‘I’m afraid I don’t know the details of my father’s business operations either, but we did talk about it earlier this year. He estimated then that the total value of his assets, property and companies was somewhere between fifty and sixty million kroner,’ he said, in the same steady voice. He might have talked about a fifty- or sixty-kroner Christmas present in much the same way.
It seemed that this information came as a surprise to the other two.
‘I thought it was a lot, but I had no idea that it was that much,’ his mother said. Her daughter nodded quickly and chewed even more frantically on her gum.
I noted first of all that the deceased’s family seemed to keep secrets from each other, about things that other people might deem to be important. And, secondly, that the unexpected death would in no way benefit the presumed suspect, but the deceased’s children each stood to gain at least 15 million kroner. This was a large enough figure to give them all a motive – but, as yet, I could not see anything connecting them to the murder.
I said to Johan Fredriksen that I presumed it was he who now had the job of documenting all the assets and dividing them.
‘Yes, I will start on it first thing tomorrow morning, with the help of my father’s accountant and office manager.’
I asked him to inform me immediately if anything cropped up that might be relevant to his father’s death.
He replied: ‘Of course.’
His mother asked me to contact her as soon as there was any news regarding the young man’s identity and motive.
I replied: ‘Of course.’
Then we sat in silence again. This four-way conversation felt rather fruitless. I thought that I would far rather speak to them one by one, but did not want to suggest that right now and had not prepared any questions. So I went no further than asking the children what they did.
The son’s reply was succinct: ‘I am a qualified lawyer and work as an associate in a law firm.’
The daughter’s reply was even shorter: ‘I’ve studied a bit of chemistry and a bit of history of art.’
This was a most unusual combination, but I saw no reason to pursue it now. So I had one final question, which was why Per Johan Fredriksen, who had his home in Bygdøy and his office in the Storting, had been at Majorstuen the night before?
I did not expect the question to cause any tension or drama. After all, as a politician and businessman, Per Johan Fredriksen might have been in the area for any number of reasons.
However, my query was met with absolute silence. Vera Fredriksen looked even paler and chewed even more frenetically and her mother sank even deeper into the cushions and sofa. It was certainly not my intention to upset any of them. So I turned to the still unruffled Johan Fredriksen.
‘Strictly speaking, we are not sure why my father was at Majorstuen yesterday evening,’ he said, in the same voice, but with more deliberation.
‘But you have an idea?’ I guessed.
Johan Fredriksen did not answer. He looked questioningly at his mother. I turned to her too. As, I saw out of the corner of my eye, did Vera Fredriksen.
The widow gave in to the pressure of our combined attention. She let out a quiet sigh, and sank a little more into the sofa, then said: ‘No, we don’t know. But she lives there, so it’s reasonable to assume that he was either on his way to or from his mistress.’
These hushed words blasted into the otherwise still room like cannon fire. The picture that had been painted of Per Johan Fredriksen as a kind family man exploded in front of my eyes, though his smile in the portrait on the wall was just as friendly and reassuring. His wife’s mask fell at the same time.
‘You mustn’t think badly of my husband. We all have our weaknesses. And his only weakness that we knew of was this, his physical attraction to younger women and consequent breaches of the wedding vow. He had so many other good qualities that we forgave him this.’
The son and daughter both nodded. Suddenly the family appeared to be united.
I found the situation vaguely uncomfortable, but also increasingly interesting. And I heard myself ask whether that meant he had had several mistresses.
Oda Fredriksen sighed, but she sat up when she answered. ‘My greatest failure as a wife is that I did not keep my looks well enough to stop him from falling into the arms of younger women. But my greatest triumph is that he always came back to me, and remained my husband until death parted us. Yes, he did have more than one mistress. But for the past few years, there has only been the one in Majorstuen – as far as we know. Surely there is no reason to believe it has anything to do with my husband’s murder, and I hope that as I am grieving, I will not need to spend a lot of time and energy thinking over this. Most of all, I hope that the papers will not get wind of it.’
The latter was said in a choked voice.
I realized that the topic was very difficult for Mrs Fredriksen on a day like today and I did not want to bother her with any more questions. However, I was increasingly intrigued by the clearly complex man in the painting above me and was not as certain that his mistress had nothing to do with the case. There could well be a link, for example, if his mistress happened to have a teenage son with a speech impediment.
So I said I would leave them in peace to mourn and that there was no reason why this aspect of the deceased’s private life need reach the press. I was, however, obliged to ask for the mistress’s name so that I could rule her out of the case.
‘I have chosen not to know her name or anything else about her. But it is quite possible that my children can help you there,’ the widow replied with another sigh.
I looked questioningly at her son. He took a visiting card from his wallet and wrote down a name and address on the back of it.
‘I have never been there or seen the woman. My father wanted me to know who she was in case anything unexpected should happen,’ he explained curtly, and handed me the card.
I took it and read: Harriet Henriksen, 53B Jacob Aall’s Street. The name was completely unknown, but the street was familiar to me and was undeniably in Majorstuen.
