The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (19 page)

‘I thought it was James Fenimore Cooper,’ I said.

Patricia shook her head firmly – with a slight blush on her cheeks.

‘It was definitely Ellis. I don’t have the books in here, of course. I read them in the lunch breaks in second or third grade. But there is no mistake about the name; the silly boys in my class certainly talked enough about his Red Indian books later.’

‘Darrell Williams thought it was Cooper,’ I argued with caution.

A sudden silence fell in the room.

‘How did you discover that Darrell Williams thought that?’ Patricia exclaimed, in an almost accusatory tone, following a minute of tense silence. Her pale face suddenly appeared to be chalk white, and something akin to a fearful wonder shone in her dark eyes.

I told her straightaway that I had already tested the name Deerfoot out on the caretaker’s wife and the other residents in the building, but without great success in terms of reaction.

On this news, Patricia’s face blanched further. It struck me that behind her self-assured demeanour and steady voice, she was after all still a young girl with nerves.

‘I understand your motives, and it was a bold move in this great chess game. You of course thought that if anyone in the building was in fact the murderer or in cahoots with him or her, which is almost certainly the case, then the pressure would mount when he or she realized that the investigation was progressing. If the mysterious Deerfoot had anything to do with the case, the pressure and likelihood of suspicious activity would also increase.’

I nodded. That was no doubt more or less what I had subconsciously thought.

‘The problem being, however, that you are absolutely right in this assumption, and therefore the risk of further dramatic events has now doubled!’

I held up my hands in defence.

‘I have posted reliable armed policemen on both sides of the building. It would be quite a feat to escape without any of them noticing.’

Patricia nodded, but did not smile.

‘Very good, but it is not the murderer making a dash for freedom that I am afraid of. In fact, we might even hope for that: it would identify the murderer without causing any of the others harm. I am far more concerned that something dramatic might happen in the building itself. We still do not know who the murderer is, but judging from what we do know, we are hunting for an unusually cunning and determined predator.’

Patricia fidgeted uneasily in her wheelchair for a couple of minutes. It was obvious that the situation had now taken an uncontrolled turn that she did not like, and was no longer simply an intellectual game to her.

‘I would urge you to arrange immediately for a policeman to stand guard on each of the three floors in 25 Krebs’ Street from tonight,’ she said abruptly. ‘But that is of course a decision you must take yourself,’ she added in the same breath.

I looked at the clock – it was a quarter past nine – and gave her an honest answer: that it was difficult to justify such drastic measures at such short notice, and what is more, we may not be able to find a further three police officers who were available right now. Indeed, the case was confusing and alarming enough as it was without us starting to see ghosts in broad daylight.

This calmed Patricia down somewhat. She apologized if she had overreacted and repeated that it was difficult decision that only I could take. However, she did ask that I at least sleep on it and evaluate the possibility in the morning. It was as though the fear and mystery in the diary had touched Patricia as well, albeit a few hours later, and despite the fact that she was so safe where she was.

The atmosphere was tense when we said our goodbyes shortly after, just as her clock struck ten. I thanked her for the food and good advice, but the only response was a cautious smile. Patricia seemed to be somewhat pacified when I promised to consider increasing security in the morning, and to let her know immediately if there were any important developments in the case.

There was a strange little incident as I got up to leave and looked around, past the bookshelves, expecting to see the ever-loyal Beate. Patricia suddenly became very concerned about how late it was and that she must not keep me any longer than necessary. She rang immediately for Beate and asked her to show me out as quickly as possible.

However, the little mystery was cleared up without any help, thankfully, when I followed Beate down the steps onto the street only a few minutes later. It also confirmed for me that Patricia had of course been right once again, and that Darrell Williams had either intentionally or unintentionally misinformed me about the Deerfoot books. They were written by Edward S. Ellis. Despite her efforts to hide the fact that they were there, I had caught a glimpse of four of the books on Patricia’s bookshelf.

