Chameleon People

by Hans Olav Lahlum

  I took off my own ring and put it on the bedside table. She thanked me for my help, her chin barely moving on the pillow. She was not crying. But I saw that there were tears in her eyes, and could feel them in my own.

  I had to turn around and was on my way out when she said: ‘There is just one little thing I would like to ask.’

  ‘What is it?’ I stopped in my tracks, without turning around.

  ‘What happened to the library book?’ she said.

  I told her that I had picked the book up out of the ditch, and that it was in safekeeping at the police station, and that I could either post it to her or come by with it one day.

  ‘Thank you. I think it would be best to post it, if it’s not too expensive,’ she whispered.

  That felt like the final, decisive blow. Suddenly I could not bear to see Miriam any longer, and did not want to hear her voice again. But I could not leave the room and let our final words after two years be about a library book.

  So I said, without turning: ‘Please give my best wishes to your parents. Thank you for everything. I will never forget you.’

  ‘Thank you. Likewise,’ she said, almost inaudibly.

  It was only three words, and her voice was barely a whisper, but I could hear that she was crying now. I felt the tears on my own cheeks, but I did not want to see her crying. And I did not want her to see my tears.

  So I left, alone, without looking back.

  It was no more than ten yards from her room to the stairs. But it felt like I had walked for miles. When I got to the staircase it felt like I tumbled all the way down it, even though I could see my legs moving as normal, taking each step at a time, down the endless stairs.

  X

  It was raining when I got home. And it continued to rain. From half past five until half past six, I just stood by the window and watched the downpour.

  I had several telephone calls to make. I should have rung Ane Line Fredriksen to tell her who had killed her father the Saturday before; I should have rung Hauk Rebne Westgaard to tell him what had happened that spring day in 1932 and to finally give him peace, and I should have rung my parents to tell them about my broken engagement. But even though I did not like the silence, I could not bear to hear another voice at the moment.

  I tried instead to put on a record, but it didn’t help. The first song was ‘Days of My Life’ by The Seekers. I stood there until the chorus faded out, turned the record player off when the voice of the female vocalist disappeared, and just stayed standing by the window.

  At a quarter past nine that Saturday evening, it would be exactly a week since I had stood here and seen the boy on the red bicycle pedalling furiously up the hill. It felt like an age ago. The boy was dead and would be buried within the next few days. His bicycle was being held in the police stores, and would never go out on the road again. Three other people had lost their lives this week, and my life would never be the same again.

  I knew that the rain would stop, and on Monday the papers would be singing my praises louder than ever before. But I was far more miserable now than I had been a week ago. Only three days before, I had stood here and watched Miriam leave in her raincoat, with the library book under her arm, without knowing that it would be the last time I watched her leave. The tears stung in my eyes when I thought that I would never again see her coming up towards the house.

  Among all the other happy memories of my two short years with Miriam, I remembered the evening we went to the theatre to see A Doll’s House. It had been Miriam’s suggestion, and I had dutifully said yes after a long working week. But it had been an unusually good Saturday evening. On the way home I had said how glad I was that we had gone, and that we should not wait too long to go to the theatre again. She had not answered, just smiled her charming, happy, lopsided smile. But I had never done anything about it – never suggested another play.

  And now it was too late for trips to the theatre. And although it was I who had physically walked away that day, it felt like it was she who had done the walking. I felt that she had left the man she thought she loved, just like Nora, because he still did not understand what was important to her. I felt like Helmer, as I had seen him in that final act. And it was not a nice feeling.

  At a quarter to seven, I remembered a quote that the now accused murderer, Oda Fredriksen, had used after her husband had died. ‘The life we shared is over, I walk on alone – but I am still walking.’

  I stood there and reflected on the quote for a few minutes. Then the silence became unbearable. I grabbed my jacket and went out into the rain.

  XI

  There were no other cars parked outside.

  If I had seen a van there, I would have turned round immediately and fled. But there was no one. So I went up to the door and rang the bell.

  The maid answered surprisingly quickly; I had only counted to twelve by the time the door opened.

  I said that I did not want to disturb the owner of the house if she had visitors, but that I would be grateful to talk to her if she was alone.

  The maid smiled to herself and said that I had been expected. The owner of the house was at home and did not have visitors.

  This was encouraging, but even so I could not remember ever having arrived here feeling quite so anxious or with quite such a hammering heart.

  She was sitting alone in her wheelchair, and her smile had an air of condescension when I came into the room.

  ‘You are a little later than expected. I guessed half past six to Benedicte,’ she said, cheerfully.

  The maid nodded to confirm this and then withdrew.

  ‘Sorry that I am a bit late,’ I said with an uncertain smile, and put my hands on the table. Patricia looked at them, then nodded briefly without saying anything.

  I had no idea what to say. So I told her quickly about my meeting with Lene Johansen. The story upset me and I could see that it upset Patricia too, although there were no cigarettes on the table for her to puff on. I made it as brief as possible and once again thanked her for having seen the solution.

  ‘I never doubted it. But thank you for your thanks all the same,’ she said with a coy smile.

