Free The Human Flies (K2 and Patricia series) by Hans Olav Lahlum

puzzling over whose hand might have started this tape recording the last time it played.
    When I eventually managed to pull myself together and phone back, she answered the phone on the first ring. ‘Was the gunshot at the very end?’ she asked.
    I mumbled a subdued ‘yes’, an even more muffled ‘congratulations’ and a somewhat louder explanation that the gunshot was right at the end of a cassette of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. I could almost feel the receiver quiver as she breathed out.
    ‘Thank goodness for that. I was almost starting to get worried. Remember to check the cassette and stereo player for fingerprints, but do not be disappointed if there are none. We are dealing with a particularly Machiavellian murderer.’
    I replied that that was quite clearly the case, but that it did help to know how he had escaped and to have adjusted the time of the murder to nearly twenty-five minutes earlier. This seemed to confuse her somewhat.
    ‘Hold on a minute. Firstly, I am not at all certain that the murderer is a he, and secondly, where did you get the twenty-five minutes from?’
    I smiled to myself that I was ahead of her this time and informed her that the cassette had a playing time of twenty-five minutes. I waited for the ‘aha’ exclamation, but instead got only a small sigh of relief and another ruthless question.
    ‘But we have no evidence that the murderer put on the cassette immediately after he or she carried out the murder, do we?’
    And of course I had to admit that we didn’t. The murderer could in theory have waited for as long as he – or she – wanted in the flat before starting the cassette and leaving. Equally, the tape might have been wound forward so that the murder took place only minutes before the gunshot. Suddenly, it became of far more interest that the pathologist had only been able to narrow the time of death down to between eight and eleven. Patricia and I promptly agreed that any of the residents who did not have a watertight alibi for the period from eight until ten past ten must be seen as potential murderers. We also quickly agreed that I should return and discuss the situation with her before talking to the neighbours again.
    VI
    Half an hour later, I was back sitting in the library at the White House in front of Princess Patricia. She was nibbling happily on a large carrot, like an unusually self-satisfied rabbit. With the carrot in her left hand, she wrote down key words at perfect speed with her right, while I sipped my tea and repeated the neighbours’ statements. It occurred to me more than once that this was a breathtaking breach of standard investigation procedure, which could cause enormous problems for me should it ever get out. But it also struck me as unthinkable that either the father or daughter would ever let the secret slip. My childhood trust in the Borchmann family was deeply ingrained. Furthermore, I firmly believed that there was more help to be had here. And last of all, I had to admit to myself, and mark my words to myself alone, that help may be needed if Harald Olesen’s clearly cunning murderer was to be caught.
    Patricia proved for the first time to be a good listener, as she patiently heard out my long account of what had been found in the case so far. Several times I noticed a twinkle in her eyes, but when I made signs of stopping, she motioned impatiently for me to continue.
    ‘That was very interesting and informative on certain points,’ she said, when I had finished, sometime around four o’clock. I chose to take that as a huge compliment.
    ‘So, who killed Harald Olesen?’ I asked pointedly.
    She gave me a small smile as she shook her head apologetically.
    ‘Investigating a murder when the perpetrator is unknown is in many ways similar to painting a portrait. On Thursday night, we had a blank canvas, but have now managed to sketch a few characteristics, which will then lead to more. Even though it may all become clear soon, it may still