Chameleon People

by Hans Olav Lahlum

  Paradoxically, the fact that Patricia now had a boyfriend was apparently what was needed for me to realize how much she meant to me. On a number of previous occasions, after her father’s death in particular, I had found myself thinking how much easier it would be if Patricia had more friends than just me. And now that she did, I almost instinctively reacted negatively. And my dilemma as to what I should tell Miriam about my contact with Patricia would once again become pressing the moment Miriam woke up.

  So Friday, 24 March 1972 had indeed provided great relief, another death and some useful information. It had been a rollercoaster ride to the very end. I fell asleep just before midnight, alone in my bed, with alternating pictures of Patricia and Miriam in my mind.

  The picture that stayed just before I dropped off was of the sleeping Miriam as she tried to smile at me from her deep slumber at Ullevål Hospital. I tossed and turned in bed more than usual before eventually I fell asleep.

  DAY EIGHT

  Lots of Answers – and an Unbearably Painful Question

  I

  Saturday, 25 March 1972 started for me at half past seven – and on a low, as anticipated. Two of the morning papers carried short reports that the fiancée of the head of the Fredriksen investigation had been reported missing earlier the day before, but had then been found again in the evening.

  The shooting at the National Theatre and the postponed signing of the Barents Sea agreement, on the other hand, were on all the front pages. All the newspapers were careful to point out that the incident was as yet unexplained, but all agreed that the signing of the agreement should be postponed as a result of this uncertainty. Any links to the Fredriksen case were still unclear, though even Aftenposten wrote that ‘the pressure on the head of investigation Kolbjørn Kristiansen will now be even greater.’ I could not even bear to think about what Verdens Gang would write.

  Reading these reports in the papers felt like a hard start to the day. But gradually I came round to the idea that, in isolation, it was not such a bad thing. I was very glad that the drama with Miriam had not been picked up by the press. I was not sure that my boss had assessed the mood correctly with regards to the interpreter. I thought that her murder, if it remained unsolved, might be revisited by the press, certainly if the suspicions of a Soviet execution proved to be persistent. But if that was the case, it would be Danielsen’s problem and responsibility. My responsibility was limited to the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen and his daughter, which I now had every hope we could solve before Monday.

  It suited me very well that the Fredriksen murders had been overshadowed by the shooting at the National Theatre. I could eat my breakfast in peace without the telephone ringing. Though they did call from the main station at a quarter past eight to say that I was invited to another meeting at the Soviet Embassy as soon as possible. I asked them to pass on the message that I would be there at nine.

  II

  The table was set for three today. It almost felt a little unsafe sitting there under the portrait of Brezhnev alone with two Soviet citizens. However, today’s meeting was much shorter and far more relaxed. The vice-ambassador came in with the same interpreter as yesterday and smiled as he shook my hand.

  ‘The vice-ambassador hopes that you are pleased with developments and thanks you for your help in resolving the situation without any unnecessary speculation or scandal,’ the interpreter said.

  For which I thanked him, with somewhat mixed feelings. Then I asked if the embassy had any new information that might help to solve the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen.

  ‘The embassy would be more than happy to help and the vice-ambassador hopes that we can do so. We can first of all assure you that your meetings with our colleague Sergey Klinkalski in various parts of the city were pure coincidence. Comrade Klinkalski likes to familiarize himself with the different parts of the town or city where he is working, including the more working-class areas, so he spent a couple of days exploring the city. Unfortunately he could not be here himself today, as he has been transferred to an important position in another embassy at short notice. Klinkalski left Norway late yesterday evening. He asked us to pass on his best wishes and this, his written statement.’

  I thanked him somewhat insincerely. The situation felt a little absurd – but at the same time, very exciting. And it was no less absurd or exciting when the vice-ambassador then produced a folded sheet of paper and handed it to me almost ceremoniously.

  The folded sheet contained a typed statement in perfect Norwegian with a very elegant signature:

  As a result of my wish to familiarize myself with Oslo, I found myself at Majorstuen in the evening on Saturday, 18 March 1972. There were not many people around. One of the men was Per Johan Fredriksen, whom I did not know at the time, but subsequently realized was a leading politician when I saw his photograph in the newspaper.

  Fredriksen was first stopped on a street corner by a young boy on a bicycle. They exchanged a few words, then Fredriksen waved him off and carried on walking. The boy stood there for a while, then turned round, got onto his bike, and cycled slowly off in the opposite direction.

  Fredriksen walked on to the next corner, where a middle-aged woman waved to him. The woman seemed to be known to Fredriksen, as he went over to her. They exchanged a few words, whereupon the woman drew a knife and stabbed Fredriksen in the chest. Fredriksen shouted, fell to the ground and lay there. The woman stood there for a few seconds, then ran as fast as she could down the street in the direction that Fredriksen had come from.

  As I am unfamiliar with Norwegian society and conventions, I stayed where I was to observe, as I was uncertain whether the whole thing might have been staged in order to rob me. A few moments later, the boy on the bicycle came back. He leaned down over Fredriksen, pulled out the knife and then stood there with it in his hand. Then suddenly he hopped on his bike and pedalled off at high speed. Several other passers-by were now gathering around Fredriksen. I understood now that he really had been the victim of a crime, but that I might myself be suspected and so withdrew and went back to the embassy, rather than approaching the scene of the crime.

