Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

‘So you are saying that you were at home alone?’ I asked.

He took another sip of wine, then shook his head.

‘No. What I am saying – and it is the truth – is that I was here with my girlfriend. But I cannot ask her to confirm that for me. She has made it quite clear that she, for very personal reasons, does not want her name to be public or to be pulled into the investigation in any way. She is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in all my life. I am even more scared of losing her now, having just lost two of my closest family members. I simply cannot burden her with that. So in a situation where I know that I am innocent and did not murder my father and little sister, I choose to respect my girlfriend’s wish to remain anonymous, even though I realize that it may not make life any easier for me.’

I could not work Johan Fredriksen out, nor could I decide what I thought of him. On the one hand, I could understand him, even empathize with him, but on the other, it did create a problem for the investigation.

I tried to push him by saying that his mother claimed she had phoned him several times yesterday afternoon without getting an answer. He nodded sharply.

‘Yes, I can confirm that, without being able to give you the precise times. I heard the telephone ring out here in the sitting room at least twice. I had a strong suspicion that it was my mother, and indeed, when I then answered the phone at around half past five, I had this confirmed. When she had called earlier, I was in a room with another person, in the middle of things I did not want to interrupt, so I couldn’t talk to my mother on the phone.’

He said this somewhat defiantly, and then raised his glass before draining it.

I was still unsure as to how I felt about Johan Fredriksen, but realized that it would be impossible to get anything more out of him now. So I asked him to think hard about the situation. He promised to do that, but said that it was unlikely that anything would change with regards to his alibi and his girlfriend’s identity. He added that she had been here with him when both the murders happened, and clearly had no connection to the case. She had never met either his parents or his sisters.

I was increasingly intrigued by Johan Fredriksen’s mysterious girlfriend. However, it was perfectly clear that she had no links to the case. And it was not obvious who that young woman might be. I had more than enough parties to juggle with as it was. And what was more, I did not think that Johan Fredriksen would make up a story like that if he had killed his father or sister. His story tallied with what his mother had said and indirectly gave him a kind of alibi. So I dropped it – and left with slightly more respect for Johan Fredriksen than I had arrived with.

It was after I had got into the car just by Sognsvann at a quarter past seven that I saw him for the fourth time.

The man in the hat was not wearing a hat today, nor was he following me. He was just standing there, casually leaning against a wall on the corner of the street. I started the car.

The encounter lasted no more than a few seconds and felt far less threatening than our previous meetings. I was sitting in a car with a loaded gun in its holster under my jacket. It also helped that I now knew who the man in the hat was, even though I therefore also knew that he was dangerous.

However, seeing him again was an uncomfortable reminder that I was being watched, and that we were still no further forward on the spying aspect of the case.

I drove to Patricia’s house and round the block one more time to make sure that no one was following me before I stopped and parked the car a few hundred yards from the house, at twenty past seven. I kept my eyes peeled as I walked from the car to the front door. The man in the hat was nowhere to be seen. And yet still I had the feeling that I had not seen him for the last time.

‘Hmm,’ Patricia said. She had finished her tomato soup and roast pork with sweet potatoes, but still listened carefully to my account of the day’s developments.

I had carried a small dilemma with me as I entered the house that day, but had resolved it by deciding to speak openly about my meeting with the head of the police security service and the suspicions that Per Johan Fredriksen may have been a spy.

I was fully aware that this formally constituted a breach of confidentiality, which could cost me my job if it was ever discovered. What surprised me was that I did not have any particular misgivings about it. I was absolutely certain that Patricia would never tell anyone. And given that, I saw it more or less as my duty to do all that I could to clear up a matter of such national importance. Furthermore, the case had become something of an obsession and the pressure was such that I was willing to go to pretty much whatever lengths necessary to solve it.

Patricia seemed to take it for granted that I told her everything and didn’t even look surprised. She had put her soup to one side and given a little nod when I mentioned the suspicions that Fredriksen was a spy, but that was the only reaction I registered.

‘So, where shall we begin?’ I asked, when the maid had disappeared with the leftovers of supper.

Patricia answered without hesitation: ‘At the beginning – in 1932!’

It was eight o’clock already and I was starting to worry that I might be late for my date with Miriam at half past. Patricia did not know about it, of course, and seemed to have all the time in the world. She thought for nearly a full minute before continuing.

‘It is possible there are some links here, but they are still so tenuous that it would be best to work with this as three separate murder mysteries. As far as 1932 is concerned, the picture is becoming a bit clearer, but not so clear that we can see the murderer’s face. The more we get to know about the great beauty Eva Bjølhaugen, the more she resembles Marilyn Monroe: she liked attention and played with the men who liked to give it to her. All three men desired her, and all three had been to her room. For now, up until a quarter past six, everything is clear…’

I was getting lost already. I said that according to Hauk himself, he had been there before half past five and Kjell Arne Ramdal was there between six and a quarter past six, but it was never said that Per Johan Fredriksen had been there.

Patricia gave a contemptuous snort before carrying on. ‘Of course he had. He wonders in his note who might have drowned Eva between six and eight. The only logical explanation for the time frame is that he went to see her just before six. So he was there some time before six, presumably with the same mission as Kjell Arne Ramdal, and obviously was equally unsuccessful. Even though both these assumptions are uncertain, we also know that Eva was alive and the bed still made up when Kjell Arne left the room at a quarter past six, and that she was alive until the bang which Solveig maintains she heard at half past seven. In which case, Eva had in the meantime gone to bed with a guest and then been killed either by that person or another guest. Do we agree so far? And in that case, do you have any suggestions as to who it might be?’

Just then there was a knock at the door. Patricia forced a rather tart smile as the maid came in and served us coffee and cakes, before slipping out again. My mind was whirring, but I could not come up with any possible candidates.

‘Well?’

Patricia’s voice was no less tart than her smile. I had to admit sheepishly that I could not suggest any names.

‘I agree with your summary, but cannot see where it goes from here. There is nothing to indicate which of the three was suddenly granted grace and why.’