The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (28 page)

VII

It was almost nine o’clock by the time I arrived at 25 Krebs’ Street, but the lights were still on in all the windows, except the two flats left empty by Harald Olesen and Konrad Jensen.

Darrell Williams opened the door slowly when I rang the bell and nodded pensively when he saw it was me. I caught a hint of acknowledgement in his eyes as we briefly shook hands.

I was starting to feel tired after a long day and was secure enough in my case to get straight to the point.

‘You perhaps understand why I am here. I worked it out by myself. She did not say anything and still only has fond feelings for you.’

He gave a curt nod and pointed me into the living room. We sat down in the armchairs. I got the impression that it had been a tough day for Darrell Williams as well, and this was reinforced when I saw the bottles and glasses standing on the coffee table.

‘I now know that you had a relationship with Cecilia Olesen from 1945 until 1948 and that her uncle vehemently opposed it. However, I do not know if you received the letter she sent you a few months after you had to leave Norway in spring 1948.’

Darrell Williams sat deep in thought for a few moments, then poured a drink from one of the bottles on the table. He held the bottle up to me, but put it down as soon as I shook my head.

‘Sadly, I did, but I have not yet managed to write the reply,’ he said brusquely.

He emptied his glass, then started to talk quickly in a controlled voice.

‘My feelings for Harald Olesen were anything but sympathetic for many years after that. But over the years the intensity has diminished. At the time, in 1948, I felt like I could kill him, but I most certainly did not now, in 1968. It was easier to meet him again than I had expected and feared. But today was worse – seeing her again, that is.’

I had no difficulty believing him.

‘Which is why you arrived so late and sat by the door. And why you laughed so loudly and criticized her and her brother so strongly – to disguise the fact.’

Darrell Williams said nothing, but shrugged his confirmation. I immediately followed up on this success.

‘One more thing. It seems unlikely that you were sent to Oslo and accommodated in the same building as Harald Olesen because of this old personal conflict.’

He shook his head firmly.

‘Of course not. That was never an issue for my employers.’

I nodded and carried on swiftly.

‘But it is still no coincidence that you ended up here. You came here because Harald Olesen had some papers and information that your employer was keen to ensure would not fall into the wrong hands either before or after his death.’

Darrell Williams sighed deeply.

‘You are putting me in a very difficult situation now. These are things that I cannot confirm or deny without permission from the highest level.’

‘Let me then simply state that this is the case and that you can neither confirm nor deny it.’

He nodded silently.

‘I will also state, then, that these papers included information about certain Norwegians and Americans who today hold very senior positions, and whom Harald Olesen knew had been actively involved in highly sensitive campaigns against the communists and individuals who were assumed to be communists for no given reason. And it would be extremely detrimental to these individuals, and perhaps also to relations between the USA and Norway, if this became known. And it would appear that you are still unable or unwilling to deny any of this.’

Darrell Williams’s sigh was even heavier, and his nod even more silent.

‘And I would find it very hard to persuade you to give me the names of these people?’

He smiled, but it was a sombre and almost twisted smile.

‘If such persons exist, it would be impossible for me to give you their names.’

‘But they are of no particular relevance to my investigation – so long as you are not the murderer.’

Darrell Williams spontaneously held out his hand.

‘You are quite clearly a very good and intelligent policeman. And it is my sincere hope that you will also manage to put together the remaining pieces in this case, so that I can finish up and leave Norway. The situation was awkward enough to begin with, but my emotional ballast now makes it unbearable.’

I wanted to offer him an olive branch.

‘I have reason to believe that everything will fall into place within a couple of days now. And in the meantime, I hope you understand that I must ask you to stay put.’

Another curt nod. Then he got up. I took the hint and followed him out into the hallway. In the spirit of cooperation, I added that an anonymous OSS agent, whom I believed was him, was mentioned in Harald Olesen’s diary. He thanked me for this information and concluded that I probably would not have needed to ask him about the names if they had been in the diary.

It certainly felt as if we understood each other and were working for the common good – two officials on important missions from different countries. I left Darrell Williams with the feeling that he had now told the truth and was not the murderer. But I still could not strike him from the list.

As he opened the door for me, Darrell Williams sheepishly asked me a final question.

‘One sometimes wonders . . . Do you know how Cecilia’s life has been? Does she have a family and the like? I noticed that she still had the same name and that she came with her brother.’

I nodded reassuringly.

‘She has a daughter from a short and unhappy marriage, but is now divorced.’

He thanked me quickly for this information and asked me to give Cecilia Olesen his regards if I saw her again. He then seemed to dab his eyes. Darrell Williams was a strong man. He did not cry. Certainly not before he had shut me out of his flat without further ado. But I thought I heard a muffled sob as the door closed behind me. Perhaps it was just my imagination. It had been a long and dramatic day for us both.

VIII

My final stop for the day had to be Andreas Gullestad on the ground floor. He greeted me with his usual friendliness and offered me coffee and a wide selection of teas. However, his face darkened quickly once again when I said I had to ask a question about his father.

‘I should have realized that you would find out. It occurred to me after your last visit,’ he said, visibly agitated when I asked if it was definitely the case that he had never met Harald Olesen before moving in here. However, he quickly regained his composure.

‘I realized suddenly after the murder that my neighbour Harald Olesen must be the same Harald that my father talked about with such respect, and whom he counted as one of his close friends. In which case, I had met him a couple of times when I was a child, when he visited my father before the war. I should of course have phoned you straightaway to amend my statement, but I would rather not talk about any memories connected with my father – the old grief cuts through me like a knife every time I hear his name. I have no particularly good or bad memories of Harald Olesen’s visits to the lost paradise of my childhood. In fact, it was only after his murder that I remembered he had come. I certainly hope that you do not believe that I pushed myself up to the second floor in my wheelchair and shot him because he visited my father a couple of times when I was a boy?’