Once out in the night and dark again, on my way to the car, my thoughts turned quickly to the seriousness of the murder case. Even though the identity of the murderer was still unknown, I felt that with Patricia’s help, we had made some important breakthroughs. When I later opened the door to my flat and collapsed on the bed, my last clear thought was that Tuesday, 9 April would probably be another dramatic day for the investigation. And I was blissfully unaware of just how dramatic it would turn out to be.

DAY SIX

A Mysterious Death

I

On Tuesday, 9 April, my working day started at the main police station at half past eight. I had Kristian Lund lined up as my first stop of the day, but I tried to be rational and asked my secretary to arrange three important meetings that I had postponed for too long: with the ambassador of the USA, Supreme Court Justice Jesper Christopher Haraldsen and Party Secretary Haavard Linde. My secretary smiled and commented that it should be possible to arrange the first in the course of the day at least. I looked at her in surprise. She pulled out a telegram that had come earlier that morning, which immediately sent a shiver down my spine.

THE AMBASSADOR OF THE USA REQUESTS A MEETING AS SOON AS POSSIBLE WITH DETECTIVE INSPECTOR K KRISTIANSEN STOP IN CONNECTION WITH THE INVESTIGATION INTO THE MURDER OF HARALD OLESEN STOP SUGGEST MEETING IN THE EMBASSY TODAY AT 1PM IF POSSIBLE STOP IMMEDIATE RESPONSE DESIRED STOP EMBASSY COUNSELLOR GEORGE ADAMS

With a measured voice, I said that should be fine and asked my secretary to send a reply straightaway to say that I would meet George Adams at one o’clock. She then tried to set up meetings in whatever order later in the day with Jesper Christopher Haraldsen and Haavard Linde, in connection with the ongoing investigation into the murder of a former government minister and Resistance leader. I sat there for a while wondering why the American Embassy had contacted me of their own volition and requested an urgent meeting. I did not come to any conclusion – other than that it probably had something to do with Darrell Williams, and that was hardly good news from my point of view.

At nine o’clock, I telephoned the sports shop to see if Kristian Lund was at work yet. When the chirpy voice on the other end told me that he had just arrived, I politely announced my arrival in the course of a few minutes and immediately went out to the car. I needed something else to think about in advance of my meeting at the embassy and had to admit that any breakthroughs in the investigation before that time would be an enormous relief.

Kristian Lund had obviously been warned and was sitting ready in his office with a broad smile on his face when the secretary showed me in. I briskly thanked the secretary and demonstratively closed the door as soon as she had gone out. The smile on the shop manager’s face had given way to a visible disquiet by the time I sat down.

‘The good news for you is that we no longer need any details about your bank account.’

He nodded in anticipation. This inspired an offensive attack on my part.

‘The bad news is that this is because we already know that you were blackmailing Harald Olesen.’

Kristian Lund remained impressively calm, so for a moment I wondered whether we had made a mistake. Then he nodded gravely.

‘I had thought of telling you the whole story later on today . . . Denying you access to my account was a panicked reaction that would only arouse suspicions about serious matters. Yes, it is true that I have received a considerable amount from Harald Olesen on a couple of occasions in the past year, but I would not call it blackmail. It would be fairer to say I asked for and got what he should have given me a long time ago.’

I inwardly thanked Patricia for yet another bullseye and quickly followed up on this success.

‘Because he was your father. That is perhaps also why you moved to 25 Krebs’ Street?’

He unexpectedly shook his head in response to the latter, which was in fact an improvisation on my part.

‘Believe it or not, moving into the same building was more or less pure coincidence. I may perhaps have thought that it would be exciting to live in the same building as a former Resistance leader and cabinet minister, and that may have influenced our choice, but at the time, I had no idea that he was my father. In fact, it was the other way round: I found out that he was my father because we moved in there. But yes, you are right – he was my father. And I hope that you will soon also be able to conclude that my financial disagreement with my father had nothing to do with his death.’

I was not willing to draw any conclusions straightaway and demanded an immediate and honest answer from Kristian Lund regarding how and when he discovered the relationship. He was silent at first, but then he started, following a short and bitter laugh.

