Hans Lahlum - The Human Flies

I interrupted this unhappy train of thought to ask if she had any suggestions as to how we might finally solve the murder. To my relief, she carried on in a far more optimistic voice.

‘The problem that remains is that some of the neighbours in 25 Krebs’ Street saw something on the evening of the murder, or to be more precise someone, and for various reasons still do not want to tell us about it. We need to force the answers from them in order to eliminate potential murderers until we are left with only one possibility. And this is how we will do it: you will go there tomorrow, armed with your service gun and two sets of handcuffs. You will call me once you are there and I will tell you who to talk to first and what questions to ask. Either the answers will make it perfectly clear to you who the murderer is and you can then make an immediate arrest, or we will have to move on to the next flat with more questions. In which case, telephone me if you are in any doubt as to what you should do or what you should ask.’

I looked at her with scepticism.

‘How many flats will I have to visit before I find the murderer?’

Patricia shrugged apologetically.

‘In the worst case, five. They could all be housing a murderer, or at the very least someone who is hiding vital information.’

I was very glad that we were so close to catching the murderer in 25 Krebs’ Street, but the plan that Patricia proposed was less attractive. I suddenly thought of something that would be a vast improvement, and laughed in a jocular manner before I spoke.

‘That all sounds very complicated. It would be pretty hopeless if the head of investigation had to borrow a telephone to put a call through to an anonymous friend before making the next move. I accept the need to confront the various parties at the scene of the crime tomorrow, but we need to make one practical adjustment…’

Patricia looked at me warily. It was the first time I was ahead of her in the game and she seemed genuinely uncomfortable with the situation.

‘You have to come with me!’

The moment I said those words, a powerful shudder went through Patricia’s thin body. She sat staring at me from her wheelchair, not saying a word. I hurried on.

‘Not only is it the best solution, but also absolutely necessary. Various situations might arise where I simply cannot reach you in time by telephone. And what is more, it is entirely doable in practical terms. Andreas Gullestad manages to move around the building in his wheelchair, so why would you not be able to? We can give you a pen and paper and say that you are my secretary and have an injury. And just think how interesting it would be for you to be there when the case is concluded and to meet all the people you have spent so much time analysing over the past week…’

Patricia remained uncharacteristically silent in her wheelchair.

‘The fact is, it is very difficult to find a rational counterargument,’ she said in the end, with a serious face. Then her sardonic humour cut through and she laughed.

‘And I am not exactly spoilt for choice with invitations to do exciting things at the weekend anymore… All right, I will come with you!’

I spontaneously held out my hand before she had time to change her mind. Patricia’s hand was shaking, but was warm and full of enthusiasm. When I added that she should perhaps get her father’s permission first, she gave me a wry look and commented that ‘the fossil’ had only too often said that she should get out more. And in any case, he could no longer decide where she went and with whom. She did, however, promise to ‘let him know what he needs to know’.

Patricia insisted that I collect her myself, in an unmarked police car. In answer to my question as to why the latter was important, she chuckled and replied that the staff and neighbours would possibly celebrate and be only too happy to snap pictures of her being driven away in a police car. But then she switched in an instant and became deadly serious again.

‘And you must have two reliable armed officers posted by the outer doors tonight. I am still slightly unsure as to who the murderer is, but I am in no doubt that he or she is an exceptionally cold person who is capable of anything. And not only do we still not have the murderer, we do not have the murder weapon either…’

I nodded my consent.

The possibility that Joachim Olesen was the murderer still seemed the most plausible solution to me – except perhaps Sara Sundqvist, but I did not want to believe it was her. It worried me in every way that Patricia’s attention was so obviously focused on the building, even though that did not necessarily mean that the murderer was physically there.

‘The chance for a happy ending might perhaps increase if I asked Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew to come to 25 Krebs’ Street? I am sure that they could wait in the entrance or with the caretaker’s wife in her flat, in case we need to talk to them.’

For a moment Patricia looked confused. Then suddenly she burst out laughing again.

‘ Now I understand what you meant. A happy ending, what a brilliant way of putting it. By all means ask them. And who knows, some questions may crop up that they might be able to answer. And aesthetically, it does feel fitting that we do a Poirot and gather all the surviving parties together before the arrest.’

I felt that this minor success could indicate that the ever-secretive Patricia was thinking along the same lines as me and suspected the nephew. We were both in good spirits when we agreed that I should collect her at half past eleven, so that we would be ready to start at Krebs’ Street by midday at the latest.

On my way out, I was unable to contain myself and asked one final question.

‘Have you decided which flat we should start with tomorrow?’

The answer was what I had expected, but not what I had hoped for.

‘I think we should start by seeing what Sara Sundqvist has to say in her defence this time.’

She may have seen the disappointment on my face, for she continued briskly.

‘Much depends on what she can tell us, and what she wants to, but it is by no means certain that we will end there.’

I carried my hope with me out into the dark. I made a quick stop at the now quiet police station to make three brief telephone calls. The first was to Cecilia Olesen, who this time sounded far happier to hear my voice. She cheered up even more when I told her that Darrell Williams had returned and that we expected to close the case over the course of the weekend. That said, she immediately and almost enthusiastically agreed to my request to come to the scene of the crime at a quarter to twelve the next day.

I was of course more curious about her brother, Joachim Olesen. His voice was measured, but by no means eager. I had a strong feeling that I could now see the murderer’s face clearly for the first time when he held back and said that he had already promised to prepare a balance sheet for the ministry on Saturday. He was silent for a while when I emphasized that it would be to everyone’s advantage if he was available for questioning in the final stages of the investigation. He gave in with a quiet sigh and said that in that case he would of course make himself available for the police.

The final telephone call was to the caretaker’s wife, who told me that all was peaceful in the building. She promised to be waiting with the key to each flat at a quarter to twelve, and to be at her post early to make sure that all the residents were at home.

In the end, I made a fourth call and ordered a constable to keep an eye on Joachim Olesen’s flat, and to follow him should he go out before he was due to meet us. I did not want to be missing a key witness in the grand finale of my first major murder investigation – and especially not the one who was my prime suspect.