Chameleon People

I

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.

II

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.

III

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.

To tell the truth, I did not know what I had found out, only that I had found something out. And I was becoming increasingly annoyed because on this day of all days, Patricia did not want to tell me what she was hiding.

‘I asked you to help me with the Fredriksen case, yes. But I did not ask you to drive past the spot where Miriam disappeared at around half past eleven last night. And now I demand to know why you were there!’

I said Miriam’s name on purpose – I had realized that Patricia disliked hearing it intensely. And it worked. She started when I said the name, and her eyes swung back to look at me.

‘I see. I sincerely hope that at no point have you suspected me of having anything to do with your girlfriend’s disappearance. That is a preposterous idea. I had a very personal reason for driving past there late last night, and hope you will believe that it had nothing whatsoever to do with the kidnapping.’

This was becoming more and more mysterious – and more and more annoying.

I said that my fiancée had been kidnapped, that I wanted to believe that Patricia knew nothing about it, but asked that she now please give me a credible answer as to why she had driven past the scene of the crime last night.

We sat and stared at each other intensely for a few seconds. A bitter expression, similar to the one I had seen through the car window yesterday, passed over Patricia’s face. She took a last drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out. Then she put both her elbows on the table and buried her head in her hands for a moment or two.

When she lowered her hands from her face, her expression was one of defiance. ‘If you absolutely must know, I was being driven home after having been thoroughly fucked by my, until now, secret boyfriend.’

That was not what I had expected. I sat there like a rabbit in the headlights while she lit another cigarette.

For some reason I had clearly never contemplated the idea that Patricia could have intimate relations with another man. And even now that she had said it, I could not imagine her stretched naked under a man in bed.

And what was worse: I did not like the thought at all. Without having any idea of who her boyfriend was, I immediately felt jealousy, even animosity, towards him. If it was the man who was driving the car yesterday, I had only caught a blurred glimpse of him.

‘That is a remarkable coincidence. Where does your secret lover live?’

Patricia sighed and looked at me in exasperation. ‘Do you still not understand? It was not a coincidence at all. My until-now-secret boyfriend lives in a terraced house by Sognsvann.’

As soon as she said Sognsvann, I understood. It did not make matters any better. The picture of Patricia in bed with him was even worse than the one of Patricia in bed with some faceless man. And on top of all this confusion was now the fear that someone else might know about my contact with Patricia.

‘So the secret boyfriend you have not told me about is Johan Fredriksen?’

She took a long, greedy drag on the cigarette and then stubbed it out, half-smoked.

‘Bingo. But Johan of course knows nothing about my contact with you and I have not said a word about what I know about the investigation. I thought, with those parameters, my relationship with him was irrelevant to the case and it would be better for both you and me if you did not know about it.’

I felt paralysed and for a few seconds did not know how to talk or what to say. My mind’s eye kept switching between the fully-dressed Patricia sitting in a wheelchair in front of me and the image of a naked Patricia in bed with a naked Johan Fredriksen. And I found this so distasteful that I unsuccessfully tried to shut both images out. But then I only saw the picture I had seen the night before. I was suddenly very curious about Patricia’s angry face and what they had been talking about.

Just then, she started to speak again, without waiting for any questions.

‘He is not exactly a dream prince, I know. A little too clumsy, a little too dull, and far too interested in figures and material things. But when you can’t stand upright, you can’t expect to choose from the top shelf. He is clean and good-looking, quite easy to get on with and reasonably educated. He came to Father’s funeral and was very considerate, then sent a Christmas card with a long handwritten message last year and the year before that. I answered the one from last Christmas in January. If you can’t have the one you love, then try to love the one you have. Other than your extremely sporadic visits, I have been sitting on my own here since I was fourteen. So I thought it was high time to try something new this year.’

That was another slap in the face. As she spoke, I suddenly saw a third Patricia – a sad, lonely young woman, full of longing. I should have realized before that she existed. And I should definitely have remembered to send her a Christmas card.

Then I thought about Patricia’s description of him as good-looking, and how I had been taken aback by how similar Johan Fredriksen looked to me. I wondered for a moment if what Patricia was actually saying now was that I was her dream man – and how I should then deal with that.

‘He is attentive and gives me presents and the like, he is always on time when we meet, and he has done his best to get me pregnant. I will give him that.’

Another blow. The thought of Patricia with a husband and children was alien and frightening. I had to admit to myself that I was very jealous now. I spontaneously asked, ‘But he has not succeeded, has he?’

To my relief, she shook her head straightaway. Her hand trembled as she lit another cigarette and she appeared to have regained her composure when she carried on speaking, but she did meet my eye.

‘No danger there. I have no idea if I can even have children after the accident, but I do know that I can’t as long as I take the pill. I want interesting company and sex. He wants sex and all my millions, I think. So we each get half of what we want, which seems pretty fair to me.’

I felt reassured and suddenly did not want to know any more details about her contact with Johan Fredriksen. I said that it sounded perfectly fair and then added: ‘I would have had a few less worries if I had known this earlier, but I am grateful for your honesty now and believe what you have told me. I think we can see that little mystery as solved now and get on with the investigation.’

Patricia nodded – with unusual swiftness and enthusiasm.

‘Yes, let’s do that. You fiancée is still missing and two recent murders are still unsolved. But I am afraid that I cannot help you with much more right now. There are still too many possibilities. But you can rule out Johan Fredriksen as far as the murders of his father and sister go. He was at home, and I was with him. And by the way, I have also tried to be the comforting girlfriend in the hope of getting a bit more information about the case, but he does not seem to know any more than what he has told you already. Which is a good thing. Johan may not be very exciting, but he is pretty honest and honourable. I think he just has one face; not a chameleon person in the slightest. I am in more doubt about how many of the others in his family and the group from 1932 you could say that about. I see the outline of several scenarios more and more clearly, but still lack some important details in order to know which ones are right.’

I realized that we would not get any further here and now, so I stood up and said that I would ring or come back as soon as I had more information.

She said that she would wait, and that I was welcome, no matter what time of day it was.

Given the circumstances, my difficult visit ended on rather a nice note. She had clearly not thought of visiting her lover today, or of him coming to see her.

On my way out, I found my thoughts were not focused on the investigation, only on what Patricia had just told me. I remembered that Johan Fredriksen had seemed a little grumpy this morning and wondered if I had been right when I thought that perhaps things were not going so well with his secret girlfriend. And then I was filled with a sense of almost childish triumph that Patricia had told me about him, but not him about me.

It was only once I was out on the street in the cold air that I realized that I had not thought about my missing fiancée at all during the second half of my visit to Patricia. This prompted another stab of guilt. It felt as though I had let Miriam down by sitting there talking to Patricia, when she had been kidnapped.

The drive back to the station was unexpectedly slow. I felt myself being pulled in all directions, and was certainly no longer giving the road my full attention.

IV

It was ten to ten when I got back to the office. There was one message waiting for me there. And it was both interesting and ominous. Miriam’s mother had called and asked me to ring her as soon as I got back.

The fact was that Miriam’s mother had not been able to get hold of me because I was sitting with Patricia. This did nothing to salve my conscience.

I dialled the Lillehammer number straightaway and said: ‘I am so sorry, I was out in connection with the investigation and rang as soon as I saw your message. Do you have some news?’

Miriam’s mother replied in an even thicker dialect than normal: ‘Can I trust that we are speaking in confidence and that it will stay between us?’

I quickly said yes. I was calling on a direct line from my office and assured her that I would not pass on anything she told me if she did not want me to.

‘I am sorry that I had to ask, but my only daughter’s life is at risk. I got a telephone call this morning just after nine from a woman who said that she knew what had happened and that Miriam was still alive. She also thought she knew who had killed Per Johan Fredriksen. She had called you yesterday evening but did not get an answer, and did not want to ring the police station. I promised her I would ring and ask you to go to meet her alone outside the National Theatre at half past eleven. I did not recognize her voice and I am afraid that I couldn’t guess her age or anything like that.’

I thanked her for having called and said that I would of course go. Then I started to think about what she had said. In the meantime, she carried on speaking.

‘I feel slightly guilty about asking you to do this. It could possibly just be someone playing with us, or worse, there’s a danger that someone is planning to harm you. So you must think hard about what you do. But if you think there is any chance that it can help us get Miriam back alive, we obviously hope that you will take the chance.’

