I stood there frozen for a few moments, staring at the young, dead Vera Fredriksen, before I managed to pull myself together and look around the room.
There was no sign that anyone else had been there, and there was no sign of a murder weapon or a suicide note of any kind. I sniffed at her mouth, but could not detect anything that smelt like poison. There were no needle marks on her arms either.
I went out into the corridor, which was still empty. Then I went back into Room 111, to make sure that it was not some bizarre dream. But Vera Fredriksen was still lying dead on the sofa. I was in total bewilderment as I walked back down the stairs to reception, in order to ring the station.
X
The head of reception was impressively calm and composed, even when he heard that there had been a suspicious death in the hotel in the past few hours. His statement was clear and to the point, and was taken while I waited for technical assistance from the main police station.
The hotel had very few guests at present, and the head of reception had been the only person on duty since breakfast. Four overnight guests had checked out in the morning and the hotel unfortunately had no further bookings for that night.
However, Vera Fredriksen had shown up without a prior booking around midday. And then at two o’clock or thereabouts, something even more unexpected had happened, when someone telephoned to book a room for the night with a voice that had been distorted. The person who called claimed to be suffering from nerves and was in need of peace and quiet and they were willing to pay for two nights in advance with a tip, if they could come and go without meeting anyone today.
The head of reception was willing to believe this story and agreed to withdraw from the reception area for a couple of minutes so that an envelope with the payment in cash could be left on the counter. The cash was left as agreed, so the head of reception then put out a key and again withdrew for a few minutes. When he came back, the key was gone. He had written the name ‘Hansen’ down in the guest book for the sake of appearances, but because the voice had been distorted he could not say if it had been a man or a woman who had called.
The head of reception wrung his hands and admitted that it was a deeply unfortunate breach of normal practice, but that the hotel needed more guests, and they had had guests with nerve problems before and there was, at that point, no reason to suspect something criminal.
I said rather impatiently that we would still need to check his story about the mysterious guest and take a statement from him or her.
He immediately agreed to this and took a universal key to Room 112 with him.
We let ourselves in, having knocked twice on the door with no response. The door was unlocked.
The key was lying on the table. It was the only sign that the very mysterious guest had even been in the room.
The head of reception had only seen Vera Fredriksen and myself pass through reception that afternoon. This did not necessarily mean that we two and the mysterious guest were the only people who had been in the hotel. One or more could have passed through in those few minutes when the reception was not manned. There was also a back door at the opposite end of the corridor, by Room 118. The lock meant that it should only be possible to open the door from the inside. However, anyone who was already inside could easily have let others in, and it was not unthinkable that a burglar who came prepared could pick the lock from outside.
Vera Fredriksen had rung my flat from a telephone booth by the hotel reception at around half past three. She had paid for the call in cash at reception, and for two other phone calls she had made earlier in the day – the first around one o’clock and the second around three. Both of the earlier phone calls could not have been longer than a few minutes, but the numbers she had called were not registered anywhere.
XI
I was able to give my boss an update from the telephone in my office at half past six. And it did little to lift spirits.
We had another dead person, and, until the results of an autopsy were clear, no idea of the cause of death.
We knew that there had been another guest in the neighbouring room, but had no idea of the person’s identity.
We knew that Vera Fredriksen had made two telephone calls a few hours before her death, but had no idea who she had called or what had been said.
My boss took it much better than I did. He remarked that we did not yet even know if something criminal had occurred. According to what I had said myself, Vera Fredriksen suffered from nerves and her father’s death may have triggered suicidal thoughts. Young ladies with a nervous disposition had been known to commit suicide in the most spectacular ways at times, so it was not unthinkable that she had chosen a dramatic replay of the tragedy that her parents had experienced in 1932.
He did, however, concede that the situation was highly suspicious, especially as the mysterious guest from Room 112 had disappeared. If there was any connection to Per Johan Fredriksen’s death, this only strengthened the assumption that the explanation was to be found in Fredriksen’s private life.
I said that I agreed, and in return he accepted that a priest should be allowed to talk to the three remaining members of the family first, before the police contacted them again.
We also agreed that a forensic investigation should be launched, and that we would talk again as soon as the preliminary autopsy report was ready. I immediately said yes when he suggested ten o’clock the following morning.
I put the telephone down at a quarter to seven, and sat there pondering, looking at it for a few minutes more.
I thought that Miriam would by now have gone to her meetings, and would not be back until late this evening. Then I thought that she would surely be happy for me to ring Patricia now, as yet another young person had lost her life. I concluded that the situation was now so critical that I could not not phone Patricia, regardless of what Miriam might think.
At ten to seven, I took the plunge. I lifted the receiver and dialled Patricia’s number from memory.
The telephone was answered after two rings.
