The Human Flies - [17]

‘Nothing has interested Patricia more in recent years than unsolved crimes. She has read dozens of books on the history of crime, and at least a hundred detective novels. She has on more than one occasion predicted the outcome of big criminal cases on the basis of what she has read in the papers. She is particularly interested in the murder in Krebs’ Street. Partly because Harald Olesen was a friend of the family and partly because of the extraordinary circumstances surrounding the case. She has questions and comments that I cannot answer – including an entirely plausible solution as to how the murderer managed to leave the flat. But for all I know, it is perfectly possible that you and your colleagues have solved the mystery already and will shortly be making an arrest…’

He looked at me in anticipation. I tried to shake my head without appearing to be desperate.

‘In that case, I would be immensely grateful if you could discuss the case with Patricia for a short while, in all confidentiality of course. It need not take more than fifteen minutes of your time, and could be of considerable assistance.’

I thought quietly to myself that perhaps mandatory limits should be introduced for how highly a father could praise his child, but by now my curiosity about young Patricia and her world had been piqued. And I was no less curious as to how she had solved the mystery of the murderer’s disappearance, while I had found no solution. So I gave a friendly smile and replied that I would be more than happy to set aside fifteen minutes or so in all confidentiality to test the theory.

Professor Borchmann smiled, pressed my hand and, without further ado, rang a bell. A young, blonde maid in her twenties appeared a few seconds later. ‘Please show my guest into Miss Patricia Louise in the library straightaway,’ the professor said. Then he turned back to the paperwork on his desk with characteristic efficiency.

IV

Patricia Louise Isabelle Elizabeth Borchmann now lived in a tidy and serene little kingdom one storey above and a garden away from a grey and busy street in Oslo. She was sitting waiting at a table set for two, in the middle of a room that was larger than many of the gymnasiums that I have been in, surrounded by more books than in all the private libraries I have ever seen.

Young Patricia was in no way physically impressive. I guessed she would be a good head shorter than me if she could stand up, and her body was so slight that she could barely weigh more than seven stone. The family likeness with her father was undeniable. It was there in the black hair, but more than anything in her stern face and unwavering gaze. I couldn’t recall having seen a young girl with such a strong face – or any woman, for that matter.

As if by some unspoken agreement, we did not shake hands. I just nodded, and she pointed brusquely to a large armchair directly opposite her. She herself was sitting in her wheelchair, with a television set, as well as a wireless and stereo player, within reach. The table between us was large and obviously necessary. To her left was a telephone of the very latest model. In front of her, there were three ballpoint pens and a notebook, as well as a pile of at least six of that day’s newspapers. Judging by the selection of papers, Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann was open-minded and non-party political: she read everything from the reactionary Morgenbladet to the communist rag Friheten. On the right-hand side of the table lay three books, with bookmarks. The one on top was a French book, the title of which I could not understand, the one in the middle appeared to be a university textbook on sociology, and the one on the bottom was a collection of short stories in English by Stanley Ellin, of whom I had never heard. There was a large jug of water in the middle of the table, as well as a pot of coffee and a pot of tea.

‘Welcome. I am extremely grateful that you can give me a few minutes of your time. Do you have any particular preference when it comes to refreshment?’

I swiftly declined.

‘In that case, that is all for now, Benedikte. I will ring should there be anything else.’

The maid bobbed a silent curtsy and quickly retired. Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann was a lady of principles and discretion. She did not say a word until we were alone in the room. Then, like her father, she got straight to the point.

‘I don’t want to waste any more of your undoubtedly precious time than necessary. The picture given in the papers of the residents of the building is somewhat incomplete, so if I am to say anything of any value, I may need to be updated. The newspapers all mention the unsolved mystery of how the murderer could escape the flat undetected. The windows were closed and locked from the inside, and there were no broken panes to indicate that the shot came from outside. The door has a snib lock, which means that the murderer could have left the flat and locked the door behind him. But the other residents were at the door so soon after the shot that no one could have escaped that way unnoticed. Is that, in brief, a fair description of the mystery as to how the murder was committed? And is it still an unsolved problem for you and the investigation?’