Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

The switchboard was remarkably still, but there was a growing number of journalists calling in from different papers. No one had as yet called to report anyone missing or to leave any other message that might help to identify the boy on the red bicycle. It was more and more mysterious. The boy was, as far as anyone could tell, Norwegian and he was a minor. Despite a speech impediment, it was clear that he spoke with an Oslo accent. If he had parents, it seemed very odd indeed that they had not reported him missing. If he lived with other relatives or in a children’s home of some sort, it was equally odd that no one had contacted the police.

I guessed it was only a matter of time before someone would enquire about him. If nothing else, someone might recognize him if we published the photographs in the papers. But like the boss, I wanted the question of his identity to be solved before they went to print. I was finding it increasingly difficult to believe that the young man did not have some kind of connection with Per Johan Fredriksen. It seemed too incredible to be true that such a well-known politician should be randomly stabbed on the street.

I was sitting in my office pondering on the identity and motive of the killer when my phone rang. I heard the familiar and annoyingly slow voice of one of the switchboard operators. She said that I was about to be transferred to a lady who had asked to speak to the person in charge of the Per Johan Fredriksen investigation immediately. I was, of course, curious as to who it might be and why she had called. It was not long before I knew.

‘Good afternoon. My name is Ane Line Fredriksen and I am the eldest daughter of the late Per Johan Fredriksen. My mother has only now been able to tell me that you wanted to talk to me as soon as possible. So, here I am,’ she said.

I was slightly taken aback by her briskness. I expressed my condolences and said that it would certainly be good to talk, if it was not too much of an inconvenience for her.

‘Not at all. My daughter is with my ex-husband in Hamar and I have to pick her up around seven o’clock this evening. So it would be best if we could meet as soon as possible. Would you like to come here or should I come there?’

Her tempo left me breathless, but it was also refreshing to meet such a dynamic and outspoken member of the family. So I said that I was currently in my office at the main police station and perhaps it would be most practical if we could meet here.

‘Of course. I’ll be there in a quarter of an hour,’ Ane Line Fredriksen said, and put down the phone.

I sat with the receiver in my hand, wondering what she looked like. And how many more people this investigation would involve.

Exactly sixteen minutes later, Ane Line Fredriksen was shown into my office, as she looked around with obvious curiosity. I could not see much resemblance to her mother or siblings, but I knew it was the woman from the telephone call even before I heard her voice.

Ane Line Fredriksen was just over five foot six, and one of those modern women who was solid without being fat. The most striking thing about her was her mane of red hair, and the second most striking thing was the alertness of her distinctive blue-green eyes. She also differed from the rest of her family in clothes and style, in that she was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, and her blouse was unbuttoned at the top. My initial impression was that I would like her best of all.

This theory was not weakened in any way by her unusually firm handshake. She barely took the time to sit down before she leaned towards my desk and said impatiently: ‘So, what is it you would like to know?’

I briefly told her about events the evening before and the arrest of the boy on the red bicycle, and that that was all we knew about her father’s murder so far.

Ane Line Fredriksen continued to lean forwards and listened intently as I spoke. She had a bad habit of taking in the room, which annoyed me slightly, but otherwise my impression was very positive.

She gave a quick nod a couple of times, but still said nothing when I had finished my account. I therefore took out the photographs of the arrestee and put them down on the desk. She immediately studied them with interest, but then shook her head in visible disappointment.

‘I have never seen him before. I would have remembered, because it does not look like he has had an easy life. Are you sure it was he who killed Father? Why on earth would he do that?’

So I told her straight: we could not be certain that it was the boy who killed her father, and if it was, we did not know why he had done it. There was much to indicate that it was him, but he had not confessed and we had no eyewitnesses to the murder itself.

‘How intriguing,’ she said.

I did not detect any great sorrow at the loss of her father in the otherwise very nice Ane Line Fredriksen. And apparently she saw my surprise.

‘I understand that it might seem a bit strange that I am not more upset. I am actually easily moved at funerals and the like. But we come from very practical farming stock, my father was an elderly man, and we were not particularly close any more. Though I have to say he was a very good father when we were little. We got whatever we pointed at and had more time with him than many other children had with their fathers. But once we grew up he became busy with his politics and business. I never really knew him as anything other than a family man. When I saw him on the television I always thought he was too conservative in his politics and didn’t show enough sympathy for people less well off. He was also conservative in his values. First, he didn’t like the man I married, and then he didn’t like the fact that I got divorced.’

‘He had just left his mistress when he was killed yesterday,’ I said.

‘That never really bothered me. Father’s women are something we have had to live with since nursery and this one was very discreet. So we knew about her, but never saw her. Have you met her? What is she like?’

Her boldness took me by surprise. I managed to blurt out that she was a thirty-seven-year-old pianist who made quite an impression, before I saved the situation and said that at present there was nothing to indicate any connection between her and his murder. His mistress stood to gain nothing from his death. On the contrary, she would, in fact, be worse off.

‘I thought about that on the way here. His mistress has no rights and won’t be left a penny, whereas my brother and sister and I will inherit all the money. It’s unfair, really.’

That was the first time I could ever remember hearing an heir say that they were getting too much. And it was also the first time that I had heard anyone express any sympathy for a woman their father had betrayed their mother with.

I was struck by an unfamiliar thought, that I was now sitting talking to a multi-millionairess. So I remarked that the purely financial aspect of the case did not play much of a role here.

Ane Line Fredriksen stretched in the chair with slow, deliberate movements, like a gigantic ginger cat. For a moment I was worried that she might start moulting. Instead she leaned forward again.

‘Well, that is not strictly the case. My siblings and I have never been poor. But as you may have heard, it suits us all rather well to get our inheritance now.’

I had not heard any such thing and immediately asked her to elaborate. She did not need to be asked twice.

‘Well, Johan has always been aware that he is the eldest and also the only son. So he has always been the one with the greatest ambition with regards to money and the like. Since he graduated, he has wanted to start his own law firm and invest in property himself. Father never entirely trusted him and did not want to pay out the inheritance early. The atmosphere at Sunday lunch two weeks ago was tense, to say the least.’