The Human Flies

I

My day started at half past eight on Monday, 8 April 1968 with a phone call to Oslo’s main hospital. They recommended that I come as soon as possible if there was anything of importance to discuss with Anton Hansen. I thanked them and asked them to let him know that I would come by in the course of the day.

The history student Bjørn Erik Svendsen was at the top of my list for the day. I did not need to wait long. At twenty-five to nine, he was standing in front of me, out of breath, and apologized profusely that he had not got there sooner, thanks to a late bus. I realized it was Bjørn Erik Svendsen the history student as soon as he appeared in the doorway. His slim body, the spectacles on a chain round his neck and obligatory rucksack, as well as the Beatles hairdo and anti-war in Vietnam and pro-Socialist People’s Party badges could almost be one of the identikit drawings of ‘wanted’ students that I and a couple of younger colleagues made to entertain ourselves in lunch breaks. His handshake was firm, and his friendly voice picked up pace as soon as Harald Olesen’s name was mentioned.

The story of Bjørn Erik Svendsen’s acquaintance with Harald Olesen was simple and credible. Three years previously, he had started work on a thesis about the relationship between the Resistance movement and the communists, and after working on it for a year, he had tried to contact a handful of central figures from the Home Front. This had not been an entirely positive experience: Jesper Christopher Haraldsen and several other leaders had been rather arrogant and dismissed him, whereas Harald Olesen had immediately agreed to meet him, and despite differences in age and politics, the two had hit it off. Svendsen explained their friendship with the fact that Olesen had a considerable intellectual capacity. He swiftly added that it may also have been because Olesen had no children himself, and as a widower, his days were long and lonely. The thesis was redefined with a much clearer focus on Harald Olesen’s role. Olesen had himself read the first draft with great interest and had immediately agreed when Bjørn Erik Svendsen had suggested writing a biography about him. His thesis had now been with the examination board for assessment for four months, but Svendsen was so inspired at this point that he had already started to write the manuscript for the book project.

When I asked for a short presentation of Harald Olesen’s activities during the war, Svendsen immediately launched into a mini lecture. Olesen’s involvement in the war was interesting not least because his cover had never been blown, despite his considerable and complex involvement. He had for a period been one of the leaders of the Home Front, and had organized sabotage operations as well as civil-disobedience campaigns, and had himself smuggled refugees over the border. However, the greatest revelation in the manuscript was something that had happened in the final months of the war and the years immediately after. In close cooperation with American agents in Norway, Olesen had gathered information about the Norwegian communists that had later been leaked from the CIA archives. Consequently, Olesen was not only conspicuous in his role as a hero from the Resistance, but also for his role in the government’s cooperation with the USA after the war.

Svendsen firmly believed that his life story would generate great interest, even before his sensational murder. His knowledge of the murder case was limited, so he had as yet not formed any ‘theories as to the cause’, but based on his own findings, he could suggest several possibilities. Both paranoid American intelligence agencies and old Nazis seeking revenge had possible motives. When asked, he agreed that the same would be true of old communists, although he personally felt that an attack from those quarters was far less likely. He also thought Olesen’s political career was not likely to give grounds for murder. As a cabinet minister and in his other roles, he had been well respected by people both in and out of the party. He had never caused a stir in any of the major political debates during his time as cabinet minister, and indeed had ended his political career without any great conflict. The war had been his greatest and most dramatic success. He admitted himself that he had never been a shining star as a cabinet minister. Olesen had said that he had eventually asked for the prime minister’s permission to resign, in the knowledge that he would otherwise soon be pushed aside.

Inspired by his theories regarding American intelligence and old Nazis, I read the names of the other residents out to Bjørn Erik Svendsen and asked him whether he knew any of them from another context. He replied that he had already noted the names during one of his visits to Harald Olesen, but had never seen any of them anywhere else. He thought it was an ‘incredible coincidence’ that an American diplomat lived next door, but did not recognize his name from his source material. Nor had he ever heard Olesen say anything in particular about his neighbours. Svendsen had himself spoken only briefly to the caretaker and his wife in connection with some questions about Olesen’s activities during the war. The caretaker was very obviously an alcoholic and not in a good way, but had answered the questions with impressive clarity. The caretaker’s wife had found the situation awkward and had left the room shaking her head when her husband started to sniffle.

Svendsen had little to tell about Harald Olesen as a private person. Olesen had been devoted to his wife and had on several occasions mentioned that one of his greatest sorrows in life was that they had not been able to have children. His relationship with his siblings had been close, whereas his relationship with his niece and nephew seemed to be increasingly sporadic and strained. Olesen had once sighed when he spoke of them and said that, given his long career, surely he must deserve better-qualified heirs. However, he made no mention of this again, and Svendsen was not aware of any potential dramas in connection with the will.

The greatest surprise in the course of the conversation was when Svendsen me told that Harald Olesen had kept a regular diary in his later years. When asked where these diaries were now, he immediately produced two spiral-bound notebooks from his rucksack, marked ‘1963-4’ and ‘1965-6’, which he had borrowed in order to work on the biography. He added, apologetically, that there was not much to be gleaned from them regarding the murder. Harald Olesen had not taken any great chances in lending out his diaries from those years. His entries consisted of concise factual information about his everyday life. He wrote in a tidy hand about letters and telephone calls from old friends and acquaintances, and had made short notes about current affairs. His niece and nephew were mentioned in only a couple of places, and the neighbours barely at all.

Svendsen had read through the diaries again following the murder, but had found only one thing that might possibly be of relevance. Under the date ‘17 November 1966’, there was a brief note that was conspicuous in part due to the fact that Olesen did not write the full names of the people concerned, and in part due to the dramatic nature of the content: Unexpectedly bumped into S, accompanied by the ghastly N. S is ill and a shadow of what I remember from all those years ago, but still aroused strong memories. A very unsettling encounter.

I read the short entry four times and the feeling that this may be of great significance became more pronounced each time. Without any further indications of the time and circumstances of this meeting with S, it was difficult to know who it was and what this was about. Neither S nor N were mentioned anywhere else in the diaries, I heard Bjørn Erik Svendsen say. He immediately added that it would be interesting to see whether S or N was mentioned again in the most recent diary, which covered 1967 to 1968.

I was staring at the three mysterious sentences from 17 November 1966 and must have looked either very threatening or completely baffled when the significance of this new piece of information finally sank in. Bjørn Erik Svendsen certainly hurried to say that he should perhaps have mentioned it straightaway, but he had assumed it had been found when the flat was searched. He had on several occasions when he was visiting seen Harald Olesen leafing through a new diary marked ‘1967-8’, which he had refused to give to him along with the others. By way of explanation, he had said that he was still writing in the diary, and he needed to think hard about whether to divulge some of the information. Svendsen had seen the diary lying on the sitting-room table during one of his visits. When the diary was out, Olesen always kept an eye on it, but Svendsen had absolutely no idea where it was kept.

I replied truthfully that no trace of any such diary had been found in the flat. We now lacked not only the weapon with which the murder was carried out, but also a diary that might contain the solution to the murder mystery.

