Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

I reflected that the members from the group who were still alive had to a certain extent become what Patricia had referred to in a previous case as human flies: people who continue to circle round a dramatic event and are not able to move on with their lives. I, of course, saw no reason to complicate the situation further by mentioning this concept. So instead, I asked sharply: ‘And unofficially?’

She gave an insipid smile. ‘Unofficially, for reasons I have never understood, my husband was even more obsessed with finding out what happened than I was. He once said that he suspected that one of the others was responsible for my sister’s death. But whoever he thought it was, he kept it to himself. It felt like we all wondered about the same thing and were always listening to hear if one of us said something that might throw light on the mystery. So the atmosphere was tense. Despite all the good food and vintage wines, the meals were never jolly affairs. I have not met Hauk, Kjell Arne or Solveig other than at these family-of-fate gatherings, as I still like to call them, since 1932. Our siblings of fate have become more and more estranged over the years. My husband never invited them to birthdays or any other kind of celebration here at home.’

‘And you last met three weeks ago – did anything in particular happen that night that might be relevant to your husband’s death?’

Oda Fredriksen did not answer at first. She sat in silence for a few seconds. Then she sighed twice before continuing.

‘I wish I could answer no to that. As things stand, with the arrest of a possibly mentally deranged young man, it is probably not relevant. But yes, I had thought of telling you about something quite striking that happened. My husband was very sociable and was generally the one who talked most at these dinners. This year, however, he barely said a word for almost the entire meal. He only spoke once, in fact. And that was just after the dessert had been served. He said two sentences. And the rest of the meal was finished in absolute silence.’

Oda Fredriksen stopped, took a couple of deep breaths. She was obviously prepared for my question and answered as soon as I asked her what those two sentences had been.

‘I now know exactly what happened the evening Eva died. And one of you knows too and must soon face the consequences.’

The two sentences made quite an impression now as well. Oda Fredriksen and I sat there and looked at each other for what felt like minutes.

I noticed that her hands were trembling and was almost surprised to see that mine were not. The tension around this old story continued to grow. I found it increasingly hard to believe that there was no connection to the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen.

However, our meeting did not end in silence. I still had two questions that had to be answered before I could leave. My first question was whether she had asked her husband for an explanation afterwards.

‘Of course. It was a strange and almost unreal evening. We barely said a word in the car on the way home. But about halfway through the journey, I asked him what he meant and whom he suspected of what. He replied that I would hopefully understand soon enough. He didn’t say any more and I didn’t ask. I was used to my husband being right when he spoke about the future. So I expected to hear something dramatic about one of the others over the next few days. But as far as I know, nothing happened to any of them.’

Once again we sat caught in our own thoughts. I imagined that something very dramatic had happened to Per Johan Fredriksen. And I felt certain that his widow was thinking the same, and now we were sat wondering who was responsible for his death.

Then I asked my final question. In other words, what she believed had happened that day in 1932 when her sister died.

‘As I said, I have always believed that my sister committed suicide. She was an impulsive young woman who had her ups and downs. It is most likely she did it with pills, although we never found any. It would be pure speculation for me now, forty years later, to say anything about what or who pushed her over the edge. Even though my husband’s death now overshadows everything, I would be very grateful to know should you find anything that might cast light on my sister’s death.’

I promised to let her know and thanked her for the information. I then added that I could speak to her children in another room if she wished to be left in peace. She replied that she felt she needed a bit of air now, so she would send the children in.

My conversations with her children were shorter. Young Vera was just as pale and seemed just as nervous as when we first met, but this subsided when we sat down. It appeared to be easier for her to talk when there were no other family members present.

I started by saying that as a formality, I had to ask the different members of the family about their civil status and future plans.

She gave a timid smile and said that she had a boyfriend, but hoped that he would soon be her fiancé. He was a ‘very handsome and exceptionally talented’ Dutch painter whom she had met while studying at Oslo University.

When it came to future plans, she let out a little sigh, and for a moment suddenly resembled her mother.

‘To me, my father was the kindest man in all the world. I don’t remember him ever saying no to anything I asked for. So it’s very sad that the last months we had together were clouded by our only disagreement. It was an unavoidable conflict of generations, I guess. My father was a conservative man and never really understood the trends and possibilities of our time. He liked typical, classical art, portraits and landscape watercolours, and had nothing but contempt for modern and more abstract cubism, which is where my boyfriend’s talents lie.’

She looked up at the portrait of her father. She gave him a sweet little smile, but then became serious again as soon as she lowered her eyes.

‘And now you finally have the opportunity to live your own life,’ I prompted, gently.

She nodded. ‘Yes. I would so much rather it had been because Father had changed his mind than because he had died. But I have to say, it is a great help to have a boyfriend who can support me in my grief, and that we now can realize our art project and live our dream.’

Vera Fredriksen was suddenly even more like her mother, it seemed to me. She spoke in a slightly poetic language, which, combined with the surroundings, made her appear somewhat dreamy. However, it was difficult not to be charmed by the deceased’s youngest daughter. There was something incredibly naive, graceful and almost angelic about her as she sat there in a simple black dress.

‘I have now heard the story about your aunt’s death in 1932, and that your father was still very preoccupied with it. Did you ever discuss it with him?’

She chewed a little harder on her gum, and waggled her head a couple of times before answering. ‘No, well – that is, yes. Once I’d heard the story from my sister, I took it up with both Mother and Father. You can’t help but be curious and I have always liked crime novels and other mysteries. Both were rather uncommunicative. Mother said that her sister’s death had been the cause of such grief that she did not want to talk about it, which was perfectly understandable. Father, however, told the bare facts about what happened and when I pushed him a bit, he gave me the names of the others who were there. Which made the whole thing even more interesting, as I actually knew two of them.’

She chewed her gum and looked at me expectantly, then carried on as soon as I asked whom she knew and how.

‘Solveig Ramdal is very interested in art, and I started to speak to her and her husband at some exhibition. They seemed nice, but as soon as I said whose daughter I was, they stiffened and moved quickly on. I only really understood why when my sister told me the bizarre story from 1932. Then I thought it wasn’t so strange that they jumped a little, as my father had previously been engaged to the woman I was talking to. I have thought more about the case since then, especially in the past twenty-four hours, but I’m afraid I have not yet been able to solve the mystery from 1932 or think of anything else I know that might be of use to you.’