Chameleon People

I

It was the year that the referendum on Norway’s potential membership of the EEC nearly caused my parents to divorce after forty-two years of happily married life. On Saturday, 18 March 1972, the day’s talking point was the demonstration that took place in the centre of Oslo, drawing several thousand protestors who were against membership of the EEC. As many as thirty extra policemen had been drafted in, in case of disturbances which, in the end, never happened. The demonstration broke up peacefully around eight o’clock in the evening.

As a detective inspector, I was exempt from demonstration duties, which was a particular relief now, as my private life had changed.

My fiancée, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, had agreed to come by for an early meal at around half past four. She arrived with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, having come straight from tobogganing with her much younger niece, and it has to be said, it was not easy to tell who had enjoyed it most. I had gently but firmly declined her cheerful invitation to join them. I found it embarrassing enough that someone I knew might meet the young, female master’s student whizzing by on a sledge, let alone if she then had me, a detective inspector, in tow. Her childlike joy at the arrival of winter was a side of Miriam’s complex nature that still perplexed me, although I did find it refreshing and charming.

As usual, we had a couple of very pleasant hours together. Of course, neither of us mentioned the fact that she was going to the evening’s demonstration and that I could not go with her.

Instead we talked about the injuries to her arms and shoulders, which were, fortunately, getting better. She could now write for several hours at a time and was increasingly optimistic about her prospects for achieving a master’s degree in Nordic Studies. She had done even better than expected in her bachelor’s degree and very well with her first essay on the new course. She’d sounded even happier than usual when she rang to tell me earlier in the day. So the atmosphere was very jolly when we raised our glasses to her success, to each other and to our future together.

Afterwards, we talked a bit about the approaching football season and then Norway’s hopes for gold at the Olympic Games in Munich in the summer. And finally, about our wedding plans. She thought that it would be practical to have it all sorted before the Christmas holidays. I suggested that it might be both good and practical if we could have an autumn break. So we drank to that, without specifying the dates or any other details.

At exactly half past six, Miriam got up and said with a little smile that unfortunately she had to go now. I said that I could not go with her this time either, adding an ‘unfortunately’. Despite my father’s protests, I had allied myself with my mother in the EEC debate. This was largely due to my fiancée. Miriam seemed to be relieved the day I told her, but nodded with understanding when I said I had to keep a low profile all the same, because of my position. We smiled fondly at each other, and kissed fleetingly by the door.

I stood alone by the window and watched my Miriam go. It struck me that her movements were softer and more relaxed now than when she first came to visit. As always, she walked at a fast and determined pace, reading a book at the same time, and did not look back. And in a strange way, this conveyed a certain trust. It felt as though I did not need to stand here, but I did so all the same just to see her for a few moments more. She didn’t look back because she knew that I would be standing here, watching her for as long as I could.

On that particular day, I remained standing there for some time even after she had disappeared down the hill in front of the house. I knew that she would under no circumstances return before the demonstration was over. But I was equally certain that she would come back as agreed for Sunday lunch the following day.

From time to time, I was still woken by a nightmare that Miriam was once again lying in a coma at Ullevål Hospital and the senior doctor had told me that she would not live through the night. And sometimes, when awake, I shuddered at the thought of how close I had been to losing her. Fortunately, both happened less and less frequently these days. Miriam herself was remarkably untouched. She would to a greater or lesser extent always be affected by the injuries to her shoulders, the doctor said. But Miriam’s attitude was that she was far less bothered by them now, and it could have been so much worse. If she did ever shed a tear over her chronic injuries, I certainly never saw it.

In fact, my fiancée had an impressive ability to see the bigger picture and to think constructively, without allowing her life to be blighted by the accident in which she had so innocently and undeservedly been caught up. She also possessed a remarkable blend of clear-sighted realism and irrepressible optimism that never ceased to fascinate me.

Now, as I had on my thirty-seventh birthday three days earlier, I reflected on how immeasurably my life had improved since that great drama in the summer of 1970. I was an exceptionally lucky man. Thanks to Miriam, my private life felt more settled and yet more exciting than it had ever felt before. And at work, it had been a quiet year with only routine work. My status as hero in both the police force and with the general public, arising from several widely reported murder cases in the past four years, remained intact, and I had had no reason to defend it in the face of new challenges thus far in 1972.

