The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (17 page)

Then quite suddenly his strength left him. Anton Hansen lay listless on his bed for several minutes, gasping for air. I patted him gently on the shoulder, thanked him so much for his help and told him to rest. He nodded with the ghost of a smile on his lips. But just as I was leaving, he mustered his strength and waved for me to come back.

‘If you see my wife, then tell her that it is perhaps just as well if she doesn’t come here again, but do say . . .’

His voice faded out, but carried on in a whisper after a pause.

‘Say that I still love her very much and am very sorry for everything that has happened after the war. Please can you tell her that?’

I nodded, despite a niggling doubt that I would ever have the heart to fulfil my promise. Then I mumbled a farewell and said thank you again. I was at a loss as to what more to say and suddenly had a strong desire to leave the hospital before I was accused of causing the death of Anton Hansen the caretaker.

I caught a final glimpse of the caretaker from the doorway as I left. He had already fallen asleep. I dutifully stopped a passing nurse and asked her to see to him. Then I walked through the long corridors to the exit with the feeling that I had just seen a dying human fly and it was an incredibly sad sight. It also occurred to me that in the end human flies are human beings as well.

The caretaker’s good memory, which had plagued him so, had given me plenty to think about. In addition to the familiar faces of the other residents, I now also had to look for a refugee family that had disappeared and a faceless ghost from the war. There were – as Patricia had already intimated yesterday – an increasing number of threads that needed to be tied up that all led back to the dark days of the war.

V

The clock in reception showed half past four by the time I left the hospital. There were still two and half hours to go before my dinner appointment with Patricia. I was unsure for a few minutes as to what I should do: should I go back to the station or go and talk to the deceased Harald Olesen’s neighbours? I decided on the latter in the end. I wanted to know whether the caretaker’s wife had anything to add to her husband’s story from the war. What is more, a rather alluring idea was staring to form in my mind. The fact that I should not mention the discovery of the diary to any of the residents was absolutely clear. But in the course of my journey, I changed my mind at least eight times as to whether or not I should confront the neighbours with the name Deerfoot and the initials D, J, N and O.

The caretaker’s wife was at her post when I arrived. She could confirm her husband’s story from the war, but had nothing of importance to add. She remembered well the young refugee from the war who had returned ten years later with gifts and thanks. It was also one of the highlights of her post-war years. She had never seen the other refugees again, and her memory of them was more hazy. Nevertheless, she could confirm that a young couple with a baby had been hidden there for a few days, and that Harald Olesen had collected them the night before the Gestapo showed up at the door. She thought she had heard her husband mention the name Deerfoot, but could not remember Olesen talking about him.

The caretaker’s wife hesitated when I thanked her. Then from her pocket she produced a folded sheet with something akin to awe.

‘A telegram boy came here today. It has happened before – it’s not that. Harald Olesen received a great number of telegrams when he was in the government. But this one was for me!’

She held it out to me with a trembling hand. The text was short:

TO MRS RANDI HANSEN 25 KREBS STREET OSLO IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE WISHES OF THE DECEASED HARALD OLESEN YOU ARE ADVISED TO BE PRESENT AT OUR MEETING ROOM IN 28B IDUN STREET ON WEDNESDAY 10 APRIL AT 12 NOON STOP THIS IN CONNECTION WITH THE READING OF MR OLESENS WILL STOP RØNNINNG, RØNNING & RØNNING LAW FIRM

I nodded with interest and asked if the other residents had also received such a telegram today. To which she nodded, slowly.

‘Yes, yes – they all received one. The American was out, so the telegram boy went on to the embassy. Konrad Jensen did not want to open the door until he heard my voice, so I had to go up with the boy. I am sure it means nothing special, except that it’s the first time anyone has sent me a telegram. But still, I thought . . .’

The caretaker’s wife suddenly blushed like a schoolgirl and averted her gaze. A minute passed before she smiled apologetically and continued.

