Chameleon People (4 page)

‘You mustn’t think badly of my husband. We all have our weaknesses. And his only weakness that we knew of was this, his physical attraction to younger women and consequent breaches
of the wedding vow. He had so many other good qualities that we forgave him this.’

The son and daughter both nodded. Suddenly the family appeared to be united.

I found the situation vaguely uncomfortable, but also increasingly interesting. And I heard myself ask whether that meant he had had several mistresses.

Oda Fredriksen sighed, but she sat up when she answered. ‘My greatest failure as a wife is that I did not keep my looks well enough to stop him from falling into the arms of younger women.
But my greatest triumph is that he always came back to me, and remained my husband until death parted us. Yes, he did have more than one mistress. But for the past few years, there has only been
the one in Majorstuen – as far as we know. Surely there is no reason to believe it has anything to do with my husband’s murder, and I hope that as I am grieving, I will not need to
spend a lot of time and energy thinking over this. Most of all, I hope that the papers will not get wind of it.’

The latter was said in a choked voice.

I realized that the topic was very difficult for Mrs Fredriksen on a day like today and I did not want to bother her with any more questions. However, I was increasingly intrigued by the clearly
complex man in the painting above me and was not as certain that his mistress had nothing to do with the case. There could well be a link, for example, if his mistress happened to have a teenage
son with a speech impediment.

So I said I would leave them in peace to mourn and that there was no reason why this aspect of the deceased’s private life need reach the press. I was, however, obliged to ask for the
mistress’s name so that I could rule her out of the case.

‘I have chosen not to know her name or anything else about her. But it is quite possible that my children can help you there,’ the widow replied with another sigh.

I looked questioningly at her son. He took a visiting card from his wallet and wrote down a name and address on the back of it.

‘I have never been there or seen the woman. My father wanted me to know who she was in case anything unexpected should happen,’ he explained curtly, and handed me the card.

I took it and read: Harriet Henriksen, 53B Jacob Aall’s Street. The name was completely unknown, but the street was familiar to me and was undeniably in Majorstuen.

I found it interesting that not only did Per Johan Fredriksen have a mistress, but he also had had reason to think that the unexpected might happen. So, having said goodbye to his family and
walked back down the long drive, I drove directly to his last known mistress.

In sharp contrast to Per Johan Fredriksen’s green and pleasant home in Bygdøy, 53B Jacob Aall’s Street was a grey, tired building in Majorstuen. I quickly
found H. Henriksen on the list of inhabitants and rang the bell three times without getting any response. But then, as I turned to leave, the intercom crackled to life. ‘Who’s
there?’ asked a quiet, tense woman’s voice.

I found the situation awkward, but had a murder investigation to follow up. So I looked around quickly, then whispered that I was from the police and that I had some routine questions to ask her
in connection with a death.

There was a few moments’ silence. Then the voice said: ‘Please come up.’ She did not sound entirely convincing, but I could understand that she might not be in the best frame
of mind today and that the last thing she wanted was a visit from the police.

There was another little surprise waiting for me when the door to the flat on the second floor opened. I had obviously underestimated Per Johan Fredriksen and had assumed that his current
mistress would be at least forty-five. But I was wrong. It was not easy to guess Harriet Henriksen’s age, but I would not have protested if someone said that she was thirty. Her movements
were soft as a cat and there was not a wrinkle on her smooth face, which gave her an almost doll-like appearance.

We shook hands briefly in the doorway. Her hand was small, but it was supple and firm. And from what I could see, given her plain black dress, the rest of her body was much the same. When I
looked more closely, I could see red blotchy patches under her eyes. I caught myself thinking that Per Johan Fredriksen had either been very charming or very lucky to find himself such an
attractive young lover at his age.

Harriet Henriksen put the security chain back on the door behind us and showed me into the living room. I could see that she lived in a simple and tidy flat that was modern and equipped with a
TV and washing machine. There was no sign of anyone else living there.

On the other hand, there was plenty of evidence that Per Johan Fredriksen was there rather a lot. A large photograph of him hung alone on the hallway wall, and another photograph of the two of
them was up in the living room. Seeing him again was unsettling, especially as these were the only photographs adorning the walls. One wall was hidden by an upright piano and the others were
covered by bookshelves, landscape paintings and a couple of tapestries. The door to the bedroom was open and through it I could see a double bed made up for two. The most striking thing that caught
my attention in the living room, however, was a large, framed photograph of the two of them, which was standing on the table beside an almost burnt-down candle. Per Johan Fredriksen had his arm
lovingly around her shoulder. They were both smiling at the camera.

‘That was in Paris,’ she said suddenly. As if that explained everything. ‘We could never show our love publicly here in Oslo. He was too well known. But we had two days
together in Paris last summer and there we could walk around and be lovers without any worries. They were two of the happiest days of my life. And now they are all I have to live off for the rest
of my days.’

She had not asked me to sit down, but I had done so all the same. We were sitting on either side of the coffee table, with the photograph and candle between us. And we looked straight at each
other. She had the darkest brown eyes I had ever seen.

‘I first heard about it on the news last night,’ she said, without prompting.

Just as I had. I could suddenly picture it. He had been here, kissed her goodbye and left. She had, perhaps, like me, stood by the window and watched her beloved go. Then she had sat down alone
and switched on the radio to listen to the news, only to collapse suddenly when she heard the announcement that he had been stabbed. I was oddly convinced that that was how it had been.

‘So, he was here with you yesterday?’ I asked, to the point.

She nodded. She looked away for a moment, out of the window. Her eyes almost accusing the world.