In brief, life felt good and secure in every way, and I was almost without a care in the world.

As I turned away from the window at a quarter to seven, ready to sit down on the sofa with my book for the week and the day’s news on the radio, I still had no idea as to just how eventful the evening would turn out to be. Nor did I know how swiftly and dramatically my life would change over the following seven days.

II

At eight o’clock, I put down Johan Borgen’s novel, The Red Mist, and turned my attention to the news. The mass demonstration against EEC membership was, as expected, the first item. At ten past nine, however, the programme was interrupted by a news flash to say that the well-known Centre Party politician, landlord and businessman, Per Johan Fredriksen, had been stabbed on a street by Majorstuen station barely half an hour before. The presumed attacker had been seen running away from the scene of the crime and the victim’s condition was as yet unknown. There was little else to be said at this point, but the newsreader promised there would be more information in later bulletins.

As I listened, I got up and wandered over to the living-room window, my eyes focusing on the only movement on the street below.

The movement turned into a red bicycle of the simplest and cheapest type, previously sold by the Coop. It was approaching at alarming speed, given that the bike looked rather rickety and the cyclist rather small. At first I thought it was a woman, but then realized that it was a thin, dark-haired boy of around fifteen. He was definitely neither strong nor big for his age, and he was clearly out of puff. However, he hung doggedly on to the handlebars and pedalled furiously up the last part of the slope.

There were no teenagers living in the building that I knew of and I was sure that I had never seen the cyclist before. So I stayed where I was and watched him slow down and then lurch, rather than leap, from the bike only a few metres from the apartments. The bicycle lay abandoned in the middle of the path, as the cyclist ran on towards the door.

Even though my mind was not working at full capacity, I did notice that the young cyclist had a terrible limp in his right leg as he struggled with the final stretch, and that he was exhausted and disoriented. I wondered for a moment which of the residents this apparently desperate and rather dubious character might know, and was very thankful that it was not me.

Then the doorbell rang.

It echoed around the flat – then rang three more times with only a few seconds’ interval in between.

I went to the door, but stopped and hesitated. The idea of pretending I was not there was very tempting indeed.

While I dithered, the bell rung for a fourth and fifth time. And the fifth ring sounded to my ear like a long cry of anguish.

Suddenly this brought to mind the very unpleasant incident on the Lijord Line two years before, when I had seen the carriage doors close in front of a terrified young woman, who was then found dead on the tracks later that evening. It was an awful experience that I did not wish to repeat, so I swiftly picked up the intercom and asked who it was.

‘Let me in! They’re after me! I have to talk to you before they get me!’

His voice was ragged, gasping and shrill with fear, but did not mask the fact that the boy had a speech impediment.

I hesitated again for a fraction of a second. Then I looked out of the window and saw the car.

It was a big car with no lights, and it sped up the hill through the dark in an almost aggressive manner towards the abandoned bike.

The sight of the car made me spontaneously press the door-opener, and over the intercom system I heard my unexpected guest tumbling in downstairs.

Seconds later, I had opened the door to my flat. The boy on the red bicycle was by then clattering up the stairs towards me. He tripped on the last step and ended up prostrate and panting on the landing. I as good as dragged him into the flat and slammed the door shut.

It never occurred to me that my uninvited visitor might be dangerous. The boy was empty-handed, thin, just over five foot, and on top of that, completely done in by his frantic flight. He lay on the floor by my doormat for a few seconds, gasping for breath.

‘Who is after you?’ I asked.

Just then there was another ring on the bell.

I looked down at him and hastily repeated my question. His answer was a shock.

‘The police.’

I asked him if he knew that I was a policeman.

He gave a feeble nod and a sheepish smile.

There was yet another ring on the doorbell. It was longer and louder this time.

I kept my eyes trained on my young guest, as I picked up the intercom.

This time I recognized the familiar voice of a constable. He said that a suspect had disappeared into my building and asked if everything was under control inside.

