The Human Flies

I

On Tuesday, 9 April, my working day started at the main police station at half past eight. I had Kristian Lund lined up as my first stop of the day, but I tried to be rational and asked my secretary to arrange three important meetings that I had postponed for too long: with the ambassador of the USA, Supreme Court Justice Jesper Christopher Haraldsen and Party Secretary Haavard Linde. My secretary smiled and commented that it should be possible to arrange the first in the course of the day at least. I looked at her in surprise. She pulled out a telegram that had come earlier that morning, which immediately sent a shiver down my spine.

THE AMBASSADOR OF THE USA REQUESTS A MEETING AS SOON AS POSSIBLE WITH DETECTIVE INSPECTOR K KRISTIANSEN STOP IN CONNECTION WITH THE INVESTIGATION INTO THE MURDER OF HARALD OLESEN STOP SUGGEST MEETING IN THE EMBASSY TODAY AT 1PM IF POSSIBLE STOP IMMEDIATE RESPONSE DESIRED STOP EMBASSY COUNSELLOR GEORGE ADAMS

With a measured voice, I said that should be fine and asked my secretary to send a reply straightaway to say that I would meet George Adams at one o’clock. She then tried to set up meetings in whatever order later in the day with Jesper Christopher Haraldsen and Haavard Linde, in connection with the ongoing investigation into the murder of a former government minister and Resistance leader. I sat there for a while wondering why the American Embassy had contacted me of their own volition and requested an urgent meeting. I did not come to any conclusion – other than that it probably had something to do with Darrell Williams, and that was hardly good news from my point of view.

At nine o’clock, I telephoned the sports shop to see if Kristian Lund was at work yet. When the chirpy voice on the other end told me that he had just arrived, I politely announced my arrival in the course of a few minutes and immediately went out to the car. I needed something else to think about in advance of my meeting at the embassy and had to admit that any breakthroughs in the investigation before that time would be an enormous relief.

Kristian Lund had obviously been warned and was sitting ready in his office with a broad smile on his face when the secretary showed me in. I briskly thanked the secretary and demonstratively closed the door as soon as she had gone out. The smile on the shop manager’s face had given way to a visible disquiet by the time I sat down.

‘The good news for you is that we no longer need any details about your bank account.’

He nodded in anticipation. This inspired an offensive attack on my part.

‘The bad news is that this is because we already know that you were blackmailing Harald Olesen.’

Kristian Lund remained impressively calm, so for a moment I wondered whether we had made a mistake. Then he nodded gravely.

‘I had thought of telling you the whole story later on today… Denying you access to my account was a panicked reaction that would only arouse suspicions about serious matters. Yes, it is true that I have received a considerable amount from Harald Olesen on a couple of occasions in the past year, but I would not call it blackmail. It would be fairer to say I asked for and got what he should have given me a long time ago.’

I inwardly thanked Patricia for yet another bullseye and quickly followed up on this success.

‘Because he was your father. That is perhaps also why you moved to 25 Krebs’ Street?’

He unexpectedly shook his head in response to the latter, which was in fact an improvisation on my part.

‘Believe it or not, moving into the same building was more or less pure coincidence. I may perhaps have thought that it would be exciting to live in the same building as a former Resistance leader and cabinet minister, and that may have influenced our choice, but at the time, I had no idea that he was my father. In fact, it was the other way round: I found out that he was my father because we moved in there. But yes, you are right – he was my father. And I hope that you will soon also be able to conclude that my financial disagreement with my father had nothing to do with his death.’

I was not willing to draw any conclusions straightaway and demanded an immediate and honest answer from Kristian Lund regarding how and when he discovered the relationship. He was silent at first, but then he started, following a short and bitter laugh.

‘I’m more than happy to tell you; it was a strange coincidence. As you no doubt remember I told you, I had badgered my mother for years to get her to tell me who my father was. Well, I had reached the stage where I had more or less accepted the fact that it would forever be a secret. It felt less important now that I had a good job and my own family. And what is more, Mother was seriously ill, so nagging her any more felt wrong. But then came that fateful day in late autumn, about a year and a half ago. It was the last time that my mother managed to visit us, and I had to more or less carry her out of the flat in Drammen. I have often wondered later how different things might have been if she had not been able to come that day. But I cannot imagine that it had anything to do with the murder…’

He nodded pensively, lit up a cigarette and then carried on.

‘I had parked the car and was about to help Mother in. She coughed and coughed and hung round my neck like a sick child. We were on our way up the stairs when suddenly I noticed her face freeze in a look of surprise and devotion I had never seen before. I looked up and discovered that we had bumped into Harald Olesen, but I barely had time to recognize him as he more or less stormed back up the stairs and into his flat. I immediately thought it very odd, as he had been on his way out when we met on the stairs. I did not manage to see his face. My mother said nothing and I did not like to ask. But she seemed distant and strange for the rest of the day, and my suspicions that there was some kind of connection between her and Harald Olesen only grew stronger.’

Kristian Lund blew some smoke rings out into the room as he pondered, but then picked up the story again.

‘And so once more I spent a considerable amount of time pondering the great mystery of my childhood. One day, I went to the library and found some books with pictures of him from the war. I look more like my mother, so our faces were not that similar, but the eyes and ears were so alike that it seemed to confirm what I thought. It was a difficult dilemma. My mother was hovering between life and death, and I did not want to do anything that would make the burden heavier for her. But at the same time, the uncertainty surrounding my father’s identity burned inside with increasing intensity the closer Mother came to death. Then they called from the hospital in Drammen one evening to say that Mother was not likely to live through the night and I made up my mind. I drove straight there and sat by her side from eight in the evening until she finally let go of the pain at around six o’clock in the morning. That night, she nodded in answer when I asked if Harald Olesen was my father. She had thought that no one would believe us and that everything would just get worse if she said anything, she told me. Those were her last words. I said that I forgave her and held her hand tight until all the warmth had left it. Then I walked through the empty hospital corridors alone, feeling a deep love for my mother, and a passionate hatred for my father because he had let us both down for all those years.’

My impression was that Kristian Lund’s love for his mother was deep and sincere, in a life that was guided by few other values and an otherwise cynical attitude to women. This impression was strengthened when he continued.

‘It was a hectic and difficult time. I became a father three days after I lost my mother, and buried her four days after that. I was anxious to see whether Harald Olesen would at least do her the honour of coming to her funeral, but he did not make an appearance. So I went up to the second floor and knocked on his door. He blanched when I confronted him, giving me the confirmation that I needed. But my first meeting with my father was not as I had hoped. He still managed to say some nice things about my mother – that she had accepted the consequences of her errors during the war and had not talked about it later. But me, his only son, he addressed scornfully simply as “NS boy”. I pointed out that I had never had anything to do with the NS and asked how he, if he was so morally pure himself, had ended up in bed with an NS woman after the outbreak of war. At that, he asked me never to speak to him again and slammed the door in my face.’

Kristian Lund shook his head in exasperation, and to be fair, it was easy to understand why.

‘This insult made me even more determined. I sent him a letter in which I wrote that I could not force him to see me, but I did have the right, as his only child, to an inheritance – and that I intended to get what was mine, even if it meant I had to go to the national papers and the supreme court. I had grown up poor because he had never cared about me, his only son, and did not want to risk that either I or my young son would ever be in that position again. He told me that he had burned the letter, the next time I knocked on his door. But he was calmer this time, no doubt as he was now ill himself. He would be more than happy to give me some money on the quiet if I would be satisfied with that and not make any more demands. In the end, he gave me two payments of a hundred thousand kroner, one last autumn and one in February just past. But he would not promise me anything in terms of his will. So there you have it: I pressured him to give me my well-deserved inheritance, but still do not know whether I succeeded. If you asked me whether I feel like a good son, the answer would be no, but my father did not deserve a good son either.’

Given that the story that Kristian Lund had just told was close to the full truth, then it was hard to disagree with his conclusion. I made a quick note that ‘N’ in the diary in all likelihood stood for ‘NS boy’ and that the explanation given by Kristian Lund was in line with what Harald Olesen had written in his diary. I then asked if he had anything more to add in relation to the murder. He repeated that he had an absolutely clear conscience. He sounded convincing enough, but my trust in Kristian Lund had been steadily eroded. So I said that it would have been more credible if he had told us straightaway, but that we would of course take his story seriously and keep all options open. In response to my final question, whether he was still in touch with Sara Sundqvist, he replied that he had broken off all contact and had no intention of renewing it. The murder now stood between them like a wall.

I left the sports shop at half past ten on Tuesday, 9 April with the feeling that I had more than enough to deal with at the moment. The weight of expectation increased further when my secretary back at the main station beamed and told me that she had indeed arranged two meetings, one with Jesper Christopher Haraldsen at eleven o’clock and one with Haavard Linde at midday. I had to scramble in order not to be late for the meeting with one of my childhood idols.

II

It can be a strange experience suddenly to stand face to face as an adult with one of the great heroes of your childhood and youth. Which is precisely how I felt when I was shown into Jesper Christopher Haraldsen’s office on Youngstorget on 9 April 1968. In my youth, I had been interested in his work both as one of the country’s leading lawyers and as a cabinet minister who had held several important posts for various governments. However, my youthful fascination with him had been spawned by the heroic stories of his efforts as a leader of the Home Front during the occupation. And I have to admit I was now excited not only about what he would have to tell me about Harald Olesen, but also about being able to see a living legend in the flesh.

The man who stood up behind the vast, orderly desk was just as I had imagined: upright, powerful and dynamic in his movements, with a firm handshake and a brightness in his eye. Patience did not appear to be one of his strengths, even though he was now well over fifty. He interrupted my attempt to give a brief outline of the case after only two minutes, with the comment that he still read the papers and could I please get to the point.

In his reply to my question regarding Harald Olesen’s contribution and importance during the war, Jesper Christopher Haraldsen briskly said that both were great, but not quite in the national league to which he himself belonged. Harald Olesen had been involved in various actions, as well as smuggling refugees across the border, and for a time functioned as the regional leader for the Resistance in Hedmark and Oppland. Jesper Christopher Haraldsen mentioned intelligence, self-control and luck as his best qualities in his work for the Home Front. I was taken aback by the last, but just had to take note of the supreme court justice’s very firm opinion that luck was a good quality that some people had – and Olesen had it in ample supply.

Haraldsen dismissed the suggestion that there may have been some form of internal strife in the Home Front that may have resulted in someone bearing a grudge against Harald Olesen. He had far more belief in the theory that it might be a somewhat postponed revenge killing by the Nazis, without linking it to any particular event or person. Haraldsen frowned for a minute or two in response to my question about a man who worked for the Resistance and went under the code name Deerfoot. He then answered that he had never heard of this person and that it sounded like a rather unlikely code name for a Norwegian Resistance fighter. Haraldsen was visibly rattled, but I found it difficult to discern whether this was due to something he knew or something he felt he ought to know. According to Jesper Christopher Haraldsen, Olesen had been a sound and well-intentioned cabinet minister, but never one of the leading lights. He had rarely dealt with the most important issues in government.

When I asked about possible connections with the American intelligence services, Jesper Christopher Haraldsen leaned forward over his desk and his voice took on a steel edge. He found it inappropriate that such convoluted conspiracies against our most important ally were triggered by the mere fact that there was an American diplomat living in the same building. He also felt that it was illustrative of the younger generation that they did not view a convicted Nazi who also lived there with the same suspicion. He claimed to have no knowledge as to whether Olesen had had any significant contact with the American intelligence services. And added that I could be certain that if such had existed, he would most certainly have known and remembered.

As far as Haraldsen knew, Harald Olesen had always been a forward-thinking man in terms of foreign policy and was therefore a loyal friend of the USA. It was utterly unthinkable that the Americans would participate in any form of political assassination in Norway. And what was more, it was even more inconceivable, if possible, that they would then target an old friend who no longer held a position. Anyone of more than average intelligence must realize that. If he, based on his own long experience, were to give me some advice, it would be to look for the perpetrator in marginalized extremist circles, be that far right or far left. Far-right and far-left dictators were equally insane, and he was sorry to say that he would have to be in court shortly for an important case. I took the hint, shook his hand and beat a hasty retreat.

I now had definite proof that the rumours regarding Haraldsen’s forceful character and intelligence were true. But I also had to admit, somewhat unwillingly, that the rumours about his arrogance and obstinacy were not without basis. In terms of the investigation, I noted grimly that nothing had come to light that might indicate a link with either the victim’s work as a cabinet minister or as a leader of the Home Front in the Oslo area.

I descended the stairs from Jesper Christopher Haraldsen’s office and made my way to meet another of the idols from my youth, whom I hoped would be able to cast more light on Harald Olesen’s political history and the possible significance of the USA lead.

III

Although my parents now belong to the upper class, and the family on my mother’s side is decidedly bourgeois, both my father and my paternal grandfather were former representatives of the Labour Party. My own political affiliation also lay here, though it went no further than a party membership and a low-level position in the police union. I had grown up with stories about the party’s great leaders. And among them, the now ageing Haavard Linde held a special position, thanks to his former far-sighted fight against dictators and for military rearmament in Norway. So I was fraught with anticipation when I entered the Labour Party’s offices to meet this party legend. It was obvious that he was still held in high esteem by the employees. The middle-aged secretary who came to meet me lit up when his name was mentioned and assured me that he would do his best to help me.

I entered Party Secretary Linde’s office with some trepidation: he too had a reputation for being a temperamental man. I was, however, pleasantly surprised. Haavard Linde was casually dressed in jeans and a checked shirt, and was apparently in a very good and relaxed mood. He beamed and squeezed my hand, and to my surprise knew immediately who I was talking about when I mentioned my father. ‘Now there’s a good man!’ he exclaimed enthusiastically. He was even happier when he realized that I myself was a party member and union official. Without hesitation, he intimated that it was young people like me that the party needed in these critical times. I had no desire to know precisely what he meant by that and moved the conversation promptly on to the murder investigation.

Haavard Linde’s expression saddened when Harald Olesen was mentioned. For a moment I thought I saw tears in his eyes, but his voice was firm when he carried on speaking. Harald Olesen had been a ‘good man’ who had done so much for the party over the years, and his death had been a shock. It had to be said that he was past his prime when he became a cabinet minister, and that his performance there was not his greatest achievement. But he was still someone you could rely on and who had helped form the country and party into what they were today.

The very idea that anyone in the party may have wished to kill Harald Olesen was inconceivable to Haavard Linde. Olesen had never been a divisive politician, was well liked by everyone and had not been part of the disagreements that had so blighted the 1960s. The thought that anyone in the party would want to physically harm someone else in the party seemed equally ludicrous.

