The Human Flies

I

The first two hours in the office on Wednesday, 10 April were fairly uneventful and involved a lot of gratifying reading in the papers. At twenty-five past ten, however, there was a loud, impatient knock on my door. Outside stood an unusually breathless ballistics expert with a very bewildered expression on his face.

‘The report is ready, but I must warn you that the conclusion is perhaps not what you had hoped,’ he blurted out.

I was prepared and indicated that he should continue, expectant. He carried on in an unsteady voice.

‘The bullet that killed Konrad Jensen came from the.45-calibre revolver that was found in the flat, the last Kongsberg Colt model from 1947. But…’

The ballistics expert paused for a moment. I kept a straight face and helped him by finishing the sentence.

‘But the bullet that killed Harald Olesen came from another, possibly older.45-calibre gun, so we are still missing the murder weapon.’

He nodded, dumbfounded, and looked at me in admiration.

‘As you perhaps understand, I had reason to believe that was the case, so it is excellent that you could confirm it so quickly. Can you tell me any more about the missing revolver?’

He nodded eagerly and hurried to continue.

‘It is also a Kongsberg Colt, but as you said, an older model. It is hard to say how much older. The first model was mass-produced from 1918 until the war, but very few were actually produced after 1930. So I would guess that the gun that killed Harald Olesen was probably from around 1920. The.45-calibre Kongsberg Colt was used a lot in those days, not least by the army. There were still a considerable number of these guns in use during and just after the war, but this early type then became less popular.’

I nodded thoughtfully and said that that fitted very well with one theory. Which it no doubt did, only I unfortunately had no idea what the theory was.

The pathologist phoned shortly after. His results were less dramatic, but not without interest. The exact time of death was still uncertain, given the temperature of the room. However, it was clear that the fatal shot was fired later than first assumed. It was not before nine or after one, so was presumably fired sometime between ten and twelve.

The typewriter lead I could check myself, and as expected, it had not led to anything. Konrad Jensen’s suicide note was written on one of the most common typewriters on sale in Norway. According to the itinerary from the first house searches, there were three typewriters in the building: the Lunds’ typewriter was of the same model as the one that the suicide note had been written on, whereas Sara Sundqvist’s and Andreas Gullestad’s were not. But there was not much to be had from this, as the model in question was so common that it could be found in practically any office. The same typewriter might be used in an embassy, a sports shop or a university.

Having given it some thought for a good ten minutes, there was really only one person who I could not imagine had written the letter on a typewriter in the course of the past few days, and that was Konrad Jensen. The realization that he had not shot himself dug deeper and deeper into my conscience. And my desire to find the cold-blooded man or woman who had weaselled his or her way in to this lonely man’s flat to kill him grew ever stronger.

At a quarter past eleven, my impatience drove me to call the fingerprint expert, who had just returned from Konrad Jensen’s flat. He had found my own prints on the door, as well as those of the caretaker’s wife and Konrad Jensen, but that was all. I thanked him for his work, and made a mental note that technical evidence would not be enough to catch the murderer in this case.

II

A tense atmosphere already prevailed when I arrived at the conference room of the law firm Rønning, Rønning & Rønning in Idun Street fifteen minutes before the will was due to be read. Neither Rønning Junior nor the will was to be seen in the room, which held six rows of chairs with table arms, as well as a small podium with a lectern. A good number of the deceased’s neighbours and relatives were already present. Mr and Mrs Lund were sitting on their own to the far left of the front row, and Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew were sitting in the third row. The caretaker’s wife had just pushed in Andreas Gullestad in his wheelchair and seated herself considerately behind him in the fourth row. She swiftly packed her worn winter coat away in a nylon net bag.

All of the residents who were present nodded or waved to me when I came into the room. I did a quiet tour and shook them all by the hand. The caretaker’s wife was excited but controlled. Andreas Gullestad was as calm and smiling as ever: he did not have anything to get excited about. Mrs Lund seemed a little uneasy about the situation and kept looking around the room, whereas Kristian Lund kept a stiff upper lip. I found myself admiring his stoicism, which quickly broke when Sara Sundqvist came in at ten minutes to twelve. She sat down demonstratively on her own to the right of the back row and seemed to avoid looking at the Lunds.

At four minutes to midday, the doorway was suddenly filled with the handsome figure of Darrell Williams. He arrived at full speed, wearing a fur coat, and sat down without any pleasantries in the back row, on the chair nearest the door. All of those there turned round instinctively when they heard the door, and the other neighbours gave him a brief nod. I noticed that the Olesen siblings positively stared at him, and that the niece in particular looked at him for a long time before turning back round. I did not find this in the slightest bit strange, as they were unlikely to have seen him before. Furthermore, the arrival of Darrell Williams was shortly overshadowed by the arrival of a slightly smaller, much thinner man, who three minutes later stepped up onto the podium with a large sealed envelope in his hands.

It had already occurred to me that Mr Rønning Junior was likely to milk the situation for all it was worth. He did not disappoint. At exactly one minute to midday, the young man had entered the room with a pince-nez, an unusually self-conscious expression and an undoubtedly extremely expensive suit. He would have fitted into 1920s Norway without raising any eyebrows, and this impression was reinforced when he then opened his mouth, as his language was extremely conservative and precise. However, the man’s immaculate and irritating image was upstaged by the large sealed envelope he held in his hand, which he opened with deliberate, slow movements as soon as the clock started to strike twelve. A profound silence reigned in the room until the twelve chimes were over.

‘On behalf of the deceased Harald Olesen’s estate, I would firstly like to thank you all for taking the time to be here, as requested in an appendix to the aforementioned will. Furthermore, we can confirm that all those invited are present, with the exception of Mr Konrad Jensen, who is unable to attend as he died yesterday, as I am sure you are all aware.’

The room was so still you could hear a pin drop. I stared at the lawyer with horrified fascination.

‘Harald Olesen died a widower with no living parents or known heirs. In this situation, he was legally free to divide his estate and assets as desired in a will. These comprise his flat in 25 Krebs’ Street and contents, with an estimated value of 70,000 kroner, and a cabin outside Stokke in Horten, which his nephew has used for the past few years, with an estimated value of 40,000 kroner. He also had cash holdings in a bank account that amount to 1,122,434 kroner, when the lawyer’s fee and other fees and taxes have been deducted. And finally, the sum of 263 kroner and 75 øre was found in cash in his wallet.’

