Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

I saw the outline of another face when Oda Fredriksen talked about her late husband’s mistresses, even though she remained remarkably controlled.

‘You have met my husband’s last mistress, haven’t you?’

I replied in short that I had gone to see her to get her statement. I gave no more details and Oda Fredriksen did not ask. Instead, she stood up again, walked over to the bookcase and came back with an envelope, on which was written ‘strictly confidential’. It had been sealed, but the seal was now broken.

‘I went through my husband’s office here at home yesterday, and found this in the bottom drawer of his desk. I could not resist opening it, and found three separate documents that might all be of interest to you. One of them is about his mistress.’

I had a quick look and had to agree with her. All three were of interest to me and one was clearly to his mistress.

The first was an undated, typed document, which stated: ‘I, Odd Jørgensen, admit that I am guilty of embezzling 30,000 kroner from my employer’s company, Per Johan Fredriksen A/S, in the autumn of 1965.’

It was signed by the office manager; I had seen his signature on the notice of termination sent to the mother of the boy on the red bicycle. To see it again here was unexpected, to say the least. I added the office manager’s name to the list of people I needed to talk to again, and moved on to the next document.

The second document was in an envelope and I did not recognize the handwriting on the front.

‘That is my husband’s handwriting,’ Oda Fredriksen said, over my shoulder. Judging by the text, that was the case. The letter was dated 18 March 1972 and read as follows:

To my heart’s greatest love and my mind’s best inspiration,

No one has given me more or greater pleasure than you. It should have been you and me for the rest of our lives. But sadly, that cannot be. There is too much left of your life and too little of mine. And my duties to my children mean that I can never give you the children you so want. You should therefore have children with another man before it is too late. And I must try to live without you. In my heart, I will always be in your arms and in my mind, always in your bed.

Your ever grieving, Per Johan.

I read the letter twice, thinking how hard it must be for his widow to read this. When Per Johan Fredriksen broke up with his mistress, he mentioned the children, but did not say a word about his wife of nearly forty years.

I looked at Oda Fredriksen. She looked at me, but not the letter. At that moment, it was as if she could read my thoughts.

‘It was not easy to read that three days after my husband’s death. But regardless of whether the letter was delivered or not, it was a relief all the same to find out that in his final days he had planned to end the relationship with his mistress and come back to me.’

She swallowed deeply a few times as she said this. I had to admire her courage in facing one challenge after another, even after her husband’s and daughter’s deaths. I felt that I could read her thoughts, too, and that in that moment that she was thinking the same as me; that this gave the mistress the possible motives of jealousy and revenge.

I carried on reading. The third document was written in the same hand as the previous one. It was more keywords than notes, but no less interesting for that. The date was also sensationally recent: 5 March 1972. And I found the rest of the text of even more interest.

Eva’s death.

A new thought after all these years: could she have been drowned at some point between six and half past seven?

Met Kjell Arne in the corridor at a quarter past six – with a water glass!

But what about the bang at half past seven? Was that something else? In which case, what? Or did Kjell Arne go back afterwards?

Change of theory: think Eva was drowned by Kjell Arne! But not sure. Will try it out this evening – nothing to lose.

Oda Fredriksen was still standing beside me, and this time she was reading over my shoulder.

I half turned around and asked what she thought about it. Her voice was distant again when she answered.

‘Nothing. That is to say, when I read it, I had lots of thoughts, but I know nothing more than I did before. It was just so long ago, and after losing my husband and then my daughter, my sister’s death feels even more distant.’

It was hard not to say that I understood. So I did just that. She smiled faintly.

‘Thank you for your kind thoughts. I hope you can continue with your investigation without having to worry about me. After forty years of peace, my life has been rocked by two explosions in just four days. But despite now being the widow of a landowner, I still come from farming stock. My great-grandmother’s sister survived her three children and her husband, and barely had clothes and food in her old age. I have more than enough of both, and two grown-up children and a grandchild. So don’t worry about me. Just do what you can, and let me know as soon as you find out who killed my husband and my child.’

There was a faint glow in her eyes as she spoke. I thought to myself that Oda Fredriksen was to a certain extent what Patricia had in a past investigation called a satellite person. For decades she had circled her husband and children. Now her husband was suddenly gone. She was visibly shaken, but could still stand on her own two feet in the middle of the vast room. And I believed that she would stay standing after I had left, and that with time, she would find herself a new orbit.

So I solemnly thanked her for her help and took the envelope containing the three documents with me out to the car.

I left with three new clues, all of which could lead me to a murderer. I felt an intense need to discuss the case with someone. An image of Patricia in her wheelchair squeezed its way into my mind, between Miriam and my boss, as I sat in the car and flicked back and forth between the three documents. Each time, I stopped at the third document, with the notes about 1932. I was only a couple of miles away from the Ramdals’ house in Frognerkilen, so after debating it for a few minutes, I drove straight there.

I stood and looked out over the water at Frognerkilen before I turned and walked to the Ramdals’ front door. The view of the fjord below with the sailing boats rocking gently on the waves was idyllic. I had grown up with a father who mockingly called Frognerkilen the Black Sea. By this he was referring to all the black money that he believed the rich upper classes had squirrelled away in the form of unnecessary yachts. I suspected that my father might be exaggerating a little. But as I took the final steps up to the house, I did think that the idyllic scene felt false and could be hiding something darker.

I did not need to ring the bell. Solveig Ramdal saw me from her watch post on the first floor. She waved and then disappeared from the window, clearly with the intention of opening the door. When she did, she said that her husband was unfortunately still at work, but that she would be happy to oblige if there was anything she could help me with.

Solveig Ramdal did not smile today, not when she waved to me from the window, nor when we stood there face to face at the door. I could understand that. There had been another death since we last met. And perhaps she also had a personal reason to be upset. My misgivings followed me into the living room. She sank down into her husband’s chair more heavily than the last time, before starting to speak.

‘It was so awfully sad to hear about Vera’s death. We sent flowers today. These must be terrible days for poor Oda.’

I said there was no doubt about it. I also asked Solveig Ramdal if she had been in direct contact with Vera in the days after her father’s death. She looked slightly confused, thought about it, but then shook her head without saying anything.