Chameleon People - [2]

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

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

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

II

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

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

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

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

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

Then the doorbell rang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who is after you?’ I asked.

Just then there was another ring on the bell.

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

‘The police.’