The lawyer took the first opportunity for a dramatic pause and solemnly looked around the room. This did not increase his already tepid popularity with the audience. He carried on unperturbed.

‘Only days before his death, Harald Olesen expressed the explicit wish that his will should be read as now, six days after his death. It was somewhat more unusual that he requested that earlier versions of the will should also be made known to those present.’

With this detail, the atmosphere in the room suddenly changed. Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew looked at each other anxiously. I thought I saw a fleeting and triumphant smile play on Kristian Lund’s lips, which was echoed by a more guarded smile from his wife. Rather distastefully, both couples brought me in mind of vultures.

‘The will has undergone several changes, but has nonetheless always remained relatively simple, with a main heir who will essentially inherit all of Olesen’s estate and assets. One not so insignificant exception has been made, in favour of Mrs Randi Hansen, the wife of the caretaker in the building where Harald Olesen had his residence.’

For a moment all eyes turned to the caretaker’s wife, who sat alone and silent on her seat. She was sitting on the edge of the chair with trembling lips. A single tear ran down her cheek as she waited to hear the amount.

‘For many years Harald Olesen had left a sum of thirty thousand kroner to Mrs Hansen in his will.’

There was a quiet gasp from the audience. I thought I could detect disapproval in the faces of the niece and nephew, and Kristian Lund. The caretaker’s wife, on the other hand, looked as if she was about to faint on her chair. She instinctively hid her face in her hands, but still could not stop the tears that now flowed down both cheeks.

‘However…’

As if at the stroke of a wand, there was silence in the room again.

‘However, a few days before his death, Harald Olesen requested that the amount left to Mrs Hansen be changed substantially. The final amount that she will inherit from his estate is now…’

The man must have been a born sadist and then honed his craft carefully. There was a full ten seconds of breathless silence before he completed his sentence. I seriously feared that the caretaker’s wife, who was still sitting with her face hidden beneath her hands, would die of a heart attack in the meantime.

‘… one hundred thousand kroner.’

This time there were several gasps and a couple of loud groans of disappointment. I did not manage to locate where they came from, but then it was doubtful that anyone else did either. Rønning Junior was not affected in the slightest by this and stuck to his planned staging. He took three steps forward across the floor and informed Mrs Hansen that the money would be deposited in her account as soon as she came to the office with her bank book. Mrs Hansen did not answer. She had more or less collapsed in a heap on her chair, her eyes wide open, unable to say a word. Rønning Junior seemed somewhat put out not to receive a reply, but continued nevertheless after another dramatic pause.

‘With regard to the remainder of Harald Olesen’s property and assets, for many years the will was formulated as follows: “The remainder of my estate I leave to my nephew, Joachim Olesen, and my niece, Cecilia Olesen, out of respect to my deceased brother, Bernt Olesen.”’

The way this was formulated and the reason given could hardly be described as affectionate towards the two heirs, but they nodded in agreement, only to freeze when it became obvious that the lawyer had not yet finished.

‘However…’

There was little doubt that this was his favourite word and that he knew exactly how to use it.

‘However, some weeks before he died, Harald Olesen requested that this extremely important point of his will be amended. The text as it stood was to be removed in its entirety and be replaced by the following: “The remainder of my estate I leave to my neighbour Mr Kristian Lund, with apologies for the pain that I have caused him and his deceased mother.”’

Kristian Lund was a former athlete, and certainly not a gentleman. He rejoiced, triumphant, with his hands above his head, as soon as the new text was read out. His wife stared at him in astonishment, but then joyfully threw her arms round his neck. They both started, as I and everyone else did, when there was a loud bang in the room just seconds after. This fortunately proved to be no more than the sound of Harald Olesen’s nephew’s briefcase falling to the floor for unknown reasons.

‘However…’

All eyes turned back to Rønning Junior. Harald Olesen’s nephew picked up his briefcase with a thunderous expression on his face, whereas an expression of terror was now visible on that of Kristian Lund. His wife looked from him to the lawyer in total bewilderment.

‘However, not long before he died, on 25 March to be specific, Harald Olesen requested a further change in the wording of this crucial point in his will. The earlier text was once again to be removed in its entirety. It was then to be replaced with the following wording, which thus is the final will: “The remainder of my estate I leave to my neighbour Miss Sara Sundqvist, with sincere apologies for the great pain I have caused her and her deceased parents.”’

Time stood still for a short moment. Then everything erupted into noise and movement. Joachim Olesen and his briefcase ran out of the room. His sister remained seated for a short while, then stood up and ran after him. Darrell Williams rolled his eyes and roared with laughter. Andreas Gullestad remained sitting in his wheelchair, naturally enough. However, he was nodding with unusual vigour, and tried without much joy to catch the attention of his assistant, the caretaker’s wife, who meanwhile sat on her chair paralysed by emotion.

Mrs Lund collapsed into a heap, but the look that she sent Sara Sundqvist was one of pure hatred. The most dramatic reaction, however, was that of Kristian Lund. He leaped to his feet and first waved his fist at Sara Sundqvist. Then, from the depths of his despair and powerful lungs, he shouted: ‘May you roast in hell, Father! Not only did you let me down when you were alive, you have also let me down now that you’re dead!’

Rønning Junior snapped out of his trance and looked around with interest – I dare say for new clients. I myself had spontaneously stood up, without having any idea as to whom I should arrest or what I should otherwise do.

The only person in the room who did not stir was, in short, Sara Sundqvist, the new millionairess. She sat there, more beautiful and more like a princess than ever, as unmoving as a pillar of salt in the middle of all the chaos around her. For what seemed like an eternity, her face remained static, as if hypnotized. Then the tears started to run down her cheeks.

‘I had no idea at all about this – it really was not me who killed him,’ she suddenly blurted out.

That was when I managed to pull myself together enough to proclaim in as steady a voice as possible that no one was to leave the room until they had given a new statement.

