The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (3 page)

Darrell Williams remembered Harald Olesen’s name well from the years 1945 to 1946 and had been quite excited by the fact that he now lived in the same building. Shortly after he had moved in, he had taken the opportunity to knock on his neighbour’s door and was well received. But during his visit and on a couple of later occasions, Williams got the impression that something or other was weighing on Olesen’s mind and he did not wish to burden him further. Olesen had continued to greet him with a friendly smile all the same. However, it had struck Williams more than once that the old war hero was becoming an increasingly isolated and dejected old man.

Williams had not seen Olesen alive on the day of the murder. He had been to a dinner party and did not come home until around eight. After his evening stroll, he had been talking to Konrad Jensen on the stairs for a few minutes when they suddenly heard a gunshot on the second floor. Williams had instinctively started to run up the stairs, with Jensen at his heels. They did not meet anyone on the stairs, nor did they see anyone else in the hallway when they reached the second floor. They rang on Olesen’s doorbell several times without any response. A minute or two later, Kristian Lund had also appeared, closely followed by the caretaker’s wife. The caretaker’s wife had then gone back down to get her keys and to call the police, as they had not heard a sound inside the flat. While she was doing this, Gullestad had come up in the lift. The five of them had discussed whether or not they should open the door, but had agreed to wait until the police arrived. They neither heard nor saw any signs of an intruder in the building, and it was not possible that anyone could have sneaked past them.

Williams could not recall ever seeing a blue raincoat in 25 Krebs’ Street, not on the day of the murder or previously. He responded openly and honestly to my question regarding firearms: ‘I had a .44-calibre Colt revolver and a .36-calibre pistol with me when I came to Norway, but everything seemed to be so safe here that I sent them both back to my home in the USA a few weeks ago now.’

Strictly speaking, he did not have a licence, but I saw little reason there and then to pester a man with an American diplomat’s passport with minor details such as that. The house search the evening before had shown that Williams, like all the other residents, did not have a gun in the building on the night of the murder. But all the same this did not strike him from the list of possible suspects.

III

Sara Sundqvist proved to be a slim and unusually tall young woman who waited for a moment or two before opening the door and then kept the safety chain on until she saw my uniform. Despite being around five foot eleven, she could not weigh much over nine stone. I felt that her wrists and arms could snap at any moment, but despite her dangerously tiny waist, her figure was in proportion and her bearing elegant. And even though her expression was drawn and anxious, one could not help but notice her feminine curves. The apparently demure and high-necked green dress only served to emphasize a pair of shapely breasts.

Sara Sundqvist was very serious and slightly shaken by the murder, but still struck me as being sensible and trustworthy. She spoke grammatically correct Norwegian, albeit with a gentle Swedish accent. She gave Gothenburg as her hometown, and her age as twenty-four. She had come to Oslo to study English and philosophy the previous August, and had found the flat through a newspaper advertisement posted by the owner. She used her Swedish student grant and money from her parents to pay for the rent, but also worked in the university library a few hours a week in addition to her studies.

Otherwise, Sara Sundqvist told me that she spent the bulk of her days studying, but did do some amateur dramatics in her free time. She generally went out very little in the evenings. And on the evening in question, she had been at home alone and was in the kitchen making her evening coffee when the gunshot rang out. She had heard it clearly, but thought that perhaps something had fallen onto the floor. She was later frightened by the commotion out in the hall and had decided that it was safest to remain locked in her flat until the police knocked on the door. Although she had not seen any of the drama herself, it had been ‘an extremely frightening experience’. In line with her statement from the evening before, she said that she had not left the flat after she came home at a quarter past four.

I was certain that the young Swedish woman probably smiled more on a warm sunny day and that her gaze was steadier than it was now. I found it easy to accept that a murder in the same building would be very frightening indeed for a foreign female student.

