Patricia smiled again. ‘I guessed as much. And that shows that we are dealing with a remarkably well-planned murder that was carried out by an exceptionally cold-blooded murderer. But did there happen to be a record player in Harald Olesen’s flat, with a record on the turntable?’
That hit me like a well-aimed punch in the solar plexus. I had seen and made note of the record player and record, but not understood their significance. I nodded and wiped my forehead dry. It was embarrassing that Patricia had seen so much here in her own closed room that I had failed to see, despite several visits to the scene of the crime. And I now discovered that she could also apparently read minds.
‘It’s strange how often it is easier to see the connections when you are sitting with all the elements in tidy order, without any interference or impressions from the scene of the crime. But the notion of using a sound recording to alter the time of a murder is familiar enough, from one of Agatha Christie’s earlier novels in particular. Now, if you go back to 25 Krebs’ Street and play the record that is still lying on the turntable in Harald Olesen’s flat, I would gladly bet my wheelchair and half my inheritance on the fact that you will sooner or later hear another gunshot.’
I didn’t offer to take her up on the bet. I fortunately had no need for a wheelchair, and I unfortunately would never have as much money as half her inheritance. What is more, I did not for a second doubt that she was right. I mumbled my thanks and stood up to leave. She called for the maid straightaway. While we waited, Patricia wrote down a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
‘This is the direct number to my telephone. I would appreciate it if you could call me once you have confirmed my theory about the record player. Then we can see if there is any more I can help you with.’
I vaguely registered that we were already on more informal terms, and that it felt completely natural, despite the somewhat grand-old-days feel of the Borchmann home. I nodded, tucked the slip of paper carefully into my wallet and silently and obediently followed the maid out. I still felt as though I had been hypnotized by the time I reached the car, but understood keenly enough that my apparently unsolvable murder mystery had taken a great leap forward towards a possible conclusion.
When I arrived at 25 Krebs’ Street around two, everything appeared to be as calm as before. The caretaker’s wife was sitting in her place by the door and immediately let me into Harald Olesen’s flat. There was no sign of any of the other residents. I had some new questions for a few of them, but for the moment there was no room in my head for anything other than Harald Olesen’s record player.