Chameleon People

by Hans Olav Lahlum

  ‘It may seem strange, but I think I have an answer to the mystery of who went to bed with the beautiful Eva. The problem is: A, it is not entirely certain, and B, it does not necessarily give us the answer as to who killed her.’

  Patricia sat lost in thought in her wheelchair, looking out into thin air, not meeting my eye. She moved her lips a couple of times as if to talk, before a sound finally came out.

  ‘No, it is too uncertain to say anything, even though I think I am right. I have to sleep on it. There are a couple of pieces that still need to fall into place. If you have time, confront Hauk with the new information and ask him outright if he had been to bed with Eva. It may be important both for him and the others who were there. And at the same time, ask him if she was religious. And also, even if it is not possible to find out to whom a hair belongs, you can usually tell whereabouts on the body it’s from, can’t you? In which case, I would like to know where those three hairs in Eva’s bed came from.’

  I did not understand what she was getting at, but was used to Patricia asking strange questions that later proved to provide decisive answers. So I promised to check both things.

  It was now a quarter past eight. I remembered my meeting with Miriam and felt the pressure mounting. So I asked if we could perhaps fast-forward to the present.

  Patricia nodded and her face took on a more strained expression.

  ‘Yes, but there is less that is new here, unfortunately. There are still too many possibilities and too many details to verify them in relation to Per Johan Fredriksen’s death and that of Vera Fredriksen. And possibly also too many people with hidden faces . . .’

  Patricia fell silent again. I remarked that the identification of the man in the hat and the fact that Per Johan Fredriksen was suspected of being a spy were important developments.

  ‘Yes, of course. The identification of the man in the hat is very interesting and rather unsettling. It not only indicates that Per Johan Fredriksen had crossed the line with his Soviet contacts, but also that they knew that he could be exposed. I would certainly like to know what made the police security service start to suspect him, but it would be no easy task to get an answer out of Asle Bryne. The espionage aspect of the case is highly sensitive. So you will just have to keep your ears open and your eyes peeled. In other circumstances, I would have said that it was most likely that Per Johan Fredriksen had been liquidated by a Soviet agent. But the method and place give rise to some questions. If the agent did kill him to avert a very untimely exposure, why did he kill him with a knife, and what did he talk to Fredriksen about before he killed him? If the agent came to Norway to murder Fredriksen, but wanted to avoid a scandal, why is he still here two days later? If it was to kill Fredriksen’s daughter, why on earth is he still here today, and how on earth did he find out about the story from 1932?’

  Again, Patricia stopped to ponder before she continued. I finished off one of the small cakes and started to get very agitated about the time. As she still had not said anything by twenty past eight, I prompted her.

  ‘The office manager now also has a motive, does he not?’

  She nodded. ‘Certainly. The office manager cannot explain everything, but he may be able to explain an important part that can unravel the rest. Fredriksen was clearly blackmailing him in some way. But the question is, how much of a motive does that give the office manager? Ask him about it. And ask the accountant at the same time. And when you are talking to them about it, also ask how long the boy on the red bicycle’s mother worked in the office and compare that with when her son was born. Ask the mother herself, if their answer is not good enough.’

  This was taking a direction I had not even thought about until now. So I tried to follow the thread, though I was still somewhat reluctant to do so.

  ‘But – surely we have established that the mysterious woman in Fredriksen’s life in the mid-fifties was Solveig Ramdal. She confirmed it herself!’

  Patricia let out a slightly exasperated sigh. ‘Nonsense. A chameleon like Fredriksen could quite easily conduct two extra-marital affairs at the same time, particularly if he only wanted to talk about the mysteries from 1932 with one of the women. It may be a coincidence. However, I am not yet willing to conclude that the boy on the red bicycle was simply a red herring in the investigation. The link is too strong, especially given that his mother worked in Fredriksen’s office at a time when Fredriksen found himself a new mistress. And given that her marriage had been childless for many years, and she then gave birth to a son around this time. So please do check this in the morning.’

  Patricia picked up her first cake and took a bite, but did not seem to be happy with the taste.

  ‘A slightly technical question, which could be very important: were the floors in the hotel carpeted? Both in the hall and in the room?’

  I answered straightaway: ‘Yes, in both places. I asked the receptionist, and he said there had been no changes there either.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Patricia said. She looked a bit happier when she took her second piece of cake. Rather abruptly, she added: ‘Another thing – if you are able to, check what is to be found in the archives about the court case against Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s father and what happened, before you speak to him. His family history may be relevant here, and there is something about Hauk and the way that the others perceive him that I cannot work out.’

  I promised, somewhat distractedly, to do this. Then I asked if there was anything more she would like to discuss today – and stood up a little too fast when she said: ‘Sadly, no.’

  It was now one minute to half past eight. Patricia still did not know that I had arranged to meet Miriam, but I could see in her eyes when I stood up that she suspected as much and she clearly disliked it intensely. The situation I found myself in was so uncomfortable it almost hurt.

