The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) (13 page)

‘Given the rise in prices, most of that will now go on a new car. So there goes my dream of watching the football on television one day,’ he added with a heavy sigh.

The question of what Konrad Jensen was actually doing out in the hallway when he met Darrell Williams on the evening of the murder was apparently more complicated. He chewed his lip before finally answering.

‘Nothing at all. I just popped out into the hall because I saw through the window that the American was coming in and hoped that he would stop to chat about the football if I was there. Pathetic perhaps, but true.’

And I believed him. Konrad Jensen was a sorry figure of a man, but he told the truth – as far as I could tell thus far.

Then suddenly he became bashful and hesitated a few times before he said something that I had not expected in the least.

‘When you asked if I had met Harald Olesen during the war or earlier . . . I may possibly have answered incorrectly.’

I fixed him with gimlet eyes. He held up his hands in defence.

‘It was through no fault of my own. I thought you wouldn’t believe me if I told you what I saw, and it’s hard to be certain. It might sound strange, but I thought you would just laugh.’

I had started to get used to the fact that Konrad Jensen both thought and spoke slowly and awkwardly, but once again he came round to the matter at hand without prompting.

‘I said that I had never met Harald Olesen during the war, which is true, but I think that I did meet him once just before the war. And if that is the case, it was at an NS meeting, of all places.’

This time his pause for thought was a sore test of my patience. He was absolutely right: it did sound rather odd.

‘Or to be precise, outside an NS meeting. There was a party meeting in Asker in the summer of 1939 at which Quisling himself spoke, and I was there, loyal as ever, you see. An unusually attractive blonde woman a few years older than me was standing in front of me in the queue, on her own. So of course I took the chance to go in right behind her and sat down next to her. Tried to chat to her before the speech, but only got short, disinterested replies. I understood only too well that her mind was set on another and that I was no great temptation, in any case. All the same, I followed her out in the hope that I might be able to catch the same bus. But of course I didn’t get the chance. She was picked up right outside by a somewhat older man in a large car. I remember thinking enviously that there was someone who had everything I wanted in life: a big, fast car and a beautiful young blonde. I only caught a glimpse of him through the car window. But when I saw pictures of Harald Olesen in the newspapers after the war, I immediately thought, Crikey – that’s the same man who picked up the beautiful young woman from the NS meeting. And I had the same thought a few years later when I first met him here, on the stairs.’

I listened to the incredible story with growing bewilderment. Konrad Jensen gave a deprecating shrug when he had finished.

‘I said it was strange, and for many years I refused to believe it myself. I’ve never mentioned it to anyone before now. But no matter how strange it sounds, I am more or less certain that it was in fact Harald Olesen behind the wheel in the car. And then when you appeared and asked if I had ever met him before, I thought that I should mention it to you.’

I nodded in agreement.

‘You were absolutely right to mention it, and I take it very seriously indeed. But it would be almost impossible to prove or disprove now – unless you have a name for this woman.’

He shook his heavy head.

‘No – unfortunately, I have no idea what she was called. I’ve never seen her again, before or after, or I’m sure I would have remembered. Thought I knew most of the young NS members in Oslo: there were not many of us at the time.’

‘What about the car – do you remember anything about it?’

Konrad Jensen lit up for a moment.

‘Yes, I knew all about cars, even back then. It was a large and quite new black Volvo. I’m pretty sure it was a 1932 or 1933 model. My greatest dream was to be able to buy something like that at some point.’

As I was leaving, he added: ‘I think you can strike off the caretaker’s wife and the cripple. In addition to myself, of course. Not many left then if the murderer lives in the building. I’d put my money on the Jewess, and then the American – even though I like talking to him about the football. But it’s really not easy to say, so you’ve got a hard job ahead of you.’

I certainly agreed with the latter, if not necessarily the former. I no longer had a clear main suspect, and Konrad Jensen seemed to be falling down the list.

V

Darrell Williams filled the entire doorway. His smile was as broad and his handshake as carefree as the last time we met. But even as I crossed the threshold, I had the feeling that this would be a more contentious visit. I had jotted down a few important questions that I assumed would prove a critical test of the American’s diplomacy skills.

