Hans Lahlum - The Human Flies

When I finally fell asleep around two o’clock in the morning, I could still see the nephew’s secretive face in my mind’s eye. All the same, I thought carefully about each of the others who would be there. The face of the ever-elusive Sara Sundqvist was the last I pictured before I dropped off. If nothing else, I would be able to establish on the tenth day of the investigation whether she had become involved in the murders by sheer misfortune or whether she was a particularly devious murderer.

Saturday, 13 April was not only the day before Easter; it was also the investigation’s tenth day. For me, it started like any other Saturday. I had a lie-in and ate breakfast on my own at around ten o’clock. By half past ten I was in my office and could to my relief confirm that nothing new or of any note had happened there. After a quick telephone call to 25 Krebs’ Street at eleven o’clock, I knew that all the residents were at home. The caretaker’s wife was also informed that Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew would be coming, and she promised to put out a table and a couple of chairs for them.

At a quarter past eleven, I left the main police station in an unmarked car. Patricia, dressed in a simple green dress, was sitting waiting for me in the hallway when I arrived at Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. For a moment I was afraid when I saw Professor Ragnar Borchmann towering beside her, but he gripped my hand enthusiastically and happily gave me leave to borrow his only daughter ‘for up to four hours’. As Patricia wheeled herself out in front of us, he commented in a hushed voice that he had not seen her so cheerful and focused since the accident.

Our journey got off to a slow start. Some of the streets we had to pass were blocked off in honour of one of Oslo’s more recent signs of spring: another demonstration against the war in Vietnam. This was not a particularly big or well-planned protest and was dominated by a group of around twenty to thirty angry students. Patricia watched them soulfully through the car window when we were finally able to pass. It struck me that I had no idea what she thought about the war in Vietnam or other major events. I could imagine her both opposing and supporting the war, and being a supporter of both the Conservative Party and the Socialist Party. But I found it hard to believe that she would not have strong opinions about the Vietnam War and Norwegian political parties.

Patricia and I were both affected by the solemnity of the moment, and by the fact that within a matter of hours we could expect to be face to face with an unusually calculating double murderer. She commented later that I had apparently asked three times in the course of the journey whether she was sitting comfortably, and twice said that spring was definitely here now. After which it was a great relief to her when I finally asked a more relevant question that had been bothering me all of the previous evening. It was in connection with her observation that each of the residents in Krebs’ Street were human flies. Based on the revelations of recent days, I could accept that the description was to a greater or lesser extent suited to the caretaker’s wife, the now dead Konrad Jensen, as well as to Darrell Williams, Kristian Lund and Sara Sundqvist. The description might also possibly fit Andreas Gullestad, given his father’s early death and his own accident. But I found it hard to see the fat cat’s daughter, Karen Lund, in this light.

Patricia had to agree with me in part, but she believed, all the same, that as Mrs Lund’s fate was so intertwined with that of her husband, she could also be seen as a human fly, by virtue of her marriage. She added that if Kristian Lund now proved to be the devious double murderer, it was impossible to imagine that his wife was not a conspirator. She would, in the first instance, have given him a false alibi for the murder of Harald Olesen. As for the murder of Konrad Jensen, Kristian Lund was apparently at work when the shot was fired. In which case, it must have been his wife who killed him. Unless he of course was in cahoots with another neighbour, she added without specifying anyone.

I nodded and acknowledged that there was still every reason to suspect all the residents. A minute later, we stopped outside their front door.

The caretaker’s wife welcomed us and shook my hand with great warmth. Not unexpectedly, our reception from Cecilia and Joachim Olesen was somewhat more restrained, but both of them were there, as promised. It was with some relief that I noted that Joachim had come without a bag of any kind and was dressed in a simple suit, so it would be hard to hide a gun. Cecilia Olesen had obviously put more time into preparing herself. She was beautifully made up and dressed in an elegant, if somewhat old-fashioned dress. I noticed that Patricia tried to hide a small smile when she saw her.

All three were taken by surprise when Patricia was wheeled in, but they greeted her with a friendly smile and I introduced her as my young secretary, Patricia Pettersen, and added that she was temporarily confined to a wheelchair as a result of a skiing accident. It must be said that Patricia had put considerable thought into the role. She had a clipboard, a thick notepad and five different-coloured pens in her lap, and dutifully took notes from the moment she was wheeled into 25 Krebs’ Street.

I asked the caretaker’s wife and Cecilia and Joachim Olesen to wait by the entrance and then wheeled Patricia into the lift and we went up to the first floor.

Patricia’s brief instruction on our way up was: ‘Just tell her that you know that she has lied and that she was given money by Harald Olesen, then ask if she has anything to add to her statement from the night of his murder. Now, this is important – always position my wheelchair just inside the door and you yourself stand or sit opposite the person you are talking to, if possible diagonally across from me,’ she added in a quiet voice, as the lift stopped.

I nodded and felt the tension percolating through my body. I suggested that Patricia should tap her pen on the pad twice when she wanted to move on to another flat. This time she nodded and immediately tapped her pad with her pen twice and smiled.

About thirty seconds later, we rang the doorbell of Flat 2A.

Sara Sundqvist was lightly made up and wearing a black dress that flattered rather than hid her bust. When she opened the door, she leaned over the threshold to give me a hug and said how happy she was to see me again. I wondered what Patricia was writing down at that moment and had to admit to myself that Sara’s demeanour was impressively relaxed if she was in constant fear of being revealed as a murderer. She was naturally rather taken aback when she saw Patricia, but immediately shook her hand when it was explained to her who Patricia was.

‘I have been to Sälen and spoken to the chief of police there, and apparently someone else has been there too…’ I started.

No more was needed for her front to fall and the tears to run. With a dramatic shrug, Sara Sundqvist threw open her hands and apologized for not telling me that she had been to Sälen. She was frightened that she would become a suspect if it was discovered that she knew about this episode from Harald Olesen’s past and had hoped that she would never be found out. She knew the story about Deerfoot and had tried, without success, to get Harald Olesen to tell her about him. She dearly wanted to meet Deerfoot if he was still alive, partly to thank him for having saved her life, and partly in the hope of finding out more about what happened to her parents. But Harald Olesen had dismissed the question and spoken in a way that might indicate that Deerfoot was dead. If Deerfoot was alive, she had no idea who he was or what he was called.