The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (9 page)

On Saturday, 6 April 1968, I left the White House around six o’clock in the evening. In stark contrast to the situation some twenty-four hours earlier, I drove home that evening secure in the knowledge that Harald Olesen’s murderer would be caught and face punishment sooner or later.

Just before I left, however, I made an error of judgement that bothered me for the rest of the evening. As I got up, I thought that I should perhaps emphasize the seriousness of the case to Patricia.

‘I have been entirely open with you and trust that you will not abuse that. You must never mention the content of our conversations to another living soul, with the exception of your father perhaps, if necessary.’

She gave me the most injured look I have ever received from a woman – and that, sadly, says enough in itself. Then she added, in a bitterly grave voice: ‘But my dear Detective Inspector . . . who on earth would I tell anything to?’

Ashamed, I glanced around the large room in which she sat so visibly on her own among all her books. Then I mumbled an apology and said thank you, before following the perpetually silent maid from the room. By the time I crossed the threshold, Patricia had already taken the bookmark out of the book that was on top of the pile and was munching demonstratively on a carrot, without having deigned to say a word.

When I went to bed at the end of the third day of the investigation, I was far more optimistic about the future outlook of the case, influenced by my meeting with Patricia. But I was also aware that we were on the trail of a particularly cunning murderer and that the road to an eventual arrest might be long. I had no idea, however, that it would take a further six days of high drama that resembled a bizarre game of chess between Patricia and the murderer – without them even being in the same room or in direct contact.

DAY FOUR

The Residents Refine Their Memory

I

On Sunday, 7 April, my working day started at Krebs’ Street around ten o’clock. I had, however, phoned to warn of my arrival and said to the caretaker’s wife that I needed to speak to her. So there she was sitting dutifully at her post, even though it was early on a quiet Sunday morning. She waved and smiled as soon as she saw me, but already from a distance I thought I could detect some uncertainty and fear in her movements. As planned, I got straight to the point.

‘Giving false statements to the police in criminal cases is called perjury and is a serious crime that can result in a prison sentence or heavy fine.’

There was little doubt that this hit the mark. The caretaker’s wife stared at me, paralysed, her face chalk white and her jaw twitching. I carried on swiftly.

‘
But
, as there are as yet no official written statements in this case, and it has been a very demanding situation for you, we may be able to overlook a little confusion at the start, if you now give me a complete and true account of when the residents came home on the evening of the murder . . .’

The caretaker’s wife pulled herself together with impressive speed and immediately started to talk like the clappers.

‘Thank you so much. I have been so worried, and regretted night and day that I didn’t tell you the truth straightaway. But as you said, it has not been an easy situation for me, as I had written on the list that Kristian came home at nine, and I had sworn to Kristian that I would say that it was right if anyone asked. How could we know that it would be the police who came and asked? And I was so sure that Kristian had nothing to do with the murder. So then I got all confused and simply didn’t know what to do, so I thought it would be best just to stick to what I had written down and promised. The fact that Kristian sometimes comes home earlier need not really affect anyone apart from him and his wife.’

I immediately used the opportunity to impress a little more.

‘And the young Miss Sara Sundqvist, of course.’

The caretaker’s wife had got over the worst of her shock and gave a fleeting smile before she continued.

‘It is incredible how much the detective inspector has already managed to discern. Yes, of course, but Miss Sara is such a charming and kind young lady. She has nothing to do with the murder; I’m absolutely certain of it.’

Her smile broadened before she carried on. Before she even started to talk, I guessed that she was dreaming about her own days of young love.

‘I noticed it, in fact, before I knew anything for sure. Sara seemed to fly down the stairs; her back was straighter and her smile brighter than before, so even an old croney like me could guess that there must be an unusually handsome man involved. I made the connection one morning when she came running down just after he had passed on his way out. The next morning, she came down unusually early, but stood waiting outside on the pavement until he came. And the next day again, she came first and he followed only a couple of minutes later. So then I knew that something was happening. I said nothing to either them or Mrs Lund, naturally. It was none of my business, and I didn’t want to make trouble for anyone.’

