Chameleon People (10 page)

She looked up at the portrait of her father. She gave him a sweet little smile, but then became serious again as soon as she lowered her eyes.

‘And now you finally have the opportunity to live your own life,’ I prompted, gently.

She nodded. ‘Yes. I would so much rather it had been because Father had changed his mind than because he had died. But I have to say, it is a great help to have a boyfriend who can support
me in my grief, and that we now can realize our art project and live our dream.’

Vera Fredriksen was suddenly even more like her mother, it seemed to me. She spoke in a slightly poetic language, which, combined with the surroundings, made her appear somewhat dreamy. However,
it was difficult not to be charmed by the deceased’s youngest daughter. There was something incredibly naive, graceful and almost angelic about her as she sat there in a simple black
dress.

‘I have now heard the story about your aunt’s death in 1932, and that your father was still very preoccupied with it. Did you ever discuss it with him?’

She chewed a little harder on her gum, and waggled her head a couple of times before answering. ‘No, well – that is, yes. Once I’d heard the story from my sister, I took it up
with both Mother and Father. You can’t help but be curious and I have always liked crime novels and other mysteries. Both were rather uncommunicative. Mother said that her sister’s
death had been the cause of such grief that she did not want to talk about it, which was perfectly understandable. Father, however, told the bare facts about what happened and when I pushed him a
bit, he gave me the names of the others who were there. Which made the whole thing even more interesting, as I actually knew two of them.’

She chewed her gum and looked at me expectantly, then carried on as soon as I asked whom she knew and how.

‘Solveig Ramdal is very interested in art, and I started to speak to her and her husband at some exhibition. They seemed nice, but as soon as I said whose daughter I was, they stiffened
and moved quickly on. I only really understood why when my sister told me the bizarre story from 1932. Then I thought it wasn’t so strange that they jumped a little, as my father had
previously been engaged to the woman I was talking to. I have thought more about the case since then, especially in the past twenty-four hours, but I’m afraid I have not yet been able to
solve the mystery from 1932 or think of anything else I know that might be of use to you.’

We ended there on a friendly note. She asked for my telephone number, in case she thought of anything that could help the investigation. I wrote down the number to the police station and my home
number. I said that she could ring at any time, be it early or late, if she thought of something that could throw light on the deaths of her aunt in 1932 or her father in 1972. She promised she
would and wished me good luck with the ongoing investigation.

Vera Fredriksen, just like her mother, was very light on her feet and she almost flew over the large floor.

Her older brother, Johan Fredriksen, had a heavier step, but was all the more steady and secure for it, when he entered the room shortly after.

We shook each other rather formally by the hand. And it struck me that in appearance, he was rather like me: the same height, hair colour, stature and build. And that, for some unknown reason, I
did not particularly like him. I could not say why. There was something about his formality and reserve that was unappealing, even though I felt great sympathy for his situation following his
father’s death.

He sat down on a chair opposite me without saying a word.

I asked whether there was any news in relation to the family fortune and his father’s estate.

He replied that it would take some time before they had a full overview, as his father had had quite an empire, including several tenement buildings that were valued at less than the market
rate. The estimate of fifty to sixty million from the day before was possibly going to be too low rather than too high.

I then asked him, in as friendly a manner as I could, if he had any plans for his share of the inheritance. He told me that he would eventually like to start his own law firm and would therefore
prefer the business to be sold and the profit to be divided up between them. It was something he still had to discuss with his mother and sisters, of course, but he thought his sisters would agree.
Otherwise, the business could easily pay out a few million to each of the heirs.

Without further ado, I asked outright whether he knew what kind of business relationship there had been between Per Johan Fredriksen and Kjell Arne Ramdal.

Johan Fredriksen nodded pensively. ‘I also wondered about that. And according to the accountant, they made a number of investments and ran a couple of companies together about ten to
twenty years ago. However, Ramdal sold his share in the early 1960s and they did not appear to have had any joint ventures after that. Ramdal has been far more successful on his own and has become
a property magnate in Oslo. He had put in an offer to buy all Father’s real estate companies, in fact. Father had discussed it with his accountant and, rather unusually, with me as well. The
offer was for forty-five million, which was, as far as we could see, above the market value. I said that I thought it would be a sensible move for the family. Father was getting older and still had
political ambitions, and none of his children were interested in carrying on the property business. The feeling I had, and which I have had confirmed by the accountant, who felt the same, was that
Father had focused more on politics in recent years and had been less successful in his business dealings. But Father was still hesitant, for reasons he kept to himself. He would have had to make a
decision soon though, as Ramdal had set the deadline for his offer as 24 March.’

I noted down the date, and thought to myself that the timing of Per Johan Fredriksen’s death seemed to be becoming increasingly significant.

Out loud, I asked if Ramdal’s offer still stood, regardless of his father’s death, and if so, if it was now likely to be accepted.

‘The offer still stands, and I think it will probably be accepted. Though having said that, I would, of course, not want to jump the gun with regard to the reactions of my mother and
sisters.’

Johan Fredriksen had become more communicative and I started to warm to him a little more. A feeling that was further strengthened when he continued of his own accord.

‘In all confidence, I must say that in what is already a very difficult situation, the fact that my father discussed his business so little with us is proving very challenging. After all,
we only knew him as this kind and loving family man. In my conversations with the office manager and accountant I have come to realize that there were other sides to him that we did not see, but
which were evident in his business dealings. It would perhaps be best if you asked them directly about this, if it’s of interest to you and the case.’

