Her voice had an edge of bitterness and accusation against society. It soon disappeared, though, when she carried on speaking.
‘It’s my fault as well, of course. I grew up in a poor family myself, but was quite smart when I was young. Got the best grades in middle school. A rich uncle of my father was impressed and wanted to lend me the money to carry on with school. And I have bitterly regretted every day for the past ten years not taking it. Instead, I got married young, to the wrong man. And stayed with him for as long as he was alive. Despite knowing that he drank a lot and even though for many years we didn’t have children. So it was partly poverty and partly the fact that I made the wrong choices that ruined the life of the only child I eventually managed to have.’
There was another silence. I racked my brains for something to say. Fortunately, she got there first.
‘If you want to talk to someone other than me about Tor . . . None of the other boys at school knew him well, which is a shame. But he really liked his teacher; Eveline Kolberg, I think she was called. It’s possible she might be able to help you, if you need someone smarter than me who might understand how my son thought.’
I wrote down the name. She asked me to take a note of her sister’s address in Ski as well. ‘In case you come back here and I’ve been thrown out, that’s where you’ll find me. Either there or at one of the schools where I’m a cleaner,’ she said, her voice breaking.
The atmosphere was heavy and I suddenly longed to get out of the flat, away from this street. I felt a great deal of sympathy for the poor cleaning lady, who had now, along with everything else, lost her only son, but I was unable to see what on earth I could do to help her. It seemed inevitable that her son’s story would sooner or later find its way into the press. And he would only ever be remembered as the person who murdered Fredriksen, the politician.
I took great care to assure her that it was never easy to see what the consequences of our choices might be in years to come, and that her son’s tragedy was mostly due to poverty rather than her choices.
She brightened a little when I said this and gave a fleeting smile as she stood up and insisted that I see her son’s room before I leave.
All I really wanted to do was get away as quickly as I could, but I realized that I should look at his room, now that I was here.
The late Tor Johansen’s room was like the rest of the flat: tidy, small and sparse. For a boy who had enjoyed reading so much, he had no bookshelves. There was a shelf’s worth of books lined up on the floor against the wall. None of them looked like they had been published after the war, and they all seemed well-thumbed.
There was not a single picture of the boy who had lived here on any of the walls. There were, however, some other pictures of a person I had not expected to see here. Namely, myself. Three newspaper clippings and photographs about my previous investigations were hanging on the wall. It was an unexpected and almost moving sight.
His mother’s voice sounded brighter when she spoke. ‘It’s so strange to have you standing here now, and such a shame that Tor is not here to see it. He read a lot about criminal cases in newspapers and books. He read everything he could about your cases. When you were investigating, he was outside the library first thing Saturday morning to read about the latest developments. It’s not so strange really that he’d found out where you lived.’
She was right about this and no doubt meant well in saying it. But it felt rather uncomfortable all the same. The boy on the red bicycle had almost instinctively sought me out in his hour of need and trusted that I would solve the case. Now he was dead and if he was innocent, I had not been able to help him in time.
I tried to push the thought to one side. I now had the answers I had needed from his mother. The boy had a connection to Per Johan Fredriksen and a motive, and the reason why he had known where I lived was obvious. It all added up with a double line under the name of the murderer.
Tor Johansen had slept on a mattress on the floor. The only furniture in his room was a small, old desk and a wooden chair. The desk was empty. A worn brown satchel stood by the chair.
I quickly looked through the satchel, but found no more than the usual schoolbooks. The only surprise was when I leafed through the one titled ‘Introduction to Science’. His writing was clear and succinct, and his knowledge was evidently not far behind my own. Tor Johansen had obviously had a good head on him, despite his problems with his tongue and foot.
I shared my thoughts with his mother. That her son had been extremely unlucky and had had a difficult life, but that he had been very intelligent in many ways. However, as the case stood now and based on what she had told me, there was little reason to doubt that he had in fact killed Fredriksen.
She wrung her hands, looked down and said that she saw no grounds to contradict me. To the extent that it could make any difference, she asked me to convey her condolences and apologies to the family. I had been extremely understanding, but unless there was anything else I wanted to know, she would now like to be left in peace to grieve.
When she said this, I feared that she might be harbouring thoughts of suicide. However, I had no more questions to ask and nothing more to say. So once again I expressed my condolences and wished her all the best.
Our eyes met briefly as I turned to go, and I was impressed by the steadiness of her gaze and her firm handshake.
I left without looking back. But all the while I saw the boy’s bare room in my mind’s eye, the satchel on the floor and the pictures of me on the wall.
IX
Outside the building in Tøyenbekken, only a few yards from my car, my thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected little incident.
As I glanced over my shoulder, I saw a man around my age, who I at first mistook for someone I had gone to school with. He was around five foot nine and of slim build, with the same oval-shaped face and brown hair as one of my old classmates. He was also wearing the same kind of wide-brimmed hat that my friend often did.
