Authors: Hans Olav Lahlum
I hastened to say that there had never been anything physical between Patricia and me – and almost bit my tongue when I realized that I had said her name again. Miriam did not react
visibly to the name this time, but her reply was succinct and firm.
‘I never thought there was. And I, for my part, have not had a physical relationship with anyone else since we got together. But it is not a good sign that we have to tell each other
that.’
I had to admit that she was right.
For a moment I became deeply worried about what might happen if she were to tell anyone what I had told her. But in the next moment I was certain that she would not pass it on. If I mentioned it
now, she would only tell me that all my secrets were safe with her, and that it was sad that I had to ask her. So, despite all that was happening, there was still a strange unspoken trust between
us.
I wanted to spare her that. So instead I said that I was very sorry for all of this and for all the terrible things she had experienced because of me. Then I asked her if there was anything more
I could say or do to help her.
There was silence in the hospital room for a few seconds. Then she answered, slowly, in a slightly tremulous voice: ‘As I am unfortunately unable to move my arms right now, I have to ask
if you could please take off my engagement ring?’
I thought how paradoxical it was that a day that had given me so many answers, should end with such a painfully difficult question. But I answered, slowly, in a voice that was in danger of
breaking, that of course I could not refuse.
Her arms lay still by her side. But they were unexpectedly tense and her fingers surprisingly warm. My hand was shaking so much that it was embarrassing. It was such a painful moment that I just
wanted to throw myself down on the floor and beg not to have to do this, and say that I would give anything for her to forgive me. But I did not. Again I felt the relief when finally the ring
slipped off and I no longer had to feel her hand against mine.
I took off my own ring and put it on the bedside table. She thanked me for my help, her chin barely moving on the pillow. She was not crying. But I saw that there were tears in her eyes, and
could feel them in my own.
I had to turn around and was on my way out when she said: ‘There is just one little thing I would like to ask.’
‘What is it?’ I stopped in my tracks, without turning around.
‘What happened to the library book?’ she said.
I told her that I had picked the book up out of the ditch, and that it was in safekeeping at the police station, and that I could either post it to her or come by with it one day.
‘Thank you. I think it would be best to post it, if it’s not too expensive,’ she whispered.
That felt like the final, decisive blow. Suddenly I could not bear to see Miriam any longer, and did not want to hear her voice again. But I could not leave the room and let our final words
after two years be about a library book.
So I said, without turning: ‘Please give my best wishes to your parents. Thank you for everything. I will never forget you.’
‘Thank you. Likewise,’ she said, almost inaudibly.
It was only three words, and her voice was barely a whisper, but I could hear that she was crying now. I felt the tears on my own cheeks, but I did not want to see her crying. And I did not want
her to see my tears.
So I left, alone, without looking back.
It was no more than ten yards from her room to the stairs. But it felt like I had walked for miles. When I got to the staircase it felt like I tumbled all the way down it, even though I could
see my legs moving as normal, taking each step at a time, down the endless stairs.
It was raining when I got home. And it continued to rain. From half past five until half past six, I just stood by the window and watched the downpour.
I had several telephone calls to make. I should have rung Ane Line Fredriksen to tell her who had killed her father the Saturday before; I should have rung Hauk Rebne Westgaard to tell him what
had happened that spring day in 1932 and to finally give him peace, and I should have rung my parents to tell them about my broken engagement. But even though I did not like the silence, I could
not bear to hear another voice at the moment.
I tried instead to put on a record, but it didn’t help. The first song was ‘Days of My Life’ by The Seekers. I stood there until the chorus faded out, turned the record player
off when the voice of the female vocalist disappeared, and just stayed standing by the window.
At a quarter past nine that Saturday evening, it would be exactly a week since I had stood here and seen the boy on the red bicycle pedalling furiously up the hill. It felt like an age ago. The
boy was dead and would be buried within the next few days. His bicycle was being held in the police stores, and would never go out on the road again. Three other people had lost their lives this
week, and my life would never be the same again.
I knew that the rain would stop, and on Monday the papers would be singing my praises louder than ever before. But I was far more miserable now than I had been a week ago. Only three days
before, I had stood here and watched Miriam leave in her raincoat, with the library book under her arm, without knowing that it would be the last time I watched her leave. The tears stung in my
eyes when I thought that I would never again see her coming up towards the house.
Among all the other happy memories of my two short years with Miriam, I remembered the evening we went to the theatre to see A
Doll’s House
. It had been Miriam’s suggestion,
and I had dutifully said yes after a long working week. But it had been an unusually good Saturday evening. On the way home I had said how glad I was that we had gone, and that we should not wait
too long to go to the theatre again. She had not answered, just smiled her charming, happy, lopsided smile. But I had never done anything about it – never suggested another play.
And now it was too late for trips to the theatre. And although it was I who had physically walked away that day, it felt like it was she who had done the walking. I felt that she had left the
man she thought she loved, just like Nora, because he still did not understand what was important to her. I felt like Helmer, as I had seen him in that final act. And it was not a nice feeling.
At a quarter to seven, I remembered a quote that the now accused murderer, Oda Fredriksen, had used after her husband had died. ‘The life we shared is over, I walk on alone – but I
am still walking.’
I stood there and reflected on the quote for a few minutes. Then the silence became unbearable. I grabbed my jacket and went out into the rain.
There were no other cars parked outside.
If I had seen a van there, I would have turned round immediately and fled. But there was no one. So I went up to the door and rang the bell.
The maid answered surprisingly quickly; I had only counted to twelve by the time the door opened.
I said that I did not want to disturb the owner of the house if she had visitors, but that I would be grateful to talk to her if she was alone.