I said that I would and thanked him for his openness so far. Then I added that, as a matter of routine, I had to build a file on the people closest to the victim, and so had to ask about the
civil status of his son.

Our conversation suddenly took a bit of a downturn. Johan Fredriksen furrowed his brow and paused before he started to speak again slowly.

‘To tell you the truth, I am not entirely sure what to say. I live alone, and I am unmarried and have no children. Nor am I engaged. But—’

He broke off and sat in thought.

‘But it would seem that you are now in a relationship or at the very start of one?’ I prompted.

Johan Fredriksen said nothing for a few more seconds, then he continued. ‘Yes, well, I certainly hope so. However, it was not entirely clear before all this happened, and does not feel any
less complicated now. There are certain things about the lady in question’s private circumstances which make me reluctant to make her name known or to give it to the police. And for the
moment I do not want the relationship to be made public. More importantly, I know that she doesn’t want it to be either. I could possibly ask her if I can give her name to the police, should
that be necessary in connection with the ongoing investigation. But it doesn’t seem very likely, so in the meantime, you will just have to take my word for it that she has absolutely nothing
to do with the case.’

In murder investigations, I tend to like the people who put their cards on the table best, and, as he spoke, I became rather curious about Johan Fredriksen’s secret girlfriend. However, I
had to agree with his reasoning and felt a growing respect for him.

So I said that it was not optimal, but was acceptable for the present. We shook hands and walked out together.

It was a quarter past twelve by the time I got back to the office. There were still no messages of any significance waiting for me. However, the phone did ring at twenty-five
past twelve, when I was halfway through my packed lunch.

I heard the voice of the same annoyingly slow switchboard operator that I had heard the day before. She said there was another lady on the telephone who said she had some information that might
be of importance to the Fredriksen investigation.

Naturally, I asked for her to be transferred immediately. A rather tense middle-aged woman came on the line, with a detectable east-end accent, accompanied by a clicking sound that told me she
was calling from a telephone box.

‘Good afternoon, this is Mrs Lene Johansen. I was away visiting my sister at the weekend and just got back this morning. I was surprised not to find any sign of my son, Tor Johansen, who
is just fifteen. And then I discovered that his school satchel was still here, and when I went to the school, they said that he hadn’t been there today. His bike is not here either. So
I’m afraid that something serious might have happened to him over the weekend. I’ve told him so many times that he has to be careful when he’s cycling around on the wet streets. I
shouldn’t have gone away.’

I heard an undertone of desperation in his mother’s voice. And I heard the suspense in my own when I asked her if she could perhaps describe her son in more detail.

‘Dark hair, thin, about five foot three. He should be easy to recognize as he has a limp in his right foot and a large birthmark on his neck.’

All the pieces fell into place as she spoke. I felt enormous relief, for my part, and great sympathy for the mother.

I told her, as calmly and reassuringly as I could, that her son was alive and unharmed, but that he had been remanded on suspicion of a very serious crime.

His mother gasped. It sounded as though she might faint right there in the telephone box. ‘Goodness! What on earth has Tor done now?’ she almost whispered.

I asked if she had heard that the politician Per Johan Fredriksen had been stabbed and killed. Her first answer was simply another gasp, then there was a sob and the clatter of the receiver
falling.

I feared that the line would be broken, but her voice came back a few seconds later, even weaker than before.

‘Yes, I saw on the front page that he’d been killed and that a young suspect had been arrested. And I hoped that it wasn’t my Tor, but feared the worst. What a terribly,
terribly sad story.’

Just then the pips started indicating that her time was up. So she spoke very quickly. ‘The line will be cut any minute, and I don’t have any more money. We live in a basement flat
in thirty-six Tøyenbekken down in Grønland. Come here and I can tell you everything.’

The line was cut before I had the chance to ask her to come here instead.

I sat at my desk for a few seconds and mused on what possible connection there could be between a family from the east end and Per Johan Fredriksen. Judging by the mother’s reaction, there
clearly was a connection, and just as we thought, it would be a tragic story.

It took me a couple of minutes to decide whether I should go to see the mother directly or have another talk with her son first. I came to the conclusion that as he was a minor, it was my duty
to tell him that his mother would be coming soon and to inform him that we now knew his identity.

The prison guard and I both instinctively took a couple of steps back as the door to the cell swung open.

My first thought was that there had been an earthquake. My second was that the prisoner had somehow managed to escape.

But there had been no earthquake – only a stool that had been pushed over and a bed that had been pulled apart, with the pillow and mattress left lying on the floor.

Tor Johansen was still in the room. He was hanging perfectly still and lifeless against the wall. The bedsheet had been torn into strips and plaited together to make a rope. One end of which was
now firmly knotted to the bars on the window, and the other around his neck.

I felt a brief glimmer of hope when I took hold of him, as his body was still warm. But I had come too late. There was no sign of a pulse or breath.

I shouted to the prison guard that he should call a doctor, and heard his running steps disappear down the corridor as I stood there with the lifeless boy in my arms. I had seen death close at
hand several times before in the course of my work, but standing here with a dead child in my arms was a horrible experience, all the same. To begin with I thought that I could not let him go until
the doctor came. However, no matter how thin he was, he soon became heavy and I realized all hope was gone. So I slowly laid him down on the mattress on the floor.

I stood there and looked at the dead boy’s body for a small eternity before I eventually started to cast my eyes around the room. There was not much to see. His shoes stood neatly just
inside the door and he was wearing all his clothes. The only things on the table were a pencil and notebook. And on it, he had written in large, simple capital letters: