‘And does your offer to buy the companies still stand, even though he is now dead?’
He nodded slowly and forcefully. ‘His son rang me today to check whether the offer still stands and whether it would be possible to extend the deadline. I told him that of course the offer still stands, but that as I have the bank on standby and my administration have been working very hard on it, I could only offer an extra twenty-four hours before I needed a decision. He thanked me for this and as far as I understand, they are likely to accept the offer. What Fredriksen would have done is less clear, and now we will never know. He had acquired larger and smaller properties throughout his adult life and it was not in his nature to sell, even for a good price.’
I noted that Kjell Arne Ramdal still only used Per Johan Fredriksen’s surname, despite having known him for more than forty years. And also it seemed that they had been competitors, rather than associates. I asked if I was correct in understanding that they had once worked together?
‘The two companies first worked together for a period after the war and then we had some joint ventures between the mid-fifties and the mid-sixties. We were never close friends even though we were in business with one another, and we did not fall out when we stopped working together. Our business assessments were based on different strategies and ambitions, so in the end, we were better off working alone.’
I made a note to the effect that this was more or less in line with what Fredriksen’s children had said. But also that the situation regarding the two companies did give Ramdal a possible motive for murder, albeit a fairly weak one. I then asked about the case from 1932.
Kjell Arne Ramdal lost some of his enthusiasm and sat silently for a moment before he answered.
‘It is a tragic story that is still a mystery to this day. We had seen Eva, just as beautiful, young and full of life as she always was, only hours before. Then suddenly there she was lying dead and cold in our midst. I think the shock had a lasting effect on us all. We were carefree youths who became serious, responsible adults overnight. I was on my own in my hotel room for the three hours before we found her, and really don’t know what more I can say about the case. Paradoxically, the only thing that is certain is that what became the official truth is not the truth at all. It was not epilepsy that killed Eva. She only had petit mal, which is not life-threatening, and she was otherwise in good shape. But whether it was suicide or murder, and if it was murder who was responsible, I would not like to say, not even today.’
As though to underline this, he pursed his lips and promptly fell silent in his leather chair.
Kjell Arne Ramdal was clearly an intelligent man who had more theories and thoughts about what happened in 1932 than he wanted to say. So I decided that first I would ask him straight about what and who he thought had caused Eva Bjølhaugen’s death. He replied that he did not want to answer that here and now, as it would be pure speculation.
I got the feeling that it was some kind of accusation against Per Johan Fredriksen that he did not want to verbalize only a few days after Fredriksen himself had been killed, and while he, Ramdal, was still waiting to hear if his offer to buy up the companies had been accepted. But this was, in turn, no more than speculation on my part. I asked him instead about his wife’s engagement to Per Johan Fredriksen, and the circumstances surrounding their break-up.
Kjell Arne Ramdal replied that he did not know much about that side of the case, and that it really was up to his wife whether she wanted to say anything about it or not.
As we sat there, it suddenly struck me that Kjell Arne Ramdal never smiled. Not here, nor in the family photographs on the walls, as far as I could see. He was intelligent, correct and in no way unfriendly, but apparently a man with no sense of humour or joy. I was reminded of the title of one of the most popular Norwegian films in recent years, The Man Who Could Not Laugh. Then I remembered what Kjell Arne Ramdal had said, and wondered to what extent the events of 1932 were to blame.
I pondered on this and he looked as though he was thinking about something, though I had no idea what and he was not likely to tell me. So we sat in silence for a while.
Then I thought of another question – about the most recent of their five-year-anniversary meals and what had happened there.
He nodded cautiously in acknowledgement. ‘I understand that you are already well informed. So no doubt you know that we met every five years on the day that Eva died, and that at the last meeting, only a few weeks ago, Per Johan suddenly made a very unexpected statement. He said that he now finally understood what had happened, and that one of us also knew and should face the consequences. He said nothing more about what he thought had happened, and the rest of the meal was a cold war where none of us said a word. I could only see surprise, not fear or regret in any of the others’ faces. If one of the people round that table was responsible for her death, they kept up appearances well. All I know for certain is that if the murderer was sitting at the table, it was not me.’
I promptly asked if he was certain that his wife had not committed the murder.
He answered in a very solemn voice: ‘I would never have married her if I thought that was the case. I have always believed that it was one of the others. But in such situations one can only be certain of what one has seen with one’s own eyes, wouldn’t you say?’
I had to agree with him there. But at the same time, I could not help thinking that it must be very uncomfortable not to be certain whether your spouse had committed murder or not.
‘I do know for certain, however, that she did not murder Per Johan. She was at home here with me on Saturday evening,’ he added, hastily.
Just then, we heard light footsteps out in the hall.
‘And talking of my wife, here comes the sun,’ Kjell Arne Ramdal said, without so much as a hint of a smile, or humour in his voice. ‘Do you have any more questions for me? If not, I will hand the stage over to my wife before it gets too late.’
