The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (4 page)

I did not find these personal and familial frustrations of any particular interest. So when Konrad Jensen stopped for breath, I took the chance to ask about his relationship with his neighbours.

‘Not much to tell there either. We pass in the hallway, say a few words about practical things. The caretaker and his wife of course know about my background from the war. They never mention it, but don’t say very much else either. Olesen must have known about it. He was already living here when I moved in, and had no doubt heard from one of his war cronies. There was never a confrontation, but there wasn’t any contact either. He never said a word to me, and I didn’t dare speak to him. He always seemed so scornful whenever we met in the hall. I have to admit I didn’t like Harald Olesen, but I had no reason to kill him. His death will just make things worse for me, especially if the murderer’s not caught quickly.’

He was silent for a few seconds, then ran quickly through the other flats. ‘The American on the second floor moved in quite recently, but he speaks good Norwegian and seems to be nice. I chat with him about sport and the like whenever I get the chance. The cripple is a polite man and always smiles and says hello, but seldom anything else. He’s been rich and smart all his life and so naturally is not interested in me. The couple on the first floor got married relatively recently and so still live in their own bubble. They’ve occasionally asked me to drive them somewhere when they need a taxi, to and from parties and things like that, but we haven’t really talked much then either. They’re young, with so much to look forward to and so many opportunities, and I’m an old man going round in worn circles to an untended grave.’

When I mentioned Sara Sundqvist, Konrad Jensen suddenly started to laugh, albeit a short and bitter laugh.

‘It’s ironic, really, isn’t it . . . given my background, that I should end up here two floors under a famous Resistance fighter and one floor below a Jewess. In a way, she’s even above me now. I don’t like it. But she’s very quiet and doesn’t cause much fuss or conflict.’

I had not heard or seen anything to indicate that Sara Sundqvist was Jewish and immediately asked if he was sure. I was treated to another burst of Konrad Jensen’s bitter laughter.

‘If there’s something I know more about in this world than driving cars, it’s how to recognize a Jew when I see one. You can see it in the nose and hair and eyes. I am absolutely certain that she is a Jew.’

Konrad Jensen was obviously not used to having an audience and was now on a roll. He tried to be quiet for a few moments, but then carried on.

‘I know it’s not wise to talk openly about this, but those of us who were in the NS were proved right when it came to Stalin and his Bolshevik friends. Even leading politicians in the Norwegian Labour Party admit that today. And one day we’ll be proved right about the Jews as well. I didn’t want the Jews to be killed; I just wanted them gone. It’s a good thing that they’ve got their own state on the other side of the world, and I hope that most of them will go there. It’s best for them, best for us all.’

He nodded at the ceiling and lowered his voice. ‘But to be fair, she doesn’t make much noise or cause any trouble for anyone. I don’t know if she has any Nordic blood in her veins as well – you’ll have to ask her about that yourself.’

This was followed by silence. He no doubt realized that I was not listening out of sympathy and the bitterness returned.

‘There’s not much more to be had for you here, unless you’re looking for a scapegoat rather than the murderer.’

Which was not the case, and I had the answers to all my questions for now, so I bid Konrad Jensen farewell as politely as I could. Once out the door, I immediately noted him down as the primary suspect.

However, I did then go back up to the first floor and knock on Sara Sundqvist’s door. She opened it just as cautiously and slowly as before, but her smile was broader when she saw me this time. I apologized and explained that I had forgotten to ask her about her family background. After pausing for a few seconds, she replied that her parents were Jews who lost their lives during the war. As far as she was aware, they had no other children, and she knew very little about the rest of her Jewish family. She had been fortunate enough to be adopted by a couple in Gothenburg who were teachers, and they brought her up together with their own two daughters.

It did not seem necessary to ask her for any more details at the moment. But I did somewhat reluctantly have to admit that Konrad Jensen was not entirely unreliable, and that Sara Sundqvist was of some interest to the murder investigation. And that the mystery of when Kristian Lund had in fact come home on the evening of the murder was becoming ever more intriguing.