III

It turned into a long and demanding afternoon in an improvised interview room at the offices of Rønning, Rønning & Rønning. Rønning Junior immediately protested against the ‘highly irregular and unnecessary requisition of legally acquired premises’, but quickly vanished when a far less straight-laced Rønning Senior appeared and was promised extraordinary rental fees for use of the conference room. Rønning Senior was roughly twice as old and twice as heavy as his junior, and certainly seemed to be twice as pragmatic. A small side room was swiftly converted into an interview room, so that those waiting could spread out in the generous conference room and reception area.

Sara Sundqvist nodded, in a state akin to shock, when she was told that she would be the first to be questioned, and followed me meekly into the side office. Her face brightened once we were sitting alone, and she gave me a timorous smile as she left, but otherwise I found it hard to imagine that anyone could show less joy at inheriting a million. With deep despair, she claimed repeatedly that she had never asked Harald Olesen for money and knew nothing about his murder. She did, however, confess that she had been in both contact and conflict with Harald Olesen prior to his murder. I was then promptly given the background to this.

An old uncle in France had told her that the last sign of life from Sara Sundqvist’s parents was a postcard sent from Oslo at Christmas in 1942. It seemed that they were living under a secret identity as Norwegians. Sara herself had then turned up in Sweden as a child cleared for adoption in summer 1944. The story in between these two points was unknown. Her desire to find out what had happened to her parents was one of the driving forces in her choice to study in Oslo. When she discovered that she was living in the same building as an old Resistance leader, she had mustered her courage a few days later to ask if he knew anything about the matter.

She had rung the doorbell and asked him straight out – without much hope of anything other than a polite no. To her surprise, Harald Olesen’s face had blanched. After a long silence, he had mumbled something about there having been so many tragic stories during the war, but he was not familiar with this one. Then he slammed the door in her face and had not opened it again, even though she had rung the bell several times. It had of course been impossible for her to leave it at that, and she had on many occasions stopped him in the hallway or knocked on his door in attempt to find out more. Each time he had denied any knowledge of the story, but had nonetheless looked so guilty that it was impossible to believe him. The inheritance had never been mentioned by either him or her. She had no idea who had shot him, and herself had grieved his death. Though she had to admit that this was largely because the hope that she might find out what had happened to her parents had died with him.

In answer to the next question, as to whether she had been aware of Kristian Lund’s relationship to Harald Olesen, she immediately replied that she had had no idea when she embarked on the affair. However, she had at a later point understood that Kristian Lund believed he was Harald Olesen’s son and had also realized that he was pushing him to acknowledge this and thus to ensure his inheritance. She had agreed with him that it was only reasonable, and had been led to believe that he had finally been promised this. This morning, when she came to the reading of the will, she had fully expected him to be the main heir. That her name was then read out instead came as a total shock. If she really was going to inherit the flat and the money – which still seemed incredible – it would of course open completely new opportunities for her. But at the same time, she had naturally felt anxious that she would be suspected of being involved in his murder in some way. And on top of it all was the powerful emotional response when the reference to her ‘deceased parents’ was read out. The fact that Harald Olesen had seemed to know her parents’ story but had not said outright that they were dead had rekindled the latent hope that they might still be alive somewhere in the world.

We concluded the interview there. I allowed her to go home, but asked her to stay there and under no circumstances to leave Oslo without my permission. She agreed to this, and added that she would be eternally grateful if I could help her to find out what had happened to her parents. If I had any further questions, I was more than welcome to knock on her door at any time. She gingerly placed a hand on my arm when she said this. And without being able to explain why, I remained standing by the window until I had seen her pass on the street, heading in the right direction.

The next person was, of course, Kristian Lund. He was involved in a heated discussion with Rønning Junior when I came out, and only with great reluctance joined me. ‘She is not going to get a single penny!’ was his first comment when we were alone. ‘First, she seduces me and tries to get me to leave my wife because she believes I will shortly inherit a million kroner. Then she goes behind my back and convinces my father that she should inherit the money herself. She is not going to get a single penny! I still have the right to my inheritance if I can prove that I am the son of the deceased Harald Olesen; even Mr Rønning had to admit that. And I will happily go to court to prove it!’

The latter was said with great emotion, but then he suddenly calmed down. Kristian Lund was a man capable of quick turnarounds.

‘I apologize for my outburst, and lying earlier on in the investigation, but it really has not been an easy situation. It was an enormous relief when I finally managed to get the stubborn old goat to give me what was my right. And how could I know that he would change it again?’

Kristian Lund could confirm that Sara Sundqvist had pressed Harald Olesen to tell her what had happened to her parents, but did not appear to know about the relationship between him and Olesen until he told her sometime in March. They had both been of the opinion that the old man looked ill and troubled, and had discussed the likelihood that he was suffering from a terminal illness. His death was therefore not unexpected, but the fact that he had been murdered had naturally come as a shock. When asked if he had shot Harald Olesen himself, Kristian Lund threw open his hands in exasperation and answered no, demonstratively. When I asked if he thought Sara Sundqvist might have committed the murder, he replied somewhat more cautiously that he still did not believe so.

Despite the gravity of the situation, there was somehow nothing more to say. Even in light of his late father’s betrayal, Kristian Lund was showing himself to be increasingly unpleasant and egotistic. But I had to admit that his explanation tallied well with the previous one. And it was good to be reminded that we, thus far, only had Sara’s word that she had not blackmailed Harald Olesen. So I allowed Kristian Lund to leave, with the order that he stay within reach. He assured me with a bitter smile that he would only be going out to get himself a damn good lawyer, but other than that had no plans except to look after his family and work.

It seemed natural to call in Mrs Lund, after her husband. My curiosity as to whether she was more than just the kind, pretty and not-so-bright housewife she appeared to be was definitely satisfied within the course of the conversation. The Karen Lund who answered my questions succinctly and effectively was very solemn indeed. My impression of her shifted from simple and quite naive to simple and very wilful. Yes, she had known about her husband’s relationship to Harald Olesen and the possibility that he would inherit. He had told her about it as soon as he had discovered it. Yes, she was also aware of her husband’s extramarital affair. Her suspicions had been aroused one day when they met Sara Sundqvist in the hallway and she had noted a look of triumph on Miss Sundqvist’s face and simultaneously felt a prick of conscience in her husband’s hand. This suspicion had been confirmed when she later phoned her husband at work one day only to be told that he had just left, yet he did not come through the door until an hour and a half later.