In answer to my question whether someone in politics outside the Labour Party might have harboured a deep hatred of Harald Olesen, Haavard Linde had little to say. He thought about it and said that one never knew with the communists and the various groups attached to them. But he could think of no reason why they should hate Harald Olesen and so could not name any person or group who might be responsible. The old communist party was on its last legs. And he simply sneered at the new communist party, which he called the Socialist People’s Party, but did add that given their anti-military stance, they could hardly be suspected of an armed attack.

As soon as we touched on the USA, the hitherto pleasant conversation abruptly gathered pace. When I asked whether Harald Olesen had had any special contact with the Americans, Haavard Linde instantly replied that he had never heard of any such thing. However, his curiosity was piqued by this and he wondered from where I had got such a strange idea. I answered that so far it was not based on anything concrete, but was still a possibility that was being considered. Not least because of the strange coincidence that an American diplomat was living in the same building. Saying this to Haavard Linde was like turning the knob on a hotplate – the temperature rose fast. Within five seconds he had launched into a long and increasingly passionate tirade about the Americans being our friends and most important allies, and that I could dismiss any suggestion that they in any way had anything to do with the murder.

A minute later, I was told that the very idea that American intelligence would do any such thing in Norway was unthinkable, and we youngsters must never for a moment believe anything else, no matter what the communist propaganda machine churned out. And furthermore, he had himself met Darrell Williams on a couple of occasions and he was a good man whom no one could accuse of wrongdoing. Haavard Linde’s voice got louder and louder, his face got redder and redder, and his movements more and more animated. I quickly realized that it would be impossible to continue the conversation, but remained seated, intrigued, and listened to his impassioned lecture.

There followed a rather chaotic, but nevertheless extremely interesting, fifteen-minute tour of the interwar period, the Second World War and the Cold War. Then all of a sudden, Linde burned out and collapsed onto his chair. He was perhaps not in such good shape as he had been in his heyday in the 1940s and 1950s, but he still looked impressively dynamic. I gingerly gave my thanks and left the party office in a bit of a rush.

My conclusion was that there were clearly no grounds to believe that anyone from the Labour Party or wider political circles would have had any desire to bump off Harald Olesen. On the other hand – despite his great passion and charisma – I could not simply accept Haavard Linde’s categorical denial of any connection with the American Embassy. Rather, my feeling that there was something combustible hidden here – though not necessarily a motive for murder – got stronger as I drove away.

IV

I smelt a rat as soon as I was shown in to Counsellor George Adams’s office. The man who was waiting for me behind the mahogany desk was nearly six foot six, slim and bald, dressed in an alarmingly neutral black suit and could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five years old. Both his words and voice were those of a shrewd, super-power diplomat – of the sort who can talk and be friendly, but be holding a large club behind his back all the while. As I sat down, I was reminded of what Professor Borchmann had said about how it felt to meet someone who was always one step ahead of you. This embassy counsellor reminded me of a cobra, with his slimness and length, as he more or less coiled himself round to tower over me, while keeping steady eye contact.

Once he had shaken my hand and shown me to a chair that was lower than his own throne behind the desk, George Adams did not beat about the bush.

‘Let me first say how grateful we are that you were able to respond so quickly to our request for a meeting, and that we have heard great things about you, that you are a detective inspector of rare talent and have a very promising career ahead of you. We therefore hope that our concerns regarding this case can be dealt with swiftly.’

I was very curious as to who had said such great things about me, but he brusquely waved this off.

‘Now, to clarify the starting point, as I am sure you are aware, there have been some well-organized and extremely exaggerated reactions to the unfortunate consequences of the ongoing conflict in Vietnam. These are to a large extent organized by Norwegian communist sympathizers, but are, at the moment, having a regrettable influence on some Norwegian newspapers and public opinion. However, this does not mean there has been any change to our relationship. The USA is Norway’s most important ally and the only real guarantor for Norway’s survival as an independent state. Fortunately, most of the leading politicians and senior public officials both know and appreciate this.’

Once again, I wondered if he had any particular names in mind, but contained myself and indicated that he should continue.

‘Given this background, we would like to express a degree of concern that you, as far as we understand, appear to suspect a highly valued American diplomat of murder.’

I looked at him, perplexed. Now I really had no idea who he had been talking to.

‘Who has said that I do?’

He graced me with a forced smile.

‘It has not been said explicitly, but it is hard to interpret otherwise the fact that you asked the person in question to remain available for questioning and have even requested information regarding his financial situation. We find this to be a very unconventional approach, and should the wrong voices in the media get wind of this, it could result in some very negative attention, both in Norway and the USA, which in turn could have very unfavourable consequences for the diplomat in question and key people in the incumbent presidential administration in the USA. But also for those officials involved in Norway…’

This was feeling more and more like a threat. I tried to play the diplomat in the hope of steering the conversation onto a more positive track.

‘I would like to stress that the person in question is not officially a suspect, but is one of a large group of people who were present in the building on the night of the murder and have therefore been asked to remain available for questioning. What is more, I am not under the impression that he has any particular desire to leave Oslo.’

George Adams nodded, but still did not smile.

‘We of course understand that such availability might be desirable. However, it is doubtful that the press would appreciate such subtleties in a situation in which an American diplomat has been ordered to stay in Oslo against his own wishes and those of his employer. Furthermore, we have also been led to understand that you have in fact already had several conversations with the person in question and that he has nothing more of any interest to add. Unless there are grounds to believe that he may in some way be linked to the murder. But such a theory would require strong evidence, and if such exists, it would only be reasonable that the embassy was informed of what this might be… Unless such material can be provided, we are of the opinion that the best way to avoid any unfounded suspicions is that the person in question is given permission to leave Oslo. And I confirm this is his personal wish and that of his employer.’

The man’s voice was still seductively friendly and it was tempting to give him this right straightaway. However, I broke into a sweat when I imagined the possible scandalous headline: ‘Norwegian Detective Allows American Embassy to Take Over Murder Case.’ This was quickly followed by another: ‘American Murder Suspect Allowed to Leave Oslo: Police Chief Apologizes and Detective Resigns.’ I was frantically trying to think of a suitable response, but came up with nothing better than the platitude that I unfortunately could not release any material from the investigation, nor could I allow key witnesses to leave the country, for fear of the public reaction. But I swiftly added that I would certainly reassess the situation and hoped we could find a mutual solution soon.

To the extent that I had hoped that Adams would say that he was happy with that, I was disappointed. He replied that the embassy obviously had to assess this, but underlined that a prompt explanation would be desirable in a situation in which the journalists could at any moment become interested in the case and misunderstand things.

I had actually just got up to leave when I made an error of judgement that I found hard to understand later on in the day. Instead of accepting this short though undefined delay in the investigation, I asked a critical question.

‘I also have a question, and I hope that the answer may help the investigation: is it normal that senior American diplomats are accommodated in private flats in Torshov? And if not, was there any particular reason why Darrell Williams was placed there?’

George Adams’s head shot up and forwards across the desk, and he fixed me with gimlet eyes. For a moment I was afraid that he would lean right over and sink two venomous fangs into me. Instead, he whipped me with his silky voice.