  XVI

  I was ten minutes late when I opened the door to my flat. I had seen from outside that the light was on. Miriam had, as usual, kept her promise and arrived on time. When I came into the living room, she was sitting on the sofa in her usual reading position – with the big blue book about nineteenth-century Nordic literature. The book looked as though it might be some eight hundred pages long, but she only had about fifty pages left.

  I went over to her, said that she was an impressively fast reader, and apologized that I was late, but it had been an unexpectedly busy day. She snapped the book shut, jumped from the sofa and said: ‘That’s OK. But why was it so long?’

  I was not sure if she was actually asking whether I had been to see Patricia or not. As her name was not mentioned, I more than gladly took it to be a question about what had happened in the investigation. So I told her about the day’s meetings with the remaining members of the group from 1932, and with Fredriksen’s mistress and son.

  I gave her a summary of the reasoning and conclusions in the case so far, without of course mentioning where they came from. Miriam got very excited when I explained how Fredriksen’s own explanation revealed between the lines that he too had gone to Eva’s room before six. She remarked again how well I was doing on my own. And again, we steered clear of mentioning Patricia.

  I finished my account of the 1932 case by saying that we had therefore come a bit further, but were yet to identify who had been in Eva’s bed – and who had killed her.

  Miriam showed a genuine interest in both questions, without being able to suggest any revolutionary solutions.

  So far, so good. But all the time, I felt the weight of my spy dilemma. I knew without a doubt that Miriam was trustworthy through and through, but I still did not trust her in the way that I did Patricia. And I felt horribly guilty that I could show more faith in her than in my fiancée.

  But Miriam clearly knew me too well as suddenly she said: ‘There’s something you are not telling me. Is there something about the investigation that you can’t share with me?’

  At first I said: ‘Yes, I am sorry, but that is unfortunately the case.’

&nb
sp; She looked disappointed, but nodded and said: ‘You know you can always trust me. But of course I understand if you can’t tell me. I just won’t be able to help you with it, I suppose.’

  It was when I heard her say that, that my bad conscience got the better of me. I assured her that I trusted her wholeheartedly, but that she must never tell another living soul what I was going to tell her now.

  She nodded eagerly, raised her chin and said: ‘Of course,’ then snuggled closer.

  I thought to myself that the situation was actually becoming rather alarming, but it was too late now to turn back, and nor did I want to.

  So I sat there on the sofa, close to my Miriam, and more or less whispered the story of my visit to the head of the police security service to her, and told her that Per Johan Fredriksen was suspected of being a spy.

  I struggled with a horrible mix of feelings as I sat there. One moment I was terrified of the consequences this might have should it ever get out; the next, it felt right to be telling her. Miriam’s shoulders were permanently damaged by an injury she had sustained when trying to help me in my last case and her actions had very probably saved the current prime minister’s life. She had never let slip a word to anyone about what I had told her then. It did not feel right that I should now hide this from her – especially as it was no more than two hours since I had told another woman.

  It made Miriam happy in her own way, without any great display of affection or gushing words. ‘Gosh, that really is a dramatic development,’ was all she said. Then she sat there deep in thought on the sofa. I could feel her body vibrating with tension.

  Then suddenly she stood up and said: ‘I have a lecture at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, so I have to get to bed early. But I will think more on this tomorrow.’

  I followed her to the door, and offered without success to drive her home. I was not sure whether it was her lecture tomorrow morning or my investigation she was thinking about, but it was obvious that she was mulling something over. Miriam’s eyes and voice were both unusually distant. She had the big blue book tucked under her arm. In the doorway on her way out, she said, to my joy, something that Patricia had not said today: ‘Good luck with the investigation. Remember to watch out for the man in the hat and any other dangers.’

  I kissed her on the mouth, and almost replied that she had to stay; she couldn’t possibly leave me in such a frightening and unsafe situation. But I said nothing. Then suddenly she was gone, and I heard her quick steps disappear down the stairs.

  I stood by the window and watched her go. I thought that I had never loved anyone as much as I loved Miriam, but I still felt pulled and stretched in every direction.

  For the first time, it was not a disappointment to see Miriam disappear into the night. I had a sudden need to be alone and think about the investigation and my own life, though it could hardly be said that I made much progress with either. I managed to write a list of people I should talk to tomorrow in connection with the investigation. This included Hauk Rebne Westgaard, Ane Line Fredriksen and Lene Johansen, as well as the office manager Odd Jørgensen and the accountant Erling Svendsen. I was impatient to get on, but could not do much more tonight.

  Physical exhaustion overwhelmed me without warning. It was eleven o’clock when I set the alarm for a quarter past seven, and went to bed. It was a matter of minutes before I was asleep.

  On Wednesday, 22 March 1972, I fell asleep alone, safely locked in my own flat, but with a great deal of uncertainty about what tomorrow would bring. I tried to think about Miriam, but fell asleep with Patricia’s sharp, accusing eyes staring me down.

  DAY SIX

  Some Answers, a Disappearance and a Face in a Car Window

  I

  The case was becoming more and more of an obsession. On Thursday, 23 March 1972, I leapt out of bed with the first ring of the alarm clock at a quarter past seven and rang Hauk Rebne Westgaard straightaway.