  The woman who stabbed Fredriksen had dark hair and looked as though she could be somewhere between forty and sixty. She was bare-headed and wearing an old green winter coat. Because of the distance and the dark, I am unfortunately unable to give any more details about her features or clothes.

  Dr Sergey Klinkalski, Oslo, 24 March 1972.

  ‘The vice-ambassador hopes that the information may be of help to your investigation into the terrible murder of Mr Fredriksen,’ the interpreter said.

  I said that I hoped so too. Then I thanked the vice-ambassador for his help and cooperation. He left with me this time. We parted at the reception, with a firm and almost friendly handshake.

  III

  ‘Exactly. Thank you. That is exactly what I was hoping for,’ Patricia said, and put the document down beside her cup of coffee.

  I remarked that the document provided new information, but not about who killed Per Johan Fredriksen. I added that we might perhaps want to take what Klinkalski said with a pinch of salt, but that what he had written did fit well with what we already knew.

  Patricia nodded. ‘Like a glove. All the stuff about him and his intentions is of course nonsense, but his eyewitness account is the truth, I think. There is no reason for him to lie about it. On the contrary, it is not only in his interests, but also in the embassy’s that this is cleared up. His statement does not tell us who the murderer is, but it does give important information about who it is not. Enough for me now to tell you who murdered Eva Bjølhaugen in 1932 and who killed Per Johan and Vera Fredriksen in 1972. So, we are talking about three murders and two murderers. But I warn you, evidence may be problematic, so having the murderers’ identities will not necessarily mean that the case is closed.’

  I quickly agreed with her. I probably would have done that no matter what she said in the end. I felt slightly shellshocked – and in
toxicated by the possibility that the case might soon be solved.

  ‘Per Johan Fredriksen’s death acted as a catalyst killing, to a certain extent, which dramatically escalated certain processes that triggered the deaths of three other people in only a matter of days. But the statement from Dr Death confirmed something that I have thought for some time now, in other words, that the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen had nothing to do with the deaths of his wife’s sister in 1932 and his daughter now in 1972. But shall we begin with 1932?’

  I quickly said yes. The murder mystery from 1932 had a strange allure for me.

  ‘The death in 1932 still cannot be explained in isolation. However, there is one interesting detail that I have thought about a lot. Solveig Ramdal heard a thump in the room next door at half past seven. That was because Eva Bjølhaugen fainted as a result of an epileptic seizure. The young Solveig obviously had very good hearing and was on the alert in her room, as only she and no one else heard it. She also heard footsteps in the corridor and neighbouring room earlier. After the bang, she becomes even more attentive and practically stands with her ear to the wall. But she hears nothing – even though a person must have been walking around in the room after Eva fainted. What do you think that means?’

  I had never thought about it in that way – and was not sure what to answer when suddenly confronted with it from this angle. So my answer was somewhat noncommittal: ‘One possible explanation is that Solveig Ramdal is simply lying, as we only have her word for it.’

  Patricia gave a thoughtful nod. ‘I have also considered that possibility. Solveig Ramdal had something to hide and she has lied before. She is an egotist and a cold-blooded chameleon, who would, no doubt, be capable of killing if it was in her interest. But she had no motive for the murder, unless Eva had threatened to reveal the secret of Solveig’s sexuality, but then Eva had no interest in doing that. So we can assume that Solveig is telling the truth. The key question here is which one of the others had the strongest motive, if you ignore the human considerations that most people would assume?’

  ‘Talking of important questions – have you worked out the significance of the key in the corridor?’

  ‘As far as 1932 is concerned, I have from the start worked on the theory that the key was a spontaneous attempt to point the suspicion at Eva’s boyfriend, Hauk Rebne Westgaard. And to give the impression that the position of the key was of real importance. But it was not: the murderer was let in by the victim. And forty years later, it was a premeditated attempt to give the impression that it was an enactment of the same murder. This was done by a murderer who had created a kind of alibi in doing this, who had an alibi for the death of Per Johan Fredriksen, and who at first glance was a highly unlikely candidate.’

  As Patricia spoke, it suddenly dawned on me who she was referring to. At first it seemed slightly surreal, but then it seemed all the more strange to me that I had not considered this possibility before.

  ‘The last person that anyone remembers was there,’ I said, tentatively.

  Patricia nodded.

  ‘The one who walks without a sound, even in shoes. So if she was walking on the carpet in the corridor in her stockinged feet, you would not hear her. She was let in by her sister. She knew about her sister’s illness, and understood immediately that she was having an epileptic fit. And she had an obvious motive: with her irritatingly beautiful and popular little sister out of the way, she would become a very attractive heir to a considerable fortune. And even more importantly, I think: she would be rid of a dangerous competitor for the affections of the man she wanted – and later got, with the help of the family fortune.’

  So it was as I had thought for the past few minutes, and I still could not believe that I had not seen it until now. I was cheered to an extent when Patricia carried on.

