The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (14 page)

When I asked about documentation regarding his injuries, he pointed without hesitation to a drawer that should contain some newspaper clippings about the accident. Which it did. Several national papers carried notices about the accident involving Ivar Storskog, and he was later interviewed by one of them about his handicap. ‘If you disregard the almost illegible doctor’s signature, there should be a doctor’s certificate at the bottom of that pile of papers,’ he said. Which also proved to be true. I apologized that I had to ask, and he assured me that he understood perfectly well, ‘given the grisly nature of the case’.

Probing questions about his finances and handicap seemed to make no dent in Andreas Gullestad’s unrelenting good humour and friendliness. However, all this drained from his face as soon as I asked about the cause of his father’s death.

‘I hope you understand that it is still a very painful subject for me and I would rather not go into great detail,’ he said, with some reservation.

We sipped our tea in silence; then he leaned forward towards the table and carried on.

‘My father was, as you perhaps know, a very rich man and a respected pillar of the community, well known beyond the boundaries of his parish. I was his only son and the apple of his eye. No one has had a better father, and he was my greatest idol throughout my childhood. The 1930s were hard, even in Oppland, but I never saw anyone leave my father’s farm empty-handed, whether they needed charity or not. In retrospect, I remember those childhood years as the happiest period of my life.’

He suddenly lowered his eyes to the table, and his lips tightened for a moment before he continued.

‘Then one day when I was twelve years old, the war broke out. My father fought for the king and government in April 1940 and immediately took a leading position in the Resistance movement in the district, following the occupation. On 12 January 1941, my thirteenth birthday, of all days, five German soldiers came to arrest him. It was a terrible shock for us all, but perhaps worst for me, the youngest, having admired my father more than anything in the world. This may sound strange, but what I remember most about it all was a young German soldier. He was no more than five or six years older than me and did not seem to like the situation any more than I did. He whispered to me that hopefully everything would get sorted and I would have my father back home again soon. But that is not what happened. I saw my beloved father for the last time that day, being escorted away by soldiers. He was shot a week later. I lost my childhood innocence and much of my belief in humanity the day the Germans shot my father.’

Andreas Gullestad paused and sat lost in his own thoughts. Then he picked up the thread again.

‘Losing my father during the war should perhaps be less of a tragedy for me than for many others. After all, he left us money, a forest and land, so we did not suffer any hardship, and the local people were touchingly supportive and sympathetic. It did not take many months after liberation in 1945 before I unveiled a statue in memory of my father. But believe me, it is not always easy to grow up as the son of a statue. It seems that I never quite got over the shock. My father was such a great man, so reliable and robust – I don’t think I had ever imagined I would lose him. I managed well in school and my final exams, but then later I could never decide what I wanted to do. I lived in my own world and tried to work out which direction my father would have wanted me to take. And then there was my mother’s sorrow, illness and death. Now I can blame everything on the traffic accident, but the sad truth is that my life had already been on hold for a long time. I have been back as little as possible since then. I know only too well that the people there had expected better things of Hans Storskog’s only son.’

He finished his cup of tea.

‘So perhaps you can understand why I felt it was appropriate to change my name after the accident and why I would rather not talk too much about my father and the war. People are so different. Some think it is easier to talk about things, but I have come to the conclusion that it simply makes things worse.’

As I left his flat, I realized that Patricia’s concept of the human fly was a perfect description of Andreas Gullestad. The old psychological wound inflicted by his father’s death seemed to cause him more pain than the physical injury from the traffic accident. But neither of these had any direct relevance to my murder case – not for the moment, as it turned out.

VII

On Sunday, 7 April 1968, my working day drew to a close when I telephoned Patricia from my office around seven o’clock to give her a brief account of the day’s findings. This proved to be more complicated than expected. Patricia showed great interest in various details, particularly when we broached the topic of the relationship between Kristian Lund and Sara Sundqvist. The call soon extended to half an hour. However, we then agreed that there was not much more that could be done on a Sunday evening. Our conclusion for the time being was quite simply that the case was increasingly complex and the number of potential murderers was rising. Konrad Jensen’s position as main suspect was now facing stiff competition from not only Kristian Lund, but also Sara Sundqvist and Darrell Williams. The caretaker’s wife had thus far proved to be a liar and to have accepted bribes and was burdened by experiences from the Second World War, as was Andreas Gullestad.

Patricia finished by saying that, given the current stakes, it might be a good idea for me to keep her informed should any new information crop up that I was uncertain about. I said that she was right, and then drove home deep in thought. And so ended the fourth day of the investigation.

DAY FIVE

A Diary and Its Secrets

I

My day started at half past eight on Monday, 8 April 1968 with a phone call to Oslo’s main hospital. They recommended that I come as soon as possible if there was anything of importance to discuss with Anton Hansen. I thanked them and asked them to let him know that I would come by in the course of the day.

The history student Bjørn Erik Svendsen was at the top of my list for the day. I did not need to wait long. At twenty-five to nine, he was standing in front of me, out of breath, and apologized profusely that he had not got there sooner, thanks to a late bus. I realized it was Bjørn Erik Svendsen the history student as soon as he appeared in the doorway. His slim body, the spectacles on a chain round his neck and obligatory rucksack, as well as the Beatles hairdo and anti-war in Vietnam and pro-Socialist People’s Party badges could almost be one of the identikit drawings of ‘wanted’ students that I and a couple of younger colleagues made to entertain ourselves in lunch breaks. His handshake was firm, and his friendly voice picked up pace as soon as Harald Olesen’s name was mentioned.

