Chameleon People (12 page)

I spontaneously lifted up my hand to wave, only to realize that the man was not my classmate at all. This man had broader shoulders and a brisker, more determined step.

The man with the hat, somewhat bewildered, raised his hand in response, only to see it was a misunderstanding. He lowered his hand again in embarrassment. The stranger then continued on his way
and did not stop as he passed me where I stood by my car. I could not help but notice that the upper joint of the little finger on his right hand was missing.

I stood by the car for a few seconds and wondered who the man in the suit and hat with the missing joint on his finger might be. And what he was doing here in Tøyenbekken. He and I both
stood out in relation to the others walking on the street, and I had no doubt that I would have to stand there for some time before I saw another man in a hat and tie.

It made me wonder if the strange murder case had started to affect my nerves and make me slightly paranoid. So I got into the car and drove back to the main police station, without giving the
man in the hat another thought.

It was half past three. I had given my boss and Danielsen a report of the latest developments in the case.

I had feared that Danielsen might claim that he had been right, but he was remarkably quiet and seemed almost uninterested. The explanation came when my boss asked a question that I had not
considered.

‘How did he get hold of the paper and pencil?’ he asked.

I immediately replied that it was not from me. Danielsen squirmed uncomfortably and said that he had given the prisoner the paper and pencil yesterday, in case he found it easier to write down
his statement. This was a reasonable gesture, given that the boy had a speech impediment, but Danielsen apologized profusely and said that perhaps he should have mentioned it before.

Neither my boss nor I put too much importance on this. I, for my part, was happy as long as no one asked any critical questions as to whether I might have contributed in some way to his suicide.
And no one did. Danielsen seemed uninterested in the case, and my boss almost content.

Danielsen said hastily that it was what we had thought, then, and that the death had actually made our work easier.

Our boss nodded and asked that I use the rest of the week to tie up any necessary loose ends and inform the Fredriksen family, as well as write a press release and some internal reports –
in that order. I said that I was more than happy to do this.

The atmosphere when we parted at a quarter to four was light and almost friendly. Danielsen and I wished each other a good evening before heading off in our separate directions. At times like
this, I almost liked him. But the feeling usually passed very quickly.

I telephoned Mrs Oda Fredriksen and informed the victim’s family of the latest developments. I heard considerable relief in her voice when I finished my account. She
thanked me for letting her know, offered straightaway to tell her children, and had no objection to the details being released in the morning papers. She added that it had been of great comfort to
the family that the person in charge of the investigation had shown so much understanding.

I thanked her, and asked her to convey my greetings and best wishes to her children. We finished the phone call in good spirits at a quarter past four.

I then sat down to write a press release, and had just formulated the first few sentences when the telephone rang at twenty past four. The switchboard operator’s voice was like a snake
slithering into paradise; she said that there was an elderly lady from Majorstuen on the telephone who insisted on speaking to me as soon as possible.

The voice at the other end certainly sounded like a woman well past retirement age. So what she said was all the more surprising.

‘Good afternoon, inspector. This is Randi Krogh Hansen calling you from Kirk Road in Majorstuen. I apologize if I’m interrupting, but my old mother claims that she saw something
through the window here the day before yesterday that you absolutely need to know.’

It was unexpected. Before I had even thought, I remarked that her mother must be very old. Fortunately, she took it well.

‘You can certainly say that. My mother has been on this earth for over a hundred years now. But her eyesight is still good and after reading today’s newspapers she is convinced that
she saw something that you must know, today. Unfortunately, her legs are not what they used to be, so it would be difficult to get her to the police station. Would you be able to come and see us
here as soon as possible?’

I had had time to gather my thoughts now and was curious as to what the witness might have seen. So I said I would come immediately.

The address that Randi Krogh Hansen had rung from was a three-storey building on the corner of Bogstad Road and Kirk Road, a couple of blocks down from the station. Once I had
parked the car, I quickly checked that there was a clear view from the windows to where Per Johan Fredriksen had been attacked. Then I made my way to the main entrance.

Randi Krogh Hansen was standing ready to greet me just inside the door. Her face was wrinkled and she could easily have been in her eighties, but she was a slim lady who was still light of foot.
Her thin hand shook slightly in mine. There was no one else in the hall, but she still lowered her voice and leaned forwards when she spoke.

‘Welcome to our humble abode. I do hope we haven’t called you here unnecessarily. It’s my doing that you were not contacted before. My mother said yesterday morning that she
had seen a man being stabbed on the street opposite the evening before. She sometimes dozes off in her chair and starts dreaming, so I thought that was probably what had happened. She eventually
gave in with some reluctance. Then, about an hour ago, she read in the newspaper that a politician had been stabbed here and, let me tell you, she gave me a piece of her mind. So I had to ring the
police immediately and now only hope that what she has to tell you will be of interest.’

My first thought was that we could perhaps have been spared a lot of work if we had got the message yesterday. But it had not been withheld with malice, so I forced myself to smile at the
elderly lady in front of me and assured her that her reaction was perfectly understandable.

She smiled back, relieved, and repeated in a hushed voice that her mother had bad legs and weak lungs, but that her mind was clear and her eyes were still sharp as a pin, despite her great
age.

We went up to the second floor and somewhat formally knocked on the door of a room that looked out over the street below. ‘Come in,’ said a high, sharp woman’s voice from
within. The daughter promptly opened the door and showed me through, but stayed standing outside herself.

A wall of heat hit me as soon as the door opened. A fan heater hummed merrily and the only person in the room was puffing on a good old-fashioned pipe. She was sitting in a rocking chair in
front of the stove, looking straight at me. The tiny old lady looked as though she could not weigh much more than six stone, all wrapped up in her blanket. Her arms were skin and bone, her face
wrinkled as a raisin, and some white wisps were all that was left of her hair. But her lips were still red and her blue eyes were piercing, with almost a twinkle, as she focused them on me. She
nodded in acknowledgement when I held out my hand, and then shook it with an unexpectedly firm grasp.

