‘So, what news from the investigation?’ she asked as she went over to the leather chair.
I went on the offensive and told her that we now knew who had been in the bed together with Eva just before she died, thanks to, among other things, new analyses of the hairs that had been found there.
‘I see,’ Solveig Ramdal said, looking straight at me. There was no great change in her demeanour, but a slight tension in her voice galvanized me into making that final leap.
‘And so we discovered that you have lied to me in all your previous statements. The mysterious man in Eva’s bed was not your husband, or Per Johan Fredriksen or Hauk Rebne Westgaard. It was you.’
I knew before I had even finished that I had hit the bull’s eye, with Patricia’s good help.
Solveig Ramdal started as if she had received an electric shock. Then suddenly she transformed into a wild cat. She was almost ready to leap from her chair, her fingers curled like claws. And when she replied, she hissed more than spoke.
‘You must never tell another living soul – or it could be all the worse for you!’
I was prepared to defend myself physically if she moved in my direction. But she did not; I was at least four stone heavier than her and she was unarmed. But she looked like a wild animal in a cage as she remained seated on her chair, hissing, quivering, and staring at me with pure hatred. I waited a few seconds to reflect before I continued.
‘I do not want to create any problems in your private life, only to solve the murders. You have lied to me on several occasions in the course of this investigation, and threatening me now does not make your situation any better. In your own interests, you should just tell me the truth about what happened, immediately.’
Solveig Ramdal sat there fuming for a few seconds more. Suddenly she burst into tears. She sat with her face buried in her hands. After a couple of minutes she regained her composure, lowered her hands and spoke in a weak voice.
‘I am so sorry, I was desperate and not thinking clearly. For the past forty years, my worst nightmare has been that my secret would get out one day. My husband and children must never know. Yes, that’s right, I was in bed with Eva shortly before she died. She had asked me to come to her room at half past six. It was only a few minutes before we were in bed. We knew only too well that we did not have much time. At ten past seven, I sneaked out of her room and back into my own. She was alive and unharmed when I left her. I got up and dressed, while she lay in the bed naked. She smiled when she said “see you soon”. She did not say that she was expecting any more visitors. What happened after I left, I have no idea. What I said about hearing a bang at half past seven is true. I heard a bang and got worried, but hoped that it was nothing dramatic. I was terrified that we would be discovered and didn’t dare go into her room again to find out what had happened. It has haunted me ever since. Not knowing if I could have saved Eva if I had gone back. But I did not kill her. On the contrary, I loved her.’
This did not sound entirely implausible.
‘So that’s the story? Eva liked the attention of men, but in truth loved only women. And that was true of you too?’
She nodded and shook her head at the same time.
‘Yes and no. Eva only loved women and the attention, of course – or at least, that is what she told me. I thought at the time that I only loved women, but I realized afterwards that I could love both men and women. My experience with Eva and her death was a shock. I have since only been to bed with two men: my first fiancé and my husband. I tell myself that Solveig Thaulow was attracted to women, whereas Solveig Ramdal is quite normal and only loves men. It was a folly of my youth, but I have lived in fear ever since as a result. My husband and his family are very conservative and have spoken with utter disgust about women who are attracted to women. And the children are more like my husband than me. If this were to get out, I would not only risk divorce and being thrown out of my home, but also losing any contact with my family. So I beg you with all my heart not to let this go any further!’
She said this in an almost breathless whisper. Then she was silent and looked even smaller where she sat hunched up in a chair that was suddenly too big. The wild cat had vanished, and left in its place was a small, trembling kitten. The kitten did not look in the slightest bit dangerous, but I had seen the furious wild cat that also lay hidden in Solveig Ramdal. And I did not doubt that it could kill if it felt threatened and was given the opportunity.
We were caught in an uncomfortable situation, just as I had been with her husband the day before. Solveig Ramdal could not prove to me that Eva Bjølhaugen had been alive when she left the hotel room that day in 1932. I could not prove the opposite. We still only had Solveig Ramdal’s word for the bang at half past seven.
The limitation period for the murder in 1932 had long since elapsed and it was really only interesting in terms of the investigation because of its relevance to the murders in 1972. The story that Solveig Ramdal had now told me did not give her a new motive for the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen. On the other hand, it did give her a possible motive for killing Vera Fredriksen, if she had been about to uncover what actually happened in 1932. And that was true regardless of whether she had killed Eva Bjølhaugen, or just gone to bed with her.
I promptly changed tack, looked her straight in the eye and asked if she would now like to change her statement regarding the day Vera Fredriksen died.
And because we were looking straight into each other’s eyes, we both knew what happened next. She was confused and hesitated for a few seconds too long to be able to lie afterwards. So she bit her lip and answered.
‘Yes, I am afraid that I have to do that as well. Apart from the fact that we both had our clothes on, it is a very similar story forty years on. I was in the hotel room and met Vera, and it must have been shortly before she was killed. But she too was alive and unharmed when I left. And again, it was she who asked me to come, but all we did was talk for a few minutes.’
I asked for more details about what happened. Solveig Ramdal continued without stopping to think. Either she was telling the truth, or her mind worked very quickly.
‘I knew Vera a little, but it was still a surprise when she rang me. She said that she had found a document in her father’s desk that might shed some light on what had happened in 1932. She had gone to the hotel herself and thought that what her father had written could be true. But she wanted to discuss it with someone who had been there at the time, before going to the police. I didn’t know what she knew, but was panicked that she might know my secret and reveal it. So I said that I would get there as quickly as I could. I was beside myself with desperation. Then I put a tea towel over the receiver, rang the hotel and reserved a hotel room, pretending to be a neurotic.’
