The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (15 page)

I replied truthfully that no trace of any such diary had been found in the flat. We now lacked not only the weapon with which the murder was carried out, but also a diary that might contain the solution to the murder mystery.

I asked Bjørn Erik Svendsen to leave the diaries with me and to wait by the reception. Reminding him that this was a murder investigation, I explained that he would have to wait there while I read the diaries. He expressed his full understanding and added that the murder mystery was of course of great relevance to his book, then left the room without further ado.

I believed the biographer when he said that the entry was the only thing of any interest in the two diaries and put them down on the desk in front of me. After twenty increasingly frustrating minutes of attempting to use my own grey cells, I reluctantly gave in and grabbed the phone. While I waited for an answer, I amused myself by wondering what Bjørn Erik Svendsen would have said if he knew that I was calling a direct line to the White House.

II

Patricia listened with silent concentration to my ten-minute briefing on the new information from Bjørn Erik Svendsen. She acknowledged the news of the mysterious diary entry and missing diary with a tut.

‘So, what would you advise me to do now?’ I asked.

This was followed by a tense ten-second silence and then a very short and clear recommendation.

‘I advise you to take Bjørn Erik Svendsen with you to Harald Olesen’s flat in 25 Krebs’ Street as soon as possible.’

This was fortunately followed up swiftly with some further instructions. It was not immediately obvious to me why I had to take Bjørn Erik Svendsen to 25 Krebs’ Street.

‘The diary may prove to be a vital source. There are two possibilities here. Either the murderer knew about the third book and has taken it or destroyed it there in the flat, which is perfectly plausible. Getting hold of the diary may in fact have been the motive for murdering Harald Olesen in the first place, if the murderer knew about the diary and that it contained something important. But Harald Olesen was obviously very concerned that the diary should not fall into the wrong hands, so it is also perfectly possible, and highly likely, that the murderer never even saw the diary, that he or she did not know of its existence and therefore did not look for it. In which case, the diary is still where Harald Olesen hid it in the flat.’

I made a feeble protest on behalf of the police.

‘Please do not completely underestimate us! We have searched the flat and would of course have acted immediately had we found a handwritten diary.’

Patricia had a ready answer.

‘Of course, I have absolute confidence in the police. But firstly, you had no idea that there was a diary to look for, and secondly, a diary is relatively easy to hide. Again there are two possibilities: Harald Olesen may have hidden it in a secret compartment in his bedside table or wardrobe or suchlike—’

I interrupted her with an indignant protest.

‘I would like to see such a compartment: we have knocked on and measured every wall in every room!’

Patricia still did not seem entirely convinced, but changed tack.

‘In that case, the question is whether you checked the best hiding place for a diary.’

She on purpose said no more, thereby forcing me to ask.

‘And where do you think is the best place to hide a diary?’

Her answer was followed by delighted laugher.

‘Why, in the bookshelf, of course. I should imagine that you made a list of all the book titles, but did any of you check that none of them contained a diary?’

I had to admit to myself that we had done neither, but I did not say a word, just made a mental note that we should look through the bookcases and the rest of the flat again, given the news of the missing diary. We agreed in all haste that this was what I should do and then go to see her at around seven. I spontaneously said ‘yes, please’ to a light supper. She asked me to take the diaries with me and any other papers that might be relevant, and to go and see the caretaker in hospital on the way. She then assured me that it would not be a problem if I was late: she had no plans to go anywhere today. I could still hear her slightly smug laughter ringing in my ears as I gathered up my papers and the diaries and headed for the door.

III

Bjørn Erik Svendsen was more than happy to be driven in a police car to Harald Olesen’s flat, but repeated several times en route that he had no idea where the diary was hidden. We were quickly able to confirm that there was no sign of it on the desk or any other table. The idea that it might be hidden among the books appealed to Svendsen. He asked whether there was a compulsory methodology course for aspiring policemen. I replied that policemen were also allowed to think creatively. He nodded enthusiastically and immediately got started on the right-hand section of Harald Olesen’s bookshelves. I myself started on the left.

I must admit that my enthusiasm for Patricia’s theory gradually waned as I ploughed my way through the first hundred books. I counted routinely, so that, if nothing else, I could later impress my colleagues with details of my thorough work. I was just about to put back book number 246 when an excited yelp from Bjørn Erik Svendsen broke the silence in the flat. With shaking hands, he lifted from the floor a notebook of the same type as the two previous ones. It had fallen out from the generous covers of Volume 2 of The Great War. He held it out to me, triumphant. The dates ‘1967–8’ glared at me from the front cover, even though they were written in lead pencil in an old man’s hand.

I confiscated the book on the spot and refused to let the history student read over my shoulder. He initially objected that it might contain important historical source material that would be of significance for the biography, but soon accepted the situation when I assured him that he would of course be given access to the diary as soon as the murder investigation had been closed. I swiftly added that any knowledge of the diary’s contents could in fact be dangerous. He promptly agreed to leave the room and wait in the kitchen in case I had any questions for him once I had read it.

The start of the diary year 1967 was relatively uneventful for Harald Olesen. January and February passed with nothing more than short, undramatic entries with full names. However, the entry for 20 March 1967 was short and mysterious, which could bode ill given the one from the year before:
N has made contact. Told that S was dead and had confessed in the end. N was angry and demanded money.

The remainder of March and April comprised only short factual entries about anniversary dinners and letters received from old acquaintances. In March, he had written some brief comments regarding the news that Stalin’s daughter had gone into exile in the USA, and in April, he recorded the deaths of the writer Johan Falkberget and the former German chancellor Konrad Adenauer. But on 2 May, N suddenly appeared once more:
N has contacted me again. Demanded money and threatened to tell.

