Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

I gave her a summary of the reasoning and conclusions in the case so far, without of course mentioning where they came from. Miriam got very excited when I explained how Fredriksen’s own explanation revealed between the lines that he too had gone to Eva’s room before six. She remarked again how well I was doing on my own. And again, we steered clear of mentioning Patricia.

I finished my account of the 1932 case by saying that we had therefore come a bit further, but were yet to identify who had been in Eva’s bed – and who had killed her.

Miriam showed a genuine interest in both questions, without being able to suggest any revolutionary solutions.

So far, so good. But all the time, I felt the weight of my spy dilemma. I knew without a doubt that Miriam was trustworthy through and through, but I still did not trust her in the way that I did Patricia. And I felt horribly guilty that I could show more faith in her than in my fiancée.

But Miriam clearly knew me too well as suddenly she said: ‘There’s something you are not telling me. Is there something about the investigation that you can’t share with me?’

At first I said: ‘Yes, I am sorry, but that is unfortunately the case.’

She looked disappointed, but nodded and said: ‘You know you can always trust me. But of course I understand if you can’t tell me. I just won’t be able to help you with it, I suppose.’

It was when I heard her say that, that my bad conscience got the better of me. I assured her that I trusted her wholeheartedly, but that she must never tell another living soul what I was going to tell her now.

She nodded eagerly, raised her chin and said: ‘Of course,’ then snuggled closer.

I thought to myself that the situation was actually becoming rather alarming, but it was too late now to turn back, and nor did I want to.

So I sat there on the sofa, close to my Miriam, and more or less whispered the story of my visit to the head of the police security service to her, and told her that Per Johan Fredriksen was suspected of being a spy.

I struggled with a horrible mix of feelings as I sat there. One moment I was terrified of the consequences this might have should it ever get out; the next, it felt right to be telling her. Miriam’s shoulders were permanently damaged by an injury she had sustained when trying to help me in my last case and her actions had very probably saved the current prime minister’s life. She had never let slip a word to anyone about what I had told her then. It did not feel right that I should now hide this from her – especially as it was no more than two hours since I had told another woman.

It made Miriam happy in her own way, without any great display of affection or gushing words. ‘Gosh, that really is a dramatic development,’ was all she said. Then she sat there deep in thought on the sofa. I could feel her body vibrating with tension.

Then suddenly she stood up and said: ‘I have a lecture at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, so I have to get to bed early. But I will think more on this tomorrow.’

I followed her to the door, and offered without success to drive her home. I was not sure whether it was her lecture tomorrow morning or my investigation she was thinking about, but it was obvious that she was mulling something over. Miriam’s eyes and voice were both unusually distant. She had the big blue book tucked under her arm. In the doorway on her way out, she said, to my joy, something that Patricia had not said today: ‘Good luck with the investigation. Remember to watch out for the man in the hat and any other dangers.’

I kissed her on the mouth, and almost replied that she had to stay; she couldn’t possibly leave me in such a frightening and unsafe situation. But I said nothing. Then suddenly she was gone, and I heard her quick steps disappear down the stairs.

I stood by the window and watched her go. I thought that I had never loved anyone as much as I loved Miriam, but I still felt pulled and stretched in every direction.

For the first time, it was not a disappointment to see Miriam disappear into the night. I had a sudden need to be alone and think about the investigation and my own life, though it could hardly be said that I made much progress with either. I managed to write a list of people I should talk to tomorrow in connection with the investigation. This included Hauk Rebne Westgaard, Ane Line Fredriksen and Lene Johansen, as well as the office manager Odd Jørgensen and the accountant Erling Svendsen. I was impatient to get on, but could not do much more tonight.

Physical exhaustion overwhelmed me without warning. It was eleven o’clock when I set the alarm for a quarter past seven, and went to bed. It was a matter of minutes before I was asleep.

On Wednesday, 22 March 1972, I fell asleep alone, safely locked in my own flat, but with a great deal of uncertainty about what tomorrow would bring. I tried to think about Miriam, but fell asleep with Patricia’s sharp, accusing eyes staring me down.

The case was becoming more and more of an obsession. On Thursday, 23 March 1972, I leapt out of bed with the first ring of the alarm clock at a quarter past seven and rang Hauk Rebne Westgaard straightaway.

I guessed that he was an early bird, which quickly proved to be true. The telephone in Holmestrand was answered on the third ring.

I apologized for calling so early, then said that there were a number of new things in connection with Eva’s death in 1932 that I would like to discuss with him as soon as possible.

He replied that I could call him as early as I liked and could come to see him whenever it suited, if it would help to clarify what had happened when Eva died.

I took him at his word and said that I hoped to be there before ten.

The day’s newspapers were a less inspiring read. Arbeiderbladet used half the front page to cover the EEC debate and much of the rest was about the Government’s plans to establish a state-run oil company. Unfortunately, the murder case had crept onto the remaining space on the front page as it had in Aftenposten. Aftenposten was still positive about the way in which the police were dealing with the case. The newspaper reported that there might be ‘reason to question’ whether the investigation had the necessary resources. And if indeed it did not, whether the blame did not lie with ‘senior police officers’, but instead with the parliamentary majority who had not given the police enough resources.

I heaved a sigh of relief that neither the link to 1932, nor the possible links to the EEC question and espionage, had been discovered. At the same time, I shuddered to think what might happen if they were. It felt like this was the calm before the media storm. Something had to happen today.

All was quiet down at the station when I popped in. I picked up the paper bag with the three hairs in it from my pigeon hole. There was a short statement with it to say that it was head hair, but they could not use them to identify who they came from.

Neither my boss nor Danielsen had arrived yet, which suited me fine. I drove on to Holmestrand without waiting for them.

Today, however, I drove to Westgaard Farm via the sheriff’s office in Holmestrand. In the archives, I found a couple of yellowed pages about the transfer of Westgaard to Hauk. Having read them, I drove the last stretch faster than planned.

Westgaard looked just as peaceful and idyllic in the Vestfold landscape as it had the last time. And yet it felt like a different place when I got there at a quarter to ten. The weather was more overcast and neither the farmer nor the workers were anywhere to be seen. Not that this meant anything, of course. But it did feel rather ominous, nonetheless.