Chameleon People (31 page)

They both nodded.

‘We hated him and hoped that when the day came he would go straight to hell!’ the office manager said with unexpected intensity.

The accountant agreed in his concise, controlled manner.

I said that on a human level, I could understand that, but that I was duty-bound to ask them both where they were when Fredriksen was killed last Saturday evening.

They looked at each other – then there was a fleeting smile before they were both serious again.

‘We were where we always are on Saturday evenings. Together at Erling’s, behind closed doors,’ Odd Jørgensen said quietly and discreetly.

I found the situation rather embarrassing and awkward. But I looked at Erling Svendsen and asked where he lived.

‘I have a small one-bedroom flat in Eilert Sund’s Street,’ he replied, and then was suddenly quiet.

A heavy silence sank over the room. I sat and wondered whether it was just a coincidence that Eilert Sund’s Street was in Majorstuen, within walking distance of Jacob Aall’s Street
and the corner of Kirk Road where Fredriksen had been stabbed.

Between the two piles of paper on Jørgensen’s desk lay a pipe and a box of matches. I had a sudden impulse to strike a match and burn Jørgensen’s confession. But I
already had more than enough problems in terms of the investigation and did not need to add burning material evidence to the list. Furthermore, I was no longer sure that one of the two men sitting
here, alarmingly close, had not taken the matter into their own hands and killed their much-hated boss. They had already admitted that they despised him. And the visit from the boy on the red
bicycle’s mother a few days earlier must have been an uncomfortable reminder of just how heartless Per Johan Fredriksen could be when it came to business and other people.

I told them that I had to take the confession with me and that it would be up to the Fredriksen family and the potential new owner to decide what they wanted to do about the matter. I thanked
them for their statements and requested that they both stay in town until the investigation into Fredriksen’s death had been closed.

They both nodded again. When I looked back from the doorway, Svendsen had put his arm around Jørgensen, which produced a small smile from the office manager. And I thought to myself that
in the midst of all this tragedy, it was a touching picture of care and love between two people. I then again thought that one or both of these two hard-pressed men could have committed murder. I
closed the door behind me and left without looking back.

It was a busy day for both me and the other people involved in the case. At two minutes past one, I was back in my office. Four minutes later, Ane Line Fredriksen came striding
in at an admirable pace.

‘Sorry it took a bit longer than expected to find a babysitter. The lack of childcare in this city is a scandal – something needs to be done about it. What have you got to tell
me?’ she said, without drawing breath. Then she sat down, without me having asked, and leaned across the desk towards me.

Once again, I thought that there was something refreshingly enthusiastic, direct and dynamic about the thirty-year-old redhead. Dressed in jeans and a green hand-knitted sweater, she seemed
remarkably unaffected by the fact that she had lost both her father and her sister in the past five days, and as a result was about to inherit a fortune.

I tried to start gently by thanking her for coming at such short notice, and by asking which party she worked for.

She smiled cheerfully, pointed at her red hair and replied: ‘The Socialist People’s Party. I inherited my political zeal from Father, but not my political views. I doubt that there
is anyone in our family who agrees politically, in fact. I’m sure Mother always voted the same as Father, but she is actually totally disinterested in politics. Johan refuses to say who he
votes for, but surely it’s Conservative, and Vera always leaned towards the Liberals, or something equally tame in the centre.’

I could not help but ask if she knew my fiancée, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, through the SPP. She nodded energetically.

‘Yes, of course I do. Everyone knows Miriam – she more or less lives in the party office. Oh, so you are the mysterious boyfriend she never wants to talk about? I tried to ask her
last year if she had a boyfriend, and she just said yes and stopped there. How exciting. How did you meet?’

I knew that Miriam did not like to talk about her private life either at university or in the party office, and I understood perfectly why she played down her relationship with a well-known
policeman in those circles. So I gave her a simple, short answer and said that it had been in connection with an earlier murder investigation, and it was a long story that she would have to hear
another time.

Ane Line Fredriksen looked as though she wanted to hear the long story straightaway. But a natural curiosity can quickly be turned in different directions and she listened intently and almost
reverently to my account of the investigation into her father’s murder. Then all of a sudden her eyes brimmed with tears at the mention of her sister.

‘It was of course very sad with Father. But with Vera it is different – tragic. Vera has always been so fragile, physically and mentally. My brother and I had both thought and spoken
briefly about the possibility that she would go before us. But then, only a few days after Father . . . No, it was unexpected and just dreadful. It feels terrible to have lost your only sister in
that way without the chance to say goodbye.’

I used the opportunity to ask quickly when she had last spoken to her sister.

‘The evening before – and then we only spoke about Father’s funeral, the inheritance, practical things like that. It was a strange evening. Mother was distant and close to
tears every time Father was mentioned. Johan was relatively together, but really only concerned with making a decision about the takeover that was weighing so heavily on him. We did not speak on
the day she died. Though I do think she tried to call me.’

I immediately asked how she could know that.

‘There was a phone call at home around three, but I did not manage to pick up on time. Of course, I don’t know that it was Vera, but it was not Mother, Johan or my ex. If it was
anyone else, they didn’t call back again later.’

I jumped slightly in my chair. Then I said that the timing fitted well with the phone calls that we knew had been made from the hotel.

This upset Ane Line Fredriksen even more. She had no idea what her sister might have wanted to say to her – and no explanation as to why her sister appeared to have called her and not her
brother or mother.

Ane Line Fredriksen spoke quickly and was visibly upset; it felt possible that she might now give away secrets. So I pushed on.

‘The relationship between you and your sister was not the best, was it?’

This worked. She talked even faster and got even more upset. ‘Who said that? My mother? My brother? Both of them?’