  This annoyed me and I added that I had discovered, on my own, how the police security service had found out about Fredriksen. And I told her about my visit to Harriet Henriksen.

  Patricia looked rather peeved to begin with, but then started to smile towards the end.

  ‘I had not thought about that. You were lucky there, I think. Congratulations all the same!’

  I asked in passing if Patricia had ever considered that Harriet Henriksen might be the murderer.

  Patricia shook her head. ‘And I hope that you didn’t either. It would barely have been possible for her to stay where she was when Fredriksen left and then to get past him unseen, and wait for him on a street corner a few hundred yards further on.’

  I said that I agreed and moved swiftly on.

  ‘You certainly made a good point about chameleon people. And there were a lot of them involved in this case. When you said that there was only one of the five friends from 1932 who was not a chameleon person, you were thinking of Kjell Arne Ramdal, weren’t you?’

  Patricia nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Some were of course more dangerous, but all the others were chameleons with several faces. But it would seem Kjell Arne Ramdal only has one face and is what he appears to be. He is himself and probably very decent – if not particularly charming or attractive.’

  I was not sure whether I dared to say what I was thinking. But it was as if Patricia read my mind and came to my aid.

  ‘Not a very exciting man to be married to, I am sure. But Solveig Ramdal found that out a long time ago.’

  I took the plunge and asked if she had ever considered that Johan Fredriksen was in many ways more like Kjell Arne Ramdal than his father.

  Patricia smiled cheerfully, and then burst into laughter.

  ‘Yes, it has occurred to me. And that was one of the reasons why I brok
e up with him on Thursday night. Which is also why I may have looked rather grim when I passed you. The mood in the car had become rather sour.’

  The relief went straight to my head when I heard this. And I dared to ask if there were other reasons why she had broken off the relationship.

  She nodded and shook her head at the same time. ‘The short version is that I had been sitting here alone for far too long, and at the beginning thought that Johan Fredriksen looked like my dream man, but soon discovered that he only looked like him. I do not regret the relationship, but nor do I regret finishing it.’

  I put my hands on the table again, to be sure that Patricia had understood. She glanced at them again, and nodded impatiently.

  ‘Kidnappings can be difficult,’ I said slowly, testing the water.

  Patricia nodded and replied without mirroring my speed and caution.

  ‘No doubt about it. And by the way, I did not want to pick bones when you were in the middle of it, but the police really must learn to use the word abduction. Kidnapping should only be used about children for obvious reasons, and this was your ex-fiancée, although at times she was as naive as a child.’

  Miriam was in fact three years older than Patricia. But I took the hint. Patricia did not want to hear her name or to talk any more about my ex-fiancée – at least, not now. I was a little unsure as to whether she wanted to say anything more about her ex, but hoped she would not.

  So I said: ‘Well, that was quite a case. With our combined efforts, we managed to solve all the murders and both lose our partners along the way.’

  Patricia yawned and stretched her arms demonstratively. ‘Ah well, the case was exceptionally interesting, if also exceptionally tragic. And as far as partners are concerned, I for my part think that when a relationship cannot weather a stormy week, then it is not going to last in the long run. So better to discover it now than in ten years’ time, with two children. So, with a bit of humour, you could say that we have unearthed the truth about four murders and two relationships.’

  She looked at me with her head cocked as she said this, her eyes curious.

  Miriam’s face flashed in front of me, and I was not entirely sure that I saw it in the same way as Patricia did. But I got the point and laughed out loud.

  ‘I could kick the staff into action, if you would like to stay for supper,’ Patricia said, happily.

  I sat there for a few seconds and wondered if she had used ‘kick’ figuratively or not. But whatever the case, I had decided.

  So I said that I thought that her staff deserved the night off, and we deserved to go out for a meal, having worked our way through four murders and two relationships so far this week. And as I had had so many good meals here, I would be delighted to be able to repay her.

  I felt my heart beating even faster when I said this.

  ‘That,’ Patricia said with her most provocative smile, ‘is the best suggestion you have made for as long as I have known you.’

  Afterword

  When I first let Detective Inspector Kolbjørn ‘K2’ Kristiansen meet Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann, the professor’s young daughter, in the novel The Human Flies in autumn 2010, I had an inkling that they would meet again during later murder investigations. But I had no clear plans for any other novels in the series, and certainly no hopes that the series would be extended by a further four books in the space of three years. But that is in fact what has happened, as I now send Chameleon People to print in June 2013. I look forward to hearing what the critics and readers have to say about it, but whatever it may be, I have been astounded by the interest that has been shown in my attempt to revive the historical and classic crime novel in Norwegian. A total of two hundred thousand copies have been printed of the first four books in the series, and as I write this Afterword, the first novels are being translated into English, Italian and Korean.

  Inspired by this unexpected success, the ideas for new novels have so far come very fast and easily. In 2011 and 2012, when the latest book about K2 and Patricia went to print, I was already busy writing the next one. But that is not the case now in 2013. My aim has always been to write exciting crime novels that are not simply thrillers, and as part of this, there is a developing relationship between the two protagonists. This book ends with them solving another murder case, but also with some dramatic events in their personal lives. And it feels like both the protagonists and the author need a rest to think about the way forward.

