Chameleon People (37 page)

Just then the telephone started to ring. I rushed across the room, grabbed the receiver, but all I heard was the dialling tone. Everything felt jinxed that day.

I stood there for a couple of minutes wondering who might have called, but the possibilities were endless. It struck me as odd that someone had tried to ring me so late, which is perhaps why
they did not wait long and I thought in particular of the telephones at the halls of residence. It was probably just a journalist or someone else who knew as little about the kidnapping as I
did.

I did not want to sit down on the sofa. So instead I sat down on the chair opposite and reflected on what a terrible day it had been. The night before I had felt stressed enough, but that was
nothing compared to the fear I now felt. Yesterday evening Miriam had been sitting here with me, and I had trusted Patricia one hundred per cent. Now I no longer knew what to believe about Patricia
and I had no idea where on earth Miriam was – if she was still alive.

I had stood here alone and feared for Miriam’s life once before, in connection with an earlier investigation. But then at least I knew where she was, what state she was in, and that she
would have the best help she could get at the hospital. And I had known that the situation would be clearer the following day.

Now I did not know where Miriam was or how she was, and had no reason to believe that she was with anyone who wished her well. But the worst thing was the uncertainty. The thought that I might
never know what had happened was petrifying.

As I sat there, I understood better than ever before the problems that some people, whom I had met in connection with other murder investigations, had with simply getting on with their lives
after a dramatic event. Suddenly I thought of Hauk Rebne Westgaard, who had had to live with the pain of losing his girlfriend, and who had not been able to touch anyone else since. I at least had
hope, something that he had never had. Miriam might come back unharmed and healthy. But I had less and less faith in that happening. It felt far more likely that I myself would have to live as a
human fly – without Miriam, but with the constant doubt and feelings of guilt.

I went to bed at midnight – not because I was tired, but because I could not stand being awake alone any longer. And I hoped that tomorrow would be a better day – it could hardly be
much worse – and that it would come sooner if I went to bed.

I couldn’t bring myself to believe that Patricia had anything to do with the kidnapping. But I did not dare to rule it out completely, and came to the conclusion that I would have to
confront her with the fact that I had seen her. It did cross my mind that she might have gone there to look at the scene of the crime, even though it would be very unlike her and I could not
imagine what she would achieve by doing so. But then the car she was in had passed the scene of the crime at quite a speed and she had not even taken a sideways glance.

It was quite simply a mystery, what Patricia had been doing there and who had been in the car with her. I wondered if she might in fact be a chameleon person herself, with a dangerous side that
I had never experienced. I recalled Solveig Ramdal’s words about self-preservation being the driving force for all people in critical situations. And I asked myself if Patricia had pointed to
the Soviet lead in a bid to divert attention.

I fell asleep eventually around one o’clock in the morning, but the night that followed was as restless and horrible as the day had been. I woke up and fell asleep again three times
between nightmares. Each time I woke, it was with the dream of Miriam’s sleeping face on the pillow beside me, only then to discover to my distress that the pillow was empty. And each time I
fell asleep, it was with the image of Patricia’s grim and angry face in the car window in my mind.

Friday, 24 March 1972 was one of the rare days when I was woken by the telephone, not the alarm clock. It rang at ten past seven. I was instantly wide awake and ran in my
underwear out of the bedroom into the living room. I managed to get to the telephone in time, but this only led to disappointment.

I heard the voice of a
Dagbladet
journalist on the other end, who wondered if I could confirm or preferably deny the headlines in
VG
.

I replied that unfortunately I could not comment in the light of the ongoing investigation. Then I hung up – and told myself that it was going to be another long and demanding day. This
feeling was reinforced when
Aftenposten
then called fifteen minutes later, for the same reason as
Dagbladet
.

Verdens Gang
was not out yet, but according to its competitors, the whole of the front page was going to be covered by a large photograph of Per Johan Fredriksen under the headline:
‘Murdered top politician may have been spy’.

Verdens Gang
had somehow found out that Fredriksen was suspected of being a spy. However, the newspaper had no stronger evidence than that he had several times been seen to have
‘shady conversations’ with representatives from the Soviet Embassy, and that the police security service had shown ‘a very strong interest’ in him. It was therefore
pertinent to question if this was in any way connected to the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen and perhaps to his daughter’s mysterious death a few days later.

In the final paragraph, it was asked if it was right for Norway to enter into an important new agreement with a country that may have assassinated one of its leading politicians, though this was
as yet unproven. And the final sentence went as far as to say that the answer should be no.

I wondered for a brief moment what Prime Minister Trond Bratten would think when he read this. Then I thought about how it would be for the remaining members of Per Johan Fredriksen’s
family to wake to this. At which point I realized that I should perhaps have informed them yesterday evening, and that I should certainly do so now.

Two dry and quickly eaten pieces of bread later, I sat down by the telephone. It was twenty to eight and all three were at home. Johan Fredriksen sounded as though he was not an early bird or
was just in a bad mood. I said that we were trying to establish what kind of contact Per Johan Fredriksen might have had with the Soviet Embassy. But we currently had no evidence that he had done
anything illegal or that it had anything to do with the deaths.

He thanked me for the information and said that his father and all his various activities had not been on his mind of late. The agreement with Ramdal had been signed yesterday afternoon, and
Johan Fredriksen wanted to use the weekend to think about what he was going to do with the inheritance and his life now.

I got the impression that perhaps all was not well between him and his girlfriend, but I saw no reason to plague him further by asking.