I answered yes and once again pressed the door-opener.

My guest remained seated on the floor, but had now managed to catch his breath again.

‘I had to speak to you before they caught me,’ he said.

His voice was almost a whisper and was drowned out by heavy steps on the stairs.

‘And what did you want to tell me?’ I asked.

‘That I’m innocent,’ he whispered.

And then it was as if he had said all he wanted to say. He sat there quietly on the floor by the doormat, without another word.

I opened the door when they knocked and assured them that everything was under control. ‘They’ being three slightly puffed policemen, who briefly shook my hand.

I watched them put handcuffs around my guest’s skinny wrists. He did not resist in any way, and suddenly seemed utterly disinterested in what was going on.

The young man had one striking physical feature: a reddish-brown birthmark that covered the greater part of the right-hand side of his neck. Of course, that could not help us identity him there and then. And there was nothing in the boy’s pockets that could tell us who he was. In fact, we found very little of interest. But the one thing we did find was both damning and alarming.

The boy on the red bicycle had a sharp kitchen knife in the left pocket of his jacket and both the handle and the blade were sticky with blood.

I realized then that the situation was serious indeed, but still did not join up the dots until one of the policemen heaved a sigh of relief and remarked: ‘You’ve truly outdone yourself this time, DI Kolbjørn Kristiansen. You have single-handedly caught Fredriksen’s murderer without even leaving your flat!’

I spun round and asked the policeman if Per Johan Fredriksen had died. He looked at me gravely and replied that the politician had been declared dead at the scene. He had been stabbed straight through the heart. It was done efficiently and apparently with a good deal of hate.

Given this information, I looked at the boy on my floor with some scepticism. He did not avert his eyes or blink.

‘I didn’t kill him. He was dead when I went back,’ was the only thing he said.

And he then repeated this three times.

After the third, one of the policemen commented laconically that they could categorically dismiss his statement that Fredriksen had been dead when he got there. Two witnesses who were passing had seen the young man standing at a street corner in Majorstuen as the politician walked by. The young man had been visibly agitated, whereas Fredriksen had calmly exchanged a few words with him, and then carried on.

A few minutes later, the young man had been seen bending over Fredriksen further down the same block, with the knife in his hand. He then fled when three further witnesses rounded the corner. It had taken them a few minutes to contact the police and alert any patrol cars in the area. However, one of them had then spotted the fleeing cyclist in the quieter roads around Hegdehaugen.

We all looked sharply at the young arrestee.

‘I didn’t kill him. He was already dead when I went back,’ he said yet again in a staccato voice.

He fixed me with a remarkably steady and piercing look when he said this.

Then he closed his lips tight and turned his dark eyes to stare pointedly at the wall.

It occurred to me that I had never come across such a clear-cut murder case. And yet the adrenalin was pumping given the evening’s unexpected and dramatic turn in my own home, and the case was not closed yet, as the murderer’s identity and motive were unknown. It struck me as rather odd that the young man had known where I lived. And it was quite simply mystifying that he had chosen to flee here, having murdered a top politician. Consequently, I accompanied them in the car down to the main police station.

III

It did not take long to drive there. The arrestee sat squashed between myself and a constable in the back seat, small and silent. In contrast to the explosive energy and will he had demonstrated only half an hour earlier, he now seemed not only resigned, but as good as disinterested in everything. As we drove past his bicycle, he asked if someone would look after it, then gave a curt nod when I said that it would of course be taken down to the police station. After that, he said nothing more.

I sat and looked at our prisoner for the first part of the journey. The conspicuous birthmark on his neck was close to my shoulder and drew my attention again. I had a strong intuition that this birthmark would in some way be significant to the case, without having a clue of how, what or why.

Just as we stopped outside the police station, I turned to the arrestee and again asked why he had come to my door. A glimmer of interest sparked in his eyes.

‘You were the only person in the world I hoped might believe me,’ he stammered in a quiet voice.

Then he seemed to lose both his voice and interest again. He had nothing more to say about the case. All the questions he was asked later that evening remained unanswered, including any about his name. And he shook his head feebly when asked if he would like a lawyer or to contact his family.