The maid smiled to herself and said that I had been expected. The owner of the house was at home and did not have visitors.
This was encouraging, but even so I could not remember ever having arrived here feeling quite so anxious or with quite such a hammering heart.
She was sitting alone in her wheelchair, and her smile had an air of condescension when I came into the room.
‘You are a little later than expected. I guessed half past six to Benedicte,’ she said, cheerfully.
The maid nodded to confirm this and then withdrew.
‘Sorry that I am a bit late,’ I said with an uncertain smile, and put my hands on the table. Patricia looked at them, then nodded briefly without saying anything.
I had no idea what to say. So I told her quickly about my meeting with Lene Johansen. The story upset me and I could see that it upset Patricia too, although there were no cigarettes on the
table for her to puff on. I made it as brief as possible and once again thanked her for having seen the solution.
‘I never doubted it. But thank you for your thanks all the same,’ she said with a coy smile.
This annoyed me and I added that I had discovered, on my own, how the police security service had found out about Fredriksen. And I told her about my visit to Harriet Henriksen.
Patricia looked rather peeved to begin with, but then started to smile towards the end.
‘I had not thought about that. You were lucky there, I think. Congratulations all the same!’
I asked in passing if Patricia had ever considered that Harriet Henriksen might be the murderer.
Patricia shook her head. ‘And I hope that you didn’t either. It would barely have been possible for her to stay where she was when Fredriksen left and then to get past him unseen,
and wait for him on a street corner a few hundred yards further on.’
I said that I agreed and moved swiftly on.
‘You certainly made a good point about chameleon people. And there were a lot of them involved in this case. When you said that there was only one of the five friends from 1932 who was not
a chameleon person, you were thinking of Kjell Arne Ramdal, weren’t you?’
Patricia nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Some were of course more dangerous, but all the others were chameleons with several faces. But it would seem Kjell Arne Ramdal only has one face and is
what he appears to be. He is himself and probably very decent – if not particularly charming or attractive.’
I was not sure whether I dared to say what I was thinking. But it was as if Patricia read my mind and came to my aid.
‘Not a very exciting man to be married to, I am sure. But Solveig Ramdal found that out a long time ago.’
I took the plunge and asked if she had ever considered that Johan Fredriksen was in many ways more like Kjell Arne Ramdal than his father.
Patricia smiled cheerfully, and then burst into laughter.
‘Yes, it has occurred to me. And that was one of the reasons why I broke up with him on Thursday night. Which is also why I may have looked rather grim when I passed you. The mood in the
car had become rather sour.’
The relief went straight to my head when I heard this. And I dared to ask if there were other reasons why she had broken off the relationship.
She nodded and shook her head at the same time. ‘The short version is that I had been sitting here alone for far too long, and at the beginning thought that Johan Fredriksen looked like my
dream man, but soon discovered that he only looked like him. I do not regret the relationship, but nor do I regret finishing it.’
I put my hands on the table again, to be sure that Patricia had understood. She glanced at them again, and nodded impatiently.
‘Kidnappings can be difficult,’ I said slowly, testing the water.
Patricia nodded and replied without mirroring my speed and caution.
‘No doubt about it. And by the way, I did not want to pick bones when you were in the middle of it, but the police really must learn to use the word abduction. Kidnapping should only be
used about children for obvious reasons, and this was your ex-fiancée, although at times she was as naive as a child.’
Miriam was in fact three years older than Patricia. But I took the hint. Patricia did not want to hear her name or to talk any more about my ex-fiancée – at least, not now. I was a
little unsure as to whether she wanted to say anything more about her ex, but hoped she would not.
So I said: ‘Well, that was quite a case. With our combined efforts, we managed to solve all the murders and both lose our partners along the way.’
Patricia yawned and stretched her arms demonstratively. ‘Ah well, the case was exceptionally interesting, if also exceptionally tragic. And as far as partners are concerned, I for my part
think that when a relationship cannot weather a stormy week, then it is not going to last in the long run. So better to discover it now than in ten years’ time, with two children. So, with a
bit of humour, you could say that we have unearthed the truth about four murders and two relationships.’
She looked at me with her head cocked as she said this, her eyes curious.
Miriam’s face flashed in front of me, and I was not entirely sure that I saw it in the same way as Patricia did. But I got the point and laughed out loud.
‘I could kick the staff into action, if you would like to stay for supper,’ Patricia said, happily.
I sat there for a few seconds and wondered if she had used ‘kick’ figuratively or not. But whatever the case, I had decided.
So I said that I thought that her staff deserved the night off, and we deserved to go out for a meal, having worked our way through four murders and two relationships so far this week. And as I
had had so many good meals here, I would be delighted to be able to repay her.
I felt my heart beating even faster when I said this.
‘That,’ Patricia said with her most provocative smile, ‘is the best suggestion you have made for as long as I have known you.’
When I first let Detective Inspector Kolbjørn ‘K2’ Kristiansen meet Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann, the professor’s young daughter, in the novel
The Human Flies
in autumn 2010, I had an inkling that they would meet again during later murder investigations. But I had no clear plans for any other novels in the series, and certainly
no hopes that the series would be extended by a further four books in the space of three years. But that is in fact what has happened, as I now send
Chameleon People
to print in June 2013.
I look forward to hearing what the critics and readers have to say about it, but whatever it may be, I have been astounded by the interest that has been shown in my attempt to revive the historical
and classic crime novel in Norwegian. A total of two hundred thousand copies have been printed of the first four books in the series, and as I write this Afterword, the first novels are being
translated into English, Italian and Korean.