Chameleon People (28 page)

It was after I had got into the car just by Sognsvann at a quarter past seven that I saw him for the fourth time.

The man in the hat was not wearing a hat today, nor was he following me. He was just standing there, casually leaning against a wall on the corner of the street. I started the car.

The encounter lasted no more than a few seconds and felt far less threatening than our previous meetings. I was sitting in a car with a loaded gun in its holster under my jacket. It also helped
that I now knew who the man in the hat was, even though I therefore also knew that he was dangerous.

However, seeing him again was an uncomfortable reminder that I was being watched, and that we were still no further forward on the spying aspect of the case.

I drove to Patricia’s house and round the block one more time to make sure that no one was following me before I stopped and parked the car a few hundred yards from the house, at twenty
past seven. I kept my eyes peeled as I walked from the car to the front door. The man in the hat was nowhere to be seen. And yet still I had the feeling that I had not seen him for the last
time.

‘Hmm,’ Patricia said. She had finished her tomato soup and roast pork with sweet potatoes, but still listened carefully to my account of the day’s
developments.

I had carried a small dilemma with me as I entered the house that day, but had resolved it by deciding to speak openly about my meeting with the head of the police security service and the
suspicions that Per Johan Fredriksen may have been a spy.

I was fully aware that this formally constituted a breach of confidentiality, which could cost me my job if it was ever discovered. What surprised me was that I did not have any particular
misgivings about it. I was absolutely certain that Patricia would never tell anyone. And given that, I saw it more or less as my duty to do all that I could to clear up a matter of such national
importance. Furthermore, the case had become something of an obsession and the pressure was such that I was willing to go to pretty much whatever lengths necessary to solve it.

Patricia seemed to take it for granted that I told her everything and didn’t even look surprised. She had put her soup to one side and given a little nod when I mentioned the suspicions
that Fredriksen was a spy, but that was the only reaction I registered.

‘So, where shall we begin?’ I asked, when the maid had disappeared with the leftovers of supper.

Patricia answered without hesitation: ‘At the beginning – in 1932!’

It was eight o’clock already and I was starting to worry that I might be late for my date with Miriam at half past. Patricia did not know about it, of course, and seemed to have all the
time in the world. She thought for nearly a full minute before continuing.

‘It is possible there are some links here, but they are still so tenuous that it would be best to work with this as three separate murder mysteries. As far as 1932 is concerned, the
picture is becoming a bit clearer, but not so clear that we can see the murderer’s face. The more we get to know about the great beauty Eva Bjølhaugen, the more she resembles Marilyn
Monroe: she liked attention and played with the men who liked to give it to her. All three men desired her, and all three had been to her room. For now, up until a quarter past six, everything is
clear . . .’

I was getting lost already. I said that according to Hauk himself, he had been there before half past five and Kjell Arne Ramdal was there between six and a quarter past six, but it was never
said that Per Johan Fredriksen had been there.

Patricia gave a contemptuous snort before carrying on. ‘Of course he had. He wonders in his note who might have drowned Eva between six and eight. The only logical explanation for the time
frame is that he went to see her just before six. So he was there some time before six, presumably with the same mission as Kjell Arne Ramdal, and obviously was equally unsuccessful. Even though
both these assumptions are uncertain, we also know that Eva was alive and the bed still made up when Kjell Arne left the room at a quarter past six, and that she was alive until the bang which
Solveig maintains she heard at half past seven. In which case, Eva had in the meantime gone to bed with a guest and then been killed either by that person or another guest. Do we agree so far? And
in that case, do you have any suggestions as to who it might be?’

Just then there was a knock at the door. Patricia forced a rather tart smile as the maid came in and served us coffee and cakes, before slipping out again. My mind was whirring, but I could not
come up with any possible candidates.

‘Well?’

Patricia’s voice was no less tart than her smile. I had to admit sheepishly that I could not suggest any names.

‘I agree with your summary, but cannot see where it goes from here. There is nothing to indicate which of the three was suddenly granted grace and why.’

Patricia nodded quickly, almost appreciatively.

‘Precisely. If two of the three enamoured young men had been rejected earlier, it would be natural to suspect the third. But when all three had received a rap on their trouser flies that
afternoon, it’s apparently not so easy to see who, then, suddenly got their hands on the treat that everyone wanted . . .’

She paused for one of her most unsympathetic girlish titters. Once again, I thought to myself that a contemptuous seventeen-year-old still hid behind her more adult face. However, she quickly
returned to her astonishingly mature and highly developed intellectual self once more.

‘It may seem strange, but I think I have an answer to the mystery of who went to bed with the beautiful Eva. The problem is: A, it is not entirely certain, and B, it does not necessarily
give us the answer as to who killed her.’

Patricia sat lost in thought in her wheelchair, looking out into thin air, not meeting my eye. She moved her lips a couple of times as if to talk, before a sound finally came out.

‘No, it is too uncertain to say anything, even though I think I am right. I have to sleep on it. There are a couple of pieces that still need to fall into place. If you have time, confront
Hauk with the new information and ask him outright if he had been to bed with Eva. It may be important both for him and the others who were there. And at the same time, ask him if she was
religious. And also, even if it is not possible to find out to whom a hair belongs, you can usually tell whereabouts on the body it’s from, can’t you? In which case, I would like to
know where those three hairs in Eva’s bed came from.’

I did not understand what she was getting at, but was used to Patricia asking strange questions that later proved to provide decisive answers. So I promised to check both things.

It was now a quarter past eight. I remembered my meeting with Miriam and felt the pressure mounting. So I asked if we could perhaps fast-forward to the present.

Patricia nodded and her face took on a more strained expression.