I asked Bjørn Erik Svendsen to leave the diaries with me and to wait by the reception. Reminding him that this was a murder investigation, I explained that he would have to wait there while I read the diaries. He expressed his full understanding and added that the murder mystery was of course of great relevance to his book, then left the room without further ado.

I believed the biographer when he said that the entry was the only thing of any interest in the two diaries and put them down on the desk in front of me. After twenty increasingly frustrating minutes of attempting to use my own grey cells, I reluctantly gave in and grabbed the phone. While I waited for an answer, I amused myself by wondering what Bjørn Erik Svendsen would have said if he knew that I was calling a direct line to the White House.

II

Patricia listened with silent concentration to my ten-minute briefing on the new information from Bjørn Erik Svendsen. She acknowledged the news of the mysterious diary entry and missing diary with a tut.

‘So, what would you advise me to do now?’ I asked.

This was followed by a tense ten-second silence and then a very short and clear recommendation.

‘I advise you to take Bjørn Erik Svendsen with you to Harald Olesen’s flat in 25 Krebs’ Street as soon as possible.’

This was fortunately followed up swiftly with some further instructions. It was not immediately obvious to me why I had to take Bjørn Erik Svendsen to 25 Krebs’ Street.

‘The diary may prove to be a vital source. There are two possibilities here. Either the murderer knew about the third book and has taken it or destroyed it there in the flat, which is perfectly plausible. Getting hold of the diary may in fact have been the motive for murdering Harald Olesen in the first place, if the murderer knew about the diary and that it contained something important. But Harald Olesen was obviously very concerned that the diary should not fall into the wrong hands, so it is also perfectly possible, and highly likely, that the murderer never even saw the diary, that he or she did not know of its existence and therefore did not look for it. In which case, the diary is still where Harald Olesen hid it in the flat.’

I made a feeble protest on behalf of the police.

‘Please do not completely underestimate us! We have searched the flat and would of course have acted immediately had we found a handwritten diary.’

Patricia had a ready answer.

‘Of course, I have absolute confidence in the police. But firstly, you had no idea that there was a diary to look for, and secondly, a diary is relatively easy to hide. Again there are two possibilities: Harald Olesen may have hidden it in a secret compartment in his bedside table or wardrobe or suchlike-’

I interrupted her with an indignant protest.

‘I would like to see such a compartment: we have knocked on and measured every wall in every room!’

Patricia still did not seem entirely convinced, but changed tack.

‘In that case, the question is whether you checked the best hiding place for a diary.’

She on purpose said no more, thereby forcing me to ask.

‘And where do you think is the best place to hide a diary?’

Her answer was followed by delighted laugher.

‘Why, in the bookshelf, of course. I should imagine that you made a list of all the book titles, but did any of you check that none of them contained a diary?’

I had to admit to myself that we had done neither, but I did not say a word, just made a mental note that we should look through the bookcases and the rest of the flat again, given the news of the missing diary. We agreed in all haste that this was what I should do and then go to see her at around seven. I spontaneously said ‘yes, please’ to a light supper. She asked me to take the diaries with me and any other papers that might be relevant, and to go and see the caretaker in hospital on the way. She then assured me that it would not be a problem if I was late: she had no plans to go anywhere today. I could still hear her slightly smug laughter ringing in my ears as I gathered up my papers and the diaries and headed for the door.

III

Bjørn Erik Svendsen was more than happy to be driven in a police car to Harald Olesen’s flat, but repeated several times en route that he had no idea where the diary was hidden. We were quickly able to confirm that there was no sign of it on the desk or any other table. The idea that it might be hidden among the books appealed to Svendsen. He asked whether there was a compulsory methodology course for aspiring policemen. I replied that policemen were also allowed to think creatively. He nodded enthusiastically and immediately got started on the right-hand section of Harald Olesen’s bookshelves. I myself started on the left.

I must admit that my enthusiasm for Patricia’s theory gradually waned as I ploughed my way through the first hundred books. I counted routinely, so that, if nothing else, I could later impress my colleagues with details of my thorough work. I was just about to put back book number 246 when an excited yelp from Bjørn Erik Svendsen broke the silence in the flat. With shaking hands, he lifted from the floor a notebook of the same type as the two previous ones. It had fallen out from the generous covers of Volume 2 of The Great War. He held it out to me, triumphant. The dates ‘1967-8’ glared at me from the front cover, even though they were written in lead pencil in an old man’s hand.

I confiscated the book on the spot and refused to let the history student read over my shoulder. He initially objected that it might contain important historical source material that would be of significance for the biography, but soon accepted the situation when I assured him that he would of course be given access to the diary as soon as the murder investigation had been closed. I swiftly added that any knowledge of the diary’s contents could in fact be dangerous. He promptly agreed to leave the room and wait in the kitchen in case I had any questions for him once I had read it.

The start of the diary year 1967 was relatively uneventful for Harald Olesen. January and February passed with nothing more than short, undramatic entries with full names. However, the entry for 20 March 1967 was short and mysterious, which could bode ill given the one from the year before: N has made contact. Told that S was dead and had confessed in the end. N was angry and demanded money.

The remainder of March and April comprised only short factual entries about anniversary dinners and letters received from old acquaintances. In March, he had written some brief comments regarding the news that Stalin’s daughter had gone into exile in the USA, and in April, he recorded the deaths of the writer Johan Falkberget and the former German chancellor Konrad Adenauer. But on 2 May, N suddenly appeared once more: N has contacted me again. Demanded money and threatened to tell.

The problem with N appeared to settle again later in May. Harald Olesen expressed his concern about the situation in Greece following the military coup and uncertainty as to how Norway should respond. N was not mentioned at all again for the rest of May. Instead, a new mystery letter cropped up on 15 May: D came to visit – actually came into my flat today. Once inside the door, D’s face changed completely. Was glad to still be alive when he left. Know only too well what D is capable of. A bad night – got up twice to check that the safety chain was on.

June and July passed with only short entries about people he knew, a couple of longer passages about the Six-Day War in the Middle East and the riots in the USA. Harald Olesen spent a considerable amount of time keeping himself informed of what was going on in the world, via the newspapers, radio and television. But his personal problems returned with a vengeance in the autumn. In August, there were suddenly two short entries, separated only by a note on the USA’s increasing military involvement in Vietnam.

12 August: N still hounding me for money. Where will this end?

27 August: Another aggressive conversation with D. My illness is getting worse and therefore also my dilemma. I want to speak out, but D rejects this point blank – and is now threatening me.

It was clear that Harald Olesen’s situation was deteriorating rapidly, and also his health. Through September there were more and more brief entries about pain and appointments with the doctor. The local elections at the end of the month were dealt with in only a few lines. And two new letters appeared, only a few days apart.

21 September: O, whom I have not seen for over 20 years, contacted me. O was extremely concerned that our activities and those of others from back then remained secret forever. I agreed and said that I would sort out the papers.

29 September: J has also contacted me now. Arouses sympathy. Impossible to sleep afterwards. Great dilemma.

Olesen appeared more or less to lose his appetite for world affairs in October and November. The much-discussed deaths of Che Guevara and the last emperor of China were given no more than a line each, as were that autumn’s Vietnam demonstrations in Oslo. Instead, there were a growing number of entries about health problems. These culminated dramatically in the middle of Advent.