The story of Bjørn Erik Svendsen’s acquaintance with Harald Olesen was simple and credible. Three years previously, he had started work on a thesis about the relationship between the Resistance movement and the communists, and after working on it for a year, he had tried to contact a handful of central figures from the Home Front. This had not been an entirely positive experience: Jesper Christopher Haraldsen and several other leaders had been rather arrogant and dismissed him, whereas Harald Olesen had immediately agreed to meet him, and despite differences in age and politics, the two had hit it off. Svendsen explained their friendship with the fact that Olesen had a considerable intellectual capacity. He swiftly added that it may also have been because Olesen had no children himself, and as a widower, his days were long and lonely. The thesis was redefined with a much clearer focus on Harald Olesen’s role. Olesen had himself read the first draft with great interest and had immediately agreed when Bjørn Erik Svendsen had suggested writing a biography about him. His thesis had now been with the examination board for assessment for four months, but Svendsen was so inspired at this point that he had already started to write the manuscript for the book project.

When I asked for a short presentation of Harald Olesen’s activities during the war, Svendsen immediately launched into a mini lecture. Olesen’s involvement in the war was interesting not least because his cover had never been blown, despite his considerable and complex involvement. He had for a period been one of the leaders of the Home Front, and had organized sabotage operations as well as civil-disobedience campaigns, and had himself smuggled refugees over the border. However, the greatest revelation in the manuscript was something that had happened in the final months of the war and the years immediately after. In close cooperation with American agents in Norway, Olesen had gathered information about the Norwegian communists that had later been leaked from the CIA archives. Consequently, Olesen was not only conspicuous in his role as a hero from the Resistance, but also for his role in the government’s cooperation with the USA after the war.

Svendsen firmly believed that his life story would generate great interest, even before his sensational murder. His knowledge of the murder case was limited, so he had as yet not formed any ‘theories as to the cause’, but based on his own findings, he could suggest several possibilities. Both paranoid American intelligence agencies and old Nazis seeking revenge had possible motives. When asked, he agreed that the same would be true of old communists, although he personally felt that an attack from those quarters was far less likely. He also thought Olesen’s political career was not likely to give grounds for murder. As a cabinet minister and in his other roles, he had been well respected by people both in and out of the party. He had never caused a stir in any of the major political debates during his time as cabinet minister, and indeed had ended his political career without any great conflict. The war had been his greatest and most dramatic success. He admitted himself that he had never been a shining star as a cabinet minister. Olesen had said that he had eventually asked for the prime minister’s permission to resign, in the knowledge that he would otherwise soon be pushed aside.

Inspired by his theories regarding American intelligence and old Nazis, I read the names of the other residents out to Bjørn Erik Svendsen and asked him whether he knew any of them from another context. He replied that he had already noted the names during one of his visits to Harald Olesen, but had never seen any of them anywhere else. He thought it was an ‘incredible coincidence’ that an American diplomat lived next door, but did not recognize his name from his source material. Nor had he ever heard Olesen say anything in particular about his neighbours. Svendsen had himself spoken only briefly to the caretaker and his wife in connection with some questions about Olesen’s activities during the war. The caretaker was very obviously an alcoholic and not in a good way, but had answered the questions with impressive clarity. The caretaker’s wife had found the situation awkward and had left the room shaking her head when her husband started to sniffle.

Svendsen had little to tell about Harald Olesen as a private person. Olesen had been devoted to his wife and had on several occasions mentioned that one of his greatest sorrows in life was that they had not been able to have children. His relationship with his siblings had been close, whereas his relationship with his niece and nephew seemed to be increasingly sporadic and strained. Olesen had once sighed when he spoke of them and said that, given his long career, surely he must deserve better-qualified heirs. However, he made no mention of this again, and Svendsen was not aware of any potential dramas in connection with the will.

The greatest surprise in the course of the conversation was when Svendsen me told that Harald Olesen had kept a regular diary in his later years. When asked where these diaries were now, he immediately produced two spiral-bound notebooks from his rucksack, marked ‘1963–4’ and ‘1965–6’, which he had borrowed in order to work on the biography. He added, apologetically, that there was not much to be gleaned from them regarding the murder. Harald Olesen had not taken any great chances in lending out his diaries from those years. His entries consisted of concise factual information about his everyday life. He wrote in a tidy hand about letters and telephone calls from old friends and acquaintances, and had made short notes about current affairs. His niece and nephew were mentioned in only a couple of places, and the neighbours barely at all.

Svendsen had read through the diaries again following the murder, but had found only one thing that might possibly be of relevance. Under the date ‘17 November 1966’, there was a brief note that was conspicuous in part due to the fact that Olesen did not write the full names of the people concerned, and in part due to the dramatic nature of the content:
Unexpectedly bumped into S, accompanied by the ghastly N. S is ill and a shadow of what I remember from all those years ago, but still aroused strong memories. A very unsettling encounter.

I read the short entry four times and the feeling that this may be of great significance became more pronounced each time. Without any further indications of the time and circumstances of this meeting with S, it was difficult to know who it was and what this was about. Neither S nor N were mentioned anywhere else in the diaries, I heard Bjørn Erik Svendsen say. He immediately added that it would be interesting to see whether S or N was mentioned again in the most recent diary, which covered 1967 to 1968.

I was staring at the three mysterious sentences from 17 November 1966 and must have looked either very threatening or completely baffled when the significance of this new piece of information finally sank in. Bjørn Erik Svendsen certainly hurried to say that he should perhaps have mentioned it straightaway, but he had assumed it had been found when the flat was searched. He had on several occasions when he was visiting seen Harald Olesen leafing through a new diary marked ‘1967–8’, which he had refused to give to him along with the others. By way of explanation, he had said that he was still writing in the diary, and he needed to think hard about whether to divulge some of the information. Svendsen had seen the diary lying on the sitting-room table during one of his visits. When the diary was out, Olesen always kept an eye on it, but Svendsen had absolutely no idea where it was kept.