The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (12 page)

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

III

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes slid over to the window as she spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she was silent again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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