Chameleon People (46 page)

Again she was talking as if in a trance. Danielsen moved soundlessly closer as she spoke. He was only a few feet behind her now. He stopped there and hesitated, as if waiting for a signal from
me. I understood his dilemma. Oda Fredriksen had her shaking finger on the trigger. The chances that the gun would go off and that the bullet would hit me if he launched himself at her were
considerable. In the midst of all this, I suddenly felt sorry for Danielsen.

I did not dare to stop her talking. So I said that she would be arrested even if she fled to Sweden. The police would find her no matter where she went, and the sentence would be all the more
severe if she shot a policeman.

‘Is there someone behind me?’ she asked in a strained voice. Her finger shook even more violently on the trigger when she said this.

I managed to think that the chances of her shooting me might be less if she knew that she would immediately be arrested by another policeman. And that I would be able to throw myself over her if
she turned around to shoot Danielsen.

So, with forced calm, I replied: ‘Yes. Detective Inspector Danielsen, who came here with me, is standing right behind you now. You cannot get away, even if you shoot me.’

We stared at each other for a few eternal seconds. She was shaking with emotion – and the pistol was shaking with her.

I saw the flash in her eyes and realized that she was going to shoot a second before she did so.

So I was already moving to the right when she fired; like a football keeper diving for a penalty kick, I found myself thinking, as I sailed through the air and saw the bullet penetrate the
velvet sofa behind me.

I hit the floor and at the same time my foot hit the table. All the flowers were knocked off, just as Oda Fredriksen also fell to the floor with Danielsen on her back.

Oda Fredriksen lay there on the floor with Danielsen on top of her, and no means of escape. But she did not let go of my pistol. Her hand gripped it tightly like a claw. From my position by the
table leg, I saw Danielsen banging her wrist three times without her letting go of the gun. Only then did I realize that I was alive and unharmed.

I leapt up and ran over to Oda Fredriksen, grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled at it so hard that I was frightened her arm might break. But still she did not let go of the pistol. I had to grip
it with both hands and pull with all my might to get it free. There was a faint sob from her as I managed to pull it away. But even without her weapon she was still acting like a desperate wild
animal as she fought and struggled on her drawing-room floor. She kept twisting her hands away, refusing to give up. It was only on the third attempt that I managed to get the handcuffs round her
right wrist and it took two more to get them locked on her left.

And then finally it was over. Suddenly, almost alarmingly so, she regained her self-control. She panted furiously for a few seconds and then relaxed and accepted her fate.

‘I apologize, I did not want to kill you. My self-preservation instinct got the better of me,’ she said. Her voice was almost as expressionless as it usually was.

I was unharmed, but still in shock. So I did not answer. Danielsen was also paler than I remembered having ever seen him before, and did not look as though he wanted to say any more to Oda
Fredriksen. In silent understanding, we each put a hand on her shoulders and walked out with her between us.

None of us said a word on the way out. I only heard a low, animal snarl from Oda Fredriksen as we got into the police car. I looked up and understood why, when I saw that a passer-by had stopped
and was looking at us. For her, it was a taste of the disgrace that would follow when her arrest for murder became public knowledge. So I pushed her into the back of the car and then got into the
passenger seat without saying any more.

I was still wound up and shaken by the unexpected drama in the drawing room at Bygdøy. It was only halfway back into Oslo that I discovered blood running from a wound under my right
eye.

The time was five to one. I had returned to 19 Møller Street and handed over Oda Fredriksen.

I was now back at Patricia’s in Frogner, and had told her what had happened out at Bygdøy. She showed unexpected concern about the scratch on my face and expressed relief when I
assured her that it was nothing serious. I thought to myself that perhaps Patricia had become more empathetic over the years, and I was now seeing a more humane side of her.

‘A family tragedy of devastating proportions. Behind her mask, she must have suffered from serious mental illness for years. I understand that it must have been a very unnerving experience
for you. But as you came out of it unscathed, the outcome is good, in that the guilty party has been arrested and the question of guilt is indisputable,’ Patricia said firmly.

