundle of letters.

‘Well, I haven’t received any private letters since the card my sister sent for my fiftieth birthday, but yesterday, I suddenly got seven, and they’re not pleasant reading.’

He was absolutely right. The letters were not pleasant reading. The senders of all seven remained anonymous, without signature, and they all took for granted that Konrad Jensen had murdered Harald Olesen. Four of them could qualify as aggravated harassment, and the other three were plain murder threats. Having seen them, it was not hard to understand why Konrad Jensen did not dare to show himself on the street.

I immediately offered to post a constable by the front door, if that would make him feel safer. This prompted an unexpected moment of emotion. Konrad Jensen started to cry when he took my hand.

‘Thank you so much. I never thought that I would hear a policeman offer to guard Konrad Jensen, or imply that Konrad Jensen’s life was worth anything. But it’s the way things are. I’ll have to make sure not to go outdoors and be very careful about who I let in. If my time is up, it will stop, with or without a policeman standing guard at the front door. But it is not a very nice feeling. I always thought that Petter and I would go together, so now that he’s gone, I feel that I’m close to the end too.’

I felt an overwhelming urge to cheer him up a bit – and to get on with the investigation. So I used the opportunity to tell him about our breakthroughs in the investigation and the mystery surrounding the stereo player. Konrad Jensen congratulated me, but found it unsettling that such a calculating murderer was on the loose. He repeated three times that it was definitely not him who had planned it, but recognized that the adjusted time of murder meant that he too was now without an alibi.

To my question regarding his bank account, he replied with a fleeting, humiliated smile that he had nothing to hide. He had inherited little more than 2,000 kroner from his parents and had scrimped and saved the rest from his earnings of around 1,000 kroner a year. Konrad Jensen’s post-office savings book showed a total balance of 12,162 kroner.

‘Given the rise in prices, most of that will now go on a new car. So there goes my dream of watching the football on television one day,’ he added with a heavy sigh.

The question of what Konrad Jensen was actually doing out in the hallway when he met Darrell Williams on the evening of the murder was apparently more complicated. He chewed his lip before finally answering.

‘Nothing at all. I just popped out into the hall because I saw through the window that the American was coming in and hoped that he would stop to chat about the football if I was there. Pathetic perhaps, but true.’

And I believed him. Konrad Jensen was a sorry figure of a man, but he told the truth – as far as I could tell thus far.

Then suddenly he became bashful and hesitated a few times before he said something that I had not expected in the least.

‘When you asked if I had met Harald Olesen during the war or earlier… I may possibly have answered incorrectly.’

I fixed him with gimlet eyes. He held up his hands in defence.

‘It was through no fault of my own. I thought you wouldn’t believe me if I told you what I saw, and it’s hard to be certain. It might sound strange, but I thought you would just laugh.’

I had started to get used to the fact that Konrad Jensen both thought and spoke slowly and awkwardly, but once again he came round to the matter at hand without prompting.

‘I said that I had never met Harald Olesen during the war, which is true, but I think that I did meet him once just before the war. And if that is the case, it was at an NS meeting, of all places.’

This time his pause for thought was a sore test of my patience. He was absolutely right: it did sound rather odd.

‘Or to be precise, outside an NS meeting. There was a party meeting in Asker in the summer of 1939 at which Quisling himself spoke, and I was there, loyal as ever, you see. An unusually attractive blonde woman a few years older than me was standing in front of me in the queue, on her own. So of course I took the chance to go in right behind her and sat down next to her. Tried to chat to her before the speech, but only got short, disinterested replies. I understood only too well that her mind was set on another and that I was no great temptation, in any case. All the same, I followed her out in the hope that I might be able to catch the same bus. But of course I didn’t get the chance. She was picked up right outside by a somewhat older man in a large car. I remember thinking enviously that there was someone who had everything I wanted in life: a big, fast car and a beautiful young blonde. I only caught a glimpse of him through the car window. But when I saw pictures of Harald Olesen in the newspapers after the war, I immediately thought, Crikey – that’s the same man who picked up the beautiful young woman from the NS meeting. And I had the same thought a few years later when I first met him here, on the stairs.’

I listened to the incredible story with growing bewilderment. Konrad Jensen gave a deprecating shrug when he had finished.

‘I said it was strange, and for many years I refused to believe it myself. I’ve never mentioned it to anyone before now. But no matter how strange it sounds, I am more or less certain that it was in fact Harald Olesen behind the wheel in the car. And then when you appeared and asked if I had ever met him before, I thought that I should mention it to you.’

I nodded in agreement.