It had been an extremely difficult situation for her, especially because of her young son. She was neither willing nor able to confront her husband with clear evidence. Her response was therefore to be as kind and dutiful as she possibly could in her roles as wife and mother, which was something she could do, and in this way fight to keep her husband. And she was now quite sure that she had succeeded. If he still had any feelings for that devious Swedish woman, they had no doubt died the moment the will was read out. She herself believed that her husband deserved the money, given the shameful way in which his father had treated him, and she would support him if he went to court to secure it. But the question of the will was of less importance to her than whether he stayed with her and their son. Because Harald Olesen had treated her husband in the way he had, she had felt no particular grief when he died, though the fact that he was murdered had been a shock. But she still slept beside her husband every night secure in the knowledge that he had not killed anyone and was not likely to do so.

I could not help myself asking whether, notwithstanding his infidelity, she had ever re-evaluated her marriage. To which she simply shook her head. Yes, she had been jealous and even angry with her husband, but she understood that it was hard for him too, and that he had been seduced by the dark-eyed beauty. He had now also admitted it to her himself, and with tears in his eyes had begged her to forgive him. Which she of course did. Because he was her husband, the father of her son and the love of her life, whom she could not live without.

I thought to myself that Karen Lund had probably had a very conservative upbringing and had read a few too many romantic magazines, but the situation felt easier now it was clear that she knew about her husband’s affair. Her personal choices were none of my business, and her explanation was frank enough. So I commented that it would perhaps have been better if she had told me before, but added that I understood that she was in a very difficult situation and thanked her for being so honest now. She shook my hand with relief before she left, and nodded obediently when I requested that she stay at home in case of further questioning. I watched with mixed feelings as the Lunds passed outside the window shortly after, on their way home. They were holding hands and, if one did not know any better, looked for all the world like an ordinary young couple without a care in the world.

I called in Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew together. They were both upset by the fact that they were to go home without so much as a krone, having come in the belief that they were the main heirs. However, they had quickly got over the initial shock. Joachim Olesen started by apologizing for his behaviour during the reading. He pointed out that neither he nor his sister had any financial worries, and added that the will should not really have come as a surprise.

I sent him a questioning look, but it was his sister who answered. Harald Olesen had been a generous uncle to them since they were small, but he was also strict and distant. As he had no children of his own, he had often had strong opinions about their choices in life, and in their youth had expressed his views on their choice of education and sweethearts quite clearly. In later years, they had both had their own families to prioritize, and Harald Olesen had not exactly encouraged contact. After his wife’s death, he had more or less kept himself to himself. The niece and nephew both felt guilty for not having looked after their sick uncle more in the last months of his life, but there were old underlying tensions, and Harald Olesen had basically become a stranger who did not arouse much sympathy. When they phoned him, he was curt in his response. This seemed to tie in well with the possibility that something serious from his past had been plaguing him over the last few months, but they had no idea what it might be. The family had not known that Harald Olesen had a son from an extramarital affair. The name Deerfoot did not mean anything to them, but that was not so strange. Harald Olesen had been reluctant to talk about his experiences during the war, even to his brother when he was alive.

It all sounded credible enough. I let the Olesen siblings go, with the assurance that they would be informed of any significant developments in connection with the murder of their late uncle and his will.

The remaining interviews were much swifter. Darrell Williams had viewed the spectacle from his place in the back row with sardonic humour. He was still chuckling when he commented that it was the most exciting reading of a will that he had ever experienced and ‘the greatest show’ he had seen outside the USA. It had all been entirely unexpected to him, but given the reactions in the room, he had immediately sympathized with the beautiful young lady. Andreas Gullestad was of the same opinion, in direct response to the reactions of the Olesens and Kristian Lund. But his sympathies were overwhelmingly with the caretaker’s wife, who had truly earned this acknowledgement after many years of toil and worry. Both Darrell Williams and Andreas Gullestad denied any knowledge of Harald Olesen’s family connections, including the fact that Kristian Lund was his son.

And as for the caretaker’s wife, two hours later she was still overwhelmed by her sudden fortune. She asked me repeatedly if it was true that she was going to get the money and I answered, as Rønning Junior had also done many times, that her share was secure, no matter who inherited the rest. If Kristian Lund won his case, he would receive the lion’s share of the estate, but she would still get her 100,000 kroner. She apologized that she had not noticed the reactions of the other people in the room. But from what had been said, she did not think it was wrong that Sara Sundqvist had been left the money, even though she did not understand why.

I told her in all honesty that I could not say why yet either. Then I congratulated her on her inheritance, which I felt was well deserved after all her years working for others.

I smiled quietly to myself as I watched the caretaker’s wife pass below the window in her worn, grey coat. I realized that she had always walked with heavy steps before, whereas now she was so light of foot that I feared she might suddenly lift off and float away over the city. It was a pleasure to imagine her coming back here with her little red post-office savings book so that the balance could rocket from 48 to 100,048 kroner. If nothing else, the murders of Harald Olesen and Konrad Jensen had helped to make one person happy.

But there was little else to smile about. The day had thrown up a good deal of new information, but still no solutions. Ensconced back in my office, I quickly dialled Patricia’s number. As soon as she heard who had been named the main heir, she invited me to visit her immediately.

IV

‘So, I still do not know who the murderer is, but I am starting to get a pretty clear picture of who J might be.’

The time was twenty-five to six. I had had longer to mull over the case than Patricia, who had just heard my account from the reading of the will, so it was once again disappointing to discover she was ahead of me in the game all the same.

‘No bonus points for this one. “J” is clearly an abbreviation for Sara Sundqvist. I guess that the “J” stands for “Jewish child” or “Jewess”.’

I replied that I had also guessed that, and also come to the conclusion that it had to be one of the two, the latter being more accurate than the former.

