Hans Lahlum: Chameleon People

‘No, no. I don’t have any children and I guess I never will now. In fact, I don’t have any family at all. I never had brothers or sisters, and my parents are no longer alive. I only had Per Johan, and we never had the children I hoped we might. That was my fault. Last night I went over it a thousand times. If I had just done as he suggested, I would still have a part of him. But now I’m thirty-seven and completely on my own with nothing to live for.’

She stood up abruptly, wringing her hands. Then she took two turns around the table before sitting down opposite me again.

‘So, what you are saying is that he was willing to have children with you, but you said no?’

‘Yes and no. The biggest question of all was the only thing we disagreed on. I wanted to have children and to marry him. He was willing to give me a child and to look after both of us, but he was not willing to get divorced. It was less out of consideration for his wife than for his children, especially his youngest daughter, who suffers from nerves. He feared that a divorce might drive her completely mad or even to suicide. But she’s grown-up and, what’s more, intelligent and well educated. Personally, I thought she would cope. I truly wanted us to have our own children, but I did not want them to grow up without a father. It was the only snake in our paradise.’

‘Yesterday as well?’ I asked.

She nodded. There were tears in her eyes.

‘Yesterday as well. It was the last thing we talked about before he left. And we couldn’t agree yesterday either, and it will haunt me now for the rest of my life. But I thought when he left yesterday…’

Her voice broke. She turned towards the table. A tear spilled over from her left eye to leave a small dark patch on the light-wood table.

‘When Per Johan left yesterday, it seemed he was closer than ever to taking that final plunge. I had renewed hope that everything would work out and we would actually have our own love child. I felt light as a balloon – but then it all popped when I heard the news on the radio that he had been stabbed. I hoped for the best for as long as I could, but really I knew that Per Johan was dead before I heard it on the last bulletin. I suppose you just feel it when you love someone as much as I did.’

She spoke in a quiet, intense voice. As if by magic, the candle between us went out when she stopped talking. We sat spellbound in the silent gloom.

Then I hurried to ask some routine questions. Her answers were clear and prompt. She was born in 1934 to a Norwegian father and French mother and had grown up in Oslo and Paris. She came from a family of musicians and had studied music and art in Norway and France, without having ever made a breakthrough as an artist or a pianist. She had met Per Johan Fredriksen at an exhibition he had opened in the autumn of 1966, and despite the difference in age had quickly realized that he was the love of her life.

He had called the next day to ask if they could meet again, and she had said yes immediately. They had started a relationship ‘only a few days later’ and had been meeting once or twice a week ever since – nearly always at her flat and often on a Saturday. She had lived on money inherited from her parents, but largely on presents from him. She had never asked him for money. But he had paid the rent for her, and she always found a few hundred-kroner notes when he had gone.

I knew that she would not receive so much as a krone in her dead lover’s will. So I asked, with as much tact as I could, how his death would affect her life financially.

She turned up her palms and shrugged indifferently, then replied: ‘It won’t be easy, but it doesn’t feel that important. I am going to give myself a week to grieve and then start to think about what I can, and have to, do for the rest of my life. I certainly can’t continue to live here now – alone in what was our universe… alone in what was our universe.’ She repeated the short sentence thoughtfully.

The words echoed in my head for a while afterwards. I found myself wondering if I would still be able to live in my flat if I had heard on the radio that the love of my life had been killed. It was not a pleasant thought. But, fortunately, it was interrupted when Harriet Henriksen started to speak again.

‘Something that feels more important here and now… What actually happened when he was killed? Do you know who did it and why?’

I told her the truth: that we had arrested a young man whom we were fairly certain had committed the crime, but, as yet, we did not know what he was called or what his motive might be.

I took out the photographs of the boy on the red bicycle and put them down on the table between us. I feared they might produce an emotional response, but there was no visible reaction.

Harriet Henriksen sat quietly and looked at the pictures. She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. Then she shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen him before. But it’s strange, I feel no hatred when I look at those photographs. And I would, if he killed my darling.’

We sat and looked at each other. She suddenly seemed more relaxed, but her gaze did not waver.

‘I can’t be sure. I am not a religious person, but I am a people person. I think I would feel hatred if he had killed Per Johan, and I feel nothing. You can see that he is not happy, but he doesn’t look evil enough or strong enough to commit murder. No, I really don’t think it was him who killed Per Johan. Did anyone see him do it?’

I said nothing and thought for a moment or two. Then I replied slowly that no one had witnessed the actual murder, but the young man had first been seen in conversation with Per Johan Fredriksen, and then been caught running away from the scene of the crime with the murder weapon in his pocket. It would most certainly be a strange tale if he was not guilty.

‘You are absolutely right. But there is still a considerable difference between being strange and being guilty, even though they are often confused. So no one actually saw him killing Per Johan. I don’t think he did it. And I would be grateful if you could tell me who did, if you manage to find out one day.’

I had a growing appreciation of why Per Johan Fredriksen had been fascinated by this remarkable woman. But I also realized that, for the moment, she was not able to help me any further with the mysterious circumstances surrounding her lover’s death.

So I offered my condolences once again, assured her that the investigation would keep all possibilities open, promised to contact her as soon as there was any news, and asked her to stay in town for the next few days in case we needed to question her further.

Harriet Henriksen’s reply was short: that until her beloved had been buried, she had nowhere to go, nor any reason to do so. And as if to illustrate this, she remained seated by the coffee table and the burnt-out candle as I got up and left.

I was back at the main police station by half past twelve. Danielsen was nowhere to be seen, but my boss was sitting in his office with the door open. He waved me in as soon as he saw me.

‘Danielsen has questioned the suspect again. And despite applying considerable pressure, he got nowhere. The boy adamantly refused to answer any questions. Danielsen found this extremely provoking and is even more convinced of his guilt. He believes that the only question of any real interest is whether the murderer should be sent to prison or a mental hospital. And I am inclined to agree. So we decided that Danielsen could go home at the end of his shift. The lack of identity and motive remains a problem and I would like you to focus on that for the rest of the day.’

I immediately agreed to this. My impressions from the meeting with Harriet Henriksen were being diluted by the light of day and her conclusion now felt like no more than unqualified speculation, so I did not bother to mention it to my boss. However, I was less convinced than Danielsen about the boy’s guilt. But I was quite happy to be allowed to carry on working on the case without Danielsen interfering – and without being asked to divulge my thoughts on the case.