I thought at first that it was a bull’s eye and that my theory that the man in the hat was working for the police security service was right after all. A twitch rippled across Bryne’s otherwise stony face and with a sudden movement he put down his pipe. Then I realized that something was not right. Bryne knitted his thick brows and looked at me with something akin to paternal sympathy. His voice was far softer and more considerate when he spoke.
‘The man you are talking about definitely has no connection whatsoever with the police security service, and is not someone I am acquainted with; I do, however, know who he is. And this strengthens our theory regarding Fredriksen and the seriousness of the matter.’
Both my boss and I stared intently at Bryne, who appeared to have regained his composure. He lit his pipe again and took a couple of thoughtful puffs before opening a drawer in his desk. From it he pulled a photograph and an index card, which he lay down on the desk between us.
‘I am guessing that this is him,’ Bryne said.
My boss looked at me. I looked at the photograph. And I replied that it was definitely him.
The man in the hat had been photographed, in his suit and hat, from the side, from a street corner. Judging by the signs in the background, the photograph had been taken in London. It was indisputably the same man that I had seen behind me in Aker Street. And it appeared that he really was not good news.
According to the index card, the man in the hat was Alexander Svasnikov, who was also known by a number of aliases. He was forty-two years old, had a PhD in languages from the University of Moscow, but had worked for the KGB since 1965, at least.
‘The man with the missing pinky joint normally changes both his first and second name whenever he is posted to a new country. Here in Norway he is called Sergey Klinkalski. Here at the security service we simply call him Doctor Death, after the still-missing Nazi doctor. Svasnikov is, of course, not a medical doctor, but rather a polyglot genius who can learn most languages in no time at all. He has been stationed at embassies in Madrid, London, Bonn and Amsterdam for short periods. And in all cases, these stays have coincided with the unsolved murders of Soviet defectors living in that country. Svasnikov has always had diplomatic immunity and none of the murders can be linked to him in any way. And after a few days he moves on. As far as we know, he has never been to any of the Nordic countries before, so since his arrival we have been wondering what brings such a shark to these cold waters. Svasnikov has never been in a country without someone dying there in the most dramatic way within the space of a few weeks.’
Bryne blew out an unexpected amount of smoke after this tirade and looked even more pensive than usual. There was silence in the room. After a few seconds, I mustered my courage and shared my thoughts.
‘If the Soviets are aware that Fredriksen was about to be exposed, it would obviously be in their interests that he die before being arrested. In which case, this Svasnikov might well be Fredriksen’s murderer. He has killed before and he has just arrived in Oslo and has an obvious motive. It is almost too incredible to be a coincidence.’
My boss nodded. But Asle Bryne, on the other side of the desk, did not. ‘Nothing would make me and the police security service happier than to be able to prove that Fredriksen was a Soviet spy and that he was killed by a Soviet agent. But there are a couple of things that do not add up. First of all, the victim. As far as we know, Svasnikov has only been used to execute Soviet defectors – not to kill Western citizens. And second, the method. A couple of the earlier victims were shot and a couple died in apparent accidents. As far as we know, Svasnikov has never used a knife as a murder weapon before, and it would be rather risky if Fredriksen were to be killed on an open street.’
I suddenly saw a new side of Asle Bryne as he talked. Behind the cloud of smoke and tight-lipped manner, he was clearly still a quick-thinking policeman. When he carried on, he even managed to sound quite considerate.
‘As regards your own situation, I appreciate that it might feel rather unnerving. But the danger of an attack on you is probably very small. They have never harmed a policeman on this side of the Iron Curtain, and what is more, you are well known, so killing you would entail a great risk. But you should be armed, and if you would like, we can have someone tail you.’
I was only partially mollified by the knowledge that killing me would entail a great risk because I was so well known. The fear sparked by the sighting of the man in the hat outside on the street, now flared up again as I sat here inside, in an office, between my own boss and the head of the police security service.
My initial reaction was to say yes please to both a gun and a guard. But then I realized that the possibility of my visits to Patricia being logged in a security service archive would not be particularly smart, either for me or her.
So I said that I was not worried about my personal safety and that I certainly did not want to waste the police security service’s resources, but that having a gun did seem like a good idea if that could be arranged.
‘Of course it can,’ Bryne replied, and my boss hastily agreed.
We could have concluded the meeting there and then, in a congenial atmosphere of agreement. However, I could not help but ask one last question about what significance the imminent agreement with the Soviet Union might have for the situation.
Bryne straightened up in his chair, lit his pipe again and gave me a piercing look. Even through the smoke I could see that his face had hardened and closed once more.
‘That depends on what you mean, my young man. The answer should be obvious anyway. As far as the Soviets are concerned, it was absolutely in their best interest to avoid any spy allegations only days before such an important agreement, especially when they were so pleased with the agreement and worried that their counterparty might regret it later. And as far as the police security service is concerned, it is of course inconceivable that we would allow political considerations to influence the timing of such a situation. The incompetent fools in the military intelligence agency might take account of such short-term factors, but the police security service would never do that.’