‘Welcome, young man. I do apologize that my daughter’s neurotic objections prevented me from contacting the police yesterday, and also that it is so warm in here.’

Whether it was intentional or not, she was then racked by a coughing fit that lasted some thirty seconds, only to be replaced by a smile and the pipe moments later.

‘As you can hear, my lungs are about to pack up on me. The cold seeps into my marrow and there is no reason to be frugal with the electricity or the tobacco. I celebrated my hundred and
fourth birthday last week, and know perfectly well that it will be my last. I smoked my first pipe here in 1880. I gave birth to my first child here in 1884, while the great men in the Storting
were fighting for independence. I was standing down on the harbour with my first grandchild on my arm when the new king and young crown prince came sailing to an independent Norway in the autumn of
1905. So I have been here a long time and seen many things. I got my first pension from the Nygaardsvold government, and have cost the state coffers dear. So I thought that this might be my final
chance to do something useful for the country, and I should use it.’

I said that I was very impressed and that her daughter also looked remarkably well for her age if she was born in 1884.

She shook her head disapprovingly. ‘My eldest children died a long time ago. She was an afterthought, and was not born until 1898. Unfortunately, she is not the brightest of the bunch.
What nonsense it was not to call the police yesterday. But she is kind and does her best, and she is the only one of my children who is still alive. So I really shouldn’t complain.’

I nodded politely to this and looked at the shrunken, ancient woman in the rocking chair with something akin to awe. All of a sudden, she reminded me of an eighty-year-old Patricia. I said, out
loud, that she was absolutely right and what she had seen could be of great interest to the police.

She nodded and took a couple of puffs on her pipe before continuing. ‘My eyes and brain are about the only things that work any more. So, I was sitting here resting on Saturday evening. My
thoughts were wandering in the past, but snapped back to the present when I saw something very unexpected on the street out here. Unfortunately, it had started to get dark, so I could really only
see shadows and silhouettes, not faces. However, what I saw, clearly enough, was a tall, rather stout chap, who must have been the right honourable Fredriksen, walking towards the station. There
was a shorter, slimmer person waiting for him at the corner. Fredriksen stopped when he saw this person and they exchanged a few words. Then suddenly the person drew a knife and stabbed him. He
fell to the ground. The attacker ran off down the street, away from the station. Fredriksen was left lying on the pavement. Then another person came along who knelt down and leaned over him. And
then some more people came.’

Thus far, it all seemed to tally with what we knew had happened – and with what the newspapers had reported. I asked if Fredriksen had been stabbed once or several times. We had not
released this information to the press.

She replied without hesitation, and without blowing any smoke in my direction.

‘Twice. The person pulled out the knife, but Fredriksen remained standing. So he or she stabbed him again, and then he fell to the ground with the knife still in him.’

It felt as though the room was heating up around me. It was true that Fredriksen had been stabbed twice in the chest, just as she described.

I asked whether she had seen a bicycle. She shook her head.

‘No, there was no bicycle when it happened. They were both on foot.’

Which did not necessarily prove anything, I told myself. Tor Johansen may have left the bike somewhere close by and run back to get it afterwards. But if she had seen him running, she should
have been able to see if he limped.

‘Even though it was dark, did you notice anything more about the attacker? Could you tell me, for example, if the person ran in an unusual way?’

The old woman blew out another cloud of smoke and looked at me fiercely. ‘Yes, I could, and there was nothing unusual about him or her. The person who stabbed Fredriksen was perfectly
normal.’

I started to feel slightly hot around the collar. And I thought to myself that something was not right. Then I heard my own voice asking if she was sure there was nothing special about the way
the attacker ran off.

‘No, as I said. The person who stabbed Fredriksen walked perfectly normally and easily. But the first person to the scene afterwards limped heavily on the right foot. It was quite obvious
when he came and when he ran away. And I was very surprised when the limping shadow ran off with the knife.’

The words hit me like snow falling from the roof. Suddenly my body felt ice cold, despite the heat of the room.

I sat there, unable to utter a word. The shock must have been apparent on my face, because the old lady in the rocking chair looked at me with increasing concern.

‘I do hope I have not said anything wrong. I only wanted to help, not create more problems. I am too close to the grave to lie and I am absolutely certain that that is what I saw. The
person who stabbed Fredriksen moved without any difficulty. But the person who came after, pulled out the knife and took it away. That person limped so heavily on the right foot that I thought he
must have a club foot or something.’

I heard myself saying that she had absolutely done the right thing and that this could be very important and I believed every word she said. Then I asked if she had seen any other people down on
the street before the second person came.

‘Yes. There was one other person. He stood without moving on the other side of the road and watched the whole incident, the stabbing and then the person with the limp coming along and
pulling out the knife. I was rather taken aback, but then thought that perhaps he was either looking the other way or was in a state of shock. The onlooker left at the same time as the person with
the limp, only in the opposite direction. I say he, but it could equally have been a woman. It was not much more than a shadow I saw, but he was wearing a man’s hat.’

The hat may have been a coincidence, but I was not convinced that it was. I felt as though I had been winded. The ancient woman in the rocking chair had turned everything upside down in the
space of five minutes. Here she was sitting with a vital piece of the puzzle that only proved I had put it together completely wrong.

I had an overwhelming feeling of paralysis, but could also feel the adrenalin starting to surge. There was a strange sense of relief for the boy on the red bicycle and his mother, too, and
mounting curiosity as to what had actually happened when Per Johan Fredriksen was killed.