The woman’s voice at the other end simply said: ‘Yes?’ But I recognized it straightaway all the same and felt a surge of relief and hope that the deaths from 1932 and 1972 could all be solved before a scandal ensued. It all depended on whether or not I was now able to persuade Patricia to help me.
‘Hello, it’s me,’ I said.
There was a few seconds’ silence on the other end. For the first time, it felt as though Patricia was surprised that I had rung her, and she needed a few seconds to consider the significance of it. But this did not take long.
‘I suppose this is about the Fredriksen case, then. I think there are several very good reasons why I should steer clear.’
I was afraid she was going to put the telephone down, but the line was not broken. There was still hope.
She said nothing about what these reasons might be, and I certainly did not feel like asking. Instead, I tried to tempt her with titbits from the investigation.
‘The case is far more interesting than it might at first seem. We now have a statement from an eyewitness that indicates that the young suspect who took his own life did not kill Fredriksen. Though who then might have done still remains a mystery. And then this afternoon, Fredriksen’s youngest daughter was found dead in the very hotel room where her mother’s sister was found dead in 1932. Fredriksen himself was also there at the time, as one of a group of her friends. So I think I can say that I have never been involved in a more puzzling or tragic case.’
Again, there was a few moments’ silence at the other end.
‘It certainly sounds that way so far. I am sure that the case is both interesting and important. But for strictly personal reasons I do not think I should get involved in your investigation.’
That was, of course, where the problem lay. But now that it was staring me in the face I could solve it. The telephone line remained open.
I breathed in and out with the utmost control a few times. T
hen I said: ‘I can understand that. Miriam did not want me to contact you about the case either. But I felt that I now owed it to those young people to call you all the same. I believe that only you can help me. So that is why I called, without her knowing.’
I spoke in a hushed voice, even though I knew perfectly well that Miriam was sitting in a meeting a couple of miles away and that no one could hear the conversation.
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. I looked at the clock to keep my mind focused in the pregnant silence and counted to nine before Patricia answered.
‘Well, if it is so important to you and for those young people, we will have to see if there is anything I can do to help. If you come here in half an hour, I will see if I can get the servants to whip something up for your dinner by half past seven.’
Patricia said this quickly and with determination. Then she put the receiver down without waiting for an answer.
I sat there with the mute receiver in my hand, and a feeling of enormous relief – tinged with a slight guilt.
XII
The White House at 104–108 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street was just as impressive from the outside as I remembered it from previous visits. In the midst of my most complicated and bewildering murder case, there was something enormously calming and reassuring about the very sight of the Borchmanns’ monumental family home.
But this time it was tempered by a level of unease. I looked around before I parked the car, before I walked up to the house and before I rang the bell. But no one was following me on the almost empty evening street.
In terms of formality, I was still high and dry: I was officially simply visiting a friend. In reality, though, I would divulge information that could cost me my job if it were ever discovered. But I had done this many times before, and my concern about this side of the matter was minimal. I had known Patricia’s late parents since I was a child, and I was absolutely convinced that no information given by me would leak from here. I had successfully convinced myself that I had to do everything within my power to solve the murder case I was investigating.
The door was opened by a maid who looked exactly the same as before, and once again gave me a cautious smile as she welcomed me in. I thought that it was perhaps Benedikte, but still could not be sure that it was not her twin sister Beate. Not that it really mattered. Though she would never admit it herself, Patricia was still in the very best hands and in the safest environment.
The servants had indeed managed to whip up a supper for half past seven. The onion soup starter was already waiting at my usual place at the table when I was ushered into Patricia’s library.
Patricia was sitting there herself in her wheelchair on the other side of the table, sovereign of her own small realm. She looked exactly as she had done before. I knew that she had celebrated her twenty-second birthday only a couple of months ago, but could still have mistaken her for a teenager. It struck me that there was something strangely dollish, almost childlike, about Patricia.
I was happy to see her again. So I went around the table and gave her a hug. This seemed to take her by surprise. Her body trembled faintly, but her cheek was warm and her voice a little softer than usual when she said: ‘How nice to see you again. I have already eaten. Sit yourself down – eat. And at the same time tell me all that I need to know about Per Johan Fredriksen and his death.’
I sat down, ate, and talked my way through the starter, main course and dessert. Patricia listened with extraordinary concentration as I told her everything about the case so far. She had a large cup of coffee on the table beside her, but did not touch it once. Her hand noted down some names and dates to begin with, without any apparent cooperation with her head. Her eyes were fixed on me the whole time.
When I told her about Eva Bjølhaugen’s death in Room 111 in 1932, her eyes sparked for a moment.
‘Did the room have an en suite bathroom or not?’ she asked quickly.
I told her that the room had an en suite bathroom, which had also been searched without any results. She waved me on, and then sat without moving until I had finished with the story of Vera Fredriksen’s death that afternoon. Then she smiled almost merrily for a moment, before once again sitting there gravely in deep concentration.