‘Per was a very complex man and often appeared different in different settings. Politically, he was more conservative than me. I still thought that he was credible on TV and in debates, if
somewhat boring and reserved, but he was completely different when he was here with me: open, humorous and even passionate. We could talk about anything, even that. And he always said that I was
the only one who could see him for what he really was, the only person he could really be himself with. He said I brought out the best in him in a way that no one else could. He often came here on
Saturday afternoons, between work and the family. And yesterday, he once again left the world behind and sought refuge with me for a few happy hours. We had both been looking forward to it all
week. And as usual we experienced complete happiness and joy. I asked if he could stay a bit longer. And he said that he had to go back to his office at the Storting to check some important news
about something he was working on before going home to his family. I accepted it, as I always did. I watched him walk away down the street and I was alone when the news that he had been stabbed was
announced on the radio. It felt like the ground opened beneath my feet. In a split second, I fell into a cold, dark cellar I didn’t even know existed. I, who have never believed in a God
before, was prostrate and prayed that Per Johan would survive, until it was then announced on the late-night news that he had died. I have been here alone at my table weeping ever since, not even
so much as a phone call, until you rang at the door.’

As soon as she started to speak, the words just came tumbling out. There was a strange, almost compelling intimacy and intensity about this woman and her voice, which made me inclined to believe
every word she said. I felt no physical attraction to her, but, all the same, I could well understand why Per Johan Fredriksen had.

I was still not entirely convinced that she had no connection to the murder. So I asked Harriet Henriksen if she had any children.

She shook her head vaguely and I noticed the light catch a tear in her left eye.

‘No, no. I don’t have any children and I guess I never will now. In fact, I don’t have any family at all. I never had brothers or sisters, and my parents are no longer alive. I
only had Per Johan, and we never had the children I hoped we might. That was my fault. Last night I went over it a thousand times. If I had just done as he suggested, I would still have a part of
him. But now I’m thirty-seven and completely on my own with nothing to live for.’

She stood up abruptly, wringing her hands. Then she took two turns around the table before sitting down opposite me again.

‘So, what you are saying is that he was willing to have children with you, but you said no?’

‘Yes and no. The biggest question of all was the only thing we disagreed on. I wanted to have children and to marry him. He was willing to give me a child and to look after both of us, but
he was not willing to get divorced. It was less out of consideration for his wife than for his children, especially his youngest daughter, who suffers from nerves. He feared that a divorce might
drive her completely mad or even to suicide. But she’s grown-up and, what’s more, intelligent and well educated. Personally, I thought she would cope. I truly wanted us to have our own
children, but I did not want them to grow up without a father. It was the only snake in our paradise.’

‘Yesterday as well?’ I asked.

She nodded. There were tears in her eyes.

‘Yesterday as well. It was the last thing we talked about before he left. And we couldn’t agree yesterday either, and it will haunt me now for the rest of my life. But I thought when
he left yesterday . . .’

Her voice broke. She turned towards the table. A tear spilled over from her left eye to leave a small dark patch on the light-wood table.

‘When Per Johan left yesterday, it seemed he was closer than ever to taking that final plunge. I had renewed hope that everything would work out and we would actually have our own love
child. I felt light as a balloon – but then it all popped when I heard the news on the radio that he had been stabbed. I hoped for the best for as long as I could, but really I knew that Per
Johan was dead before I heard it on the last bulletin. I suppose you just feel it when you love someone as much as I did.’

She spoke in a quiet, intense voice. As if by magic, the candle between us went out when she stopped talking. We sat spellbound in the silent gloom.

Then I hurried to ask some routine questions. Her answers were clear and prompt. She was born in 1934 to a Norwegian father and French mother and had grown up in Oslo and Paris. She came from a
family of musicians and had studied music and art in Norway and France, without having ever made a breakthrough as an artist or a pianist. She had met Per Johan Fredriksen at an exhibition he had
opened in the autumn of 1966, and despite the difference in age had quickly realized that he was the love of her life.

He had called the next day to ask if they could meet again, and she had said yes immediately. They had started a relationship ‘only a few days later’ and had been meeting once or
twice a week ever since – nearly always at her flat and often on a Saturday. She had lived on money inherited from her parents, but largely on presents from him. She had never asked him for
money. But he had paid the rent for her, and she always found a few hundred-kroner notes when he had gone.

I knew that she would not receive so much as a krone in her dead lover’s will. So I asked, with as much tact as I could, how his death would affect her life financially.

She turned up her palms and shrugged indifferently, then replied: ‘It won’t be easy, but it doesn’t feel that important. I am going to give myself a week to grieve and then
start to think about what I can, and have to, do for the rest of my life. I certainly can’t continue to live here now – alone in what was our universe . . . alone in what was our
universe.’ She repeated the short sentence thoughtfully.

The words echoed in my head for a while afterwards. I found myself wondering if I would still be able to live in my flat if I had heard on the radio that the love of my life had been killed. It
was not a pleasant thought. But, fortunately, it was interrupted when Harriet Henriksen started to speak again.

‘Something that feels more important here and now . . . What actually happened when he was killed? Do you know who did it and why?’

I told her the truth: that we had arrested a young man whom we were fairly certain had committed the crime, but, as yet, we did not know what he was called or what his motive might be.

I took out the photographs of the boy on the red bicycle and put them down on the table between us. I feared they might produce an emotional response, but there was no visible reaction.

Harriet Henriksen sat quietly and looked at the pictures. She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. Then she shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen him before. But it’s strange, I
feel no hatred when I look at those photographs. And I would, if he killed my darling.’

We sat and looked at each other. She suddenly seemed more relaxed, but her gaze did not waver.

‘I can’t be sure. I am not a religious person, but I am a people person. I think I would feel hatred if he had killed Per Johan, and I feel nothing. You can see that he is not happy,
but he doesn’t look evil enough or strong enough to commit murder. No, I really don’t think it was him who killed Per Johan. Did anyone see him do it?’