Chameleon People

by Hans Olav Lahlum

  The smile disappeared when I asked if there were other aspects of his political life that he had discussed with her. She shook her head and said that he had only talked about the EEC issue and changing party. It seemed reasonable that he had discussed the EEC matter and plans for next year’s general election with his mistress, but apparently he had not mentioned his contact with the Soviet Embassy even to her.

  It was now half past five and I had run out of my easier questions. So I had no choice but to put the handwritten letter from Per Johan Fredriksen down on the table between us and say that unfortunately I had to ask her to read it.

  Harriet Henriksen was a woman whose emotions changed swiftly and easily. Three minutes ago she had been smiling and almost happy at the thought that she may have influenced her lover. Now she was shedding tears as she saw whose handwriting the letter was penned in. Then she flinched as she read what was written. Afterwards, she sat trembling. I hoped that there might be another emotional outburst. But there was not. She just sat there with tears streaming down her cheeks, her fists balling tighter and tighter.

  When I realized that she was not going to say anything without help, I asked if she had been given this letter by her lover during his last visit.

  She slowly shook her head. Her voice was strained, but still coherent when she started to speak. She began slowly, but then the words just came tumbling out.

  ‘No, I have never seen this letter before. But he did say as much to me as we sat at the table here eating supper on Saturday. It came as quite a blow, but not a shock as such. He had been fretting about it for a long time, that I should find a younger man and have children before it was too late. And he brought it up again then. I said that there wasn’t a younger man in the whole wide world I would want more than him, and that I would rather be childless all my life than have children with anyone else. The whole time I was scared that he would simply get up and leave. He was visibly touched by what I said then he turned to me and he said that I was the only person in the world who loved him for who he was and not his money. As usual, we went to bed after the meal. And afterwards any doubt I ever had in him was forgotten. He kissed me before he left and said that we should meet again soon and talk some more. So even though I had had a shock and still had to live with the uncertainty, I continued to be optimistic.’

  Harriet Henriksen had slowed down again and seemed distant. Suddenly she reminded me of Oda Fredriksen. It struck me that the two women in Per Johan Fredriksen’s life, despite their differences, had both weathered these terrible days and resolutely clung to their love for him.

  I thought about how we still only had his mistress’s word that Per Johan Fredriksen had not in fact broken up with her on his last visit, as he had intended to do in his letter. And I also only had her word that he had hinted at it but then changed his mind. I had to be open to the possibility that she had run out after him, begged him to come back and then stabbed him when he walked away. The fact that the murder weapon was a kitchen knife fitted well with this theory.

  I consequently needed to check Harriet Henriksen’s alibi, so I asked tactfully if the last time she saw her beloved it had been through the window.

  She understood what I was asking. After a rather tense moment, she replied that she had seen him from the window and that she had not gone out, either with him or after him.

  I apologized before asking if there was anyone who could confirm this.

  She, for her part, apologized that she could only reply that there was no one. No one had come to see her before I rang the next day. She had no one she could call to talk to about her situation – not after he had gone, nor after she had heard the news that he had been stabbed.

  She still just called him ‘he’ and looked so lonely sitting there on her own. I felt a great deal of sympathy for her. But she did have a motive, and she was the only one of those involved who was still alive and had been in Majorstuen on the evening that Per Johan Fredriksen had died. So when I carried on to Sognsvann, I did not yet dare strike Harriet Henriksen from my list of possible murderers.

  XIII

  Johan Fredriksen lived in a terraced house a few hundred yards from the lake at Sognsvann. His house was just as I had imagined it would be: larger than was usual for a single lawyer of thirty-five without his own firm, but incomparable to his father’s or Kjell Arne Ramdal’s in terms of size.

  The door was opened no more than ten seconds after I had rung the bell. Seeing him again, I was more struck than ever by how much he resembled me in appearance. And if his sister’s death had caused any emotional response, it was not possible to see it on his face or hear it in his voice.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said in a staccato tone, and then turned around. I followed him into the living room. It was also more or less as I had imagined: clean and tidy, but not very exciting. If there had been any photographs of girlfriends, Johan Fredriksen had removed them before I got there. There was not a single picture up on the walls, and as far as I could see, the bookcase only contained books about law and economics.

  The only thing lying on the living-room table was a pile of accounts for Per Johan Fredriksen A/S.

  I pointed at the accounts and asked if there was any news about the business and the possible takeover.

  He told me that the offer was still on the table at a few million more than the actual value, and that the family were inclined to accept the offer and move on. That was what had been agreed at a meeting the evening before last, but they had not managed to talk about it again since Vera’s death.

  I suddenly thought about what Solveig Ramdal had said about her husband also being a businessman in his private life. The same could be said of Johan Fredriksen. However, when he started to speak again, it was apparent he was a much younger and softer businessman.

  ‘You must excuse me if I appear to be unmoved. My youngest sister’s death has affected me deeply. I am just not as good as my father and others at showing my feelings. In fact, I am not as good as my father at anything.’