12 December: Dramatic conclusion following another examination by the doctor. The end is only months away. The thought of death is light as a feather, whereas the greatest decision of my life weighs on me like lead.

This stood as the final gripping entry for 1967. The entries for 1968 were few and far between, and they were exclusively in connection with Harald Olesen’s personal problems.

18 January: Bad day. Stayed in bed with pains all morning. N wants even more money, in my will too, now. Powerful emotions after a conversation with J yesterday. And the menacing figure of D looms constantly in the background…

22 January: O got in touch, was worried about my health. I promised to take all our secrets with me to the grave. Evil shall with evil be expelled! O looked through the papers and then we burned them in the stove. We did not talk about personal differences, but O seemed remarkably relaxed about it all.

28 January: Intense physical pain, but the psychological pain is worse. Cannot see a solution. Massive doubts regarding the issue of the will.

14 February: Frightful conversation with D, who suddenly went into a rage, as he often does. D does not want money, but wants eternal silence – and the old hate for me is growing ever stronger. No person on earth frightens me more than D. May the Lord I have never believed in soon open His gates and grant my soul mercy!

19 February: Short conversation with O, who thanked me for what I have done and promised not to bother me again. But can I believe that?

1 March: J desperate and impatient, threatening to go to the press. Cannot bear to think what D might do then – either to me or J. Managed to persuade J to delay, but the ground is burning beneath my feet, and the pain is searing my wretched old body.

12 March: Still alive, if only just. J vacillates between tears and rage, could break and do something rash. D did not get angry during our last conversation, but rather was threatening and ominously calm, as only D can be… N constantly pestering for money. I fear D more than I despise N. Tussle with hugely mixed feelings regarding J. N and J may possibly know about one another now. Only hope that neither of them knows about D, and that D does not know about them. Or else all hell might break loose in Torshov!

20 March: Changed the will under considerable duress. A debt must always be paid, after all, no matter how loathsome the creditor.

25 March: After several sleepless nights on the edge of my grave, I have changed my will again. Everything shall be sacrificed on the altar of my greatest sin!

30 March: Pressure increasing from all quarters. Could bump into J, D and N at any moment. All three are threatening and erratic. The evil spirits from my past are crowding me into my grave. Will let the will stand as it is and hope that it will bring happiness to the one I have failed the most. In desperation, have called a final meeting on Thursday evening, despite the obvious risks.

With this entry, the diary stopped abruptly. All the remaining pages were blank.

Harald Olesen was shot during a meeting in his home on the evening of 4 April, which was the first Thursday after 30 March. But I did not know if he had arranged this meeting with D, J, N or O, or who any of them were. None of the initials D, J, N or O fitted the names of anyone in the building. Unless ‘J’ quite simply stood for ‘Jensen’.

I went into Bjørn Erik Svendsen and asked if he had ever heard Harald Olesen mention the initials D, J, N or O, or come across them in any other context. He shook his head without any hesitation. In pure desperation, I read a couple of the entries out loud to him, but this did not help to reveal the identity of the people in question. However, the colour did still drain from Bjørn Erik Svendsen’s face and he told me that in all his conversations with Harald Olesen, he had never heard mention of the words ‘fear’ and ‘terror’. It was therefore a shock to hear just how scared the old Resistance hero had been in the last months of his life.

I ordered Bjørn Erik Svendsen not to say a word about the existence of the diary, something he swore to. I then asked him to remain in town and to contact me immediately should he remember anything that might be of importance regarding the identity of D, J, N or O – or the investigation in general. He assured me that he would, and asked me twice not to mention that he knew about the diary.

A minute later, I saw Bjørn Erik Svendsen almost running along the pavement below the window. I realized how profoundly the murder would affect his life, and even more so, the other residents of 25 Krebs’ Street. It was strange to think how very different the situation would have been for them, as it would for me, if Harald Olesen had been allowed to die from his illness a few days or weeks later.

I sat there alone leafing backwards and forwards through the diary for an hour, but was none the wiser. I desperately missed Patricia’s voice and was several times about to drive to her home unannounced. But when I later got into the car, I headed not towards Erling Skjalgsson’s Street, but towards the hospital. There was a man waiting there who had been given a message to say that I would come today whom no one dared believe would live another day.

IV

Sadly, his wife had been right. There was not much left of Anton Hansen in 1968, compared with the handsome, dark-haired groom in the photograph from 1928. Forty years later, the same person was a worn and grey bag of bones lying in a white hospital bed. I would have guessed his age to be no less than seventy-five and his weight well under nine stone, despite the fact that he was still at least five foot ten. His hair was grey, his skin pallid, his breathing laboured and his mouth toothless. He had one tube in his left arm and another up his nose, but as he was constantly coughing, they were constantly in danger of falling out.

In other words, Anton Hansen the caretaker appeared to be precisely what he was: a man who had lived a hard life and who was now dying as a result. His eyes lit up when he saw me, but his face and body both remained heavy and, somehow, disillusioned. He gave an almost imperceptible nod in welcome. He lifted his hand from the bed in greeting, but his handshake was without energy or will. There seemed to be something strangely deformed about his hands. It took a couple of minutes before I realized that not only did he lack teeth, he also lacked nails.

‘Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen. I am here, as I am sure you understand, in connection with the unsolved murder of your neighbour Harald Olesen.’

He nodded again. His voice was weak but friendly.

‘I thought I was going to die myself when I heard about the murder. Harald Olesen is one of the people I have admired most in this world, and I never imagined that I would outlive him. I had hoped that he would come to my funeral and still have many years before him.’

He gasped for breath and coughed at the same time, but continued remarkably quickly.

‘During the war, everyone who knew his identity worried that he would be shot any day. But now, so many years later… it came as a shock, and I cannot imagine who would want to kill him. Not anymore.’

His head fell back on the pillow. I discreetly stood up and moved closer to the bed so he could see me without lifting his head. He nodded gratefully.

‘I admired Harald Olesen during the war, of course, but it was actually later that I fully understood just how strong he was. Harald Olesen was a man of action, someone who could always distinguish what was important and what was not, who always looked to the future. He managed to carry on, even though he must have seen things far worse than I did during the war.’

He coughed again, this time so violently that I looked around for a nurse, but then he carried on speaking.

‘My problem was that I remembered everything so clearly, and then you get caught up in what happened and it is impossible to move on – especially when the experiences are as powerful as those I carried with me from the war.’

It seemed to me that Caretaker Anton Hansen was intellectually fitter than he was physically. But now I was impatient to know more about what happened during the war and about his neighbours, before it was too late.

‘It must have been very peculiar for you and Harald Olesen, as former Resistance fighters, to have a convicted NS member as a neighbour.’

A small smile slid over Anton Hansen’s face, but then quickly gave way to a grimace.

‘Well, yes, but Konrad Jensen has not harmed a fly since the end of the war. I never asked Harald how he felt about having a former Nazi as a neighbour, but it was not a problem for me. In a strange way, it felt as though Konrad and I shared a fate. We were both small, weak men who tried to dance with the big, strong men like Harald Olesen during the war. And we paid for it dearly in later years, each in our own way.’