‘Well, we all have our little dreams . . . Harald Olesen was such a kind man, you see, who always remembered to give us Christmas presents and the like. And my husband did help him during the war, after all, and I have done his cleaning for him for many years. So I thought that maybe there was a slight chance that he had left us a small amount in his will.’

I said nothing. This obviously made her nervous, so she hurried on.

‘Yes, I know – it’s terrible to think like that, but it’s so easy to drift off into daydreams when you’ve had as little as I have for so long. If it was three hundred or five hundred kroner, that would be a small fortune to me . . . Two thousand would be enough to keep me in coffee and Christmas and birthday presents for my children and grandchildren until I turn seventy and get a pension. I would be eternally grateful to Harald Olesen. It would never be that much, of course. But he was kind and rich, so maybe I can hope for a couple of hundred. I have started to pack my belongings, as I will have to move out as soon as Anton dies, and then I will stay with one of my daughters; they will have to keep me out of charity for a few months each. It’s always nice to see the children and grandchildren, but it will be awful to sit there and not have the money to buy anything for them.’

She looked down and then up again.

‘Forgive me, but I just had to tell someone,’ she said very quietly.

I was more than happy to forgive; then I thanked her and left. I could not bring myself to say anything that might give her false hope. However, I had to admit that the telegrams in no way diminished my confusion regarding the case – or my curiosity regarding the will.

The telegrams were decisive with regard to my decision to test out the name Deerfoot on all the neighbours. Everyone was at home at this time in the afternoon, but the findings were meagre pickings all the same.

Darrell Williams was once again in a benevolent and diplomatic mood. He roared with laughter and commented that it was a very creative code name, but that he had no idea as to who or what was behind it. He associated the name Deerfoot with some Red Indian books (were they not written by James Fenimore Cooper?) that he had read at some point in the 1930s. He had, to his surprise, also received a telegram advising him to be present for the reading of the will. He could not understand why, but it was less mysterious now that he knew that everyone in the building had received one. He would of course go, out of curiosity and politeness.

Kristian and Karen Lund were eating supper when I knocked on the door, and their son was sitting in a highchair at the end of the table. The perfect family. They confirmed that they had received a telegram and were also terribly curious as to why. She was just as phlegmatic as she had been the last time, and he was far calmer. I hoped that it meant he was not hiding any more from me, but did not presume to take that for granted. They were taken aback by the name, but did not recognize it.

Sara Sundqvist hesitantly opened the door a crack with the safety chain to begin with, but then lit up when she saw that it was me. She had also received a telegram and was not sure whether to attend or not, but promised that she would when I told her that the others were probably going. I jokingly added that I would be there myself, so she would be perfectly safe. She immediately gave me a charming smile and leaned forward in her chair. I understood why Kristian Lund was so attracted to her and caught myself wondering whether perhaps she should concentrate more on the theatre.

Sara Sundqvist gave a start when I mentioned Deerfoot, but quickly regained her composure and said that she did not associate anything with the name. In her softest voice, she asked where the mysterious name came from, and nodded with understanding when I said that I could not reveal that at present. I thought it a suitable moment to take my leave.

Konrad Jensen opened the door as cautiously as before, but seemed to be slightly calmer. He had come to terms with the loss of his car, but the future still looked bleak without it. When the telegram boy had showed up at the door, he had thought that it was someone trying to deceive him, but had opened the door when the caretaker’s wife came and told him that she had received a similar telegram. He still did not see the point of it all. The very idea that Harald Olesen would leave something to him was ridiculous, and why the old Resistance hero wanted him to be there was a mystery. The whole thing might be a plot to lure him out onto the open street. He had no plans of going, and in fact had no plans of going out at all.

The name Deerfoot spawned a new sceptical sneer, but nothing more. Konrad Jensen thought he had heard the name in a story or a book when he was young, but it could equally have been a film. He was not aware of any association with Harald Olesen or the building. I gave him a clue and mentioned the war, but he continued to shake his head uncomprehendingly. With a hint of optimism, I also intimated that we had found some new clues and hoped that the case would soon be solved. He smiled gingerly at this and wished me luck before hastily closing and locking the door.

