Chameleon People (21 page)

Patricia fell silent again. Then suddenly she drank the rest of her coffee in one go. Then she said five words: ‘The man in the hat.’ She sat deep in thought without saying anything
as the seconds ticked by. ‘I would very much like to know who the man in the hat is. If he really is just a passer-by whom you happened to meet twice in the same day, it is all far less
dramatic and I wouldn’t fret. However, I do not think that is the case. If he was following you, he could of course be a friend, relative or private detective who is following you on behalf
of someone in the Fredriksen family, his mistress, the Ramdals or Hauk Rebne Westgaard. But it would be fairly risky for any of them to ask someone to follow a police detective like that. And what
they stood to gain by knowing where you were going is unclear. So I doubt that that is the explanation. In which case, the man with the hat points to something bigger which is still lurking beneath
the surface, in possibly rather icy water. Too much importance should not be placed on his missing finger joint, in isolation, but that detail does not make the case any more pleasant . .
.’

Patricia’s hands were shaking ever so slightly when she lifted the coffee cup to her mouth. She appeared to be lost deep in her own thoughts and did not notice that the cup was empty.

‘No, there are far too many possibilities here for me to be able to give you any more help tonight. I need more facts in order to discard those that don’t work. Let me know when you
have more. Check the alibis of everyone we have spoken about, ask the family if they know about any of Fredriksen’s other mistresses, follow up his political life, be open to the possibility
that your boss is not telling you everything he knows about the case – and meanwhile, take good care of yourself.’

The latter was said in a slightly tremulous voice.

I was deeply touched by Patricia’s concern in the midst of it all. I told her so, thanked her for her help so far and gave her a hug as I made to leave. Patricia’s reply was short:
‘Good. We will talk again tomorrow, then.’ But her cheek burned hot against mine, and I felt that our meeting had been unexpectedly successful.

It was only when I was at the door that I realized what we had not talked about, and that was Miriam. Patricia had not asked after her and I had not mentioned her.

Despite the new conclusions and Patricia’s warnings, as I drove home I thought less about the investigation and more about the dilemma I now found myself in. The magic and
optimism of my renewed contact with Patricia receded as soon as I could no longer see or hear her. It felt almost as though I had been unfaithful to Miriam, simply by visiting Patricia without
having asked her first. It reached the point by the end of the journey where, despite the progress we had made on the investigation, I regretted having gone and was more worried about what
Miriam’s reaction might be were she to find out.

It seemed increasingly to me that the best solution for all parties would be if the case could be solved within a day or two, without Miriam ever needing to know about Patricia’s
involvement. Patricia appeared to be happy with the situation and her role being kept secret, from Miriam as well, and obviously did not need any form of recognition. Miriam was happy when she
could discuss the case with me, without knowing that I was also discussing it with Patricia.

My flat lay in darkness when I parked outside at half past nine. I had by then decided that the solution to my great dilemma would be that I would not tell Miriam about my visit to Patricia
unless absolutely necessary, but that I would answer honestly if she asked if I had contacted Patricia.

The night was dark and there was a fine drizzle in the air. I sat indoors alone and stewed until about half-past ten, but did not manage to pull myself together enough to think
systematically in any way about the case.

For the first time I found myself thinking it would perhaps be just as well if Miriam did not come as agreed, so that I could talk to her in the morning when I was rested instead. But I knew she
would come: partly because she was curious about the case, but mostly because she had promised she would. And I was right, of course. Two minutes after the half-past-ten bus had passed, a familiar
figure in a raincoat with a thick book in her hand emerged from the dark.

Miriam snapped the book shut as soon as I opened the door to the flat. ‘Sorry, the last meeting dragged on. Did young Vera Fredriksen bring the investigation any closer to a
conclusion?’ she asked, before she had even taken off her shoes.

I had to tell her that Vera Fredriksen had unfortunately been killed herself before she had a chance to tell me anything and that the investigation was therefore now even more complex.

To begin with, Miriam was very sad to hear about young Vera’s death, but soon became increasingly interested to know what had happened.