‘Of greater interest, and almost as obvious, is the fact that she must have been the small child who was hidden in the caretaker’s flat with her parents until Harald Olesen came to collect them that evening in February 1944. Thus far, the connection is clear. But what on earth happened between then and when she pops up in an adoption agency in Sweden a few months later? This historical mystery is now one of the investigation’s most burning issues.’

I nodded quickly in agreement. I had not thought this far yet, but when she said it, it was of course obvious. Patricia was on fire and continued immediately.

‘Now, who might know more about this? My best suggestion is that you send a telegram to your colleagues in Sweden and ask them to investigate immediately the circumstances surrounding Sara Sundqvist’s adoption. If she arrived as a refugee from Norway during the war, then someone must have carried or driven her across the border. And it must have been registered in some way by the Swedish authorities.’

I nodded. After today’s events, it sounded like a very sensible suggestion.

‘Otherwise, the most interesting thing about Sara Sundqvist’s reaction today was her spontaneous outburst that she did not kill Harald Olesen. What would have been a very logical reaction yesterday morning is now illogical, as everyone assumes that Konrad Jensen is the murderer.’

I had to agree with this too. I also asked myself critically if I had consciously or unconsciously suppressed this uncomfortable fact.

‘It may have been the shock, of course, but what she said to you later, in less fraught surroundings, would indicate that she does not believe that Konrad Jensen is the murderer. In which case, there are only two alternatives: either that she murdered Harald Olesen herself or she suspects that someone else may have done it and does not want to give voice to her suspicions. We have to keep both options open for the moment.’

I rather reluctantly had to agree. My heart rebelled against Sara Sundqvist being a cold-blooded murderer, but my mind insisted that it was a possibility that I had to face.

‘As for the Lunds, there is not much more to learn there, as is true of both Andreas Gullestad and the caretaker’s wife. But today’s events have bolstered my theory relating to Darrell Williams and the Olesen pair.’

I gave her a puzzled looked – and was no doubt unable to hide my surprise.

‘It may of course still be coincidence, but the reaction of the niece and nephew, and what they have said about their uncle, fits remarkably well in terms of chronology if…’

She fell silent and looked at me expectantly. I said nothing and stared back at her expectantly. We sat there in what resembled a standoff. In the end, it was me who gave in.

‘I have no idea what you are implying. What chronology are you talking about?’

Patricia grinned, not without a hint of glee.

‘The war chronology, but a different one from that of Sara Sundqvist. Harald Olesen’s niece would have been eighteen or nineteen years old at the end of the war. Darrell was twenty-two and in Norway. Around this time, he had a Norwegian girlfriend whom he refuses to name, for reasons unbeknown to us. The niece and nephew both said that they had a somewhat strained relationship with Harald Olesen in later years because he had used his authority to interfere with their lives when they were young, among other things in relation to their choice of sweetheart. Therefore it seems natural to assume, first of all, that Darrell Williams’s Norwegian girlfriend was in fact Harald Olesen’s niece, and second, that Harald Olesen played a role in the breakup of that relationship. A dream romance with an American prince whom she subsequently lost might still cause considerable pain to this day, especially given that her later marriage did not last…’

I gave a limp nod. It might be coincidence, but I would be very surprised if it was. The way in which the niece and nephew reacted when Darrell Williams appeared fitted in perfectly with this theory.

‘If I were you and could walk, I would go to visit Cecilia Olesen this evening and ask her about it directly. If she says yes, then call me before you talk to Darrell Williams.’

‘Asking Cecilia Olesen outright sounds eminently sensible, but why on earth should I call you afterwards?’

Patricia’s smile was secretive and slightly coquettish.

‘Because I have a linked theory that you also need to confront Darrell Williams with, but I do not want to tell you until I have had the relationship confirmed. If it is not the case, then my creative imagination has spun a little too far.’

I nodded again. Patricia helped me to take such great leaps that I had to bear with her more eccentric and conceited behaviour.

‘But I believe that is as far as we will get with the logic of Sherlock Holmes, so now we need to apply the Agatha Christie method and see how far we can get by focusing on the motives of the remaining neighbours.’

Once again, she was right, so I started with the obvious ones.

‘Andreas Gullestad and Darrell Williams still have no motive for the murder, do they?’

Patricia nodded, but somehow managed to shake her head at the same time.

‘Certainly, with the addition of “as far as we know at the moment”. I have a suspicion that both of them may have things of interest that are buried in the past. We touched on Darrell Williams just now. He could have felt extremely bitter towards Harald Olesen after the breakup from his niece, if the theory is true, or in connection with something else from his stay in Norway.’

‘We will follow that up immediately. But what about Andreas Gullestad?’

Patricia frowned.

‘That is even less clear, but there may be something in connection with his father’s activities in the Resistance and subsequent death, even though that was early on in the war and we still have no link with Harald Olesen. Has it also struck you that there are very few mountains in Østfold?’

Once again, Patricia managed to ambush me with a totally unexpected question. I really did not see the relevance of geography here. She noticed the scepticism on my face and promptly continued.

‘If what you told me is correct, the caretaker said that Harald Olesen planned to take the refugees on a trip to the mountains. Then he mentioned Østfold or Hedmark and Oppland, which were both known routes for smuggling refugees into Sweden. But Østfold is as flat as a Danish pancake, which could mean that they took the route via Hedmark to Oppland. Harald Olesen was also a leader for the Home Front there. And it is not so far from where Andreas Gullestad grew up, and from where his father, a couple of years earlier, had been shot for his part in the Resistance. It is tenuous, but I would not strike Andreas Gullestad from the list quite yet. Double-check with Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew whether there might be a connection there.’

‘Fair enough. And even though I do not for a moment believe that it was the caretaker’s wife, she now also has a motive.’

Patricia nodded gravely.

‘I too have serious doubts about the caretaker’s wife playing the cold-blooded murderer, but this has become more feasible in view of what has transpired today. She was the only one with keys to Konrad Jensen’s flat, and she also had his full trust. And a hundred thousand kroner is a more powerful motive than many of us might imagine for a person who has struggled and constantly lived in financial straits and now faces old age with only forty-eight kroner in her post-office savings account. Remember that she also put through Harald Olesen’s phone calls. If she knew that a substantial sum had been left to her in his will, and had realized that the will was being changed a lot, then she had a very strong motive indeed.’

