‘Yes, they really are quite something, which only underlines how serious the situation was. The other five from the group who were in Oslo in 1932 continued to meet every five years to mark the day that Eva Bjølhaugen died, at the restaurant of the same hotel. They all hoped that someone might say something that would throw light on the tragedy, Father said, but that never happened.’
‘But, if they met every five years and that was in March 1932 . . .’
Ane Line nodded eagerly again. ‘The date was the fifth of March 1932. So the five last met just a couple of weeks ago. It is rather odd, isn’t it?’
She looked up at me from under her red fringe with bright enthusiastic eyes. I nodded with equal enthusiasm. I still could not see any connection between the forty-year-old mystery and the stabbing of Per Johan Fredriksen on a street in Oslo yesterday. My gut feeling told me that there was some kind of link, but my head could not work out what.
‘Very interesting. I will see what I can find about the case in our archives. Do you know if your father had any contact with the four others from 1932 in between these restaurant visits?’
Ane Line smiled again. ‘Well, I know that he certainly had regular contact with one of them. I don’t even know the names of the other three, so I couldn’t say whether he had contact with them or not. But if you find their names in the archives, I’d be more than happy to answer that.’
Ane Line Fredriksen was clearly more curious than most. And her eagerness and openness were contagious. I picked up my pen to write down the name of the one person that her father had had regular contact with. And then promptly dropped it in shock when the redhead exclaimed: ‘Oda Fredriksen! Eva Bjølhaugen was my mother’s little sister.’
We sat and stared at each other for a few seconds. It seemed to me that she was almost teasing me, and enjoying it, despite her father’s death and the gravity of the situation.
‘So let me get this straight: three young men and three young women went to Oslo together in 1932. The young Eva Bjølhaugen, who was the girlfriend of one of the men, was found dead in her locked hotel room in circumstances that have never been clarified. Your father was engaged to one of the other women, but later married Eva Bjølhaugen’s sister?’
She nodded energetically. ‘Exactly. And it didn’t take long either – Mother and Father got married just eighteen months later. And the five from the group who are still alive have met every five years since, most recently a couple of weeks before my father was killed. Surely that can’t be a coincidence?’
I was open about what I thought: that it could, of course, be a coincidence, but that I very much doubted that it was.
‘Exactly,’ she said, her eyes shining.
As things seemed to be going so well, I took the chance to ask what else her father and mother had told them about this strange old story.
‘Not very much, unfortunately. My father was a kind man, but was quick to put things off. Even when we’ve argued about money in recent years, he has never been mean or harsh with us, just evasive. This old story bothered him a great deal and he did not want to talk about it. I pushed him a couple of times, but he just said that we could perhaps talk about it later. That never happened, of course. Mother was more cagey than Father and completely clammed up when I tried to talk to her about it. She just said that both she and my father had been there, and that they both still wondered what had actually happened, and that it had been extremely painful to lose her only sister like that. I could never get any more out of her. You should ask her about it, she has to tell you now, even if she didn’t want to tell me before.’
I nodded thoughtfully. Then I thanked her for the interesting conversation and asked if I could contact her again once I had looked up the case in the archives. She immediately offered to wait in my office while I looked through the file. We compromised, and she waited outside while I read through the case.
IX
The file from 1932 was disappointingly thin. Initially, it had been marked ‘suspicious death’ and then changed to ‘no case to answer’. My attention was immediately drawn to a couple of photographs of the young woman on a dark velvet sofa. As far as I could see, the woman showed no physical signs of violence or illness of any sort, and was just lying there peacefully, as though asleep. She was slightly shorter than the sofa and had long blonde hair and pale skin. Her body was well shaped, almost like a statue. The photographs made me think of Sleeping Beauty. But Eva Bjølhaugen, born in Sande on 7 January 1911, had never woken up from her deep sleep.
I sat there with the forty-year-old photographs and mused on what secrets she had taken with her to the grave, and what significance they might have for yesterday’s murder.
The reports and statements told me in short that Eva Bjølhaugen had been last seen alive by her boyfriend and four other friends at around five o’clock in the afternoon of 5 March 1932, when she had let herself into her room following a trip into town. And she was found dead in Room 111 at Haraldsen’s Hotel in Ullern at a quarter past eight that very evening. She had arranged to meet the others for dinner at eight o’clock. They had all met in the lobby at the agreed time, and realized that something was wrong when she failed to show up by ten past eight.
Her boyfriend, Hauk Rebne Westgaard, had gone to look for her. Then at twelve minutes past eight he had come back to the others in the lobby. He had told them that the door to her room was locked and he had heard no sign of life when he knocked. Her boyfriend’s concern only increased when he found the key to her door lying on the floor in the corridor, outside his own room.
In his statement, Hauk Rebne Westgaard said that he had been extremely worried about his girlfriend and did not want to enter her room alone. So he ran down to the others and they all entered the room at precisely a quarter past eight to find Eva Bjølhaugen dead on the sofa.
