I nodded.
‘We both hope so. But we also have to talk about a certain young woman who lives – and was at home – in the building in which the murder took place, and whom you definitely lied about when we first spoke together.’
The reaction was instant. There was a flash in Kristian
Lund’s eyes. With a slightly shaky hand he lit a new cigarette and took a couple of puffs before he answered.
‘I know what you are talking about. Was it the caretaker’s wife or Sara herself who told you?’
I shook my head.
‘Neither of them. I drew my own conclusions based on the information I had, and probability.’
He nodded with approval.
‘Impressive of you and reassuring for me. I am beginning to believe that you will indeed find the murderer. But that has nothing to do with the murder either. It is, of course, information that may be of some importance in terms of alibis and the like, and I apologize for lying, but I have got myself into rather a sticky situation. My wife does not need to know anything about this, does she?’
I agreed, but added quickly: ‘On the condition that it is of no relevance to the murder. And that you now give me a better account, which is more honest than the last one!’
He nodded vehemently. It appeared that Kristian Lund had no problems talking about deeply personal things. My impression that he was somewhat egocentric but also an intelligent and socially gifted person was reinforced.
‘I realize that the fact that I am having an extramarital affair with a woman who lives next door does not inspire confidence. Especially as I have such an attractive, good wife and a sweet little boy. I am afraid the explanation may take some time.’
I indicated that I was in no rush. Kristian Lund’s life was something that interested me more and more. He nodded gratefully, leaned back in his chair and thought for a few moments before starting.
‘It started sometime last year with a rather generous dose of good old-fashioned desire.’
He sat in silence for a moment. Then his face tightened before he carried on in a self-pitying vein once again.
‘But in fact it all goes back to my mother and my childhood. For many years I was the boy who none of the girls wanted to touch or admit that she liked. By the time I turned seventeen, I had still not kissed a girl. One experience in particular left its mark, even though it was completely innocent. When I was fourteen, we went on a school trip and all the boys in the class got a goodnight hug from one of the girls. Except me. “There are limits. Even for hugs,” she said with a cold, sarcastic smile. Everyone laughed. I cried all night and swore that one day I would be a success. Then when I was eighteen, everything suddenly changed. I played in a band and was the star of the football team. I had accumulated such a vast lack of intimacy that I exploited my advantage for all it was worth. The girl who refused to give me a hug when we were fourteen was one of several who then lay moaning under me when she was nineteen.’