Flat 2A had some rather cluttered bookshelves, crammed with Norwegian, Swedish and English books, but was otherwise the flat of a tidy young woman. And apart from some kitchen knives, there was no evidence of any weapons in her flat either. She was momentarily baffled when I asked her if she had seen anyone in a blue raincoat, but then replied that she had not seen anyone in such a garment in the building, not yesterday or before.

Sara Sundqvist said that she had only spoken to the now deceased Harald Olesen briefly on a couple of occasions. He seemed to be a very friendly, if quiet and correct old gentleman. She had made efforts to be on first-name terms with the caretaker’s wife and the other people in the building, and had nothing negative to say about any of them. However, she could not claim to know any of them very well. ‘The Lunds, of course, only have eyes for each other and their little boy, and the others are all men who are a good deal older than me.’

There was nothing dramatic about Flat 2A and its tenant, and both struck me as being trustworthy. It was with some hesitation that I refrained from striking Sara Sundqvist from the list of suspects.

IV

According to the red heart-shaped nameplate, Kristian and Karen Lund lived in Flat 2B. With their thirteen-month-old son peacefully asleep in his cot, they came across as the epitome of a young, happy couple. And though they smiled every time they looked at each other or their son, the sombreness soon returned when they met my eye. Kristian Lund was a blond, stocky man of around five foot eleven who no doubt was normally relaxed and charming. However, he was now visibly shaken by the situation. He repeated several times that a murder in the building was of particular concern to someone with a wife and child, and that he was not at all sure whether he dared to leave them alone while he was at work until the murderer had been caught.

Neither Mr nor Mrs Lund could for a moment imagine that anyone in the building was behind the crime, so the murderer must somehow have managed to get in from outside. They only had good things to say about Harald Olesen. At times he might appear to be a bit lonely – he was after all a pensioner living on his own – but he was still an elegant man of vigour. The Lunds had never seen any guns in the building, and certainly not in their flat. The key words ‘blue raincoat’ meant nothing to them.

Regarding her own background, Karen Lund could tell me that she was the daughter and only child of a factory owner from Bærum. She had met her husband on an ‘otherwise rather boring course at business school’ and had worked for a fashion retailer for a while before getting married. Kristian Lund came from a lower class and was the child of a secretary and single mother from Drammen. There was a rather emotional moment when he commented that ‘My father could be anyone and I no longer want to know who he is.’ His mother, whom he had much to thank for, had died of cancer the year before, only days before the birth of her first grandchild. Kristian Lund was a qualified manager. He smiled smugly for a moment when he told me that his marks from business school were ‘better than expected by anyone other than myself’. He had received several ‘very attractive’ job offers recently, but was happy in his current position as the manager of a sports shop. His wife added in support that her parents were delighted with both their son-in-law and their grandchild. On the whole, she seemed to be far calmer and less shaken than her husband.

Following my visit with the Lunds, one rather mysterious question remained unanswered, which was, when had Kristian Lund actually come home on the evening of the murder? His wife was in no doubt that he’d come home at nine o’clock precisely. He had come in the door just after the start of
The Danny Kaye Show
on television, which started at five to. Kristian Lund explained that he had had to stay behind on his own in the shop as there was bookkeeping to be done, and that he had left there at around a quarter to nine. This was in line with what the caretaker’s wife had noted, which was that Kristian Lund came home at nine o’clock. But this did not accord with another small and rather confusing detail, which was that Darrell Williams claimed to have seen Kristian Lund come into the building while he was chatting with Konrad Jensen a whole hour before.

Kristian Lund’s anxiety regarding the situation increased when I mentioned this. He repeated several times that he did not get home until nine o’clock. If the two neighbours said otherwise, they must either be wrong about when they came in themselves or have confused him with someone else. His wife immediately came to his aid. She added with great sincerity that she had the world’s most reliable and honest husband, and that he had phoned home several hours before that to say that he would not be back until around nine. I hastily played down my question and withdrew, tactfully, to mull it over.

