Authors: Hans Olav Lahlum
I said nothing and thought for a moment or two. Then I replied slowly that no one had witnessed the actual murder, but the young man had first been seen in conversation with Per Johan
Fredriksen, and then been caught running away from the scene of the crime with the murder weapon in his pocket. It would most certainly be a strange tale if he was not guilty.
‘You are absolutely right. But there is still a considerable difference between being strange and being guilty, even though they are often confused. So no one actually saw him killing Per
Johan. I don’t think he did it. And I would be grateful if you could tell me who did, if you manage to find out one day.’
I had a growing appreciation of why Per Johan Fredriksen had been fascinated by this remarkable woman. But I also realized that, for the moment, she was not able to help me any further with the
mysterious circumstances surrounding her lover’s death.
So I offered my condolences once again, assured her that the investigation would keep all possibilities open, promised to contact her as soon as there was any news, and asked her to stay in town
for the next few days in case we needed to question her further.
Harriet Henriksen’s reply was short: that until her beloved had been buried, she had nowhere to go, nor any reason to do so. And as if to illustrate this, she remained seated by the coffee
table and the burnt-out candle as I got up and left.
I was back at the main police station by half past twelve. Danielsen was nowhere to be seen, but my boss was sitting in his office with the door open. He waved me in as soon as
he saw me.
‘Danielsen has questioned the suspect again. And despite applying considerable pressure, he got nowhere. The boy adamantly refused to answer any questions. Danielsen found this extremely
provoking and is even more convinced of his guilt. He believes that the only question of any real interest is whether the murderer should be sent to prison or a mental hospital. And I am inclined
to agree. So we decided that Danielsen could go home at the end of his shift. The lack of identity and motive remains a problem and I would like you to focus on that for the rest of the
day.’
I immediately agreed to this. My impressions from the meeting with Harriet Henriksen were being diluted by the light of day and her conclusion now felt like no more than unqualified speculation,
so I did not bother to mention it to my boss. However, I was less convinced than Danielsen about the boy’s guilt. But I was quite happy to be allowed to carry on working on the case without
Danielsen interfering – and without being asked to divulge my thoughts on the case.
The switchboard was remarkably still, but there was a growing number of journalists calling in from different papers. No one had as yet called to report anyone missing or to leave any other
message that might help to identify the boy on the red bicycle. It was more and more mysterious. The boy was, as far as anyone could tell, Norwegian and he was a minor. Despite a speech impediment,
it was clear that he spoke with an Oslo accent. If he had parents, it seemed very odd indeed that they had not reported him missing. If he lived with other relatives or in a children’s home
of some sort, it was equally odd that no one had contacted the police.
I guessed it was only a matter of time before someone would enquire about him. If nothing else, someone might recognize him if we published the photographs in the papers. But like the boss, I
wanted the question of his identity to be solved before they went to print. I was finding it increasingly difficult to believe that the young man did not have some kind of connection with Per Johan
Fredriksen. It seemed too incredible to be true that such a well-known politician should be randomly stabbed on the street.
I was sitting in my office pondering on the identity and motive of the killer when my phone rang. I heard the familiar and annoyingly slow voice of one of the switchboard operators. She said
that I was about to be transferred to a lady who had asked to speak to the person in charge of the Per Johan Fredriksen investigation immediately. I was, of course, curious as to who it might be
and why she had called. It was not long before I knew.
‘Good afternoon. My name is Ane Line Fredriksen and I am the eldest daughter of the late Per Johan Fredriksen. My mother has only now been able to tell me that you wanted to talk to me as
soon as possible. So, here I am,’ she said.
I was slightly taken aback by her briskness. I expressed my condolences and said that it would certainly be good to talk, if it was not too much of an inconvenience for her.
‘Not at all. My daughter is with my ex-husband in Hamar and I have to pick her up around seven o’clock this evening. So it would be best if we could meet as soon as possible. Would
you like to come here or should I come there?’
Her tempo left me breathless, but it was also refreshing to meet such a dynamic and outspoken member of the family. So I said that I was currently in my office at the main police station and
perhaps it would be most practical if we could meet here.
‘Of course. I’ll be there in a quarter of an hour,’ Ane Line Fredriksen said, and put down the phone.
I sat with the receiver in my hand, wondering what she looked like. And how many more people this investigation would involve.
Exactly sixteen minutes later, Ane Line Fredriksen was shown into my office, as she looked around with obvious curiosity. I could not see much resemblance to her mother or
siblings, but I knew it was the woman from the telephone call even before I heard her voice.
Ane Line Fredriksen was just over five foot six, and one of those modern women who was solid without being fat. The most striking thing about her was her mane of red hair, and the second most
striking thing was the alertness of her distinctive blue-green eyes. She also differed from the rest of her family in clothes and style, in that she was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, and her
blouse was unbuttoned at the top. My initial impression was that I would like her best of all.
This theory was not weakened in any way by her unusually firm handshake. She barely took the time to sit down before she leaned towards my desk and said impatiently: ‘So, what is it you
would like to know?’
I briefly told her about events the evening before and the arrest of the boy on the red bicycle, and that that was all we knew about her father’s murder so far.
Ane Line Fredriksen continued to lean forwards and listened intently as I spoke. She had a bad habit of taking in the room, which annoyed me slightly, but otherwise my impression was very
positive.
She gave a quick nod a couple of times, but still said nothing when I had finished my account. I therefore took out the photographs of the arrestee and put them down on the desk. She immediately
studied them with interest, but then shook her head in visible disappointment.
‘I have never seen him before. I would have remembered, because it does not look like he has had an easy life. Are you sure it was he who killed Father? Why on earth would he do
that?’
