The Human Flies - [26]

I thought to myself that the class war was still alive and kicking, at least in this basement flat in Torshov. And that the more I learned about the residents, the less relations on the stairs were what they seemed. The caretaker’s wife and her ‘absent’ husband could also be far more significant players than I had at first assumed.

The caretaker’s wife smiled sadly when I said that as a matter of procedure, I would have to see all the residents’ bank books, including hers. She got up heavily and pulled a worn red post-office savings book out from a drawer and handed it to me.

‘There is not much to brag about there for a lifetime’s savings, but it is more than I had when Anton was still at home,’ she said, with a tired, tight smile.

I had to agree with her after a quick check. According to her post-office savings book, the caretaker’s wife from the basement had forty-eight kroner in her account, and that really was not a lot to boast about for a hard-working life. All the same, she had managed to save what little she could over the past few months. Five months previously, her balance had been four kroner. Wherever the 250,000 kroner that had disappeared from Harald Olesen’s account in the past year had gone, it certainly was not concealed in this savings account.

I had thought of going up to the Lunds to ask a few questions and then on to Sara Sundqvist, but the caretaker’s wife had noted that Kristian Lund had driven to work around nine, after ringing his secretary and asking her to meet him there, even though it was Sunday. On his way out, he had commented that he was behind with the stocktake and needed some time to himself to think. After a hasty consultation with myself, I decided that Kristian Lund was the next person I should speak to. So I asked the caretaker’s wife to phone him at work. I told him in brief that I had to talk to him as soon as possible, and it would perhaps be just as easy if I came to see him at the sports shop. There was silence on the other end of the line before he took the hint and replied that that would be fine. I told him I would be there in about a quarter of an hour, and he assured me that his secretary would keep an eye out for me and open the door.

II

The sports shop where Kristian Lund was manager was airy and modern, with double doors and a large display window facing onto a well-frequented street. It crossed my mind that a position as manager here was no doubt well paid and a good springboard for furthering a career in business, but I did not have time to reflect on this. Kristian Lund’s secretary turned out to be a petite blonde of about twenty-five and appeared at the door within seconds. Her body was slim and firm, as was the hand that she held out when she told me brightly that her name was Elise Remmen and that ‘our darling shop manager’ was waiting for me in his office. I followed her shapely back through the shop and down a long corridor of office doors. Elise Remmen enthused that the sports business was on the offensive and that this chain was leading the competition, so several other shops had recently moved their administration here.

On this Sunday, however, it was only in the shop manager’s office that the light was on and the door was open.

Kristian Lund stood waiting with his hand held out over the desk. I struggled to recognize him at first. Secure in his own work environment and with the murder now a few days past, he suddenly gave the impression of being a well-built, relaxed and solid man I could trust. Had it not been for the fact that I had met him before – and had he not been caught in the act of lying.

Kristian Lund held his mask well while his irritatingly nice secretary was in the room. She asked whether I would like a coffee or a tea and smiled so invitingly that I almost said yes. Kristian Lund then informed his secretary in a loud, clear voice that this was simply a matter of routine questions in connection with the murder of his neighbour and asked her to close the door behind her and carry on with the stocktake. She chirped ‘of course’ and flew out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.

As soon as we were alone, Kristian Lund changed character. His eyes became sharper and his movements more tense. This reinforced my impression that he was quite the human chameleon, with a talent for changing his appearance according to the circumstances.

Neither of us wanted to start the conversation, so we each sat there contemplating the other for a couple of minutes. Kristian Lund fished out a cigarette and lit it. It was like a fencing duel in which neither of us wanted to make the first advance, though one of us would have to eventually.

‘So, how can I help you today?’ he asked, in the end.

I instantly took the opportunity to launch a frontal attack. ‘First of all, I would like to know why you lied about your mother when we last spoke.’

A twitch rippled across Kristian Lund’s face. Then he shook his head a couple of times.

‘Hmm, lied… Well, perhaps I didn’t tell you all that I should have done. I realized that afterwards, that I should have mentioned that she was a member of the NS and was sentenced for treason after the war. A good detective such as yourself would of course find that out. But I didn’t think that my mother’s views during the war had anything to do with the murder case, which seemed complicated enough as it was. And what is more, I am fed up with the fact that I, even after my mother’s death, have to answer for things she did in her youth. I have tried to separate my life from it, and that has not always been easy!’