Andreas Gullestad nodded with recognition as soon as he heard the name Deerfoot, even though he quite ‘decidedly’ remembered that the books were written by Ellis and not by Cooper. But he had no further association with the name, either from the war or after. He had also received a telegram and equally could not understand why, but would of course be there if that was what the deceased wanted. The caretaker’s wife had already promised to help him with the wheelchair, and had explained to him that she and the other neighbours had also been notified of the reading of the will.

The contrast between Konrad Jensen pacing nervously around in the neighbouring flat and Andreas Gullestad, who sat here completely relaxed in his wheelchair, was striking. However, he had little of any interest to tell. At ten to seven, I extracted myself from the flat, muttering something about an ‘important meeting’. Which was a small white lie. I reluctantly had to acknowledge that the many meetings I had had that day had provided plenty of new information, but very few conclusions as to the way forward.

As I walked down the street, I looked back at 25 Krebs’ Street. I felt a warm rush in my chest. The reward was just as I would have wished, had I had the choice. Harald Olesen’s windows were of course dark and empty, as were Darrell Williams’s. Konrad Jensen had the light on, but the curtains were firmly closed. Mrs Lund was to be seen moving around in the Lunds’ flat with the baby in her arms. Andreas Gullestad’s window was lit but empty. But in the sixth window stood the tall and beautiful silhouette of a woman, unmoving. However it was to be interpreted, Sara Sundqvist was watching me with increasing interest.

VI

Patricia’s large desk was set for two when I was ushered in by the maid, five minutes late. Not unexpectedly, a ‘light supper’ proved to be a rather sophisticated affair in the Borchmann household. The first course – a beautifully prepared asparagus soup – was already on the table when I arrived. I complimented Benedikte on the soup and Patricia of course had to correct me straightaway.

‘First of all, the maids do not make the food in this house. The cook has to do something to earn her salary. And second, that is not Benedikte.’

I looked at the maid, bewildered, as she was in every way identical to the girl I had met on my previous visits. The maid smiled timidly at my confusion, until Patricia’s voice rang out once more.

‘That is her twin sister; this one is called Beate. They each work for two days at a time and then have two days off. It is a practical arrangement, as I can basically have the same maid with more or less the same good and bad habits all the time, and they have a manageable working week. That way, both girls also have time to enjoy the company of some relatively intelligent and not-too-bad-looking young men.’

Beate’s mouth held a brave smile, which understandably did not reach her eyes. I refrained from saying anything, but my thoughts were so loud that I was afraid she might hear; the way in which Patricia used her intellectual capacity was not always entirely engaging.

Once the mystery of the maids had been cleared up, we proceeded to eat slowly. I told Patricia in detail about the lives of Bjørn Erik Svendsen and the caretaker, as well as about the discovery of the diary and its contents. This time she was an impatient listener and constantly interrupted me with astute, detailed questions.

After the soup, Patricia cheerfully refused to let the main course be served until she had seen the diary. This did not involve any great delay. Patricia truly devoured the pages with her eyes and was done with the entire book within five minutes or so. Safely locked away in her own small kingdom and away from the dark streets of Oslo, Patricia appeared to experience none of the alarm that both Bjørn Erik Svendsen and I had felt regarding the diary in Harald Olesen’s flat. But her fascination with it was no less. A few minutes of thoughtful silence followed while we tucked into the superb tenderloin, served with vegetables and roast potatoes. Patricia chewed slowly, but undoubtedly thought fast. The minutes of silence were at irregular intervals interspersed with frantic blinking.

‘Rather a good day’s work,’ she said finally, when the dessert was on the table and the loyal Beate had left the room. ‘We have made some great strides in the investigation and have gathered what is surely very important information.’

I nodded smugly.

‘Yes, thank you. It does feel like that. But I still do not see any obvious way to resolve the case.’

Patricia gave one of her mischievous smiles.