I found it interesting that not only did Per Johan Fredriksen have a mistress, but he also had had reason to think that the unexpected might happen. So, having said goodbye to his family and walked back down the long drive, I drove directly to his last known mistress.
V
In sharp contrast to Per Johan Fredriksen’s green and pleasant home in Bygdøy, 53B Jacob Aall’s Street was a grey, tired building in Majorstuen. I quickly found H. Henriksen on the list of inhabitants and rang the bell three times without getting any response. But then, as I turned to leave, the intercom crackled to life. ‘Who’s there?’ asked a quiet, tense woman’s voice.
I found the situation awkward, but had a murder investigation to follow up. So I looked around quickly, then whispered that I was from the police and that I had some routine questions to ask her in connection with a death.
There was a few moments’ silence. Then the voice said: ‘Please come up.’ She did not sound entirely convincing, but I could understand that she might not be in the best frame of mind today and that the last thing she wanted was a visit from the police.
There was another little surprise waiting for me when the door to the flat on the second floor opened. I had obviously underestimated Per Johan Fredriksen and had assumed that his current mistress would be at least forty-five. But I was wrong. It was not easy to guess Harriet Henriksen’s age, but I would not have protested if someone said that she was thirty. Her movements were soft as a cat and there was not a wrinkle on her smooth face, which gave her an almost doll-like appearance.
We shook hands briefly in the doorway. Her hand was small, but it was supple and firm. And from what I could see, given her plain black dress, the rest of her body was much the same. When I looked more closely, I could see red blotchy patches under her eyes. I caught myself thinking that Per Johan Fredriksen had either been very charming or very lucky to find himself such an attractive young lover at his
age.
Harriet Henriksen put the security chain back on the door behind us and showed me into the living room. I could see that she lived in a simple and tidy flat that was modern and equipped with a TV and washing machine. There was no sign of anyone else living there.
On the other hand, there was plenty of evidence that Per Johan Fredriksen was there rather a lot. A large photograph of him hung alone on the hallway wall, and another photograph of the two of them was up in the living room. Seeing him again was unsettling, especially as these were the only photographs adorning the walls. One wall was hidden by an upright piano and the others were covered by bookshelves, landscape paintings and a couple of tapestries. The door to the bedroom was open and through it I could see a double bed made up for two. The most striking thing that caught my attention in the living room, however, was a large, framed photograph of the two of them, which was standing on the table beside an almost burnt-down candle. Per Johan Fredriksen had his arm lovingly around her shoulder. They were both smiling at the camera.
‘That was in Paris,’ she said suddenly. As if that explained everything. ‘We could never show our love publicly here in Oslo. He was too well known. But we had two days together in Paris last summer and there we could walk around and be lovers without any worries. They were two of the happiest days of my life. And now they are all I have to live off for the rest of my days.’
She had not asked me to sit down, but I had done so all the same. We were sitting on either side of the coffee table, with the photograph and candle between us. And we looked straight at each other. She had the darkest brown eyes I had ever seen.
‘I first heard about it on the news last night,’ she said, without prompting.
Just as I had. I could suddenly picture it. He had been here, kissed her goodbye and left. She had, perhaps, like me, stood by the window and watched her beloved go. Then she had sat down alone and switched on the radio to listen to the news, only to collapse suddenly when she heard the announcement that he had been stabbed. I was oddly convinced that that was how it had been.
‘So, he was here with you yesterday?’ I asked, to the point.
She nodded. She looked away for a moment, out of the window. Her eyes almost accusing the world.
‘Per was a very complex man and often appeared different in different settings. Politically, he was more conservative than me. I still thought that he was credible on TV and in debates, if somewhat boring and reserved, but he was completely different when he was here with me: open, humorous and even passionate. We could talk about anything, even that. And he always said that I was the only one who could see him for what he really was, the only person he could really be himself with. He said I brought out the best in him in a way that no one else could. He often came here on Saturday afternoons, between work and the family. And yesterday, he once again left the world behind and sought refuge with me for a few happy hours. We had both been looking forward to it all week. And as usual we experienced complete happiness and joy. I asked if he could stay a bit longer. And he said that he had to go back to his office at the Storting to check some important news about something he was working on before going home to his family. I accepted it, as I always did. I watched him walk away down the street and I was alone when the news that he had been stabbed was announced on the radio. It felt like the ground opened beneath my feet. In a split second, I fell into a cold, dark cellar I didn’t even know existed. I, who have never believed in a God before, was prostrate and prayed that Per Johan would survive, until it was then announced on the late-night news that he had died. I have been here alone at my table weeping ever since, not even so much as a phone call, until you rang at the door.’
As soon as she started to speak, the words just came tumbling out. There was a strange, almost compelling intimacy and intensity about this woman and her voice, which made me inclined to believe every word she said. I felt no physical attraction to her, but, all the same, I could well understand why Per Johan Fredriksen had.
I was still not entirely convinced that she had no connection to the murder. So I asked Harriet Henriksen if she had any children.
