Chameleon People (3 page)

As promised, I went to my boss’s office when I had finished questioning him. I was mildly irritated to discover that Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen was also there. I
greeted him curtly, then sat down and turned towards my boss and reported on the case.

My boss listened attentively.

‘A most remarkable tale indeed. We can take it as a positive thing that you are now so well known that he came to you to give himself up.’

My boss gave me a bright smile and shook my hand in congratulations. I glanced over at Danielsen, who was fidgeting restlessly. He spoke as soon as he had the chance.

‘The pressing question here, somewhat originally, seems to be the identity of the murderer, rather than who committed the crime. Though I am sure the mystery will be solved as soon as
someone calls to report him missing. It would, however, be preferable if we could have it cleared up before tomorrow’s papers. If you like, I could try questioning him to see if I have any
more luck than you.’

I certainly did not want Danielsen to get involved in any way, but I found it hard to think of an argument to counter his suggestion. However, I had little belief that it would lead to
anything.

So I gave a brief nod and a forced smile, then looked at my boss with raised eyebrows.

He seemed to have read my mind.

‘Let’s not worry too much about the newspapers, especially as the culprit has to all intents and purposes already been arrested. But we still do not know his identity or his motive.
If you, Danielsen, try questioning the suspect again, and you, Kristiansen, go to talk to the victim’s family and take a photograph of the young man with you, then, hopefully, we can start to
unpick both matters.’

It was a compromise that both Danielsen and I could live with. Rather unusually, we nodded in agreement, then stood up and left the office without exchanging a word.

The address given for Per Johan Fredriksen in the National Registry was in Bygdøy. He was sixty-five years old when he died, and he had been married since 1933 to Oda
Fredriksen, who was two years his junior. It said in the registry that they had three children: Johan, who was thirty-five, Ane Line, who was thirty, and Vera, who was twenty-six. Vera was recorded
as still living in Bygdøy, whereas Ane Line had moved to Høvik, and Johan to Sognsvann.

I made a note that the youngest child resided at home and that the two eldest lived alone. Then I picked up the phone and dialled the number given for the address in Bygdøy.

The call was answered on the third ring by a woman who said: ‘Per Johan Fredriksen and family.’ Then there was silence. And then a quiet sob on the other end.

I introduced myself and gave my condolences. Then I explained that the suspected killer had been arrested, but that the police still needed to talk briefly to the deceased’s closest
family.

The voice on the other end of the receiver was hushed and tearful, but clear all the same. The woman said that she was Per Johan Fredriksen’s wife, Oda. Unfortunately, she had not been
able to contact her eldest daughter by telephone yet, but was currently at home with her two other children. They would, of course, help the police as much as they could with regard to the
investigation, but nothing would bring her husband back. It might be best if I could come to see them straightaway, she said.

I promised to come immediately and make my visit as brief as possible. She thanked me rather vaguely and then we both put down the phone.

On the way out, I checked whether there was any news on the arrestee’s identity. But there were still no answers. I took a few photographs of him with me, as well as a growing concern
about the lack of developments.

I knew that Per Johan Fredriksen had been a successful businessman and was reputed to be one of the richest politicians in the Storting. But I still had not expected his home to
be anything like the property in Bygdøy.

The given address turned out to be a big farm, though I neither saw nor heard any animals. With the exception of two very modern cars parked just inside the gates, the big lush garden and main
house, with surrounding outhouses, were not dissimilar to a painting by Tidemand and Gude in the nineteenth century. The driveway from the gates to the main house was more than fifty yards and felt
even longer. As I walked up to the door, I wondered what on earth the connection between the boy on the rickety red bicycle and the lord of this manor could be.

The door was opened by a blond man of around my age and height. His handshake was firm. He was to the point: ‘I am Johan Fredriksen. And my mother and youngest sister are waiting in the
drawing room.’

I searched his face for signs of emotion at his father’s death, but found none. My first impression of Johan Fredriksen was that he was a sensible and controlled man. We walked in silence
down the unusually long hall and up the unusually wide stairs to the first floor.

The room that we entered was very definitely a drawing room. I quickly counted seven tables dotted around it and reckoned that it could easily hold about a hundred guests. But today there were
only four of us here, and none of us were in a party mood. The gravity of the situation was underlined by the fact that we sat under a large portrait of the now late Per Johan Fredriksen. The
painting was signed by a well-known artist and was a very good, full-size portrait. Per Johan Fredriksen had been a broad-shouldered, slightly portly, tall man, who now towered majestically above
us on the wall.

Oda Fredriksen was a straight-backed woman who carried her sixty-three years with dignity. She got up from the velvet sofa and briefly shook my hand. I could feel her shaking as she did so and
she quickly sank back down into the sofa. My first impression was of a very composed and fairly robust person, who was visibly shaken all the same. I found nothing surprising about that, given that
she had lost her husband of many years very suddenly and brutally the day before. I then held out my hand to the third person in the room. Instantly, I got the impression that she was even more
affected by the death.

Vera Fredriksen was very different from her mother. She was about a head shorter and had an almost graceful lightness to her movement. If she had been wearing a nineteenth-century ball gown, I
might have mistaken her for a fairy-tale princess, given the surroundings, and described her as very beautiful. As it was, she was wearing a rather plain green dress, her face was white as chalk,
her hands were shaking and she was chewing mechanically on some gum. She appeared to be more of a neurotic than a princess. And she seemed to get even more nervous when I looked at her for more
than a few seconds.

I swiftly turned my attention to her brother. In contrast to his family he was, apparently, unaffected by his father’s death.

‘So, here we all are, at your disposal. As I am sure you understand, we are still somewhat shaken by my father’s passing,’ Johan Fredriksen said.