Now it was my turn to nod gravely.

‘Sara Sundqvist has the strongest motive of them all – if she knew that Harald Olesen had changed the will and left her a million kroner.’

Patricia agreed without hesitation.

‘Obviously. We only have her word for it that she knew nothing, and we also only have her word for it that she knows nothing about what happened in 1944. There might be a powerful motive there too. The will clearly implies this: Harald Olesen obviously had a very bad conscience when it came to her. In fact, it is interesting just how much the lady does not know. I advise you to keep an eye on her, but also to keep her at a good arm’s length for a few more days at least.’

This last piece of advice was rather obscure, but I did not feel the need for an explanation of what Patricia meant. Therefore I asked what she thought with regard to the Lunds instead.

‘Kristian Lund has had an obvious motive for as long as he has believed he was the heir, particularly if he was aware of the danger that the will was to be changed. In addition, he has also openly expressed his hatred for his deceased father and lied so many times that I have lost count, despite my good maths. His wife could have the same motive as far as the will is concerned, and the same need for revenge. As well as a more advanced but equally plausible motive, linked to another person…’

My face must have been a question mark.

‘This is a rather tenuous but all the same captivating theory. It would naturally be every jealous housewife’s dream to see her husband’s mistress publicly convicted and locked up for years, only to be let out when she is approaching forty, without children or friends. Especially if in the meantime you could use the inherited millions that she was denied…’

And she was right – it was a possibility. Mrs Lund’s hatred had risen to the surface and made an impression today.

‘The late Konrad Jensen also had both the opportunity and a possible motive. In short, after one week’s investigation, we still cannot exclude anyone who was in 25 Krebs’ Street when Harald Olesen was shot.’

Patricia nodded glumly.

‘We have made considerable progress and know far more, but still do not have a clear picture of the murderer. All the neighbours could have had the opportunity, and they all have at least one possible motive – some even have more. Kristian Lund and Sara Sundqvist are on the shakiest ground, but I advise you not to trust anyone other than me. And to make Harald Olesen’s niece your next port of call.’

I accepted this advice and got up to leave.

V

Cecilia Olesen lived in a spacious two-bedroomed flat in Ullern. She opened the door herself when I rang the bell and asked me in straightaway. As could only be expected, she did not seem particularly overjoyed to see me, but nor was she particularly hostile. A freckled girl of around ten years old poked her head inquisitively round the door to her room, but was immediately ordered to return to her maths homework. The ten-year-old protested that she had already finished her homework, but was not heeded.

I was shown into a comfortable living room and served coffee on a traditional painted tray and it all felt far too pleasant to ask the difficult question that I now had to ask regardless.

‘I do apologize for disturbing you again, but there are still some circumstances that need to be clarified in relation to your uncle’s murder.’

She nodded – and sighed.

‘So I am afraid I have to ask if you knew one of the other people present today slightly better than you may previously have intimated…’

No more was needed. Cecilia Olesen’s apparently staunch facade cracked and the tears started to fall.

‘You are absolutely right. I have been thinking about it ever since. But it was all such a shock – first to see him again, then the will and then discovering an unknown cousin. I could not gather my thoughts until I came home.’

I gave her a charming smile, and all the time she needed. Her voice had steadied when she carried on a couple of minutes later.

‘I knew that he might come, but prayed and hoped that it would not be too upsetting. I suppose I hoped that he would in some way be different – older, greyer and fatter – but he was almost just as I remembered him. A bit heavier, of course, but just as tall, just as dark, just as powerful and irresistibly confident. I almost fell off my chair when he came through the door.’

I gave her an understanding look.

‘So it is as I thought: you are the young Norwegian sweetheart that Darrell Williams has refused to name.’

She looked genuinely surprised when I said this, but hurried on.

‘That is so typical of Darrell, not to give my name in order to protect me. He was my first and my greatest love. I knew that the first time I saw him one autumn day in 1945. A day has not passed since when I have not thought about him.’

‘And yet it never amounted to more than young love?’

Her bright face darkened abruptly into something that resembled hate.

‘No, and that was my uncle’s fault. He was against the relationship from the start and successfully exerted his influence on my parents. It was so easy to fall in love when you were nineteen, he said, but nothing would ever come of it; he was an American soldier, after all – said he who himself worked closely with the Americans both during the war and after. So things got more and more difficult for us. Then one day in spring 1948, Darrell came to tell me that he had been ordered home with only a few days’ notice. I have always suspected that my uncle used one of his contacts to arrange that recall order. I still remember every detail of the day Darrell left. I stood at the very end of the harbour in Oslo and waved to him for as long as he was visible on deck, and we have not seen each other since until today. When he came into the room… it was almost as if I was young again and back in 1948. As if the ship had suddenly turned round and docked again, and my Darrell had come back to me – but then stopped a few feet away.’

Cecilia Olesen sat in silence, staring into the past.

‘I married a very nice and bright man, whom both my parents and uncle approved of, but it was our parents, and not us, who wanted it. I knew that I was standing with the wrong man when I said yes in the church, and it became very obvious as early as our honeymoon. But our wonderful daughter came out of it, if not a lot else. We stayed together for five years, and that was at least four too many. I never forgave my uncle. If he ever regretted it, he never managed to bring himself to ask for my forgiveness.’

It was easy to feel compassion. I nodded and then got up to leave a couple of minutes later when it became evident that she did not want to say any more.

There was something unsaid in the air when she followed me out to the door. She hesitated until the last moment, but then finally spoke as I stood in the doorway.

‘I have to ask you… I know nothing, and have wondered every day for the past twenty years. Do you know what Darrell has done in the meantime? He has obviously made a good career for himself, but does he have a wife and children? If I’ve understood correctly, he is alone here in Oslo?’

The last question was almost whispered, with an undercurrent of hope. I nodded calmly.

‘He told me that he had been married in the USA, but they had had no children and the relationship broke down after only a few years. So his story is very much like your own, only without children.’

I had hoped that this would comfort her, but instead the information unleashed a new torrent of tears.

‘Oh, I’m so glad, but the thought of him having no children is so, so sad. You see, he was going to have one in 1948. I found out the day after he sailed away.’

