Hans Lahlum: Chameleon People

The latter was said in a choked voice.

I realized that the topic was very difficult for Mrs Fredriksen on a day like today and I did not want to bother her with any more questions. However, I was increasingly intrigued by the clearly complex man in the painting above me and was not as certain that his mistress had nothing to do with the case. There could well be a link, for example, if his mistress happened to have a teenage son with a speech impediment.

So I said I would leave them in peace to mourn and that there was no reason why this aspect of the deceased’s private life need reach the press. I was, however, obliged to ask for the mistress’s name so that I could rule her out of the case.

‘I have chosen not to know her name or anything else about her. But it is quite possible that my children can help you there,’ the widow replied with another sigh.

I looked questioningly at her son. He took a visiting card from his wallet and wrote down a name and address on the back of it.

‘I have never been there or seen the woman. My father wanted me to know who she was in case anything unexpected should happen,’ he explained curtly, and handed me the card.

I took it and read: Harriet Henriksen, 53B Jacob Aall’s Street. The name was completely unknown, but the street was familiar to me and was undeniably in Majorstuen.

I found it interesting that not only did Per Johan Fredriksen have a mistress, but he also had had reason to think that the unexpected might happen. So, having said goodbye to his family and walked back down the long drive, I drove directly to his last known mistress.

In sharp contrast to Per Johan Fredriksen’s green and pleasant home in Bygdøy, 53B Jacob Aall’s Street was a grey, tired building in Majorstuen. I quickly found H. Henriksen on the list of inhabitants and rang the bell three times without getting any response. But then, as I turned to leave, the intercom crackled to life. ‘Who’s there?’ asked a quiet, tense woman’s voice.

I found the situation awkward, but had a murder investigation to follow up. So I looked around quickly, then whispered that I was from the police and that I had some routine questions to ask her in connection with a death.

There was a few moments’ silence. Then the voice said: ‘Please come up.’ She did not sound entirely convincing, but I could understand that she might not be in the best frame of mind today and that the last thing she wanted was a visit from the police.

There was another little surprise waiting for me when the door to the flat on the second floor opened. I had obviously underestimated Per Johan Fredriksen and had assumed that his current mistress would be at least forty-five. But I was wrong. It was not easy to guess Harriet Henriksen’s age, but I would not have protested if someone said that she was thirty. Her movements were soft as a cat and there was not a wrinkle on her smooth face, which gave her an almost doll-like appearance.

We shook hands briefly in the doorway. Her hand was small, but it was supple and firm. And from what I could see, given her plain black dress, the rest of her body was much the same. When I looked more closely, I could see red blotchy patches under her eyes. I caught myself thinking that Per Johan Fredriksen had either been very charming or very lucky to find himself such an attractive young lover at his age.

Harriet Henriksen put the security chain back on the door behind us and showed me into the living room. I could see that she lived in a simple and tidy flat that was modern and equipped with a TV and washing machine. There was no sign of anyone else living there.

On the other hand, there was plenty of evidence that Per Johan Fredriksen was there rather a lot. A large photograph of him hung alone on the hallway wall, and another photograph of the two of them was up in the living room. Seeing him again was unsettling, especially as these were the only photographs adorning the walls. One wall was hidden by an upright piano and the others were covered by bookshelves, landscape paintings and a couple of tapestries. The door to the bedroom was open and through it I could see a double bed made up for two. The most striking thing that caught my attention in the living room, however, was a large, framed photograph of the two of them, which was standing on the table beside an almost burnt-down candle. Per Johan Fredriksen had his arm lovingly around her shoulder. They were both smiling at the camera.

‘That was in Paris,’ she said suddenly. As if that explained everything. ‘We could never show our love publicly here in Oslo. He was too well known. But we had two days together in Paris last summer and there we could walk around and be lovers without any worries. They were two of the happiest days of my life. And now they are all I have to live off for the rest of my days.’

She had not asked me to sit down, but I had done so all the same. We were sitting on either side of the coffee table, with the photograph and candle between us. And we looked straight at each other. She had the darkest brown eyes I had ever seen.

‘I first heard about it on the news last night,’ she said, without prompting.

Just as I had. I could suddenly picture it. He had been here, kissed her goodbye and left. She had, perhaps, like me, stood by the window and watched her beloved go. Then she had sat down alone and switched on the radio to listen to the news, only to collapse suddenly when she heard the announcement that he had been stabbed. I was oddly convinced that that was how it had been.

‘So, he was here with you yesterday?’ I asked, to the point.

She nodded. She looked away for a moment, out of the window. Her eyes almost accusing the world.

‘Per was a very complex man and often appeared different in different settings. Politically, he was more conservative than me. I still thought that he was credible on TV and in debates, if somewhat boring and reserved, but he was completely different when he was here with me: open, humorous and even passionate. We could talk about anything, even that. And he always said that I was the only one who could see him for what he really was, the only person he could really be himself with. He said I brought out the best in him in a way that no one else could. He often came here on Saturday afternoons, between work and the family. And yesterday, he once again left the world behind and sought refuge with me for a few happy hours. We had both been looking forward to it all week. And as usual we experienced complete happiness and joy. I asked if he could stay a bit longer. And he said that he had to go back to his office at the Storting to check some important news about something he was working on before going home to his family. I accepted it, as I always did. I watched him walk away down the street and I was alone when the news that he had been stabbed was announced on the radio. It felt like the ground opened beneath my feet. In a split second, I fell into a cold, dark cellar I didn’t even know existed. I, who have never believed in a God before, was prostrate and prayed that Per Johan would survive, until it was then announced on the late-night news that he had died. I have been here alone at my table weeping ever since, not even so much as a phone call, until you rang at the door.’

As soon as she started to speak, the words just came tumbling out. There was a strange, almost compelling intimacy and intensity about this woman and her voice, which made me inclined to believe every word she said. I felt no physical attraction to her, but, all the same, I could well understand why Per Johan Fredriksen had.

I was still not entirely convinced that she had no connection to the murder. So I asked Harriet Henriksen if she had any children.

She shook her head vaguely and I noticed the light catch a tear in her left eye.