Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

I tried to push the thought to one side. I now had the answers I had needed from his mother. The boy had a connection to Per Johan Fredriksen and a motive, and the reason why he had known where I lived was obvious. It all added up with a double line under the name of the murderer.

Tor Johansen had slept on a mattress on the floor. The only furniture in his room was a small, old desk and a wooden chair. The desk was empty. A worn brown satchel stood by the chair.

I quickly looked through the satchel, but found no more than the usual schoolbooks. The only surprise was when I leafed through the one titled ‘Introduction to Science’. His writing was clear and succinct, and his knowledge was evidently not far behind my own. Tor Johansen had obviously had a good head on him, despite his problems with his tongue and foot.

I shared my thoughts with his mother. That her son had been extremely unlucky and had had a difficult life, but that he had been very intelligent in many ways. However, as the case stood now and based on what she had told me, there was little reason to doubt that he had in fact killed Fredriksen.

She wrung her hands, looked down and said that she saw no grounds to contradict me. To the extent that it could make any difference, she asked me to convey her condolences and apologies to the family. I had been extremely understanding, but unless there was anything else I wanted to know, she would now like to be left in peace to grieve.

When she said this, I feared that she might be harbouring thoughts of suicide. However, I had no more questions to ask and nothing more to say. So once again I expressed my condolences and wished her all the best.

Our eyes met briefly as I turned to go, and I was impressed by the steadiness of her gaze and her firm handshake.

I left without looking back. But all the while I saw the boy’s bare room in my mind’s eye, the satchel on the floor and the pictures of me on the wall.

Outside the building in Tøyenbekken, only a few yards from my car, my thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected little incident.

As I glanced over my shoulder, I saw a man around my age, who I at first mistook for someone I had gone to school with. He was around five foot nine and of slim build, with the same oval-shaped face and brown hair as one of my old classmates. He was also wearing the same kind of wide-brimmed hat that my friend often did.

I spontaneously lifted up my hand to wave, only to realize that the man was not my classmate at all. This man had broader shoulders and a brisker, more determined step.

The man with the hat, somewhat bewildered, raised his hand in response, only to see it was a misunderstanding. He lowered his hand again in embarrassment. The stranger then continued on his way and did not stop as he passed me where I stood by my car. I could not help but notice that the upper joint of the little finger on his right hand was missing.

I stood by the car for a few seconds and wondered who the man in the suit and hat with the missing joint on his finger might be. And what he was doing here in Tøyenbekken. He and I both stood out in relation to the others walking on the street, and I had no doubt that I would have to stand there for some time before I saw another man in a hat and tie.

It made me wonder if the strange murder case had started to affect my nerves and make me slightly paranoid. So I got into the car and drove back to the main police station, without giving the man in the hat another thought.

It was half past three. I had given my boss and Danielsen a report of the latest developments in the case.

I had feared that Danielsen might claim that he had been right, but he was remarkably quiet and seemed almost uninterested. The explanation came when my boss asked a question that I had not considered.

‘How did he get hold of the paper and pencil?’ he asked.

I immediately replied that it was not from me. Danielsen squirmed uncomfortably and said that he had given the prisoner the paper and pencil yesterday, in case he found it easier to write down his statement. This was a reasonable gesture, given that the boy had a speech impediment, but Danielsen apologized profusely and said that perhaps he should have mentioned it before.

Neither my boss nor I put too much importance on this. I, for my part, was happy as long as no one asked any critical questions as to whether I might have contributed in some way to his suicide. And no one did. Danielsen seemed uninterested in the case, and my boss almost content.

Danielsen said hastily that it was what we had thought, then, and that the death had actually made our work easier.

Our boss nodded and asked that I use the rest of the week to tie up any necessary loose ends and inform the Fredriksen family, as well as write a press release and some internal reports – in that order. I said that I was more than happy to do this.

The atmosphere when we parted at a quarter to four was light and almost friendly. Danielsen and I wished each other a good evening before heading off in our separate directions. At times like this, I almost liked him. But the feeling usually passed very quickly.

I telephoned Mrs Oda Fredriksen and informed the victim’s family of the latest developments. I heard considerable relief in her voice when I finished my account. She thanked me for letting her know, offered straightaway to tell her children, and had no objection to the details being released in the morning papers. She added that it had been of great comfort to the family that the person in charge of the investigation had shown so much understanding.

I thanked her, and asked her to convey my greetings and best wishes to her children. We finished the phone call in good spirits at a quarter past four.

I then sat down to write a press release, and had just formulated the first few sentences when the telephone rang at twenty past four. The switchboard operator’s voice was like a snake slithering into paradise; she said that there was an elderly lady from Majorstuen on the telephone who insisted on speaking to me as soon as possible.

The voice at the other end certainly sounded like a woman well past retirement age. So what she said was all the more surprising.

‘Good afternoon, inspector. This is Randi Krogh Hansen calling you from Kirk Road in Majorstuen. I apologize if I’m interrupting, but my old mother claims that she saw something through the window here the day before yesterday that you absolutely need to know.’

It was unexpected. Before I had even thought, I remarked that her mother must be very old. Fortunately, she took it well.

‘You can certainly say that. My mother has been on this earth for over a hundred years now. But her eyesight is still good and after reading today’s newspapers she is convinced that she saw something that you must know, today. Unfortunately, her legs are not what they used to be, so it would be difficult to get her to the police station. Would you be able to come and see us here as soon as possible?’

I had had time to gather my thoughts now and was curious as to what the witness might have seen. So I said I would come immediately.

The address that Randi Krogh Hansen had rung from was a three-storey building on the corner of Bogstad Road and Kirk Road, a couple of blocks down from the station. Once I had parked the car, I quickly checked that there was a clear view from the windows to where Per Johan Fredriksen had been attacked. Then I made my way to the main entrance.

Randi Krogh Hansen was standing ready to greet me just inside the door. Her face was wrinkled and she could easily have been in her eighties, but she was a slim lady who was still light of foot. Her thin hand shook slightly in mine. There was no one else in the hall, but she still lowered her voice and leaned forwards when she spoke.