The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (23 page)

I nodded and put the letter on the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I laid it on the table.

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

Patricia studied the weapon pensively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patricia nodded.

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

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

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

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

Patricia nodded in agreement – and gave a bitter smile.

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

I nodded, but did put up a feeble protest.

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

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

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

Patricia sighed again twice and continued in a resigned voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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