The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (34 page)

‘Not only is it the best solution, but also absolutely necessary. Various situations might arise where I simply cannot reach you in time by telephone. And what is more, it is entirely doable in practical terms. Andreas Gullestad manages to move around the building in his wheelchair, so why would you not be able to? We can give you a pen and paper and say that you are my secretary and have an injury. And just think how interesting it would be for you to be there when the case is concluded and to meet all the people you have spent so much time analysing over the past week . . .’

Patricia remained uncharacteristically silent in her wheelchair.

‘The fact is, it is very difficult to find a rational counterargument,’ she said in the end, with a serious face. Then her sardonic humour cut through and she laughed.

‘And I am not exactly spoilt for choice with invitations to do exciting things at the weekend anymore . . . All right, I will come with you!’

I spontaneously held out my hand before she had time to change her mind. Patricia’s hand was shaking, but was warm and full of enthusiasm. When I added that she should perhaps get her father’s permission first, she gave me a wry look and commented that ‘the fossil’ had only too often said that she should get out more. And in any case, he could no longer decide where she went and with whom. She did, however, promise to ‘let him know what he needs to know’.

Patricia insisted that I collect her myself, in an unmarked police car. In answer to my question as to why the latter was important, she chuckled and replied that the staff and neighbours would possibly celebrate and be only too happy to snap pictures of her being driven away in a police car. But then she switched in an instant and became deadly serious again.

‘And you must have two reliable armed officers posted by the outer doors tonight. I am still slightly unsure as to who the murderer is, but I am in no doubt that he or she is an exceptionally cold person who is capable of anything. And not only do we still not have the murderer, we do not have the murder weapon either . . .’

I nodded my consent.

The possibility that Joachim Olesen was the murderer still seemed the most plausible solution to me – except perhaps Sara Sundqvist, but I did not want to believe it was her. It worried me in every way that Patricia’s attention was so obviously focused on the building, even though that did not necessarily mean that the murderer was physically there.

‘The chance for a happy ending might perhaps increase if I asked Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew to come to 25 Krebs’ Street? I am sure that they could wait in the entrance or with the caretaker’s wife in her flat, in case we need to talk to them.’

For a moment Patricia looked confused. Then suddenly she burst out laughing again.

‘
Now
I understand what you meant. A happy ending, what a brilliant way of putting it. By all means ask them. And who knows, some questions may crop up that they might be able to answer. And aesthetically, it does feel fitting that we do a Poirot and gather all the surviving parties together before the arrest.’

I felt that this minor success could indicate that the ever-secretive Patricia was thinking along the same lines as me and suspected the nephew. We were both in good spirits when we agreed that I should collect her at half past eleven, so that we would be ready to start at Krebs’ Street by midday at the latest.

On my way out, I was unable to contain myself and asked one final question.

‘Have you decided which flat we should start with tomorrow?’

The answer was what I had expected, but not what I had hoped for.

‘I think we should start by seeing what Sara Sundqvist has to say in her defence this time.’

She may have seen the disappointment on my face, for she continued briskly.

‘Much depends on what she can tell us, and what she wants to, but it is by no means certain that we will end there.’

I carried my hope with me out into the dark. I made a quick stop at the now quiet police station to make three brief telephone calls. The first was to Cecilia Olesen, who this time sounded far happier to hear my voice. She cheered up even more when I told her that Darrell Williams had returned and that we expected to close the case over the course of the weekend. That said, she immediately and almost enthusiastically agreed to my request to come to the scene of the crime at a quarter to twelve the next day.

I was of course more curious about her brother, Joachim Olesen. His voice was measured, but by no means eager. I had a strong feeling that I could now see the murderer’s face clearly for the first time when he held back and said that he had already promised to prepare a balance sheet for the ministry on Saturday. He was silent for a while when I emphasized that it would be to everyone’s advantage if he was available for questioning in the final stages of the investigation. He gave in with a quiet sigh and said that in that case he would of course make himself available for the police.

The final telephone call was to the caretaker’s wife, who told me that all was peaceful in the building. She promised to be waiting with the key to each flat at a quarter to twelve, and to be at her post early to make sure that all the residents were at home.

In the end, I made a fourth call and ordered a constable to keep an eye on Joachim Olesen’s flat, and to follow him should he go out before he was due to meet us. I did not want to be missing a key witness in the grand finale of my first major murder investigation – and especially not the one who was my prime suspect.

When I finally fell asleep around two o’clock in the morning, I could still see the nephew’s secretive face in my mind’s eye. All the same, I thought carefully about each of the others who would be there. The face of the ever-elusive Sara Sundqvist was the last I pictured before I dropped off. If nothing else, I would be able to establish on the tenth day of the investigation whether she had become involved in the murders by sheer misfortune or whether she was a particularly devious murderer.

DAY TEN

The Story of a Human Fly

I

Saturday, 13 April was not only the day before Easter; it was also the investigation’s tenth day. For me, it started like any other Saturday. I had a lie-in and ate breakfast on my own at around ten o’clock. By half past ten I was in my office and could to my relief confirm that nothing new or of any note had happened there. After a quick telephone call to 25 Krebs’ Street at eleven o’clock, I knew that all the residents were at home. The caretaker’s wife was also informed that Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew would be coming, and she promised to put out a table and a couple of chairs for them.

At a quarter past eleven, I left the main police station in an unmarked car. Patricia, dressed in a simple green dress, was sitting waiting for me in the hallway when I arrived at Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. For a moment I was afraid when I saw Professor Ragnar Borchmann towering beside her, but he gripped my hand enthusiastically and happily gave me leave to borrow his only daughter ‘for up to four hours’. As Patricia wheeled herself out in front of us, he commented in a hushed voice that he had not seen her so cheerful and focused since the accident.

Our journey got off to a slow start. Some of the streets we had to pass were blocked off in honour of one of Oslo’s more recent signs of spring: another demonstration against the war in Vietnam. This was not a particularly big or well-planned protest and was dominated by a group of around twenty to thirty angry students. Patricia watched them soulfully through the car window when we were finally able to pass. It struck me that I had no idea what she thought about the war in Vietnam or other major events. I could imagine her both opposing and supporting the war, and being a supporter of both the Conservative Party and the Socialist Party. But I found it hard to believe that she would not have strong opinions about the Vietnam War and Norwegian political parties.

Patricia and I were both affected by the solemnity of the moment, and by the fact that within a matter of hours we could expect to be face to face with an unusually calculating double murderer. She commented later that I had apparently asked three times in the course of the journey whether she was sitting comfortably, and twice said that spring was definitely here now. After which it was a great relief to her when I finally asked a more relevant question that had been bothering me all of the previous evening. It was in connection with her observation that each of the residents in Krebs’ Street were human flies. Based on the revelations of recent days, I could accept that the description was to a greater or lesser extent suited to the caretaker’s wife, the now dead Konrad Jensen, as well as to Darrell Williams, Kristian Lund and Sara Sundqvist. The description might also possibly fit Andreas Gullestad, given his father’s early death and his own accident. But I found it hard to see the fat cat’s daughter, Karen Lund, in this light.

Patricia had to agree with me in part, but she believed, all the same, that as Mrs Lund’s fate was so intertwined with that of her husband, she could also be seen as a human fly, by virtue of her marriage. She added that if Kristian Lund now proved to be the devious double murderer, it was impossible to imagine that his wife was not a conspirator. She would, in the first instance, have given him a false alibi for the murder of Harald Olesen. As for the murder of Konrad Jensen, Kristian Lund was apparently at work when the shot was fired. In which case, it must have been his wife who killed him. Unless he of course was in cahoots with another neighbour, she added without specifying anyone.

I nodded and acknowledged that there was still every reason to suspect all the residents. A minute later, we stopped outside their front door.

II

The caretaker’s wife welcomed us and shook my hand with great warmth. Not unexpectedly, our reception from Cecilia and Joachim Olesen was somewhat more restrained, but both of them were there, as promised. It was with some relief that I noted that Joachim had come without a bag of any kind and was dressed in a simple suit, so it would be hard to hide a gun. Cecilia Olesen had obviously put more time into preparing herself. She was beautifully made up and dressed in an elegant, if somewhat old-fashioned dress. I noticed that Patricia tried to hide a small smile when she saw her.

All three were taken by surprise when Patricia was wheeled in, but they greeted her with a friendly smile and I introduced her as my young secretary, Patricia Pettersen, and added that she was temporarily confined to a wheelchair as a result of a skiing accident. It must be said that Patricia had put considerable thought into the role. She had a clipboard, a thick notepad and five different-coloured pens in her lap, and dutifully took notes from the moment she was wheeled into 25 Krebs’ Street.

I asked the caretaker’s wife and Cecilia and Joachim Olesen to wait by the entrance and then wheeled Patricia into the lift and we went up to the first floor.

Patricia’s brief instruction on our way up was: ‘Just tell her that you know that she has lied and that she was given money by Harald Olesen, then ask if she has anything to add to her statement from the night of his murder. Now, this is important – always position my wheelchair just inside the door and you yourself stand or sit opposite the person you are talking to, if possible diagonally across from me,’ she added in a quiet voice, as the lift stopped.

I nodded and felt the tension percolating through my body. I suggested that Patricia should tap her pen on the pad twice when she wanted to move on to another flat. This time she nodded and immediately tapped her pad with her pen twice and smiled.

About thirty seconds later, we rang the doorbell of Flat 2A.

Sara Sundqvist was lightly made up and wearing a black dress that flattered rather than hid her bust. When she opened the door, she leaned over the threshold to give me a hug and said how happy she was to see me again. I wondered what Patricia was writing down at that moment and had to admit to myself that Sara’s demeanour was impressively relaxed if she was in constant fear of being revealed as a murderer. She was naturally rather taken aback when she saw Patricia, but immediately shook her hand when it was explained to her who Patricia was.

‘I have been to Sälen and spoken to the chief of police there, and apparently someone else has been there too . . .’ I started.

No more was needed for her front to fall and the tears to run. With a dramatic shrug, Sara Sundqvist threw open her hands and apologized for not telling me that she had been to Sälen. She was frightened that she would become a suspect if it was discovered that she knew about this episode from Harald Olesen’s past and had hoped that she would never be found out. She knew the story about Deerfoot and had tried, without success, to get Harald Olesen to tell her about him. She dearly wanted to meet Deerfoot if he was still alive, partly to thank him for having saved her life, and partly in the hope of finding out more about what happened to her parents. But Harald Olesen had dismissed the question and spoken in a way that might indicate that Deerfoot was dead. If Deerfoot was alive, she had no idea who he was or what he was called.

I then asked if she had blackmailed Harald Olesen and omitted to tell me. She admitted that she had been given money by him, but denied that she had blackmailed him. One day when she had knocked on his door to ask about her parents and Deerfoot, he had handed her a thick envelope, which, to her shock, contained fifty thousand-kroner notes. She had gone back with the envelope the following day, but he had asked her to keep the money and forget the whole thing. She put the money in the bank, but could not forget the whole thing. It had only served to strengthen her impression that Harald Olesen knew more about her parents’ fate than he was letting on.

When I asked if she would like to amend her statement from the night of the murder, she looked confused and stammered that she had nothing to add. She apologized over and over again for lying to me in pure desperation, but she knew nothing more about who had murdered Harald Olesen and had nothing to do with it herself. She had never asked for the 50,000 kroner, and the will had been a shock.