The story about the stereo player seemed to make less of an impression on him than on the other residents. He praised me for having uncovered such a cunning murder plan, but added that he had heard of similar sophisticated plots in the USA. Quite apart from the fact that he lacked a motive and a weapon, he admitted with a disarming smile that he too was now a potential murderer. He had, as the caretaker’s wife had noted, come home at around eight and had sat alone in his flat with a book until five to ten, when he had gone for a short evening stroll through the quiet streets of Oslo, and on his way back in had stopped to discuss the football results with Konrad Jensen. He had not seen anyone other than Konrad Jensen out in the hallway that evening until they were outside Harald Olesen’s locked door and the other neighbours came running.

So far, the conversation was pleasant. However, when I asked whether his Norwegian girlfriend from 1945 to 1948 had a name, Darrell Williams stiffened.

‘Well, of course she did,’ he said, without a hint of a smile. ‘But I have no idea whether she still has the same name and have no intention of looking her up. I have nothing to do with this murder and cannot see what my sweetheart from the war might have to do with it either.’

I said that I would be grateful to know her name all the same, before drawing any conclusions. He replied curtly that he did not want to give it to me – at least, not here and now.

The conversation then went from bad to worse. After the question about his girlfriend, Darrell Williams was on his guard, even before I asked about his bank account. He had no doubt that it was a routine question that we asked everyone and emphasized that he had nothing to hide personally. However, he did find it ‘very uncomfortable’ and, following a brief pause for thought, said that he would have to discuss it with the ambassador before he could possibly give me his bank books. It could otherwise create a precedent, the consequences of which were hard to foresee. I attempted a witty reply, saying that the practical consequences would hardly be significant if Americans in Oslo only had to give access to their bank accounts in the event that a Norwegian Resistance hero was murdered in the same building. But there was definitely no place for humour in our conversation now; he shook his head in agitation without so much as a twitch of the mouth.

I did not expect to get an answer to any more questions, but finished my list as planned all the same. First, I asked whether he was aware of the activities of an American intelligence organization called the OSS in Norway and other countries during the war, which later went on to become part of a new American intelligence organization called the CIA. Darrell Williams’s eyes immediately darkened. He straightened himself up in the armchair and replied that as a diplomat with full security clearance, he of course knew of the organizations and their contribution to the fight against communism. My follow-up question as to whether he himself had been involved with either of the organizations prompted a monotone one-sentence reply that embassy staff were obviously instructed to give in response to this kind of question regarding their work. ‘Neither confirm nor deny,’ he said.

I had no answers as to whether Darrell Williams was in any way connected to the murder or not, but I did now know that he had another less pleasant face than the one I had seen on my first visit. He sat in the armchair focused and on guard for the remainder of the conversation. It occurred me that, despite his size, he reminded me less and less of a bear and increasingly of a tiger preparing to pounce. When I asked whether it was usual for the embassy to accommodate staff in flats in Torshov, Darrell Williams replied that he had not heard of any other cases, but that he was no expert in the embassy’s accommodation policy and there were doubtless many factors to be taken into consideration. He had been offered this flat and had no objections as he found both the standard and location acceptable.

The two final and most critical questions remained. Darrell Williams was now so tense that I was mentally prepared for him to leap up at any moment. As a precaution, I inched my chair away from him before I dropped the bomb.

‘Have you ever killed anyone?’

Darrell Williams remained seated, but his eyes bored into me for several seconds. I was certain that he would refuse to answer, in accordance with some diplomatic law or another, but having given it some thought, he answered with impressive composure.

‘That is a personal question that does not involve anyone else, so I will gladly answer it. As a young soldier, I volunteered to serve at one of the front lines as we advanced towards Paris in the summer of 1944, following the Normandy landings. I can clearly remember the faces of two people that I know I killed. One of them was a young, fair German soldier, the other a dark-haired young Frenchwoman. I will never forget their faces, but I don’t see them as often as I used to now and can live with it. They both had a swastika on their sleeve, and both had been given the chance to surrender. We were fighting in the service of our country, putting our own lives on the line in order to liberate France and the other occupied countries from the tyranny of Nazism. I have never regretted taking part.’