I had not thought of my own safety in all of this. I answered that I thought it was far more likely that this would help us get Miriam back alive than that I would be killed, and that I would go no matter what. If anyone wanted to harm me, there were less risky ways of doing that than asking me to meet them at one of the most public places in town.

Miriam’s mother said, in a slightly shaky voice, that she was worried that they would lose me too and that I must decide myself whether I told anyone else in the police or went alone.

I said that I would go alone, but asked her to ring the chief constable and tell him what had happened in the unlikely event that I did not come back.

In a tearful voice, she promised to do so.

It was a serious note on which to end the conversation. I said that I would call her later in the day. She replied that she sincerely hoped so, and that she was very fond of me.

It seemed clear to me, while talking to Miriam’s mother, that I should go to the National Theatre alone. But I must confess that it felt a little less clear a few minutes after she had put the phone down.

Two people had been killed in the past week. I had stood on my own with the bodies of two young people. Both experiences had made a considerable impression on me. And earlier in the week I had been followed by a man who ostensibly had killed several people. The thought that I might end up dead myself and that this might be my last day on earth was alarming.

But I could feel my adrenalin rising. This all fitted in with the telephone call to the halls of residence yesterday and the voice that had asked for Miriam. And the fact that it was a woman who rang and not a man felt less dangerous. I was now very curious as to who she was. I knew that I would not be able to live with myself if I did not go, and Miriam was later found dead or not found at all. The thought of living with that was worse even than the thought of dying today. Miriam had been injured for life during one of my previous murder investigations, and now apparently had been kidnapped in connection with this one. It was a responsibility that I could not and would not shirk.

I was never in any doubt that I should or would be there at half past eleven. But I was in doubt as to whether I should tell my boss before I went or not. If I did, I was not sure that he would let me go alone, and then I decided that I would not break my promise to Miriam’s mother in what was a desperate situation for her.

By half past ten I had come to the conclusion that I should not go to a meeting of this kind without first telling Patricia. It was unlikely that there would be any negative consequences if she knew, and the chances of getting Miriam back alive were far greater if Patricia could glean more from this than I could.

Patricia answered the telephone after one ring. The fact that she was obviously sitting there waiting triggered a burst of joy in all the darkness and confusion.

I told her in short what had happened and said that I had to go.

There was an unusually long silence. I could not remember Patricia ever having thought for so long when I had called her.

Eventually I said that it was interesting to note that there seemed to be a connection between Per Johan Fredriksen’s death and the kidnapping of Miriam.

Patricia answered swiftly: ‘That is, strictly speaking, only the case if the woman who rang is telling the truth, and is right. But yes, apart from that, it is very interesting.’

Then there was silence again.

‘I do understand, and of course agree, that you must go. But I do not like it one bit,’ she said eventually.

I felt a kindness in Patricia’s concern for me. Out loud I said that if someone wanted to kill me, this was hardly the way to go about it.

‘I don’t think that the perpetrators want to kill you, and I agree, I don’t think they would do it this way if they did. But I still do not like it because everything is so unclear. But there is no option. So good luck and be careful!’ Patricia said in a rush.

She did not put the telephone down straightaway. I had time to say that I really appreciated her concern and promised to be careful.

In a strange way it felt as though we both knew that if we were wrong, this might be the last time we spoke.

So I added two more sentences, apologizing for not having trusted her and thanking her for all the help she had given me in this case and previous investigations.

Patricia said she was sorry that she had not been able to help me enough in time to avoid this dangerous situation. I thought I heard a quiet sob when she said this.

Then we both put down the telephone at the same time.

V

It was now ten to eleven. I realized that it would be impossible to get anything done before half past eleven, and in any case I had no other leads to follow up. I could not bear just sitting here alone with nothing to do, so I decided to have some lunch before I went.

My lunch was not a grand affair. It consisted of a cup of coffee and two Danish pastries that I had bought from the bakers on the way in this morning. The pastries were softer than expected and my appetite really wasn’t there. It felt strange to be eating what could be my last meal in this way, on my own.

There was a knock at the door. I jumped up and opened it.

DI Danielsen was standing outside. He raised a hand in apology and said that he hoped he was not disturbing me. Unfortunately he had nothing new to tell me about the case. He just wanted to say that he was back on duty and would carry on working on the kidnapping case. He also hoped that everything was all right and expressed once more that the kidnapping of a policeman’s fiancée really was a desperate situation.

I thought to myself that Danielsen was possibly also someone who had several faces, and that only when it mattered did you get to see the nicer ones. I felt a twinge of guilt at not telling Danielsen about the tip-off I had just received in connection with the case he was investigating.

So I said that I had nothing new to tell either, but would be glad of his company. He came in and sat down. I offered him one of the pastries. We talked for about ten minutes about this and that – the investigation and life in general.

He said that Miriam’s mother had made a very personable impression and seemed to be a very nice future mother-in-law.

I said that I would indeed be a very fortunate husband, if only Miriam came back. Then I asked how his parents were keeping.

Danielsen looked rather surprised and very happy when I asked this. He said that his father would soon be eighty, and was slow on his feet, but that his mind was still up to speed. His mother was only seventy-six and still cheerful and in good form, despite having a spot of arthritis. They were both pleased and proud that he had achieved such a high rank at such a young age, but were constantly worried that his job might be dangerous. And they were a little too eager to have grandchildren, but you just had to put up with that.

I knew that Danielsen was an only child, so there was not much more to ask him about. I had a fairly clear picture, though, especially when I calculated that his parents must have been somewhat older when they had him.

Fortunately, in return, he asked how my parents were. I told him that they were in good health and that they too worried, from time to time, about the dangers inherent in my job, but that fortunately they also had another child and a grandchild to worry about most of the time.

We finished our short lunch at ten past eleven. I said that unfortunately I had to get on with the investigation and he was tactful enough not to ask where I was going.

When Danielsen had left, I got up and checked that my service gun was loaded and in its holster under my jacket. Then I left the station with quick steps and a pounding chest. It was only a quarter past eleven – and already my heart was hammering.

VI

I got to the National Theatre at twenty-six minutes past eleven. It was fairly busy, as it was a Friday and the weather had improved. People hurried by in different directions, on their way to and from work, or to the tram or bus. I stood with my back to the National Theatre and looked down the main thoroughfare, Karl Johan Street.

It was both exciting and frightening to stand there in a crowd of people in a public space, without knowing who I was waiting for. And it was no less exciting and no less frightening that I also had to keep my eyes peeled for a possible attack from any direction. I glanced over my shoulder a couple of times, without seeing anything to alarm me.

I had no idea who the person I was waiting for was, nor where he or she would come from. My guess was that it was someone I had never seen before, but I kept looking for familiar faces all the same.

I fantasized for a few seconds that Miriam herself would suddenly appear out of the crowd and throw her arms round my neck. And if she did, I told myself, I would throw her up in the air and then carry her in my arms to the Theatre Cafe for a slap-up lunch. But I realized this was nothing more than a dream.

The situation reminded me a little of what I had experienced in my flat last night. The minutes ticked slowly by to three, two, one minute to half past eleven. The difference being that at home I did not fear for my own safety, and that I had known who I was waiting for. Out here, anything was possible and the dangers were unpredictable.

It was half past eleven on the nose when I spotted her. I knew I had seen her before, but it took a couple of seconds to place her. I still could not remember her name, but I remembered very well where I had seen her. Less than twenty-four hours ago.

The interpreter from the Soviet Embassy was walking with quick, neat steps through the people on Karl Johan Street, dressed in a thin jacket, with a handbag in her right hand.

Her face was grave and focused, but she gave a careful smile when she saw me. She was no more than ten yards away, and moved faster to get out of the crowd.

I took three steps forward to meet her.

We were only three or four yards away from each other when I heard the gunshot.

The interpreter gasped and froze mid-step. She stood there swaying on one foot for a moment after the first shot. Then she fell to the ground without a sound after the second shot, which came a mere second later.

And like that, everything had changed and any sense of security was gone. A voice shouted: ‘Murder! They’re shooting!’ and suddenly people were screaming and running in all directions. I threw myself down and pulled out my pistol. I shouted: ‘I’m a policeman – who fired the shot?’ But even as I shouted I realized it was hopeless. I had not even managed to see where the shots came from. And people were running everywhere in panic and fear of their lives. I saw several hats disappearing into the sea of people, but it was impossible to tell if one of them belonged to the man who had followed me earlier in the week.