‘First of all, it is highly unusual for the USA’s embassies in any country to be asked to give comment to the police on the choice of diplomats’ accommodation. Secondly, it is even more unheard of for detective inspectors to suggest that certain named individuals have been placed somewhere by the embassy with the intent of committing serious crime. I assume that as you are asking such questions, it is because you have very concrete and well-reasoned suspicions that you can share with us?’

There was total silence in the room. I had been outmanoeuvred by George Adams and could not think of anything to say that would not make my position even more exposed. I had the acute feeling that there was no smoke without fire, but could not even guess what it might be. And so I just stood there without saying a word – and hoped that this deeply uncomfortable meeting would soon be over. It felt as though the floor beneath me was shaking when George Adams very efficiently closed the conversation.

‘In that case, I will not take up more of your time, but I hope that the investigation will be concluded in the near future in a way that is satisfactory for everyone concerned.’

I took the hint and hurried out of the room without making any attempt to shake his hand. Later, I could not even recall how I got out. It felt more like I had fallen than walked out. What I did remember, however, was that I fortunately met no one on my way out of the American Embassy.

V

I have always seen myself as a rather balanced and calm man, but it has to be said that on the afternoon of 9 April 1968, behind my mask, I was in a very sombre and agitated frame of mind. Despite the discovery of the diary and other advances the previous day, I was still far from arresting anyone in the case – something that more and more newspapers were calling for, according to the pool of secretaries. The day’s three clashes with George Adams, Jesper Christopher Haraldsen and Haavard Linde had hardly increased the chances of finding a solution to the murder mystery. To the contrary, they had quite clearly increased the danger that the head of the investigation might encounter problems both in completing the investigation and keeping his position. And I must come clean that an hour after lunch, I was thinking more about the threat to my own position than about the possibilities inherent in the continued investigation. Another hour passed before I realized that I had, in fact, not eaten lunch. In the meantime, I had the wildest thoughts about what influences the American Embassy, Jesper Christopher Haraldsen or Haavard Linde might have and use against me. The fact that the country had a centre-right government who were unlikely to obey orders from someone in the Labour Party, and especially not in connection with a murder investigation, was not something I thought about at the time.

At one point, I was convinced that a phone call from the government calling for my resignation was imminent and wondered whether it would be the minister of justice, the foreign minister or the prime minister himself who called. My defence in terms of the anticipated phone call was nothing more than a couple of sentences along the lines of that I was responsible for investigating the murder of a former top politician and was therefore duty-bound to hold all options open, also in relation to foreign nationals. No doubt they would ask how I could even think of accusing an American diplomat and whether this had been cleared in advance with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, or at the very least with the chief of police in Oslo. And to that, I had no good answer.

My pulse started to slow after the first long hour and then another hour that was almost as long without anyone storming in – and without the telephone ringing. It did, however, rocket again when it started to ring at twenty-five past two – despite orders to the switchboard that only important messages should be put through. I swore out loud twice before I picked up the receiver with a shaking hand.

‘Detective Inspector Kristiansen,’ I said, as firmly as I could, and then shrank back from the expected tirade. Which never came. To begin with, there was silence on the other end of the line. Then some heavy breathing and a small sigh. Followed not by a furious man’s voice, but by a thin, frightened woman’s voice.

‘I do apologize if this is a bad time to call. They said it had to be very important, but I said it was about the murder, and that I was calling about a horrible situation at the scene of the crime. It’s me, Randi Hansen, the caretaker’s wife from 25 Krebs’ Street, where Harald Olesen was killed, if you remember me.’

The enormous weight lifted from my shoulders with a shudder. I answered with real joy that of course I remembered her, and that of course she had done the right thing in calling.

‘It won’t take long. It’s probably just me being a bit fearful and overly cautious after the murder, but I decided that I had to ring because now I’m starting to get very worried about one of the other residents here.’

I snapped to attention. The faces of the surviving neighbours ran through my mind and it has to be said that it was Sara Sundqvist’s smiling face that remained. Fortunately, the caretaker’s wife carried on regardless in her stuttering voice and another, less dangerous face replaced it.

‘It’s Konrad Jensen. He was so beside himself and terrified yesterday, you see. Poor Konrad didn’t even dare set foot outside his door, and did not open it until he had checked three times that it was me. I was going to do some shopping for him and knocked on his door to deliver it at midday today. He made a great deal of fuss about it being midday, so he could know it was me. I got there at twelve on the dot. I rang the bell several times, but he didn’t open, so I started to get worried. At first, I thought that maybe he had just fallen asleep, or that he had somehow snuck by me when I was out. But it’s well past two now and he is not answering his phone or responding to the doorbell or to knocking, so I am really worried that something terrible has happened to him. I have a key, but don’t want to go in before you say that I should. And Lord only knows if I would dare go in by myself, even if you say that I should, because I don’t like this one bit!’

Her voice rose to soprano pitch, then fizzled out and the heavy breathing returned.

I took a few seconds to gather my thoughts, and once again saw the tortured face of Konrad Jensen from the evening before. I could not imagine what powers on earth could have got him to leave his flat for several hours today. And I also desperately wanted to get away from the telephone and the office. So I heard myself saying that she should just stay at her post with the key; I would personally drive over and we could go into the flat together. She could not thank me enough, and said again what a good person I was, and assured me that she would not leave her post for one second until I arrived. I promised to be there as soon as I could and put down the receiver. Thankfully, the telephone remained silent as I rushed out of the office.

It was only when I reached my car that I realized that I did not have my service gun with me. I hesitated for a moment, but then sneaked back past the phone to get it. I was not expecting a shootout in Konrad Jensen’s flat, but said to myself that if I was armed, it might have a reassuring and calming effect on the caretaker’s wife and the other residents. The truth was that the caretaker’s wife had infected me just a little with her fear. I did not want to venture into the building unarmed, far less into Konrad Jensen’s locked flat.

The caretaker’s wife was sitting anxiously at her table when I arrived at 25 Krebs’ Street. She bobbed with relief and mumbled her thanks. I tried to reassure her, and to a certain degree managed. However, my own pulse was starting to race. I asked her to try calling him again, which she immediately did. I took the receiver and stood listening to ring after ring without anyone answering. After twelve seemingly endless signals, I put the phone down and nodded for her to follow me up the few steps to the ground-floor flats.

We rang the bell three times with no response. I knocked so hard that I thought the door might break, and shouted as loudly as I could. This only succeeded in alarming Andreas Gullestad, who rolled out of the neighbouring flat, and Mrs Lund, who came running down from the floor above with her son on her arm. But there was still no sign of life from Konrad Jensen’s flat.

I eventually said what we all were thinking: that there was no other option than to let ourselves in. I called for PC Eriksen to come from his post by the corner outside and asked him to stand guard at the door while I went in. He stayed there, standing beside Andreas Gullestad and Mrs Lund, who was still holding her young son. We were all gripped by the tension, neither of them wanting to return to their flats until the drama was over, despite my request. Mrs Lund went to her flat to put her son down in the cot, but then came running back down. I asked the caretaker’s wife to unlock the door and then wait while I went in. She nodded frantically and fumbled with the lock for some time until she managed to open it.

I went into Konrad Jensen’s flat alone, with my service gun in my hand and all my senses on full alert. I noticed straightaway that the ceiling light was on, which was strange if he had gone out. But apart from the light, there was no evidence of anything suspicious in Konrad Jensen’s hallway. His shoes stood by the door, and his worn grey overcoat hung there on a hook. There was nothing else of any interest to see, and certainly no people.