He sat quietly for a moment before continuing.

‘They are the two that I know of. We were involved in countless chaotic exchanges of fire that left many people dead, so I can’t promise that there were no others. But it was another time in another country, during the bloodiest war in history. I have not killed anyone since the war, and I have never killed a Norwegian.’

‘But if it was in the service of your country and for a good cause, might you also kill someone in Norway?’

Darrell Williams sat in silence again. A pensive expression stole over his face before he answered.

‘I realize that it would not be believable were I to say no, as I am still an officer in the service of my country, as I was back then. But I repeat that I have never received any such orders after the war, and have no idea as to who might have murdered Harald Olesen.’

He looked me straight in the eye when he said this and I was inclined to believe him. He too would have to be added to the list of people who I did not think had killed Harald Olesen, but who may have done it all the same. The list was starting to get quite long.

Darrell Williams followed me out and then made an unexpected conciliatory move out in the hall. He commented that this was not an easy situation for anyone. I was undoubtedly under tremendous pressure following the mysterious murder of a well-known hero from the Resistance, and he was in service on another country’s territory and had to adhere to strict protocol. Given that, he would of course do whatever he could to help solve the murder. If I gave him a couple of days, he would check with his superiors and hoped that he would then be able to answer more of my questions. I enquired, almost jokingly, whether his ‘superiors’ meant the ‘ambassador’. Darrell Williams answered in the same tone that his ‘superiors’ for the moment meant his ‘superiors’. We shook hands and were almost friends again. He was right, of course. This was not an easy situation, either for me or for anyone else in the building. By now it was four o’clock and I still had one more person to visit.

VI

Andreas Gullestad had obviously returned home on Sunday afternoon as planned. He beamed up at me when the door eventually opened. I found myself wondering whether he was simply like that or whether another less friendly face lurked behind this jovial mask. And I intended to test that now, as soon as we were sitting comfortably in the sitting room with cups of tea in our hands. We started with a chat about his trip. He had had a pleasant visit to his childhood stamping grounds and thanked me once again for allowing him to go.

Andreas Gullestad was also astonished by both my astuteness and the murderer’s cunning when I presented him with the secret of the stereo. He ‘unfortunately’ had to confess that he too had been alone in his flat from eight until a quarter past ten on the evening of the murder, and given the adjusted time of murder, he could no longer be struck from the list of potential murderers either. He had nothing new or exciting to tell about his neighbours’ movements out in the hallway.

As to the question of money, he replied without hesitation that he had nothing to hide. He pulled out two bank books and a tax return from his desk, which confirmed his total wealth to be 800,000 kroner. He informed me that he had inherited this from his parents. They had left him both money and woodland, which he had got a favourable price for later. Most of the money was now safely deposited in an account, and the rest had been invested in stocks. He had spent some time on his investments and the shares had so far given such a favourable return that he had not needed to use any of the interest on his bank accounts to cover his living costs. The flat was paid for, and his daily expenses were not high.

When I mentioned his name, he immediately threw up his hands. He had realized after my last visit that he should have mentioned it, but had not telephoned as he did not think that it was of such great relevance to the investigation. The change in name from Ivar Storskog to Andreas Gullestad was linked to the fact that he was now handicapped. He told me that four years ago he had been ‘regrettably careless’ when stepping out onto a pedestrian crossing and had been knocked down by a young driver. The injuries were not life-threatening, but as a result of a spinal injury, he was now dependent on a wheelchair. He had accepted his lot with grace, but wanted to make a clean break from his previous life. He fortunately did not have to rely on government handouts, as he had money enough. He had decided it was a suitable time to change his name and had settled on his mother’s maiden name, Gullestad. He was christened Ivar Andreas and had often been called Andreas by his mother and sister, so the change in his first name was not so dramatic.