In a matter of seconds, there were only two people left who were not fleeing. I lay curled up where I had thrown myself down. The interpreter lay lifeless where she had fallen.

I feared that I would be shot myself any moment, but could not see a potential assailant with anything that resembled a gun within range. It appeared that he had used the chance to be swallowed up by the crowd and escape.

There was suddenly a movement that made me jump. It was the fallen interpreter. Her hand was reaching in my direction. Her fingers had lost hold of her bag, which was now lying beside her hand. My first worry was that it might get lost – and then that she might die.

I was instinctively wary of moving closer to the spot where she had been shot. But then, when there was no perpetrator in sight, I took the few steps needed towards her.

It looked like one bullet had hit her in the back, and the other in her cheek. There was blood in both places. Her left eye had closed, but the right was still open. She was not dead – and she recognized me.

‘Bas…’ she whispered, as soon as she recognized my face. Then her voice stopped. But her eye was still staring at me.

I put my arm around her and said: ‘What is it you want to tell me?’

‘Ba…’ she tried again, but her voice gave out. And at the same time, her right eye also slowly closed.

I heard a siren somewhere behind me and hoped that it was an ambulance.

Then I slipped into a peculiar timeless state. I could not say whether five seconds had passed or ten minutes when a man in white suddenly stood there beside me and asked if she was still alive. I did not remember right then that I had touched her. But I heard myself say that she had lost a lot of blood and was not conscious, but that she still had a faint pulse.

Then I took my pistol in one hand and her handbag in the other and withdrew as they lifted her up onto a stretcher and carried her into the ambulance. In my state of shock, I hoped that the interpreter would survive and be able to tell me more. And I hoped that if she did not survive, her bag could tell me something more.

VII

It was ten past twelve. I was sitting in my office with my boss, Danielsen and the handbag.

I had told them the story and criticized myself for not having informed them where I was going. The two others were very understanding. My boss was to the point and said we could talk more about that another day. Danielsen went a bit further and said that, given the situation, he perfectly understood.

Then we looked through the handbag, but all we learned was that there was little there that was of any help. The bag contained her passport, a purse with three ten-krone notes, two one-krone coins and a photograph of an elderly couple we assumed were her parents. That was it. According to her passport, Dr Tatiana Rodionova was twenty-six years old, five foot five, unmarried and childless. She had, if her passport was to be believed, not been abroad before coming to work in Norway.

There was much to indicate that she had intended to tell me the truth about who had killed Per Johan Fredriksen and about what had happened to Miriam – and at the same time, defect. But as yet, no one knew who had shot her. And unless she survived and regained consciousness, no one could know what she had hoped to say to me.

What she had tried to say remained a mystery. The man in the hat had had several names, but as far as we knew, none of them started with ‘Bas’. As was the case with the vice-ambassador and any of the names on the embassy list.

All we had was a possible connection to the Soviet Embassy, but no means of proving that it existed or what kind of connection it was. We received a brief message from the University Hospital that the interpreter was being operated on, and was still in a critical and unstable condition.

Naturally, there were a large number of enquiries from the press about what had happened. Eyewitnesses were telling their stories, and their theories, to anyone who wanted to listen.

At twenty past twelve, my boss gave a concise summary of the situation, having first asked if I needed some hours or days off after this shocking experience. Danielsen would contact the embassy about the interpreter and lead the investigation into her attempted murder, which was connected to the abduction of Miriam.

My boss would himself first ring the prime minister’s office and then send out a press release to confirm that a Soviet citizen linked to the embassy had been seriously injured when she was shot by an unknown gunman near the National Theatre.

I should stay in the vicinity of the police station for the rest of the day, and continue my investigation into the murders of the Fredriksen father and daughter, should there be any development there.

I said that I hoped this could be an important new lead, but that I needed a bit of time to collect myself. Danielsen and my boss then left, each heading in a different direction.

I sat on my own in the office for a couple of minutes. I tried to pull myself together and reflected on the remarkable contrast between the quiet in here and the cacophony of the world outside.

Then I rang Miriam’s mother. I told her in brief what had happened and promised to call her back as soon as there was any other news.

She said she hoped that the interpreter would survive and was relieved to hear that I was unharmed. Then she asked the obvious question: ‘So it is obviously the Soviets who have taken Miriam, but who knows where she is and if she is still alive?’

I promised I would do my utmost to find out. Then I finished the call so that I could telephone Patricia.

VIII

Patricia really was sitting guard today. Once again she picked up the receiver on the first ring, and apparently recognized my breathing, because she started to speak before I had said a word.

‘So glad that you have not been hurt. I heard on the radio that there had been a shooting and that a foreign woman was the only one injured. I presume that was the interpreter you met yesterday?’

I felt a wave of relief when Patricia said this, but also a hint of irritation that she had not said anything when I called her earlier, if she had known what was coming.

I told her quickly what had happened at the National Theatre.

This was met with silence.

‘Some of the connections are becoming clearer now, finally. But there is still more uncertainty than I would like,’ Patricia said eventually.

I told her my opinion without beating around the bush – in other words, that I knew she was reluctant to conclude anything until she was absolutely certain, but, in a situation that was critical for both me and the country, I would ask her to be open now about what she thought.

Patricia let out a deep sigh and said: ‘I can understand that. Just give me a little time to think about the connections and to check something in a book. Ring me back in ten minutes.’

Then she put the receiver down without waiting for an answer. I sat and wondered what book would be able to say anything about all this.

I rang Patricia back exactly ten minutes later, and she did not make me wait.

‘The good news is that I think I can tell you quite a lot about one aspect of the case, and where Miriam is – or at least, where she was yesterday. The problem is that I am not sure how useful it will be.’

This was a sensational, if somewhat confusing, start. I asked her to tell me immediately, and to let me decide whether I could use the information or not.

‘Well, let’s start at the beginning – in other words, with Per Johan Fredriksen. I think it is overwhelmingly likely that the Soviets wanted him dead to minimize the risk that any spy allegations might upset the agreement, which is very important to them. The man in the hat not only came to Norway to commit murder, he also set out to do so on Saturday night. But I am far less certain as to whether he actually did or not. I think he was the man who just stood by and watched, and that someone else got there before him. In which case, the man or woman who killed Fredriksen did it for very different reasons.’

Patricia asked if I was following her so far. I said yes, fascinated, and asked her to continue. Which she did, in a low and intense voice.

‘The interpreter saw the connection when she heard that the newly arrived agent was out the evening that Fredriksen was killed. She got cold feet after that, possibly after doubting the excellence of the Soviet Union for some time. Coming to Norway could have been quite a shock, particularly if she had never been abroad before. She had got to know your fiancée at the university, and had met up with her at yesterday’s lecture. And either then, or at some point later in the day, the interpreter gave your fiancée an envelope with some documents that would prove the connection. It is most likely that they met later on in the day and were seen. Or they may have been seen at the university, if the interpreter was already being followed. Whatever the case, your fiancée was then followed and watched, and they saw her going out, somewhat carelessly, with the envelope in her hand. They struck immediately. I am pretty certain that must be what happened.’

I agreed that it must have been what had happened – although I had not made this connection myself.

‘It is worth noting that the interpreter smelt a rat and was nervous. She walked out with you after the meeting and left the embassy. She may have gone to her flat, but it is more likely that she went to a friend’s or stayed the night in a hotel. Her experience of the KGB and Soviet police meant that she did not trust the Norwegian police, but she did trust you as she had met you and heard about you from your fiancée. She didn’t know if everything had worked out, but tried, without any luck, to ring the halls of residence and then you, when she couldn’t get hold of your fiancée. In the end, she called your fiancée’s mother, whom she knew of by name, and asked her to give you a message about where and when to meet her. Either the interpreter was extremely unfortunate, or they were already on her trail, which is more likely. What is certain is that she definitely had someone hot on her heels and was shot just before she could speak to you.’

I was very impressed, and said so. Then I asked the most important and vital question that she still had not answered: ‘But WHERE is Miriam?’

‘That is of course the most important question now. The book I wanted to check was quite simply a dictionary. I have now gone through all the words that start “bas” and there is only one word that fits here, and that is basement. I would assume that means the embassy basement. It would not be easy for them to find a suitable hiding place in the vicinity at such short notice, and if the basement was anywhere else, the interpreter would be far less likely to know about it. However, it would be risky for them to move Miriam today, as now they must presume that the embassy is being watched.’