It was half past eight by the time I had finished my account, put down the almost empty bowl of rice pudding and said: ‘So, what do you think? Was it natural causes, suicide or murder, both in 1932 and 1972? As far as 1972 is concerned, we will perhaps get the answer when the preliminary autopsy report comes tomorrow morning.’
And if I had ever thought otherwise, Patricia was no less sharp than she had been before. She sighed in mild exasperation and replied: ‘Murder, without a doubt, in both 1932 and 1972. And I am almost certain I know how the murders were committed as well, though one always has to bear in mind poisoning in such situations. It is actually quite obvious, if one just looks beyond the fact that it is a rather unusual way to kill people in a hotel room.’
Patricia fell silent, and took an artful sip of coffee. She immediately started and rang the bell to call the maid.
In the brief minute before the maid knocked on the door, I sat and wondered what Patricia had meant.
‘The coffee you served was far too cold, Beate. Pour it out and make some new coffee immediately. And this time make sure the hot plate is on, please!’
Beate rolled her eyes at me and looked like she would love to say that the coffee had been warm when she poured it an hour and a half ago. But all she said was ‘Of course, sorry’, and then took the coffee cup with her when she left.
The door closed behind the maid and I still did not understand Patricia’s meaning. So I had to bite the first bullet and ask how, according to this theory, Eva Bjølhaugen was murdered in 1932 and Vera Fredriksen was murdered in 1972.
Patricia gave a semi-triumphant smile and a swift answer: ‘They were drowned. With water from the tap in the bathroom which was poured down their throat as they lay there unconscious. Eva Bjølhaugen fainted after one of her epileptic fits, thus giving the murderer an opportunity that he or she then ruthlessly exploited. Vera Fredriksen could have been knocked unconscious, but as there is no physical evidence of this, it is more likely that she fainted at the sight of an unexpected intruder or something else that frightened her. According to her family she has a tendency to do this when confronted with powerful emotions. In both cases, the murderer then wiped away any spilt water with the towel from the bathroom and left the room.’
It felt slightly absurd when Patricia first said the word drowned. And then utterly logical once she had explained how it happened.
I sat almost thunderstruck, looking at her. She gave a chirpy smile, but was soon serious again.
‘So that means that the murderer this afternoon was the same as in 1932?’
Patricia shook her head pensively. ‘It is clearly possible that the murderer is one of the group of four friends from 1932 who is still alive. But equally, this is not the only possibility.
‘Per Johan Fredriksen had finally understood how the murder was committed when he spoke out at the dinner a few weeks ago. And the reason he raised his water glass was to show the person he believed was the murderer that he knew. The youngest daughter had either heard it from him, or worked it out for herself when she went to the hotel to ask if the room had had an en suite bathroom even in 1932. But that is not to say that the father and daughter actually knew for certain who the murderer was in 1932, nor does it mean that the same person murdered her now. Someone else may have guessed how it was done and used the same method to get rid of Vera, for example, because she now, consciously or unconsciously, had put you onto her father’s murderer’s trail. Or one of her siblings might have taken the opportunity to get ten million more in inheritance money. There are too many possibilities here. You have given me enough information to work out how Vera Fredriksen died, but not why or who killed her. Her siblings, boyfriend, mother and the others from the 1932 group who are
still alive might all have done it, perhaps even someone we are yet to know about. Based on the known facts, it would be pure guesswork to say who she phoned, or who the mysterious guest in the neighbouring room was, and who else might have been in the hotel.’
Patricia had to pause to draw breath, but was obviously in her stride now. She continued a couple of moments later, without waiting for any questions.
‘Much the same is true of Eva Bjølhaugen’s murder in 1932. We can pretty much say with certainty that she first had a visitor in her bed, that shortly afterwards she had an epileptic fit and then was killed by drowning. We do not, however, know if the person in the bed was the same person who killed her, and again, we do not know who killed her full stop. As things stand, I have possible scenarios that fit for the other five in the group.’
‘And what about the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen?’ I asked.
Patricia sighed heavily.
Just then we were interrupted by a knock at the door. The maid came in with a fresh, steaming mug of coffee. She seemed to realize that she had come at the wrong time and made a hasty retreat without saying anything.
Patricia sipped her coffee.
‘Now it is slightly too hot,’ she said, and put the cup down. Then she looked straight at me again.
‘The murder of Per Johan Fredriksen is, if possible, even harder to work out. Whereas the murder in 1932 had a limited number of possible killers, the possibilities for the first murder in 1972 are as good as infinite. I have a number of theories, but need more information in order to establish which of them is right. And, what is more, I am not sure that we have a full overview of all the alternatives. There are lots of people with different backgrounds and motives who might want to kill a man like Per Johan Fredriksen. Fredriksen himself was obviously a chameleon man, and I think that the chances are considerable that he was killed by another chameleon person.’
Chameleon People Page 15