Patricia sighed again twice and continued in a resigned voice.
‘I do not think we are going to get any further tonight. You think about it and do what you believe is best. But do at least make the checks we have talked about, and give me twenty-four hours more before closing the case. You do not need to do any more than that for the moment. There is no need for extra security any longer. The murderer feels safe now and will not do anything that might risk exposure.’
I nodded. I felt a deep sympathy for Patricia, who, despite her brilliant reasoning, might still find that the case was closed without a murderer being arrested. Nevertheless, she had been able to convince me that things were not so clear-cut as I and the other neighbours had believed when we found Konrad Jensen. There were still several questions that screamed for answers, and I did not know what I would say should some critical journalist ask them.
When I commented that we had at least solved the mystery of the missing money from Harald Olesen’s account, Patricia remarked pensively that there was still an unsolved mystery. It was clear that most of the money had been paid to Kristian Lund, but if he had received two payments of 100,000, a total of 50,000 was still missing.
We called it a day at around seven o’clock, in a tense and sombre mood. I promised her that I would ponder the case until tomorrow and would as far as possible check the things that she had mentioned. I also promised to go to the reading of Harald Olesen’s will. Naturally, I was very curious as to what was in the will, having read Harald Olesen’s diary. She said goodbye without so much as a smile. It was clear that the day’s events had made an impression on her. A gnawing thought at the back of my mind was starting to bother me. If Konrad Jensen really had been murdered this morning, it was reasonable to assume that his life could have been saved if I had ordered increased security yesterday.
As I stood in the doorway, ready to leave, Patricia suddenly laughed again, cynically. I looked at her in surprise.
‘I’m sorry – another murder is not funny at all, but it really is quite a murder case, when we still have Konrad Jensen as a prime suspect after he himself has been shot!’
I smiled sheepishly and gave her the last word. So our ways parted on a relatively jolly note after all, even though it was black humour. On the way out, I noticed that the four Ellis books that I had seen in Patricia’s bookshelves the evening before had now been discreetly replaced by a new three-volume work on British politics in the twentieth century.
VIII
I stood undecided outside the White House for a moment. In the end, I drove to the main police station. Three journalists surged forward the minute I got out of the car. They followed me in, furiously taking down notes. I confirmed in brief that one of the residents, who had previously been convicted during the treason trials after the war, had been found dead in his flat. A.45-calibre revolver and a signed suicide note, in which he confessed to the murder of Harald Olesen, were found by the body. I then added that there were still some technical examinations to be carried out and a few details to be clarified, but there was much to indicate that the case was closed. One of the journalists asked if I could confirm something that one of the other residents had said earlier in the day, that it would seem that the murderer had killed himself because he realized that there had been important breakthroughs in the investigation and an arrest was imminent. I emphasized that one always had to be careful when speculating about the reasons for suicide, but that I could confirm that the investigation had made some major breakthroughs and that the deceased had been one of the main suspects from the start.
I waited with a pounding heart for the critical questions that were never asked. All three congratulated me on solving the murder and assured me that the story would be given good and very favourable coverage in the morning papers. One of them jokingly suggested ‘K2 Scales New Heights’ as a possible headline. Back in my office, I composed a press release, the content of which was more or less what I had told the journalists.
The ballistics expert had gone home for the day. I did, however, manage to speak to him on the phone and pointed out that even though the case now seemed to be cut and dried, the gun from Konrad Jensen’s flat should be examined in relation to the bullet that was found there and the bullet from Harald Olesen’s flat. He agreed with me and promised to see to it in the morning. He also congratulated me on a successful investigation. As did the fingerprint expert when I called him afterwards and asked him to examine Konrad Jensen’s flat the following morning.
After I had put the receiver down, I sat on my swivel chair and reflected for a few minutes on the likelihood of these congratulations still holding strong tomorrow. Then I called it a day and left the office, but did not go home quite yet. Instead, I headed for 25 Krebs’ Street.
The caretaker’s wife had retired to her flat but opened the door as soon as I rang the bell and beamed when she saw it was me. I hastily assured her that these were simply routine measures in connection with my reports, but there were still a couple of things I needed to ask of her.
With regard to the keys, the caretaker’s wife was categorical that no one else could have got hold of them. She carried the keys with her all day, and at night they lay on her bedside table. She had slept alone in her flat with the door locked and could swear and cross her heart that no one had been in her bedroom. She said the latter with a gentle smile. When I told her that there were a few more examinations to be done in Konrad Jensen’s flat, she immediately produced the key and let me in.
To my relief, I found what I had said to Patricia to be true. There were no marks or signs on either the door or the window to indicate that someone had broken in. When I got there, I had only a vague idea as to what else I was looking for. After my conversation with Patricia, I had just wanted to look over Konrad Jensen’s flat again and to think the situation through by myself.
For many years Konrad Jensen had lived alone, a surly and bitter man. The flat was imbued with his spirit, even after his death. He had obviously been scared even to open the windows for the past few days. The cigarette smoke was in the walls. Konrad Jensen had not left many personal belongings behind. Two days of dirty dishes stood piled up in the kitchen. An out-of-focus, yellowing confirmation photo hung on the wall in the living room, but other than that, there were no pictures to be seen anywhere. This was the flat of a man who had not only lived without a family, but without friends.
Konrad Jensen had an old wireless, but no television. It did not look like he subscribed to any newspapers, but instead bought VG, Dagbladet and Aftenposten on particular days. Last month’s newspapers were stacked on the floor. Several of them were folded at the sports pages. The bookshelf boasted a worn Bible and a fairly random selection of other books. In a drawer in the kitchen, I found a collection of car pictures cut out from magazines together with a bank book and some other personal papers. A small pile of football-pools coupons lay abandoned and it seemed that Konrad Jensen did not spend much time on them and had never been particularly successful either. Eight right was the highest he had ever achieved, according to his own notes.
I found myself wondering what the dead man had done in all the thousands of hours that he must have spent here over the years – in addition to eating, smoking and cursing his fate. It struck me that perhaps no one other than him had been in the flat for years, before this murder case forced me on him. The questions remained: had Konrad Jensen been on his own here when he died this morning, or had another person been here with him?