It sounded like a thunderclap in the loaded silence when I shouted: ‘Are you there, Konrad Jensen?’ I could almost hear the constable and two neighbours jump outside the flat, but all remained quiet inside. Deathly quiet, it occurred to me.

Other than myself, there was not another living soul in the flat. But Konrad Jensen was there all the same. I saw him as soon as I went through the door into the living room. The light was on there too.

Konrad Jensen was slumped in his threadbare armchair by the coffee table. His eyes were closed, but the bullet wound between his eyes was very much open. His features had frozen into a twisted grimace when the bullet hit. Even in death, Konrad Jensen looked bitter about life.

It took no more than a glance to confirm that Konrad Jensen was dead. The bullet had gone straight through his head and was embedded in the back of the chair behind him. And I could confirm that he had been dead for quite some time when I gingerly touched his left hand. All human warmth had left him. His hand hung heavy and useless down the side of the chair. On the floor below lay a gun, which I quickly identified as a Kongsberg Colt.45. Everything fell into place, even before I spotted the BIC ballpoint and white paper on the table in front of him. The sheet had obviously been folded about two-thirds of the way up, but now it lay open in front of him, with the writing facing up. I read the letter with agitation and increasing relief.

The undersigned, Konrad Jensen, hereby confesses that it was I who shot and killed Harald Olesen last Thursday, in revenge for his involvement in the fight against Nazism during the war. I now regret my crime and have therefore ended my unworthy life rather than serving the sentence that could be expected following my imminent arrest. May the Almighty have mercy on my soul!

The text was written on a typewriter, but the signature, Konrad Jensen, was written in ink just below.

I nodded to myself, as I stood there alone in the flat with a dead man and a signed suicide note. It was a huge relief, but also strangely disappointing. The most obvious solution had in fact been the truth all along: the hero of the Resistance had fallen at the hands of an avenging small-time Nazi. All the creative and advanced theories that Patricia had mooted and that I had allowed myself to believe in had, despite their brilliance, been of no practical relevance to the case.

The circumstances surrounding Konrad Jensen’s death prevented me from feeling any sympathy for him. If anything, I was annoyed because I had been fooled long enough to allow him to commit suicide before an arrest. And I have to admit that I immediately started to think about how I would present it to the press and my superiors. On the positive side, the case had been solved and the investigation could be closed. The wild sidetrack involving the American Embassy could be buried now without further ado.

As I stood there lost in my own thoughts, it suddenly dawned on me that I was no longer alone in the room. PC Eriksen had come as far as the threshold to the living room, closely followed by the caretaker’s wife and Mrs Lund. A short distance behind came Andreas Gullestad in his wheelchair. I gave a friendly nod and held up the letter for them to see.

‘It was him! He has written a confession and then killed himself!’

There was a moment’s silence, and then the caretaker’s wife whispered: ‘Thank goodness for that!’ which immediately broke the mood.

PC Eriksen was the first to shake my hand, closely followed by the others. I was somewhat surprised by this positive reaction, but true to form, I played along with it. My attempts to say that it was not just thanks to me were, much to my relief, immediately dismissed.

‘Of course it is thanks to you,’ exclaimed Mrs Lund ardently. ‘I said to Kristian only yesterday, after you had been here, that we could expect an arrest soon. And Konrad Jensen must have realized that as well and so put an end to his life rather than be arrested. Because it was him you suspected all along, wasn’t it?’

I grasped this branch without it being too obvious and said something diplomatic about it never being good to make a hasty arrest in cases like this, and that we had indeed made some important breakthroughs in the investigation, and that Konrad Jensen had always been the prime suspect. The caretaker’s wife shed tears of relief that the murderer had been caught and they were all safe again. Both Andreas Gullestad and Mrs Lund nodded in agreement and said that none could have handled the case better and more professionally than I had done.

I got nervous for a moment when I saw Darrell Williams coming down the stairs. If he had heard about my set-to with the embassy counsellor earlier on in the day, it did not in any way affect his behaviour. He also spontaneously gave me his hand and congratulated me sincerely on the successful conclusion of the investigation. However, Sara Sundqvist’s reaction was an even greater relief. At first, she seemed confused, but then beamed when I repeated what she had already heard, that Konrad Jensen was dead and had confessed to the murder in a suicide note. In a rush of joy, she embraced me warmly. When I felt her soft body pressed against mine, I thought for a moment that perhaps I was getting too close to the residents. But as there were no journalists or photographers present, I allowed myself to be infected by their relief.

It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon by the time I returned to the station. My boss was waiting for me with flowers, and my colleagues more or less queued up to congratulate me. It was clear that, while it had not been obvious, the case had been an increasingly aggravated sore point for the rest of the station as well. The fact that the murderer had confessed in writing and then shot himself was, in the words of an overworked police lawyer, ‘the perfect solution’. And several of my colleagues also commented that the case had been solved with almost perfect timing, with one more newspaper edition to go before the Easter holidays. It started to dawn on me just how fortunate I had been, and that with the help of the statements from the residents of 25 Krebs’ Street, I could well benefit hugely from this case, both in terms of the newspapers and from my superiors.

The only thorn was my persisting anxiety that there may be further complications with the American Embassy, and I saw my opportunity to save face when I was invited into my boss’s office. I mentioned that one of the people who lived in the building was an employee of the American Embassy, and that I had made it clear to the embassy that he was in no way a suspect, but that until an arrest was made, he was requested to remain available for questioning as a witness. My visibly relieved boss immediately supported me in this, and added the American must surely understand that in such situations it was important to work with the police in allied countries. He thanked me for upholding the integrity of the force and for preventing any unnecessarily critical questions from the press. If anything more was said about it, I should just refer it on to him and demand that Americans in Norway comply with the murder investigation. He would have no problems in stating this to the national broadcasting services, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Norwegian press, should it be necessary.

There was nothing to cast a shadow on my joy after this. My boss and I congratulated each other a further three times on our excellent success, before I practically floated into my own office again.

VI

All alone in the middle of my desk lay a simple small white envelope, addressed with a neat hand and a stamp. The letter was brief.

7 April 1968

To Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen,

The only person in 25 Krebs’ Street who has told you the truth is Konrad Jensen.

Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann

It was impossible not to burst into laughter at the short, solemn text. I had forgotten young Miss Patricia in all the excitement following Konrad Jensen’s death and the happy resolution of the murder mystery. I quickly recognized that she should be informed that the case was closed, out of respect, before hearing about it on the television and reading about it in the papers. And I would also have to point out that her more circumstantial explanations were redundant. With a considerably lighter heart than on previous days, I lifted the receiver and dialled her number, which I now knew by heart. I saw no reason whatsoever to ration the good news when she answered the phone.

‘I have just found Konrad Jensen dead. He was locked in his flat with a bullet wound to his head and a.45-calibre gun on the floor beside him. On the table in front of him was a suicide note in which he confessed to the murder of Harald Olesen.’

Patricia’s reaction was intense, but not at all the positive one that I had hoped for.

Her ‘Damnation!’ exploded in my ear.

Then there was silence for a few seconds. When she spoke again, it was more muted.

‘Excuse my French. I am not angry with you, but furious with myself. Because exactly what I feared would happen has happened: the murderer felt pushed into a corner and struck again. And I had reason to believe that Konrad Jensen would be the one, but did not want to say anything for fear of being wrong. Damn, damn – but we will solve both the murders!’