I nodded my understanding.

‘So far, well and good. Except then you started to falsify the lists and to lie to the police. But perhaps that was not your own idea?’

The caretaker’s wife shook her head firmly.

‘No, no, I would never have thought of anything like that myself. It was Kristian who came to me at the start of the following week. It was so touching; he was so open when he told me that he was head over heels in love with Miss Sara and had started an affair with her. He said that it was difficult and he had to think hard about what he should do. In the meantime, he asked me not to say a word to Mrs Lund about what I might see or hear, or to anyone else. I promised that I wouldn’t. But then he asked me to lie if anyone asked directly whether I had seen anything suspicious, and to write on my lists that he came home an hour later on the days when he called and told his wife he would be late. I put my foot down. Not to gossip about things that are none of your business is one thing, but I have never wilfully told a lie . . .’

There was a small silence between us.

‘And then . . .’ I prompted.

She nodded.

‘And then he took out his wallet and said that of course my help deserved a little reward. He thought that perhaps one hundred kroner a month would do the trick, with two hundred in advance as it was nearly Christmas. He took out four fifty-kroner notes.’

The caretaker’s wife sat thinking, without saying a word. A couple of tears rolled slowly down her wrinkled cheeks. Then she got up heavily from the chair and indicated that I should wait a minute. ‘I have a couple of photographs I need to show you,’ she mumbled, as she went past.

A few minutes later, she came back with two framed photographs in her hands. The first was an old, yellowing black-and-white wedding picture of a smiling young couple. The man was tall and dark, the woman a head shorter and much rounder.

‘That was in spring 1928,’ she said quietly. As if that explained it all.

‘The Labour Party had just formed their first government and the future looked bright. A lot of people asked me then, and over the years that followed, how I had managed to find such a good man as Anton. And he was back then: handsome, hard-working and reliable in everything he did. Everything was rosy for the next twelve years. He had a job; the children managed to avoid tuberculosis and grow up. We never complained, despite the long working hours.’

‘And then . . .’ I said again, still unsure of where this was leading.

‘Then the war came and Anton joined the Resistance. He asked me first, but I couldn’t say no when that was what he wanted and the country’s future was at risk. I have asked myself a thousand times since how life would have been if I had put my foot down and said no. As it was, his life was torn apart by the war, though we didn’t realize it at the time. My Anton was one of the ones who survived the war but could not live with the memories when peace came. He started to have nightmares and problems sleeping, which led to more cigarettes and more and more alcohol. I told you that he was away and you didn’t ask any more questions, but he is actually in hospital and won’t leave until he is in a coffin. I have told him so many times over the years that with the amount he smoked and drank, either his lungs or his liver would take him from us before he was sixty. He is sixty-two now, but it will be over in a few weeks, thanks to his liver and his lungs. If you need to talk to him, you should not put it off longer than necessary.’

She looked down for a moment, then quickly continued.

‘I know what you are thinking: why am I sitting here when my husband is in hospital? Well, it is partly that I have never liked hospitals. But most of all, it is because I can’t bear to see him. He is just a shadow of what he once was, and the only thing left in his life is pain. I always go the minute they call and say that he wants to see me, which is not very often, but it won’t make it any easier for us when it happens either. One of us has to keep things going, for the sake of the children and the people here. So that is why I would rather sit here with this old photograph. I want to remember him as he once was, not as what he has become.’

The tears were streaming down her cheeks now and I did not know what to do to stop them. I waited for a couple of minutes and then pointed tentatively to the other picture. It was a more recent photograph of an easily recognizable older woman and four dressed-up children sitting on the floor smiling, in front of a Christmas tree and a pile of presents.