‘So in other words, it is more likely that they might kill her instead?’

Patricia sighed on the other end.

‘Clearly that is a possibility, yes. I think they kidnapped her without knowing who she was, simply because they wanted to get the documents back and they had seen her. They should by now have discovered that she is your fiancée. To kill a Norwegian citizen entails a risk, but to kill the fiancée of one of the country’s best-known policemen would be even worse. They probably do not know how much you and the police actually know and can prove. The interpreter’s handbag may prove to be crucial here.’

‘But there is nothing of interest in the handbag,’ I retorted, confused.

Patricia sighed again, but then hurried on with renewed vigour.

‘Unfortunately not. But they do not know that, or what she might have told you, and nor do they know if she is alive or not. They are no doubt wondering how much the Norwegian police know, how much you can prove, and how to deal with the situation. The chances are that Miriam is still being held somewhere in the basement. But it is impossible to prove it and to get her out of there will therefore not be easy. It quickly becomes a matter of how much you believe what I say is right, and if you are willing to risk your career to save your fiancée. A police raid against the embassy would cause a scandal, and if no hostage was found, heads would roll and tensions between the two countries would escalate. On the other hand, it would also be a scandal if a hostage was found in their embassy, and that could quite literally cause heads to roll in the Soviet Union.’

There was a heavy knock at the door as I was listening. I hastily whispered: ‘Thank you for all your help – I will think about it,’ and then put the phone down.

IX

Danielsen and my boss were already on their way in as I put down the receiver. They both looked very serious indeed.

‘Danielsen has some very bad news, and I have some very onerous information,’ my boss told me.

My blood turned to ice and my muscles froze. I sat there, immobile, and stared at Danielsen.

‘She is dead,’ he said, gravely.

‘Who?’ I almost shouted.

Danielsen realized his blunder and threw up his hands. ‘I am so sorry for putting it so badly. We know nothing more about your fiancée. But unfortunately the interpreter died during the operation at the University Hospital about half an hour ago. She did not regain consciousness. The bullet wounds would have been fatal, no matter how soon she had got to hospital, they said.’

I felt a paradoxical relief as soon as he said that it was the interpreter who had died. I had been terrified that he was talking about Miriam and it was a relief to know that nothing I could have done at the National Theatre would have saved the interpreter’s life. But I also felt pained on the part of the interpreter, and realized that this further reduced the chances of getting Miriam back. So I looked back at my boss, without saying anything.

‘My news is not necessarily bad, but both pieces of information are onerous. First, on hearing about the shooting at the National Theatre, the Government has postponed the ratification of the Barents Sea agreement in the Storting indefinitely. And second, the Soviet Embassy has just informed us that they take it very seriously indeed that one of their staff has been shot, and have requested a meeting with the head of the investigation as soon as possible.’

‘They have got something to hide and are playing with high stakes. I think we should first allow ourselves a couple of hours to think about this, and then all three of us should go,’ I said.

They both nodded. But my boss said that we could not delay it too long, with due respect, as he put it, to the embassy, the press, the Government and my fiancée. He suggested that he and I pay another visit to the head of the police security service at two o’clock, and that Danielsen should then come with us to the Soviet Embassy at four.

Danielsen and I quickly agreed. This would give the investigation three hours to produce some evidence – and me three hours to think about the decision I would have to make should no evidence materialize.

X

Nothing more happened between one o’clock and a quarter to two. I sat in my office and waited for a telephone call with good or bad news about Miriam. I had no idea where it would come from though, and, of course, it did not come.

So I sat there alone thinking about what Patricia had said. I found no other explanation that fitted as well as hers, and it seemed more and more likely that she was right. But I could not be sure, and to confront the Soviet Embassy without any evidence was a horrifying prospect.

At the same time it felt like I had a duty to try everything I could to bring Miriam back, without worrying about what the consequences might be for me. She had apparently been kidnapped because of her connection to me, while trying to help me solve the hardest murder case I had ever worked on.

And yet: the thought of being shown to be bluffing, having accused the Soviet Embassy of kidnapping, was terrifying, not least after my last meeting with the vice-ambassador. My career, thus far successful, could crash-land in a scandal if this got out, and result in me being fired. This was a day when I could lose everything: my fiancée, my position and my reputation.

The visit to Victoria Terrace at two o’clock did little to help. Asle Bryne again expressed his guarded sympathy for the situation I found myself in, but could not offer any assistance. He nodded, almost eagerly, to the theory that Soviet agents were behind the kidnapping and today’s murder, and believed that the ‘communists’ were in all likelihood also behind the murders of both Per Johan and Vera Fredriksen. But he had no evidence to substantiate it.

When the question of how the spy allegations had ended up in the press was raised, Asle Bryne again lit his pipe and categorically denied that the leak could have come from the ranks of the police security service. He refused, slightly apologetically and very demonstratively, to give the identity of the police security service’s source with regard to the Fredriksen spy claims. However, when I asked him directly, he could confirm that the source had not been the interpreter, whom he maintained was totally unknown to him and the police security service.

I was back in the office by half past two and once again, sat alone with my dilemma. At a quarter to three, I rang Patricia to tell her about the latest development. I could hardly hope that she had any evidence. And indeed, she did not. She did, however, go to unexpected lengths to advise me as to what I should do.

‘You have to do it. I am more and more convinced that I am right, and it could save your fiancée’s life,’ she said.

I said that I had to think about it, and that it felt like leaping into the unknown.

‘Remember that you can always rely on my support, even if everything goes wrong,’ she said, finishing our telephone call at five to three.

Again I sat there and pondered. To begin with, I was deeply touched by Patricia’s care and consideration for both Miriam and myself. Then I thought about what she had said in parting, and again, I wondered what her motive was. It struck me that Patricia, from her perspective, was perhaps manufacturing a win-win situation, where she would either become my hero because she was right, or would be the only person who would still support me if I lost both my fiancée and my job. I could not bring myself to believe that she really would think the latter, but whatever the case, it was a far more painful alternative for me than for her. So in the midst of it all, I harboured a vague doubt as to Patricia’s intentions. And in a strange way, I was now fighting with a bad conscience about both Patricia and Miriam.

Two further conversations did not make things any easier or the pressure any less. Miriam’s mother rang to ask me if there was any news. I told her that the interpreter had died and that I was going to the embassy in an hour, but there was no news, for better or worse, about Miriam herself. Her mother finished by saying: ‘We’re losing hope. But we are very grateful for everything you are doing.’ There is no doubt that she meant well, but it did not make my situation any easier. I sat with the telephone in my hand, feeling ever gloomier and more and more uncertain.

Two minutes later, a woman from the switchboard knocked on my door. She said that the newspapers had started to ring and asked if it was true that my fiancée had disappeared, and if so, might it have something to do with the Fredriksen case, the day’s murder and the oil agreement?

I asked her to come with me to Danielsen’s office. We quickly agreed on a two-line standard response: we confirmed that my fiancée was missing and that an investigation was underway, but that it was too early to comment on what had happened.

The switchboard lady then took this back with her. I stood and looked questioningly at Danielsen. He shook his head a fraction.

‘Nothing more to report, I’m afraid. We do not know any more about your fiancée, but we do know a bit more about the interpreter. According to the embassy, she lived in a studio flat not far from the embassy itself, but her landlady had not seen her since yesterday morning. A hotel on one of the side streets off Karl Johan called after the announcement of her death to say that they thought she had booked in there overnight. A slightly out-of-breath young woman had suddenly shown up there the evening before, without a reservation and without any luggage. She had paid in cash and seemed very nervous. She said she was called Hanne Hansen and spoke very good Norwegian, but did not have any ID and the receptionist noticed some Russian letters on her jacket. She went down to the reception twice in the evening and once again in the morning to make some short phone calls. Otherwise, as far as the hotel knew, she stayed in her room until she checked out at a quarter past eleven. A man had called in the morning and explained that his mentally unstable wife had run away, but they refused to give out any information about their guests. This enquiry could well have been about the interpreter and would indicate that they were looking for her. But it is still not hard evidence.’

I felt relief surge through my body as I listened to Danielsen. It was clearly the interpreter, and fitted well with the assumption that they were looking for her – and that in turn fitted well with the scenario that Patricia had outlined. When Danielsen stopped talking, I could still hear her voice in my head.

