I spontaneously lifted up my hand to wave, only to realize that the man was not my classmate at all. This man had broader shoulders and a brisker, more determined step.
The man with the hat, somewhat bewildered, raised his hand in response, only to see it was a misunderstanding. He lowered his hand again in embarrassment. The stranger then continued on his way and did not stop as he passed me where I stood by my car. I could not help but notice that the upper joint of the little finger on his right hand was missing.
I stood by the car for a few seconds and wondered who the man in the suit and hat with the missing joint on his finger might be. And what he was doing here in Tøyenbekken. He and I both stood out in relation to the others walking on the street, and I had no doubt that I would have to stand there for some time before I saw another man in a hat and tie.
It made me wonder if the strange murder case had started to affect my nerves and make me slightly paranoid. So I got into the car and drove back to the main police station, without giving the man in the hat another thought.
X
It was half past three. I had given my boss and Danielsen a report of the latest developments in the case.
I had feared that Danielsen might claim that he had been right, but he was remarkably quiet and seemed almost uninterested. The explanation came when my boss asked a question that I had not considered.
‘How did he get hold of the paper and pencil?’ he asked.
I immediately replied that it was not from me. Danielsen squirmed uncomfortably and said that he had given the prisoner the paper and pencil yesterday, in case he found it easier to write down his statement. This was a reasonable gesture, given that the boy had a speech impediment, but Danielsen apologized profusely and said that perhaps he should have mentioned it before.
Neither my boss nor I put too much importance on this. I, for my part, was happy as long as no one asked any critical questions as to whether I might have contributed in some way to his suicide. And no one did. Danielsen seemed uninterested in the case, and my boss almost content.
Danielsen said hastily that it was what we had thought, then, and that the death had actually made our work easier.
Our boss nodded and asked that I use the rest of the week to tie up any necessary loose ends and inform the Fredriksen family, as well as write a press release and some internal reports – in that order. I said that I was more than happy to do this.
The atmosphere when we parted at a quarter to four was light and almost friendly. Danielsen and I wished each other a good evening before heading off in our separate directions. At times like this, I almost liked him. But the feeling usually passed very quickly.
XI
I telephoned Mrs Oda Fredriksen and informed the victim’s family of the latest developments. I heard considerable relief in her voice when I finished my account. She thanked me for letting her know, offered straightaway to tell her children, and had no objection to the details being released in the morning papers. She added that it had been of great comfort to the family that the person in charge of the investigation had shown so much understanding.
I thanked her, and asked her to convey my greetings and best wishes to her children. We finished the phone call in good spirits at a quarter past four.
I then sat down to write a press release, and had just formulated the first few sentences when the telephone rang at twenty past four. The switchboard operator’s voice was like a snake slithering into paradise; she said that there was an elderly lady from Majorstuen on the telephone who insisted on speaking to me as soon as possible.
The voice at the other end certainly sounded like a woman well past retirement age. So what she said was all the more surprising.
‘Good afternoon, inspector. This is Randi Krogh Hansen calling you from Kirk Road in Majorstuen. I apologize if I’m interrupting, but my old mother claims that she saw something through the window here the day before yesterday that you absolutely need to know.’
It was unexpected. Before I had even thought, I remarked that her mother must be very old. Fortunately, she took it well.
‘You can certainly say that. My mother has been on this earth for over a hundred years now. But her eyesight is still good and after reading today’s newspapers she is convinced that she saw something that you must know, today. Unfortunately, her legs are not what they used to be, so it would be difficult to get her to the police station. Would you be able to come and see us here as soon as possible?’
I had had time to gather my thoughts now and was curious as to what the witness might have seen. So I said I would come immediately.
XII
The address that Randi Krogh Hansen had rung from was a three-storey building on the corner of Bogstad Road and Kirk Road, a couple of blocks down from the station. Once I had parked the car, I quickly checked that there was a clear view from the windows to where Per Johan Fredriksen had been attacked. Then I made my way to the main entrance.
Randi Krogh Hansen was standing ready to greet me just inside the door. Her face was wrinkled and she could easily have been in her eighties, but she was a slim lady who was still light of foot. Her thin hand shook slightly in mine. There was no one else in the hall, but she still lowered her voice and leaned forwards when she spoke.
‘Welcome to our humble abode. I do hope we haven’t called you here unnecessarily. It’s my doing that you were not contacted before. My mother said yesterday morning that she had seen a man being stabbed on the street opposite the evening before. She sometimes dozes off in her chair and starts dreaming, so I thought that was probably what had happened. She eventually gave in with some reluctance. Then, about an hour ago, she read in the newspaper that a politician had been stabbed here and, let me tell you, she gave me a piece of her mind. So I had to ring the police immediately and now only hope that what she has to tell you will be of interest.’
My first thought was that we could perhaps have been spared a lot of work if we had got the message yesterday. But it had not been withheld with malice, so I forced myself to smile at the elderly lady in front of me and assured her that her reaction was perfectly understandable.
She smiled back, relieved, and repeated in a hushed voice that her mother had bad legs and weak lungs, but that her mind was clear and her eyes were still sharp as a pin, despite her great age.
We went up to the second floor and somewhat formally knocked on the door of a room that looked out over the street below. ‘Come in,’ said a high, sharp woman’s voice from within. The daughter promptly opened the door and showed me through, but stayed standing outside herself.
A wall of heat hit me as soon as the door opened. A fan heater hummed merrily and the only person in the room was puffing on a good old-fashioned pipe. She was sitting in a rocking chair in front of the stove, looking straight at me. The tiny old lady looked as though she could not weigh much more than six stone, all wrapped up in her blanket. Her arms were skin and bone, her face wrinkled as a raisin, and some white wisps were all that was left of her hair. But her lips were still red and her blue eyes were piercing, with almost a twinkle, as she focused them on me. She nodded in acknowledgement when I held out my hand, and then shook it with an unexpectedly firm grasp.
‘Welcome, young man. I do apologize that my daughter’s neurotic objections prevented me from contacting the police yesterday, and also that it is so warm in here.’