  I believe it is more than likely that I will write more books in the series, but think that it is highly unlikely there will be another book before 2015, at the earliest. The ideas that I have at the moment are still far too unformed to keep the standard that I want for the books in this series. It is now time to find out whether I am only able to write books for this series with plots from the 1960s and 1970s, or if, as a literary author, I can also work with other types of novel from other periods. For some time now, I have had ideas for three other novels, with very different protagonists and set in different times, which I hope to realize within the next couple of years. The first, which is called The House by the Sea, is set in contemporary Northern Norway, and is due to be published already in late autumn this year.

  As Chameleon People may be the last book in the series for a while, it is all the more important to thank all my excellent advisors for their work.

  My most important advisor in Cappelen Damm has once again been my ever constructive and dedicated editor, Anne Fløtaker, who has been of invaluable importance to my literary career. I also owe a huge thanks to my critical expert advisor, Nils Nordberg, and my loyal proofreader, Sverre Dalin. Both have been observant and alert to all kinds of historical factual errors.

  Amongst my personal advisors, my greatest thanks for this book, and all the others in the series, go to my linguistically gifted and reflective young friend, Mina Finstad Berg. Despite working long days in her new post as general secretary of the Socialist Youth League of Norway, she has found time to give me extensive comments on both the idea and the finished manuscript. I also owe Mina enormous thanks for lending her highly personal traits to the fictional character, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, who became a challenging third character in books three, four and five of the series. It remains to be seen whether Miriam’s goodbye with K2 at the end of this novel will also be her final farewell in the series. I am so grateful to Mina for letting me use her fictional alter ego in any future novels as well, without demanding that Miriam must appear if she is to continue as my advisor.

  I have also received valuable comments on the language and content from my good and ever helpful friends: Ingrid Baukhol, Marit Lang-Ree Finstad and Arne Tjølsen. And I must also thank the following people for longer and shorter comments on the manuscript: Roar Annerløv, Lene Di Dragland, Silje Flesvik, Anne Lise Fredlund, Kristine Amalie Myhre Gjesdal, Gro Helene Gulbrandsen, Else Marit Hatledal, Hanne Isaksen, Kristine Joramo, Eva Kosberg, Bjarte Leer-Salvesen, Torstein Lerhol, Espen Lie, Turid Lilleøren, Katrine Tjølsen and Magnhild K. B. Uglem.

  Marit appears in my novel in a minor role as Miriam’s mother, and Anne Lise and Eva appear as Ane Line Fredriksen and Eveline Kolberg. On this and a few earlier occasions where I have used my living friends as models for fictional characters, I have been very careful to get permission from my friends first and to ensure that the fictional characters’ actions have no parallel to events in real life. My responsibility and challenge has been to imagine how my good friends would react if they were transported forty years back in time, to be then dropped into a fictional murder investigation at an important time in Norway’s history.

  Nor have the dead people I have taken the liberty to use as models for characters in this novel ever found themselves – as far as I know – in any directly comparable situations. They appear here as figures and personalities typical of the time rather than as historical persons. For people who are familiar with Norwegian history, the prime minister in this novel will hopefully have recognizable traits
similar to those of the man who was the prime minister of Norway in the spring of 1972. On the other hand, the head of the police security service in this novel has many more similarities with the man who resigned as Head of the Police Security Services in dramatic circumstances some years earlier, rather than the man who held the position in 1972.

  And finally, as international politics, in particular, play a far more important role here than in any of the previous books in the series, it is important to underline that the events in this book are fictitious products of the author’s imagination. The Cold War and international politics in general had a far greater impact on Norway in the 1970s than previously. The most dramatic incident perhaps was when another country’s security service carried out an execution on a street in my home county of Oppland in 1973, the year that I was born. The action in this book takes place in Oslo in 1972 and is in no way linked to the historical event in Lillehammer in 1973. Nor does it build on authentic events or characters in the foreign embassy written about in this book. In the spring of 1972, oil extraction had just started in Norway and Statoil was in its infancy. However, Norway’s negotiations with the Soviet Union regarding the demarcation line in the Barents Sea did not start until later in the 1970s, and the parties never came as close to an agreement as they do in this novel.

  Readers who wish to send comments to the author about this book, or any of the previous novels in the series, can send them to my email address: hansolahlum@gmail.com.

  Hans Olav Lahlum

  Gjøvik, 16 June 2013

  Looking back on my afterword from 2013, I have to admit that my planning for the next years turned out to be very unreliable. True enough, I did publish The House By the Sea later in 2013, but that teen novel is still the only book I’ve completed that doesn’t feature K2 and Patricia (instead, it stars K2’s grandnephew and his girlfriend, trying to understand their relationship while solving a murder mystery in a small village on the coast of northern Norway in 2012). But I then completed a fifth novel about K2 and Patricia in 2014, a sixth in 2015 and a seventh in 2016.