I stood there with Danielsen in front of my eyes and Patricia’s voice in my ears, then together we walked pensively over to my boss’s office and asked him if we could come in for a minute. I told him the main points of Patricia’s reasoning – without of course mentioning her name.

We sat there and looked at each other – and then at the clock on the wall. It was twenty to four. Whereas time had dragged unbearably earlier in the day, it now suddenly seemed to be racing.

‘Impressive thinking in such a demanding situation. It may well be the truth, but we still have no evidence,’ my boss said, slowly.

Once again, I got unexpected help from Danielsen.

‘Good thinking, and I think you are right. But it would be terrible if K2’s fiancée is with the communists and we knew and did nothing about it,’ he said.

My boss and I suddenly sighed in unison. He spoke first.

‘We will have to go soon, if we are going to be on time. We will just have to assess the situation there and then as things unfold,’ he said.

Then he stood up without waiting for an answer. Neither Danielsen nor I said anything. We followed him in silence. None of us spoke during the short drive to the embassy.

XI

The table was set with vodka, water and cakes for five, rather than four. Otherwise, everything was the same as it had been the last time we were shown into the meeting room at the embassy. We were met by the same receptionist and shown along the corridor by the same guide. There was still no emotion to be seen on their faces. And again we were shown to places under the huge portrait of Brezhnev. There was no one sitting in the other chairs when we arrived this time, either.

The interpreter and vice-ambassador arrived at the same time. The vice-ambassador was very definitely the same, his handshake if anything a little firmer than before and his voice even louder and faster.

Naturally, the interpreter was new, and I felt sad when I saw her come in. She was not as dark, but all the more serious, and closer to fifty than thirty. She was also twice the size. Her handshake was weak and her voice hesitant when she started to interpret the vice-ambassador’s first volley.

‘The vice-ambassador welcomes you back and thanks you for making the time on what must be a very busy day for you. This is, of course, a very upsetting time for us at the embassy. One of our dear colleagues has been killed on the street in broad daylight, and wicked rumours published in the press have meant that the agreement, which is so important to both our countries, has not been ratified. We hope that the matter will soon be resolved and that this is no more than a temporary postponement. Otherwise, the good relations enjoyed by the Soviet Union and Norway could be jeopardized.’

The last sentence sounded akin to a threat of war. And in my already fraught frame of mind, I found this very provoking, especially when he spoke of the dead interpreter as a dear colleague. The situation suddenly resembled a game of chess, where the ambassador was playing with the white pieces and had opened with two very aggressive moves.

My boss started tentatively and diplomatically by giving his condolences for their loss, and assuring the vice-ambassador that the investigation would be given the highest priority. He then asked what measures the embassy would like to see taken.

The answer came fast and hard from the vice-ambassador, and then somewhat more slowly via the interpreter.

‘The vice-ambassador thanks you for your sympathies. It is hoped that the press will be reprimanded as soon as possible and that there is an official statement to clarify that there is no suspicion that the crimes committed can in any way be linked to representatives of the Soviet state.’

I looked at my boss, and did not envy him his job.

He replied tersely that in a democracy, the police did not usually reprimand the free press in this way, and as long as the investigation was ongoing, it was problematic to make categorical statements about who had not committed the crimes.

So far, we were covering the same ground as last time. It felt as though the game had stalled. But then the vice-ambassador made another aggressive move.

‘The vice-ambassador finds it hard to understand why the police cannot publicly state that there is nothing to indicate that representatives of the Soviet Union are in any way involved in the crimes in question. Unless of course there are grounds for suspicion. And in that case, the vice-ambassador would like to be given the opportunity to clear this up here and now.’

This was a very aggressive move, which made for a moment of drama.

My boss took his time. Danielsen stepped in.

‘There is one crime that complicates the situation there, and which could serve to strengthen the press’s critical focus. A young female student, who it seems had contact with the deceased interpreter through the university, disappeared last night in uncertain circumstances and has not been seen since. We are concerned that if this remains unresolved, it might draw attention and result in a further postponement and, at worst, a cancellation of the agreement.’

It was a small counter-attack that made our opponent pause and think for a few moments, but no longer. The answer came just as fast and hard.

‘The vice-ambassador says that would be a very unfortunate situation indeed, but can only assure you that he and the ambassador know nothing about the woman. He would again like to be given the opportunity to clear up any misunderstandings if the police have grounds not to believe him.’

Yet another fast and aggressive move – as well as a challenging ultimatum.

I looked at Danielsen, who looked back at me. My boss sat quietly between us and said nothing.

Danielsen gave me a quick nod.

It crossed my mind that it was now more like a game of bridge, where no one knew for certain what cards the other players were holding.

I heard the voices of Miriam’s mother and Patricia talking over each other in my head. I thought of Miriam as I had last seen her, when she disappeared into the night on her own.

And I told myself that I might lose my job, but I had to do everything I could to save my fiancée – and that I would always have Patricia’s support.

So I turned towards the vice-ambassador, hesitated for a brief second, then said: ‘The police, of course, are not in a position to say whether this happened with the vice-ambassador’s approval or not. But, unfortunately, we have strong indications not only that employees from the embassy have been involved in the kidnapping of the woman in question, but also that she is being held here at the embassy.’

There was silence for a few moments. The interpreter swallowed hard and seemed to struggle to find the right words. The vice-ambassador looked at me, unable to understand, then barked a sharp comment at the interpreter. She answered in Russian – even more slowly, as far as I could make out.

Then time stopped completely – in much the same way that it had during the shooting at the National Theatre earlier in the day. Later I realized that it might only have been five seconds, but it felt like a lifetime that the vice-ambassador and I sat looking at each other.

His face was carved in stone, without a twitch of movement. I did not hear a sound from my boss or Danielsen. And as far as I could tell from my peripheral vision, neither of them nodded or shook their head. They had moved to the sidelines. Suddenly it was a game between the vice-ambassador and me. Which moved on, eventually, after a small eternity, when the vice-ambassador downed half a glass of vodka, and then answered.

‘The audacity of this accusation leaves the vice-ambassador speechless and dry-mouthed. He hopes that the police realize that any kind of police operation against the embassy would provoke strong reactions from the Soviet Union and considerable attention in other countries, and that it would have very negative consequences for those responsible on the Norwegian side.’

I worried that my boss would contradict me, but he sat there, calm as ever. So I hurried on.

‘That would certainly be the case if the police, after searching the embassy, did not have any evidence of serious criminal activity on the embassy’s part. But it would be a very different matter if the police did find evidence that employees of the embassy had committed a serious crime. That would also draw a lot of attention and could have very negative consequences for those responsible on the Soviet side – regardless of whether they knew about the matter or not.’

I was pushing my luck, hinting that we had evidence that we did not have. But I was now totally convinced that it was true. And this was reinforced when the interpreter again hesitated and the vice-ambassador again was silent for a few seconds after listening to the translation.

‘The vice-ambassador denies any knowledge of the matter, and stills finds it hard to believe that anything like this could happen without him knowing about it. But given the seriousness of the matter, he will of course investigate. If the police have any evidence of criminal activity, he hopes that the police might be able to tell him where in the embassy the kidnapped person might be hidden.’

‘In the basement,’ I replied, short and sweet, having first listened to the translation.

I felt an almost wild sense of triumph go to my head. Time stopped again. The vice-ambassador looked straight at me and raised his eyebrows in his otherwise stony face in something that resembled both surprise and fear. He downed the other half of his glass of vodka and when he spoke again, it was more slowly and in a quieter voice. The interpreter also dropped her voice in line with his.

‘The vice-ambassador hopes that it will transpire that no one in the embassy has betrayed its trust and that the young woman will turn up alive and unharmed sometime this evening… and, if this was to happen, he hopes that the investigation could soon be closed.’

An enormous cloud of relief enveloped me. Miriam was alive and unharmed. And our game of chess was definitely about to turn in my favour. My opponent on the other side of the table was no longer thinking about how to avoid losing, but instead how he could disguise it.

I turned and looked over at my boss. Luckily, he was on the ball.

‘If the missing young lady comes back unharmed this evening, there is every reason to believe that the investigation into that part of the case will be closed.’

Without any hesitation, Danielsen nodded in agreement. As did I.

The vice-ambassador thought about it for a few seconds more, then took two more slugs of vodka from the interpreter’s glass. Followed by another short volley.