‘Anton’s life went to pieces after the war, and with it so did mine and our family life. And in last few years the fight has only got harder. He struggled to do his work, and every kroner he could get his hands on went on cigarettes and booze. Christmas and New Year have always been the highlight of the year, as all our children and grandchildren come here, and out of consideration to them he managed to stay relatively sober for those few days. But last autumn, I was at my wits’ end. We owed money and I had no more friends I could ask for a loan. I desperately needed eighty kroner to pay off the most urgent creditors before Christmas and a hundred more for the Christmas presents and food. I had no idea how I was going to get hold of even fifty kroner. I had nothing left of any value that could be pawned. And then, like a miracle, Kristian stood right here and gave me four fifty-kroner notes. So I swallowed my pride and accepted it. It felt terrible to peddle lies for Christmas and I cried myself to sleep more than once. But then the grandchildren could celebrate Anton’s last Christmas with him, with better food and bigger presents than ever before. And I comforted myself with the thought that people had accepted hush money for worse reasons.’

I looked at the picture of the caretaker’s wife with her grandchildren and realized that it was true that many other people would certainly have accepted dirtier money for far more dubious reasons than that. So I told her the truth – that on a personal level it was very easy to understand and that we could no doubt overlook the legal implications, as long as it was simply a matter of amending an oral statement. And on the condition that we now and in the future were told the truth and nothing but the truth. The caretaker’s wife was mightily relieved and crossed her heart and promised to do so.

‘The fact that your husband was active in the Resistance during the war is new to me. Was he in contact with Harald Olesen at the time, do you know?’

The caretaker’s wife beamed at the thought of the old days and gave me a proud smile before continuing.

‘But of course I know. It was in fact Harald Olesen who asked my husband to join. I can still remember them shaking hands on it, at the kitchen table right here. I helped a bit myself later on. On several occasions we hid refugees in the cellar, until Olesen found a way to get them over the border to Sweden. Anton was just one of many helpers at the time. Harald Olesen was always on the go and managed to build up a big network between here and the border. I have often thought that he must have been a remarkably strong man to not only have coped with all that responsibility during the war, but also to have managed to live with the memories of everything he had experienced.’

I realized that we might be on to something interesting now – something that could lead to a motive for murder.

‘Given the way things turned out later, did you or Anton ever direct your frustration at Olesen?’

The caretaker’s wife shook her head adamantly.

‘We never felt any ill will towards him. How could we? It was the war, and how could anyone know what would happen to Anton later? We were proud to live in the same building as Harald Olesen, even though we lived in the basement, three floors below him. Even in the past few years, Anton would always pick up and drink less whenever he spoke to his old hero. Olesen never really understood how bad things were with Anton, but he did realize that life was difficult in the basement. And he gave us more and more wonderful presents for our birthdays and Christmas each year. Harald Olesen was a good man, always was, and I haven’t got a word to say against him and cannot understand who would murder him. I cannot think of anyone from the war who might be of importance to the murder, but maybe my husband knows more.’

I nodded. The caretaker, Anton Hansen, who was currently in hospital, was someone I needed to talk to as soon as possible. I only had one crucial question left to ask his wife.

‘But what about Mrs Lund? Did you never think of her?’

‘Of course I thought about her and the baby, and more than once it struck me that what he was doing was an enormous betrayal to them both. But Kristian is a good man, someone who has worked his way up. He works long days and has no doubt found it difficult to live up to the expectations of his parents-in-law. The only time her parents came here, they looked at me and the building in disgust. And Kristian took such good care of his sick mother – the last time she was here, he more or less carried her in. He’s never had a father, you see, so it’s not been easy for him. There is not a bad bone in his wife, and she is very sweet with the child, but she has never been denied anything she wants in life, and she has no idea what it is like to have an alcoholic husband or to grow up without a father. Kristian would have to do something very wrong for me to side with her against him. I have thought many a time that he would be far better suited to the hard-working Swedish student than the doll that he’s married to who has never had a problem.’