So I told her straight: we could not be certain that it was the boy who killed her father, and if it was, we did not know why he had done it. There was much to indicate that it was him, but he
had not confessed and we had no eyewitnesses to the murder itself.
‘How intriguing,’ she said.
I did not detect any great sorrow at the loss of her father in the otherwise very nice Ane Line Fredriksen. And apparently she saw my surprise.
‘I understand that it might seem a bit strange that I am not more upset. I am actually easily moved at funerals and the like. But we come from very practical farming stock, my father was
an elderly man, and we were not particularly close any more. Though I have to say he was a very good father when we were little. We got whatever we pointed at and had more time with him than many
other children had with their fathers. But once we grew up he became busy with his politics and business. I never really knew him as anything other than a family man. When I saw him on the
television I always thought he was too conservative in his politics and didn’t show enough sympathy for people less well off. He was also conservative in his values. First, he didn’t
like the man I married, and then he didn’t like the fact that I got divorced.’
‘He had just left his mistress when he was killed yesterday,’ I said.
‘That never really bothered me. Father’s women are something we have had to live with since nursery and this one was very discreet. So we knew about her, but never saw her. Have you
met her? What is she like?’
Her boldness took me by surprise. I managed to blurt out that she was a thirty-seven-year-old pianist who made quite an impression, before I saved the situation and said that at present there
was nothing to indicate any connection between her and his murder. His mistress stood to gain nothing from his death. On the contrary, she would, in fact, be worse off.
‘I thought about that on the way here. His mistress has no rights and won’t be left a penny, whereas my brother and sister and I will inherit all the money. It’s unfair,
really.’
That was the first time I could ever remember hearing an heir say that they were getting too much. And it was also the first time that I had heard anyone express any sympathy for a woman their
father had betrayed their mother with.
I was struck by an unfamiliar thought, that I was now sitting talking to a multi-millionairess. So I remarked that the purely financial aspect of the case did not play much of a role here.
Ane Line Fredriksen stretched in the chair with slow, deliberate movements, like a gigantic ginger cat. For a moment I was worried that she might start moulting. Instead she leaned forward
again.
‘Well, that is not strictly the case. My siblings and I have never been poor. But as you may have heard, it suits us all rather well to get our inheritance now.’
I had not heard any such thing and immediately asked her to elaborate. She did not need to be asked twice.
‘Well, Johan has always been aware that he is the eldest and also the only son. So he has always been the one with the greatest ambition with regards to money and the like. Since he
graduated, he has wanted to start his own law firm and invest in property himself. Father never entirely trusted him and did not want to pay out the inheritance early. The atmosphere at Sunday
lunch two weeks ago was tense, to say the least.’
I noted this down and asked why her younger sister needed the money now.
‘Vera is another story altogether. My father’s constant concern and care for her is perhaps the best illustration of what a good father he was. Vera has undoubtedly the best head of
us all, but is also the one with the weakest nerves. She gets frightened if the wind blows, faints whenever she’s startled. She has excellent qualifications, but no one really believes
she’ll ever be able to work. I’ve said to her so many times that she just needs to believe in herself and get out there. But she doesn’t dare to. So she has a master’s
degree in chemistry, but just mopes around at home and doesn’t even try to find work. And as far as I know, she’d never kissed a man before she was twenty-three. You can imagine the
rest.’
I had to admit that I actually could not imagine the rest. She sighed with forced exasperation.
‘Well, when Vera turned twenty-three, she met a man with whom she fell in love and is now in a rather disagreeable relationship. He’s a very liberal Dutchman who was studying in
Norway, although he did not do as well as her. He has an almost obsessive ambition to start an art gallery in Amsterdam where he can sell his own paintings and those of his bohemian friends. He
wants a million or four in start capital, and my father was not, of course, willing to lend it him. The Dutchman is a bit suspect and Vera is terribly inexperienced and naive when it comes to love.
It could end very badly. So, it would suit her very well to get some money right now.’
‘And you? What about yourself?’
‘I struggled more with books than Vera, so I stopped studying. I started to work in politics and in a shop when I was twenty-one. But at the moment I can’t work because our society
doesn’t offer childcare to single mothers who want to work, and I had to pay my former husband a small fortune to get him out of the house. Father simply refused to pay for his only
grandchild to lose one of her parents. He also felt he could not give me any of my inheritance without doing the same for Vera, and he certainly did not want to do that. So my only option was a
bank loan which I’m paying interest on. I can get by, but a few million wouldn’t go amiss right now.’
‘And what about Johan’s family situation?’
‘Johan is more of a businessman than a charmer. He has always been well off, but never any good at going out and spending his money. Since he turned thirty, he has made it very obvious
that he wants a family, but any attempts to get one have not ended particularly well. Although, we have not heard mention of it for a couple of years now. He is still unmarried and childless, but I
think he might have something on the go at the moment. I have always had a good relationship with him – even though we are very different and he is rather boring – and last time we met
at our parents’, he told me that he might have a good deal in the offing, as he put it. I realized there was something he did not particularly want to talk about, so now I am waiting with
bated breath to hear what the problem is this time. It’s just as interesting every time.’
She stretched unabashed in the chair again – and managed to surprise me once more.
‘So, how little have the unsociable people in my family actually told you? Don’t tell me they said nothing about the murder mystery from Father’s youth?’
At first I thought she might be joking. Then we exchanged looks and immediately became serious again.
I said that no one had mentioned any earlier murder mystery in Per Johan Fredriksen’s life. I hastily added that I should, of course, be told about it now that he himself had been
killed.