He shook his heavy head.
‘No – unfortunately, I have no idea what she was called. I’ve never seen her again, before or after, or I’m sure I would have remembered. Thought I knew most of the young NS members in Oslo: there were not many of us at the time.’
‘What about the car – do you remember anything about it?’
Konrad Jensen lit up for a moment.
‘Yes, I knew all about cars, even back then. It was a large and quite new black Volvo. I’m pretty sure it was a 1932 or 1933 model. My greatest dream was to be able to buy something like that at some point.’
As I was leaving, he added: ‘I think you can strike off the caretaker’s wife and the cripple. In addition to myself, of course. Not many left then if the murderer lives in the building. I’d put my money on the Jewess, and then the American – even though I like talking to him about the football. But it’s really not easy to say, so you’ve got a hard job ahead of you.’
I certainly agreed with the latter, if not necessarily the former. I no longer had a clear main suspect, and Konrad Jensen seemed to be falling down the list.
Darrell Williams filled the entire doorway. His smile was as broad and his handshake as carefree as the last time we met. But even as I crossed the threshold, I had the feeling that this would be a more contentious visit. I had jotted down a few important questions that I assumed would prove a critical test of the American’s diplomacy skills.
The story about the stereo player seemed to make less of an impression on him than on the other residents. He praised me for having uncovered such a cunning murder plan, but added that he had heard of similar sophisticated plots in the USA. Quite apart from the fact that he lacked a motive and a weapon, he admitted with a disarming smile that he too was now a potential murderer. He had, as the caretaker’s wife had noted, come home at around eight and had sat alone in his flat with a book until five to ten, when he had gone for a short evening stroll through the quiet streets of Oslo, and on his way back in had stopped to discuss the football results with Konrad Jensen. He had not seen anyone other than Konrad Jensen out in the hallway that evening until they were outside Harald Olesen’s locked door and the other neighbours came running.
So far, the conversation was pleasant. However, when I asked whether his Norwegian girlfriend from 1945 to 1948 had a name, Darrell Williams stiffened.
‘Well, of course she did,’ he said, without a hint of a smile. ‘But I have no idea whether she still has the same name and have no intention of looking her up. I have nothing to do with this murder and cannot see what my sweetheart from the war might have to do with it either.’