‘You have met my husband’s last mistress, haven’t you?’
I replied in short that I had gone to see her to get her statement. I gave no more details and Oda Fredriksen did not ask. Instead, she stood up again, walked over to the bookcase and came back with an envelope, on which was written ‘strictly confidential’. It had been sealed, but the seal was now broken.
‘I went through my husband’s office here at home yesterday, and found this in the bottom drawer of his desk. I could not resist opening it, and found three separate documents that might all be of interest to you. One of them is about his mistress.’
I had a quick look and had to agree with her. All three were of interest to me and one was clearly to his mistress.
The first was an undated, typed document, which stated: ‘I, Odd Jørgensen, admit that I am guilty of embezzling 30,000 kroner from my employer’s company, Per Johan Fredriksen A/S, in the autumn of 1965.’
It was signed by the office manager; I had seen his signature on the notice of termination sent to the mother of the boy on the red bicycle. To see it again here was unexpected, to say the least. I added the office manager’s name to the list of people I needed to talk to again, and moved on to the next document.
The second document was in an envelope and I did not recognize the handwriting on the front.
‘That is my husband’s handwriting,’ Oda Fredriksen said, over my shoulder. Judging by the text, that was the case. The letter was dated 18 March 1972 and read as follows:
To my heart’s greatest love and my mind’s best inspiration,
No one has given me more or greater pleasure than you. It should have been you and me for the rest of our lives. But sadly, that cannot be. There is too much left of your life and too little of mine. And my duties to my children mean that I can never give you the children you so want. You should therefore have children with another man before it is too late. And I must try to live without you. In my heart, I will always be in your arms and in my mind, always in your bed.
Your ever grieving, Per Johan.
I read the letter twice, thinking how hard it must be for his widow to read this. When Per Johan Fredriksen broke up with his mistress, he mentioned the children, but did not say a word about his wife of nearly forty years.
I looked at Oda Fredriksen. She looked at me, but not the letter. At that moment, it was as if she could read my thoughts.
‘It was not easy to read that three days after my husband’s death. But regardless of whether the letter was delivered or not, it was a relief all the same to find out that in his final days he had planned to end the relationship with his mistress and come back to me.’
She swallowed deeply a few times as she said this. I had to admire her courage in facing one challenge after another, even after her husband’s and daughter’s deaths. I felt that I could read her thoughts, too, and that in that moment that she was thinking the same as me; that this gave the mistress the possible motives of jealousy and revenge.
I carried on reading. The third document was written in the same hand as the previous one. It was more keywords than notes, but no less interesting for that. The date was also sensationally recent: 5 March 1972. And I found the rest of the text of even more interest.
Eva’s death.
A new thought after all these years: could she have been drowned at some point between six and half past seven?
Met Kjell Arne in the corridor at a quarter past six – with a water glass!
But what about the bang at half past seven? Was that something else? In which case, what? Or did Kjell Arne go back afterwards?
Change of theory: think Eva was drowned by Kjell Arne! But not sure. Will try it out this evening – nothing to lose.
Oda Fredriksen was still standing beside me, and this time she was reading over my shoulder.
I half turned around and asked what she thought about it. Her voice was distant again when she answered.
‘Nothing. That is to say, when I read it, I had lots of thoughts, but I know nothing more than I did before. It was just so long ago, and after losing my husband and then my daughter, my sister’s death feels even more distant.’
It was hard not to say that I understood. So I did just that. She smiled faintly.
‘Thank you for your kind thoughts. I hope you can continue with your investigation without having to worry about me. After forty years of peace, my life has been rocked by two explosions in just four days. But despite now being the widow of a landowner, I still come from farming stock. My great-grandmother’s sister survived her three children and her husband, and barely had clothes and food in her old age. I have more than enough of both, and two grown-up children and a grandchild. So don’t worry about me. Just do what you can, and let me know as soon as you find out who killed my husband and my child.’
There was a faint glow in her eyes as she spoke. I thought to myself that Oda Fredriksen was to a certain extent what Patricia had in a past investigation called a satellite person. For decades she had circled her husband and children. Now her husband was suddenly gone. She was visibly shaken, but could still stand on her own two feet in the middle of the vast room. And I believed that she would stay standing after I had left, and that with time, she would find herself a new orbit.
So I solemnly thanked her for her help and took the envelope containing the three documents with me out to the car.
I left with three new clues, all of which could lead me to a murderer. I felt an intense need to discuss the case with someone. An image of Patricia in her wheelchair squeezed its way into my mind, between Miriam and my boss, as I sat in the car and flicked back and forth between the three documents. Each time, I stopped at the third document, with the notes about 1932. I was only a couple of miles away from the Ramdals’ house in Frognerkilen, so after debating it for a few minutes, I drove straight there.
IX
I stood and looked out over the water at Frognerkilen before I turned and walked to the Ramdals’ front door. The view of the fjord below with the sailing boats rocking gently on the waves was idyllic. I had grown up with a father who mockingly called Frognerkilen the Black Sea. By this he was referring to all the black money that he believed the rich upper classes had squirrelled away in the form of unnecessary yachts. I suspected that my father might be exaggerating a little. But as I took the final steps up to the house, I did think that the idyllic scene felt false and could be hiding something darker.