VI

It took over a minute before Andreas Gullestad opened the door to Flat 1A. When it was finally opened, the man who looked up at me from his wheelchair was friendly and all smiles, and I was immediately shown into the sitting room with an open hand. Andreas Gullestad was a fair-haired man who gave his age as thirty-nine years old. His sedentary life had left him slightly overweight, which reinforced his natural jovial character. I guessed that he would be fairly tall if he could stand up. His voice was bright, and his vocabulary bore the hallmark of a cultured background. He did not appear to be overly shaken by the murder, just rather pleased to have a visitor.

‘Welcome to my humble abode, O honourable detective! I have been waiting for you to come and am more than happy to contribute what little I can to solving this frightful crime. Can I offer you some tea or coffee?’

He had set the table for two and had the water on the boil, so I said yes to a cup of tea. The choice of teas was generous, and very much in keeping with the atmosphere in the flat. Andreas Gullestad’s home was an oasis of colour and calm, with paintings on the walls, overflowing bookshelves, a television set and luxurious furnishings. Sitting comfortably on a cushion in his wheelchair, my host appeared to be reconciled with his fate. He was remarkably philosophical, even in relation to the ongoing murder investigation in the building.

Gullestad told me that his previous home had proved to be ‘somewhat impractical’ following a ‘very regrettable’ accident four years ago that left him paralysed from the waist down. And with a small, self-deprecating smile, he added: ‘I had never, not even in my worst nightmares, ever considered the possibility of living east of the river.’

Neverthless, he had taken to the flat instantly and had not since regretted buying it. It was important for him to have a ground-floor flat in a building with low thresholds and a lift, and what was more, he had been pleasantly surprised by how helpful everyone else was here. The deceased Harald Olesen had always been friendly and polite, and it was an honour indeed for someone who had been a child during the war to live in the same house as such an old hero from the Resistance. Gullestad could not imagine that anyone in the building was capable of murdering Olesen, and nor did he think that any of them would have the motive to do so. He believed that the murderer must somehow have managed to get in from outside, though he could not explain how.

Gullestad also mentioned that the caretaker was perhaps a little too fond of the drink, which obviously had a considerable effect on his wife. But when he was sober, the caretaker was a handy man, and his wife was always helpfulness itself. Darrell Williams was the most recent incomer. He had accepted an invitation to coffee and made a very ‘favourable’ impression. But being two floors down, Gullestad did not know much of what went on on the second floor. On the other hand, he had very good relations with the young couple on the first floor.

As far as Konrad Jensen was concerned, Gullestad was aware of his ‘deeply unfortunate’ affiliations during the war and wished to make it clear that he deplored them. But he was able to overlook these old sins as long as Jensen’s behaviour now gave no grounds for complaint. Jensen had almost certainly not had an easy time of it during the war, and seemed to be both lonely and disillusioned. All the same, Gullestad could not imagine that he was a cold-blooded murderer. The young Swedish lady had also accepted an invitation to coffee shortly after she had moved in last August, and had then, as later, been ‘utterly charming’.

Gullestad paused for a moment and sucked thoughtfully on a sugar lump. Then he added in a very quiet voice that ‘at the risk of being indiscreet’, he should perhaps mention something with regard to Miss Sundqvist that may be of relevance to the investigation. Although he had never seen her with a boyfriend, or heard her mention anyone, he was under the impression that there was a man in her life. Gullestad’s bedroom was directly under that of Sara Sundqvist, and the sounds he heard from there would indicate that she occasionally had ‘very enjoyable and lively visits’. He had only heard this in the afternoons between five and seven, never at night. So it would seem that Sara Sundqvist had an admirer who only visited her in the afternoon and did not stay the night.

Andreas Gullestad was swift to reply that he had no guns in the flat, and had not seen evidence of one in any of the other flats. But he sat deep in thought for a few moments in response to my question about the blue raincoat and then answered gravely: ‘I definitely did not see any blue raincoats in the building on the day of the murder, but there was a day last summer when I saw an unknown man here on the stairs in a large blue raincoat with a red scarf over his face.’

Naturally, I was extremely interested in this information and asked for further details. Gullestad concentrated hard for a minute or so before answering.