‘I’m more than happy to tell you; it was a strange coincidence. As you no doubt remember I told you, I had badgered my mother for years to get her to tell me who my father was. Well, I had reached the stage where I had more or less accepted the fact that it would forever be a secret. It felt less important now that I had a good job and my own family. And what is more, Mother was seriously ill, so nagging her any more felt wrong. But then came that fateful day in late autumn, about a year and a half ago. It was the last time that my mother managed to visit us, and I had to more or less carry her out of the flat in Drammen. I have often wondered later how different things might have been if she had not been able to come that day. But I cannot imagine that it had anything to do with the murder . . .’

He nodded pensively, lit up a cigarette and then carried on.

‘I had parked the car and was about to help Mother in. She coughed and coughed and hung round my neck like a sick child. We were on our way up the stairs when suddenly I noticed her face freeze in a look of surprise and devotion I had never seen before. I looked up and discovered that we had bumped into Harald Olesen, but I barely had time to recognize him as he more or less stormed back up the stairs and into his flat. I immediately thought it very odd, as he had been on his way out when we met on the stairs. I did not manage to see his face. My mother said nothing and I did not like to ask. But she seemed distant and strange for the rest of the day, and my suspicions that there was some kind of connection between her and Harald Olesen only grew stronger.’

Kristian Lund blew some smoke rings out into the room as he pondered, but then picked up the story again.

‘And so once more I spent a considerable amount of time pondering the great mystery of my childhood. One day, I went to the library and found some books with pictures of him from the war. I look more like my mother, so our faces were not that similar, but the eyes and ears were so alike that it seemed to confirm what I thought. It was a difficult dilemma. My mother was hovering between life and death, and I did not want to do anything that would make the burden heavier for her. But at the same time, the uncertainty surrounding my father’s identity burned inside with increasing intensity the closer Mother came to death. Then they called from the hospital in Drammen one evening to say that Mother was not likely to live through the night and I made up my mind. I drove straight there and sat by her side from eight in the evening until she finally let go of the pain at around six o’clock in the morning. That night, she nodded in answer when I asked if Harald Olesen was my father. She had thought that no one would believe us and that everything would just get worse if she said anything, she told me. Those were her last words. I said that I forgave her and held her hand tight until all the warmth had left it. Then I walked through the empty hospital corridors alone, feeling a deep love for my mother, and a passionate hatred for my father because he had let us both down for all those years.’

My impression was that Kristian Lund’s love for his mother was deep and sincere, in a life that was guided by few other values and an otherwise cynical attitude to women. This impression was strengthened when he continued.

‘It was a hectic and difficult time. I became a father three days after I lost my mother, and buried her four days after that. I was anxious to see whether Harald Olesen would at least do her the honour of coming to her funeral, but he did not make an appearance. So I went up to the second floor and knocked on his door. He blanched when I confronted him, giving me the confirmation that I needed. But my first meeting with my father was not as I had hoped. He still managed to say some nice things about my mother – that she had accepted the consequences of her errors during the war and had not talked about it later. But me, his only son, he addressed scornfully simply as “NS boy”. I pointed out that I had never had anything to do with the NS and asked how he, if he was so morally pure himself, had ended up in bed with an NS woman after the outbreak of war. At that, he asked me never to speak to him again and slammed the door in my face.’

Kristian Lund shook his head in exasperation, and to be fair, it was easy to understand why.

‘This insult made me even more determined. I sent him a letter in which I wrote that I could not force him to see me, but I did have the right, as his only child, to an inheritance – and that I intended to get what was mine, even if it meant I had to go to the national papers and the supreme court. I had grown up poor because he had never cared about me, his only son, and did not want to risk that either I or my young son would ever be in that position again. He told me that he had burned the letter, the next time I knocked on his door. But he was calmer this time, no doubt as he was now ill himself. He would be more than happy to give me some money on the quiet if I would be satisfied with that and not make any more demands. In the end, he gave me two payments of a hundred thousand kroner, one last autumn and one in February just past. But he would not promise me anything in terms of his will. So there you have it: I pressured him to give me my well-deserved inheritance, but still do not know whether I succeeded. If you asked me whether I feel like a good son, the answer would be no, but my father did not deserve a good son either.’