Her words winded me and pierced my heart.

‘You found out – that you were carrying his child?’

She nodded, swallowed and managed to stammer out the rest.

‘It was a scandal, of course, and the only solution was an abortion. My uncle knew some doctors and everything was arranged quietly and discreetly. It took several weeks before I could write to Darrell about it, and I have never known if he received that letter. I have always wanted to believe that he did, but that sorrow and disappointment prevented him from answering.’

I did not know what to say to this unexpected twist. So I stood there in silence for a minute or two before I gently put my arm round her shoulder. I thought to myself that the more unpleasant aspects of Harald Olesen’s past were now rising to the surface. And that Darrell Williams also had a strong revenge motive vis-à-vis Harald Olesen – particularly if he in fact had received that letter twenty years ago.

VI

I left Cecilia Olesen as soon as I could, and did not want to ask if I could use her phone. So instead, I made a stop at the office and called from there. Patricia answered immediately and sounded relieved that I had phoned. She whistled appreciatively when I told her about Cecilia Olesen.

‘The possibility of an abortion had in fact occurred to me, but I thought that was perhaps too much detail to mention. But this lead is of increasing interest. You should confront Darrell Williams about not only this, but also the papers that he and Harald Olesen burned. Because I am pretty certain that Darrell Williams is the O that Harald Olesen writes about in his diary. It fits well with the timeline when he moved in, the unspecified personal issue that Olesen writes about, and also suspiciously well with the letter itself.’

I had not thought about this possibility, but had to admit that it fell into place rather well. But I still had to ask what the letter ‘O’ fitted so suspiciously well with. The answer was to the point.

‘“O” stands for “OSS agent”.’

I nodded – and whistled. The OSS was the forerunner the CIA, and had been active in Norway both during and after the war. I had even mentioned it to Darrell Williams myself, without considering a possible link to the O in Harald Olesen’s diary.

‘You should question Darrell Williams again as soon as possible. Call Bjørn Erik Svendsen to find out about the OSS. But first send a telegram to the Swedish Police. Even though the US lead is of increasing interest, it may in fact be the Swedish lead that is the right one.’

Patricia hesitated for a moment, but then continued in a slightly shaky voice.

‘So, now we have established that N in the diary is Kristian Lund, J is Sara Sundqvist, and O is Darrell Williams, but we are still no closer to identifying D, who is the most interesting and frightening, if what Harald Olesen writes in his diary is to be believed. Unless he has used two different letters for the same person, which seems highly unlikely, the one he feared most is not one of our three main suspects. So keep your eyes peeled for a possible terrifying fourth person who might be D – both inside and outside 25 Krebs’ Street.’

I promised to do that, but had to apologize when Patricia asked and admit that I had forgotten to ask the niece if Harald Olesen had had any contacts in the Gjøvik area. We then ended the call and I composed a telegram to the Swedish Police.

IMPORTANT URGENT CASE STOP IN RELATION TO INVESTIGATION INTO THE HARALD OLESEN MURDER STOP REQUEST INFORMATION REGARDING SARA SUNDQVIST BORN 1943 AND ADOPTED IN GOTHENBURG SUMMER 1944 STOP MAY HAVE COME TO SWEDEN WITH HARALD OLESEN OR SOMEONE CALLED DEERFOOT STOP PLEASE TELEGRAM IMMEDIATELY ANY KNOWLEDGE AS TO DEERFOOTS NAME STOP KOLBJØRN KRISTIANSEN MAIN POLICE STATION OSLO

The investigation was becoming nothing short of an obsession. I was extremely curious as to what Darrell Williams would say regarding the information from Cecilia Olesen.

But first I followed Patricia’s advice and phoned Bjørn Erik Svendsen to find out what he knew about Harald Olesen’s contact with the OSS. And this was certainly not insignificant. Harald Olesen had apparently been the contact person for several OSS agents in Norway during the war. It was probably via these channels that he communicated information about Norwegian communists after the war, which then later ended up in the CIA’s archives. It was possible to get a fairly good idea of who these communists were from the documents. However, the names of the American agents were not known, or which other Norwegians had been involved in this information-gathering or known about it, or what else they might have done. Harald Olesen was the only one to be identified so far, but there was reason to believe that more people had been involved. It was possible that some of them might today hold key positions in Norway and/or the USA. This was one of the points that Harald Olesen had not wanted to discuss with his biographer, Bjørn Erik Svendsen told me, so he would be eternally grateful for any supplementary information I could give him.

I did not feel inclined to talk to Cecilia Olesen again following her emotional outpouring no more than a couple of hours earlier, so instead I called her brother to ask if he knew whether Harald Olesen had any close friends in the area around Gjøvik. And rather unexpectedly hit bullseye. He answered straightaway that his uncle had had lots of contacts in the area, but the first to spring to mind was a wealthy farmer whom he had visited several times in the years running up to the war. The nephew had even gone with him once. He could not remember his Christian name, but his surname was easy to remember, as he had owned a considerable amount of forested land: Storskog. He immediately replied: ‘Yes, of course!’ when I asked if this friend of Harald Olesen was perhaps called Hans. I quickly thanked him for the information, threw down the phone and ran out to the car.

VII

It was almost nine o’clock by the time I arrived at 25 Krebs’ Street, but the lights were still on in all the windows, except the two flats left empty by Harald Olesen and Konrad Jensen.

Darrell Williams opened the door slowly when I rang the bell and nodded pensively when he saw it was me. I caught a hint of acknowledgement in his eyes as we briefly shook hands.

I was starting to feel tired after a long day and was secure enough in my case to get straight to the point.

‘You perhaps understand why I am here. I worked it out by myself. She did not say anything and still only has fond feelings for you.’

He gave a curt nod and pointed me into the living room. We sat down in the armchairs. I got the impression that it had been a tough day for Darrell Williams as well, and this was reinforced when I saw the bottles and glasses standing on the coffee table.

‘I now know that you had a relationship with Cecilia Olesen from 1945 until 1948 and that her uncle vehemently opposed it. However, I do not know if you received the letter she sent you a few months after you had to leave Norway in spring 1948.’

