The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (31 page)

I had seen some boxing matches and knew exactly what he meant. I had also understood quite quickly that Hans Andersson was not a fast storyteller and had a penchant for melodrama.

‘Very interesting. And was Deerfoot there the first time that you met Harald Olesen?’

He nodded eagerly.

‘Yes, both then and every time after. It was an interesting story. Harald Olesen always struck me as being a very intelligent and capable man. I was not at all surprised when he became a government minister after the war. But as a member of the Resistance, he had one real weakness, which he controlled because he was well aware of it. He told me on the third or fourth time that he was here, and I certainly had never noticed it. Harald Olesen had almost no sense of direction. If he had gone out into the mountains alone with the refugees, they may never have found their way anywhere. He would often call Deerfoot his map and compass. As I understood it, Deerfoot knew the mountains well from before the war, and also had a keen sense of direction.’

He paused and politely waited for me to finish writing my notes. I waved him on impatiently.

‘There were many refugees who benefited from Deerfoot’s infallible sense of direction, and who were openly grateful. We raised the flag here every day as a discreet signal to any refugees who might cross the border. There was great excitement here many a time when the people making their way down the side of the valley saw the flag and realized that they had finally arrived safely in Sweden. I remember the first time especially well, because one of the refugees they had with them was so young. He was only sixteen at the time, in 1942. He told me himself when he came back ten years later with his wife and child to thank us and give us presents.’

I nodded in recognition. It was a touching story, but I had heard it before. It was clearly the same refugee who had been hidden by the caretaker and his wife, in the basement of the building in Oslo where Harald Olesen was later shot. It now felt like we were getting very warm and Deerfoot would soon be in sight.

‘This is all very interesting, but I would like some more details about this Deerfoot. As far as I have understood, you never knew his real name. But what else can you tell me about him? His age, where he came from and suchlike. And did he have an American accent by any chance?’

Hans Andersson shook his head apologetically.

‘Deerfoot spoke Norwegian without an accent, and as far as I can remember, without any distinct dialect either. He could have come from anywhere in eastern Norway. He was cagey and said very little about himself. But I have actually found an old photograph of him!’

I watched dumbfounded as he got up and went over to the desk and pulled an old black-and-white photograph from a drawer with something akin to awe.

‘I don’t remember taking the photograph, but we must have done at the time. I was given it by the young refugee when he came back years later, and I dug it out again after your telegram came. So it must be from 23 December 1942. The young refugee is on the right and Deerfoot on the left.’

He slid the photograph that held the secret across the table, face down.

‘You will perhaps understand what Harald Olesen meant when he said that no one would suspect Deerfoot of anything – and why I said that he was a remarkable young man,’ he commented, with a mischievous smile.

I flipped the photograph over in a flash and immediately understood what he meant.

The theory that Darrell Williams was Deerfoot could be shelved.

The refugee was an extremely happy, smiling dark-haired youth of sixteen in the yellowing picture from 23 December 1942. He was clearly not yet fully grown, but was still the taller of the two youths in the picture.

There was a flash from a silver pendant round Deerfoot’s neck, but no trace of a smile on his face. The youth who stared at the camera from underneath a dark fringe was very focused and serious. In December 1942, Deerfoot had been a lean and dark young lad, with not even a hint of facial hair. I would estimate his age to be thirteen at the least and fifteen at the most.

Hans Andersson smiled momentarily at my surprise and carried on speaking before I could ask a question.

‘I don’t know what Deerfoot was called, or where he came from, or how old he was. The first time I asked about his age, he just laughed it off and joked that he was ten and big for his age. I never got a proper answer later either. He grew a little in the year that I knew him, but I cannot imagine that he was any older than sixteen the last time I saw him, in winter 1944.’

He came over to me and pointed at the photograph.

‘I never saw him without that pendant. It seemed to be a kind of talisman that he always wore. You can see how serious and grown-up his face is in the photograph. That was the one we saw most. He was very deeply affected by growing up in the war, but he also had a younger, jocular face that sometimes appeared. He was not an easy person to get hold of.’