I spontaneously lifted up my hand to wave, only to realize that the man was not my classmate at all. This man had broader shoulders and a brisker, more determined step.
The man with the hat, somewhat bewildered, raised his hand in response, only to see it was a misunderstanding. He lowered his hand again in embarrassment. The stranger then continued on his way and did not stop as he passed me where I stood by my car. I could not help but notice that the upper joint of the little finger on his right hand was missing.
I stood by the car for a few seconds and wondered who the man in the suit and hat with the missing joint on his finger might be. And what he was doing here in Tøyenbekken. He and I both stood out in relation to the others walking on the street, and I had no doubt that I would have to stand there for some time before I saw another man in a hat and tie.
It made me wonder if the strange murder case had started to affect my nerves and make me slightly paranoid. So I got into the car and drove back to the main police station, without giving the man in the hat another thought.
X
It was half past three. I had given my boss and Danielsen a report of the latest developments in the case.
I had feared that Danielsen might claim that he had been right, but he was remarkably quiet and seemed almost uninterested. The explanation came when my boss asked a question that I had not considered.
‘How did he get hold of the paper and pencil?’ he asked.
I immediately replied that it was not from me. Danielsen squirmed uncomfortably and said that he had given the prisoner the paper and pencil yesterday, in case he found it easier to write down his statement. This was a reasonable gesture, given that the boy had a speech impediment, but Danielsen apologized profusely and said that perhaps he should have mentioned it before.
Neither my boss nor I put too much importance on this. I, for my part, was happy as long as no one asked any critical questions as to whether I might have contributed in some way to his suicide. And no one did. Danielsen see
med uninterested in the case, and my boss almost content.
Danielsen said hastily that it was what we had thought, then, and that the death had actually made our work easier.
Our boss nodded and asked that I use the rest of the week to tie up any necessary loose ends and inform the Fredriksen family, as well as write a press release and some internal reports – in that order. I said that I was more than happy to do this.
The atmosphere when we parted at a quarter to four was light and almost friendly. Danielsen and I wished each other a good evening before heading off in our separate directions. At times like this, I almost liked him. But the feeling usually passed very quickly.
XI
I telephoned Mrs Oda Fredriksen and informed the victim’s family of the latest developments. I heard considerable relief in her voice when I finished my account. She thanked me for letting her know, offered straightaway to tell her children, and had no objection to the details being released in the morning papers. She added that it had been of great comfort to the family that the person in charge of the investigation had shown so much understanding.
I thanked her, and asked her to convey my greetings and best wishes to her children. We finished the phone call in good spirits at a quarter past four.
I then sat down to write a press release, and had just formulated the first few sentences when the telephone rang at twenty past four. The switchboard operator’s voice was like a snake slithering into paradise; she said that there was an elderly lady from Majorstuen on the telephone who insisted on speaking to me as soon as possible.
The voice at the other end certainly sounded like a woman well past retirement age. So what she said was all the more surprising.
‘Good afternoon, inspector. This is Randi Krogh Hansen calling you from Kirk Road in Majorstuen. I apologize if I’m interrupting, but my old mother claims that she saw something through the window here the day before yesterday that you absolutely need to know.’
It was unexpected. Before I had even thought, I remarked that her mother must be very old. Fortunately, she took it well.
‘You can certainly say that. My mother has been on this earth for over a hundred years now. But her eyesight is still good and after reading today’s newspapers she is convinced that she saw something that you must know, today. Unfortunately, her legs are not what they used to be, so it would be difficult to get her to the police station. Would you be able to come and see us here as soon as possible?’
I had had time to gather my thoughts now and was curious as to what the witness might have seen. So I said I would come immediately.
XII
The address that Randi Krogh Hansen had rung from was a three-storey building on the corner of Bogstad Road and Kirk Road, a couple of blocks down from the station. Once I had parked the car, I quickly checked that there was a clear view from the windows to where Per Johan Fredriksen had been attacked. Then I made my way to the main entrance.
Randi Krogh Hansen was standing ready to greet me just inside the door. Her face was wrinkled and she could easily have been in her eighties, but she was a slim lady who was still light of foot. Her thin hand shook slightly in mine. There was no one else in the hall, but she still lowered her voice and leaned forwards when she spoke.
‘Welcome to our humble abode. I do hope we haven’t called you here unnecessarily. It’s my doing that you were not contacted before. My mother said yesterday morning that she had seen a man being stabbed on the street opposite the evening before. She sometimes dozes off in her chair and starts dreaming, so I thought that was probably what had happened. She eventually gave in with some reluctance. Then, about an hour ago, she read in the newspaper that a politician had been stabbed here and, let me tell you, she gave me a piece of her mind. So I had to ring the police immediately and now only hope that what she has to tell you will be of interest.’
My first thought was that we could perhaps have been spared a lot of work if we had got the message yesterday. But it had not been withheld with malice, so I forced myself to smile at the elderly lady in front of me and assured her that her reaction was perfectly understandable.