‘You were absolutely right to mention it, and I take it very seriously indeed. But it would be almost impossible to prove or disprove now – unless you have a name for this woman.’

He shook his heavy head.

‘No – unfortunately, I have no idea what she was called. I’ve never seen her again, before or after, or I’m sure I would have remembered. Thought I knew most of the young NS members in Oslo: there were not many of us at the time.’

‘What about the car – do you remember anything about it?’

Konrad Jensen lit up for a moment.

‘Yes, I knew all about cars, even back then. It was a large and quite new black Volvo. I’m pretty sure it was a 1932 or 1933 model. My greatest dream was to be able to buy something like that at some point.’

As I was leaving, he added: ‘I think you can strike off the caretaker’s wife and the cripple. In addition to myself, of course. Not many left then if the murderer lives in the building. I’d put my money on the Jewess, and then the American – even though I like talking to him about the football. But it’s really not easy to say, so you’ve got a hard job ahead of you.’

I certainly agreed with the latter, if not necessarily the former. I no longer had a clear main suspect, and Konrad Jensen seemed to be falling down the list.

V

Darrell Williams filled the entire doorway. His smile was as broad and his handshake as carefree as the last time we met. But even as I crossed the threshold, I had the feeling that this would be a more contentious visit. I had jotted down a few important questions that I assumed would prove a critical test of the American’s diplomacy skills.

The story about the stereo player seemed to make less of an impression on him than on the other residents. He praised me for having uncovered such a cunning murder plan, but added that he had heard of similar sophisticated plots in the USA. Quite apart from the fact that he lacked a motive and a weapon, he admitted with a disarming smile that he too was now a potential murderer. He had, as the caretaker’s wife had noted, come home at around eight and had sat alone in his flat with a book until five to ten, when he had gone for a short evening stroll through the quiet streets of Oslo, and on his way back in had stopped to discuss the football results with Konrad Jensen. He had not seen anyone other than Konrad Jensen out in the hallway that evening until they were outside Harald Olesen’s locked door and the other neighbours came running.

So far, the conversation was pleasant. However, when I asked whether his Norwegian girlfriend from 1945 to 1948 had a name, Darrell Williams stiffened.

‘Well, of course she did,’ he said, without a hint of a smile. ‘But I have no idea whether she still has the same name and have no intention of looking her up. I have nothing to do with this murder and cannot see what my sweetheart from the war might have to do with it either.’

I said that I would be grateful to know her name all the same, before drawing any conclusions. He replied curtly that he did not want to give it to me – at least, not here and now.

The conversation then went from bad to worse. After the question about his girlfriend, Darrell Williams was on his guard, even before I asked about his bank account. He had no doubt that it was a routine question that we asked everyone and emphasized that he had nothing to hide personally. However, he did find it ‘very uncomfortable’ and, following a brief pause for thought, said that he would have to discuss it with the ambassador before he could possibly give me his bank books. It could otherwise create a precedent, the consequences of which were hard to foresee. I attempted a witty reply, saying that the practical consequences would hardly be significant if Americans in Oslo only had to give access to their bank accounts in the event that a Norwegian Resistance hero was murdered in the same building. But there was definitely no place for humour in our conversation now; he shook his head in agitation without so much as a twitch of the mouth.

I did not expect to get an answer to any more questions, but finished my list as planned all the same. First, I asked whether he was aware of the activities of an American intelligence organization called the OSS in Norway and other countries during the war, which later went on to become part of a new American intelligence organization called the CIA. Darrell Williams’s eyes immediately darkened. He straightened himself up in the armchair and replied that as a diplomat with full security clearance, he of course knew of the organizations and their contribution to the fight against communism. My follow-up question as to whether he himself had been involved with either of the organizations prompted a monotone one-sentence reply that embassy staff were obviously instructed to give in response to this kind of question regarding their work. ‘Neither confirm nor deny,’ he said.

I had no answers as to whether Darrell Williams was in any way connected to the murder or not, but I did now know that he had another less pleasant face than the one I had seen on my first visit. He sat in the armchair focused and on guard for the remainder of the conversation. It occurred me that, despite his size, he reminded me less and less of a bear and increasingly of a tiger preparing to pounce. When I asked whether it was usual for the embassy to accommodate staff in flats in Torshov, Darrell Williams replied that he had not heard of any other cases, but that he was no expert in the embassy’s accommodation policy and there were doubtless many factors to be taken into consideration. He had been offered this flat and had no objections as he found both the standard and location acceptable.

The two final and most critical questions remained. Darrell Williams was now so tense that I was mentally prepared for him to leap up at any moment. As a precaution, I inched my chair away from him before I dropped the bomb.