I had no trouble in believing that. Deerfoot was certainly not an easy person get hold of, and even less to arrest. His facial features were very vague on the photograph and did not remind me of anyone I had met thus far in the investigation. Which was all the more irritating because I increasingly had the feeling that this serious boy in the photograph from 1942 in some way held the key to solving the murder of Harald Olesen now in 1968. This prompted me to think of an important question.

‘What was your impression of the relationship between the two of them – Harald Olesen and Deerfoot, that is?’

Hans Andersson nodded pensively.

‘Good question – I have often wondered about it. In 1942 and 1943, it seemed to be a good old-fashioned father–son type of relationship. In fact, I even heard Deerfoot talk about Harald Olesen as “father” several times, and Harald Olesen accepted this with a smile. But Deerfoot was clearly not Harald Olesen’s son. Harald Olesen once told me that he sadly had no children of his own, which was confirmed in the papers after his death. I thought that perhaps for that time during the war, Deerfoot was somehow the son he had always wished he had had. So I imagined that Deerfoot was an orphan, especially as he never spoke about his family. But that may of course also have been because he was being careful.’

Despite his young age, it seemed that Deerfoot had also been remarkably good at covering his tracks after the war. Which gave immediate associations to the mysterious murder in 1968.

‘So the last time you saw Deerfoot was here in winter 1944. Was that also when Sara Sundqvist came here?’

He nodded again, but was very sombre all of a sudden.

‘Yes, but to hear that story you need to come outside with me.’

Hans Andersson got up without waiting for an answer, picked up some binoculars that were waiting on the desk and walked ahead of me down the corridor towards the main door. I picked up my notebook and followed him.

II

Hans Andersson and I stood together looking up at the sides of the valley, which were still covered in snow.

‘The valley here is beautiful on good days like today, but the mountains can be hell when the winter storms are blowing,’ he reflected.

I nodded in agreement, in the hope that he would continue. I was becoming increasingly impatient to hear more about the young Deerfoot’s war experiences, and about Sara Sundqvist and the fate of her parents. He noticed this perhaps and picked up the thread.

‘You will hear the story shortly, but the valley and the weather are actually very important factors. As you can see, the pass is extremely steep over there.’

That was certainly no exaggeration. The main path down the side of the valley was as steep as a ski slope and ended in a small cliff that dropped about sixteen feet. Scree could be seen sticking up through the white snow below. Hans Andersson pointed at it with a warning.

‘That is the fastest way down from the mountain, but you take it at your own peril. When the snow is at its thickest, it is possible to jump off the cliff if you know how to land. But even then it is a very risky route. It is said that that is one of the reasons that a police station was built here in the first place, to make sure that no young hotheads decided to give it a try. The first time that Harald Olesen and Deerfoot were here, just before they left, I noticed Deerfoot staring up at the cliff as if enthralled. I was quick to say that he must never try jumping off it, unless he had the devil at his heels and it was a matter of life and death. He nodded soberly and promised me not to.’

Hans Andersson was quiet for a while and then pointed far up the mountainside.

‘People still come down from the mountains from up there. That is where I always spotted the small groups of refugees coming down during the war, with Harald Olesen and Deerfoot at the helm. It was as great a relief every time. When they appeared up there, they were already well into Sweden, so all danger was past. We used to say they walked as quickly as they could in Norway and as slowly as they wanted to in Sweden. The final stretch through the woods up there was simply a victory parade. Deerfoot always walked in front to show the way.’

The path came down where the side of the valley was least steep, down the slope through the woods. Even someone who was exhausted and not used to being on skis would be able to come down there without any danger of accidents. I waited with growing impatience to discover what the local topography had to do with the story. Fortunately, Hans Andersson soon started on his tale.

‘We had established quite a routine with the refugees by the last couple of years of the war. Everything had gone well up until then, so we had perhaps become a bit careless. I had an uncle in Elverum who lived on the refugee route and helped to get everything organized. He would call me when he had seen refugees passing, and in among all the talk of family and farms, he would slip in a message that would tell us who was on their way and how many were in the group. We would then sit up with food and refreshments and wait for them to arrive. These messages were coded, of course, in case the phones were tapped. But it has plagued me in later years that this was maybe how the tragedy started.’