My next stop was again the caretaker’s wife at her post by the front entrance. She furrowed her brow and insisted that ‘Kristian did not come home before nine o’clock yesterday evening.’ Her writing was absolutely clear with regard to the time, and she had jotted down the residents’ names in the order that they came home. ‘If Kristian came back before Darrell Williams and Konrad Jensen, then it’s strange that I wrote his name on the line below them,’ said the caretaker’s wife. I had to admit that that sounded reasonable. And furthermore, the caretaker’s wife had logged the telephone call mentioned by Mrs Lund when Kristian Lund called to say he would not be home until around nine.

When I looked at the caretaker’s wife’s neat and simple list, I found it hard to believe that she might have made a mistake. But there seemed to be no reason to doubt that Darrell Williams had both seen and greeted Kristian Lund by the entrance an hour earlier. And so the Lunds were not struck from my list of suspects either.

V

More drama lay in store in the left-hand flat on the ground floor. Konrad Jensen was a short, middle-aged man dressed in a red sweater and gaberdine trousers. He confirmed that he worked as a taxi driver and had his papers at the ready, which showed that he owned the older Peugeot model with a taxi light that was parked on the street outside. Konrad Jensen informed me that he had lived in his flat since 1948, and that, as he was unmarried and had no children, he had lived alone all his adult life.

Konrad Jensen’s hair was turning from black to grey. And in the course of our conversation, his unshaven face also seemed to turn from frustration to despair. His answers got shorter and shorter, and he became increasingly morose in response to my routine questions. Yes, he had definitely come home from work at eight o’clock, a few steps behind Kristian Lund and Darrell Williams. Yes, he was certain that Kristian Lund had gone into the building just before him. Yes, he had been standing by the stairs discussing a football match with the American at a quarter past ten when they heard the gunshot on the second floor. And yes, the two of them had immediately run upstairs and waited outside the door. Yes, Kristian Lund, the caretaker’s wife and Andreas Gullestad had also come up in the course of the next couple of minutes. No, he had never seen a blue raincoat here in 25 Krebs’ Street.

Then all of a sudden he mustered the courage to raise his voice a little.

‘I might as well tell you myself because it will come out sooner or later all the same. I supported the Nazis and was a member of the NS during the war, and served a six-month sentence for it from 1945 to 1946. I joined the party before the war and worked as a driver for the Germans after 9 April 1940. I’ve never denied any of it. But that is the extent of my crimes. I’ve never amounted to anything much, for better or worse.’

As is only reasonable, I looked at him in a new, more critical light.

He added hastily: ‘I never met Harald Olesen during or after the war, and I have nothing whatsoever to do with his death. In fact, his death is the worst thing that could happen to me.’

Then, after a short pause for thought, he carried on in his slow, morose manner: ‘Everyone will automatically suspect me. It won’t take many days before the papers write that I’m a Nazi and then I’ll be a moving target. I’ve struggled with that ever since I got out of prison. I’ve had to change my name twice already, from Konrad Hansen to Konrad Pedersen and then to Konrad Jensen. But there’s always someone who knows someone who knows and I always end up being called “Konrad Quisling”. There’s still people who won’t get in my taxi because they’ve heard I was in the NS, but that’s happened less and less over the years. Now it will all get worse again.’

Konrad Jensen got up slowly from the sofa. He went over to the window and pointed down a side street. ‘That’s my car over there. Not new, and wasn’t the best in the world when he was new either, but he’s still working, and I know him better than any person. My car has been my most loyal friend. I know it’s childish, but I like to call my car Petter, after a friend I had when I was a lad. Petter Peugeot and Konrad Jensen, a couple of wrecks that have got old together and know the streets of Oslo better than most.’

His face was bitter when he continued. ‘I turned fifty in February, but celebrated on my own, a modest meal in a restaurant. I don’t want anything to do with the old NS people, and it’s not easy to make other friends. My mother and father died a long time ago, and I don’t have much contact with my brother and sister. I last heard from my brother in 1940, when he’d borrowed money at an exorbitant rate so he could pay back a loan I’d given him. My sister sent a card for my fiftieth birthday that contained all of seven words and came four days late!’