The Human Flies - [8]

My next stop was again the caretaker’s wife at her post by the front entrance. She furrowed her brow and insisted that ‘Kristian did not come home before nine o’clock yesterday evening.’ Her writing was absolutely clear with regard to the time, and she had jotted down the residents’ names in the order that they came home. ‘If Kristian came back before Darrell Williams and Konrad Jensen, then it’s strange that I wrote his name on the line below them,’ said the caretaker’s wife. I had to admit that that sounded reasonable. And furthermore, the caretaker’s wife had logged the telephone call mentioned by Mrs Lund when Kristian Lund called to say he would not be home until around nine.

When I looked at the caretaker’s wife’s neat and simple list, I found it hard to believe that she might have made a mistake. But there seemed to be no reason to doubt that Darrell Williams had both seen and greeted Kristian Lund by the entrance an hour earlier. And so the Lunds were not struck from my list of suspects either.

V

More drama lay in store in the left-hand flat on the ground floor. Konrad Jensen was a short, middle-aged man dressed in a red sweater and gaberdine trousers. He confirmed that he worked as a taxi driver and had his papers at the ready, which showed that he owned the older Peugeot model with a taxi light that was parked on the street outside. Konrad Jensen informed me that he had lived in his flat since 1948, and that, as he was unmarried and had no children, he had lived alone all his adult life.

Konrad Jensen’s hair was turning from black to grey. And in the course of our conversation, his unshaven face also seemed to turn from frustration to despair. His answers got shorter and shorter, and he became increasingly morose in response to my routine questions. Yes, he had definitely come home from work at eight o’clock, a few steps behind Kristian Lund and Darrell Williams. Yes, he was certain that Kristian Lund had gone into the building just before him. Yes, he had been standing by the stairs discussing a football match with the American at a quarter past ten when they heard the gunshot on the second floor. And yes, the two of them had immediately run upstairs and waited outside the door. Yes, Kristian Lund, the caretaker’s wife and Andreas Gullestad had also come up in the course of the next couple of minutes. No, he had never seen a blue raincoat here in 25 Krebs’ Street.

Then all of a sudden he mustered the courage to raise his voice a little.

‘I might as well tell you myself because it will come out sooner or later all the same. I supported the Nazis and was a member of the NS during the war, and served a six-month sentence for it from 1945 to 1946. I joined the party before the war and worked as a driver for the Germans after 9 April 1940. I’ve never denied any of it. But that is the extent of my crimes. I’ve never amounted to anything much, for better or worse.’

As is only reasonable, I looked at him in a new, more critical light.

He added hastily: ‘I never met Harald Olesen during or after the war, and I have nothing whatsoever to do with his death. In fact, his death is the worst thing that could happen to me.’

Then, after a short pause for thought, he carried on in his slow, morose manner: ‘Everyone will automatically suspect me. It won’t take many days before the papers write that I’m a Nazi and then I’ll be a moving target. I’ve struggled with that ever since I got out of prison. I’ve had to change my name twice already, from Konrad Hansen to Konrad Pedersen and then to Konrad Jensen. But there’s always someone who knows someone who knows and I always end up being called “Konrad Quisling”. There’s still people who won’t get in my taxi because they’ve heard I was in the NS, but that’s happened less and less over the years. Now it will all get worse again.’

Konrad Jensen got up slowly from the sofa. He went over to the window and pointed down a side street. ‘That’s my car over there. Not new, and wasn’t the best in the world when he was new either, but he’s still working, and I know him better than any person. My car has been my most loyal friend. I know it’s childish, but I like to call my car Petter, after a friend I had when I was a lad. Petter Peugeot and Konrad Jensen, a couple of wrecks that have got old together and know the streets of Oslo better than most.’

His face was bitter when he continued. ‘I turned fifty in February, but celebrated on my own, a modest meal in a restaurant. I don’t want anything to do with the old NS people, and it’s not easy to make other friends. My mother and father died a long time ago, and I don’t have much contact with my brother and sister. I last heard from my brother in 1940, when he’d borrowed money at an exorbitant rate so he could pay back a loan I’d given him. My sister sent a card for my fiftieth birthday that contained all of seven words and came four days late!’

I did not find these personal and familial frustrations of any particular interest. So when Konrad Jensen stopped for breath, I took the chance to ask about his relationship with his neighbours.