Chameleon People - [5]

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

DAY TWO: A Puzzling Suspect – and an Old Mystery

I

It was ten past nine on Sunday, 19 March 1972. Following an early breakfast, I was now sitting in an interview room at the main police station, opposite the young lad we all presumed was the murderer.

I asked for a third time if he wanted a lawyer or to talk to someone from social services.

Again, he dismissed my question with a flap of his thin hand, which otherwise remained flat on the table between us.

The first two times I asked what he was called, he just gave me a condescending look and did not answer. The third time he replied with a heavy lisp: ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

We still had no idea who the mysterious boy was. He had nothing with him to give any indication of his identity. No parents, or anyone else, had called to enquire after him. His fingerprints had not been recognized in any records.

It was clear that the boy on the red bicycle heard my questions and could make himself understood, despite his speech impediment. His attitude to me seemed to be positive. And yet he just sat there and stared at me, his face completely blank. And he continued to do this when I asked, yet again, where he lived and what his parents’ names were.

I went a step further and asked: ‘You said yesterday that he was dead when you came back. Does that mean that you spoke to him, then went away, only to return and find him dying with a knife in his chest?’

The boy nodded. There was a faint glow in his eyes.

‘In which case, why did you take the knife with you? And why did you then come to me?’ I asked.

The glow in his eyes went out. He looked at me with a resigned, almost patronizing expression. There was something reprimanding in his look, but I could not understand why. I started to wonder whether I was dealing with an imbecile, or if this was an intelligent person who, for some unknown reason, did not want to say anything.

I told him that if he was innocent, being so uncooperative and unforthcoming was not making it any easier for us to help him.

‘You’ll work it out anyway,’ was his curt reply.

Then he demonstratively averted his gaze and looked out of the barred window. He nodded almost imperceptibly when I told him that he would be taken back to his cell now, but that he should reckon on more questioning in the course of the day. He did not even flinch when I said that his situation was very serious indeed, and that it would be in his own interest to be more cooperative next time we met.

II

As promised, I went to my boss’s office when I had finished questioning him. I was mildly irritated to discover that Detective Inspector Vegard Danielsen was also there. I greeted him curtly, then sat down and turned towards my boss and reported on the case.

My boss listened attentively.

‘A most remarkable tale indeed. We can take it as a positive thing that you are now so well known that he came to you to give himself up.’

My boss gave me a bright smile and shook my hand in congratulations. I glanced over at Danielsen, who was fidgeting restlessly. He spoke as soon as he had the chance.

‘The pressing question here, somewhat originally, seems to be the identity of the murderer, rather than who committed the crime. Though I am sure the mystery will be solved as soon as someone calls to report him missing. It would, however, be preferable if we could have it cleared up before tomorrow’s papers. If you like, I could try questioning him to see if I have any more luck than you.’

I certainly did not want Danielsen to get involved in any way, but I found it hard to think of an argument to counter his suggestion. However, I had little belief that it would lead to anything.

So I gave a brief nod and a forced smile, then looked at my boss with raised eyebrows.

He seemed to have read my mind.

‘Let’s not worry too much about the newspapers, especially as the culprit has to all intents and purposes already been arrested. But we still do not know his identity or his motive. If you, Danielsen, try questioning the suspect again, and you, Kristiansen, go to talk to the victim’s family and take a photograph of the young man with you, then, hopefully, we can start to unpick both matters.’

It was a compromise that both Danielsen and I could live with. Rather unusually, we nodded in agreement, then stood up and left the office without exchanging a word.

III

The address given for Per Johan Fredriksen in the National Registry was in Bygdøy. He was sixty-five years old when he died, and he had been married since 1933 to Oda Fredriksen, who was two years his junior. It said in the registry that they had three children: Johan, who was thirty-five, Ane Line, who was thirty, and Vera, who was twenty-six. Vera was recorded as still living in Bygdøy, whereas Ane Line had moved to Høvik, and Johan to Sognsvann.