‘As far as the death of our colleague is concerned, the vice-ambassador is still very saddened. He does, however, fully understand that it can be difficult to solve murders that are committed in public places, and would not criticize the Norwegian police in any way if this should prove to be the case.’

It was a cunning, fast move. The offer of understanding was in practice a suggestion that the investigation would be closed without finding the murderer. But it was hard to give a negative response.

My boss said: ‘Thank you.’ And we all nodded.

At the same time, I thought about the interpreter who had sat here with us the day before and who had been shot in front of my very eyes this morning. It did not sit comfortably. But we had absolutely no evidence in connection with her death. And my picture of the interpreter, who I had only met briefly and did not know, faded as soon as I thought of my fiancée. Tatiana was a foreigner with no family in Norway, who was now gone forever. Miriam was Norwegian, she had family here – and apparently she was alive.

The vice-ambassador nodded gravely – and then fired another round.

‘On another note: the vice-ambassador has the impression that the embassy is now under police surveillance, no doubt with the best intentions after today’s murder. However, the vice-ambassador finds this troubling. Would it be possible to have the surveillance lifted from this evening? The vice-ambassador hopes that it might help to resolve the matter in the best way for everyone.’

The message was clear: the embassy wanted to ensure that the coast was clear to remove something or someone from the premises. It could well be that they wished to transport the man who had committed the murder, but it was also likely that they were looking for a way to release Miriam without creating a scandal.

I was not aware that the embassy was under surveillance, and I could not assess the implications of the question.

Danielsen and I both looked at our boss, who once again was quick to respond.

‘It is a routine procedure when a foreign national is attacked in this way that extra measures are put in place to safeguard the embassy. If the embassy so wishes, we can certainly lift the measure temporarily – between, say, seven and nine o’clock this evening.’

The ambassador did not say any more after listening to the translation. He just held out his hand – first to me, then to my boss, and then Danielsen. Then he stood up to leave.

I felt intoxicated with relief and perhaps emboldened, given these latest developments. And so I played my final card, with the vice-ambassador towering above me.

‘One last thing regarding the murder of Fredriksen, which it is in everyone’s interest to wrap up as quickly as possible: if we can arrest the person responsible, we will of course then confirm that the murder is in no way connected to the Soviet Embassy. Sometimes embassy staff at various levels can be ordered abroad at short notice. We have reason to believe that the person we discussed when we were here last, might coincidently have been at the scene of the crime, without necessarily having anything to do with the murder. But we do have reason to believe that he was there, and therefore need a statement from him about what he saw.’

It was a daring move. But before I had a chance to be frightened myself, it proved to be a trump card in every sense. The vice-ambassador stood there without saying a word, swaying unsteadily.

It crossed my mind that he also might be a man of many faces. Perhaps he also had a wife and children, or fiancée, whom he missed. And perhaps the pressure on him had been greater than the pressure on me. If I had just risked my job for the case, it could be that he had risked both his freedom and his life.

I had time to think all this because he hesitated again – and still did not answer. He nodded down at me, shook my hand again and then walked out with quick heavy steps.

We sat in silence even after he had left the room, until the new interpreter stood up and said: ‘I can follow you out.’

The glasses and cakes on our side of the table were untouched, and yet it felt like we had had a lot to chew on.

The new interpreter followed us to the main entrance, but remained inside herself. I had barely noticed that she was there. All of a sudden I started to wonder what she made of it all. But as soon as she was out of sight, it left my mind. I had too many other people to worry about – alive and dead, but most of all, one who had disappeared.

XII

We said nothing until we were in the safety of the car. As he turned on the engine, my boss said: ‘Congratulations once again, Kristiansen. That was a daring and impressive performance in what was a critical situation. Your theory proved to be right. I think you will have your fiancée back this evening and we got as much as we could have hoped for from the situation. We can get on with our jobs and the investigation, and leave the politicians to assess the consequences for them.’

Danielsen also congratulated me on how I had dealt with it, but was rather curt. Once again, I felt the rivalry between us. But I was happy to forgive him today of all days. Especially when he added his sincere wish that my fiancée would turn up unharmed this evening.

I remarked somewhat sheepishly that my greatest fear now was that if surveillance was lifted, the Soviets could move Miriam from the embassy without releasing her.

My boss somewhat patronizingly shook his head.

‘I understand, but I don’t think that you need to worry. First of all, they clearly believe that we have some kind of evidence, and second, both the vice-ambassador and I know perfectly well that we will not stop watching the embassy. We will know who leaves the embassy this evening and where they go. Only, we will not use it for anything – as long as your fiancée shows up.’

I felt reassured. And even though the anxiety and uncertainty still lingered in my body, in my head, I was increasingly convinced that Miriam really would come back this evening. For a moment or two, I thought about Patricia and how she would react. Then my thoughts moved on to a third woman – the interpreter who had been shot right in front of me this morning.

‘The business with the interpreter is very hard,’ I said carefully, as we pulled up in front of the police station.

My boss turned around and looked at me with his most inscrutable expression.

‘Yes, but we could not have saved her. There is a cold war going on out there, and it has claimed the lives of many in many different countries. The interpreter was a little foreign bird who landed in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her execution was professional and the result a success. As we were not able to arrest the killer on the spot or get any description of him, we have in practice no means of solving the murder. The newspapers will write about it tomorrow, and maybe at the start of next week, but the interest will die down, certainly if we now manage to solve the other murders soon. The interpreter was Russian, and it would appear that she was killed by another Russian, and the Soviet Embassy is well aware of that. The Soviets are obviously not going to complain if the case is not solved, and it is not likely that anyone in Norway will either. The interpreter’s death is a tragedy for her and her family in the Soviet Union, but for us, it is the least important crime in a complex case. The most important thing right now is that you get your fiancée back. The next most important thing is that we find out who killed Per Johan Fredriksen and his daughter.’

And with that, Danielsen stopped the car.

On my way into the station, I thought that my boss was right in many ways. The interpreter could not have been saved, and it was apparently a Soviet crime against a Soviet citizen. And in that sense, it was less our case than the others were. But the woman had been living here. It was here she had first of all tried to help me solve a crime and then tried to save her own life. And it was here, right in front of my very eyes and hundreds of others, that she had been shot. And, I thought to myself, I had seen another side of my boss – a more cynical and less likeable face.

I remembered the photograph of the elderly couple in her wallet, and wondered if the young Tatiana’s parents were still alive behind the Iron Curtain. According to her passport, she had been unmarried and did not have children. But there might very well be a boyfriend somewhere who did not yet know that she was dead, and would never know why she died.

It was an uncomfortable thought. But then, a moment later, I looked at my hand and a picture of Miriam and her engagement ring filled my head.

My watch said it was a quarter past five. I had several nerve-wracking hours ahead of me.

XIII

After a few minutes at the station, I ascertained that the hours would be insufferably long if I was to stay there all evening. And I could not bring myself to ring Miriam’s mother to tell her the good news. The thought of maybe having to call her again a few hours later to tell her that her daughter had died was simply unbearable.

There was no new information about the Fredriksen case waiting for me. I spent a while pondering over who might be behind those murders if it was not a Soviet agent, but I could not really concentrate.

I asked my boss for permission to take a couple of hours off in lieu to go out and get something to eat. My boss was himself on his way home for supper, and agreed straightaway.

Then I rang Patricia. I told her that after our meeting at the Soviet Embassy, there was hope that Miriam would come back, and that some of the information we got in connection with the Fredriksen case reinforced her theory.

Patricia sounded quite jolly when she replied: ‘Well, that might give grounds for a quiet celebration for us both. Come for supper, if you have the time and inclination – before your fiancée can be expected.’

This was said with an almost jokey undertone. I felt so grateful to Patricia, and was extremely curious to hear what she might say about the remaining mysteries. So I said yes.

I was shown into Patricia’s library at a quarter to six. The asparagus soup was already on the table. I thought to myself that either the kitchen here worked at record speed, or they had had a three-course meal ready in case I should come. I guessed it was the latter, and after what had been an unusually demanding Friday, I greatly appreciated it. As soon as I looked at the food, I realized that for the first time today, I was hungry.

We gave each other a warm hug as soon as I came in. Patricia was wearing a green blouse that was very light for the time of year and revealed a fair amount of skin. The thought that another man stood between us hit me hard at that moment.

I quickly retreated and once again felt a stab of guilt in relation to the woman who was sitting opposite and my fiancée. It did not make matters any better that my fiancée first of all was still being held hostage, and second, had no idea that I was here.