  I asked him how he saw his relationship with his sisters.

  ‘I am not really very close to them in any way, I have to admit. We are different ages, have different personalities and interests. Vera and I never argued, as far as I can remember, but that is perhaps because we did not talk much. Ane Line was closer to her – perhaps because they are both girls. Although I think more recently, they were talking less. As far as I understood it, they had argued about something. Ane Line and I live our own lives and have our own opinions, but we do speak when needs be. We are both pragmatists, in our own way.’

  I noted down that I should ask Ane Line Fredriksen what she and her sister had argued about. Otherwise, this was more or less what their mother had said, and I did not think there was much to be garnered here.

  So we looked at each other and waited. Then Johan Fredriksen got up, went over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a glass of wine. He raised the bottle, looking at me questioningly, then nodded with understanding when I said that I could not drink on the job.

  ‘Many gifted young men have bemoaned the fact that they are not the only and eldest son of a rich father. For me it was the opposite. I often thought when I was growing up that it would have been nice to have a brother, who could blaze the trail and relieve some of the pressure and expectation. But I had no older brother, only two younger sisters. My father was kind enough never to complain. But I could tell that he was disappointed, and I heard others say the same. They said that I was doing fine, but that they had expected more of Per Johan Fredriksen’s only son. I have always been good, but never great. My sporting achievements were good, my results were good, but I was never the best at anything. I lacked the charisma of which my father had so much. My greatest triumph in life is that I was the fifth best in my year to graduate from law school. The examiner said, “You are not the brightest one here, but you are the one who works hardest to be so.” I took that as a compliment and hoped that it heralded my breakthr
ough.’

  He paused briefly and finished his wine. I was glad that he was opening up, and allowed him the time to pour another glass before I said: ‘But it was not?’

  He grimly shook his head.

  ‘No, it was not. Father congratulated me and smiled, but I could see that coming fifth, which was such an achievement for me, meant nothing to him. He still didn’t want to involve me in running the business, and wouldn’t give me an advance on my inheritance so I could start my own practice. “You are not robust enough yet to stand on your own two feet as a businessman,” he had said to me with this kind but patronizing smile. Apparently I had to get more work experience and preferably also a sensible and helpful wife. So once again, I did what he told me, got a boring job as an associate, while I waited for better times.’

  ‘And now you finally have your chance – because of a tragedy,’ I said.

  He nodded, but did not smile. ‘Not just a tragedy, but a double tragedy. I inherited around twenty million when my father was killed on Saturday, and another ten million yesterday when my little sister died. Suddenly, I have all the opportunities I ever wanted, but this is certainly not how I had wished for it to happen. My little sister was killed, wasn’t she? She attempted suicide once a few years ago, but I’m sure that’s not what happened this time.’

  I confirmed that it did look like his sister had been murdered. In addition, we now also had to keep all possibilities open regarding his father’s killer, as a new witness had thrown doubt on whether the boy on the red bicycle had done it.

  Johan Fredriksen took this news with unexpected composure. He put his wine glass down and looked at me with a serious, though not unfriendly, expression on his face.

  ‘Then I have a problem, which I am afraid may cause a problem for you too. I was here at home on both Saturday evening and yesterday afternoon, but have no one to confirm that.’

  ‘So you are saying that you were at home alone?’ I asked.

  He took another sip of wine, then shook his head.

  ‘No. What I am saying – and it is the truth – is that I was here with my girlfriend. But I cannot ask her to confirm that for me. She has made it quite clear that she, for very personal reasons, does not want her name to be public or to be pulled into the investigation in any way. She is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in all my life. I am even more scared of losing her now, having just lost two of my closest family members. I simply cannot burden her with that. So in a situation where I know that I am innocent and did not murder my father and little sister, I choose to respect my girlfriend’s wish to remain anonymous, even though I realize that it may not make life any easier for me.’

  I could not work Johan Fredriksen out, nor could I decide what I thought of him. On the one hand, I could understand him, even empathize with him, but on the other, it did create a problem for the investigation.

  I tried to push him by saying that his mother claimed she had phoned him several times yesterday afternoon without getting an answer. He nodded sharply.

  ‘Yes, I can confirm that, without being able to give you the precise times. I heard the telephone ring out here in the sitting room at least twice. I had a strong suspicion that it was my mother, and indeed, when I then answered the phone at around half past five, I had this confirmed. When she had called earlier, I was in a room with another person, in the middle of things I did not want to interrupt, so I couldn’t talk to my mother on the phone.’

  He said this somewhat defiantly, and then raised his glass before draining it.

  I was still unsure as to how I felt about Johan Fredriksen, but realized that it would be impossible to get anything more out of him now. So I asked him to think hard about the situation. He promised to do that, but said that it was unlikely that anything would change with regards to his alibi and his girlfriend’s identity. He added that she had been here with him when both the murders happened, and clearly had no connection to the case. She had never met either his parents or his sisters.

