Chameleon People (18 page)

I immediately latched on to this new loose connection between the two deceased men, but it was hardly conclusive. To begin with, we already had a clear motive for the boy on the red bicycle to
kill Per Johan Fredriksen, and what was more, he had in all likelihood not done it. However, there were clearly a puzzling and striking number of knotted threads that criss-crossed this case.

Jørgensen lowered his hand when he stopped talking. I saw two tears before he hastily wiped them away and put on his glasses again. Even though his crying was silent and discreet, it made
quite an impression on me to see an office manager in his fifties, dressed in a suit, sit in his office and cry.

I asked them in conclusion if it was only because of the money that they both had continued to work for Fredriksen for so many years, despite the very difficult working conditions and extremely
unpleasant brief.

The office manager and accountant were still remarkably synchronized; as was now to be expected, Svendsen answered my question about their finances and Jørgensen nodded in agreement.

‘The wages are not particularly high, in fact, they are probably a band or two below what is normal for similar positions in the sector, but we have permanent jobs with a relatively good
salary, and we know what needs to be done, and there is a good atmosphere in the office, despite the lack of space. Better the devil you know, as they say, especially in times like these. So we
gritted our teeth when tensions ran high and sat tight waiting for better times. Which we hope will finally come now.’

On my way down the stairs, I thought how Per Johan Fredriksen really had been a very complex person with many faces, as his childhood friend Hauk Rebne Westgaard had said. And then I got
something else to think about.

It was as I opened the main door and stepped out onto Roald Amundsen’s Street that I saw him for the second time.

Just a brief glimpse, and he was doing nothing alarming. But, all the same, I felt a stab of fear when I saw him.

The man in the hat was dressed in a lighter suit and had no tie today. But he was wearing that same hat and he looked straight at me from where he was on the other side of the street.

He was standing still when I opened the door, but started to walk away as soon as he registered that I had seen him. I took three strides out into the road, but then stopped again without making
any attempt to catch up with him.

The man in the hat was already about to disappear into the early afternoon crowds on the main street, Karl Johan. Even if I did catch up with him, I had no reason to demand an explanation. He
had not done anything wrong, other than be in the same place as me twice within as many days – in two very different parts of town.

It could still be a coincidence, but I no longer thought it was. So I stayed standing where I was for a couple of minutes and racked my brains as to who the man in the hat might be and why he
was interested in me. There was something alarmingly cold and calculating about him.

I wondered whether I should mention the man in the hat to Miriam or whether to spare her this for the moment. And then thought to myself that I would give my eye teeth to know what Patricia
would make of this part of the story.

At ten past two, the school bell rang to mark the end of the day at Tøyen School. As I walked through the gates I had to push against a stream of boys aged around
fifteen. I wondered if they were the classmates of the dead boy on the red bicycle. If they were, they did not appear to be affected by the news of his death. Most of them had eager bodies and
happy faces. Some of them were smiling, others kept their heads down. Some were in groups, others in twos and only a few alone.

The boy on the red bicycle would almost certainly have been one of those walking alone. I imagined that when the bell rang last Friday, he had walked by himself at the back of the crowd, with
his worn satchel and limp. And now, on Tuesday, he was gone forever. There would be an empty desk in a classroom somewhere in this four-storey brick building.

According to a plaque by the entrance, Tøyen School had celebrated its ninetieth anniversary this year. And I thought about all the young people who had burst out through the gates over
the years – many to a better life, and many to various forms of human tragedy

I met her leaving the staffroom on the first floor. She was a blonde woman of around thirty, about five foot two, and was hurrying towards the exit.

‘How can I help you?’ she said with a curious smile when I stopped her. I asked if Eveline Kolberg was around.

‘Yes, I’m Eveline Kolberg. But I have to collect my one-year-old from the babysitter before three,’ she added quickly, before I had a chance to say anything.

When I explained that I was a detective and that I wanted to ask her some questions about her now dead pupil, Tor Johansen, her immediate response was: ‘Well, the babysitter will have to
wait a few minutes, then.’

She led me down the corridor and opened the door to a big classroom.

‘We have plenty of space now as the number of pupils has fallen,’ Eveline Kolberg commented with a wry smile as we sat down on either side of a brown desk.

The desk resembled its owner: small, tidy and in good condition. Exercise books for social studies lay in a neat, almost perfectly right-angled stack, parallel with the edge of the desk, ready
for tomorrow.

‘There will always be a number of children with very sad fates in such a big school. But Tor Johansen was one of the saddest.’

She said this before I had even had time to ask a question, and there was a zeal about her that was inspiring. I promptly asked what she meant.

‘He was possibly one of the pupils with the least friends. I always feel sorry for those who have learning difficulties, but even more so for those who have difficulties making friends. He
and his mother had had to move a number of times, so he only started here last spring. All the other pupils knew each other and he knew no one. He was not able to play football with them in the
breaks, and even though he always gave the right answer when I asked him a question, the others inevitably laughed at his speech impediment. Teenagers are heartless. Last year, he would often stand
and watch the others playing football in the break and then try to talk to some of them about football afterwards. But then he seemed to give up. He generally stayed at his desk with a book during
the breaks. He was the only pupil we ever saw reading in breaks and the only boy who ever took library books to school.’

I asked whether she thought that he suffered because of his physical handicaps, and if he was also retarded in any way. She thought for a moment or two before she shook her head.

‘Still waters run deep, as they say. Tor was quiet on the surface, but no one bothered to find out what went on underneath. His written work was consistently some of the best in the class
and he nearly always gave the right answer on the rare occasions that he put up his hand. Once when I passed him as he was watching the others play football, I said that he should consider taking
the university entrance exam. “It’s a long way off. But a nice thought. Thank you,” he stammered with a shy smile. I never thought that he had any impediments, other than an
inferiority complex driven by poverty. And he was not alone in that, only his complex was perhaps stronger than it is for most.’