After a somewhat hesitant start, we had a very nice meal. I was still tense, but naturally also very relieved, following the afternoon’s developments and at the prospect of getting Miriam back alive and unharmed. Patricia quickly regained her usual conceited and self-assured air. But I also noted in her a sense of relief that her theory had proved to be right.

Patricia ate the asparagus soup and beef entrecote with a healthy appetite, but listened intently when I recounted our meeting at the Soviet Embassy. She nodded appreciatively, especially when I mentioned my parting shot to the vice-ambassador.

‘Excellent. So, it is very likely that your fiancée will appear again soon, and the murder of the interpreter can be seen as solved, even though no one has been arrested. The man in the hat will soon be out of the country, which is considerably more satisfactory, so long as he did not kill either Per Johan or Vera Fredriksen. Something that I am fairly certain he did not. But he was at the scene of the crime when Fredriksen died and anything he can tell us could be decisive to solving the case.’

I asked how close we were to finding the solution – and without thinking, begged Patricia to tell me what she thought. Just then, the maid came in to clear away the main course and serve the dessert. When we were alone again, Patricia gave a self-satisfied, teasing smile as she spooned a piece of chocolate cake into her mouth.

‘I made an exception earlier on today, as your fiancée’s life was at risk. But now that it is simply a matter of solving a murder that has already been committed, you will have to forgive me for not wanting to say anything before I am certain enough of my reasoning not just to be guessing. There are still several candidates from different circles who could have killed Per Johan Fredriksen.’

I picked up on this and asked her which candidates she still had on her list of potential murderers. And to my surprise, she answered.

‘The problem is exactly that, that there are still a few too many who cannot be ruled out. Other than the boy on the red bicycle, among the men we have the office manager, Odd Jørgensen, the accountant, Erling Svendsen, Hauk Rebne Westgaard and Kjell Arne Ramdal. And among the women, we have Harriet Henriksen, Ane Line Fredriksen, Vera Fredriksen and Solveig Ramdal. Plus the person who I think it most likely is.’

Patricia said this with a sly smile. But then she was suddenly serious again, and started picking at her chocolate cake.

I assumed that the person Patricia believed to be the most likely was a woman, as I could not think of any other men she had left out. More specifically, I thought of the only one from the 1932 friends that she had not mentioned, namely the widow, Mrs Oda Fredriksen. But Patricia shook her head when I mentioned this possibility.

‘No, no. I think you can categorically rule out that Mrs Fredriksen had anything to do with the death of Per Johan Fredriksen. The money will go to the children, she had been devoted to her husband and her life had revolved around him for nearly forty years, and what is more, it is clear that at the time of his death he was closer to leaving his lover than his wife. And in any case, she has an alibi. On the other hand, I do not think we should rule out-’

She stopped abruptly, with an arch smile – without saying who it was we should not rule out.

‘Besides,’ she said, teasing me, ‘who is a chameleon person, and who is not, is very significant. I think that there are still several chameleon people we have not yet discovered in the circle around the late Per Johan Fredriksen. In fact, I think there is only one person who was there in 1932 who is not a chameleon person. And that might also be very significant. But you will have to wait to find out who that is.’

Patricia looked coy and charming, even seductively secretive when she said this.

I had a sudden impulse to march over to her, pick her up out of the wheelchair, put her down on the table, then look her straight in the eye and demand that she tell me who she thought had committed the other two murders. I was convinced that she had her ideas and that what she believed would be right.

I also got the feeling that were I to do that, Patricia would be more than pleased. But I realized that it would be wrong in every way all the same. The fact that my situation and mood had changed from bleak pessimism yesterday evening to more or less cheerful optimism now, was almost entirely thanks to Patricia. I had no right to ask anything more of her today.

And any more physical contact would feel akin to betrayal. After all, I still had a fiancée who had no idea that I was sitting here with Patricia. And even though I did not like it, and found it hard to understand what she saw in him, I had to respect the fact that Patricia had a boyfriend now – and be grateful for the fact that he knew nothing about my contact with her either.

At a quarter to seven, I said that I should perhaps head back to the station. Patricia raised her hand. She said that it was unlikely that anything would happen before half past seven at the earliest, if the police surveillance was to be lifted at seven.

I found it hard to argue with this logic, and it was without a doubt more tempting to spend the nerve-wracking waiting time with Patricia than on my own at the station. So I stayed where I was for a little while longer.

When the clock struck seven, we raised our glasses to what we hoped would be the beginning of the end of the case. I had water, and Patricia poured herself some white wine.

At five past seven, I looked at the clock again. This time Patricia nodded her agreement.

‘It may still take some time before anything happens, but you should go to the station just in case.’

At first I thought her words sounded matter-of-fact – as though we had been married for years and I was about to go to work. But then I caught the nervous undertone in her voice, and it reawakened my own anxiety.

I thought to myself that there was absolutely no reason to be nervous just because Patricia was. I knew from before that she was far more sensitive than she appeared to be. I could feel her nerves spilling over into me – and suddenly I just wanted to get out.

I rounded the table, thanked her again for her help and gave her another hug. This did not make things any better: her frail body trembled against mine. I pulled back a little too fast and headed for the door, but stopped when I unexpectedly heard Patricia’s voice again.

‘I will stay here, then, and hope for the best, and will be waiting from first thing in the morning. I would appreciate it if you could let me know that all is well with your fiancée. Even though the documents and information she will give you will no doubt be of interest, I doubt that she will have anything conclusive to tell you. The Soviet aspect of the case seems to be closed. But ring me as soon as you hear what and who the man with the hat saw on the evening that Per Johan Fredriksen was killed.’

I promised to do that. Then I left, with my heart hammering in my throat, to wait for Miriam to turn up. And for the first time, I thought that I would actually have liked to stay a bit longer with Patricia.

It was now dark outside and the air felt colder than when I had arrived. It struck me that I still did not know where Miriam was out there in the dark. I did not even know for certain that she was alive and only had the vice-ambassador’s word that she would come back, if she was still alive. In fact, I did not even have that, as the whole conversation had been indirect, with no concrete promises. The anxiety sank deep as I sat all alone in my car, surrounded by darkness. And it was followed by an uncontrollable impatience as I swore at every red light on my way to the station.

XIV

My mood had been ever-changing all through this long day. By the time I got to 19 Møller Street at half past seven, I was full, but my mind was distracted and my nerves were frayed.

I popped my head round the door to Danielsen’s office, as he was still on duty, but he just shrugged and held up his hands. So I carried on to my own office – which had now become a waiting room. I tried to pass the time by thinking about the Fredriksen case, but it still just seemed to be a chaotic ocean of possibilities that floated and merged together. I always came back to Miriam – and was constantly changing my mind about the chances of her being released.

By ten to eight, I was seriously worried that she would not be released this evening, and at eight I shed a few tears because suddenly I was sure that she had been killed yesterday. By a quarter past eight, I was optimistic once more, having relived the meeting at the embassy. By twenty-five past, my mood was plummeting again and I found it alarming that so much time had passed without anything happening.

At thirty-two minutes past eight, as I was trying to pull myself back up by thinking about the meeting at the embassy, I jumped when the door to my office was opened without warning.

Danielsen was standing there.

‘There is a phone call in my office that I think you should take,’ he said.

I ran past him and through his door, lifted the receiver from the desk and with forced calm, said: ‘Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen, how can I help you?’

I heard a very clear man’s voice speaking in a deliberate tone on the other end and I knew straightaway that I had heard it before, but I couldn’t remember where.

‘I am calling about a very confused young woman who was taken here in an ambulance after she was found wandering around up by the university, in a bewildered state. At first we wondered if she was drunk, but it turned out that she was under the influence of some chemical or other. She was not able to tell us her name. But I recognized her from the time she spent here in 1970, and the contents of her handbag confirmed that she was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen. So I thought I should let the police know, in case she has been a victim of crime. My name is Berg and I am the senior doctor here at Ullevål Hospital, and if you are Detective Inspector Kristiansen, I believe we have been in contact before, remarkably enough, in connection with the same patient.’

In my overwrought state, I did not recognize the doctor until he said his name. But I was ridiculously relieved and almost cried with joy when he did. Bernt Berg had appeared to be incapable of feeling, but in fact he was a warm-hearted and dedicated doctor, and in the summer of 1970, he had saved Miriam when, in connection with one of my previous cases, she had been shot and had hovered between life and death.