I smiled smugly to myself and spoke in a patronizingly kind voice: ‘But my dear Patricia, there was only ever one murder and it has now been solved. Konrad Jensen shot Harald Olesen and then himself. We have his written and signed confession, and there is no evidence of anyone else having been in his flat.’

There was silence for a few moments again; then Patricia’s sharp voice returned.

‘I agree that we are dealing with a particularly cunning murderer and another exceedingly sophisticated murder. But with all due respect, do you really believe what you just said?’

I was starting to get irritated now and fell for the temptation of an arrogant answer.

‘Of course I believe what I just said, and so does everyone else here. You see, we are police officers – and live in the real world.’

More silence, but Patricia obviously still had no intention of giving up.

‘In which case, there are certain simple things from the real world that you might simply be able to explain to silly little me, who sits locked away in my ivory tower. Number one: what about the blue raincoat? Who wore it, and why was it thrown away on the night of the murder? Number two: what about the diary? Who are the J and O that Harald Olesen writes about, not to speak of D, of whom he was so frightened?’

It was only when she fired these questions at me that I, for the first time, got the uncomfortable feeling that there was indeed something amiss and that perhaps our conclusion was wrong.

‘I am aware that there are still things that we have not cleared up, but there are many possible explanations. D, J and O could be half the town, as could the man in the blue raincoat, and do not necessarily need to be involved in the murder in any way. “J” may even stand for “Jensen”, as I suggested. But now we have the murder weapon and a confession from a previously convicted Nazi who was in the same building on the night of the murder and has since committed suicide. That seems clear enough to me.’

Patricia said nothing; for a moment she seemed to be in doubt, but then her voice returned.

‘I admit that it is all extremely clever, but that is exactly what makes it so odd. Just think of Konrad Jensen – a small-time Nazi of average intelligence who never really used it to any success and was weak and self-centred by nature. It is unthinkable that he could devise such a sophisticated plot for murdering an old Resistance hero like Harald Olesen. What makes it even more absurd is that he so obviously would be the first person to be suspected and the target of any reactions. Can you imagine Konrad Jensen thinking up the clever plan with the stereo player and then shooting Harald Olesen in cold blood? I obviously do not have enough imagination.’

And neither did I, truth be told. I felt I was on shifting ground, but defended my triumph resolutely.

‘It is not easy to imagine, no. I also doubted that it could be him, but the combination of the murder weapon and a typewritten confession are pretty persuasive.’

The voice at the other end of the line was silent for nearly half a minute. Then it came back – echoing more disbelief than before.

‘Typewritten? Did you really say that his confession was typewritten?’

When I heard the depth of scepticism in Patricia’s voice, I got that extremely frustrating feeling one gets when one realizes that something is far from right – without knowing exactly what.

‘Yes. The body of Konrad Jensen’s suicide note was typewritten, but the handwritten signature underneath is definitely his!’

Silence again. Patricia’s voice was steely when she replied.

‘But surely Konrad Jensen barely knew his way around the alphabet, let alone the keys of a typewriter. And you have never mentioned that he had a typewriter in his flat. Does he?’

The question hit me like a boxing glove in the stomach. I myself had gone through the few things in Konrad Jensen’s flat after the murder of Harald Olesen, and I had gone through all the rooms again today and there was not a typewriter to be seen anywhere.

‘If there is no typewriter in the flat, how on earth could Konrad Jensen type the suicide note himself when he has not dared set foot outside the door for days? Let us hope you have a good answer to that, in the event that a journalist with even a below-average IQ should show up – out there in the real world.’

This time it was a knockout. I allowed myself to be swallowed by my swivel chair and was suddenly very glad that I was alone in my office.

When Patricia eventually asked if I was still there, I answered that I was, but that I would very shortly be on my way over to see her. She said she would be waiting for me, and reminded me to bring both the murder weapon and the suicide note, and then put down the phone. I took the hint and more or less ran along the corridors out into the real world.

VII

Patricia was obviously both piqued and motivated by the news of Konrad Jensen’s death. She sat leaning across the table, impatient, while I told her about the day’s meetings and the events leading up to the discovery of Konrad Jensen’s body. To my relief, she just shook her head and waved me on when I tentatively indicated that I perhaps had been a bit harsh on the embassy counsellor regarding Darrell Williams. My narrative consumed us both. The coffee cups that Beate had put out were still untouched when I finished and leaned back in my chair.

‘I agree that the question of the typewriter is an important argument and that he probably did not commit suicide, but surely it is not absolutely impossible?’ I ventured, once I had finished my update.

She shook her head, but did try to humour me.

‘I believe that it is out of the question, but agree that in theory it is a possibility that we do have to take into account. Konrad Jensen may have typed the suicide note before murdering Harald Olesen, or may in some way have managed to get it in at some later point. But that seems to be as unlikely and absurd as me being selected by a football team. Nevertheless, the combination of the gun and a signed suicide note is of course impossible to ignore. Konrad Jensen must have been extremely willing to cooperate if he signed a suicide note before he was shot. Typewritten suicide notes are not uncommon, as such. Would it be possible to see this remarkable document?’

I nodded and put the letter on the table.

‘The signature is definitely his own. The caretaker’s wife recognized it straightaway, and it is the same as the one on the rental contract he had in the flat.’

Patricia nodded, but did not look as though she was listening to what I said. She was staring at the letter in fascination. When she spoke again, her voice was tense.

‘Now think carefully, because this is really important. Was that crease there when you found the letter, or is it a result of you or someone else folding the letter later?’

Patricia pointed impatiently to the crease two-thirds of the way up the sheet.

‘We do have some procedures for securing evidence. The crease was there when I found the letter lying on the table in Konrad Jensen’s flat, and I was the first person at the scene.’

Patricia suddenly smiled broadly and handed back the letter. Her voice was relaxed again.

‘Excellent. Well, that then solves the otherwise bothersome mystery of why Konrad Jenson signed his own suicide letter. Fold it carefully along the crease and you will understand what happened.’

I did as she said – and suddenly understood what she meant. If one folded the letter in this way, the typed text disappeared, but Konrad Jensen’s signature did not.

‘In other words, Konrad Jensen signed his own death sentence, presumably with a gun to his head and without knowing what he was signing. One might wonder whether the murderer let him see it afterwards or simply fired the shot as soon as he had signed it. The latter is more likely, as there was an obvious risk that Konrad Jensen would cause a commotion if he saw the text.’

Suddenly, I could picture it all. It was a ghastly scene. Konrad Jensen sitting in the threadbare chair by his own coffee table, terrified and shaking, signing the letter with a gun to his head – only to be shot the moment he put down the pen. Annoyingly, the only thing I could not picture was the face of the person holding the gun. The faces of Sara Sundqvist, the caretaker’s wife, Andreas Gullestad, Darrell Williams and the Lunds all flickered past, but I was unable to get any of them to fit.

Patricia’s voice was slightly more optimistic when she continued.

‘But this was really rather sloppy work. A crease in the middle of the paper would hardly have been worth a mention, but an obvious crease two-thirds of the way up the page would cause any astute person to wonder. Let us hope that this means that our otherwise extremely calculating murderer is now starting to feel that we are breathing down his or her neck. Alternatively, he or she continues to underestimate us. Whichever it is, it is good news for the investigation.’