‘Can you remember any particular events or people from the occupation that may be of significance?’

He heaved a heavy sigh – and then had to gasp for air.

‘My problem is that I remember too much. So much happened during those years, and most of it was secret, so I am not sure what might or might not be important. I remember the happy moments: Liberation Day and the return of the royal family. And I remember the first refugees who we hid in our cellar. There were four of them in 1942 to 1943, and all made it over the border to Sweden. While they were with us, I will never forget that tension. If the Germans had come while they were there, both my wife and I would have been shot along with our guests. We lived together for a few days, with the threat of death hanging over us. The youngest of these guests was a petrified lad of only sixteen or seventeen who spoke both Norwegian and German. He came back ten years later with his wife and child to give us gifts in thanks for our help. That is one of my best memories from after the war.’

Anton Hansen smiled for a moment, until he was once again overwhelmed by a coughing fit.

‘And then there were the three last ones… and they were not quite so lucky.’

I moved even closer into his range of vision and indicated impatiently that he should continue.

‘A young couple with a baby who came to us in February 1944. Dark-haired, attractive and well dressed, but terrified by the danger hanging over them. They scarcely dared to let one another or the child out of sight for a moment, and I heard them crying and whispering together in a foreign language every night. They spoke Norwegian, but their intonation was odd and they used lots of strange words, so I realized that they came from another country and had somehow found themselves behind enemy lines in Norway.’

He was seized by an extreme fit of coughing. I was afraid that Anton Hansen would die in the middle of the very interesting story, but his eyes were still shining when his chest calmed down.

‘Harald Olesen had an almost supernatural power in critical situations. He could smell danger like a predator – by instinct more than intellect. On the third afternoon that they were with us, he came and said that he had a feeling that there was an acute danger, and out of consideration to both us and them, he could not let the refugees stay in town any longer. So he came to collect them in his car around two in the morning. It was a hasty farewell. I remember the tiny baby shoe that was left behind on the floor.’

Anton Hansen’s head fell back on the pillow again. I took the opportunity to fire a question.

‘Can you remember what kind of car Harald Olesen was driving?’

He nodded weakly, without raising his head from the pillow.

‘He was driving his black Volvo 1932 model that evening, as always.’

I smiled, hoping to encourage both him and myself.

‘Good, good. And what happened to the refugees after that?’

First a fleeting smile and then a sharp spasm passed over Anton Hansen’s face.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about that. We were never told their names or anything else about the people who stayed with us, or which route they followed from here. I never saw them again, but I don’t think it ended well. I asked Harald Olesen about it once, later. He suddenly looked extremely grave and said that they had been very unlucky and that I must never ask again. It would be best if I didn’t know more, he said. So I never asked again. I had the utmost respect for what Harald Olesen said, but I often wondered about it. Images and memories have dogged me through the years. I presume that none of them survived the war.’

He paused briefly, coughed a couple of times and then carried on.

‘On the other hand, one thing I know for sure is that Harald Olesen’s instinct saved both me and my wife that time. Somehow we’d been found out or someone had informed on us. The following morning, I was woken by five soldiers from the Gestapo kicking down my door and tearing the flat apart. The baby shoe on the floor was one of the things they asked about, but luck was with us and it fitted our youngest son.’

There was another short pause. The memories were obviously potent and his voice got weaker.

‘But I was arrested all the same and locked up in Grini Prison Camp. As I was escorted out of the flat that morning, I was sure that it was the last time I would see my wife and children. I was questioned and beaten up for four days before they let me go. On the third day, they said that I would be shot if I didn’t tell them immediately where the refugees had gone and who had gone with them. I said my final farewell to life. But it was just a bluff – they lined me up and pulled their triggers without having loaded the guns. That convinced them that I had nothing to confess. The next day, they let me go. I came home minus three teeth and ten nails, but that did not bother my wife and me. If that had been the worst damage, I guess we would have lived happily ever after. My involvement in the Resistance ended there and then. Harald felt that it was too dangerous for us, and them, to hide any more refugees, and I didn’t protest.’

Anton Hansen was on the verge of tears now. The memories from after the war seemed to be more of a burden than those from the war. His voice was almost a whisper and trembled when he finally continued.

‘Later, I have often thought that I should have said no the first time that Harald Olesen asked if I wanted to work for the Resistance and hide a refugee. I bitterly regret it now when I see the consequences it has had for my wife and children. But if Norway were to be occupied again and Harald Olesen was standing by the kitchen table asking me to help my country by hiding refugees, I still wouldn’t say no. How could I?’

I nodded with as much sympathy as I could muster.

‘Of course not. You made a great contribution to this country and its people, and no one could have foreseen what the consequences would be.’

He smiled for a moment, but this was followed by another spasm and a shadow once again fell over his face.

‘It’s strange how differently we cope with things. No one can predict it. There were children and young women who came home after years in a concentration camp and apparently managed to deal with it easily. They are still happily alive today. Whereas I, a big mature man, never got over those four days in the prison camp. Even here in the hospital, I can be woken in the middle of the night by the Germans storming in, or knocking out my teeth, or I am standing in front of the firing squad. Faces come back to me constantly, whether I am awake or asleep. And often it is the terrified young couple with the baby.’

His persistent use of the word ‘baby’ reminded me of an unresolved question.

‘Do you know if the child was a boy or a girl?’

He gave a feeble shake of the head.

‘Neither my wife nor I was certain about it afterwards, strangely enough. It was important to know and remember as little as possible. The child was only a few months old and in nappies, so it wasn’t easy to tell. I think it was a girl, but I am not sure.’

‘And you have no idea where Harald Olesen drove them?’

He moaned quietly and shook his head.

‘No. Unfortunately, he didn’t say. We were not supposed to know that sort of thing, but I think…’

He was seized by a coughing fit again. I felt guilty about pressing the skin-and-bones man in the bed for any more now, but could not leave without hearing the rest of the story.

‘I don’t think he intended to go straight to the border. The Germans kept a strict guard on the roads and there were lots of soldiers in the border region, so the shortest way was often the most dangerous. And it wouldn’t be easy to smuggle two adults and a baby through the roadblocks. I think rather that he took them out into the forest, on foot.’

‘But this was in winter – was there not snow on the ground?’

He nodded weakly, twice.

‘It was the middle of February. They left us on the night of 14 February. It was a difficult situation. Either Harald Olesen had to find a safe hiding place for two parents and a baby of two or three months or they had to get out the skis. I think he had planned the latter. The day before they left, he said in passing that it seemed that he and Deerfoot had to take a trip to the mountains.’

I looked down at the emaciated man on the bed, my question no doubt clear on my face. He smiled disarmingly and then sometime after spoke again with great effort.

