Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

Bryne blew out an unexpected amount of smoke after this tirade and looked even more pensive than usual. There was silence in the room. After a few seconds, I mustered my courage and shared my thoughts.

‘If the Soviets are aware that Fredriksen was about to be exposed, it would obviously be in their interests that he die before being arrested. In which case, this Svasnikov might well be Fredriksen’s murderer. He has killed before and he has just arrived in Oslo and has an obvious motive. It is almost too incredible to be a coincidence.’

My boss nodded. But Asle Bryne, on the other side of the desk, did not. ‘Nothing would make me and the police security service happier than to be able to prove that Fredriksen was a Soviet spy and that he was killed by a Soviet agent. But there are a couple of things that do not add up. First of all, the victim. As far as we know, Svasnikov has only been used to execute Soviet defectors – not to kill Western citizens. And second, the method. A couple of the earlier victims were shot and a couple died in apparent accidents. As far as we know, Svasnikov has never used a knife as a murder weapon before, and it would be rather risky if Fredriksen were to be killed on an open street.’

I suddenly saw a new side of Asle Bryne as he talked. Behind the cloud of smoke and tight-lipped manner, he was clearly still a quick-thinking policeman. When he carried on, he even managed to sound quite considerate.

‘As regards your own situation, I appreciate that it might feel rather unnerving. But the danger of an attack on you is probably very small. They have never harmed a policeman on this side of the Iron Curtain, and what is more, you are well known, so killing you would entail a great risk. But you should be armed, and if you would like, we can have someone tail you.’

I was only partially mollified by the knowledge that killing me would entail a great risk because I was so well known. The fear sparked by the sighting of the man in the hat outside on the street, now flared up again as I sat here inside, in an office, between my own boss and the head of the police security service.

My initial reaction was to say yes please to both a gun and a guard. But then I realized that the possibility of my visits to Patricia being logged in a security service archive would not be particularly smart, either for me or her.

So I said that I was not worried about my personal safety and that I certainly did not want to waste the police security service’s resources, but that having a gun did seem like a good idea if that could be arranged.

‘Of course it can,’ Bryne replied, and my boss hastily agreed.

We could have concluded the meeting there and then, in a congenial atmosphere of agreement. However, I could not help but ask one last question about what significance the imminent agreement with the Soviet Union might have for the situation.

Bryne straightened up in his chair, lit his pipe again and gave me a piercing look. Even through the smoke I could see that his face had hardened and closed once more.

‘That depends on what you mean, my young man. The answer should be obvious anyway. As far as the Soviets are concerned, it was absolutely in their best interest to avoid any spy allegations only days before such an important agreement, especially when they were so pleased with the agreement and worried that their counterparty might regret it later. And as far as the police security service is concerned, it is of course inconceivable that we would allow political considerations to influence the timing of such a situation. The incompetent fools in the military intelligence agency might take account of such short-term factors, but the police security service would never do that.’

I tried to ease the tension by saying that I of course meant how it would affect the situation in terms of the Soviets.

We ended the meeting there. I recognized the old Asle Bryne, but had also seen a better side of him this time. He shook my hand briefly and wished me luck with the investigation. It was an unexpected gesture, but one that I was afraid I would need.

I was back in my office by half past eleven, where I filled in and submitted the necessary form for carrying a service gun.

Then I made the first of several urgent telephone calls. I had not been looking forward to it. It was to a woman who had lost her husband and then her daughter within the space of three days.

The telephone rang and rang, but was eventually answered on the eighth ring. ‘Fredriksen’, said the voice, very quietly and quickly this time.

Once again I offered my condolences on her family’s great loss. Then I assured her that the investigation into the two murders had been given top priority and that there had been some new developments. I did, however, need to ask her some more questions as soon as she felt able to answer them.

There was a few seconds’ silence before she answered.

‘I have been thinking a lot about something I once read by an American writer. When she lost her husband, she said: the life we shared is over, I walk on alone – but I am still walking. That is what I have to do now. I may be weeping, but I am alive. Otherwise, I am just rattling around in this home of mine and wondering what on earth has happened. So please come whenever you can or like. I had actually thought of calling you about some documents left by my husband.’

I was impressed by the strength of this apparently delicate and slightly theatrical lady. I was also very curious as to what kind of documents she had found. So I said that it was admirable of her and that I would be there as soon as I could.

I picked up my service pistol on the way out. My application had clearly been processed at record speed. I was not entirely sure how reassuring I found that. The situation felt unsafe and what Bryne had said, about Svasnikov never going to a country without someone being killed within the week, was still echoing in my ears.

The sea of flowers on the drawing-room table in Bygdøy was even bigger today. But the woman on the sofa beside them was, to an impressive extent, the same, only a day after she had been told of her younger daughter’s death.

‘The children were here all yesterday evening. We agreed to grieve alone today,’ she said slowly. It was as if she had read my thoughts and seen my surprise that the family was not together.

‘It still feels unreal, that the priest came yesterday. And yet, it was not entirely unexpected that I would outlive my youngest child. Vera has always been too good for this world, really. So small when she arrived, much smaller than the other two. So much more delicate and fragile as a child. Vera was a beautiful, fair little girl as long as the sun shone, but as soon as the clouds gathered she cried or ran and hid. She was always more distant with me and her older brother and sister, but was very close to Per Johan. So, in an odd way, when he died I thought, well, now I am sure to lose Vera as well.’

She did not look at me when she was talking, she gazed out of the window instead. It struck me that she was looking out at the big garden where no doubt Vera had played as a child and cried when it rained.

The situation felt uncomfortable. But I understood her grief and gave her time. It helped. She turned back to me, an odd look in her dark brown eyes: at once focused and distant.

‘There were several periods when she was growing up that Vera simply refused to eat food. She tried to take her own life by swallowing a whole lot of pills when she was nineteen and unhappily in love. That is possibly when we all accepted the idea that we might lose her one day. But my little Vera did not take her own life yesterday, did she?’