She finished her coffee, but as yet had not touched the packet of cigarettes on the table. Patricia was solemn and distant. She was in no rush to tell me what she had understood earlier today.
At first I wondered if she was thinking about the situation with her boyfriend – and then to what extent I should take that into consideration. I waited a minute before carrying on.

‘Well, then, perhaps we should push on and talk about how this all started – in other words, the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen.’

Patricia seemed to wake up and look at me. And at the same time, her hand stretched out towards the cigarette packet.

‘Yes, of course. I am sorry, I got lost in my own thoughts. Yes, we should carry on, even though it is in many ways an even sadder story. The statement from Doctor Death confirmed what I
already believed, and that is that Fredriksen’s murder had nothing to do with the murder in 1932. Nor did it have anything to do with his business. Which rules out all the men, and his wife
had an alibi.’

‘Solveig Ramdal, then?’ I asked.

Patricia smiled. ‘Perhaps not so clear. But I think that we can rule her out all the same when it comes to Fredriksen’s murder. For a start, she does not really fit the description
in terms of physique and clothes. Furthermore, the motive would still be unclear, as she had no murder to hide from 1932. Plus, she also had an alibi of sorts from her husband. One could perhaps
construct a motive for Solveig Ramdal or Kjell Arne Ramdal for killing Per Johan Fredriksen, but it is hard to imagine a situation where they would both have a motive for killing him – and
what is more, trust each other enough to do it together. So their alibi is better than it may seem.’

I recalled my conversations with the Ramdals and had to concede.

‘If we are to believe Doctor Death’s statement, we can assume that the description also rules out both the Fredriksen sisters and the boy on the red bicycle,’ I added
quickly.

‘Naturally. But I have never at any point thought that any of those three killed Fredriksen. However, I have suspected throughout that one of them might be of more importance than at first
we realized. I just struggled to understand the reasons for, and the significance of, his apparently confused behaviour. But there are no other possibilities now. It was no one from
Fredriksen’s family, nor from his business contacts, nor any of his fated friends from 1932. We will have to see the spying aspect of the case as solved, even though it is still unclear how
far Fredriksen went with his contacts and how the police security service found out. But the solution to his murder does not lie there. So we have dismissed those who did not commit the murder, but
still do not know who did it. We are back where we started: at the sad story of the boy on the red bicycle, and the question of whether he was of sound mind and why he behaved so oddly. Oh, this
really is a terrible story.’

The last exclamation was said in a very sharp voice. I spotted a tear in Patricia’s eye that she hastily wiped away. She shook her head angrily and then sat there with a cigarette in her
mouth.

‘The boy’s confusing behaviour and the question of the knife are what roused my suspicion. There were soon so many who could have had a motive for killing Per Johan Fredriksen. But
it remained a mystery why anyone would kill him with a knife. Unless of course it was the only murder weapon the murderer had or could get hold of,’ Patricia said, slowly.

I had not thought about this before, but started now to get an inkling of where she was going. And if that was the case, I could only agree that it was a terrible story.

Patricia then asked an unexpected question. ‘Did you ever find out more about Hauptmann, whom the boy on the red bicycle referred to the last time you spoke with him?’

Reluctantly, I had to admit that I had not thought about checking it in any more detail.

‘Well, I did, and there is more to it than you might think. The parallels are a good clue, as he clearly wanted to talk in riddles. Bruno Hauptmann had a box of money in his garage that
was proved to be the ransom money from the Lindbergh kidnapping, but right up until his death, he claimed that he had never been given it. The boy on the red bicycle stood there with a knife that
had been used to commit a murder, but he maintained until his death that he had not used it.’

‘But he was not Fredriksen’s son,’ I said.

Patricia nodded and let out the heaviest sigh I had ever heard from her.

