Chameleon People (30 page)

The shadow of a crooked smiled slipped over Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s lips when he said this. I was sitting out of his reach with a loaded gun and as far as I could see, he was unarmed. And
yet I found it alarming to be sitting opposite him.

I remembered what Patricia had said about chameleon people and thought that I had certainly seen Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s other faces. It struck me then that I had discovered that one of the
five people still alive from 1932 was indeed a murderer, only it was a murder that had nothing to do with my investigation.

I heard myself say: ‘But even though everyone agreed that that was how your father died, it was not.’

Hauk Rebne Westgaard stared at me without seeing, without blinking. Again, a hard, almost mocking smile played on his lips before he answered.

‘It could well be that you are right. But if anyone pushed my father to his death, it couldn’t be proved now. And what is more, the limitation period expired years ago. And it is in
no way connected to the murders that you are investigating. For my part, I think about it as little as possible and hope that others do the same.’

This almost sounded like a threat, coming from Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s mouth. He realized this himself and raised an apologetic hand to show that it was not meant as such.

So there we sat, with this peculiar balance of power between us. He knew that I knew, and I knew that I could not pursue the case in any way. We were both right. The fact that I knew what had
happened, and that he knew what was true, was of no practical importance.

‘Your father’s death was a saving grace not only for you, but also for your sister,’ I said.

He nodded quickly, and blinked his eyes for what felt like the first time since we had started to talk about his father’s passing.

‘I see my father’s death as inevitable, given his state of mind at the time. But I also believe that it was a saving grace for several people – not least Inger.’

I nodded pensively and said that events that were relevant to this year’s investigation were of course of more interest right now. Then I asked if he had anything more to add to his
statement about Eva’s death.

He looked me straight in the eye and said: ‘No.’

Without looking away, I said: ‘You could still have murdered Per Johan Fredriksen last Saturday – if you had found out that it was he who killed Eva, and perhaps also if you had
found out that it was he who had been in her bed.’

He did not flinch, and replied: ‘I could have. But I still do not know who killed Eva or who was in her bed. I have no idea who killed Per Johan. I was on my way back here when he was
killed.’

That was the last thing that was said. He remained sitting at the table, while I stood up and left.

I had been sitting there face to face with a person who had killed his own father – and never regretted it. It was a frightening experience. Now I understood a little more of what Per
Johan Fredriksen had meant, if he really had said that his childhood friend Hauk was a man he both respected and feared.

As I was driving out of Holmestrand at around eleven o’clock, I could tell that my working day was going to be long and busy. So I stopped at a telephone box and rang Ane
Line Fredriksen at home. She picked up on the second ring.

‘Hello, hello. Who is calling me?’ said an unexpectedly happy and curious voice at the other end.

It was both calming and refreshing. I quickly expressed my condolences for her sister’s death, and said that I had some more questions that I would like to ask her as soon as she had the
time and felt able to meet me. I added that I also had some new information that she might be interested to know.

Whether it was the offer of new information that made all the difference was unclear, but the response was certainly very positive. Ane Line Fredriksen said that she had done what she could for
the moment, regarding the funeral arrangements, and that right now she was sitting sorting out some party matter. She could come to my office as soon as she managed to find a friend who could
babysit. One o’clock should be fine, if that suited?

I had no sooner said that it would be fine, before she replied: ‘Great. See you at one, then. Now let me find a babysitter’ – and put down the phone. I did not even have time
to ask which party she worked for. After the phone call, I sat in the car and speculated for a few minutes, but soon the investigation took hold of my attention again and I carried on to Oslo,
driving straight to the offices of Per Johan Fredriksen A/S.

The offices were just as short of space as last time and the faces, as far as I could see, were the same. The office manager was just finishing his lunch, which comprised a cup
of coffee, two doughnuts and a piece of cake, but he threw down his serviette as soon as he saw me through the glass door.

The situation was all a bit awkward. The man gave me a friendly smile and made the time to talk to me, even though there was a huge pile of contracts and an even bigger pile of other papers on
his desk. And I had a letter in my pocket where the same man confessed to embezzlement. I was here to ask critical questions that might determine whether he was not only a human chameleon, but also
a murderer.

So I braced myself, and said that I had a few more questions for him. He said that he was more than happy to answer them, but that we should perhaps call in Svendsen, the accountant,
straightaway as well.

I said, in a hushed voice, that I had to ask about something that involved him personally, in connection with a document that had been found in Fredriksen’s estate.

The office manager sank a little deeper into his chair. I could see beads of sweat break out on his forehead. But he managed to control himself and replied, in an equally hushed voice, that he
would definitely prefer it if Svendsen were part of the conversation.

I said that was fine and let Svendsen in, who just happened to be standing outside the office door.

It was when Svendsen came in and sat down on the chair beside Jørgensen, only to pull it a little closer, that I understood the relationship between them. To be precise, it was when the
accountant laid a protective, almost loving hand, on the office manager’s shoulder. The contact lasted barely a second, but it was long enough and clear enough for me to understand.

I started by asking a straightforward question as to whether there was any news on the takeover plans.

They both nodded in sync. Nothing had been signed yet, but Johan Fredriksen had called, on behalf of the inheritors, and asked if they could go through the conditions and draw up a contract for
signature the next day. The heirs had decided that it would be good to clarify the situation without delay. And the administration was in agreement, Svendsen said. But he didn’t smile and
Jørgensen looked rather upset.

In anticipation of the change in ownership and new guidelines, any tenants in arrears would now have a further fourteen days, at least, to settle any outstanding payments, the office manager
explained tactfully. They would be sending out a letter about it today, but I could certainly mention it to Mrs Lene Johansen, if I happened to talk to her, the accountant added helpfully.

