Inspired by his theories regarding American intelligence and old Nazis, I read the names of the other residents out to Bjørn Erik Svendsen and asked him whether he knew any of them from another context. He replied that he had already noted the names during one of his visits to Harald Olesen, but had never seen any of them anywhere else. He thought it was an ‘incredible coincidence’ that an American diplomat lived next door, but did not recognize his name from his source material. Nor had he ever heard Olesen say anything in particular about his neighbours. Svendsen had himself spoken only briefly to the caretaker and his wife in connection with some questions about Olesen’s activities during the war. The caretaker was very obviously an alcoholic and not in a good way, but had answered the questions with impressive clarity. The caretaker’s wife had found the situation awkward and had left the room shaking her head when her husband started to sniffle.
Svendsen had little to tell about Harald Olesen as a private person. Olesen had been devoted to his wife and had on several occasions mentioned that one of his greatest sorrows in life was that they had not been able to have children. His relationship with his siblings had been close, whereas his relationship with his niece and nephew seemed to be increasingly sporadic and strained. Olesen had once sighed when he spoke of them and said that, given his long career, surely he must deserve better-qualified heirs. However, he made no mention of this again, and Svendsen was not aware of any potential dramas in connection with the will.
The greatest surprise in the course of the conversation was when Svendsen me told that Harald Olesen had kept a regular diary in his later years. When asked where these diaries were now, he immediately produced two spiral-bound notebooks from his rucksack, marked ‘1963-4’ and ‘1965-6’, which he had borrowed in order to work on the biography. He added, apologetically, that there was not much to be gleaned from them regarding the murder. Harald Olesen had not taken any great chances in lending out his diaries from those years. His entries consisted of concise factual information about his everyday life. He wrote in a tidy hand about letters and telephone calls from old friends and acquaintances, and had made short notes about current affairs. His niece and nephew were mentioned in only a couple of places, and the neighbours barely at all.
Svendsen had read through the diaries again following the murder, but had found only one thing that might possibly be of relevance. Under the date ‘17 November 1966’, there was a brief note that was conspicuous in part due to the fact that Olesen did not write the full names of the people concerned, and in part due to the dramatic nature of the content: Unexpectedly bumped into S, accompanied by the ghastly N. S is ill and a shadow of what I remember from all those years ago, but still aroused strong memories. A very unsettling encounter.
I read the short entry four times and the feeling that this may be of great significance became more pronounced each time. Without any further indications of the time and circumstances of this meeting with S, it was difficult to know who it was and what this was about. Neither S nor N were mentioned anywhere else in the diaries, I heard Bjørn Erik Svendsen say. He immediately added that it would be interesting to see whether S or N was mentioned again in the most recent diary, which covered 1967 to 1968.
I was staring at the three mysterious sentences from 17 November 1966 and must have looked either very threatening or completely baffled when the significance of this new piece of information finally sank in. Bjørn Erik Svendsen certainly hurried to say that he should perhaps have mentioned it straightaway, but he had assumed it had been found when the flat was searched. He had on several occasions when he was visiting seen Harald Olesen leafing through a new diary marked ‘1967-8’, which he had refused to give to him along with the others. By way of explanation, he had said that he was still writing in the diary, and he needed to think hard about whether to divulge some of the information. Svendsen had seen the diary lying on the sitting-room table during one of his visits. When the diary was out, Olesen always kept an eye on it, but Svendsen had absolutely no idea where it was kept.
I replied truthfully that no trace of any such diary had been found in the flat. We now lacked not only the weapon with which the murder was carried out, but also a diary that might contain the solution to the murder mystery.
I asked Bjørn Erik Svendsen to leave the diaries with me and to wait by the reception. Reminding him that this was a murder investigation, I explained that he would have to wait there while I read the diaries. He expressed his full understanding and added that the murder mystery was of course of great relevance to his book, then left the room without further ado.
I believed the biographer when he said that the entry was the only thing of any interest in the two diaries and put them down on the desk in front of me. After twenty increasingly frustrating minutes of attempting to use my own grey cells, I reluctantly gave in and grabbed the phone. While I waited for an answer, I amused myself by wondering what Bjørn Erik Svendsen would have said if he knew that I was calling a direct line to the White House.
II
Patricia listened with silent concentration to my ten-minute briefing on the new information from Bjørn Erik Svendsen. She acknowledged the news of the mysterious diary entry and missing diary with a tut.
‘So, what would you advise me to do now?’ I asked.
This was followed by a tense ten-second silence and then a very short and clear recommendation.
‘I advise you to take Bjørn Erik Svendsen with you to Harald Olesen’s flat in 25 Krebs’ Street as soon as possible.’
This was fortunately followed up swiftly with some further instructions. It was not immediately obvious to me why I had to take Bjørn Erik Svendsen to 25 Krebs’ Street.
‘The diary may prove to be a vital source. There are two possibilities here. Either the murderer knew about the third book and has taken it or destroyed it there in the flat, which is perfectly plausible. Getting hold of the diary may in fact have been the motive for murdering Harald Olesen in the first place, if the murderer knew about the diary and that it contained something important. But Harald Olesen was obviously very concerned that the diary should not fall into the wrong hands, so it is also perfectly possible, and highly likely, that the murderer never even saw the diary, that he or she did not know of its existence and therefore did not look for it. In which case, the diary is still where Harald Olesen hid it in the flat.’
I made a feeble protest on behalf of the police.
‘Please do not completely underestimate us! We have searched the flat and would of course have acted immediately had we found a handwritten diary.’
Patricia had a ready answer.
‘Of course, I have absolute confidence in the police. But firstly, you had no idea that there was a diary to look for, and secondly, a diary is relatively easy to hide. Again there are two possibilities: Harald Olesen may have hidden it in a secret compartment in his bedside table or wardrobe or suchlike-’
I interrupted her with an indignant protest.
‘I would like to see such a compartment: we have knocked on and measured every wall in every room!’
Patricia still did not seem entirely convinced, but changed tack.
‘In that case, the question is whether you checked the best hiding place for a diary.’
She on purpose said no more, thereby forcing me to ask.
‘And where do you think is the best place to hide a diary?’
Her answer was followed by delighted laugher.
‘Why, in the bookshelf, of course. I should imagine that you made a list of all the book titles, but did any of you check that none of them contained a diary?’
I had to admit to myself that we had done neither, but I did not say a word, just made a mental note that we should look through the bookcases and the rest of the flat again, given the news of the missing diary. We agreed in all haste that this was what I should do and then go to see her at around seven. I spontaneously said ‘yes, please’ to a light supper. She asked me to take the diaries with me and any other papers that might be relevant, and to go and see the caretaker in hospital on the way. She then assured me that it would not be a problem if I was late: she had no plans to go anywhere today. I could still hear her slightly smug laughter ringing in my ears as I gathered up my papers and the diaries and headed for the door.