  I guessed that he was an early bird, which quickly proved to be true. The telephone in Holmestrand was answered on the third ring.

  I apologized for calling so early, then said that there were a number of new things in connection with Eva’s death in 1932 that I would like to discuss with him as soon as possible.

  He replied that I could call him as early as I liked and could come to see him whenever it suited, if it would help to clarify what had happened when Eva died.

  I took him at his word and said that I hoped to be there before ten.

  The day’s newspapers were a less inspiring read. Arbeiderbladet used half the front page to cover the EEC debate and much of the rest was about the Government’s plans to establish a state-run oil company. Unfortunately, the murder case had crept onto the remaining space on the front page as it had in Aftenposten. Aftenposten was still positive about the way in which the police were dealing with the case. The newspaper reported that there might be ‘reason to question’ whether the investigation had the necessary resources. And if indeed it did not, whether the blame did not lie with ‘senior police officers’, but instead with the parliamentary majority who had not given the police enough resources.

  I heaved a sigh of relief that neither the link to 1932, nor the possible links to the EEC question and espionage, had been discovered. At the same time, I shuddered to think what might happen if they were. It felt like this was the calm before the media storm. Something had to happen today.

  All was quiet down at the station when I popped in. I picked up the paper bag with the three hairs in it from my pigeon hole. There was a short statement with it to say that it was head hair, but they could not use them to identify who they came from.

  Neither my boss nor Danielsen had arrived yet, which suited me fine. I drove on to Holmestrand without waiting for them.

  Today, however, I drove to Westgaard Farm via the sheriff’s office in Holmestrand. In the archives, I found a couple of yellowed pages about the transfer of Westgaard to Hauk. Having read them, I drove the last stretch faster than planned.

  II

  Westgaard looked just as peaceful and idyllic in the Vestfold landscape as it had the last time. And yet it felt like a different place when I got there at a quarter to ten. The weather was more overcast and neither the farmer nor the workers were anywhere to be seen. Not that this meant anything, of course. But it did feel rather ominous, nonetheless.

  Hauk Rebne Westgaard had been waiting and opened the door within seconds of me ringing the bell. He was dressed in simple work clothes. His hat lay on the hat rack in the hall. I noted in passing that it was the same shape, if not the same colour, as the one worn by Alexander Svasnikov when he was following me around the streets of Oslo. Svasnikov’s hat was brown and this was green, but I thought to myself that on a dark street at night in Oslo, the hats could certainly look the same from a window.

  We went into the living room. Almost instinctively, both Hauk Rebne Westgaard and I sat down in the same places as before with about three feet of table between us.

  ‘So, what brings you back to the farm today?’ my host asked.

  I carefully put the bag with the hairs in it down on the table. He looked at me with bright anticipation, which faded as soon as I said that it was head hair from a person, but they could not establish the identity of the person from the hair. However, he perked up again when I said that we were starting to get an outline of what had happened. Up to the point it certainly seemed that Hauk Rebne Westgaard was genuinely interested in clearing up what had happened when his girlfriend died.

  I told him in brief that Eva Bjølhaugen had in all probability been drowned in 1932. We had reason to believe that Per Johan Fredriksen had been in her room soon after Hauk himself, and that Kjell Arne Ramdal had been there after Fredriksen. However, we also had reason to believe that Ramdal left the room at a quarter past six, at which point, Eva had been unharmed and the bed untouched. We were now trying to establish what happened in the next two hours.

  Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s eyes widened wh
en I mentioned drowning, and he listened to everything that followed intently. When I said that I now had to ask him some personal questions and that the answers could be decisive in solving the case of his girlfriend’s murder, he quickly gave me the go-ahead.

  ‘All right, I will answer to the best of my abilities,’ he said, sitting up straight in his chair, his face serious in concentration.

  I started tactfully by asking if Eva had been religious. He shook his head sharply.

  ‘Not particularly. She went to church at Christmas and Easter and the like, but did not have a strong Christian faith. In fact, her father despaired at her lack of faith. He was a little happier with her sister on that score, although never completely satisfied with either of them.’

  This prompted me to ask what kind of relationship Eva had with her sister Oda.

  ‘Well, they were very different – the one blonde and gregarious, the other dark and taciturn. Eva was someone everyone noticed as soon as she walked into a room, and Oda was often the person you forgot being there at all. Eva dominated, despite being younger. They spent a lot of time together, but were often bickering. But that’s not unusual for sisters at that age, so I don’t think any of us gave it much thought.’

  ‘Eva liked attention, even after you became a couple.’

  He gave an even sharper nod this time. ‘Absolutely. Eva got a lot of attention from a lot of men and was a rather self-centred young woman who didn’t say no. I took it all with a pinch of salt. I just thought I was lucky to have such a beautiful and attractive girlfriend. And I knew that she was a good girl, proper . . .’

  He talked in a low and slightly tense voice. I increasingly got the feeling that this was leading somewhere.

  ‘Almost too proper, in fact,’ I pushed, gently.

  Hauk Rebne Westgaard looked at me, his eyes still wide, and gave a barely discernible nod. It was the last encouragement I needed to spur me on.