He stood for a moment and stared despondently at the mountainside. Then he continued, but was in no rush.

‘It was early on the evening of 20 February 1944 when my uncle called, with a message that Deerfoot and his father had passed with two large sacks and one small one. This meant that Harald Olesen and Deerfoot had two adult refugees and a child with them. No more than an hour later, my uncle called again and sounded extremely agitated. The message was that a pack of six wolves had just passed outside the window. And so our greatest nightmare became reality. Harald Olesen and Deerfoot were by now in open terrain with the refugees, and a German military patrol was following their tracks.’

Hans Andersson was really slowing down now. Powerful memories were obviously pressing in.

‘And then . . .’ I prompted.

‘And then the worst winter storm of the year blew up,’ he said, with a heavy heart. ‘I had been up since five in the morning, but still did not get to sleep until four that night. I went out several times with my binoculars, but it was impossible to see anything on the mountain in the dark and whirling snow. The storm was a double-edged sword. The weather would make things very hard for their pursuers, but at the same time, it would be hell on earth to be out there with the German soldiers on your tail – especially with a screaming baby. The wind and cold were dangerous enough at night. When I finally went to bed at four, I was sure that I had seen Harald Olesen and Deerfoot for the last time. My wife woke me at ten in the morning to tell me that the wind had dropped, but that there was still no sign of life on the mountainside. I more or less gave up hope there and then.’

Hans Andersson did not say anything for what seemed like an hour. He stood staring up at the mountainside.

‘I still remember the morning of 21 February 1944 in detail. The wind had dropped completely over the space of a few hours. The sky was blue and the air was clear, but still treacherously cold and dry – the thermometer showed minus twenty-five degrees. So I waited in my office that day with dwindling hope. I have never really believed in God, but around two that afternoon, I experienced what perhaps might be called an epiphany. I suddenly felt very strongly that I had been given a kind of order to go outside to see if there was any sign of movement on the mountainside. It was impossible to remain in the office after that, so I grabbed my binoculars and went out.’

He handed me the binoculars and said firmly: ‘Look up at the top of the mountainside.’

I did as he told me. The weather was clear, but I still saw no sign of any people up there. He nodded.

‘The mountainside was just as deadly still that perishingly cold day in February 1944. Then all of a sudden I saw a slight movement through the binoculars that made me start. It turned out it was just a hare. But it seemed to be frightened, running from something in a way that made me wonder if there was more movement up there. Then a flock of ptarmigan was startled into the air. And suddenly he came sailing down from the mountain and the cold. A solitary man on skis – and he was going hell for leather like he had the devil at his heels!’

‘Harald Olesen?’ I asked. The grim possibility that he and little Sara were the only two who had come out of it alive suddenly struck me.

Hans Andersson shook his head.

‘That is what I thought at first. But I recognized the lightness of foot before I could even see him clearly through the binoculars. It was Deerfoot who came flying down over the seas of snow.’

I held the binoculars close to my eyes and could almost imagine Deerfoot skiing down the side of the valley from the mountain. I waited in breathless anticipation to hear the rest of the story of the time when he actually had.

‘At first, I hoped that I would see Harald Olesen and the other refugees coming up behind him. And then I started to fear that our worst nightmare was upon us and that the German soldiers in their desire to catch the guide had crossed the border and come into Sweden. An old fear was awakened. In the first years of the war, we had discussed what on earth we would do in such a situation and had never found a better answer than that we would immediately ring Stockholm. I remember thinking that they would have to appear soon if they were to keep him within shooting range. But there was no one behind him, neither friend nor foe. Normally the guide came with a small party, but this time Deerfoot was guide to no one. And still he kept pace like I have seen no champion do. I could not comprehend it and started to fear that he had lost his mind. Especially when I realized which path he planned on taking.’