The way Ane Line Fredriksen looked at me felt almost threatening. I answered with a counter-attack and said that I was unfortunately not at liberty to say, but that I would like to have an
answer for the purposes of the investigation.

‘My family need to get a grip, they really do. I cared more about Vera and rang her more frequently than they both did. Mother only had eyes for Father, and my brother only had eyes for
the mirror. It is true that we have argued a bit recently, yes. Smart girls like Vera have to be braver and stand up for their rights if there is ever going to be any equality in society. I told
her as much, and said that she must not give any money to that slippery boyfriend of hers. She was indifferent about the former and vehemently disagreed with the latter. So yes, we had argued a bit
recently, but no, we did not hate each other.’

I still liked Ane Line Fredriksen the best of the remaining members of the Fredriksen family. I thought she was a refreshingly engaging and honest person. But I felt less convinced of her
honesty right now. Ane Line Fredriksen had just earned roughly thirty million kroner as a result of the deaths this week, she had argued with her sister, she was probably one of the people her
sister had tried to contact a few hours before her death, and she clearly had a lively temperament.

So I said that as a matter of procedure I had to ask her if she had an alibi for the time of both her father’s and sister’s deaths.

She looked as though she was in danger of exploding. She shot forwards in her chair and boomed: ‘For goodness’ sake, man! Are you accusing me of killing my father and
Vera?’

I was slightly taken aback by her reaction, but replied with measured calm: ‘For the moment, I am not accusing anyone of having killed either of them. I am trying to find out who did, and
it is then a matter of procedure to ask everyone in the victim’s closest family for an alibi. It is clearly written in all police rules and guidelines.’

Strictly speaking, the latter was a slight exaggeration, but it did the trick perfectly. Ane Line Fredriksen calmed down in record time. She leaned back in her chair again and answered in a much
quieter, slower voice: ‘Very well, if it is standard practice and included in the rules. When Father was killed on Saturday evening, I was at home with my daughter. She went to bed at seven,
after which I sat alone working on some party matter until the priest came to my door at eleven. When Vera died, I was at home all day with my daughter until I took her to my ex-husband and his
parents at around three o’clock. Then I drove home again and was on my own until a friend came to see me at five.’

I had hoped her alibis would be watertight. But they were not. It was becoming frustratingly hard to rule anyone out in this case.

I changed tack and said that there was something in connection with the company that she should perhaps know about. She nodded attentively and listened closely, leaning further across the desk
as I told her the story of the office manager and the accountant. Her face was barely a ruler’s length from me, so I could see the tears when I told her that the accountant’s mother had
died.

I put the confession down on the desk and said that it was up to her and her family to decide whether they wanted to report the case or not.

I had made a Photostat of the confession, in case it should prove to be relevant to the murder investigation, and I was glad that I had. Ane Line Fredriksen looked quickly at the confession,
shed a couple more tears, then she produced a blue lighter from her pocket and set fire to it.

I did not try to stop her. We sat in silence and watched the confession burn.

I said with due care that the crime had taken place some time ago, but that she should at least discuss it with her brother.

‘My brother has so much to think about right now. He can concentrate on the figures and I will look after the people,’ she said, and winked almost mischievously at me.

‘It really was indecently greedy and heartless of my father. He clearly had many aspects to his personality that we, his family, did not see,’ she added quickly, with an angry shake
of her head.

I said that there was one thing about her father that perhaps she should know. Again, she nodded attentively – then asked what it was, when I paused for a few seconds.

The suspicions that he was a spy were still strictly confidential. But I thought perhaps it was time to test his daughter’s reactions to the possibility that Per Johan Fredriksen had
thought about changing party and sides in the EEC debate.

I did not have to wait long for her reaction. She thumped the desk with her fist and the rest of her shot up from the chair before she carried on in a very indignant voice.

‘Surely you can’t be serious? The Centre Party is one thing. But to change sides in the EEC debate would have been comparable to high treason for all concerned – including me
and the rest of the family. That was the only thing we agreed on. Father came from farming stock, and knew what membership of the EEC would mean for lots of farmers. And he had been elected and
re-elected to the Storting and as head of the Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs on the promise that he would oppose Norwegian membership.’

I said that all things being equal, it was apparently true. He also feared that if he did not, he would lose his seat in the Storting.

‘All the same . . . what an egocentric idiot, liar and political cheat. If you have no more questions for me, I have to get out into the fresh air before I throw up on your
desk.’

Without waiting to hear if I had any more questions, she stood up and marched out of my office.

I thought to myself that she would hardly have behaved like this if she had killed Per Johan Fredriksen, no matter whether it was because of the inheritance or the EEC question. But it had
clearly demonstrated to me that the EEC debate really could stir up strong feelings – and that Ane Line Fredriksen was a very complex person.

The day’s edition of
Verdens Gang
had arrived and proved to be more critical than the morning papers. ‘Despite all the respect that Detective Inspector Kolbjørn
“K2” Kristiansen has earned’, there was reason to ask if more resources were not needed, as the investigation seemed to be very modest, given that both a leading politician and
his daughter had been killed within the space of a few days. According to the newspaper, ‘K2’s reputation could take a nosedive’ if the investigation did not produce any concrete
results before the week was out. However, the report did finish with the hope that the investigation was progressing and an expression of deepest sympathy for the victims’ family.

I had to make two telephone calls. I made the one I was looking forward to least as soon as the office door had closed behind Ane Line Fredriksen. It was to Edvard
Rønning Junior, the lawyer. I got hold of him without trouble at the offices of Rønning, Rønning, Rønning & Rønning. I said that there were some developments
in the case that he should be informed of, and as a result of these, some questions that I would like to ask his client, Lene Johansen.