She shook her head vaguely and I noticed the light catch a tear in her left eye.
‘No, no. I don’t have any children and I guess I never will now. In fact, I don’t have any family at all. I never had brothers or sisters, and my parents are no longer alive. I only had Per Johan, and we never had the children I hoped we might. That was my fault. Last night I went over it a thousand times. If I had just done as he suggested, I would still have a part of him. But now I’m thirty-seven and completely on my own with nothing to live for.’
She stood up abruptly, wringing her hands. Then she took two turns around the table before sitting down opposite me again.
‘So, what you are saying is that he was willing to have children with you, but you said no?’
‘Yes and no. The biggest question of all was the only thing we disagreed on. I wanted to have children and to marry him. He was willing to give me a child and to look after both of us, but he was not willing to get divorced. It was less out of consideration for his wife than for his children, especially his youngest daughter, who suffers from nerves. He feared that a divorce might drive her completely mad or even to suicide. But she’s grown-up and, what’s more, intelligent and well educated. Personally, I thought she would cope. I truly wanted us to have our own children, but I did not want them to grow up without a father. It was the only snake in our paradise.’
‘Yesterday as well?’ I asked.
She nodded. There were tears in her eyes.
‘Yesterday as well. It was the last thing we talked about before he left. And we couldn’t agree yesterday either, and it will haunt me now for the rest of my life. But I thought when he left yesterday . . .’
Her voice broke. She turned towards the table. A tear spilled over from her left eye to leave a small dark patch on the light-wood table.
‘When Per Johan left yesterday, it seemed he was closer than ever to taking that final plunge. I had renewed hope that everything would work out and we would actually have our own love child. I felt light as a balloon – but then it all popped when I heard the news on the radio that he had been stabbed. I hoped for the best for as long as I could, but really I knew that Per Johan was dead before I heard it on the last bulletin. I suppose you just feel it when you love someone as much as I did.’
She spoke in a quiet, intense voice. As if by magic, the candle between us went out when she stopped talking. We sat spellbound in the silent gloom.
Then I hurried to ask some routine questions. Her answers were clear and prompt. She was born in 1934 to a Norwegian father and French mother and had grown up in Oslo and Paris. She came from a family of musicians and had studied music and art in Norway and France, without having ever made a breakthrough as an artist or a pianist. She had met Per Johan Fredriksen at an exhibition he had opened in the autumn of 1966, and despite the difference in age had quickly realized that he was the love of her life.
He had called the next day to ask if they could meet again, and she had said yes immediately. They had started a relationship ‘only a few days later’ and had been meeting once or twice a week ever since – nearly always at her flat and often on a Saturday. She had lived on money inherited from her parents, but largely on presents from him. She had never asked him for money. But he had paid the rent for her, and she always found a few hundred-kroner notes when he had gone.
I knew that she would not receive so much as a krone in her dead lover’s will. So I asked, with as much tact as I could, how his death would affect her life financially.
She turned up her palms and shrugged indifferently, then replied: ‘It won’t be easy, but it doesn’t feel that important. I am going to give myself a week to grieve and then start to think about what I can, and have to, do for the rest of my life. I certainly can’t continue to live here now – alone in what was our universe . . . alone in what was our universe.’ Sh
e repeated the short sentence thoughtfully.
The words echoed in my head for a while afterwards. I found myself wondering if I would still be able to live in my flat if I had heard on the radio that the love of my life had been killed. It was not a pleasant thought. But, fortunately, it was interrupted when Harriet Henriksen started to speak again.
‘Something that feels more important here and now . . . What actually happened when he was killed? Do you know who did it and why?’
I told her the truth: that we had arrested a young man whom we were fairly certain had committed the crime, but, as yet, we did not know what he was called or what his motive might be.
I took out the photographs of the boy on the red bicycle and put them down on the table between us. I feared they might produce an emotional response, but there was no visible reaction.
Harriet Henriksen sat quietly and looked at the pictures. She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. Then she shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen him before. But it’s strange, I feel no hatred when I look at those photographs. And I would, if he killed my darling.’
We sat and looked at each other. She suddenly seemed more relaxed, but her gaze did not waver.
‘I can’t be sure. I am not a religious person, but I am a people person. I think I would feel hatred if he had killed Per Johan, and I feel nothing. You can see that he is not happy, but he doesn’t look evil enough or strong enough to commit murder. No, I really don’t think it was him who killed Per Johan. Did anyone see him do it?’
I said nothing and thought for a moment or two. Then I replied slowly that no one had witnessed the actual murder, but the young man had first been seen in conversation with Per Johan Fredriksen, and then been caught running away from the scene of the crime with the murder weapon in his pocket. It would most certainly be a strange tale if he was not guilty.
‘You are absolutely right. But there is still a considerable difference between being strange and being guilty, even though they are often confused. So no one actually saw him killing Per Johan. I don’t think he did it. And I would be grateful if you could tell me who did, if you manage to find out one day.’
Chameleon People Page 3