This reminded me of Patricia’s question about the relationship between Lene Johansen and Fredriksen. I asked the office manager if he could remember roughly when Lene Johansen had worked
there.

He furrowed his brow, pulled a file from one of the shelves, and flicked through it at remarkable speed.

‘She started here in May 1954, on ten hours a week. That did not give her much time to clean the whole floor here, but she was so happy to have something permanent. As far as I understood,
her husband was not doing very well and money was short. She resigned in September 1956, as she was going to have a child. It was a very pleasant meeting, I remember. I said that it was a shame
that she had to resign, but it was for a very good reason. She smiled and said that it was a much-longed-for child and that she had been trying for ten years. Erling and I talked about it on the
odd occasion later and hoped that she and the child were well. It was very sad for us to witness their sorry fate.’

Tor Johansen, an only child with a speech impediment and limp, had been born in February 1957. It was rather a striking coincidence that Mrs Johansen, who had been childless for so many years,
only became pregnant while she was working here.

I looked directly at Odd Jørgensen and asked if he thought that there might have been some kind of relationship between Fredriksen and Mrs Johansen.

Jørgensen and Svendsen exchanged glances. Then Jørgensen replied: ‘I can neither confirm nor deny it, but now that you mention it, I did actually wonder myself at the time.
There was one evening in the autumn of 1955 when I had been working late in the office, and was surprised when I left to discover that Fredriksen was still here. He had stopped to chat to Mrs
Johansen while she worked. She was young and full of the joys of life back then, and was no doubt an attractive woman. I noticed him smile in a way I had never seen him smile before. But none of us
really know the truth of the matter.’

I thanked him for this information. It was not confirmation, but definitely gave grounds for another conversation with Mrs Johansen. There were more and more strange little coincidences
springing up in this case.

And now I could not postpone the inevitable. I put Jørgensen’s confession down on the desk and asked him to explain.

It was not a pleasant sight. The kind and apparently confident office manager broke down without even looking at the piece of paper. He collapsed forwards onto the desk and sat there with his
face buried in his hands. He stayed like this for a minute or so, until the accountant gently put his arm across his rounded shoulders. This helped. The office manager slowly straightened up in his
chair again.

I waited with a thumping heart to hear if he would now confess to murder. But he did not. When Odd Jørgensen did eventually speak, he only talked about the document.

‘What can I say, other than that I have hoped and prayed in recent days that that piece of paper, which I have lived in fear of for seven years now, had somehow miraculously disappeared.
That piece of paper is a reminder of the only mistake I have made in my forty-five years as a law-abiding citizen, and it will now affect the rest of my life.’

I said, carefully, that it would be up to the heirs and possibly the public prosecutor to decide whether it was something they wanted to pursue or not, and that given the type of crime, the
limitation period had probably elapsed.

Jørgensen shook his head and pointed out of the window.

‘Perhaps the public prosecutor will not bother with it, but the wolves out there will. And neither Ramdal, nor anyone else, will want an office manager who has embezzled funds. The sector
has its channels and blacklists. If this got out, I would be lucky to find a job as a clerk. That is what Fredriksen said, that day in 1965. “If this ever leaves these four walls,
Jørgensen, you are done for.” That is what he said. And he was right, of course.’

Once again, the office manager planted his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands. And once again the accountant laid his arm protectively round his shoulders. I had understood the
secret of the relationship between them now. And they had both understood that I had understood. Certainly, none of us wished to go into any further detail. Instead, we continued to talk about the
confession.

I told Jørgensen that it might not be necessary for it to become publicly known, but the best thing he could do now would be to tell me the truth.

‘The truth is, in short, that I am a weak person who made a fatal error of judgement and, for very personal reasons, embezzled a large amount of money from the company. It was meant as a
loan just for a few weeks while I waited for a bank loan to be sorted out, but I was found out. Fredriksen didn’t go to the police. He let me keep my job, but demanded that I pay back the
money the same day – and that I sign a confession, in the event that he might have a need for it later.’

I asked why he had done it. The office manager replied that it was highly personal. For once, he was contradicted by the accountant.

‘You are too hard on yourself and too kind to others, Odd,’ he said, in a quiet voice.

Then he turned to me and spoke normally. ‘It was not for Odd, but for my mother. She had been diagnosed with a cancer that could not be treated in Norway. Our only hope was a doctor in a
private hospital in the USA, who had saved several patients with the same type of cancer, despite patients being diagnosed as terminal. My mother had no income. I am an only child and as a recent
graduate did not have the means to help her. It was a matter of days, and no bank was willing to give us such a big loan in time. Odd desperately wanted to help me save my mother. He asked his
employer for a loan – and borrowed the money anyway when Fredriksen, who was a multi-millionaire, said no.’

‘Erling never asked me to do it, and did not know about it either. It was my decision and my mistake,’ Odd Jørgensen said, with his face hidden in his hands.

‘But it was my mother – and for my sake. And you did nothing wrong, Odd. You did what you thought best. It was Fredriksen who not only proved how heartless he was, but also cynically
used the opportunity to exploit us.’

‘And what about your mother?’ I asked, gently.

This gave rise to more tears from the office manager, who was clearly the more emotional of the two. The accountant had kept his composure throughout, but his voice was hard, brusque and angry
when he answered.

‘Fredriksen demanded to have the money back the same day, and he got it. My mother never got to the doctor in the US. She died in Oslo a few months later.’

‘So, the short version is: Fredriksen’s heartless exploitation of the situation meant that you, Erling, lost your mother and you, Odd, have lived with the constant threat of scandal
and being fired. And you both had to carry on working here year after year for poor pay.’