I went into Konrad Jensen’s flat alone, with my service gun in my hand and all my senses on full alert. I noticed straightaway that the ceiling light was on, which was strange if he had gone out. But apart from the light, there was no evidence of anything suspicious in Konrad Jensen’s hallway. His shoes stood by the door, and his worn grey overcoat hung there on a hook. There was nothing else of any interest to see, and certainly no people.
It sounded like a thunderclap in the loaded silence when I shouted: ‘Are you there, Konrad Jensen?’ I could almost hear the constable and two neighbours jump outside the flat, but all remained quiet inside. Deathly quiet, it occurred to me.
Other than myself, there was not another living soul in the flat. But Konrad Jensen was there all the same. I saw him as soon as I went through the door into the living room. The light was on there too.
Konrad Jensen was slumped in his threadbare armchair by the coffee table. His eyes were closed, but the bullet wound between his eyes was very much open. His features had frozen into a twisted grimace when the bullet hit. Even in death, Konrad Jensen looked bitter about life.
It took no more than a glance to confirm that Konrad Jensen was dead. The bullet had gone straight through his head and was embedded in the back of the chair behind him. And I could confirm that he had been dead for quite some time when I gingerly touched his left hand. All human warmth had left him. His hand hung heavy and useless down the side of the chair. On the floor below lay a gun, which I quickly identified as a Kongsberg Colt.45. Everything fell into place, even before I spotted the BIC ballpoint and white paper on the table in front of him. The sheet had obviously been folded about two-thirds of the way up, but now it lay open in front of him, with the writing facing up. I read the letter with agitation and increasing relief.
The undersigned, Konrad Jensen, hereby confesses that it was I who shot and killed Harald Olesen last Thursday, in revenge for his involvement in the fight against Nazism during the war. I now regret my crime and have therefore ended my unworthy life rather than serving the sentence that could be expected following my imminent arrest. May the Almighty have mercy on my soul!
The text was written on a typewriter, but the signature, Konrad Jensen, was written in ink just below.
I nodded to myself, as I stood there alone in the flat with a dead man and a signed suicide note. It was a huge relief, but also strangely disappointing. The most obvious solution had in fact been the truth all along: the hero of the Resistance had fallen at the hands of an avenging small-time Nazi. All the creative and advanced theories that Patricia had mooted and that I had allowed myself to believe in had, despite their brilliance, been of no practical relevance to the case.
The circumstances surrounding Konrad Jensen’s death prevented me from feeling any sympathy for him. If anything, I was annoyed because I had been fooled long enough to allow him to commit suicide before an arrest. And I have to admit that I immediately started to think about how I would present it to the press and my superiors. On the positive side, the case had been solved and the investigation could be closed. The wild sidetrack involving the American Embassy could be buried now without further ado.
As I stood there lost in my own thoughts, it suddenly dawned on me that I was no longer alone in the room. PC Eriksen had come as far as the threshold to the living room, closely followed by the caretaker’s wife and Mrs Lund. A short distance behind came Andreas Gullestad in his wheelchair. I gave a friendly nod and held up the letter for them to see.
‘It was him! He has written a confession and then killed himself!’
There was a moment’s silence, and then the caretaker’s wife whispered: ‘Thank goodness for that!’ which immediately broke the mood.
PC Eriksen was the first to shake my hand, closely followed by the others. I was somewhat surprised by this positive reaction, but true to form, I played along with it. My attempts to say that it was not just thanks to me were, much to my relief, immediately dismissed.
‘Of course it is thanks to you,’ exclaimed Mrs Lund ardently. ‘I said to Kristian only yesterday, after you had been here, that we could expect an arrest soon. And Konrad Jensen must have realized that as well and so put an end to his life rather than be arrested. Because it was him you suspected all along, wasn’t it?’
I grasped this branch without it being too obvious and said something diplomatic about it never being good to make a hasty arrest in cases like this, and that we had indeed made some important breakthroughs in the investigation, and that Konrad Jensen had always been the prime suspect. The caretaker’s wife shed tears of relief that the murderer had been caught and they were all safe again. Both Andreas Gullestad and Mrs Lund nodded in agreement and said that none could have handled the case better and more professionally than I had done.
I got nervous for a moment when I saw Darrell Williams coming down the stairs. If he had heard about my set-to with the embassy counsellor earlier on in the day, it did not in any way affect his behaviour. He also spontaneously gave me his hand and congratulated me sincerely on the successful conclusion of the investigation. However, Sara Sundqvist’s reaction was an even greater relief. At first, she seemed confused, but then beamed when I repeated what she had already heard, that Konrad Jensen was dead and had confessed to the murder in a suicide note. In a rush of joy, she embraced me warmly. When I felt her soft body pressed against mine, I thought for a moment that perhaps I was getting too close to the residents. But as there were no journalists or photographers present, I allowed myself to be infected by their relief.
It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon by the time I returned to the station. My boss was waiting for me with flowers, and my colleagues more or less queued up to congratulate me. It was clear that, while it had not been obvious, the case had been an increasingly aggravated sore point for the rest of the station as well. The fact that the murderer had confessed in writing and then shot himself was, in the words of an overworked police lawyer, ‘the perfect solution’. And several of my colleagues also commented that the case had been solved with almost perfect timing, with one more newspaper edition to go before the Easter holidays. It started to dawn on me just how fortunate I had been, and that with the help of the statements from the residents of 25 Krebs’ Street, I could well benefit hugely from this case, both in terms of the newspapers and from my superiors.
The only thorn was my persisting anxiety that there may be further complications with the American Embassy, and I saw my opportunity to save face when I was invited into my boss’s office. I mentioned that one of the people who lived in the building was an employee of the American Embassy, and that I had made it clear to the embassy that he was in no way a suspect, but that until an arrest was made, he was requested to remain available for questioning as a witness. My visibly relieved boss immediately supported me in this, and added the American must surely understand that in such situations it was important to work with the police in allied countries. He thanked me for upholding the integrity of the force and for preventing any unnecessarily critical questions from the press. If anything more was said about it, I should just refer it on to him and demand that Americans in Norway comply with the murder investigation. He would have no problems in stating this to the national broadcasting services, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Norwegian press, should it be necessary.
There was nothing to cast a shadow on my joy after this. My boss and I congratulated each other a further three times on our excellent success, before I practically floated into my own office again.