‘Have you ever killed anyone?’

Darrell Williams remained seated, but his eyes bored into me for several seconds. I was certain that he would refuse to answer, in accordance with some diplomatic law or another, but having given it some thought, he answered with impressive composure.

‘That is a personal question that does not involve anyone else, so I will gladly answer it. As a young soldier, I volunteered to serve at one of the front lines as we advanced towards Paris in the summer of 1944, following the Normandy landings. I can clearly remember the faces of two people that I know I killed. One of them was a young, fair German soldier, the other a dark-haired young Frenchwoman. I will never forget their faces, but I don’t see them as often as I used to now and can live with it. They both had a swastika on their sleeve, and both had been given the chance to surrender. We were fighting in the service of our country, putting our own lives on the line in order to liberate France and the other occupied countries from the tyranny of Nazism. I have never regretted taking part.’

He sat quietly for a moment before continuing.

‘They are the two that I know of. We were involved in countless chaotic exchanges of fire that left many people dead, so I can’t promise that there were no others. But it was another time in another country, during the bloodiest war in history. I have not killed anyone since the war, and I have never killed a Norwegian.’

‘But if it was in the service of your country and for a good cause, might you also kill someone in Norway?’

Darrell Williams sat in silence again. A pensive expression stole over his face before he answered.

‘I realize that it would not be believable were I to say no, as I am still an officer in the service of my country, as I was back then. But I repeat that I have never received any such orders after the war, and have no idea as to who might have murdered Harald Olesen.’

He looked me straight in the eye when he said this and I was inclined to believe him. He too would have to be added to the list of people who I did not think had killed Harald Olesen, but who may have done it all the same. The list was starting to get quite long.

Darrell Williams followed me out and then made an unexpected conciliatory move out in the hall. He commented that this was not an easy situation for anyone. I was undoubtedly under tremendous pressure following the mysterious murder of a well-known hero from the Resistance, and he was in service on another country’s territory and had to adhere to strict protocol. Given that, he would of course do whatever he could to help solve the murder. If I gave him a couple of days, he would check with his superiors and hoped that he would then be able to answer more of my questions. I enquired, almost jokingly, whether his ‘superiors’ meant the ‘ambassador’. Darrell Williams answered in the same tone that his ‘superiors’ for the moment meant his ‘superiors’. We shook hands and were almost friends again. He was right, of course. This was not an easy situation, either for me or for anyone else in the building. By now it was four o’clock and I still had one more person to visit.

VI

Andreas Gullestad had obviously returned home on Sunday afternoon as planned. He beamed up at me when the door eventually opened. I found myself wondering whether he was simply like that or whether another less friendly face lurked behind this jovial mask. And I intended to test that now, as soon as we were sitting comfortably in the sitting room with cups of tea in our hands. We started with a chat about his trip. He had had a pleasant visit to his childhood stamping grounds and thanked me once again for allowing him to go.

Andreas Gullestad was also astonished by both my astuteness and the murderer’s cunning when I presented him with the secret of the stereo. He ‘unfortunately’ had to confess that he too had been alone in his flat from eight until a quarter past ten on the evening of the murder, and given the adjusted time of murder, he could no longer be struck from the list of potential murderers either. He had nothing new or exciting to tell about his neighbours’ movements out in the hallway.

As to the question of money, he replied without hesitation that he had nothing to hide. He pulled out two bank books and a tax return from his desk, which confirmed his total wealth to be 800,000 kroner. He informed me that he had inherited this from his parents. They had left him both money and woodland, which he had got a favourable price for later. Most of the money was now safely deposited in an account, and the rest had been invested in stocks. He had spent some time on his investments and the shares had so far given such a favourable return that he had not needed to use any of the interest on his bank accounts to cover his living costs. The flat was paid for, and his daily expenses were not high.

When I mentioned his name, he immediately threw up his hands. He had realized after my last visit that he should have mentioned it, but had not telephoned as he did not think that it was of such great relevance to the investigation. The change in name from Ivar Storskog to Andreas Gullestad was linked to the fact that he was now handicapped. He told me that four years ago he had been ‘regrettably careless’ when stepping out onto a pedestrian crossing and had been knocked down by a young driver. The injuries were not life-threatening, but as a result of a spinal injury, he was now dependent on a wheelchair. He had accepted his lot with grace, but wanted to make a clean break from his previous life. He fortunately did not have to rely on government handouts, as he had money enough. He had decided it was a suitable time to change his name and had settled on his mother’s maiden name, Gullestad. He was christened Ivar Andreas and had often been called Andreas by his mother and sister, so the change in his first name was not so dramatic.

When I asked about documentation regarding his injuries, he pointed without hesitation to a drawer that should contain some newspaper clippings about the accident. Which it did. Several national papers carried notices about the accident involving Ivar Storskog, and he was later interviewed by one of them about his handicap. ‘If you disregard the almost illegible doctor’s signature, there should be a doctor’s certificate at the bottom of that pile of papers,’ he said. Which also proved to be true. I apologized that I had to ask, and he assured me that he understood perfectly well, ‘given the grisly nature of the case’.

Probing questions about his finances and handicap seemed to make no dent in Andreas Gullestad’s unrelenting good humour and friendliness. However, all this drained from his face as soon as I asked about the cause of his father’s death.

‘I hope you understand that it is still a very painful subject for me and I would rather not go into great detail,’ he said, with some reservation.

We sipped our tea in silence; then he leaned forward towards the table and carried on.

‘My father was, as you perhaps know, a very rich man and a respected pillar of the community, well known beyond the boundaries of his parish. I was his only son and the apple of his eye. No one has had a better father, and he was my greatest idol throughout my childhood. The 1930s were hard, even in Oppland, but I never saw anyone leave my father’s farm empty-handed, whether they needed charity or not. In retrospect, I remember those childhood years as the happiest period of my life.’

He suddenly lowered his eyes to the table, and his lips tightened for a moment before he continued.

‘Then one day when I was twelve years old, the war broke out. My father fought for the king and government in April 1940 and immediately took a leading position in the Resistance movement in the district, following the occupation. On 12 January 1941, my thirteenth birthday, of all days, five German soldiers came to arrest him. It was a terrible shock for us all, but perhaps worst for me, the youngest, having admired my father more than anything in the world. This may sound strange, but what I remember most about it all was a young German soldier. He was no more than five or six years older than me and did not seem to like the situation any more than I did. He whispered to me that hopefully everything would get sorted and I would have my father back home again soon. But that is not what happened. I saw my beloved father for the last time that day, being escorted away by soldiers. He was shot a week later. I lost my childhood innocence and much of my belief in humanity the day the Germans shot my father.’

Andreas Gullestad paused and sat lost in his own thoughts. Then he picked up the thread again.

‘Losing my father during the war should perhaps be less of a tragedy for me than for many others. After all, he left us money, a forest and land, so we did not suffer any hardship, and the local people were touchingly supportive and sympathetic. It did not take many months after liberation in 1945 before I unveiled a statue in memory of my father. But believe me, it is not always easy to grow up as the son of a statue. It seems that I never quite got over the shock. My father was such a great man, so reliable and robust – I don’t think I had ever imagined I would lose him. I managed well in school and my final exams, but then later I could never decide what I wanted to do. I lived in my own world and tried to work out which direction my father would have wanted me to take. And then there was my mother’s sorrow, illness and death. Now I can blame everything on the traffic accident, but the sad truth is that my life had already been on hold for a long time. I have been back as little as possible since then. I know only too well that the people there had expected better things of Hans Storskog’s only son.’

He finished his cup of tea.

‘So perhaps you can understand why I felt it was appropriate to change my name after the accident and why I would rather not talk too much about my father and the war. People are so different. Some think it is easier to talk about things, but I have come to the conclusion that it simply makes things worse.’

As I left his flat, I realized that Patricia’s concept of the human fly was a perfect description of Andreas Gullestad. The old psychological wound inflicted by his father’s death seemed to cause him more pain than the physical injury from the traffic accident. But neither of these had any direct relevance to my murder case – not for the moment, as it turned out.

VII

On Sunday, 7 April 1968, my working day drew to a close when I telephoned Patricia from my office around seven o’clock to give her a brief account of the day’s findings. This proved to be more complicated than expected. Patricia showed great interest in various details, particularly when we broached the topic of the relationship between Kristian Lund and Sara Sundqvist. The call soon extended to half an hour. However, we then agreed that there was not much more that could be done on a Sunday evening. Our conclusion for the time being was quite simply that the case was increasingly complex and the number of potential murderers was rising. Konrad Jensen’s position as main suspect was now facing stiff competition from not only Kristian Lund, but also Sara Sundqvist and Darrell Williams. The caretaker’s wife had thus far proved to be a liar and to have accepted bribes and was burdened by experiences from the Second World War, as was Andreas Gullestad.

Patricia finished by saying that, given the current stakes, it might be a good idea for me to keep her informed should any new information crop up that I was uncertain about. I said that she was right, and then drove home deep in thought. And so ended the fourth day of the investigation.