She smiled back, relieved, and repeated in a hushed voice that her mother had bad legs and weak lungs, but that her mind was clear and her eyes were still sharp as a pin, despite her great age.
We went up to the second floor and somewhat formally knocked on the door of a room that looked out over the street below. ‘Come in,’ said a high, sharp woman’s voice from within. The daughter promptly opened the door and showed me through, but stayed standing outside herself.
A wall of heat hit me as soon as the door opened. A fan heater hummed merrily and the only person in the room was puffing on a good old-fashioned pipe. She was sitting in a rocking chair in front of the stove, looking straight at me. The tiny old lady looked as though she could not weigh much more than six stone, all wrapped up in her blanket. Her arms were skin and bone, her face wrinkled as a raisin, and some white wisps were all that was left of her hair. But her lips were still red and her blue eyes were piercing, with almost a twinkle, as she focused them on me. She nodded in acknowledgement when I held out my hand, and then shook it with an unexpectedly firm grasp.
‘Welcome, young man. I do apologize that my daughter’s neurotic objections prevented me from contacting the police yesterday, and also that it is so warm in here.’
Whether it was intentional or not, she was then racked by a coughing fit that lasted some thirty seconds, only to be replaced by a smile and the pipe moments later.
‘As you can hear, my lungs are about to pack up on me. The cold seeps into my marrow and there is no reason to be frugal with the electricity or the tobacco. I celebrated my hundred and fourth birthday last week, and know perfectly well that it will be my last. I smoked my first pipe here in 1880. I gave birth to my first child here in 1884, while the great men in the Storting were fighting for independence. I was standing down on the harbour with my first grandchild on my arm when the new king and young crown prince came sailing to an independent Norway in the autumn of 1905. So I have been here a long time and seen many things. I got my first pension from the Nygaardsvold government, and have cost the state coffers dear. So I thought that this might be my final chance to do something useful for the country, and I should use it.’
I said that I was very impressed and that her daughter also looked remarkably well for her age if she was born in 1884.
She shook her head disapprovingly. ‘My eldest children died a long time ago. She was an afterthought, and was not born until 1898. Unfortunately, she is not the brightest of the bunch. What nonsense it was not to call the police yesterday. But she is kind and does her best, and she is the only one of my children who is still alive. So I really shouldn’t complain.’
I nodded politely to this and looked at the shrunken, ancient woman in the rocking chair with something akin to awe. All of a sudden, she reminded me of an eighty-year-old Patricia. I said, out loud, that she was absolutely right and what she had seen could be of great interest to the police.
She nodded and took a couple of puffs on her pipe before continuing. ‘My eyes and brain are about the only things that work any more. So, I was sitting here resting on Saturday evening. My thoughts were wandering in the past, but snapped back to the present when I saw something very unexpected on the street out here. Unfortunately, it had started to get dark, so I could really only see shadows and silhouettes, not faces. However, what I saw, clearly enough, was a tall, rather stout chap, who must have been the right honourable Fredriksen, walking towards the station. There was a shorter, slimmer person waiting for him at the corner. Fredriksen stopped when he saw this person and they exchanged a few words. Then suddenly the person drew a knife and stabbed him. He fell to the ground. The attacker ran off down the street, away from the station. Fredriksen was left lying on the pavement. Then another person came along who knelt down and leaned over him. And then some more people came.’
Thus far, it
all seemed to tally with what we knew had happened – and with what the newspapers had reported. I asked if Fredriksen had been stabbed once or several times. We had not released this information to the press.
She replied without hesitation, and without blowing any smoke in my direction.
‘Twice. The person pulled out the knife, but Fredriksen remained standing. So he or she stabbed him again, and then he fell to the ground with the knife still in him.’
It felt as though the room was heating up around me. It was true that Fredriksen had been stabbed twice in the chest, just as she described.
I asked whether she had seen a bicycle. She shook her head.
‘No, there was no bicycle when it happened. They were both on foot.’
Which did not necessarily prove anything, I told myself. Tor Johansen may have left the bike somewhere close by and run back to get it afterwards. But if she had seen him running, she should have been able to see if he limped.
‘Even though it was dark, did you notice anything more about the attacker? Could you tell me, for example, if the person ran in an unusual way?’
The old woman blew out another cloud of smoke and looked at me fiercely. ‘Yes, I could, and there was nothing unusual about him or her. The person who stabbed Fredriksen was perfectly normal.’
I started to feel slightly hot around the collar. And I thought to myself that something was not right. Then I heard my own voice asking if she was sure there was nothing special about the way the attacker ran off.
‘No, as I said. The person who stabbed Fredriksen walked perfectly normally and easily. But the first person to the scene afterwards limped heavily on the right foot. It was quite obvious when he came and when he ran away. And I was very surprised when the limping shadow ran off with the knife.’
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