‘Yes, but there is less that is new here, unfortunately. There are still too many possibilities and too many details to verify them in relation to Per Johan Fredriksen’s death and
that of Vera Fredriksen. And possibly also too many people with hidden faces . . .’

Patricia fell silent again. I remarked that the identification of the man in the hat and the fact that Per Johan Fredriksen was suspected of being a spy were important developments.

‘Yes, of course. The identification of the man in the hat is very interesting and rather unsettling. It not only indicates that Per Johan Fredriksen had crossed the line with his Soviet
contacts, but also that they knew that he could be exposed. I would certainly like to know what made the police security service start to suspect him, but it would be no easy task to get an answer
out of Asle Bryne. The espionage aspect of the case is highly sensitive. So you will just have to keep your ears open and your eyes peeled. In other circumstances, I would have said that it was
most likely that Per Johan Fredriksen had been liquidated by a Soviet agent. But the method and place give rise to some questions. If the agent did kill him to avert a very untimely exposure, why
did he kill him with a knife, and what did he talk to Fredriksen about before he killed him? If the agent came to Norway to murder Fredriksen, but wanted to avoid a scandal, why is he still here
two days later? If it was to kill Fredriksen’s daughter, why on earth is he still here today, and how on earth did he find out about the story from 1932?’

Again, Patricia stopped to ponder before she continued. I finished off one of the small cakes and started to get very agitated about the time. As she still had not said anything by twenty past
eight, I prompted her.

‘The office manager now also has a motive, does he not?’

She nodded. ‘Certainly. The office manager cannot explain everything, but he may be able to explain an important part that can unravel the rest. Fredriksen was clearly blackmailing him in
some way. But the question is, how much of a motive does that give the office manager? Ask him about it. And ask the accountant at the same time. And when you are talking to them about it, also ask
how long the boy on the red bicycle’s mother worked in the office and compare that with when her son was born. Ask the mother herself, if their answer is not good enough.’

This was taking a direction I had not even thought about until now. So I tried to follow the thread, though I was still somewhat reluctant to do so.

‘But – surely we have established that the mysterious woman in Fredriksen’s life in the mid-fifties was Solveig Ramdal. She confirmed it herself!’

Patricia let out a slightly exasperated sigh. ‘Nonsense. A chameleon like Fredriksen could quite easily conduct two extra-marital affairs at the same time, particularly if he only wanted
to talk about the mysteries from 1932 with one of the women. It may be a coincidence. However, I am not yet willing to conclude that the boy on the red bicycle was simply a red herring in the
investigation. The link is too strong, especially given that his mother worked in Fredriksen’s office at a time when Fredriksen found himself a new mistress. And given that her marriage had
been childless for many years, and she then gave birth to a son around this time. So please do check this in the morning.’

Patricia picked up her first cake and took a bite, but did not seem to be happy with the taste.

‘A slightly technical question, which could be very important: were the floors in the hotel carpeted? Both in the hall and in the room?’

I answered straightaway: ‘Yes, in both places. I asked the receptionist, and he said there had been no changes there either.’

‘Excellent,’ Patricia said. She looked a bit happier when she took her second piece of cake. Rather abruptly, she added: ‘Another thing – if you are able to, check what
is to be found in the archives about the court case against Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s father and what happened, before you speak to him. His family history may be relevant here, and there is
something about Hauk and the way that the others perceive him that I cannot work out.’

I promised, somewhat distractedly, to do this. Then I asked if there was anything more she would like to discuss today – and stood up a little too fast when she said: ‘Sadly,
no.’

It was now one minute to half past eight. Patricia still did not know that I had arranged to meet Miriam, but I could see in her eyes when I stood up that she suspected as much and she clearly
disliked it intensely. The situation I found myself in was so uncomfortable it almost hurt.

I was ten minutes late when I opened the door to my flat. I had seen from outside that the light was on. Miriam had, as usual, kept her promise and arrived on time. When I came
into the living room, she was sitting on the sofa in her usual reading position – with the big blue book about nineteenth-century Nordic literature. The book looked as though it might be some
eight hundred pages long, but she only had about fifty pages left.

I went over to her, said that she was an impressively fast reader, and apologized that I was late, but it had been an unexpectedly busy day. She snapped the book shut, jumped from the sofa and
said: ‘That’s OK. But why was it so long?’

I was not sure if she was actually asking whether I had been to see Patricia or not. As her name was not mentioned, I more than gladly took it to be a question about what had happened in the
investigation. So I told her about the day’s meetings with the remaining members of the group from 1932, and with Fredriksen’s mistress and son.

I gave her a summary of the reasoning and conclusions in the case so far, without of course mentioning where they came from. Miriam got very excited when I explained how Fredriksen’s own
explanation revealed between the lines that he too had gone to Eva’s room before six. She remarked again how well I was doing on my own. And again, we steered clear of mentioning
Patricia.

I finished my account of the 1932 case by saying that we had therefore come a bit further, but were yet to identify who had been in Eva’s bed – and who had killed her.

Miriam showed a genuine interest in both questions, without being able to suggest any revolutionary solutions.

So far, so good. But all the time, I felt the weight of my spy dilemma. I knew without a doubt that Miriam was trustworthy through and through, but I still did not trust her in the way that I
did Patricia. And I felt horribly guilty that I could show more faith in her than in my fiancée.

But Miriam clearly knew me too well as suddenly she said: ‘There’s something you are not telling me. Is there something about the investigation that you can’t share with
me?’

At first I said: ‘Yes, I am sorry, but that is unfortunately the case.’

She looked disappointed, but nodded and said: ‘You know you can always trust me. But of course I understand if you can’t tell me. I just won’t be able to help you with it, I
suppose.’

It was when I heard her say that, that my bad conscience got the better of me. I assured her that I trusted her wholeheartedly, but that she must never tell another living soul what I was going
to tell her now.