Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

I was very relieved to hand over the hairs from 1932 for technical examination. And then I drove home – pleased that the investigation was to continue, but unsure about how to go about it. Already the case had too many uncertain details that pointed in too many different directions.

Once again I longed for Patricia’s clear, sharp voice. As I parked the car, I decided that I would discuss the matter with Miriam over a good meal and then ask for her permission to ring Patricia if we still had not got any further. I suspected that Miriam would not like it, but thought that she would accept that we now had to try every means possible to draw out the truth and prove the innocence of the boy on the red bicycle.

But I did not have the opportunity to discover whether this tactic would work. I did not even have time to say my planned ‘sorry I’m a little late’ when I got to the flat at five past four.

‘There you are, at last. Vera Fredriksen rang for you about half an hour ago. She seemed to be happy and rather excited and said that it was really important that she spoke to you as soon as possible. I said that you were not home yet, and asked if I could give you a message. She asked me to tell you that she was at Haraldsen’s Hotel and that she thought she could explain to you what had happened there. I immediately understood what she was talking about, but didn’t say anything. I just promised to give you the message as soon as you got in. So you have to go there, straightaway, don’t even think about it.’

Miriam was obviously fired up by this unexpected chance of a solution. As was I, of course. So I thanked her and promised to be back as soon as I could.

She said that she would wait until six, but then had to go to her meetings, and would then be back around ten. I gave her a quick kiss on the mouth before running down the stairs and back out to my car.

It was rush hour in Oslo, and I got stuck in traffic twice. So it was twenty to five by the time I got to Haraldsen’s Hotel in Ullern. It was a small but reputable old hotel which looked as though nothing had changed since before the war, either inside or out.

And the amount of business now did not bode well for the future. I saw myself reflected in two elegant full-length mirrors on the wall in reception. The only other person I saw was a well-dressed male receptionist, possibly in his sixties, who also looked as though he had been there since before the war. According to his name badge, he was the head of reception and his name was Valdemar Haraldsen.

He looked at me with a friendly smile and asked: ‘And what can I do for you? Apologies if I seem a little distracted, but it has been an unexpectedly busy day here today.’

This seemed slightly comical, given that he did not seem to be in the least distracted and it did not look like he had had a busy day.

I introduced myself and said that I had agreed to meet a Miss Vera Fredriksen, who was staying at the hotel.

He squinted at me over his glasses with a smile, then looked down at a good old-fashioned guest book.

‘Yes, that is correct. The young lady turned up around midday, without prior warning, and asked if Room 111 was available. It is rather unusual to ask for a specific room, but she paid in cash and made a very favourable impression. Miss Fredriksen asked about the hotel’s history and thanked me politely when I could confirm that there has been no major renovation since just after the First World War. Room 111 is as it was then – it had an en suite bathroom even back then.’

The receptionist was obviously a friendly and patient man by nature. I felt a little less patient and a little less friendly right now. So I asked if he could please call Room 111 to let her know that I had arrived.

Valdemar Haraldsen replied in a manner that was just as friendly and patient, that the hotel, true to style and tradition, had not yet installed telephones in the rooms. However, Room 111 was the first room to the left down the corridor upstairs, and he would be happy to go and knock on the door if I so wished.

I assured him that I was perfectly able and happy to do so myself, thanked the head of reception for his help and started up the stairs.

I found the corridor and Room 111 without any difficulty. However, there was not a sound to be heard inside when I knocked on the door. I knocked twice and called out Vera’s name once without getting any reaction. The door was locked when I tried it.

The feeling that something was wrong seemed to grow as I stood there in the otherwise empty, dim hotel corridor. And it did not improve when I pressed the light switch.

The light flashed on a small object that was lying on the floor outside Room 114. It was a key. And it said ‘Room 111’ on the tag.

In a strange way, it felt like I had travelled back to 1932, even when I carefully reached out for the keyring and picked up the key, then put it in the lock of Room 111.

I knocked on the door one last time, without hearing any reaction from within.

Then I turned the key and opened the door.

The situation felt slightly unreal. For a moment I expected to see Eva Bjølhaugen lying there dead on the sofa.

But the woman lying there was, of course, not her.

Vera Fredriksen looked more confident and calmer in death than I had ever seen her in life. All the nervousness had vanished from her face. She was lying with her eyes closed and her face relaxed, and there were no signs of violence or illness. It looked as though she was taking a peaceful afternoon nap on the sofa.

For the second time in two days, I was standing alone in a small room with the body of a young person. The woman on the sofa had been dead slightly longer than the boy on the red bicycle. There was still some warmth in her body, but the skin on her face was cold, and there was no pulse.

I stood there frozen for a few moments, staring at the young, dead Vera Fredriksen, before I managed to pull myself together and look around the room.

There was no sign that anyone else had been there, and there was no sign of a murder weapon or a suicide note of any kind. I sniffed at her mouth, but could not detect anything that smelt like poison. There were no needle marks on her arms either.

I went out into the corridor, which was still empty. Then I went back into Room 111, to make sure that it was not some bizarre dream. But Vera Fredriksen was still lying dead on the sofa. I was in total bewilderment as I walked back down the stairs to reception, in order to ring the station.

The head of reception was impressively calm and composed, even when he heard that there had been a suspicious death in the hotel in the past few hours. His statement was clear and to the point, and was taken while I waited for technical assistance from the main police station.

The hotel had very few guests at present, and the head of reception had been the only person on duty since breakfast. Four overnight guests had checked out in the morning and the hotel unfortunately had no further bookings for that night.

However, Vera Fredriksen had shown up without a prior booking around midday. And then at two o’clock or thereabouts, something even more unexpected had happened, when someone telephoned to book a room for the night with a voice that had been distorted. The person who called claimed to be suffering from nerves and was in need of peace and quiet and they were willing to pay for two nights in advance with a tip, if they could come and go without meeting anyone today.

The head of reception was willing to believe this story and agreed to withdraw from the reception area for a couple of minutes so that an envelope with the payment in cash could be left on the counter. The cash was left as agreed, so the head of reception then put out a key and again withdrew for a few minutes. When he came back, the key was gone. He had written the name ‘Hansen’ down in the guest book for the sake of appearances, but because the voice had been distorted he could not say if it had been a man or a woman who had called.