Darrell Williams sat deep in thought for a few moments, then poured a drink from one of the bottles on the table. He held the bottle up to me, but put it down as soon as I shook my head.

‘Sadly, I did, but I have not yet managed to write the reply,’ he said brusquely.

He emptied his glass, then started to talk quickly in a controlled voice.

‘My feelings for Harald Olesen were anything but sympathetic for many years after that. But over the years the intensity has diminished. At the time, in 1948, I felt like I could kill him, but I most certainly did not now, in 1968. It was easier to meet him again than I had expected and feared. But today was worse – seeing her again, that is.’

I had no difficulty believing him.

‘Which is why you arrived so late and sat by the door. And why you laughed so loudly and criticized her and her brother so strongly – to disguise the fact.’

Darrell Williams said nothing, but shrugged his confirmation. I immediately followed up on this success.

‘One more thing. It seems unlikely that you were sent to Oslo and accommodated in the same building as Harald Olesen because of this old personal conflict.’

He shook his head firmly.

‘Of course not. That was never an issue for my employers.’

I nodded and carried on swiftly.

‘But it is still no coincidence that you ended up here. You came here because Harald Olesen had some papers and information that your employer was keen to ensure would not fall into the wrong hands either before or after his death.’

Darrell Williams sighed deeply.

‘You are putting me in a very difficult situation now. These are things that I cannot confirm or deny without permission from the highest level.’

‘Let me then simply state that this is the case and that you can neither confirm nor deny it.’

He nodded silently.

‘I will also state, then, that these papers included information about certain Norwegians and Americans who today hold very senior positions, and whom Harald Olesen knew had been actively involved in highly sensitive campaigns against the communists and individuals who were assumed to be communists for no given reason. And it would be extremely detrimental to these individuals, and perhaps also to relations between the USA and Norway, if this became known. And it would appear that you are still unable or unwilling to deny any of this.’

Darrell Williams’s sigh was even heavier, and his nod even more silent.

‘And I would find it very hard to persuade you to give me the names of these people?’

He smiled, but it was a sombre and almost twisted smile.

‘If such persons exist, it would be impossible for me to give you their names.’

‘But they are of no particular relevance to my investigation – so long as you are not the murderer.’

Darrell Williams spontaneously held out his hand.

‘You are quite clearly a very good and intelligent policeman. And it is my sincere hope that you will also manage to put together the remaining pieces in this case, so that I can finish up and leave Norway. The situation was awkward enough to begin with, but my emotional ballast now makes it unbearable.’

I wanted to offer him an olive branch.

‘I have reason to believe that everything will fall into place within a couple of days now. And in the meantime, I hope you understand that I must ask you to stay put.’

Another curt nod. Then he got up. I took the hint and followed him out into the hallway. In the spirit of cooperation, I added that an anonymous OSS agent, whom I believed was him, was mentioned in Harald Olesen’s diary. He thanked me for this information and concluded that I probably would not have needed to ask him about the names if they had been in the diary.

It certainly felt as if we understood each other and were working for the common good – two officials on important missions from different countries. I left Darrell Williams with the feeling that he had now told the truth and was not the murderer. But I still could not strike him from the list.

As he opened the door for me, Darrell Williams sheepishly asked me a final question.

‘One sometimes wonders… Do you know how Cecilia’s life has been? Does she have a family and the like? I noticed that she still had the same name and that she came with her brother.’

I nodded reassuringly.

‘She has a daughter from a short and unhappy marriage, but is now divorced.’

He thanked me quickly for this information and asked me to give Cecilia Olesen his regards if I saw her again. He then seemed to dab his eyes. Darrell Williams was a strong man. He did not cry. Certainly not before he had shut me out of his flat without further ado. But I thought I heard a muffled sob as the door closed behind me. Perhaps it was just my imagination. It had been a long and dramatic day for us both.

VIII

My final stop for the day had to be Andreas Gullestad on the ground floor. He greeted me with his usual friendliness and offered me coffee and a wide selection of teas. However, his face darkened quickly once again when I said I had to ask a question about his father.

‘I should have realized that you would find out. It occurred to me after your last visit,’ he said, visibly agitated when I asked if it was definitely the case that he had never met Harald Olesen before moving in here. However, he quickly regained his composure.

‘I realized suddenly after the murder that my neighbour Harald Olesen must be the same Harald that my father talked about with such respect, and whom he counted as one of his close friends. In which case, I had met him a couple of times when I was a child, when he visited my father before the war. I should of course have phoned you straightaway to amend my statement, but I would rather not talk about any memories connected with my father – the old grief cuts through me like a knife every time I hear his name. I have no particularly good or bad memories of Harald Olesen’s visits to the lost paradise of my childhood. In fact, it was only after his murder that I remembered he had come. I certainly hope that you do not believe that I pushed myself up to the second floor in my wheelchair and shot him because he visited my father a couple of times when I was a boy?’

I assured him that of course I did not. But it did strike me that even this friendly man on the ground floor had withheld information several times and that he too was proving to be more complex and less likeable the more I got to know him.

I took a potshot and asked if he could remember any younger men in his father’s family or circle of friends who might possibly have worked with Harald Olesen during the war. Andreas Gullestad dutifully gave it some thought, but then shook his head apologetically. His father had been an only child and so had neither younger brothers nor nephews. And given that he himself was only a boy at the time, he could not remember any younger men who might fit that description from among his father’s staff or friends. The code name Deerfoot still meant nothing to him.

Andreas Gullestad apologized profusely that he could not help me more, and was as friendly as could be when I left him some minutes later. But I did note that I no longer trusted him. Which, depressingly, was the case with all the surviving residents of 25 Krebs’ Street, with the possible exception of the caretaker’s wife in the basement.

Once again I went to bed alone that evening with the feeling that we were getting closer and closer to the solution, but I also felt increasingly impatient. The murderer was still not in sight. It helped that the public thought that the case had been solved with the death of Konrad Jensen. But I could feel the strain of the seven-day investigation, and dearly hoped to be able to catch sight of the murderer on the eighth day. All ideas of taking a holiday over Easter this year were definitely off the cards, but the thought that there would be no newspapers for two days and fewer colleagues at work was a relief.