Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

I picked up on this and asked her which candidates she still had on her list of potential murderers. And to my surprise, she answered.

‘The problem is exactly that, that there are still a few too many who cannot be ruled out. Other than the boy on the red bicycle, among the men we have the office manager, Odd Jørgensen, the accountant, Erling Svendsen, Hauk Rebne Westgaard and Kjell Arne Ramdal. And among the women, we have Harriet Henriksen, Ane Line Fredriksen, Vera Fredriksen and Solveig Ramdal. Plus the person who I think it most likely is.’

Patricia said this with a sly smile. But then she was suddenly serious again, and started picking at her chocolate cake.

I assumed that the person Patricia believed to be the most likely was a woman, as I could not think of any other men she had left out. More specifically, I thought of the only one from the 1932 friends that she had not mentioned, namely the widow, Mrs Oda Fredriksen. But Patricia shook her head when I mentioned this possibility.

‘No, no. I think you can categorically rule out that Mrs Fredriksen had anything to do with the death of Per Johan Fredriksen. The money will go to the children, she had been devoted to her husband and her life had revolved around him for nearly forty years, and what is more, it is clear that at the time of his death he was closer to leaving his lover than his wife. And in any case, she has an alibi. On the other hand, I do not think we should rule out-’

She stopped abruptly, with an arch smile – without saying who it was we should not rule out.

‘Besides,’ she said, teasing me, ‘who is a chameleon person, and who is not, is very significant. I think that there are still several chameleon people we have not yet discovered in the circle around the late Per Johan Fredriksen. In fact, I think there is only one person who was there in 1932 who is not a chameleon person. And that might also be very significant. But you will have to wait to find out who that is.’

Patricia looked coy and charming, even seductively secretive when she said this.

I had a sudden impulse to march over to her, pick her up out of the wheelchair, put her down on the table, then look her straight in the eye and demand that she tell me who she thought had committed the other two murders. I was convinced that she had her ideas and that what she believed would be right.

I also got the feeling that were I to do that, Patricia would be more than pleased. But I realized that it would be wrong in every way all the same. The fact that my situation and mood had changed from bleak pessimism yesterday evening to more or less cheerful optimism now, was almost entirely thanks to Patricia. I had no right to ask anything more of her today.

And any more physical contact would feel akin to betrayal. After all, I still had a fiancée who had no idea that I was sitting here with Patricia. And even though I did not like it, and found it hard to understand what she saw in him, I had to respect the fact that Patricia had a boyfriend now – and be grateful for the fact that he knew nothing about my contact with her either.

At a quarter to seven, I said that I should perhaps head back to the station. Patricia raised her hand. She said that it was unlikely that anything would happen before half past seven at the earliest, if the police surveillance was to be lifted at seven.

I found it hard to argue with this logic, and it was without a doubt more tempting to spend the nerve-wracking waiting time with Patricia than on my own at the station. So I stayed where I was for a little while longer.

When the clock struck seven, we raised our glasses to what we hoped would be the beginning of the end of the case. I had water, and Patricia poured herself some white wine.

At five past seven, I looked at the clock again. This time Patricia nodded her agreement.

‘It may still take some time before anything happens, but you should go to the station just in case.’

At first I thought her words sounded matter-of-fact – as though we had been married for years and I was about to go to work. But then I caught the nervous undertone in her voice, and it reawakened my own anxiety.

I thought to myself that there was absolutely no reason to be nervous just because Patricia was. I knew from before that she was far more sensitive than she appeared to be. I could feel her nerves spilling over into me – and suddenly I just wanted to get out.

I rounded the table, thanked her again for her help and gave her another hug. This did not make things any better: her frail body trembled against mine. I pulled back a little too fast and headed for the door, but stopped when I unexpectedly heard Patricia’s voice again.

‘I will stay here, then, and hope for the best, and will be waiting from first thing in the morning. I would appreciate it if you could let me know that all is well with your fiancée. Even though the documents and information she will give you will no doubt be of interest, I doubt that she will have anything conclusive to tell you. The Soviet aspect of the case seems to be closed. But ring me as soon as you hear what and who the man with the hat saw on the evening that Per Johan Fredriksen was killed.’

I promised to do that. Then I left, with my heart hammering in my throat, to wait for Miriam to turn up. And for the first time, I thought that I would actually have liked to stay a bit longer with Patricia.

It was now dark outside and the air felt colder than when I had arrived. It struck me that I still did not know where Miriam was out there in the dark. I did not even know for certain that she was alive and only had the vice-ambassador’s word that she would come back, if she was still alive. In fact, I did not even have that, as the whole conversation had been indirect, with no concrete promises. The anxiety sank deep as I sat all alone in my car, surrounded by darkness. And it was followed by an uncontrollable impatience as I swore at every red light on my way to the station.

My mood had been ever-changing all through this long day. By the time I got to 19 Møller Street at half past seven, I was full, but my mind was distracted and my nerves were frayed.

I popped my head round the door to Danielsen’s office, as he was still on duty, but he just shrugged and held up his hands. So I carried on to my own office – which had now become a waiting room. I tried to pass the time by thinking about the Fredriksen case, but it still just seemed to be a chaotic ocean of possibilities that floated and merged together. I always came back to Miriam – and was constantly changing my mind about the chances of her being released.

By ten to eight, I was seriously worried that she would not be released this evening, and at eight I shed a few tears because suddenly I was sure that she had been killed yesterday. By a quarter past eight, I was optimistic once more, having relived the meeting at the embassy. By twenty-five past, my mood was plummeting again and I found it alarming that so much time had passed without anything happening.

At thirty-two minutes past eight, as I was trying to pull myself back up by thinking about the meeting at the embassy, I jumped when the door to my office was opened without warning.

Danielsen was standing there.

‘There is a phone call in my office that I think you should take,’ he said.

I ran past him and through his door, lifted the receiver from the desk and with forced calm, said: ‘Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen, how can I help you?’

I heard a very clear man’s voice speaking in a deliberate tone on the other end and I knew straightaway that I had heard it before, but I couldn’t remember where.

‘I am calling about a very confused young woman who was taken here in an ambulance after she was found wandering around up by the university, in a bewildered state. At first we wondered if she was drunk, but it turned out that she was under the influence of some chemical or other. She was not able to tell us her name. But I recognized her from the time she spent here in 1970, and the contents of her handbag confirmed that she was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. So I thought I should let the police know, in case she has been a victim of crime. My name is Berg and I am the senior doctor here at Ullevål Hospital, and if you are Detective Inspector Kristiansen, I believe we have been in contact before, remarkably enough, in connection with the same patient.’