I tried to ease the tension by saying that I of course meant how it would affect the situation in terms of the Soviets.
We ended the meeting there. I recognized the old Asle Bryne, but had also seen a better side of him this time. He shook my hand briefly and wished me luck with the investigation. It was an unexpected gesture, but one that I was afraid I would need.
VII
I was back in my office by half past eleven, where I filled in and submitted the necessary form for carrying a service gun.
Then I made the first of several urgent telephone calls. I had not been looking forward to it. It was to a woman who had lost her husband and then her daughter within the space of three days.
The telephone rang and rang, but was eventually answered on the eighth ring. ‘Fredriksen’, said the voice, very quietly and quickly this time.
Once again I offered my condolences on her family’s great loss. Then I assured her that the investigation into the two murders had been given top priority and that there had been some new developments. I did, however, need to ask her some more questions as soon as she felt able to answer them.
There was a few seconds’ silence before she answered.
‘I have been thinking a lot about something I once read by an American writer. When she lost her husband, she said: the life we shared is over, I walk on alone – but I am still walking. That is what I have to do now. I may be weeping, but I am alive. Otherwise, I am just rattling around in this home of mine and wondering what on earth has happened. So please come whenever you can or like. I had actually thought of calling you about some documents left by my husband.’
I was impressed by the strength of this apparently delicate and slightly theatrical lady. I was also very curious as to what kind of documents she had found. So I said that it was admirable of her and that I would be there as soon as I could.
&n
bsp; I picked up my service pistol on the way out. My application had clearly been processed at record speed. I was not entirely sure how reassuring I found that. The situation felt unsafe and what Bryne had said, about Svasnikov never going to a country without someone being killed within the week, was still echoing in my ears.
VIII
The sea of flowers on the drawing-room table in Bygdøy was even bigger today. But the woman on the sofa beside them was, to an impressive extent, the same, only a day after she had been told of her younger daughter’s death.
‘The children were here all yesterday evening. We agreed to grieve alone today,’ she said slowly. It was as if she had read my thoughts and seen my surprise that the family was not together.
‘It still feels unreal, that the priest came yesterday. And yet, it was not entirely unexpected that I would outlive my youngest child. Vera has always been too good for this world, really. So small when she arrived, much smaller than the other two. So much more delicate and fragile as a child. Vera was a beautiful, fair little girl as long as the sun shone, but as soon as the clouds gathered she cried or ran and hid. She was always more distant with me and her older brother and sister, but was very close to Per Johan. So, in an odd way, when he died I thought, well, now I am sure to lose Vera as well.’
She did not look at me when she was talking, she gazed out of the window instead. It struck me that she was looking out at the big garden where no doubt Vera had played as a child and cried when it rained.
The situation felt uncomfortable. But I understood her grief and gave her time. It helped. She turned back to me, an odd look in her dark brown eyes: at once focused and distant.
‘There were several periods when she was growing up that Vera simply refused to eat food. She tried to take her own life by swallowing a whole lot of pills when she was nineteen and unhappily in love. That is possibly when we all accepted the idea that we might lose her one day. But my little Vera did not take her own life yesterday, did she?’
I shook my head and told her briefly what we knew about the cause of death. Her whole body trembled and she held her hands to her eyes as I spoke.
‘My sweet Vera, who was so frightened of water and was thirteen before she even dared to swim – and she drowned in the end. But you are not able to tell me who killed her yet, are you?’
Her voice was weak, yet tense. I had to tell her that I could not at present, but that we were working as fast as we could on the case and that I had some questions to ask her concerning it.
‘Yes, of course. Ask away, and I will answer,’ she said, and once again she looked at me with oddly ambivalent eyes.
I started by asking when she had last seen or spoken to her daughter. Her face did not relax any for my question.
‘Sadly, the truth is that I did not even speak to my daughter on the day she died. I slept late yesterday. She had already gone out when I got up at half past ten. She had left a note on the kitchen table to say that she had gone out and would probably not be home until the evening. I thought she had gone to see a friend or to the university. And I did not hear anything from her until the priest came to tell me she was dead. The last time I saw my younger daughter was the evening before. We sat here in the drawing room, all four of us, talking about the future now that Per Johan had died. Vera thought we should sell the businesses to Ramdal, and came out with a couple of confused sentences about how important art and her boyfriend were to her now. Otherwise she did not say much.’
My next question for Oda Fredriksen was naturally whether she believed that her daughter’s boyfriend might have anything to do with the case. This provoked a scornful smile.
‘You will have to rule him out, I’m afraid. He travelled to Paris last Thursday to see a friend’s exhibition, and is still there. I actually sent him a telegram yesterday to let him know about Vera’s death in a respectable manner. Just a moment, I will show you the reply I got today.’