Eveline Kolberg was now on a roll. She paused briefly and then carried on.

‘I read a biography of the British politician Bevin last week. In the introduction about his childhood, it said that two poorer people than he and his mother have never lived. It made me
think of Tor and his mother. His father died long before they moved here, so I never met him. Tor only had his mother and she had practically nothing to give him. He adored his mother – she
was his rock and perhaps the only person he believed had ever done anything for him. But he was a teenager now and could also see his mother’s weaknesses. “Mum drinks too much and
thinks too little,” he said once when I asked him how things were at home. So that part of his life was also tragic. He had more reason than most to feel excluded and rail against society.
And yet—’ She stopped all of a sudden and looked at me intensely.

‘And yet – you don’t think . . .’ I prompted.

She gave me a fleeting, tight-lipped smile and carried on with renewed passion.

‘And yet I do not think he murdered anyone, no. It would be so out of character. He always handed things in on time, and never protested if we said he had to go out in the breaks. He would
just take his book with him and limp out. If you had come here last Friday and told me that one of our pupils would commit a violent crime over the weekend, he is the last person I would have
thought of. It’s true, he was very interested in old court cases and the like, but I don’t remember him showing any interest in weapons or ever laying a hand on one of his classmates.
Physically, he was very reserved. So no, unless you have come to show me photographs and evidence, I do not believe that my pupil killed that politician Fredriksen.’

She said this in a quiet, intense voice. Eveline Kolberg sat fidgeting in her chair, and then leaned forwards over her desk.

I said, as diplomatically and vaguely as I could, that the investigation had to keep all leads open, but that there was an eyewitness whose account gave reasons to doubt that her pupil had been
the murderer.

‘What kind of eyewitness, what did they see?’ she asked, leaning even further forwards over the desk.

It frustrated me that I had to say, for obvious reasons, that I was unfortunately unable to tell her more.

‘Of course. I understand. Confidentiality is important,’ she said, with palpable disappointment in her voice, and finally leaned back in her chair.

Then she said that she would soon have to relieve the babysitter, if there was nothing more she could help me with.

I replied that there was nothing for the moment, but that I would contact her again if it became necessary. Then I added that I would inform her when the question of Tor’s guilt had been
clarified.

We left the now empty middle school together. Outside the gates, we stopped at the bus stop. She hesitated at first, but then pointed over the road.

‘A couple of times when I came out from evening meetings, I saw Tor cycling past on his way home. I sometimes wondered if I should stop him and ask where he had been and how he was. But,
unfortunately, I never did. And now that he’s dead, I regret that. I should have done more for him while he was alive. But that’s the trouble when you have too many pupils in each
class, and a husband and child at home.’

I agreed with her that that was how it was; whether you were a policeman or a teacher, it was not possible to help everyone you met who needed it. She had no reason to reproach herself for the
tragedy that had struck one of her pupils. Whether he was guilty or not, she very definitely was not. To the contrary, I had come to see her because his mother had told me how much he appreciated
her.

Eveline Kolberg was so happy to hear this that she nearly missed her bus. We separated with a brief hug before I more or less pushed her onto the vehicle.

I stood there and watched the bus drive off. I thought that it had been a rare and inspiring meeting with a rare and idealistic teacher, whom I would gladly meet again under different
circumstances. But she had a husband and a child who had to be collected from the babysitter. I had only one hour left before having supper with my fiancée – and more than enough to
think about in the meantime.

It was five to four before I could leave the police station. The day’s meeting to report back to my boss was longer than expected.

Based on my description, my boss had no idea who the man in the hat might be, and he thought that it might well just be a coincidence. Otherwise he praised me for having taken the time to
interview both Per Johan Fredriksen’s employees and Tor Johansen’s teacher, but could still not see any clues that might point to another murderer. It all rested on a somewhat
unreliable observation by a 104-year-old woman who only contacted the police two days after the murder took place.

My boss was not in the best mood today. He was fortunately more interested in Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s story and agreed that after hearing his version, the death from 1932 was even more
suspicious. At a quarter to four, we agreed that it was a serious breach of duty that an autopsy had not been carried out at the time. Three minutes later we also agreed that I should keep all
possibilities open and carry on with the investigation, but that it still seemed natural to focus on Per Johan Fredriksen’s private life, in light of the mysterious death in 1932.

I was very relieved to hand over the hairs from 1932 for technical examination. And then I drove home – pleased that the investigation was to continue, but unsure about how to go about it.
Already the case had too many uncertain details that pointed in too many different directions.

Once again I longed for Patricia’s clear, sharp voice. As I parked the car, I decided that I would discuss the matter with Miriam over a good meal and then ask for her permission to ring
Patricia if we still had not got any further. I suspected that Miriam would not like it, but thought that she would accept that we now had to try every means possible to draw out the truth and
prove the innocence of the boy on the red bicycle.

But I did not have the opportunity to discover whether this tactic would work. I did not even have time to say my planned ‘sorry I’m a little late’ when I got to the flat at
five past four.

‘There you are, at last. Vera Fredriksen rang for you about half an hour ago. She seemed to be happy and rather excited and said that it was really important that she spoke to you as soon
as possible. I said that you were not home yet, and asked if I could give you a message. She asked me to tell you that she was at Haraldsen’s Hotel and that she thought she could explain to
you what had happened there. I immediately understood what she was talking about, but didn’t say anything. I just promised to give you the message as soon as you got in. So you have to go
there, straightaway, don’t even think about it.’