‘I understood from what he said that this Deerfoot was some kind of guide whom he used when he took the refugees over to Sweden. I have always imagined in later years that Deerfoot was a young man in his twenties or thirties, but I have no idea where Deerfoot came from or how old he was, and certainly not what he was called. I don’t even know which route they took, as there were many possibilities. They might, for example, have driven east towards Østfold, or north to Hedmark or Oppland. What puzzled me was that Deerfoot was mentioned several times in 1942 and 1943, but never again later. I mentioned him one time after the war, but Harald replied dismissively that things had gone awry for Deerfoot. So without knowing anything for certain, I have always presumed that something terrible happened on that trip, and that as result, Deerfoot and the three refugees died that winter in 1944.’

It certainly did not sound implausible, but I was not going to let this new character in Harald Olesen’s life go that easily.

‘Did you by any chance see this Deerfoot when Olesen came to collect them?’

He shook his head as firmly as his strength allowed.

‘No, no. Harald was alone when he came, and only had the couple and the baby with him when he left. I have never seen or spoken to Deerfoot. That much I do know.’

Then quite suddenly his strength left him. Anton Hansen lay listless on his bed for several minutes, gasping for air. I patted him gently on the shoulder, thanked him so much for his help and told him to rest. He nodded with the ghost of a smile on his lips. But just as I was leaving, he mustered his strength and waved for me to come back.

‘If you see my wife, then tell her that it is perhaps just as well if she doesn’t come here again, but do say…’

His voice faded out, but carried on in a whisper after a pause.

‘Say that I still love her very much and am very sorry for everything that has happened after the war. Please can you tell her that?’

I nodded, despite a niggling doubt that I would ever have the heart to fulfil my promise. Then I mumbled a farewell and said thank you again. I was at a loss as to what more to say and suddenly had a strong desire to leave the hospital before I was accused of causing the death of Anton Hansen the caretaker.

I caught a final glimpse of the caretaker from the doorway as I left. He had already fallen asleep. I dutifully stopped a passing nurse and asked her to see to him. Then I walked through the long corridors to the exit with the feeling that I had just seen a dying human fly and it was an incredibly sad sight. It also occurred to me that in the end human flies are human beings as well.

The caretaker’s good memory, which had plagued him so, had given me plenty to think about. In addition to the familiar faces of the other residents, I now also had to look for a refugee family that had disappeared and a faceless ghost from the war. There were – as Patricia had already intimated yesterday – an increasing number of threads that needed to be tied up that all led back to the dark days of the war.

V

The clock in reception showed half past four by the time I left the hospital. There were still two and half hours to go before my dinner appointment with Patricia. I was unsure for a few minutes as to what I should do: should I go back to the station or go and talk to the deceased Harald Olesen’s neighbours? I decided on the latter in the end. I wanted to know whether the caretaker’s wife had anything to add to her husband’s story from the war. What is more, a rather alluring idea was staring to form in my mind. The fact that I should not mention the discovery of the diary to any of the residents was absolutely clear. But in the course of my journey, I changed my mind at least eight times as to whether or not I should confront the neighbours with the name Deerfoot and the initials D, J, N and O.

The caretaker’s wife was at her post when I arrived. She could confirm her husband’s story from the war, but had nothing of importance to add. She remembered well the young refugee from the war who had returned ten years later with gifts and thanks. It was also one of the highlights of her post-war years. She had never seen the other refugees again, and her memory of them was more hazy. Nevertheless, she could confirm that a young couple with a baby had been hidden there for a few days, and that Harald Olesen had collected them the night before the Gestapo showed up at the door. She thought she had heard her husband mention the name Deerfoot, but could not remember Olesen talking about him.

The caretaker’s wife hesitated when I thanked her. Then from her pocket she produced a folded sheet with something akin to awe.

‘A telegram boy came here today. It has happened before – it’s not that. Harald Olesen received a great number of telegrams when he was in the government. But this one was for me!’

She held it out to me with a trembling hand. The text was short:

TO MRS RANDI HANSEN 25 KREBS STREET OSLO IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE WISHES OF THE DECEASED HARALD OLESEN YOU ARE ADVISED TO BE PRESENT AT OUR MEETING ROOM IN 28B IDUN STREET ON WEDNESDAY 10 APRIL AT 12 NOON STOP THIS IN CONNECTION WITH THE READING OF MR OLESENS WILL STOP RØNNINNG, RØNNING & RØNNING LAW FIRM

I nodded with interest and asked if the other residents had also received such a telegram today. To which she nodded, slowly.

‘Yes, yes – they all received one. The American was out, so the telegram boy went on to the embassy. Konrad Jensen did not want to open the door until he heard my voice, so I had to go up with the boy. I am sure it means nothing special, except that it’s the first time anyone has sent me a telegram. But still, I thought…’

The caretaker’s wife suddenly blushed like a schoolgirl and averted her gaze. A minute passed before she smiled apologetically and continued.

‘Well, we all have our little dreams… Harald Olesen was such a kind man, you see, who always remembered to give us Christmas presents and the like. And my husband did help him during the war, after all, and I have done his cleaning for him for many years. So I thought that maybe there was a slight chance that he had left us a small amount in his will.’

I said nothing. This obviously made her nervous, so she hurried on.

‘Yes, I know – it’s terrible to think like that, but it’s so easy to drift off into daydreams when you’ve had as little as I have for so long. If it was three hundred or five hundred kroner, that would be a small fortune to me… Two thousand would be enough to keep me in coffee and Christmas and birthday presents for my children and grandchildren until I turn seventy and get a pension. I would be eternally grateful to Harald Olesen. It would never be that much, of course. But he was kind and rich, so maybe I can hope for a couple of hundred. I have started to pack my belongings, as I will have to move out as soon as Anton dies, and then I will stay with one of my daughters; they will have to keep me out of charity for a few months each. It’s always nice to see the children and grandchildren, but it will be awful to sit there and not have the money to buy anything for them.’

She looked down and then up again.

‘Forgive me, but I just had to tell someone,’ she said very quietly.

I was more than happy to forgive; then I thanked her and left. I could not bring myself to say anything that might give her false hope. However, I had to admit that the telegrams in no way diminished my confusion regarding the case – or my curiosity regarding the will.

The telegrams were decisive with regard to my decision to test out the name Deerfoot on all the neighbours. Everyone was at home at this time in the afternoon, but the findings were meagre pickings all the same.

Darrell Williams was once again in a benevolent and diplomatic mood. He roared with laughter and commented that it was a very creative code name, but that he had no idea as to who or what was behind it. He associated the name Deerfoot with some Red Indian books (were they not written by James Fenimore Cooper?) that he had read at some point in the 1930s. He had, to his surprise, also received a telegram advising him to be present for the reading of the will. He could not understand why, but it was less mysterious now that he knew that everyone in the building had received one. He would of course go, out of curiosity and politeness.

Kristian and Karen Lund were eating supper when I knocked on the door, and their son was sitting in a highchair at the end of the table. The perfect family. They confirmed that they had received a telegram and were also terribly curious as to why. She was just as phlegmatic as she had been the last time, and he was far calmer. I hoped that it meant he was not hiding any more from me, but did not presume to take that for granted. They were taken aback by the name, but did not recognize it.

Sara Sundqvist hesitantly opened the door a crack with the safety chain to begin with, but then lit up when she saw that it was me. She had also received a telegram and was not sure whether to attend or not, but promised that she would when I told her that the others were probably going. I jokingly added that I would be there myself, so she would be perfectly safe. She immediately gave me a charming smile and leaned forward in her chair. I understood why Kristian Lund was so attracted to her and caught myself wondering whether perhaps she should concentrate more on the theatre.

Sara Sundqvist gave a start when I mentioned Deerfoot, but quickly regained her composure and said that she did not associate anything with the name. In her softest voice, she asked where the mysterious name came from, and nodded with understanding when I said that I could not reveal that at present. I thought it a suitable moment to take my leave.

Konrad Jensen opened the door as cautiously as before, but seemed to be slightly calmer. He had come to terms with the loss of his car, but the future still looked bleak without it. When the telegram boy had showed up at the door, he had thought that it was someone trying to deceive him, but had opened the door when the caretaker’s wife came and told him that she had received a similar telegram. He still did not see the point of it all. The very idea that Harald Olesen would leave something to him was ridiculous, and why the old Resistance hero wanted him to be there was a mystery. The whole thing might be a plot to lure him out onto the open street. He had no plans of going, and in fact had no plans of going out at all.

The name Deerfoot spawned a new sceptical sneer, but nothing more. Konrad Jensen thought he had heard the name in a story or a book when he was young, but it could equally have been a film. He was not aware of any association with Harald Olesen or the building. I gave him a clue and mentioned the war, but he continued to shake his head uncomprehendingly. With a hint of optimism, I also intimated that we had found some new clues and hoped that the case would soon be solved. He smiled gingerly at this and wished me luck before hastily closing and locking the door.

Andreas Gullestad nodded with recognition as soon as he heard the name Deerfoot, even though he quite ‘decidedly’ remembered that the books were written by Ellis and not by Cooper. But he had no further association with the name, either from the war or after. He had also received a telegram and equally could not understand why, but would of course be there if that was what the deceased wanted. The caretaker’s wife had already promised to help him with the wheelchair, and had explained to him that she and the other neighbours had also been notified of the reading of the will.

The contrast between Konrad Jensen pacing nervously around in the neighbouring flat and Andreas Gullestad, who sat here completely relaxed in his wheelchair, was striking. However, he had little of any interest to tell. At ten to seven, I extracted myself from the flat, muttering something about an ‘important meeting’. Which was a small white lie. I reluctantly had to acknowledge that the many meetings I had had that day had provided plenty of new information, but very few conclusions as to the way forward.

As I walked down the street, I looked back at 25 Krebs’ Street. I felt a warm rush in my chest. The reward was just as I would have wished, had I had the choice. Harald Olesen’s windows were of course dark and empty, as were Darrell Williams’s. Konrad Jensen had the light on, but the curtains were firmly closed. Mrs Lund was to be seen moving around in the Lunds’ flat with the baby in her arms. Andreas Gullestad’s window was lit but empty. But in the sixth window stood the tall and beautiful silhouette of a woman, unmoving. However it was to be interpreted, Sara Sundqvist was watching me with increasing interest.

VI

Patricia’s large desk was set for two when I was ushered in by the maid, five minutes late. Not unexpectedly, a ‘light supper’ proved to be a rather sophisticated affair in the Borchmann household. The first course – a beautifully prepared asparagus soup – was already on the table when I arrived. I complimented Benedikte on the soup and Patricia of course had to correct me straightaway.

‘First of all, the maids do not make the food in this house. The cook has to do something to earn her salary. And second, that is not Benedikte.’

I looked at the maid, bewildered, as she was in every way identical to the girl I had met on my previous visits. The maid smiled timidly at my confusion, until Patricia’s voice rang out once more.

‘That is her twin sister; this one is called Beate. They each work for two days at a time and then have two days off. It is a practical arrangement, as I can basically have the same maid with more or less the same good and bad habits all the time, and they have a manageable working week. That way, both girls also have time to enjoy the company of some relatively intelligent and not-too-bad-looking young men.’

Beate’s mouth held a brave smile, which understandably did not reach her eyes. I refrained from saying anything, but my thoughts were so loud that I was afraid she might hear; the way in which Patricia used her intellectual capacity was not always entirely engaging.

Once the mystery of the maids had been cleared up, we proceeded to eat slowly. I told Patricia in detail about the lives of Bjørn Erik Svendsen and the caretaker, as well as about the discovery of the diary and its contents. This time she was an impatient listener and constantly interrupted me with astute, detailed questions.

After the soup, Patricia cheerfully refused to let the main course be served until she had seen the diary. This did not involve any great delay. Patricia truly devoured the pages with her eyes and was done with the entire book within five minutes or so. Safely locked away in her own small kingdom and away from the dark streets of Oslo, Patricia appeared to experience none of the alarm that both Bjørn Erik Svendsen and I had felt regarding the diary in Harald Olesen’s flat. But her fascination with it was no less. A few minutes of thoughtful silence followed while we tucked into the superb tenderloin, served with vegetables and roast potatoes. Patricia chewed slowly, but undoubtedly thought fast. The minutes of silence were at irregular intervals interspersed with frantic blinking.

‘Rather a good day’s work,’ she said finally, when the dessert was on the table and the loyal Beate had left the room. ‘We have made some great strides in the investigation and have gathered what is surely very important information.’

I nodded smugly.

‘Yes, thank you. It does feel like that. But I still do not see any obvious way to resolve the case.’

Patricia gave one of her mischievous smiles.

‘That is not so strange – I can scarcely see it myself. We still lack some key information, which means that we cannot have a clear picture of the murderer. But both the diary and the caretaker’s story have contributed some new details to this picture.’

Patricia paused for thought before she continued.

‘The letters in the diary must have a meaning and could be of crucial importance. Harald Olesen is not likely to have chosen letters from a known letter system, as he would in that case have started with A or X. He has used letters that have an immediate association for him, with either a name or title that he might associate with the person in question. That way, they would be instantly recognizable for him, but are an extremely difficult crossword puzzle for the rest of us. He seems to have made it deliberately difficult for his biographer, relatives or anyone else who might get hold of his diary later. I am fairly certain that he has not used names for the key people, D, J, N or O, but rather titles or words that he associates with those people. O seems to operate alone and is seen to be less of a problem, even though he and Harald Olesen have obviously had secrets and conflicts in the past. D, J, and N, on the other hand, seem to be connected in some way.’

‘J could be Konrad Jensen,’ I suggested, in the hope of contributing something that was not too idiotic.

Patricia shook her head lightly.

‘I have of course considered that possibility, but then the text makes little sense. It would appear that J is someone who instils sympathy and a sense of guilt in Harald Olesen. And even though one can never know what lies hidden in the past, it does seem rather unlikely that an ageing Nazi would fulfil that role.’

Patricia suddenly put down her dessert spoon and thought very hard. I could almost hear the creaking in her brain. Then equally suddenly she fired a completely unexpected question at me.

‘I am sure that you have already checked this; however, I am not so sure that you have told me… What was the name of Kristian Lund’s dead mother?’

I had never been told, and nor had I asked. On the other hand, I had remembered to take with me the papers from the census records that she had requested, and quickly found the sheets that related to Kristian Lund. A thought struck me as I leafed through the papers and I looked up at Patricia in surprise.