I said that I knew who he was and that it was very nice to be remembered by him, and that he had indeed done the right thing by calling here. As he did not respond to this, I asked how the patient was and when it might be possible to see her.

‘The police are welcome to see her whenever they like, if that is of interest. She is asleep right now. She was semiconscious when she was found and should be left to sleep off the effects of the drug, so it probably will not be possible to talk to her before later on tomorrow morning.’

The senior doctor’s voice was like a machine, steady and reassuring – just as I remembered it on the odd occasion that I thought about the drama in 1970 that had brought Miriam and I together. It felt strange, almost moving, that we should now be brought together again by the same doctor. Above all, it was a huge relief that she had been found and was in good hands at Ullevål. My voice was shaky all the same, when I asked Bernt Berg how he assessed the patient’s condition this time.

He replied in an equally calm and unruffled voice: ‘It would seem that there is no danger at all. A young and healthy person should be able to cope without any permanent damage, and there is nothing to indicate that she has been harmed in any way. There are, however, effusions of blood on her wrists which indicate that her hands have been bound for some time, and that would be particularly uncomfortable for anyone who already has shoulder and neck injuries. She could barely move her arms when we found her. But the mobility will gradually return. We will keep her in hospital over the weekend, as she needs rest and quiet. But as far as I can see, there is no reason to fear any long-term physical harm other than the injuries she already had. And we will have to wait until she wakes up to see how she is mentally. As I said, when she was admitted she was terribly confused and kept repeating the same words over and over again. Though I have to say, I am not sure of their significance.’

My heart felt lighter and lighter – but then sank a little when he said this. I immediately asked what the word was.

His reply was short and deadpan: ‘The library book. At first I thought I had misheard, but then she said it again, several times.’

It was impossible not to laugh when he said this. I apologized and explained that I knew the young woman in question rather well, as she was now my fiancée. She had been kidnapped, she loved books, and when she was abducted, she had dropped a library book. The fact that she remembered and was worried about the library book showed that she was pretty much herself.

He said, just as seriously, that there was little need to worry then and that I would be allowed to go in and see her sleeping for a few minutes if I came by the hospital in the next hour or two.

I said that I would do that, and ended the call.

I stood there with my ear to the receiver for a moment. And then a wave of euphoria washed over me that needed physical expression. I leapt up and hit the ceiling with joy.

It was only when I landed that I remembered I was in Danielsen’s office and not my own, and that Danielsen was standing right behind me.

He took it with good humour, as did I. We generously and jubilantly congratulated one another.

On my way out of the office, I asked how many of the past twenty-four hours he had been on duty. He smiled briefly and said: ‘Fifteen. I think I can perhaps go home with a clear conscience now.’

I thanked him profusely and said that he could certainly stay at home all weekend with a clear conscience. He replied that he would like to go home now, but, if it was all right with me, he would come back again tomorrow to help with the Fredriksen investigation. I told him I appreciated that.

I felt tears of joy flood my eyes when I went back into my own office. And seconds later they were streaming down my cheeks as I spoke to Miriam’s mother in Lillehammer and told her and the family that Miriam had been found. She asked when they could visit Miriam in hospital tomorrow. I said that I was about to go up there and they could try later on tomorrow morning. We thanked one another three times before we finally put down the phone.

Then I rang Patricia. It was a shorter and far less emotional telephone call. She thanked me for letting her know that Miriam had turned up and said that she was pleased, but was so casual and swift about it that I started to wonder if her boyfriend was there.

‘Well, a summary of today would read: great relief, another death and some useful information. Ring me as soon as you know any more tomorrow,’ she said, and put down the telephone.

I sat there and wondered if she had actually invited her boyfriend down, as soon as I had gone – or if she was actually jealous of Miriam. And I have to admit, despite my joy at having Miriam back, I found the latter more appealing than the first.

XV

I felt an almost indescribable joy and relief as I stood by Miriam’s hospital bed with the senior doctor, Bernt Berg, at around half past nine.

Miriam was, as far as I could see, whole and there was no sign of any physical harm. She was lying with her bandaged arms by her sides, unmoving, but the effusions round her wrists were not as bad as I had feared. She looked as though she was sleeping as peacefully as she did at home, with her hair spread out over the pillow in the same way.

With the senior doctor’s silent consent, I gently stroked Miriam’s cheek. After such a dramatic and emotional day, I had to touch her to feel that she really had come back alive. It worked. Her cheek was warm and soft against my finger.

Just then, there was a slight movement in her lips, as though deep in her sleep she knew that I was there, and was trying to smile.

I had a few words with Dr Bernt Berg in a side room. He believed that everything was fine and that the patient should be able to converse by the late morning or afternoon tomorrow and would no doubt enjoy getting visitors.

It was a strange experience to see Miriam in the same hospital with the same senior doctor as two years before. But I was delighted to see her alive. As I walked down the stairs on my way out, I realized that the dominant feeling was one of relief, whereas excitement and fascination had been the stronger two years before.

XVI

I ended my slightly surreal Friday, 24 March 1972 quietly, alone in my flat at Hegdehaugen.

I ate a couple of dry slices of bread as I watched the final news of the day on television at eleven o’clock.

Miriam’s disappearance and return, which had been the day’s great event for me, had not made it into the news. Another mass demonstration against the EEC in Bergen fortunately dominated the programming. The rest focused on the shooting by the National Theatre and the postponed signing of the Barents Sea agreement.

The prime minister, Trond Bratten, was interviewed. He stated in a characteristically laconic and serious manner that it would be irresponsible of the Norwegian Labour Party to submit such an important agreement to the Storting, when incidents such as the killing of Fredriksen and the shooting at the National Theatre remained unresolved. The police would now be given the time necessary to finish the investigation and only then would the agreement be submitted for debate.

There was broad support for this in the Storting, but leading members of the Norwegian Communist Party were critical of a postponement in signing the agreement with the Soviet Union. A couple of SPP politicians were critical of the NCP politicians’ criticism, and feared that any prospects of cooperation to the left of the Labour Party in connection with the general election in 1973 were now slim.

It struck me as I watched that even though my personal drama was hopefully now over after a nightmarish twenty-four hours, I was still investigating two murder cases that could be of considerable importance both nationally and internationally. And I felt remarkably calm about it. All that remained, now that the part of the case that involved a foreign superpower was resolved and my fiancée had been safely returned, was a classic murder mystery. It was, to be fair, an unusually complicated murder investigation, with several parties involved and more possible sidetracks than in any of my other cases. And yet I felt certain that we would solve it in the course of the weekend. Patricia had been so confident and happy, almost lighthearted, this evening – it could only be a good sign.

A quarter of an hour after I had turned off the television, I found myself worrying largely about Patricia’s boyfriend. I accepted that Johan Fredriksen was clearly innocent of both murders, and I respected the fact that he was Patricia’s boyfriend. But I reserved the right to dislike him and their relationship. The fact that I was jealous that Patricia had a lover bothered me so much that I had to ask myself if my feelings would have been any stronger if it had been Miriam who had one. I remembered Miriam’s little smile in her sleep at Ullevål and felt almost sick at the thought. But I still had to admit that the answer was not a clear-cut yes.

In the end, I had to acknowledge that I found myself caught in a painful and classic dilemma. Regardless of what happened now in the investigation, I still had a fundamental problem, in that I now, in two different ways, was very fond of two different women. Both had sacrificed a lot for me, and I had had different strong and emotional experiences with both of them. Before the start of this murder investigation, I had been certain of which one I could not live without. I was no longer so sure.

Paradoxically, the fact that Patricia now had a boyfriend was apparently what was needed for me to realize how much she meant to me. On a number of previous occasions, after her father’s death in particular, I had found myself thinking how much easier it would be if Patricia had more friends than just me. And now that she did, I almost instinctively reacted negatively. And my dilemma as to what I should tell Miriam about my contact with Patricia would once again become pressing the moment Miriam woke up.

So Friday, 24 March 1972 had indeed provided great relief, another death and some useful information. It had been a rollercoaster ride to the very end. I fell asleep just before midnight, alone in my bed, with alternating pictures of Patricia and Miriam in my mind.

The picture that stayed just before I dropped off was of the sleeping Miriam as she tried to smile at me from her deep slumber at Ullevål Hospital. I tossed and turned in bed more than usual before eventually I fell asleep.