Without waiting for an answer, Kjell Arne Ramdal stood up and left the living room. And as he did so, he reminded me of one of Ibsen’s serious, patriarchal family men whom Miriam and I had talked about only a couple of weeks ago.
XVI
I was afraid that Kjell Arne Ramdal might come back with his wife. But she came into the room alone and discreetly closed the door behind her.
Whether calling her the sun was accurate or not, I was unable to decide. It certainly seemed true. Following my deadly serious conversation with Kjell Arne Ramdal, the room definitely lit up when his wife came in. Despite her black hair, she seemed to be of a far brighter disposition than him, and her smile was open and friendly. She was slim and moved gracefully across the floor. Her dress was modern and fitted. I would have guessed that she was under fifty rather than her true age of over sixty.
Solveig Ramdal, née Thaulow, was clearly a confident and well-heeled upper-class lady. She had gold around her neck and on both hands, and in her husband’s absence she sat down on his throne. Her hand was small, but her handshake firm. Her voice was soft when she said: ‘Good evening. And how can I help you?’
My first thought was that she reminded me of a cat. And I sat there wondering if that sweet smile disguised some sharp teeth.
I did not imagine that she would have much to add to her husband’s statement regarding the business. So I cut to the chase and asked how she had experienced Eva Bjølhaugen’s death in 1932.
Her smile disappeared as soon as I mentioned the name.
‘It was terrible,’ Solveig Ramdal said, in an intense, hushed voice.
‘Terrible situations like that can push some people together and pull others apart,’ I said.
Solveig Ramdal was quick to understand my point. ‘That is very true, indeed. But in this case, the two who were pulled apart were already drifting in different directions. But one shouldn’t really speak ill of the dead . . .’ She bit her lip and fell silent.
‘Sometimes it is necessary to tell the truth about the dea
d. Particularly when they have been murdered,’ I countered.
She nodded vigorously, and it seemed to me that she was almost grateful. ‘You may well be right, inspector. You see, Per Johan was a very complicated man, who was very different in different situations. He could be a happy, charming and extremely kind man. He was my first great love, and we had many good times together. Only a few months before the trip to Oslo I had been madly in love and thought that he would be the only love of my life. But there were others who had experienced less sympathetic, colder sides of Per Johan. Then one day I was contacted by a friend who had overheard him say that he was more attracted to my inheritance than to me. This was perfectly plausible as I was an only child and the sole heir to a considerable fortune. Per Johan denied it, of course, and I so wanted to believe him. But the doubt was there like a wall between us. And then when another wall sprang up after Eva’s death, there was just too much doubt and suspicion.’
‘So what you are saying is that you suspected that he was in some way connected to Eva’s death?’
She gave a careful nod. ‘Suspected is perhaps too strong a word, but it was a possibility, and it hung over us like a dark cloud. The friend who told me what Per Johan had apparently said about me, had also heard him say that Eva was an alternative that he had considered more and more. And that was understandable too, because she was far prettier than I was, and heir to an even greater fortune. So it would be easy to imagine it was some kind of jealousy drama, until you see what happened after Eva died, because it wasn’t long before Per Johan married her less attractive sister, who had become sole heir in the meantime. So one might even suspect that the motive was purely gain. Perhaps you did not know that Per Johan got most of his property from the marriage? Oda was worth three times more than him when they got married.’
I said that I had not known that. And I thought to myself that it was a very possible murder motive. I first asked myself and then Mrs Ramdal who might have a motive for revenge now, forty years later.
‘Certainly not me, and not Kjell Arne. Hauk, on the other hand, would clearly have a motive. It would seem that the loss of his girlfriend had a profound effect on him and he never married or started a family. Oda might also have reason for revenge. Though I must say, I don’t think there was any love lost between them in 1932, but she did lose her only sister, after all. And if you were suddenly to discover that, for the past forty years, every day you had lived was a lie and you had been kept in the dark by a husband who had never told you that he had murdered someone close to you – well, I am sure that would be enough to make most people flip.’
That had crossed my mind too. And for the moment, I liked Solveig Ramdal best of the group from 1932, both when she was happy and when she was serious. Because it was definitely her serious face that I saw when asked what she made of the key found lying outside the room in the hotel corridor.
‘I still have no plausible explanation. Whatever else one might say about Per Johan, he was a strong and very focused man. It is unthinkable that he would have dropped the room key in the corridor without noticing, especially if he had just committed a crime. He might have put it there himself, as a kind of red herring, or someone else might have put it there, so that people would suspect him or Hank.’
As we were talking so intimately, I swiftly took the opportunity to ask what she thought about Per Johan Fredriksen’s statement at the group’s last anniversary dinner.
‘Much the same, really. He might have said it to deflect any suspicion, he might have been calling our bluff – or he might have found out that it really was one of us. The only thing I know for certain is that it was not me who killed Eva, if it was indeed one of us who did it.’