  I was increasingly intrigued by Johan Fredriksen’s mysterious girlfriend. However, it was perfectly clear that she had no links to the case. And it was not obvious who that young woman might be. I had more than enough parties to juggle with as it was. And what was more, I did not think that Johan Fredriksen would make up a story like that if he had killed his father or sister. His story tallied with what his mother had said and indirectly gave him a kind of alibi. So I dropped it – and left with slightly more respect for Johan Fredriksen than I had arrived with.

  XIV

  It was after I had got into the car just by Sognsvann at a quarter past seven that I saw him for the fourth time.

  The man in the hat was not wearing a hat today, nor was he following me. He was just standing there, casually leaning against a wall on the corner of the street. I started the car.

  The encounter lasted no more than a few seconds and felt far less threatening than our previous meetings. I was sitting in a car with a loaded gun in its holster under my jacket. It also helped that I now knew who the man in the hat was, even though I therefore also knew that he was dangerous.

  However, seeing him again was an uncomfortable reminder that I was being watched, and that we were still no further forward on the spying aspect of the case.

  I drove to Patricia’s house and round the block one more time to make sure that no one was following me before I stopped and parked the car a few hundred yards from the house, at twenty past seven. I kept my eyes peeled as I walked from the car to the front door. The man in the hat was nowhere to be seen. And yet still I had the feeling that I had not seen him for the last time.

  XV

  ‘Hmm,’ Patricia said. She had finished her tomato soup and roast pork with sweet potatoes, but still listened carefully to my account of the day’s developments.

  I had carried a small dilemma with me as I entered the house that day, but had resolved it by deciding to speak openly about my meeting with the head of the police security service and the suspicions that Per Johan Fredriksen may have been a spy.

  I was fully aware that this formally constituted a breach of confidentiality, which could cost me my job if it was ever discovered. What surprised me was that I did not have any particular misgivings about it. I was absolutely certain that Patricia would never tell anyone. And given that, I saw it more or less as my duty to do all that I could to clear up a matter of such national importance. Furthermore, the case had become something of an obsession and the pressure was such that I was willing to go to pretty much whatever lengths necessary to solve it.

  Patricia seemed to take it for granted that I told her everything and didn’t even look surprised. She had put her soup to one side and given a little nod when I mentioned the suspicions that Fredriksen was a spy, but that was the only reaction I registered.

  ‘So, where shall we begin?’ I asked, when the maid had disappeared with the leftovers of supper.

  Patricia answered without hesitation: ‘At the beginning – in 1932!’

  It was eight o’clock already and I was starting to worry that I might be late for my date with Miriam at half past. Patricia did not know about it, of course, and seemed to have all the time in the world. She thought for nearly a full minute before continuing.

  ‘It is possible there are some links here, but they are still so tenuous that it would be best to work with this as three separate murder mysteries. As far as 1932 is concerned, the picture is becoming a bit clearer, but not so clear that we can see the murderer’s face. The more we get to know about the great beauty Eva Bjølhaugen, the more she resembles Marilyn Monroe: she liked attention and played with the men who liked to give it to her. All three men desired her, and all three had been to her room. For now, up until a quarter past six, everything is clear . . .’

  I was getting lost already. I said that according to Hauk himself, he had been there before half past five and Kjell Arne Ramdal was there between six and a quarter past six, but it was never said that Pe
r Johan Fredriksen had been there.

  Patricia gave a contemptuous snort before carrying on. ‘Of course he had. He wonders in his note who might have drowned Eva between six and eight. The only logical explanation for the time frame is that he went to see her just before six. So he was there some time before six, presumably with the same mission as Kjell Arne Ramdal, and obviously was equally unsuccessful. Even though both these assumptions are uncertain, we also know that Eva was alive and the bed still made up when Kjell Arne left the room at a quarter past six, and that she was alive until the bang which Solveig maintains she heard at half past seven. In which case, Eva had in the meantime gone to bed with a guest and then been killed either by that person or another guest. Do we agree so far? And in that case, do you have any suggestions as to who it might be?’

  Just then there was a knock at the door. Patricia forced a rather tart smile as the maid came in and served us coffee and cakes, before slipping out again. My mind was whirring, but I could not come up with any possible candidates.

  ‘Well?’

  Patricia’s voice was no less tart than her smile. I had to admit sheepishly that I could not suggest any names.

  ‘I agree with your summary, but cannot see where it goes from here. There is nothing to indicate which of the three was suddenly granted grace and why.’

  Patricia nodded quickly, almost appreciatively.

  ‘Precisely. If two of the three enamoured young men had been rejected earlier, it would be natural to suspect the third. But when all three had received a rap on their trouser flies that afternoon, it’s apparently not so easy to see who, then, suddenly got their hands on the treat that everyone wanted . . .’

  She paused for one of her most unsympathetic girlish titters. Once again, I thought to myself that a contemptuous seventeen-year-old still hid behind her more adult face. However, she quickly returned to her astonishingly mature and highly developed intellectual self once more.