Eva Bjølhaugen’s bed had obviously been used after it had been made up in the morning. But her five companions agreed that there was no sign that anyone else had been there. And the police found no evidence of this either, though they did find fingerprints of all five young people in the room. This was not seen to be suspicious, of course, as they had all been there after she had died, and had also been in there together the evening before. None of them had noticed anything different about Eva Bjølhaugen. She had been in a good mood earlier in the day and generally had an optimistic outlook on life. She had finished school with good grades and had talked about studying languages at the University of Oslo. It was clearly stated in the report that there was ‘no history of depression’.
The rest of the group had stayed in rooms on the same corridor. A certified transcript of the reception book documented the following:
Room 112: Solveig Thaulow, 22, Sande.
Room 113: Oda Bjølhaugen, 23, Sande.
Room 114: Hauk Rebne Westgaard, 25, Holmestrand.
Room 115: Per Johan Fredriksen, 25, Holmestrand.
Room 116: Kjell Arne Ramdal, 25, Tønsberg.
The bed in Room 111 had been used after it had been made up in the morning, but according to the police there was no technical evidence of sexual activity.
The deceased’s suitcase was in a corner of the room, but only contained two extra sets of clothes, a pair of shoes and three women’s magazines. There was a glass, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste in the bathroom, as well as a dressing gown, two used towels from the hotel, and some make-up. It appeared that nothing had been stolen from the room, and Eva’s purse with almost one hundred kroner in cash was still in her coat pocket. The only thing one might expect to find in the room that was not there was the key. The police report confirmed, without any further speculation, that it had been found on the floor outside Room 114.
None of the deceased’s friends said they had heard anything from her room or any of the other rooms in the few hours before she was found dead. The only exception was that Solveig Thaulow said she heard a muffled bang or thump at around half past seven. However, she was not able to
say where it came from or what kind of noise it could have been. The deceased’s boyfriend suspected that she might have been strangled or suffocated, possibly with the help of a pillow. However, there were no marks on her neck and there was no saliva or other bodily fluid on any pillow.
The assumed cause of death was given in the end as ‘epileptic fit’. There was a short statement to say that, according to the deceased’s sister and parents, she suffered from epilepsy, and from the doctor’s initial findings, it seemed that she had had an epileptic fit that afternoon. Her sister Oda Bjølhaugen was very shaken and immediately demanded an autopsy. But when their parents arrived later that night, they asked if it would be possible not to have an autopsy, as it would only cause more distress for the family in a situation where everything indicated natural causes. Their daughter had ‘very reluctantly’ agreed to this in the end, and the police had done as the family requested. Thus there was no confirmation of the time and cause of death.
The group had visited the capital out of season. There were a total of eighteen rooms in the hotel, over two floors, and all the other rooms had been empty that night. The receptionist had been alone on duty that evening, and had seen no one other than the six guests. The window in the room was closed from the inside and the door was locked. I could understand perfectly well why this had been deemed to be a natural death, the strange detail of the key aside.
I called Ane Line Fredriksen in again. It did not take her long as she was standing waiting impatiently no more than a few feet from my door.
‘Is there anything new about the lack of an autopsy?’ she asked, before I managed to get a word out.
I replied that there had been no autopsy at the request of Eva’s parents, even though her mother had very clearly wanted one. Ane Line Fredriksen said that she thought it was odd, and I said I agreed. Then I quickly moved on to the names of the other members of the party.
She shook her red mane when I said Solveig Thaulow, and then again when I said Hauk Rebne Westgaard. However, she gave a firm nod when I said Kjell Arne Ramdal.
‘I’ve never heard the first two names, but I have heard Kjell Arne Ramdal mentioned a few times. Father almost never spoke about business at home, but judging by some of the telephone messages I overheard, I think Kjell Arne Ramdal was some kind of business associate. When I was a teenager and later, I always wondered what he looked like, as it was not often that I heard the names of any of Father’s business contacts. In fact, I would be very grateful if you could tell me a bit about my father’s life outside the family home at some point after the investigation. I never really knew him other than as a father.’
I nodded, half to myself, half to her. There was clearly a thread running from 1932 to 1972, which was becoming more and more interesting. But I was as yet unable to see any connection whatsoever to the still-nameless boy on the red bicycle.
I therefore decided to make another attempt to find out more about him. I managed to leave the office on the second try, having twice assured Ane Line Fredriksen that I would let her know as soon as there was any news about her father’s murder and that I would not hesitate to call her if I had any further questions. I resisted the temptation, for the moment, to ask her how the three siblings could be so very different in both colouring and personality.
X
After my surprisingly interesting meetings with the victim’s mistress and daughter, my meeting with the suspected murderer was yet again a disappointment. The press were ringing for details, but no new information about the mysterious young man had come in. I could not remember it ever having taken so long to confirm the identity of someone being held in custody. But not only that, I could not think of another arrestee who would be so easily recognizable.