‘But Kristian Lund’s mother was already dead when Harald Olesen started to write about D, J, N and O.’

There was a hint of irony in Patricia’s voice when she replied: ‘Precisely!’

I had a swift look through the papers in the hope that I would not appear to be as slow as I felt.

‘Kristian of course has her surname, as his father was unknown. Her first name was Nathalie.’

Patricia frowned and shook her head and gave a deep sigh.

‘I am afraid that the name Nathalie Lund is not of much help to us… Did she perhaps have a middle name or a nickname that she used or was known by?’

I looked at the sheet from the census records, and then the two pages about her trial for treason.

‘No known middle name, but in a subclause here in her case papers it mentions that she was often called Sonja during the war, as she apparently looked like the film star Sonja Henie.’

It was silent for a beat. When I looked up, I discovered that Patricia had fixed me with an accusing telescopic gaze.

‘You could have spared us the delay by telling me that immediately! That fits perfectly with the obvious scenario. We still do not have the murderer, but we have at least identified the mysterious N as the shop manager Kristian Lund, whose address is 25 Krebs’ Street.’

I looked at Patricia as if she were a green Martian on roller skates, not a white woman in a wheelchair. She rolled her eyes.

‘Given the information that “S” could stand for “Sonja” and that this plays on her resemblance to the beautiful and famous actress, the rest is rather elementary, my dear Kristiansen. The whole sequence is then almost too perfect for it to be a coincidence. Konrad Jensen was right when he claimed to have seen Harald Olesen picking up a young woman from an NS meeting in Asker in 1939. She came from Drammen and had a relationship with Harald Olesen. Which he absolutely did not want to be reminded of later, for various reasons I hope I do not need to explain. So “S”, who is mentioned briefly in Harald Olesen’s diary, stands for “Sonja”. He would naturally still use a pet name for an old love, which means that the N Harald Olesen met unexpectedly with S, and who later tried to extort money from him, is of course her son. In which case, it is not so surprising that Kristian Lund did not want to let you see his bank statements.’

I had remembered the story with the car when I visited the caretaker, but then quickly forgotten about it again. Which annoyed me, so I moved swiftly on.

‘What does “N” stand for, then?’

Patricia furrowed her brow with impatience.

‘That is a relatively minor question that I cannot answer with any certainty yet, and that we may perhaps never have a definite answer to, but my guess would be that “N” stands for something a la “Nazi child”. More importantly, it would seem that he is in fact Harald Olesen’s own son.’

This was too much all at once. The room began to spin around me, but Patricia’s voice was just as clear and convincing when she continued.

‘It is of course possible that Kristian Lund was blackmailing Harald Olesen purely on the basis of his knowledge that Harald Olesen had had a relationship with a woman who supported the NS. But the reasons would of course be greater, and emotions far stronger, if Harald Olesen really was his father. It also fits well with the chronology, if we assume that Harald Olesen was in a relationship with his mother as late as 1939, and Kristian Lund was born in winter 1941. If the child was conceived in May or June 1940, it would be no less disastrous for Harald Olesen. What is more, it might explain certain similarities between the potential father and son. Both are obviously intelligent and energetic. And both have a talent for the immoral, particularly with regard to getting into the knickers of beautiful young women without their naive wives noticing!’

The latter was accompanied by a particularly unsympathetic teenage giggle. Patricia’s views on love struck me as being rather cynical. However, I saw no reason to waste time discussing this, as the main thrust of her reasoning was both highly convincing and important.

‘Which leaves Kristian Lund in a bit of a fix.’

Patricia immediately stopped laughing and was promptly very serious and earnest again.

‘Yes and no. Yes, in the sense that he quite obviously is not only unfaithful to his wife, but has also blackmailed his father. Yes, in that he is not only a liar, but a rather conniving pathological liar. He has possibly already gone well beyond the penal boundary with regard to false evidence. But no, in the sense that it is still an open question as to whether it was he who shot Harald Olesen. In terms of the diary, N is of course a potential murderer, but so are J and O, and certainly D, in every sense. And what is more, there may also be a fifth person, who is or is not associated with one of the four, whom Harald Olesen knew nothing about. You should absolutely interview Kristian Lund again, but in the meantime, we must try to identify D, J and O. And as yet, I only have enough information to form some very insubstantial theories.’

I waited half a minute in the hope that she would share her hypotheses on the identity of D, J and O with me – insubstantial or not – but instead, she asked another unexpected question.

‘The limitation period for murder in Norway is still twenty-five years, is it not?’

I confirmed this, but added swiftly that I sincerely hoped we could close the investigation into the case before then. Patricia laughed politely, but was soon serious again.

‘I am thinking of the past and not the future. This may perhaps be influenced by the fact that I recently read a novel by the great Belgian-French crime writer Simenon in which the limitation period for an old murder suddenly spawned several new murders. And it may be of great importance to us too. The events that the caretaker talked of took place in winter 1944. If we now say hypothetically that one or more murders that Harald Olesen knew about, to which this Deerfoot and other living people may be linked, took place around this time… then they are still a criminal offence, but in one year from now they will be time-barred.’

I nodded gravely and asked whether she thought this might be decisive to the case.

‘Again, yes and no. I have an increasingly strong feeling that something major and serious happened during the war that is crucial to our case now. I think that it is to a large extent a matter of emotions and the like, but the legal implications may still be important. Particularly when we consider that someone has a very strong wish that Harald Olesen should remain silent about something that happened during the war – preferably forever, but certainly until the limitation period has expired. Which also happens to fit in rather neatly with the notes in the diary.’

Patricia sat deep in thought for a moment. Then she managed once again to ambush me with a totally unexpected question.

‘As you are so tall and, what is more, able to stand, could you take down my almanac for 1967? It may actually prove to be very important to the case, and should be easy to find. It should be number eight from the right on the top left-hand shelf of the bookcase behind me.’

I got up mechanically and, as instructed, counted my way to her almanac from 1967. I was unable to resist the childish temptation of mentioning that the book was in fact number ten, not eight, from the right. I immediately regretted having said anything. Patricia’s face darkened, and as she reached for the almanac, she muttered something about Benedikte and Beate and reprimanding them for creating the confusion when spring-cleaning. She looked determined and a touch triumphant when she raised her eyes to meet mine, having quickly glanced in the book.

‘Well, the position of the book is strictly irrelevant. I was right, however, about what is now the only important thing in this almanac and that is that Whitsun fell on the weekend of 13 to 15 May last year.’

After a minute of intense thought, I had to swallow the bitter pill and admit that I had no idea why Whitsun last year was of any significance to the murder this year. Patricia replied in a saccharine voice and with a glorious smile.

‘That is perfectly understandable. There are so many unusual facts involved in this case that it requires an exceptionally good memory to see the significance of this. But it may be of great importance all the same.’

In that moment it struck me that people who appear to be very understanding may sometimes in fact instead be extremely sarcastic. Fortunately, my irritation quickly gave way to curiosity and she immediately proceeded to provide me with the explanation.

