The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (7 page)

‘Welcome. I am extremely grateful that you can give me a few minutes of your time. Do you have any particular preference when it comes to refreshment?’

I swiftly declined.

‘In that case, that is all for now, Benedikte. I will ring should there be anything else.’

The maid bobbed a silent curtsy and quickly retired. Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann was a lady of principles and discretion. She did not say a word until we were alone in the room. Then, like her father, she got straight to the point.

‘I don’t want to waste any more of your undoubtedly precious time than necessary. The picture given in the papers of the residents of the building is somewhat incomplete, so if I am to say anything of any value, I may need to be updated. The newspapers all mention the unsolved mystery of how the murderer could escape the flat undetected. The windows were closed and locked from the inside, and there were no broken panes to indicate that the shot came from outside. The door has a snib lock, which means that the murderer could have left the flat and locked the door behind him. But the other residents were at the door so soon after the shot that no one could have escaped that way unnoticed. Is that, in brief, a fair description of the mystery as to how the murder was committed? And is it still an unsolved problem for you and the investigation?’

I nodded quickly – twice. The Borchmann family obviously had a talent for giving simple, brief synopses and clarifying critical issues.

Young Patricia seemed to grow in her wheelchair. She chewed thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek for a moment before continuing.

‘This is a variant of the closed-room mystery, but not of the most difficult kind, as the security chain was not on. As Sherlock Holmes says, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains,
however improbable
, must be the truth.” The murderer obviously left through the door, so in reality, there are only two possible ways in which that could have happened.’

I listened in fascination to her determined, self-assured voice. She was clearly excited and took the opportunity to take a couple of sips of cold water before continuing.

‘The first solution is very much like one of Agatha Christie’s best-known novels, in which all the characters have, for various reasons, conspired to kill the victim. In which case, you shouldn’t place too much emphasis on the other residents’ statements.’

I had hoped for something more realistic, which must have been obvious. She hurried on, without stopping for a drink.

‘But that kind of plot definitely works better in English novels than in daily life in Norway, and does not seem very likely in this case. There would also be a considerable risk with so many people involved, and the residents seem to be a very mixed bunch. If we let go of our paranoia and shelve the theory of a major conspiracy among the residents, there’s really only one possibility left.’

I stared at her with renewed interest, my thoughts racing as she poured and drank another half-glass of water. And yet her question was completely unexpected.

‘Have many of the other residents complained about being disturbed by the baby on the first floor?’

Patricia smiled briefly and a touch condescendingly when she saw the confusion on my face, before continuing swiftly.

‘Or, more to the point, does sound travel exceptionally well in 25 Krebs’ Street? Does the building have unusually thin walls and good acoustics?’

I started to get a vague idea of where she was going, but I still did not see how it would end. I thought about it, then shook my head. None of the residents had complained about the baby making a noise.

‘But then how can a shot fired from a revolver in a flat on the second floor be heard clearly as a loud explosion in the hallway two storeys below?’

It was a good question. A very good question in fact, one that I should have thought of myself. But before I had time to understand its full significance, her voice broke my thoughts.

‘Interestingly, the residents, press and even the police have all made the same classic and logical mistake. If you hear a gunshot and then shortly afterwards find a man who has been shot, it is easy to conclude that he was killed by the shot that was heard. Logical, but not necessarily true. In other words, Harald Olesen did not die from the shot that the other residents heard at a quarter past ten. He was killed by another, less audible gunshot that was fired earlier in the evening, presumably using a silencer. Wouldn’t you have used a silencer if you were going to shoot a man in his flat and had every intention of getting away unnoticed afterwards?’

Of course I would. It was painfully obvious when she explained it so clearly and simply, and it grieved me that I had not seen it before. However, a glaring question did occur to me soon after.

‘Then where on earth did the shot that they all heard come from? We have searched Mr Olesen’s flat and all the others with a fine-tooth comb and have found no evidence of a radio transmitter or surveillance equipment.’

Patricia smiled again. ‘I guessed as much. And that shows that we are dealing with a remarkably well-planned murder that was carried out by an exceptionally cold-blooded murderer. But did there happen to be a record player in Harald Olesen’s flat, with a record on the turntable?’

That hit me like a well-aimed punch in the solar plexus. I had seen and made note of the record player and record, but not understood their significance. I nodded and wiped my forehead dry. It was embarrassing that Patricia had seen so much here in her own closed room that I had failed to see, despite several visits to the scene of the crime. And I now discovered that she could also apparently read minds.

‘It’s strange how often it is easier to see the connections when you are sitting with all the elements in tidy order, without any interference or impressions from the scene of the crime. But the notion of using a sound recording to alter the time of a murder is familiar enough, from one of Agatha Christie’s earlier novels in particular. Now, if you go back to 25 Krebs’ Street and play the record that is still lying on the turntable in Harald Olesen’s flat, I would gladly bet my wheelchair and half my inheritance on the fact that you will sooner or later hear another gunshot.’

I didn’t offer to take her up on the bet. I fortunately had no need for a wheelchair, and I unfortunately would never have as much money as half her inheritance. What is more, I did not for a second doubt that she was right. I mumbled my thanks and stood up to leave. She called for the maid straightaway. While we waited, Patricia wrote down a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

‘This is the direct number to my telephone. I would appreciate it if you could call me once you have confirmed my theory about the record player. Then we can see if there is any more I can help you with.’

I vaguely registered that we were already on more informal terms, and that it felt completely natural, despite the somewhat grand-old-days feel of the Borchmann home. I nodded, tucked the slip of paper carefully into my wallet and silently and obediently followed the maid out. I still felt as though I had been hypnotized by the time I reached the car, but understood keenly enough that my apparently unsolvable murder mystery had taken a great leap forward towards a possible conclusion.