I had tried to ease my bad conscience by preparing a late supper with the best food I could find in the fridge, which Miriam seemed to appreciate. She ate more than me, of course; I had already
had a three-course meal, and was struggling with my guilt. Otherwise, everything went unexpectedly well. Miriam digested the food and the story of Vera Fredriksen’s death at the same time,
and did not ask about Patricia. It struck me that the situation was the same as it had been at Patricia’s: Miriam did not ask, and I did not divulge.

I did not mention the explanation as to why the boy on the red bicycle had taken the murder weapon with him when he fled the scene of the crime. And I kept my worries about the man in the hat to
myself. But I did say that it had struck me, before the results of the autopsy were clear, that one possibility was that both Eva Bjølhaugen and Vera Fredriksen had been drowned, using water
from the bathroom.

Miriam was very impressed and said that the idea was a good example of my creative thinking when it came to investigations. There was a slightly awkward atmosphere when she said this, but it was
the closest that we got to mentioning Patricia that evening. We quickly changed tack; it felt as though both of us wanted to.

On Tuesday, 21 March, I lay awake tussling with my conscience, long after Miriam had gone to sleep.

Around half past midnight, I changed my mind and came to the conclusion that I should have told Miriam about going to see Patricia as soon as she arrived. But Miriam was already deep in sleep by
then. So I kissed her tenderly on the cheek and whispered that we would have to talk about it tomorrow. Shortly after, I fell asleep too, finally at some kind of peace with myself.

I woke once, briefly, during the night, when the man in the hat visited me in my dreams. In my dream, he threw a knife at me on Karl Johan Street. I woke up with a start, but the man in the hat
was nowhere to be seen, and the woman I was engaged to was asleep in the bed beside me. That calmed me. For the rest of the night I slept the dreamless sleep of an exhausted man – a deep,
contented sleep, without the faintest idea of what dramas tomorrow would bring.

On Wednesday, 22 March 1972, I woke when the alarm clock went off at half past seven. I was clearly so full of adrenalin from the case that my need for sleep had diminished. I
was wide awake and ready to face the new day within seconds of the alarm clock ringing.

Miriam, on the other hand, continued to sleep undisturbed, having cast a quick glance at the clock first. I was about to wake her again, but remembered that she did not have a lecture until a
quarter past ten on Wednesdays. And I knew from experience that it was a bad idea to wake her unnecessarily early. Furthermore, I still had a lot to think about and a smidgen of a bad conscience.
So I left her to sleep on and tiptoed out into the kitchen.

I ate breakfast alone with the newspapers, which made for less pleasant reading than the day before. The headlines were dominated by a new opinion poll that showed a fall in support for the
anti-EEC movement, as well as stories on the Barents Sea agreement. It seemed that the agreement would be passed by a majority in the Storting on Friday afternoon and would be ready for signing by
Monday. And in between the articles on the significance of the agreement, the reports about my investigation of the murder were becoming more critical. My name was not mentioned today, but both
papers noted that the investigation was still ongoing and that the police would not divulge why.

Aftenposten
found it reassuring that the police were taking the time to carry out a thorough investigation, even though a young man ‘from the east end, with a difficult
background’ had been arrested and subsequently had taken his own life.
Arbeiderbladet
, on the other hand, questioned if this meant that the presumed killer had, in fact, proved to be
innocent. The answer was that this certainly seemed to be the situation, and as such it was ‘a very dramatic development’ in the case.

Both papers carried small notices that a young woman had been found dead at Haraldsen’s Hotel in mysterious circumstances. Neither of them had as yet discovered her relationship to
Fredriksen, or the story from 1932. And there was clearly a risk of longer reports once this became known.

I left home at ten to eight, having set the table for Miriam and written a note which read: ‘Did not want to wake you. Enjoy your breakfast and have a good lecture!’

It felt like the pressure was mounting on all sides, and, in a way, it was good that Miriam had slept while I had breakfast. During the night, I had once again abandoned the idea of telling her
about my renewed contact with Patricia. If Miriam should hear that I had been in touch with her, I prayed that it would not coincide with the press discovering that the boy who had taken his own
life in prison was in all likelihood innocent.

