My sharp tone made Patricia frown for a moment. Then she smiled disarmingly again, but still with a mischievous undertone. Suddenly, she was just like any other normal, gossipy eighteen-year-old girl on a school trip.
‘According to my second and more embarrassing theory, he was of course on the first floor. In the bedroom of Flat 2A, to be precise – on top of Miss Sara Sundqvist!’
She burst out laughing again, this time presumably at the expression on my face.
‘It fits suspiciously well, does it not? It would explain her mysterious lover, and the remarkable fact that he has never been seen by the caretaker’s wife, or anyone else for that matter. It would also explain why Kristian Lund stubbornly denies in front of his wife that he came back any earlier.’
Of course it fitted suspiciously well. Including the reaction of the caretaker’s wife, now that I thought of it. The only thing it did not explain was why I had failed to recognize the possibility myself. And why the caretaker’s wife had lied. Kristian Lund had an increasing number of awkward inconsistencies to explain, even though I still could not bring myself to see the anxious young father as a cold-blooded murderer.
In wrapping up, Patricia agreed that it would be prudent to inform the press of the change in the time of the murder and the story behind it on Sunday, once I had confronted the neighbours. She said that I was ‘right’ that it was a better idea to increase pressure on the murderer than to give a false impression of safety. Secretly, I was more worried about what people and the media might think or believe if more days were to pass without any visible breakthrough in the investigation.
On Saturday, 6 April 1968, I left the White House around six o’clock in the evening. In stark contrast to the situation some twenty-four hours earlier, I drove home that evening secure in the knowledge that Harald Olesen’s murderer would be caught and face punishment sooner or later.
Just before I left, however, I made an error of judgement that bothered me for the rest of the evening. As I got up, I thought that I should perhaps emphasize the seriousness of the case to Patricia.
‘I have been entirely open with you and trust that you will not abuse that. You must never mention the content of our conversations to another living soul, with the exception of your father perhaps, if necessary.’
She gave me the most injured look I have ever received from a woman – and that, sadly, says enough in itself. Then she added, in a bitterly grave voice: ‘But my dear Detective Inspector… who on earth would I tell anything to?’