To begin with, I tried to be pedagogical, and asked if he had any questions. His response was succinct: ‘The bicycle?’ He nodded when I told him it was being kept in a safe place and said no more.
I started by asking about his name. To which he did not respond.
I went on to explain that we would appoint a lawyer for him tomorrow morning, even though he had not asked for one, to ensure that he was treated fairly. His nod was almost imperceptible, and there was no other reaction.
I could see that there might be a connection, if the boy on the red bicycle was the son or grandson of one of the parties from 1932. I therefore decided to confront him with the names and give no further explanation. He looked at me with a glimmer of interest in his eyes when I said what I was going to do. But as far as I could judge, he did not react to any of the names I read out.
Again I tried to ask why he had killed Per Johan Fredriksen. Again, he replied almost mechanically: ‘I didn’t kill him. He was dead when I went back.’
I asked why he was not willing to help me, or himself, by telling me what he had seen.
He said nothing, and looked at me as if he had not understood.
‘Well, then I am going to go home to my fiancée. And what are you going to do?’ I asked, eventually giving up.
‘Wait,’ he replied.
His answer was solemn and concise, but he said no more when I asked him what on earth he was waiting for.
I stood up. I still felt some sympathy for the young boy, and did have my doubts that he was the murderer. But I could not work him out and his demonstrative silence was starting to irritate me.
Then just as I turned to leave, to my great surprise, he spoke.
‘You can call me Marinus.’
It did not make the case any less complex. I had never heard the name Marinus before. I turned back, looked down at him and asked: ‘Marinus what?’
His response was to raise his hands in a gesture that was at once defensive and condescending.
I left, closing the door behind me a little harder than planned. The boy seemed to be playing with me for reasons I could not understand. Rather reluctantly, I had to admit that perhaps Danielsen was right, and the only question of any interest in this case was whether the murderer should be sent to prison or a mental hospital.
XI
I got to the Theatre Cafe at twenty-eight minutes past six. The air was cold, but I felt the warmth spread through my body as I approached.
She was right where I hoped she would be standing, where she always stood: leaning discreetly against the wall with a book in her hand. From what I could see it was a thick blue book about the history of Nordic literature in the nineteenth century. She had only read the introduction when she left yesterday, but was now almost a third of the way in. I was impressed – and happy when she snapped the book shut as soon as I put my hand on her arm. We gave each other a quick hug and then moved towards the door.
We had been there before, but not many times. Miriam thought that the Theatre Cafe was too expensive for normal Sunday suppers, and I did not want to protest. So we came here about once every two months or so. And then, whenever possible, we sat at a table for two in the middle by the window. Our favourite table was available, and there was no one else within earshot. It was perfect.
I started romantically by asking her if she had had a good day, and if there was anything more we needed to discuss about the wedding.
This, of course, did not work at all. She swiftly replied: ‘My day was good. I studied all day. And of course there’s more to talk about regarding the wedding, but there’s no rush. So, how is the investigation going?’ she asked in a hushed voice, as soon as the waiter left us. Then we sat there more or less whispering to each other for the rest of the meal. The staff clearly thought it was terribly romantic and gave us friendly smiles as they passed. Whereas what we were actually talking about was the stabbing of a politician and an underage murder suspect.
I knew that this was in part down to Miriam’s inherent curiosity, but was still touched by the interest she showed in my work. Just how interested she was dawned on me when she said no to dessert. That had never happened before, certainly not at the Theatre Cafe.
Once we were back in the c
ar, we returned to our normal voices.
‘The story from 1932 is a strange and incredible coincidence,’ I remarked.
‘I agree. It’s almost too incredible not to be connected in some way. But there is not much to be gleaned from details of the crime scene, and we know too little about the others to conclude anything more,’ she said.
I had to concede to this and promised to talk as soon as possible to the four friends from the 1932 drama who were still alive.
‘And the current case is no less mysterious. With a mysterious suspect, to boot,’ I said.
Miriam nodded quickly. ‘Yes, both things are very odd indeed. It’s so strange that he won’t say anything even to you, when you are so good at talking to people.’
She said it in a way that was so characteristic of her, just as a passing comment. But it still made me so happy that I leaned over and kissed her quickly on the cheek once we were over the junction.
We were soon at Hegdehaugen. We walked in silence to the front door, as though we were suddenly scared that someone might hear us even if we whispered.
Once we were installed on the sofa with a cup of coffee in one hand and holding each other’s hand in the other, we carried on discussing the case.
‘Per Johan Fredriksen was also a bit of a mystery in terms of his politics,’ she said.
I squeezed her hand and asked her to elaborate.
‘He is part of the richest and most conservative group in the Centre Party, and is sometimes said to be right of even the Conservatives. Which is not a compliment in my circles. But he would take completely different stances on different issues, so he has also been called left of Labour. He was deemed to be a very important man for the no campaign, tactically, because he could potentially influence a number of the rich Conservatives.’
‘But all that has nothing to do with the murder case, surely,’ I joked.
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