The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (22 page)

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?’