  ‘To begin with, when the main focus was on Per Johan Fredriksen’s death, we almost lost sight of the grieving widow, who had an alibi. She was no doubt constantly worried that her husband would discover the truth of what happened in 1932. But he had not and nothing he said to his wife showed that he had. So she was genuinely surprised, and mourned his death. Paradoxically, it was only after the death of the daughter, who also did not suspect her mother, that I started to suspect Oda Fredriksen. In the case of Vera, it was not just that someone knew she was at the hotel, but also who she would let into the room. When Solveig Ramdal confessed to being the mystery guest in the next room, I focused more and more on the last person that Vera Fredriksen rang.’

  ‘But, she only made two phone calls, other than the call to me. Surely one must have been to her sister and the other to Solveig Ramdal?’ I said.

  Patricia snorted. ‘Nonsense. She paid for two telephone calls earlier in the day. But she would of course not have paid for the call to her sister, as it was never answered. After she had spoken to Solveig Ramdal, the nervous Vera would undoubtedly have consulted with someone in her family before phoning you. First she rang her sister, who did not get to the phone on time. The other two possibilities were then her brother, who I knew had not killed her, and her mother. Vera Fredriksen really was a little naive, and made a fatal mistake when she trusted that her own mother was not the murderer. Solveig Ramdal arrived first, and was also prepared to kill her if her secret was about to be revealed. But she had no murder to hide and was smart enough to find out what Vera Fredriksen knew first.’

  Patricia stopped and looked at me. I had no questions, so I gave an impatient wave for her to continue.

  ‘The mother, on the other hand, had a murder to hide and thought she had been discovered. She got straight down to business with almost impressive efficiency. She asked her daughter to sit tight and not open the door to anyone until she got there. Then she made herself a kind of alibi by phoning her other daughter just before she left the house. She also rang her son, but got no answer, which gave her an even better idea for an alibi. On her way to the hotel, she stopped at a telephone box, rang her son again, then hung up without waiting for an answer. She knew from previous visits to the hotel that she could get in without being seen from the reception area. As soon as she had been let into the room, she showed her true face and attacked. Poor fragile Vera fainted, as she so often did in frightening situations. Whereupon Oda Fredriksen drowned her youngest daughter in the same way that she had drowned her younger sister forty years earlier. It is a horrific story for those of us who want to believe in kind mothers and secure families. But that must be what happened, and it is unfortunately not unheard of that people with a strong ego or who are secretly deranged have killed members of their family.’

  I had to agree with this.

  Patricia had spoken for some time with great passion. Now she looked depressed and her hand was shaking when she lit a cigarette. She smoked half of it in silence, before continuing.

  ‘It is not a happy ending, if that is what you were hoping for. But it is the truth, and so the only solution I can give you to the two murders.’

  The shock was subsiding now. I realized that my failure to react had disappointed Patricia, and felt that it was ungrateful of me. So I slowly clapped my hands – and assured her that I was more than happy to have established the truth about the two murders.

  Patricia smiled when I started to clap. But if she really was happy, it did not last long. She stubbed out her cigarette, then leaned across the table towards me. Suddenly her face was inches away from mine. I found myself wondering if it was a coincidence that she was wearing a very loose white blouse and an undoubtedly expensive perfume that I had not smelt before. And suddenly found myself very jealous of Johan Fredriksen.

  ‘It is a little early to applaud, I am afraid. As the case stands, I am not sure that a good lawyer might not get her acquitted on the basis of reasonable doubt, with no witnesses or evidence. I have told you how it happened and the sequence of events, now you have to get her to confess. And at the same time, you might find out whether, behind the facade, she is slightly deranged or just extre
mely calculating. But the overlap there can be scarily hard to define. Come back when you have done that, and we can then hopefully talk about Per Johan Fredriksen and other things of mutual interest.’

  I took the hint. Patricia did not want to tell me who had killed Per Johan Fredriksen yet. She knew, but she wanted me to come back – and she had given me the answer to two of the three murders. That qualified as a very good start to the day. On my way from the house into the centre of town, I pondered on who might have killed Per Johan Fredriksen, and what Patricia had meant by ‘other things of mutual interest’.

  IV

  It was a quarter past eleven by the time I parked outside the Fredriksens’ family home on Bygdøy, having first swung by to collect DI Danielsen from the station. Danielsen had been working his way through a pile of papers, but his face lit up and he immediately put on his jacket when I asked if he would like to help me with a final push in the Fredriksen cases.

  I did not tell Danielsen how it all fitted together, just that it was an important interview. I felt under a lot of pressure but did not let it show. I did not doubt that Patricia was right with regard to the murder of Vera Fredriksen. But she was unfortunately also right with regard to the lack of evidence. I needed a confession. The chances of getting one would undoubtedly be best if I was alone with Oda Fredriksen in the drawing room. But that might cause problems if she did say something that incriminated her, but then later denied it.

  The solution was that I took Danielsen with me, introduced him to the widow, and told her that he was only there as a matter of procedure, and that the two of us could talk together alone first, as it involved some very sensitive information. Danielsen gave his most charming smile and offered to wait outside in the hall.