Without thinking, I lowered my voice and leaned forwards over the table when I asked if she could not even be certain that her husband had not done it. She remained calm and answered in a hushed voice in return: ‘Yes, that is correct. As far as Per Johan is concerned, I know that it was not Kjell Arne. He was here with me on Saturday night. We were sitting here together when we heard about the attack on the radio. But as for Eva’s death, I have always thought that Kjell Arne seemed a less likely murderer than Per Johan, Hauk and Oda. But no, I don’t know for certain.’
And with that, it was as though she had said all there was to say. She pursed her lips and turned her eyes away to gaze out of the window. And when the large wall clock behind us then struck ten, it felt like a natural end to our conversation.
I quickly noted that two of the group from 1932 could provide each other with an alibi for the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen. And that Mr Ramdal spoke of all the others by their surname, whereas Mrs Ramdal used their first names. Then I thanked her for her cooperation so far, and stood up.
XVII
It was twenty-five past ten by the time I parked outside my flat in Hegdehaugen. It had been a long and demanding day which had yielded some important answers, but also raised many new questions. Without being able to put my finger on why, the whole situation felt very unstable. I walked from the car towards the entrance and everything seemed to be as normal, and yet I was annoyingly gripped by a growing urge to look back. The sensation that there was someone behind me whom I had to see became more and more intense.
Reluctantly, I gave in to the fear and turned around without warning just as I reached the front door.
There was nothing to see. But as I went in I found myself wondering if perhaps there had been someone there before I turned around. On my way up the stairs, I chastised myself for not having turned around earlier, and for allowing my uncertainty about the case to tip into fear.
Once inside my flat, I realized that I still wasn’t tired. I stood alone by the window and looked out at the night.
The street below was empty. And yet I could see someone down there. Images of the boy on the red bicycle, who, two evenings before, had pedalled so frantically up the hill in front of the house, were still burned in my mind.
Even though there was much that was still unexplained, it now seemed clear that the boy had been innocent of murdering Per Johan Fredriksen and that he had cycled here in desperation because he trusted that I would discover the truth. The boy had wanted to give me his simple statement: that he was innocent, that he had only tried to help, and that Fredriksen had been dead when he went back. And it had all been true.
But there was also a sense that the boy on the red bicycle had in some way let me down, first by his lack of cooperation and then by taking his own life. Although of course, the stronger feeling was that I had let him down and betrayed the trust he had given me by failing to recognize his innocence in time to save his life.
I had a light snack alone at twenty to eleven. I felt pretty miserable and thought about the case as I ate two slices of bread and cheese in the kitchen, but was no closer to solving either the possible murder from 1932 or the murder from 1972.
At five to eleven, I went back into the living room. I sat there for several minutes looking at the telephone. The temptation to call my secret advisor, Patricia, only got stronger the longer I sat there. I was sure that Patricia would immediately make connections in the case that I could not see, if she was willing to help me. However, I wasn’t even convinced that she would want to help me. It was as though Patricia’s shadow now eclipsed the case for me. It felt like I had to phone her to find out whether she was willing to help, or if I was on my own.
I thought about the boy on the red bicycle and my meeting with his mother, and came to the conclusion that I should ring Patricia for their sakes. I still knew the number to the telephone on her table by heart. I was suddenly absolutely certain that she was still awake, sitting by the telephone in her library.
Twice I reached out to pick up the phone. The first time, I pulled my hand back before it even touched the receiver and the second time, I dialled the first two numbers before I put it down again. A picture of Miriam appeared and stood between me and the telephone. Miriam had not wanted me to contact
Patricia this time and had really done her best to help me herself.
It was a horrible feeling; it would seem as if I lacked confidence in my fiancée if I now asked if I could call Patricia. But at the same time it felt like it would be a betrayal, almost treachery, if I were to ring Patricia without having spoken to Miriam about it first. So I sat there stewing over the dilemma. Then I made a decision and reached out to pick up the phone and ring Patricia.
But the telephone beat me to it: it started to ring while my hand was still in the air. As soon as I heard it ring, I knew who it was – and I was right.
Miriam was calling from a telephone box at her student accommodation. Her voice trembled slightly when she spoke: ‘I’ve tried to call you several times this evening without any answer. I’m so glad that you are all right. Is there any news about the case?’
It felt as though she was asking me if I had been to visit Patricia. And I immediately regretted having tried to call her.
So I quickly told her that I had been to see the Ramdals and that there was some new information, but I could tell her more when we next met.
Miriam sounded pleased to hear this and said that she could leave the library a couple of hours earlier tomorrow so that we could have an early supper together before she went to her evening meetings. This was a rare offer coming from her, so I agreed without hesitation. She promised to be here at four and would wait if I was later. I cheerfully asked her to take with her the book on the history of the German language, and she equally cheerfully said that she would never dream of going anywhere without it.
Her coins and our conversation came to an end at twenty-five past eleven. We felt closer again. I was touched by my Miriam’s interest and found her curiosity charming. So I stopped debating with myself whether to call Patricia or not. In any case, it was by now far too late for any more phone calls or visits today. I suddenly felt the exhaustion after a long and demanding day overwhelm me.
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