I let her comment about any astute person pass without remark. Instead, I asked her if she had got anything more from the letter. She shook her head apologetically.

‘The text says nothing to me, other than that if Konrad Jensen had written it, he was better at Norwegian grammar than I thought. You should of course check the script against any typewriters that the other neighbours might have, though I would be very surprised if that leads to anything. And do not think for a moment that our murderer is the sort to leave fingerprints all over the flat either, though naturally that should be checked as well.’

I nodded. It would be easy to justify both things as routine following a murder and a suicide in the very same building.

‘I am afraid there is nothing more to be gained from the letter. However, the gun is obviously of considerable interest. What kind of gun is it?’

I laid it on the table.

‘The most common model of a standard Kongsberg Colt.45, probably produced just after the war, with a silencer. The serial number has been filed off. It is a relatively powerful and efficient handgun. The shot to Jensen’s forehead killed him instantly. A Kongsberg Colt has a seven-bullet magazine, and there are five bullets left, so that tallies with one bullet for Harald Olesen and one for Konrad Jensen.’

Patricia studied the weapon pensively.

‘The bullet count obviously tallies with what the murderer wants us to believe. Only a very considerate neighbour would use a silencer to shoot themselves. The reason could of course be that the silencer had not been removed after the murder of Harald Olesen. Quite apart from the fact that we still have no explanation as to where Konrad Jensen hid the gun in the meantime.’

Patricia sat glaring at the revolver with ever more threatening eyes, but it remained silent and obstinately refused to give up the great secret as to which hand had been holding it when the fatal shot was fired.

‘In other words, if – I mean when Konrad Jensen was murdered, the question remains as to why the gun was left behind this time and not after the murder of Harald Olesen. Because in that case, even I would have easily accepted that it was a suicide.’

Patricia eventually gave up trying to get the gun to speak and instead looked up at me.

‘Could you please have one of the forensic technicians check whether the bullet that killed Konrad Jensen today and the one that killed Harald Olesen were both fired from this gun? I have a theory as to why the gun was not left after the murder of Harald Olesen, and I will not rest until I have it confirmed.’

I nodded. Once again, I did not understand entirely what she was thinking. But it was a natural routine procedure that would hardly cause a negative response.

‘Otherwise, I have had Konrad Jensen sent to the pathologist, but have not yet received confirmation of the time of death. The most obvious guess is that he died sometime in the morning.’

Patricia nodded.

‘That sounds logical, but does not help us very much. If he died before Kristian Lund went to work and before the caretaker’s wife was at her post, any of the residents could have shot him. And the fact that the murderer managed to get out is no mystery, as the door has a snib lock and there was no one outside. How the murderer managed to get in is, however, a puzzle. I assume that you looked for any visible signs of a break-in through the window, or marks on the door?’

I nodded – and promised myself I would check both options carefully the next time I was there. But I had seen nothing that would indicate a break-in, so I asked Patricia what that told us.

‘Well, there are three alternatives: the murderer was the caretaker’s wife, or the murderer was someone who got hold of the caretaker’s wife’s keys, or the murderer was someone who Konrad Jensen let into the flat.’

‘None of those options sounds immediately plausible,’ I replied.

Patricia nodded in agreement – and gave a bitter smile.

‘But one of them has to be right, all the same. Check the caretaker’s wife’s keys and in the meantime I will discuss the case with myself. The most obvious option is that Konrad Jensen let the murderer in himself. Given what you have told me, he had no doubt barricaded himself in behind two locks and a safety chain, which would make it no easy feat to get in against his will.’

I nodded, but did put up a feeble protest.

‘But that means you are taking it for granted that Konrad Jensen was murdered, and I am not entirely convinced of that yet. You have good arguments, but still have to get past the revolver and the suicide note. And again we lack a motive and an explanation as to how the murderer got in. Everyone is happy with the case as it stands. It will not be easy to justify extending the investigation.’

Patricia gave a deep sigh. She sat in silence, slapping her small hands against the table in irritation. The cold coffee sloshed around dangerously in her cup.

‘And the murderer is very happy with the situation as it is, I can promise you. While I am utterly convinced that we are talking about not just one murder, but a double murder, and the person responsible is still at large. Probably sitting comfortably in 25 Krebs’ Street rubbing his or her hands. But I do understand your problem as well: it is not an easy situation.’

Patricia sighed again twice and continued in a resigned voice.

‘I do not think we are going to get any further tonight. You think about it and do what you believe is best. But do at least make the checks we have talked about, and give me twenty-four hours more before closing the case. You do not need to do any more than that for the moment. There is no need for extra security any longer. The murderer feels safe now and will not do anything that might risk exposure.’

I nodded. I felt a deep sympathy for Patricia, who, despite her brilliant reasoning, might still find that the case was closed without a murderer being arrested. Nevertheless, she had been able to convince me that things were not so clear-cut as I and the other neighbours had believed when we found Konrad Jensen. There were still several questions that screamed for answers, and I did not know what I would say should some critical journalist ask them.

When I commented that we had at least solved the mystery of the missing money from Harald Olesen’s account, Patricia remarked pensively that there was still an unsolved mystery. It was clear that most of the money had been paid to Kristian Lund, but if he had received two payments of 100,000, a total of 50,000 was still missing.

We called it a day at around seven o’clock, in a tense and sombre mood. I promised her that I would ponder the case until tomorrow and would as far as possible check the things that she had mentioned. I also promised to go to the reading of Harald Olesen’s will. Naturally, I was very curious as to what was in the will, having read Harald Olesen’s diary. She said goodbye without so much as a smile. It was clear that the day’s events had made an impression on her. A gnawing thought at the back of my mind was starting to bother me. If Konrad Jensen really had been murdered this morning, it was reasonable to assume that his life could have been saved if I had ordered increased security yesterday.

As I stood in the doorway, ready to leave, Patricia suddenly laughed again, cynically. I looked at her in surprise.

‘I’m sorry – another murder is not funny at all, but it really is quite a murder case, when we still have Konrad Jensen as a prime suspect after he himself has been shot!’

I smiled sheepishly and gave her the last word. So our ways parted on a relatively jolly note after all, even though it was black humour. On the way out, I noticed that the four Ellis books that I had seen in Patricia’s bookshelves the evening before had now been discreetly replaced by a new three-volume work on British politics in the twentieth century.

VIII

I stood undecided outside the White House for a moment. In the end, I drove to the main police station. Three journalists surged forward the minute I got out of the car. They followed me in, furiously taking down notes. I confirmed in brief that one of the residents, who had previously been convicted during the treason trials after the war, had been found dead in his flat. A.45-calibre revolver and a signed suicide note, in which he confessed to the murder of Harald Olesen, were found by the body. I then added that there were still some technical examinations to be carried out and a few details to be clarified, but there was much to indicate that the case was closed. One of the journalists asked if I could confirm something that one of the other residents had said earlier in the day, that it would seem that the murderer had killed himself because he realized that there had been important breakthroughs in the investigation and an arrest was imminent. I emphasized that one always had to be careful when speculating about the reasons for suicide, but that I could confirm that the investigation had made some major breakthroughs and that the deceased had been one of the main suspects from the start.

I waited with a pounding heart for the critical questions that were never asked. All three congratulated me on solving the murder and assured me that the story would be given good and very favourable coverage in the morning papers. One of them jokingly suggested ‘K2 Scales New Heights’ as a possible headline. Back in my office, I composed a press release, the content of which was more or less what I had told the journalists.