The effect was almost comical, as he said this in a steady voice and neither his face nor his body language showed any sign of upset. But his mother’s expression helped me to remain
serious, so I focused on the widow when I spoke.

I once again expressed my condolences and told them, without mentioning the episode in my flat, that the suspected murderer had been arrested with a bloody knife in his pocket as he fled the
scene of the crime. We believed that the suspect was a minor, but had so far been unable to establish his age or identity. Any motive for the killing was therefore also unclear. It was thus very
important for us to find out if there was any kind of connection between the family and the arrestee.

I handed the police photographs to Oda Fredriksen. She studied the pictures, but then shook her head and handed them on to her son.

Johan Fredriksen looked at the picture with the same blank expression and said: ‘Completely unknown to me too,’ then handed them across the table to his sister.

The young Vera’s hands were shaking so much that she dropped two of the photographs on the floor. She picked them up, then shook her head firmly. ‘Never seen him before,’ she
said, and handed them back to me across the table.

We sat in silence for a few seconds. It was Fredriksen’s widow who spoke first.

‘As you have gathered, the young man in the photograph is completely unknown to us. I can guarantee that he has never been here. However, you should know that my husband led a very busy
life, and we only knew a fraction of the people he met. The fact that we don’t know the young man does not mean that he did not know my husband in some way or other. For us, Per Johan was
always a good and kind family man. He wanted to spare us all his work-related worries. The boy could be a tenant in one of his properties for all we know, or an aspiring politician from one of the
youth organizations. Though he does look rather young. Could he simply be disturbed, or perhaps it was a case of a robbery gone wrong?’

I told them the truth. It was unlikely to have been a robbery, as Per Johan Fredriksen’s wallet, complete with notes and coins, had been found in his pocket. However, the culprit had
provided very little information, so the possibility that he was a disturbed individual could not be ruled out. And the option that the murder had been carried out in sheer desperation could not be
ruled out either.

Once again, there was silence in the big room. It felt as though we were all thinking the same thing: that it was highly unlikely that Per Johan Fredriksen had been the victim of a random
killing, no matter how disturbed the murderer might be.

I said that as a matter of procedure, I had to ask about the contents of the deceased’s will.

His widow replied that she had last seen it only a few months ago and that there was no possible explanation there. The will was simple and straightforward: she herself would receive two million
kroner and the right to stay in the house for the rest of her life, and the rest of his wealth would be divided equally between the three children. There were no small allowances for anyone else
that might give them a motive for murder.

In response to my question regarding the value of the will, the widow said in short that in the course of her nearly thirty-nine years of marriage she had never discussed the business with her
husband and that she had no idea of the current or earlier value of anything.

She looked at her son as she spoke. So I then turned to him as well.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know the details of my father’s business operations either, but we did talk about it earlier this year. He estimated then that the total value of his
assets, property and companies was somewhere between fifty and sixty million kroner,’ he said, in the same steady voice. He might have talked about a fifty- or sixty-kroner Christmas present
in much the same way.

It seemed that this information came as a surprise to the other two.

‘I thought it was a lot, but I had no idea that it was that much,’ his mother said. Her daughter nodded quickly and chewed even more frantically on her gum.

I noted first of all that the deceased’s family seemed to keep secrets from each other, about things that other people might deem to be important. And, secondly, that the unexpected death
would in no way benefit the presumed suspect, but the deceased’s children each stood to gain at least 15 million kroner. This was a large enough figure to give them all a motive – but,
as yet, I could not see anything connecting them to the murder.

I said to Johan Fredriksen that I presumed it was he who now had the job of documenting all the assets and dividing them.

‘Yes, I will start on it first thing tomorrow morning, with the help of my father’s accountant and office manager.’

I asked him to inform me immediately if anything cropped up that might be relevant to his father’s death.

He replied: ‘Of course.’

His mother asked me to contact her as soon as there was any news regarding the young man’s identity and motive.

I replied: ‘Of course.’

Then we sat in silence again. This four-way conversation felt rather fruitless. I thought that I would far rather speak to them one by one, but did not want to suggest that right now and had not
prepared any questions. So I went no further than asking the children what they did.

The son’s reply was succinct: ‘I am a qualified lawyer and work as an associate in a law firm.’

The daughter’s reply was even shorter: ‘I’ve studied a bit of chemistry and a bit of history of art.’

This was a most unusual combination, but I saw no reason to pursue it now. So I had one final question, which was why Per Johan Fredriksen, who had his home in Bygdøy and his office in
the Storting, had been at Majorstuen the night before?

I did not expect the question to cause any tension or drama. After all, as a politician and businessman, Per Johan Fredriksen might have been in the area for any number of reasons.

However, my query was met with absolute silence. Vera Fredriksen looked even paler and chewed even more frenetically and her mother sank even deeper into the cushions and sofa. It was certainly
not my intention to upset any of them. So I turned to the still unruffled Johan Fredriksen.

‘Strictly speaking, we are not sure why my father was at Majorstuen yesterday evening,’ he said, in the same voice, but with more deliberation.

‘But you have an idea?’ I guessed.

Johan Fredriksen did not answer. He looked questioningly at his mother. I turned to her too. As, I saw out of the corner of my eye, did Vera Fredriksen.

The widow gave in to the pressure of our combined attention. She let out a quiet sigh, and sank a little more into the sofa, then said: ‘No, we don’t know. But she lives there, so
it’s reasonable to assume that he was either on his way to or from his mistress.’

These hushed words blasted into the otherwise still room like cannon fire. The picture that had been painted of Per Johan Fredriksen as a kind family man exploded in front of my eyes, though his
smile in the portrait on the wall was just as friendly and reassuring. His wife’s mask fell at the same time.