The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (10 page)

I thought to myself that the class war was still alive and kicking, at least in this basement flat in Torshov. And that the more I learned about the residents, the less relations on the stairs were what they seemed. The caretaker’s wife and her ‘absent’ husband could also be far more significant players than I had at first assumed.

The caretaker’s wife smiled sadly when I said that as a matter of procedure, I would have to see all the residents’ bank books, including hers. She got up heavily and pulled a worn red post-office savings book out from a drawer and handed it to me.

‘There is not much to brag about there for a lifetime’s savings, but it is more than I had when Anton was still at home,’ she said, with a tired, tight smile.

I had to agree with her after a quick check. According to her post-office savings book, the caretaker’s wife from the basement had forty-eight kroner in her account, and that really was not a lot to boast about for a hard-working life. All the same, she had managed to save what little she could over the past few months. Five months previously, her balance had been four kroner. Wherever the 250,000 kroner that had disappeared from Harald Olesen’s account in the past year had gone, it certainly was not concealed in this savings account.

I had thought of going up to the Lunds to ask a few questions and then on to Sara Sundqvist, but the caretaker’s wife had noted that Kristian Lund had driven to work around nine, after ringing his secretary and asking her to meet him there, even though it was Sunday. On his way out, he had commented that he was behind with the stocktake and needed some time to himself to think. After a hasty consultation with myself, I decided that Kristian Lund was the next person I should speak to. So I asked the caretaker’s wife to phone him at work. I told him in brief that I had to talk to him as soon as possible, and it would perhaps be just as easy if I came to see him at the sports shop. There was silence on the other end of the line before he took the hint and replied that that would be fine. I told him I would be there in about a quarter of an hour, and he assured me that his secretary would keep an eye out for me and open the door.

II

The sports shop where Kristian Lund was manager was airy and modern, with double doors and a large display window facing onto a well-frequented street. It crossed my mind that a position as manager here was no doubt well paid and a good springboard for furthering a career in business, but I did not have time to reflect on this. Kristian Lund’s secretary turned out to be a petite blonde of about twenty-five and appeared at the door within seconds. Her body was slim and firm, as was the hand that she held out when she told me brightly that her name was Elise Remmen and that ‘our darling shop manager’ was waiting for me in his office. I followed her shapely back through the shop and down a long corridor of office doors. Elise Remmen enthused that the sports business was on the offensive and that this chain was leading the competition, so several other shops had recently moved their administration here.

On this Sunday, however, it was only in the shop manager’s office that the light was on and the door was open.

Kristian Lund stood waiting with his hand held out over the desk. I struggled to recognize him at first. Secure in his own work environment and with the murder now a few days past, he suddenly gave the impression of being a well-built, relaxed and solid man I could trust. Had it not been for the fact that I had met him before – and had he not been caught in the act of lying.

Kristian Lund held his mask well while his irritatingly nice secretary was in the room. She asked whether I would like a coffee or a tea and smiled so invitingly that I almost said yes. Kristian Lund then informed his secretary in a loud, clear voice that this was simply a matter of routine questions in connection with the murder of his neighbour and asked her to close the door behind her and carry on with the stocktake. She chirped ‘of course’ and flew out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.

As soon as we were alone, Kristian Lund changed character. His eyes became sharper and his movements more tense. This reinforced my impression that he was quite the human chameleon, with a talent for changing his appearance according to the circumstances.

Neither of us wanted to start the conversation, so we each sat there contemplating the other for a couple of minutes. Kristian Lund fished out a cigarette and lit it. It was like a fencing duel in which neither of us wanted to make the first advance, though one of us would have to eventually.

‘So, how can I help you today?’ he asked, in the end.

I instantly took the opportunity to launch a frontal attack. ‘First of all, I would like to know why you lied about your mother when we last spoke.’

A twitch rippled across Kristian Lund’s face. Then he shook his head a couple of times.

‘Hmm, lied . . . Well, perhaps I didn’t tell you all that I should have done. I realized that afterwards, that I should have mentioned that she was a member of the NS and was sentenced for treason after the war. A good detective such as yourself would of course find that out. But I didn’t think that my mother’s views during the war had anything to do with the murder case, which seemed complicated enough as it was. And what is more, I am fed up with the fact that I, even after my mother’s death, have to answer for things she did in her youth. I have tried to separate my life from it, and that has not always been easy!’

Suddenly, there was a trace of the same bitterness in Kristian Lund’s voice that I had heard in Konrad Jensen’s.

‘I do not deny that my mother was once a Nazi, and that she worked for an inhumane regime whose ideology I deplore, but to me, she was never a Nazi; she was just my mother. And not many I know have a better or kinder mother, especially given all the problems she had after the war. We lived with my grandparents for three years before my mother got an underpaid job as a cleaner. I don’t know how many times I heard or saw people shout abuse at her on the street. And I, who was not even born in 1940, was eleven before I made a friend who was allowed to ask me home. Things did get better after that. Two friends came to my twelfth party, five to my thirteenth and nine to my fourteenth, but there was always a shadow that Mother could not shake off. When I was confirmed and my mother stood up alone in church, several of the parents booed.’

He shook his head in indignation – and continued to let off new steam and old hurt.

‘I swore that I would never allow myself to be broken, but instead would show everyone what I was made of. And I have succeeded. My success was Mother’s only triumph after the war. She was persecuted and struggled with various complexes for years. And when the worst of it was finally over, she got cancer, thanks no doubt to all the cigarettes: I grew up in a cloud of smoke.’

He looked at his cigarette with sudden disgust and stubbed it out aggressively in the ashtray on his desk.

