The Human Flies - [23]

‘So where was Mr Lund between eight o’clock and nine o’clock according to your second and more embarrassing theory? Could the young Miss Borchmann be as kind as to let the head of investigation know?’

My sharp tone made Patricia frown for a moment. Then she smiled disarmingly again, but still with a mischievous undertone. Suddenly, she was just like any other normal, gossipy eighteen-year-old girl on a school trip.

‘According to my second and more embarrassing theory, he was of course on the first floor. In the bedroom of Flat 2A, to be precise – on top of Miss Sara Sundqvist!’

She burst out laughing again, this time presumably at the expression on my face.

‘It fits suspiciously well, does it not? It would explain her mysterious lover, and the remarkable fact that he has never been seen by the caretaker’s wife, or anyone else for that matter. It would also explain why Kristian Lund stubbornly denies in front of his wife that he came back any earlier.’

Of course it fitted suspiciously well. Including the reaction of the caretaker’s wife, now that I thought of it. The only thing it did not explain was why I had failed to recognize the possibility myself. And why the caretaker’s wife had lied. Kristian Lund had an increasing number of awkward inconsistencies to explain, even though I still could not bring myself to see the anxious young father as a cold-blooded murderer.

In wrapping up, Patricia agreed that it would be prudent to inform the press of the change in the time of the murder and the story behind it on Sunday, once I had confronted the neighbours. She said that I was ‘right’ that it was a better idea to increase pressure on the murderer than to give a false impression of safety. Secretly, I was more worried about what people and the media might think or believe if more days were to pass without any visible breakthrough in the investigation.

On Saturday, 6 April 1968, I left the White House around six o’clock in the evening. In stark contrast to the situation some twenty-four hours earlier, I drove home that evening secure in the knowledge that Harald Olesen’s murderer would be caught and face punishment sooner or later.

Just before I left, however, I made an error of judgement that bothered me for the rest of the evening. As I got up, I thought that I should perhaps emphasize the seriousness of the case to Patricia.

‘I have been entirely open with you and trust that you will not abuse that. You must never mention the content of our conversations to another living soul, with the exception of your father perhaps, if necessary.’

She gave me the most injured look I have ever received from a woman – and that, sadly, says enough in itself. Then she added, in a bitterly grave voice: ‘But my dear Detective Inspector… who on earth would I tell anything to?’

Ashamed, I glanced around the large room in which she sat so visibly on her own among all her books. Then I mumbled an apology and said thank you, before following the perpetually silent maid from the room. By the time I crossed the threshold, Patricia had already taken the bookmark out of the book that was on top of the pile and was munching demonstratively on a carrot, without having deigned to say a word.

When I went to bed at the end of the third day of the investigation, I was far more optimistic about the future outlook of the case, influenced by my meeting with Patricia. But I was also aware that we were on the trail of a particularly cunning murderer and that the road to an eventual arrest might be long. I had no idea, however, that it would take a further six days of high drama that resembled a bizarre game of chess between Patricia and the murderer – without them even being in the same room or in direct contact.

DAY FOUR: The Residents Refine Their Memory

I

On Sunday, 7 April, my working day started at Krebs’ Street around ten o’clock. I had, however, phoned to warn of my arrival and said to the caretaker’s wife that I needed to speak to her. So there she was sitting dutifully at her post, even though it was early on a quiet Sunday morning. She waved and smiled as soon as she saw me, but already from a distance I thought I could detect some uncertainty and fear in her movements. As planned, I got straight to the point.

‘Giving false statements to the police in criminal cases is called perjury and is a serious crime that can result in a prison sentence or heavy fine.’

There was little doubt that this hit the mark. The caretaker’s wife stared at me, paralysed, her face chalk white and her jaw twitching. I carried on swiftly.

‘But, as there are as yet no official written statements in this case, and it has been a very demanding situation for you, we may be able to overlook a little confusion at the start, if you now give me a complete and true account of when the residents came home on the evening of the murder…’

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.’