The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (21 page)

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.