The ballistics expert had gone home for the day. I did, however, manage to speak to him on the phone and pointed out that even though the case now seemed to be cut and dried, the gun from Konrad Jensen’s flat should be examined in relation to the bullet that was found there and the bullet from Harald Olesen’s flat. He agreed with me and promised to see to it in the morning. He also congratulated me on a successful investigation. As did the fingerprint expert when I called him afterwards and asked him to examine Konrad Jensen’s flat the following morning.

After I had put the receiver down, I sat on my swivel chair and reflected for a few minutes on the likelihood of these congratulations still holding strong tomorrow. Then I called it a day and left the office, but did not go home quite yet. Instead, I headed for 25 Krebs’ Street.

The caretaker’s wife had retired to her flat but opened the door as soon as I rang the bell and beamed when she saw it was me. I hastily assured her that these were simply routine measures in connection with my reports, but there were still a couple of things I needed to ask of her.

With regard to the keys, the caretaker’s wife was categorical that no one else could have got hold of them. She carried the keys with her all day, and at night they lay on her bedside table. She had slept alone in her flat with the door locked and could swear and cross her heart that no one had been in her bedroom. She said the latter with a gentle smile. When I told her that there were a few more examinations to be done in Konrad Jensen’s flat, she immediately produced the key and let me in.

To my relief, I found what I had said to Patricia to be true. There were no marks or signs on either the door or the window to indicate that someone had broken in. When I got there, I had only a vague idea as to what else I was looking for. After my conversation with Patricia, I had just wanted to look over Konrad Jensen’s flat again and to think the situation through by myself.

For many years Konrad Jensen had lived alone, a surly and bitter man. The flat was imbued with his spirit, even after his death. He had obviously been scared even to open the windows for the past few days. The cigarette smoke was in the walls. Konrad Jensen had not left many personal belongings behind. Two days of dirty dishes stood piled up in the kitchen. An out-of-focus, yellowing confirmation photo hung on the wall in the living room, but other than that, there were no pictures to be seen anywhere. This was the flat of a man who had not only lived without a family, but without friends.

Konrad Jensen had an old wireless, but no television. It did not look like he subscribed to any newspapers, but instead bought VG, Dagbladet and Aftenposten on particular days. Last month’s newspapers were stacked on the floor. Several of them were folded at the sports pages. The bookshelf boasted a worn Bible and a fairly random selection of other books. In a drawer in the kitchen, I found a collection of car pictures cut out from magazines together with a bank book and some other personal papers. A small pile of football-pools coupons lay abandoned and it seemed that Konrad Jensen did not spend much time on them and had never been particularly successful either. Eight right was the highest he had ever achieved, according to his own notes.

I found myself wondering what the dead man had done in all the thousands of hours that he must have spent here over the years – in addition to eating, smoking and cursing his fate. It struck me that perhaps no one other than him had been in the flat for years, before this murder case forced me on him. The questions remained: had Konrad Jensen been on his own here when he died this morning, or had another person been here with him?

Konrad Jensen’s bedroom was equally sparsely furnished and impregnated with smoke. A half-full ashtray stood on the stool that he had positioned to act as a bedside table. I wondered whether a woman had ever shared the bed. There was much to indicate that if one had, it was many years ago.

There were two pairs of trousers and two jackets hanging in the wardrobe, as well as three shirts and three sets of underwear. An old black suit lay crumpled on a shelf on its own. It was very possible that it had not been used for a good few years. No one was likely to invite Konrad Jensen anywhere he might need to wear a suit, and he was even less likely to go to such places of his own accord. I despondently picked up the suit jacket – and jumped when something fell out of it.

It was a quite large and thick brown envelope. There was nothing written on the outside. Inside, there was a sheaf of white papers with blue text, handwritten by Konrad Jensen. I immediately took them with me out to the table in the living room. I sat there for almost an hour looking through the fifty pages or so left by the man who had died here in his chair this morning.

It was not what I would have expected to find in this flat: it was an attempt to write a book.

Having had years to ponder his fate in silence, Konrad Jensen had obviously decided to write down his thoughts. There were around twenty pages about his childhood and youth, and about twenty pages or so about the war. Having ploughed my way through it, it was with some disappointment that I had to accept that there was no information here that was of any use to the investigation. Not a word was said about Harald Olesen, nor was there anything about Deerfoot. It was a very self-centred and self-righteous story of a young man who had felt misunderstood all his life and found it hard to accept his lack of success.

My suspicion that Norway had not lost a great literary talent with Konrad Jensen’s death was confirmed before I had even finished the first page. The structure was chaotic, it was unfocused, and the punctuation and grammar were appalling. Paragraphs and headings appeared to be unknown quantities to Konrad Jensen. This attempt by an unknown and menial member of the NS was hardly a project that any publisher would dare to take on, by an author no one would spend tuppence on. But Konrad Jensen had put a lot of work into it. The dates of writing were jotted down in the margin, and he had written nearly every day since November last year. The last section, about the end of the war, was dated 3 April – the day before Harald Olesen was murdered.

I put the papers down with the reinforced feeling that Patricia had been right and that Konrad Jensen had been murdered. How pathetic it all was that Konrad Jensen had died and left behind a life lie, as described by Ibsen, one of our greatest writers – a project that he was working on and had great hopes for. But I was also aware that this was entirely based on my intuition and would hardly stand up in court or the media.

As I was about to put the papers back into the envelope, the first sentence caught my eye: ‘I Konrad Jensen hearby start my life story that I do not regreat.’

I sat staring at this single sentence.

Konrad Jensen had only a couple of months ago written by hand and misspelled the words ‘hereby’ and ‘regret’. In the typewritten letter, both words were spelled correctly.

It could of course be the case that he had learned to spell both words correctly later, but Konrad Jensen’s manuscript was written without a comma and with frequent misspellings of the simplest words. This was also the case with the last notes, made only a few days ago. Patricia had been absolutely right in her assumptions about his writing. It was simply not possible to imagine that the same man had written a suicide note on a typewriter with perfect spelling and grammar.

I put the papers down on the table with care. Then I went out into Konrad Jensen’s kitchen and washed my face with ice-cold water, twice. Afterwards, I was still convinced that Konrad Jensen had been murdered – and still furiously determined to catch this incredibly cold-blooded and cynical murderer. I picked up the manuscript that was his testament and quietly left Konrad Jensen’s flat, asking the caretaker’s wife to make sure the door was locked behind me.

Then I drove home and phoned Patricia. At half past nine in the evening, she was immediately alert when she heard the news. It was a short and optimistic conversation, in sharp contrast to the long, pessimistic one we had had earlier in the day. I promised not to close the investigation – certainly not until after the Easter weekend. She promised me that with our combined efforts, we would definitely catch the murderer.

I went to bed on the sixth day of the investigation in an invigorated mood, my mind teeming with thoughts. It was two o’clock in the morning before I closed my eyes, but the final hours of the day brought no breakthrough. My last thought before I fell asleep was about what Harald Olesen’s will might hold. The last face I saw before I fell asleep was, for a change, that of Konrad Jensen. He stared at me, grim and unhappy as usual. I looked at him questioningly, without getting an answer. It seemed to me that his expression was particularly malcontented, and he shook his head without saying a word when I said something about recording his death as suicide. But by then I was no doubt fast asleep.