I did not need to ring the bell. Solveig Ramdal saw me from her watch post on the first floor. She waved and then disappeared from the window, clearly with the intention of opening the door. When she did, she said that her husband was unfortunately still at work, but that she would be happy to oblige if there was anything she could help me with.
Solveig Ramdal did not smile today, not when she waved to me from the window, nor when we stood there face to face at the door. I could understand that. There had been another death since we last met. And perhaps she also had a personal reason to be upset. My misgivings followed me into the living room. She sank down into her husband’s chair more heavily than the last time, before starting to speak.
‘It was so awfully sad to hear about Vera’s death. We sent flowers today. These must be terrible days for poor Oda.’
I said there was no doubt about it. I also asked Solveig Ramdal if she had been in direct contact with Vera in the days after her father’s death. She looked slightly confused, thought about it, but then shook her head without saying anything.
There was coffee on the table. Solveig Ramdal was still the perfect hostess and she was still youthful and feline in her movements. But as we sat there, I suddenly felt certain that she was hiding something from me. Only I had no idea what.
I started by saying that as a matter of procedure I had to ask for alibis for the previous afternoon.
She nodded pensively. ‘I understand. My husband is possibly more fortunate than I am this time. He was at work until he came home at a qua
rter past five. I was, as usual, at home alone. The only time I went out the gate was when I popped down to the shop around four, half past four. The staff there know me and could probably vouch for that, but it is sadly not possible to prove that I was here the rest of the time.’
The alibi was not as poor as she might think. Given that Miriam had spoken to Vera on the telephone just before half past three, that wouldn’t leave much time for Solveig Ramdal to murder her in Ullern and be back at the shop by four. But it was still a possibility.
Solveig Ramdal seemed inexplicably uneasy about her lack of alibi. I felt I was glimpsing a crack in her mask and wanted to know what lay behind it. So I pressed on with a bluff.
‘We now have strong indications from, amongst other things, some notes left behind by Per Johan Fredriksen, that your relationship with him in more recent times was far closer than you have previously led me to believe.’
She sat without saying anything, and kept up appearances well. But there was a new uneasy undertone to her voice when she replied.
‘I am a little uncertain as to what you mean. Per Johan and I have, for many years now, only met at these dinners every five years. When, roughly, was this and what kind of contact are you talking about?’
Her answer was testing me. She was unsure about how much I knew. And I was unsure if I was on the right track.
‘The mid-fifties. And you met – when no one else was present.’
We were beating around the bush, but it was like playing poker. I had no more details and the little I knew that I was now brazenly betting on, was based on Oda Fredriksen’s impressions and the fact that her husband had said Solveig’s name in his fevered sleep. She, for her part, however, could not know what Per Johan Fredriksen had written.
I was right. Her nod was reluctant and grave.
‘It is true that Per Johan and I did meet, one on one, around that time. But it is not true that we had an affair. We only met twice, in 1955, and neither time did we end up in bed.’
She looked at me guardedly. I had nothing up my sleeve which might prove this to be wrong, so I said: ‘You should have told me this yesterday, of course, but I am ready to hear it now, too. But you must lay all your cards on the table now and tell me exactly what happened.’
It worked. She nodded several times then carried on swiftly.
‘I did think that I should have told you. But it is just such a complex family history. You first have to realize that my marriage of many years has been no more than an empty facade. It started as a marriage of convenience. He was the safe harbour I sought after all the turbulence of Eva’s death and my broken engagement with Per Johan. Kjell Arne has been a good provider for me and a good father for my children for nearly forty years. But if I ever had any passionate feelings for him, they were gone by the time our first child was born. He perhaps hoped to develop stronger feelings for me, but, if he ever tried, he never managed it. My husband is a very good and rational businessman, and this carries through to his dealings with his family. If he ever possessed any stronger or more romantic feelings, they were perhaps for another woman. But I have kept my marriage vow and have never been physically unfaithful to him. The only men who have ever been in my bed are Per Johan, back in 1932 and then Kjell Arne ever since.’
She sat staring at the living-room wall. I noticed again that Kjell Arne Randal was not smiling in any of the family photographs that hung there. Solveig Ramdal suddenly reminded me of Nora in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, a play that I had seen with Miriam last autumn.
‘And the woman he loved before you was . . . ?’
She gave a brief nod. I caught a glimpse of two small catlike teeth when she replied.
‘Eva, of course. Even a man like him, without a romantic bone in his body, was enthralled by Eva. They all were. She was the most beautiful and sparkling of all the young women in Vestfold, as well as being the only one who knew how to exploit it. She could wrap men round her little finger and would then pull them along behind her to a cliff edge, it was said. Her sister was forgotten the moment Eva came into a room, as was I. So in a strange way, Eva was a symbol of beauty but also a trophy. One that Kjell Arne would have given anything to win. But he never got her – as far as I know. And either way, Eva was gone by the time anything happened between Kjell Arne and me. Although I still had to compete with her for his attention. I have always been second choice and a poor surrogate for something he never even had.’
