Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

At a quarter past nine that Saturday evening, it would be exactly a week since I had stood here and seen the boy on the red bicycle pedalling furiously up the hill. It felt like an age ago. The boy was dead and would be buried within the next few days. His bicycle was being held in the police stores, and would never go out on the road again. Three other people had lost their lives this week, and my life would never be the same again.

I knew that the rain would stop, and on Monday the papers would be singing my praises louder than ever before. But I was far more miserable now than I had been a week ago. Only three days before, I had stood here and watched Miriam leave in her raincoat, with the library book under her arm, without knowing that it would be the last time I watched her leave. The tears stung in my eyes when I thought that I would never again see her coming up towards the house.

Among all the other happy memories of my two short years with Miriam, I remembered the evening we went to the theatre to see A Doll’s House . It had been Miriam’s suggestion, and I had dutifully said yes after a long working week. But it had been an unusually good Saturday evening. On the way home I had said how glad I was that we had gone, and that we should not wait too long to go to the theatre again. She had not answered, just smiled her charming, happy, lopsided smile. But I had never done anything about it – never suggested another play.

And now it was too late for trips to the theatre. And although it was I who had physically walked away that day, it felt like it was she who had done the walking. I felt that she had left the man she thought she loved, just like Nora, because he still did not understand what was important to her. I felt like Helmer, as I had seen him in that final act. And it was not a nice feeling.

At a quarter to seven, I remembered a quote that the now accused murderer, Oda Fredriksen, had used after her husband had died. ‘The life we shared is over, I walk on alone – but I am still walking.’

I stood there and reflected on the quote for a few minutes. Then the silence became unbearable. I grabbed my jacket and went out into the rain.

There were no other cars parked outside.

If I had seen a van there, I would have turned round immediately and fled. But there was no one. So I went up to the door and rang the bell.

The maid answered surprisingly quickly; I had only counted to twelve by the time the door opened.

I said that I did not want to disturb the owner of the house if she had visitors, but that I would be grateful to talk to her if she was alone.

The maid smiled to herself and said that I had been expected. The owner of the house was at home and did not have visitors.

This was encouraging, but even so I could not remember ever having arrived here feeling quite so anxious or with quite such a hammering heart.

She was sitting alone in her wheelchair, and her smile had an air of condescension when I came into the room.

‘You are a little later than expected. I guessed half past six to Benedicte,’ she said, cheerfully.

The maid nodded to confirm this and then withdrew.

‘Sorry that I am a bit late,’ I said with an uncertain smile, and put my hands on the table. Patricia looked at them, then nodded briefly without saying anything.

I had no idea what to say. So I told her quickly about my meeting with Lene Johansen. The story upset me and I could see that it upset Patricia too, although there were no cigarettes on the table for her to puff on. I made it as brief as possible and once again thanked her for having seen the solution.

‘I never doubted it. But thank you for your thanks all the same,’ she said with a coy smile.

This annoyed me and I added that I had discovered, on my own, how the police security service had found out about Fredriksen. And I told her about my visit to Harriet Henriksen.

Patricia looked rather peeved to begin with, but then started to smile towards the end.

‘I had not thought about that. You were lucky there, I think. Congratulations all the same!’

I asked in passing if Patricia had ever considered that Harriet Henriksen might be the murderer.

Patricia shook her head. ‘And I hope that you didn’t either. It would barely have been possible for her to stay where she was when Fredriksen left and then to get past him unseen, and wait for him on a street corner a few hundred yards further on.’

I said that I agreed and moved swiftly on.

‘You certainly made a good point about chameleon people. And there were a lot of them involved in this case. When you said that there was only one of the five friends from 1932 who was not a chameleon person, you were thinking of Kjell Arne Ramdal, weren’t you?’

Patricia nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Some were of course more dangerous, but all the others were chameleons with several faces. But it would seem Kjell Arne Ramdal only has one face and is what he appears to be. He is himself and probably very decent – if not particularly charming or attractive.’

I was not sure whether I dared to say what I was thinking. But it was as if Patricia read my mind and came to my aid.

‘Not a very exciting man to be married to, I am sure. But Solveig Ramdal found that out a long time ago.’

I took the plunge and asked if she had ever considered that Johan Fredriksen was in many ways more like Kjell Arne Ramdal than his father.

Patricia smiled cheerfully, and then burst into laughter.

‘Yes, it has occurred to me. And that was one of the reasons why I broke up with him on Thursday night. Which is also why I may have looked rather grim when I passed you. The mood in the car had become rather sour.’

The relief went straight to my head when I heard this. And I dared to ask if there were other reasons why she had broken off the relationship.

She nodded and shook her head at the same time. ‘The short version is that I had been sitting here alone for far too long, and at the beginning thought that Johan Fredriksen looked like my dream man, but soon discovered that he only looked like him. I do not regret the relationship, but nor do I regret finishing it.’

I put my hands on the table again, to be sure that Patricia had understood. She glanced at them again, and nodded impatiently.

‘Kidnappings can be difficult,’ I said slowly, testing the water.

Patricia nodded and replied without mirroring my speed and caution.

‘No doubt about it. And by the way, I did not want to pick bones when you were in the middle of it, but the police really must learn to use the word abduction. Kidnapping should only be used about children for obvious reasons, and this was your ex-fiancée, although at times she was as naive as a child.’

Miriam was in fact three years older than Patricia. But I took the hint. Patricia did not want to hear her name or to talk any more about my ex-fiancée – at least, not now. I was a little unsure as to whether she wanted to say anything more about her ex, but hoped she would not.

So I said: ‘Well, that was quite a case. With our combined efforts, we managed to solve all the murders and both lose our partners along the way.’

Patricia yawned and stretched her arms demonstratively. ‘Ah well, the case was exceptionally interesting, if also exceptionally tragic. And as far as partners are concerned, I for my part think that when a relationship cannot weather a stormy week, then it is not going to last in the long run. So better to discover it now than in ten years’ time, with two children. So, with a bit of humour, you could say that we have unearthed the truth about four murders and two relationships.’

She looked at me with her head cocked as she said this, her eyes curious.