‘I keep trying to stop, but it’s not that easy . . . You must excuse us if we seem a little nervous at the moment – it has been a difficult winter. Just as things were starting to settle after my mother’s funeral and the christening of our boy, this murder happens. Mother fought bravely to the end, but was unlucky. Her last wish was that she would live long enough to see and hold her first grandchild. She lived four weeks longer than the doctor said she would, but our baby was born too late – by only three days. It has been an extremely demanding and painful time.’

I found all this very interesting and wanted to deal with some more details about Kristian Lund’s situation, which was without doubt not easy.

‘Do your parents-in-law know about your mother’s history?’

Kristian’s laughter was as unexpected as it was short and bitter.

‘I dreaded telling them for a long time, but it was not a problem – and there was no reason for it to be. My father-in-law is worth over four million and earned at least three- quarters of that trading with the occupying forces during the war. His companies broke all records in terms of turnover and profit. But do you think he was sentenced or abused by anyone after the war? Oh no, no one dared to reproach a factory owner from Bærum. A single mother from Drammen, on the other hand, was fair game for anyone. It is a shameful story. But I still do not see what my mother’s sad fate has to do with the murder of my neighbour.’

I nodded, trying to be sympathetic.

‘Nor do I, really. But I would like to know more about your father, if only to ensure that it has nothing to do with the case.’

He laughed again and shook his head firmly.

‘That won’t be easy. Apparently no one other than my mother knows my father’s name, and she is dead. That was the only bone of contention I had with my mother. I understood from a comment she once made that it was someone that she had had a relationship with for some time, and that it could not have been anyone else, but she never told me his name. I nagged and nagged her when I was a teenager. When things were at their worst, I refused to talk to her for a month because she would not tell me. But Mother was stubborn. The only answer she gave was that he had betrayed her and had never cared about me, so it would only make things worse if I knew who he was. Then, when I was around eighteen or nineteen, I said that I agreed with her and seldom asked after that. I tried to convince myself that if that was how he had behaved, he was not the father I would want anyway. But it remained a big question in my life, particularly when I went to business school and was the only one in the class who could not ask his father for money.’

This was becoming more and more interesting. The question of Kristian Lund’s father was yet another little mystery that I wanted to clear up.

‘And you have no idea either?’

He shook his head.

‘I spent a lot of time thinking about it in my youth. Physically, I am fair like my mother and look very like her, so there was not much to be had there. But one of my science teachers once remarked that with a smart brain like mine, I must have an exceptionally intelligent father. I lived on that compliment for a long time, and it was true. My mother was attractive when she was young, and always kind, but she was not particularly intelligent. She helped me with my homework when I was small, but was not of much help once I had finished primary school. Whereas I was top of my class in practically every subject, certainly in middle school. So it is highly likely that my father was – or is – an intelligent man. But otherwise, I have no idea. I was conceived sometime around May or June 1940, so that leaves a number of options. It could have been a German soldier, a Norwegian Nazi-sympathizer or some other Norwegian. My mother and grandparents spoke very little about that time later, so I do not have much to go on. Nowadays I try to think about it as little as possible. And I hope it is of no relevance to the murder case.’

I nodded.

‘We both hope so. But we also have to talk about a certain young woman who lives – and was at home – in the building in which the murder took place, and whom you definitely lied about when we first spoke together.’

The reaction was instant. There was a flash in Kristian

Lund’s eyes. With a slightly shaky hand he lit a new cigarette and took a couple of puffs before he answered.

‘I know what you are talking about. Was it the caretaker’s wife or Sara herself who told you?’

I shook my head.

‘Neither of them. I drew my own conclusions based on the information I had, and probability.’

He nodded with approval.

‘Impressive of you and reassuring for me. I am beginning to believe that you will indeed find the murderer. But that has nothing to do with the murder either. It is, of course, information that may be of some importance in terms of alibis and the like, and I apologize for lying, but I have got myself into rather a sticky situation. My wife does not need to know anything about this, does she?’

I agreed, but added quickly: ‘On the condition that it is of no relevance to the murder. And that you now give me a better account, which is more honest than the last one!’

He nodded vehemently. It appeared that Kristian Lund had no problems talking about deeply personal things. My impression that he was somewhat egocentric but also an intelligent and socially gifted person was reinforced.

‘I realize that the fact that I am having an extramarital affair with a woman who lives next door does not inspire confidence. Especially as I have such an attractive, good wife and a sweet little boy. I am afraid the explanation may take some time.’

I indicated that I was in no rush. Kristian Lund’s life was something that interested me more and more. He nodded gratefully, leaned back in his chair and thought for a few moments before starting.

‘It started sometime last year with a rather generous dose of good old-fashioned desire.’

He sat in silence for a moment. Then his face tightened before he carried on in a self-pitying vein once again.

‘But in fact it all goes back to my mother and my childhood. For many years I was the boy who none of the girls wanted to touch or admit that she liked. By the time I turned seventeen, I had still not kissed a girl. One experience in particular left its mark, even though it was completely innocent. When I was fourteen, we went on a school trip and all the boys in the class got a goodnight hug from one of the girls. Except me. “There are limits. Even for hugs,” she said with a cold, sarcastic smile. Everyone laughed. I cried all night and swore that one day I would be a success. Then when I was eighteen, everything suddenly changed. I played in a band and was the star of the football team. I had accumulated such a vast lack of intimacy that I exploited my advantage for all it was worth. The girl who refused to give me a hug when we were fourteen was one of several who then lay moaning under me when she was nineteen.’

He broke into a smile. It was obvious that this episode was one of the better memories from his youth.

‘I am certain there was an underlying need for self-vindication and revenge on my part, but also physical desire. I was an active young man with a strong libido. Young women soon excited me more than football matches. But then I got older and wiser, and my hormones settled. The atmosphere at business school was more mature and serious, and after I met Karen, I never touched anyone else. Until . . .’