‘I am fairly sure that I saw a man in a blue raincoat here last year. It struck me as odd as it was nice weather that day, with no moisture in the air, and I speculated for a while who the mysterious man might be visiting. The exact date escapes me, but it may have been the Whitsun weekend. For a while I wondered if it was perhaps in connection with a carnival or some other festivity, but I’m afraid I don’t remember much more.’

I could not quite let this unexpected glimpse of the man in the raincoat go and asked if he was sure that it had been a man. Gullestad took a moment to reflect before he answered. He certainly seemed to be a conscientious and reflective witness.

‘I believe so, as the person seemed to be rather tall, but I would not like to swear to it. I only saw him in passing, and it is not always easy to know what a raincoat like that might be hiding.’

Andreas Gullestad told me that he himself was originally from a small place near Gjøvik in Oppland. And despite the early death of his father, he had had a very privileged childhood. Following his mother’s death when he was twenty-five, he had inherited his father’s fortune, which was so substantial that, if his consumption was moderate, he could live well on it for the rest of his life. He had deposited most of it in the bank and invested the rest in stocks, which thus far had provided a ‘very tidy’ profit. The accident that had left him disabled had of course been a shock and marked a dramatic change in his life, but it had, nonetheless, been less catastrophic for him than it might have been for many others. As there was no pressure to earn a living, he had previously studied a bit here and there in his twenties, and had otherwise lived a very pleasant life. With another small, self-deprecating smile, Andreas Gullestad commented: ‘And now I largely just sit here all day with the television, the wireless, my books and the newspapers. But sadly, that is also what I did in my previous flat, before the accident. The main difference is that these days I pay for someone else to do my shopping without feeling guilty.’

Before letting me go, Andreas Gullestad asked if it would be ‘acceptable’ for him to go to visit his sister in Gjøvik at the weekend, as planned. There were some ‘family matters’ that needed to be discussed, and his sister and niece were now no doubt concerned about him and keen to hear more about the situation. He assured me that he would return on Sunday afternoon and gave me a telephone number where he could be reached in the meantime. I saw no reason not to let him travel.

My visit to Andreas Gullestad’s flat left me with the impression that he was the least likely of the residents to have anything to do with the murder, but that he may still be hiding important information all the same, whether consciously or unconsciously. Of most interest was what he had told me about seeing the man in the blue raincoat, especially as he had also mentioned a red scarf without any prompting. I noted that other pertinent questions were the identity of Sara Sundqvist’s secret guest and how he managed to get in and out of the building unnoticed.

I immediately went down to the caretaker’s wife and asked her again about the blue raincoat, only this time I asked if she could recall having seen a person wearing such a garment in the building. The caretaker’s wife dutifully thought about it for a minute or so, then emphasized that she could not be certain, but that she may possibly have seen a man in a similar coat here last summer. In which case she had only seen him in passing in the hallway or on the stairs. She thought perhaps she was mistaken, as she had not seen anyone like that come in or go out. But she may of course have been out shopping or doing something else at the time.

Once again, I went and knocked on Sara Sundqvist’s door and explained that I had unfortunately forgotten to ask how often she had visitors. She replied that she had occasionally had friends round, but not for several weeks prior to the murder. She had seen less of her fellow students in recent weeks, as they all had exams approaching. She replied negatively to a direct question as to whether she had a fiancé or boyfriend, adding in a quiet voice: ‘In the eight months I have lived here, no one has ever stayed overnight.’ With the information from Andreas Gullestad fresh in my mind, I nodded my acceptance of the latter without actually believing the former. Sara Sundqvist’s elusive afternoon guest remained a minor mystery.

VII

The technical reports lay waiting on my desk back at the main police station, but as yet provided no answers. The pathologist could definitively lay to rest any theory that the gunshot came from another building. Harald Olesen had been killed by a single shot fired from a .45-calibre Colt revolver at close range. The bullet had passed through his heart, causing instant death. There was no indication that Olesen had been injured in any way before being shot. And according to the pathologist’s report, this could have happened at any time between eight o’clock and eleven o’clock, but that was of less interest, as the statements from all the neighbours gave us the exact time of a quarter past ten.