Ane Line Fredriksen, not unexpectedly, showed more interest in the spy claims against her father. At first she thought that it must be a mistake, but then ten seconds later said she no longer
knew what to think about her father. She had never heard mention of this and it felt like yet another betrayal of the family. Otherwise, she could confirm that the contract with Ramdal had been
signed without any fuss the day before. It had been a ‘good and rather boring meeting’ at Kjell Ramdal’s office. I did not find that hard to imagine.

It occurred to me that I should perhaps also mention Miriam’s disappearance to Ane Line Fredriksen. I thought that she would be interested. But I doubted whether she could tell me anything
that I did not know already: there was nothing to indicate that Miriam’s disappearance had anything to do with her work for the SPP. But I guessed that Ane Line Fredriksen would have a lot of
questions and I did not feel like talking to her about the matter right now. So I finished the call, saying that I also had to inform her mother.

Oda Fredriksen sounded a little stronger and a little sharper today, even though it was still early. She took the news of the
Verdens Gang
headlines unexpectedly well: ‘I have
heard so many strange allegations about my husband that nothing shocks me any more.’ Then she added hastily: ‘But this is by far the worst. It is unthinkable that my husband would have
betrayed his country in any way – and even more unthinkable that he would have done something that could have such negative consequences for the family, without first discussing it with
me.’

I was not entirely convinced of this. It seemed to me that Oda Fredriksen was almost more upset that her husband had been accused of spying than she had been at the news of her daughter’s
death. But I took it as a good sign, regardless, that she had rallied.

As I spoke to her, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of loss and concern for Miriam, mixed with a guilty conscience because I had not thought of her until now. So I hastily finished the
conversation and promised to contact Oda Fredriksen as soon as there was any news. It was now eight o’clock. I was wide awake and keen to know if there was any news down at the station.

I was in the office by a quarter past eight. Danielsen had knocked off at around two o’clock in the morning, but had asked a constable to continue following up on
Miriam’s disappearance as a matter of urgency. There was, however, not much information to follow up, nor many leads. No tips had come in and it was still a mystery what Miriam had done in
those final few hours before she disappeared. Her student room had been searched, but no clues had been found.

My boss was sitting in his office, hard at work, when I knocked on his door. Without waiting, I asked if he had seen today’s edition of
Verdens Gang
.

‘Seen, read, mulled over and called the prime minister’s office about it,’ he said, with a very serious face.

‘And what did the prime minister say?’ I asked.

My boss looked even more serious when he replied.

‘That democracy should take its course, but that to ratify the agreement now would be bordering on what could and should be justified in a democratic country. The Government is ready to
present the agreement to the Storting at three o’clock, but the parties have been called to group meetings and the prime minister is currently assessing the situation. He asked to be informed
immediately if there is any news about Fredriksen’s murder or the kidnapping of your fiancée. As I understood it, the vote will be postponed if there is a link to either of
them.’

This made the situation no less serious. I looked at the clock and calculated that it was six and a half hours until the vote in the Storting. I said that if there was nothing else to report, I
should press on with the investigation into Fredriksen’s murder.

When I got back to my office and saw my empty desk, my concern for Miriam and uncertainty regarding Patricia overwhelmed me again. I had to admit that I had no new leads to follow in the
Fredriksen case, so I pulled over the telephone and dialled Patricia’s number.

She answered on the first ring and asked in her usual voice if there was any news. I told her that there was and that I would like to see her as soon as possible.

‘Good. Come as soon as you can,’ she said and put the phone down.

I sat there for a few seconds and wondered if I could have made a mistake last night. I had never seen Patricia with an expression like that before. But I had been absolutely certain that it was
her I saw driving past me last night. And I still was. I got up and walked with heavy steps out to the car on my way to confront Patricia and ask if she was in fact involved in the case.

The maid showed me into the library and then made a hasty retreat. It was perhaps just my imagination, but I thought she seemed a little more tense today and that she left in
more of a hurry than usual.

Patricia was sitting in her wheelchair with a packet of cigarettes beside her on the table. Fruit, biscuits, cake and coffee had also been put out.

She asked, in an unusually gentle voice, if I had managed to sleep well and if I had had breakfast. Patricia seemed to be genuinely worried about me. It did not make my job any easier.

‘So, what have you got to tell me?’ Patricia asked.

First of all, I told her what little we knew about Miriam’s movements the day before.

‘That is not a lot,’ she exclaimed.

Was it just my imagination, or did she avoid looking at me when she said this? I gave myself two seconds, then launched into an attack with a hammering heart.

‘What is of particular interest is that you know something about the case that you are hiding from me. And in a critical situation where my fiancée has been kidnapped.’

It felt like diving into icy water. My body and head felt cold and stiff within seconds. But it was another bull’s eye. For a fraction of a second, Patricia’s face froze into a
harder and more egotistical expression. I saw that she too had a predator concealed inside.

For a fleeting moment she reminded me of Solveig Ramdal the day before – a cat caught in a corner. Patricia had no means of escape. She sat there in her wheelchair, with her back to the
wall. It only took a moment for her face to return to normal, but her eyes slipped away from mine to look at the bookshelf. And as she looked away, she lit a cigarette with a trembling hand.

‘I do not know who has taken your fiancée or where she is, if that is what you mean,’ she said, finally.

‘That is not necessarily what I said. But you are keeping something from me,’ I countered, with an edge to my voice.

Patricia sighed. She took a couple of drags on the cigarette, but her breathing was no calmer for it. And she was still looking at the bookshelf.

‘I did try to tell you that I should not get involved in the Fredriksen case, in any way. But you insisted,’ she said, in an uncharacteristically slow and thin voice. ‘How did
you find out?’ she added, in an even fainter voice.