I assured him that of course I did not. But it did strike me that even this friendly man on the ground floor had withheld information several times and that he too was proving to be more complex and less likeable the more I got to know him.

I took a potshot and asked if he could remember any younger men in his father’s family or circle of friends who might possibly have worked with Harald Olesen during the war. Andreas Gullestad dutifully gave it some thought, but then shook his head apologetically. His father had been an only child and so had neither younger brothers nor nephews. And given that he himself was only a boy at the time, he could not remember any younger men who might fit that description from among his father’s staff or friends. The code name Deerfoot still meant nothing to him.

Andreas Gullestad apologized profusely that he could not help me more, and was as friendly as could be when I left him some minutes later. But I did note that I no longer trusted him. Which, depressingly, was the case with all the surviving residents of 25 Krebs’ Street, with the possible exception of the caretaker’s wife in the basement.

Once again I went to bed alone that evening with the feeling that we were getting closer and closer to the solution, but I also felt increasingly impatient. The murderer was still not in sight. It helped that the public thought that the case had been solved with the death of Konrad Jensen. But I could feel the strain of the seven-day investigation, and dearly hoped to be able to catch sight of the murderer on the eighth day. All ideas of taking a holiday over Easter this year were definitely off the cards, but the thought that there would be no newspapers for two days and fewer colleagues at work was a relief.

DAY EIGHT

A Disappearance – and a New Clue

I

On 11 April, Maundy Thursday, I enjoyed a good breakfast in peace, but the moment I got into work at nine o’clock, the drama started. At five past nine, the phone on my desk started to ring. At the other end, I heard the loud and determined voice of Supreme Court Justice Jesper Christopher Haraldsen, but to my enormous relief, he sounded unusually friendly.

‘Good morning, Detective Inspector. I thought I would just call to wish you a good Easter and to congratulate you on the swift conclusion of such an apparently complex murder case!’

I thanked him – and with a rising pulse waited for him to continue. I suspected that this was not the only reason that Jesper Christopher Haraldsen had interrupted his Easter holiday to phone me. And this promptly proved to be the case.

‘I, of course, also wanted to make sure that the case really has been solved, and to say that I am still available should you need any further advice. But when a convicted Nazi commits suicide and leaves behind a written confession in the very building where a Resistance hero has been found murdered, there is perhaps not much need for any further advice?’

Not only was my pulse evident now, but also my sweat. Following a lightning review of the situation, I decided to humour him a bit, but at the same time be diplomatic.

‘There is certainly no other suspect at the moment, but a number of very peculiar circumstances have come to light, and as a result of that, the investigation has not yet been closed.’

There was silence at the other end for a moment. Followed by the inevitable question – in a slightly sterner voice.

‘Well, I must say that sounds quite alarming, my young man. What sort of peculiar circumstances would merit a review of such compelling evidence? I do hope that this is in no way connected to the unfortunate coincidence that a representative of the American Embassy rents a flat in the same building?’

I sidestepped the question.

‘I hope that you, as a supreme court justice, will understand that I cannot go into details regarding the investigation at this point. But please rest assured that the option that the deceased Nazi was the murderer and therefore committed suicide is being thoroughly assessed. However, other crucial information has now come to light that means we must still keep all options open over the weekend, at least.’

Again there was a silence at the other end for a few seconds. Then he let me have it, in a voice that assailed my ear like a machine gun.

‘Well, then I certainly hope that there is at least another murder over Easter, or you may find that there is a new head of investigation after Easter.’

He slammed down the phone without giving me a chance to comment. I sat there paralysed for a moment. Then I rushed over to my boss’s office with unusual speed. Fortunately, he was in his office, and when I asked if it was possible to speak to him immediately, he was more than happy to do so. I jumped when the phone rang while we were sitting there and nodded in appreciation when he commented that he would not take any calls until we were finished.

I gave him a detailed account of the investigation and why I had chosen to continue it. He agreed with me and praised my discerning conclusions and my work so far. My boss told me he was relieved to hear me say that it was not likely that the American was involved in the murder, but fully supported my wish for him to remain in Norway until the case had been solved. We also agreed that for the moment it was probably best if the public and the rest of the force thought that the case had been closed following Konrad Jensen’s death, but that the investigation should continue to look for other potential murderers.

II

However, despite the support of my superior, it was hard to prevent the voice of Jesper Christopher Haraldsen from buzzing in my head for the next hour. At around half past eleven, I decided to phone Darrell Williams to try to establish whether or not he knew Haraldsen. The caretaker’s wife promptly answered the phone. I asked if all was well with her and she said that things could not be better. The money was due to be deposited in her account just after Easter. In the meantime, she was celebrating by planning how she was going to surprise her children and grandchildren with gifts.

The caretaker’s wife transferred me to Darrell Williams, but the phone just rang and rang. This made me feel uneasy. I called back the caretaker’s wife and asked her to go and ring on Darrell Williams’s doorbell. She did this and came back to say that there was no sign of life from inside the flat. Which was very odd, she said with audible anxiety in her voice. She had not seen the American leave the building, so if he was out, he must have left very early, or in the few minutes when she had not been at her post.

I said that I would ring again in half an hour and asked her in the meantime to go out and check whether there were any lights on in Darrell Williams’s flat. A nerve-tingling thirty minutes followed. When I rang back at twelve, the caretaker’s wife did not sound so happy anymore. She had now been out to have a look and the lights were on, but there was still no sign of life from Darrell Williams’s flat.