‘The first time that D is mentioned in Harald Olesen’s diary is when he wrote that D had visited him in his flat on 15 May 1967. Andreas Gullestad, who incidentally seems to have a memory that is worth noting, claims it was Whitsun last year when he saw the mysterious person in the blue raincoat in the building. In other words, we cannot know whether D was in 25 Krebs’ Street on the evening the murder took place, and thus even less whether it was D who murdered Harald Olesen. The same is true of the person in the blue raincoat. However, it is highly likely that the person in the blue raincoat is the very same D and he did visit Harald Olesen on 15 May 1967. Which then becomes of even greater interest when we consider that a blue raincoat was discovered in the rubbish bin on the evening that Harald Olesen was murdered. Or is there something elementary that I have overlooked?’

There certainly was nothing elementary she had overlooked. I, on the other hand, had overlooked much that was not entirely elementary. However, there was one simple thing that I had understood, and which I had held back.

‘In which case, what happened to D? Could D perhaps be the same as Deerfoot?’

We were definitely on to something again. Patricia gave a couple of quick nods and then continued eagerly: ‘I have given considerable thought to two obvious but important questions. D could of course stand for many more conventional names or words: Dag, Danielsen, Danger – or Deerfoot. If it stands for Deerfoot, it could fit nicely with a person who entered the building on 15 May to meet Harald Olesen and who did not want to risk being recognized. But as yet we know nothing about this Deerfoot whom Harald Olesen knew during the war. We have no suggestion of a name or face, and have no idea where he came from or what he did – in fact, we cannot even rule out that “he” might in fact be a “she”. The identity of Deerfoot and whether or not he or she is still alive may be of little relevance, but could also be the key to unlocking the mystery. Do ask Bjørn Erik Svendsen, Jesper Christopher Haraldsen and anyone else who may have heard about Deerfoot, next time you meet them. But if “D” does stand for “Deerfoot”, and the same D reappeared from the past on the night in question to murder Harald Olesen, we not only have to explain how he or she managed to escape afterwards, we also have to find out how he or she got in without being noticed in the first place. Unless…’

Patricia sat staring straight ahead, deep in thought.

‘Unless…’ I said eventually, in the hope that I might prompt her. I had come to understand that Patricia did not like to say things that might later prove to be wrong. She hesitated for half a minute, but then launched in.

‘Unless D did not need to get either in or out, because he or she lives in the building and was there all the time. In which case, D is someone you have already met. The Lunds and Sara Sundqvist were all born during the war, Ivar Storskog, aka Andreas Gullestad, was still just a boy when his father was shot during the war, and Konrad Jensen we can safely say was not active in the Resistance. But Darrell Williams was a young man, who was in Norway and did take an active part in the fight against the Germans. It does seem unlikely that an American would be used as a guide in Norway, but the circumstances surrounding all this are still unclear. Some loose circumstantial evidence might be that Darrell Williams was probably lighter on his feet back then, and Deerfoot is after all a well-known name from American children’s literature. To be more specific, from Edward S. Ellis’s books.’

‘I thought it was James Fenimore Cooper,’ I said.

Patricia shook her head firmly – with a slight blush on her cheeks.

‘It was definitely Ellis. I don’t have the books in here, of course. I read them in the lunch breaks in second or third grade. But there is no mistake about the name; the silly boys in my class certainly talked enough about his Red Indian books later.’

‘Darrell Williams thought it was Cooper,’ I argued with caution.

A sudden silence fell in the room.

‘How did you discover that Darrell Williams thought that?’ Patricia exclaimed, in an almost accusatory tone, following a minute of tense silence. Her pale face suddenly appeared to be chalk white, and something akin to a fearful wonder shone in her dark eyes.

I told her straightaway that I had already tested the name Deerfoot out on the caretaker’s wife and the other residents in the building, but without great success in terms of reaction.

On this news, Patricia’s face blanched further. It struck me that behind her self-assured demeanour and steady voice, she was after all still a young girl with nerves.

‘I understand your motives, and it was a bold move in this great chess game. You of course thought that if anyone in the building was in fact the murderer or in cahoots with him or her, which is almost certainly the case, then the pressure would mount when he or she realized that the investigation was progressing. If the mysterious Deerfoot had anything to do with the case, the pressure and likelihood of suspicious activity would also increase.’

I nodded. That was no doubt more or less what I had subconsciously thought.

‘The problem being, however, that you are absolutely right in this assumption, and therefore the risk of further dramatic events has now doubled!’

I held up my hands in defence.

‘I have posted reliable armed policemen on both sides of the building. It would be quite a feat to escape without any of them noticing.’

Patricia nodded, but did not smile.

‘Very good, but it is not the murderer making a dash for freedom that I am afraid of. In fact, we might even hope for that: it would identify the murderer without causing any of the others harm. I am far more concerned that something dramatic might happen in the building itself. We still do not know who the murderer is, but judging from what we do know, we are hunting for an unusually cunning and determined predator.’

Patricia fidgeted uneasily in her wheelchair for a couple of minutes. It was obvious that the situation had now taken an uncontrolled turn that she did not like, and was no longer simply an intellectual game to her.

‘I would urge you to arrange immediately for a policeman to stand guard on each of the three floors in 25 Krebs’ Street from tonight,’ she said abruptly. ‘But that is of course a decision you must take yourself,’ she added in the same breath.

I looked at the clock – it was a quarter past nine – and gave her an honest answer: that it was difficult to justify such drastic measures at such short notice, and what is more, we may not be able to find a further three police officers who were available right now. Indeed, the case was confusing and alarming enough as it was without us starting to see ghosts in broad daylight.

This calmed Patricia down somewhat. She apologized if she had overreacted and repeated that it was difficult decision that only I could take. However, she did ask that I at least sleep on it and evaluate the possibility in the morning. It was as though the fear and mystery in the diary had touched Patricia as well, albeit a few hours later, and despite the fact that she was so safe where she was.

The atmosphere was tense when we said our goodbyes shortly after, just as her clock struck ten. I thanked her for the food and good advice, but the only response was a cautious smile. Patricia seemed to be somewhat pacified when I promised to consider increasing security in the morning, and to let her know immediately if there were any important developments in the case.

There was a strange little incident as I got up to leave and looked around, past the bookshelves, expecting to see the ever-loyal Beate. Patricia suddenly became very concerned about how late it was and that she must not keep me any longer than necessary. She rang immediately for Beate and asked her to show me out as quickly as possible.

However, the little mystery was cleared up without any help, thankfully, when I followed Beate down the steps onto the street only a few minutes later. It also confirmed for me that Patricia had of course been right once again, and that Darrell Williams had either intentionally or unintentionally misinformed me about the Deerfoot books. They were written by Edward S. Ellis. Despite her efforts to hide the fact that they were there, I had caught a glimpse of four of the books on Patricia’s bookshelf.

Once out in the night and dark again, on my way to the car, my thoughts turned quickly to the seriousness of the murder case. Even though the identity of the murderer was still unknown, I felt that with Patricia’s help, we had made some important breakthroughs. When I later opened the door to my flat and collapsed on the bed, my last clear thought was that Tuesday, 9 April would probably be another dramatic day for the investigation. And I was blissfully unaware of just how dramatic it would turn out to be.