V

When I arrived at 25 Krebs’ Street around two, everything appeared to be as calm as before. The caretaker’s wife was sitting in her place by the door and immediately let me into Harald Olesen’s flat. There was no sign of any of the other residents. I had some new questions for a few of them, but for the moment there was no room in my head for anything other than Harald Olesen’s record player.

The record player was still there, with the recording by the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra on the turntable. With a pounding heart and shaking hand, I carefully lowered the needle. I expected the label to be fake and the record to be soundless at the start, but I had another shock in store when an irresistible waltz immediately filled the room. The volume was nearly on full, and the record was obviously real enough. So now I expected that the music would fall silent and the gunshot would ring out at the end of the record. Having turned down the volume, I waited with growing anticipation for a gunshot that never came. The needle lifted and returned to its place without further drama once the final bar had been played.

To begin with, I was disappointed. Then I laughed, despite the setback it meant for me, as the cocksure Miss Patricia’s creative theory had not held. I put the record on again and increased the volume before going over to Harald Olesen’s telephone and dialling the number on the slip of paper in my wallet.

Patricia picked up the phone before the second ring. I could actually hear her surprise, prompted by the music, and so talked louder than necessary to drown it out.

‘I am in Harald Olesen’s flat and have turned on the record player and listened to the whole record. And as you can hear, it seems to be a red herring.’

There was silence for a moment on the other end of the line. It is possible that Patricia doubted herself and her theory for a matter of seconds, but it certainly did not last long.

‘But that
has
to be it. There is no other credible solution. Is the record player free-standing, or is it part of one of these newfangled stereo systems with a cassette player?’

I glanced quickly over at the record player and was immediately gripped by uncertainty. The record player was indeed part of a big new stereo system with a cassette player – and there was a cassette in the player. Patricia’s response was as quick as a flash when she heard this.

‘Then the cassette player
has
to be the answer. Play the cassette that is there, but turn down the volume in order not to terrify the whole building if – I mean
when
there is a gunshot. Call me again when you have played the cassette. But of course, if there is no gunshot on the cassette either, there is no need for you to waste any more time in calling me again.’

Thus spoke Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann – without drawing breath. Then she put down the phone without saying goodbye.

I looked at the stereo, full of doubt, but then turned off the record player and rewound the cassette to the start. The cassette looked genuine enough, and the German writing promised Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. It seemed to take an eternity to rewind. When it had finally rewound to the start, I reduced the volume by a couple of notches and sat down to wait for the cassette to crank into action. It started, as expected, with Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. I immediately wondered if this was the most valuable use of my time. However, the music stopped with a loud click after only a couple of minutes. The cassette then crept forwards as slowly as could be for the next twenty-five minutes. At first, I paced around the room, but as the tape got ever closer to the end, I moved ever closer to the large loudspeakers of the stereo player.

I expected the tape to stop at any moment when suddenly there was another muffled click, followed by a loud gunshot.

Despite having turned down the volume, it exploded like an atomic bomb in my ears. I jumped and then watched paralysed as the cassette stopped. I stood there for five minutes, puzzling over whose hand might have started this tape recording the last time it played.

When I eventually managed to pull myself together and phone back, she answered the phone on the first ring. ‘Was the gunshot at the very end?’ she asked.

I mumbled a subdued ‘yes’, an even more muffled ‘congratulations’ and a somewhat louder explanation that the gunshot was right at the end of a cassette of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. I could almost feel the receiver quiver as she breathed out.

‘Thank goodness for that. I was almost starting to get worried. Remember to check the cassette and stereo player for fingerprints, but do not be disappointed if there are none. We are dealing with a particularly Machiavellian murderer.’

I replied that that was quite clearly the case, but that it did help to know how he had escaped and to have adjusted the time of the murder to nearly twenty-five minutes earlier. This seemed to confuse her somewhat.

‘Hold on a minute. Firstly, I am not at all certain that the murderer is a he, and secondly, where did you get the twenty-five minutes from?’

I smiled to myself that I was ahead of her this time and informed her that the cassette had a playing time of twenty-five minutes. I waited for the ‘aha’ exclamation, but instead got only a small sigh of relief and another ruthless question.

‘But we have no evidence that the murderer put on the cassette immediately after he or she carried out the murder, do we?’

And of course I had to admit that we didn’t. The murderer could in theory have waited for as long as he – or she – wanted in the flat before starting the cassette and leaving. Equally, the tape might have been wound forward so that the murder took place only minutes before the gunshot. Suddenly, it became of far more interest that the pathologist had only been able to narrow the time of death down to between eight and eleven. Patricia and I promptly agreed that any of the residents who did not have a watertight alibi for the period from eight until ten past ten must be seen as potential murderers. We also quickly agreed that I should return and discuss the situation with her before talking to the neighbours again.

VI

Half an hour later, I was back sitting in the library at the White House in front of Princess Patricia. She was nibbling happily on a large carrot, like an unusually self-satisfied rabbit. With the carrot in her left hand, she wrote down key words at perfect speed with her right, while I sipped my tea and repeated the neighbours’ statements. It occurred to me more than once that this was a breathtaking breach of standard investigation procedure, which could cause enormous problems for me should it ever get out. But it also struck me as unthinkable that either the father or daughter would ever let the secret slip. My childhood trust in the Borchmann family was deeply ingrained. Furthermore, I firmly believed that there was more help to be had here. And last of all, I had to admit to myself, and mark my words to myself alone, that help may be needed if Harald Olesen’s clearly cunning murderer was to be caught.