The suspect’s identity was not confirmed that first evening. It was perfectly clear that he came from a very different background from the multi-millionaire Per Johan Fredriksen. But where the mysterious boy actually came from was not established. He did not say a single word more and no one called in to say that their teenage son was missing.

Once the arrestee had been locked up in a cell, I stood for a couple of minutes and looked at the red Coop bike, marked ‘Item of Evidence 2’. The bicycle, like its owner, was not a particularly impressive sight. Several spokes were broken, the seat was loose and the tyres were worn down. If I had a teenage son, I would certainly not let him out on the streets of Oslo on such a rickety old thing.

One could hardly expect a murderer to have ID with him. But my curiosity regarding the boy’s name, background and motive was further piqued by the fact that he did not have so much as a penny in his pocket, or anything else other than a bloody kitchen knife.

I called my boss, and was immediately given the necessary authorization to continue investigating the case. He expressed his relief that the culprit had already been caught.

I wrote a press release to confirm that the politician Per Johan Fredriksen had been stabbed and killed on the street, and that the case was as good as solved now, following the arrest of a young man with a knife who had fled the scene of the crime. I chose to say ‘as good as’ as something felt awry, but for want of more information, I could not put my finger on what exactly it was.

At a quarter to eleven, I ventured back out into the night. I took with me the young suspect’s puzzling statement that I was the only one in the world he hoped might believe him.

I was at home in my flat again by five past eleven. I got hold of Miriam, thanks to the newly installed telephone at the student halls of residence, and quickly updated her on my unexpected visitor. She was naturally very curious and asked about the boy on the bicycle, but did not know him either. For a moment it almost sounded as though she regretted going to the demonstration, as it meant that she had missed the evening’s drama.

‘That does not sound good for the poor young boy. And his explanation “when I went back” is linguistically rather odd, as well,’ she remarked pensively.

It was by no means the first time I had heard Miriam comment on a linguistic detail. This time, however, I understood what she meant, and was immediately interested.

The young arrestee’s use of the word ‘back’ meant that he had, in fact, left the spot after an earlier meeting with Fredriksen, only to then return and find the body. There was nothing at present to disprove that this was what had happened, and that he had then taken the knife with him in his confusion when he left the scene of the crime. If this was the case and Fredriksen had passed the young cyclist there and carried on, then it was odd that, only minutes later, he was lying in almost precisely the same place.

I wished Miriam a good night and put down the phone, then stood there deep in thought, my hand still on the receiver.

I had remembered by heart the number of the telephone on the desk of Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann, my invaluable advisor. I seriously considered ringing to tell her about what had happened, but then decided that it was a little too late in the evening and the case was more or less concluded.

But underlying this was also the fear of how she might react if I called. At the end of our third murder investigation together in the summer of 1970, the drama of Miriam’s near-death experience had coincided most unfortunately with the death of Patricia’s father. She had only helped me by phone during my fourth murder investigation, and we had met a few times in the course of my fifth and sixth investigations over Christmas 1971. As I understood it, Patricia had then hoped to hear very different news about my relationship with Miriam, and certainly not the announcement of our engagement on New Year’s Eve. I had not spoken to Patricia since then.

The uncertainty as to where Patricia and I now stood had hung over my otherwise charmed existence like a dark cloud. But a situation had not yet arisen that made it necessary to find out – I had had no good reason to contact her again.

However, now that a good reason had, quite literally, come knocking at my door, I chose to delay the matter. I still felt not only deeply uncertain, but also alarmed at the thought of what Patricia’s reaction might be. I could not imagine that she would in any way wish to be more public about anything. But it had struck me more than once that the consequences for my career would be catastrophic, should anything unintentionally provoke Patricia to say just how much I had told her about my murder cases, and the extent to which she was responsible for solving them.

I would have ample opportunity over the course of the next eight days to regret the fact that I had not immediately phoned Patricia following the events of Saturday, 18 March 1972. But I was as yet unaware of this. I fell asleep around midnight, having pondered some more on the boy with the red bicycle and his almost manic wish to talk to me, and somewhat odd use of the word ‘back’.