The problem with N appeared to settle again later in May. Harald Olesen expressed his concern about the situation in Greece following the military coup and uncertainty as to how Norway should respond. N was not mentioned at all again for the rest of May. Instead, a new mystery letter cropped up on 15 May:
D came to visit – actually came into my flat today. Once inside the door, D’s face changed completely. Was glad to still be alive when he left. Know only too well what D is capable of. A bad night – got up twice to check that the safety chain was on.

June and July passed with only short entries about people he knew, a couple of longer passages about the Six-Day War in the Middle East and the riots in the USA. Harald Olesen spent a considerable amount of time keeping himself informed of what was going on in the world, via the newspapers, radio and television. But his personal problems returned with a vengeance in the autumn. In August, there were suddenly two short entries, separated only by a note on the USA’s increasing military involvement in Vietnam.

12 August: N still hounding me for money. Where will this end?

27 August: Another aggressive conversation with D. My illness is getting worse and therefore also my dilemma. I want to speak out, but D rejects this point blank – and is now threatening me.

It was clear that Harald Olesen’s situation was deteriorating rapidly, and also his health. Through September there were more and more brief entries about pain and appointments with the doctor. The local elections at the end of the month were dealt with in only a few lines. And two new letters appeared, only a few days apart.

21 September: O, whom I have not seen for over 20 years, contacted me. O was extremely concerned that our activities and those of others from back then remained secret forever. I agreed and said that I would sort out the papers.

29 September: J has also contacted me now. Arouses sympathy. Impossible to sleep afterwards. Great dilemma.

Olesen appeared more or less to lose his appetite for world affairs in October and November. The much-discussed deaths of Che Guevara and the last emperor of China were given no more than a line each, as were that autumn’s Vietnam demonstrations in Oslo. Instead, there were a growing number of entries about health problems. These culminated dramatically in the middle of Advent.

12 December: Dramatic conclusion following another examination by the doctor. The end is only months away. The thought of death is light as a feather, whereas the greatest decision of my life weighs on me like lead.

This stood as the final gripping entry for 1967. The entries for 1968 were few and far between, and they were exclusively in connection with Harald Olesen’s personal problems.

18 January: Bad day. Stayed in bed with pains all morning. N wants even more money, in my will too, now. Powerful emotions after a conversation with J yesterday. And the menacing figure of D looms constantly in the background . . .

22 January: O got in touch, was worried about my health. I promised to take all our secrets with me to the grave. Evil shall with evil be expelled! O looked through the papers and then we burned them in the stove. We did not talk about personal differences, but O seemed remarkably relaxed about it all.

28 January: Intense physical pain, but the psychological pain is worse. Cannot see a solution. Massive doubts regarding the issue of the will.

14 February: Frightful conversation with D, who suddenly went into a rage, as he often does. D does not want money, but wants eternal silence – and the old hate for me is growing ever stronger. No person on earth frightens me more than D. May the Lord I have never believed in soon open His gates and grant my soul mercy!

19 February: Short conversation with O, who thanked me for what I have done and promised not to bother me again. But can I believe that?

1 March: J desperate and impatient, threatening to go to the press. Cannot bear to think what D might do then – either to me or J. Managed to persuade J to delay, but the ground is burning beneath my feet, and the pain is searing my wretched old body.

12 March: Still alive, if only just. J vacillates between tears and rage, could break and do something rash. D did not get angry during our last conversation, but rather was threatening and ominously calm, as only D can be . . . N constantly pestering for money. I fear D more than I despise N. Tussle with hugely mixed feelings regarding J. N and J may possibly know about one another now. Only hope that neither of them knows about D, and that D does not know about them. Or else all hell might break loose in Torshov!

20 March: Changed the will under considerable duress. A debt must always be paid, after all, no matter how loathsome the creditor.

25 March: After several sleepless nights on the edge of my grave, I have changed my will again. Everything shall be sacrificed on the altar of my greatest sin!

30 March: Pressure increasing from all quarters. Could bump into J, D and N at any moment. All three are threatening and erratic. The evil spirits from my past are crowding me into my grave. Will let the will stand as it is and hope that it will bring happiness to the one I have failed the most. In desperation, have called a final meeting on Thursday evening, despite the obvious risks.

With this entry, the diary stopped abruptly. All the remaining pages were blank.

Harald Olesen was shot during a meeting in his home on the evening of 4 April, which was the first Thursday after 30 March. But I did not know if he had arranged this meeting with D, J, N or O, or who any of them were. None of the initials D, J, N or O fitted the names of anyone in the building. Unless ‘J’ quite simply stood for ‘Jensen’.

I went into Bjørn Erik Svendsen and asked if he had ever heard Harald Olesen mention the initials D, J, N or O, or come across them in any other context. He shook his head without any hesitation. In pure desperation, I read a couple of the entries out loud to him, but this did not help to reveal the identity of the people in question. However, the colour did still drain from Bjørn Erik Svendsen’s face and he told me that in all his conversations with Harald Olesen, he had never heard mention of the words ‘fear’ and ‘terror’. It was therefore a shock to hear just how scared the old Resistance hero had been in the last months of his life.

I ordered Bjørn Erik Svendsen not to say a word about the existence of the diary, something he swore to. I then asked him to remain in town and to contact me immediately should he remember anything that might be of importance regarding the identity of D, J, N or O – or the investigation in general. He assured me that he would, and asked me twice not to mention that he knew about the diary.