She got up and walked across the floor on light feet, almost without a sound, to the bookshelves. Then she came back with a telegram that she passed to me without even looking at it.
I could understand her irritation when I read the telegram myself. The text was short and still managed to be shocking.
‘Devastated by the news and loss of my true love. Hope I will receive inheritance to realize our great dream. Know she would want that.’
‘But that is not going to happen, is it?’ I said and looked at her.
She shook her head angrily. Her displeasure with her daughter’s boyfriend had pulled her back and she was now fully present in the room.
‘Absolutely not. They were not even engaged, and Vera had not written any kind of will. Her share of the inheritance will be divided between her brother and sister, and neither of them will give her charlatan of a boyfriend so much as a krone. We have already discussed this.’
The picture was clear. Vera Fredriksen’s boyfriend had not been in the country, and what is more, did not have a motive. His motive for falling in love appeared to have been a financial gain that he would not now get as his girlfriend had died.
I noted down the name so that I could confirm with the French police that he was in France, but did not hope for much help from those quarters.
Then I said, as tactfully as I could, that at this point I had to check the alibis of all the members of the family.
She took this unexpectedly well.
‘If you think that I first killed my husband to hide the forty-year-old murder of my sister, and have then murdered my daughter to hide the murder of my husband – well, I hope you understand that that feels rather absurd and unjust. I know that you have to ask, and as far as my husband is concerned, the answer is easy. I was at a party at my cousin’s in Holmenkollen when I received the telephone call about his death, and had been there for several hours. As far as my daughter’s death is concerned, I was here yesterday. It might not be so easy to prove. It depends on when my daughter died. Can you tell me?’
I of course knew that it must have happened between half past three and half past four, but said that we were still waiting for the final autopsy report to confirm the time of death. In the meantime, I asked her to tell me as precisely as
possible the times in the afternoon for which she had an alibi.
‘Well, let me see . . . there were several flower deliveries that I had to sign for, the first came around midday and the last was delivered just after three. I rang my eldest daughter at around half past three and then again at five.’
I quickly noted that, based on this, the mother seemed to be an unlikely murderer and that she could not have been the mysterious hotel guest, but that she did still lack an alibi for the time frame in which her youngest daughter was murdered.
I asked if she had also tried to ring her son. She nodded thoughtfully.
‘Yes. I rang my son three times – the first time after I had called my eldest daughter at half past three, then around four, and then again at half past four. But there was no answer until around half past five. I can guarantee that he is also innocent. Johan could never do such a thing. But I understand that you are obliged to check his movements too as a matter of procedure.’
I felt a tension rising in my body. There might be many good reasons why Johan Fredriksen had not answered the telephone. But it was certainly worth finding out, especially in a situation where his little sister’s death had earned him roughly ten million kroner.
I said to his mother that no doubt there was a natural explanation, but that I was duty-bound to enquire.
I then added quickly that I was also obliged to check out whether any of Per Johan Fredriksen’s former mistresses might have anything to do with the case, and so I had to ask if she knew who some of them were.
She let out a heavy sigh. ‘Not really. I wanted to know as little as possible about them. My greatest fear has always been that he has an illegitimate child somewhere, but so far there has been no evidence of that. His mistresses were not exact
ly something we discussed at the dinner table. But I could always see it in my husband. He was more distant and less interested in me for periods. There was a period in the mid-fifties, just after Vera had been born, when he acted this way for a long, long time, and I was worried that I might actually be losing him to another woman. But it passed and faded towards the end of 1956 and the start of 1957. I never found out who it was. But I do have a dreadful suspicion . . .’
She suddenly pursed her lips and sat in silence for a while. I asked her to please finish what she was saying, and to let me decide whether it was of importance to the case or not.
‘Well, I would rather not spread rumours about others. My husband was not loose-tongued and wasn’t usually a sleep-talker. But one night in the autumn of 1955, when he had a fever, he suddenly started uttering words in his sleep. I couldn’t make out much of it, but several times he clearly said my name and the name of a woman I know. It may of course be a coincidence, but it was strange all the same.’
She fell silent again, then took a deep breath. It was clear that it was difficult for her to talk about this. It was while I sat there watching her struggle to find the words that I understood the connection.
‘Can I hazard a guess that the name he said was Solveig?’
Oda Fredriksen sighed heavily – grimly, in fact. Suddenly she looked old and bitter.
‘Yes, it was. It was as though a ghost from the distant past had appeared in our bedroom. I remember that it felt like the bed under me froze to ice when he said her name, and it was still hard to sit beside her at the dinner nearly two years later. If it really was her he was dreaming about, I never heard anything more. And then things returned to normal a year or so later, and everything was better. Until the one in Majorstuen appeared a couple of years ago, like a snake in paradise, just when I thought my husband was finally done with other women.’
I saw the outline of another face when Oda Fredriksen talked about her late husband’s mistresses, even though she remained remarkably controlled.
Chameleon People Page 18