Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

‘Are you sitting there saying that Fredriksen and I – that’s crazy. We were from completely different worlds. Do you really think that I would let my son live in poverty, as he did, if his father was a multi-millionaire?’

She looked at me indignantly. It was a simple counter-question that I had not considered and I almost found myself blaming Patricia because she had not thought it through.

I was on the defensive now. Lene Johansen looked more and more indignant and then carried on without my asking.

‘A poor widow from the east end certainly has to put up with a lot in this town. First I lose my only son, and now you’re sitting there saying that he might have killed the rich father he never had. It’s all lies, and I can prove it, if you just give me a moment.’

Both Rønning and I sat as if paralysed and stared at her as she quickly pulled from her coat pocket an old purse. I could not see any notes in it, only a few coins. But her trembling fingers fished out an old black-and-white photograph which she held up for me.

‘This is my husband,’ she said.

I recognized him from the photograph in the flat. And I understood straightaway what she meant to say with it.

The birthmark on her husband’s neck was far smaller than the one on the neck of the boy on the red bicycle. But it was on the same side and was the same shape. It could not be a coincidence.

The situation was uncomfortable enough already, before Rønning Junior’s voice filled the room.

‘We understand that you have to investigate all possible leads in the investigation. However, we hope that you now recognize that this is a wild goose chase and that you will apologize immediately to my client. If you do not have any further questions, we will take our leave and hope that you will be able to give us some better news over the next few days. If not, this could turn into a rather unfortunate matter for both you and the force in general. I had not expected you to stoop so low, Kristiansen.’

Lene Johansen nodded in agreement, put the photograph back in her purse, and stood up abruptly. ‘This has been a rather nasty experience. I want to go home,’ she said, her voice shaking.

I felt humiliated and in a very vulnerable position. So I did what I could to save the situation, I apologized and told them that I sincerely hoped that I would have better news next time.

I heard Rønning say the words ‘… recommend filing a…’ to his client as the door slammed behind them.

Another shock followed when my boss knocked on my door and did not wait for an answer before coming in. I was worried that he had come to reprimand me for my unwarranted allegations against one of the parties involved in the case – or for the continued lack of results in the investigation.

But my boss had not come to reprimand me at all. He had come to say that the Soviet Embassy had rather unexpectedly requested a meeting with the head of the investigation. But before that we would need to go to the prime minister’s office to give him a report.

I had met the leader of the Labour Party, Trond Bratten, a couple of years earlier in connection with another murder investigation, and I had been to the prime minister’s office. But I had never met Trond Bratten in the prime minister’s office. He had only moved in there the year before, when disagreement about the EEC had ripped apart the blue coalition government, which had been led by the Centre Party’s Peder Borgen. In terms of my political preferences, this was an improvement, even though my personal meeting with Peder Borgen here had been very nice.

I was curious to see if Mrs Ragna Bratten had also been included in the move from Young’s Square to the prime minister’s office. I soon had my answer. She was sitting on a chair in the reception area and jumped up as soon as she saw me. She embraced me and thanked me warmly for all I had done a couple of years earlier. The prime minister’s wife assured me that both she and her husband were deeply grateful and that her husband was looking forward to meeting me again. She added hastily that she was here so that she could drive him home after the meeting, but did not know what the meeting was about. So she asked me to look after her husband in the meantime, and then pointed to the door to his office.

My boss and I had been told that it would be a highly confidential briefing. Just how confidential it was became apparent when we entered the prime minister’s office and saw that Trond Bratten was there alone, sitting behind a large desk.

If Trond Bratten really had been looking forward to meeting me, it was not clear to see. He said a brisk ‘Good afternoon’ and shook our hands.

My boss took care to close the door behind us, and then we settled into two chairs that were on the other side of the desk. I noticed that the desk was larger than when I had been here before, and the chairs pulled slightly further back.

Trond Bratten stayed sitting behind the desk and looked at us expectantly.

My boss cleared his throat and said that the prime minster had requested a strictly confidential briefing on the part of the investigation into the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen that might affect the oil agreement and the Soviet Union, as we had now been asked to a meeting at the embassy.

Bratten replied: ‘Yes, a short and confidential account.’ Then he looked me and said no more.

A short and confidential accounted suited me well. So I reported, without going into any details, that the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen was still unsolved, but that Fredriksen had been suspected of being a spy and was killed, apparently, only a matter of hours before he was due to be arrested. It was not clear whether he was guilty or not, and we had no grounds for claiming that he had been assassinated. The timing was, however, striking, and in the course of the investigation, I had been followed by a man, whom we had now identified as a Soviet agent, who probably had many deaths on his conscience, in a number of countries. He was officially linked to the Soviet Embassy in Oslo and had diplomatic immunity.

‘A challenging situation,’ was Trond Bratten’s succinct comment when I had finished. Then he sat and pondered, without saying any more.

My boss asked carefully if the prime minister had any advice for us with regard to our visit to the Soviet Embassy, in this challenging situation.

‘Say as little as possible, without offending them,’ Bratten said, in a monotone voice. Then once again, he sat there staring into space, deep in thought.

I noted down the advice and thought to myself that it might be easier said than done.

A few more minutes passed in breathless silence. Finally, I broke it by asking the prime minister what he thought about the situation and how we should go forward.

‘Democracy must as far as possible be allowed to take its course, and the agreement that the Storting is due to ratify tomorrow could be of the utmost importance to the nation’s future. But it would be both politically and morally impossible for a democratic country to enter into an agreement with a non-democratic country that had just violated the democratic country’s sovereignty by carrying out terrorist activities there.’

He spoke without hesitation and the formulation was so precise that I almost broke out into spontaneous applause. Fortunately, I managed to stop myself in time, and instead asked how he would deal with the matter from this point on.

‘The ratification procedure must be allowed to run its course, unless there are any dramatic developments in the case. The Government must be informed immediately if there are any such developments, in order to assess the ratification procedure.’

I took the hint and said that the prime minister’s office would be told immediately if there was any important news.