My boss was not in his office when I got there at eight o’clock. Outside my office door, however, hopping around impatiently, was a pathologist I had met in connection
with one of my earlier cases a couple of years ago.

‘The preliminary autopsy report is ready, and quite sensational . . .’ he started.

I waved my hand dismissively. ‘I don’t think you will manage to surprise me this time either. The cause of death was water in the lungs, is that right?’

He nodded swiftly and rolled his eyes to show he was impressed. ‘How on earth . . . ?’ he said.

‘It is actually quite logical that she was drowned. You just need to let go of the fact that it is not a method normally used for murder in a hotel room. I am more interested in knowing if
there were any other signs of violence, but I am assuming there were not?’ I said.

A little more colour drained from the pathologist’s face, and he shook his head.

‘No, or that is to say, she had some light bruising on her neck that may indicate that someone held her down as she was being drowned. But otherwise, we have found no other signs of
violence.’

I thanked him for this confirmation. Then I quickly closed the door on the slightly bewildered and very impressed pathologist.

I sat down and rang the Centre Party office. The party leaders were not available, due to meetings in the Storting. However, the Secretary General, Petter Martin Arvidsen, was there and when I
told him that I was calling from the police about the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen, he said that he would be happy to meet me. He told me that he had an important meeting at ten o’clock,
but had time available before then. And I replied that I did too. We concluded that I should go to meet him in his office as soon as possible. So I walked the few hundred yards over to the party
office in Arbeider Street as quickly as I could.

I eventually found the Centre Party office on the fifth floor of 4 Arbeider Street, having first climbed the stairs past four floors occupied by the newspaper,
Nationen.
The Secretary General, Petter Martin Arvidsen, turned out to be a slim, yet very jovial man in his mid-thirties, with remnants of a Trønderlag dialect. He was swift to
shake my hand and then pointed to a chair, before closing the door behind me.

He looked at me in expectation. I chose a gentle start and asked him to give me his impression of Per Johan Fredriksen.

‘You know, over the past few days, I have reflected on how strange it is that in politics today you can see someone every day for years without ever actually knowing them. That was
certainly the case with Fredriksen. He was always there – at all the important meetings: the parliamentary party group, the representative body, the party conference. He appeared to enjoy all
social occasions, with or without his wife. He was well respected and a powerful man within the party and, in recent years, had become even more prominent thanks to his keen interest in foreign
policy. But I don’t think I could say that I knew him as a person, and I am not sure that anyone else did. He was an extremely good politician. He was knowledgeable, to the point, and at
times even humorous, both as a speaker and a debater, and he was always very active and interested in his dealings with voters and members of the public.’

I waited a few seconds for a ‘but’, which never came. So I asked where the problem lay.

‘The problem was that the Centre Party is the most united party on the Right and Per Johan Fredriksen was not really a team player. He was an excellent individualist, but always and only
an individualist. To put it another way, Per Johan was a man who was respected by all and trusted by none. He was also a touch too pragmatic at times, even for a result-oriented party like ours.
People got the feeling that, for Per Johan, politics was not so much about social engagement as personal gain. And that is also probably why he was never part of the party leadership or government,
as he so wanted to be.’

‘But he was still ambitious?’

Petter Martin Arvidsen gave an unexpectedly broad grin. ‘Goodness yes, the man certainly never suffered from any lack of ambition or belief in his own abilities. He had intimated that he
wanted to stand again in the general election next year, and undoubtedly hoped for a ministerial post if the party got back into government. There was even speculation that, despite his age, he
rather fancied himself as a new party leader if our current leader stepped down at next year’s party conference. And there were those who believed and feared—’ All of a sudden he
stopped and sat in silence for a few moments. Then he said: ‘Please understand that I will do whatever I can to help the police, but that my position in the party might make it difficult to
talk openly about a late party member like Fredriksen. Will this meeting be minuted in any way?’