‘No, I know that theory was wrong. But that does not rule out that his mother had a relationship with Fredriksen before he was born – or that Fredriksen later ruthlessly let her
down. Perhaps that was the problem: that Fredriksen could have been the child’s father, but was not. You will have to ask his mother for the details. Whatever the case, the picture is not
entirely clear: she bore him a grudge, and this turned into pure hate and a desire for revenge when Fredriksen again let her down when she was in such desperate need fifteen years later. It becomes
more and more reminiscent of a Greek tragedy. The rich mother kills her own daughter from sheer egotism – to conceal the murder of her own sister. The poor mother kills her former lover out
of desperation, and without knowing it, takes the life of her only son at the same time.’

‘So, behind his limp, speech defect and class complexes, the boy on the red bicycle was in fact completely rational?’

Patricia nodded. ‘Completely. From his perspective, it was completely rational to wait for Fredriksen there, to ask him for mercy for himself and his poor mother. He had his back to the
wall and had no other hope, so why should he not try? But Fredriksen waved him off and simply referred him to the office manager, as he always did in those situations. The boy cycled off, but
stopped – either because he heard the shout, or because he decided to try talking to Fredriksen one more time. Fredriksen did not come. Instead the boy suddenly saw his mother, who was
supposed to be visiting his aunt, come round the corner at high speed and run off down the road. He wondered what had happened, limped around the corner and found the dying Fredriksen. The kitchen
knife in Fredriksen’s chest was one that the boy on the red bicycle recognized from home. Bruno Hauptmann was, if he was telling the truth, sentenced for a serious crime committed by his best
friend. Tor Johansen told the truth and was arrested for a serious crime committed by his best friend.’

Patricia paused and shook her head again furiously. She lit another cigarette, then carried on swiftly.

‘I have coincidentally read the biography of the foreign secretary Bevin that the boy’s teacher spoke about. In a short retrospective, Bevin commented that his mother was the only
person he can remember showing any interest or doing anything good for him in his childhood. With a nod to the teacher, the boy on the red bicycle could probably have said much the same. No one had
done anything for him, except his mother. Society had definitely done nothing to help him. He could not hand over his mother to upholders of that society, even though he knew that she had done
something dreadfully wrong. So he took the murder weapon with him and fled to the home of a hero he had never spoken to before. He hoped and believed that either his mother would give herself up
rather than let him take the blame, or that you would solve the mystery without him having to betray his mother. But he fell into despair on the Sunday when his mother did not give herself up and
you had not solved the case. He had tried his very best, but still ended up carrying the blame for something he had not done. On Monday morning he was pushed over the edge and took his own life,
tragically only a few hours before he might have been saved.’

Patricia stubbed out her cigarette, then sat there staring out into thin air.

I did not feel particularly buoyant either, despite the fact that the last murder case was now solved. My memory of finding the boy dead in his cell returned – along with my bad
conscience. If only I had been able to see the connections earlier, I could truly have lived up to his belief in me and saved his life.

To begin with, I was angry with myself, and then angry with Miriam, who had not let me ring Patricia earlier. It struck me then that this was the first time in hours that I had thought about
Miriam, and that she should be awake by now. But the thought was interrupted by Patricia’s voice.

‘You must not blame yourself. It was not easy to see the links at the time and we will never know what might otherwise have happened. However, there is one thing that struck me as rather
odd, as you are otherwise usually quite observant. Danielsen supposedly gave the pad and pencil to the boy the day before. It is rather strange, then, that you did not notice them when you spoke to
him for the last time.’

I had to think back to my last meeting with the boy on the red bicycle. It was painful – and also unsettling. I ran through the meeting in my mind, twice, and then I shook my head.

‘I had not thought about that, what with everything else. But the pad and pencil were not on the table and there were not many places he could have hidden them.’

Patricia gave a thoughtful nod, and lit another cigarette.

‘In that case, you were not the last person to speak to the boy before he took his life after all. You might want to have a word with Danielsen about that,’ she said, with another
little sigh.