Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

We ended there on a friendly note. She asked for my telephone number, in case she thought of anything that could help the investigation. I wrote down the number to the police station and my home number. I said that she could ring at any time, be it early or late, if she thought of something that could throw light on the deaths of her aunt in 1932 or her father in 1972. She promised she would and wished me good luck with the ongoing investigation.

Vera Fredriksen, just like her mother, was very light on her feet and she almost flew over the large floor.

Her older brother, Johan Fredriksen, had a heavier step, but was all the more steady and secure for it, when he entered the room shortly after.

We shook each other rather formally by the hand. And it struck me that in appearance, he was rather like me: the same height, hair colour, stature and build. And that, for some unknown reason, I did not particularly like him. I could not say why. There was something about his formality and reserve that was unappealing, even though I felt great sympathy for his situation following his father’s death.

He sat down on a chair opposite me without saying a word.

I asked whether there was any news in relation to the family fortune and his father’s estate.

He replied that it would take some time before they had a full overview, as his father had had quite an empire, including several tenement buildings that were valued at less than the market rate. The estimate of fifty to sixty million from the day before was possibly going to be too low rather than too high.

I then asked him, in as friendly a manner as I could, if he had any plans for his share of the inheritance. He told me that he would eventually like to start his own law firm and would therefore prefer the business to be sold and the profit to be divided up between them. It was something he still had to discuss with his mother and sisters, of course, but he thought his sisters would agree. Otherwise, the business could easily pay out a few million to each of the heirs.

Without further ado, I asked outright whether he knew what kind of business relationship there had been between Per Johan Fredriksen and Kjell Arne Ramdal.

Johan Fredriksen nodded pensively. ‘I also wondered about that. And according to the accountant, they made a number of investments and ran a couple of companies together about ten to twenty years ago. However, Ramdal sold his share in the early 1960s and they did not appear to have had any joint ventures after that. Ramdal has been far more successful on his own and has become a property magnate in Oslo. He had put in an offer to buy all Father’s real estate companies, in fact. Father had discussed it with his accountant and, rather unusually, with me as well. The offer was for forty-five million, which was, as far as we could see, above the market value. I said that I thought it would be a sensible move for the family. Father was getting older and still had political ambitions, and none of his children were interested in carrying on the property business. The feeling I had, and which I have had confirmed by the accountant, who felt the same, was that Father had focused more on politics in recent years and had been less successful in his business dealings. But Father was still hesitant, for reasons he kept to himself. He would have had to make a decision soon though, as Ramdal had set the deadline for his offer as 24 March.’

I noted down the date, and thought to myself that the timing of Per Johan Fredriksen’s death seemed to be becoming increasingly significant.

Out loud, I asked if Ramdal’s offer still stood, regardless of his father’s death, and if so, if it was now likely to be accepted.

‘The offer still stands, and I think it will probably be accepted. Though having said that, I would, of course, not want to jump the gun with regard to the reactions of my mother and sisters.’

Johan Fredriksen had become more communicative and I started to warm to him a little more. A feeling that was further strengthened when he continued of his own accord.

‘In all confidence, I must say that in what is already a very difficult situation, the fact that my father discussed his business so little with us is proving very challenging. After all, we only knew him as this kind and loving family man. In my conversations with the office manager and accountant I have come to realize that there were other sides to him that we did not see, but which were evident in his business dealings. It would perhaps be best if you asked them directly about this, if it’s of interest to you and the case.’

I said that I would and thanked him for his openness so far. Then I added that, as a matter of routine, I had to build a file on the people closest to the victim, and so had to ask about the civil status of his son.

Our conversation suddenly took a bit of a downturn. Johan Fredriksen furrowed his brow and paused before he started to speak again slowly.

‘To tell you the truth, I am not entirely sure what to say. I live alone, and I am unmarried and have no children. Nor am I engaged. But-’

He broke off and sat in thought.

‘But it would seem that you are now in a relationship or at the very start of one?’ I prompted.

Johan Fredriksen said nothing for a few more seconds, then he continued. ‘Yes, well, I certainly hope so. However, it was not entirely clear before all this happened, and does not feel any less complicated now. There are certain things about the lady in question’s private circumstances which make me reluctant to make her name known or to give it to the police. And for the moment I do not want the relationship to be made public. More importantly, I know that she doesn’t want it to be either. I could possibly ask her if I can give her name to the police, should that be necessary in connection with the ongoing investigation. But it doesn’t seem very likely, so in the meantime, you will just have to take my word for it that she has absolutely nothing to do with the case.’

In murder investigations, I tend to like the people who put their cards on the table best, and, as he spoke, I became rather curious about Johan Fredriksen’s secret girlfriend. However, I had to agree with his reasoning and felt a growing respect for him.

So I said that it was not optimal, but was acceptable for the present. We shook hands and walked out together.

It was a quarter past twelve by the time I got back to the office. There were still no messages of any significance waiting for me. However, the phone did ring at twenty-five past twelve, when I was halfway through my packed lunch.

I heard the voice of the same annoyingly slow switchboard operator that I had heard the day before. She said there was another lady on the telephone who said she had some information that might be of importance to the Fredriksen investigation.

Naturally, I asked for her to be transferred immediately. A rather tense middle-aged woman came on the line, with a detectable east-end accent, accompanied by a clicking sound that told me she was calling from a telephone box.

‘Good afternoon, this is Mrs Lene Johansen. I was away visiting my sister at the weekend and just got back this morning. I was surprised not to find any sign of my son, Tor Johansen, who is just fifteen. And then I discovered that his school satchel was still here, and when I went to the school, they said that he hadn’t been there today. His bike is not here either. So I’m afraid that something serious might have happened to him over the weekend. I’ve told him so many times that he has to be careful when he’s cycling around on the wet streets. I shouldn’t have gone away.’

I heard an undertone of desperation in his mother’s voice. And I heard the suspense in my own when I asked her if she could perhaps describe her son in more detail.