‘I understand. So when Per Johan contacted you one day, you had no misgivings. But what did he want, if not a mistress?’
Solveig Ramdal gave me a fleeting, scornful smile before she continued.
‘It’s almost a bit strange that it did not lead to an affair. His own marriage was like mine; the only difference was that his wife was far more fond of him than I was of my husband. From his perspective, it was a sham. We had both been strongly attracted to each other once upon a time in our youth, but it was impossible to find that magic again. Eva and her death in 1932 was there like a wall between us. And that is what it was all about. Per Johan rang one day while my husband was at work, and asked if we could meet to discuss Eva’s death. He said that the case continued to haunt him and that he thought it had been murder. Per Johan said that he was pretty sure that I had not killed Eva, but that it could have been any of the other three. Of course I knew that it was not me, but I also had my suspicions and Per Johan was still a charmer when he wanted to persuade someone. And that’s how we ended up one day, sitting in a hotel room, the door locked, discussing whether one of our spouses could have committed murder. It was still all about Eva, more than twenty years after her death.’
‘Did you come to any conclusion?’
She shook her head lightly. ‘Not really. We just went round and round the possibilities. He did not even rule out the possibility that Oda might have killed her little sister – for the inheritance and finally to be out of her shadow. The sisters did not have a particularly good relationship, but that is not so unusual for sisters at that age. Per Johan was obsessed by the thought of who had been to bed with Eva that day. It was certainly not him, he said several times. So then it must have been Hauk or Kjell Arne. He had seen Kjell Arne in the corridor at around a quarter past six and it looked as though he was heading towards Eva’s room. But then –’
She took a short dramatic pause after this piece of information, and looked once again at the family photographs. Her thin, catlike mouth trembled. I thought how her story so far was in line with Per Johan Fredriksen’s notes – and that it was pushing her own husband further into the spotlight.
‘But then there was the bang that we never managed to work out. I was in the room next to Eva, and had heard a bang or thump around half past seven. Per Johan asked me several times if I was certain that the sound had come from her room. And I was then, and I am now. At the time I thought that perhaps Eva had tripped or dropped something on the floor. Later I figured it must have been when she fell, but then that was always odd as she was on the sofa. I put my ear to the wall in the minutes after the bang, but heard nothing more. The bang in itself does not mean that Eva didn’t die earlier, nor that Kjell Arne might have killed her. But it gave rise to doubt, and Per Johan and I could not get past it. Our main theory in the end was that Eva had turned her affections towards Kjell Arne and that it was Hauk who had killed her in a fit of jealousy. Per Johan still had his doubts back then, and what he may or may not have thought about the case in later years, I have no idea.’
Her conclusion was rather abrupt and a bit unexpected. I asked if there was any particular reason for suspecting Hauk.
‘It was rather woolly – so woolly, in fact, that we were not really sure of it ourselves. But I had always found Hauk rather distant and a little frightening. So I found it easier to believe that he had committed a murder than my husband or former fiancé. The story of the jilted lover turning to murder is not an unfamiliar one, not then and not now. Per Johan was vague about it, but he implie
d that Hauk’s family situation was very difficult. He also thought that Eva had treated him rather badly. Behind Per Johan’s friendly veneer, there were actually very few he respected and even fewer he feared. But when we met in 1955, so many years on, I could tell that he really did both respect and fear Hauk. I got the impression that he thought it was Hauk, but that it was something he could live with. Hauk was stuck down in Vestfold, so was not someone he had to see or deal with often.’
It felt like Solveig Ramdal was starting to open up now. Following a brief pause, she carried on.
‘I, for my part, would not completely dismiss the possibility of suicide. I only heard that one single bang between seven and eight – no footsteps. And I had heard steps out in the corridor and inside her room an hour earlier. I must say, I thought that some of the footsteps I heard in her room earlier were heavier than hers, which would indicate that at least one or more men had visited her. But anyway, I obviously cannot be certain about the footsteps, and there may have been others that I did not hear. Oh, I really don’t know what to believe.’
I could certainly say with a clear conscience that I agreed with the last statement. I had lost count of the number of possible explanations for the death in 1932. I noted down this last theory regarding Hauk and said that I clearly had to talk to Kjell Arne himself.
‘Of course you must. Kjell Arne normally works late in the afternoon, so no doubt you will find him in the office at Lysaker. I would also appreciate it if you say as little as possible to my husband about our conversation, but I understand if you must mention it.’
I said that I could not promise anything, but that I would do my best.
She gave a tight-lipped smile, held out her hand and wished me luck with the investigation. She bravely kept up appearances as the stalwart, bourgeois housewife. I understood that Solveig Ramdal had not had an easy life, despite her material comfort. But I did not trust at all that she had told me everything she knew, either about 1932 or 1972. I also noticed on the way out that there were a lady’s hat and two men’s hats on the rack in the hallway, which made me think. The fact that I was being followed by a Soviet agent did not prove that he had been the shadow with the hat on the night Per Johan Fredriksen was killed.
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