Hans Lahlum - The Human Flies

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.’