She stopped for a moment and looked at me expectantly, but carried on hastily when I waved her on.
‘The receptionist was not a stickler for rules and regulations, and I managed to get to my room without being seen. I met Vera, who was very agitated indeed. She only talked about the murder and there was nothing to indicate that she knew about my little secret. She had left the document in her father’s desk. But she told me that his theory was that Eva had been drowned and that it was my husband who had killed her. Vera said that she wanted to tell me before she went to the police, to tell them about this theory. I said that I appreciated it, and told her the truth – that I was not aware that my husband had committed murder, but could not rule it out either. I said that she should tell the police if she knew anything that might be relevant to her father’s death, but said that I would appreciate it if she did not mention our conversation. She promised not to, and we parted as friends around half past three. She was full of life and standing in the middle of the room when I left.’
She was breathing very heavily, but she held my eye as she spoke.
‘So what you are saying is that when you went to the hotel, you had planned for a situation where you were willing to kill Vera Fredriksen
if she was about to reveal your secret? And you claim that that situation never arose?’
Solveig Ramdal started slightly, but managed to keep impressive control over her voice.
‘What I am saying, very clearly, is that no such situation arose and I did not kill Vera Fredriksen. What I thought and imagined about the various situations that never arose is a matter for me, my conscience and God.’
Solveig Ramdal let out a long breath, then looked at me with pleading eyes. She gave a curt ‘no’ in answer to my question as to whether she had anything to add to her earlier statement about the day on which Per Johan Fredriksen died.
I thought that this made the picture of what happened in 1932 and 1972 clearer, but frustratingly didn’t make it any clearer who might have committed the murders. Solveig Ramdal could be lying and she could have carried out one or both of the murders. But I had no proof. If her story was true, it gave me few leads. In fact, Vera Fredriksen’s death became even more of a riddle. Given that Solveig Ramdal was the mysterious hotel guest and that the three telephone calls that Vera Fredriksen had made were to her mother, Solveig Ramdal and me, it was even more puzzling how and why the murderer had gone to the hotel. This weakened the credibility of her story, but did not disprove it.
Solveig Ramdal appeared to have fully regained control when she spoke again.
‘I understand that my position is pretty weak and I would appear untrustworthy. So I can only hope that you soon find out the truth about all these murders, as it will prove that I did not kill anyone. I have lied to you in our previous conversations, for which I apologize profusely. But there was a danger that I would be accused of a murder I did not commit, or that the secret of a mistake in my youth would be uncovered and ruin my life. In the past few days I have thought a great deal about how people react in different situations. Even though it might take different forms, I believe that most people would, like me, do whatever they could to save their own skins. You can call it egotism, if you wish; I call it self-preservation. It sounds a bit nicer, even though the meaning is much the same.’
I interpreted her concluding words as showing some degree of self-awareness, without feeling any more certain that the rest of what she had told me was therefore true; she had lied to me too much already.
My final words to Solveig Ramdal before I left were that she should stay locally until the investigation was closed, and that I had no need at the moment to tell her husband about her secret. She gave a little nod. She stayed sitting on the chair like a timorous kitten, staring out into thin air.
I found my own way out. It was only when I was in the car that I realized it was now ten to four, and that I had an important meeting back at the station at four. And it was only when I was heading back into the centre of town that I realized that I had not seen even a glimpse of the man in the hat today. Not that I missed the Soviet agent, but it did make me wonder what his sudden disinterest might mean.
IX
I met them on my way into the police station at five past four. They made a very odd couple: he was still a young man, with a lorgnette, suit and hat, and she was an older middle-aged woman with nothing on her head, wearing a worn green winter coat. There was an almost comical performance when both Edvard Rønning Junior and I apologized at the same time for being a few minutes late.
Once we were settled in my office, however, the seriousness of the situation was obvious. To my relief, Lene Johansen was not visibly broken by the events of the past few days. But she was still a tired and sombre woman. Her hair looked a bit greyer than when I had first met her, and I could easily have taken her to be over sixty. There was something heavy and slow about her movements when she sat down.
She looked at me questioningly without saying anything. Her lawyer said: ‘Thank you for the invitation to come here. We await with great interest to hear your update and questions.’
I quickly filled them in on developments. I told them that we now had an eyewitness, an old lady who lived in Majorstuen who claimed to have seen the murder, and she was adamant that the perpetrator did not limp. But there was still considerable uncertainty: the eyewitness was over a hundred and had not been able to give a description of the murderer. We had chosen to keep all possibilities open and to continue the investigation. Information had been gathered that could give several people possible motives for killing Fredriksen, but so far we did not have sufficient evidence to arrest anyone. Due to the ongoing investigation I was not able to give them any more details.
Lene Johansen listened attentively. She nodded gratefully when I said that I had been in contact with the company and that she need not worry about being evicted until the case had been solved.
‘Well, we will have to accept that as a provisional account and hope to hear better news in the coming days. What are your questions for my client?’
I looked at Lene Johansen and said that as a matter of procedure we now had to follow all leads and all possible links. I therefore had to ask her to explain why she had not previously mentioned that she had any connection with Fredriksen and his company.
The lawyer looked a little taken aback, but his client quickly rose to the challenge.
‘Yes, I realized afterwards that I should have mentioned that I cleaned there a couple of evenings a week for two years. But that was ages ago now, and I never really saw much of Fredriksen. It was the office manager I spoke to when I was employed and when I resigned.’
The lawyer looked pointedly at me and asked if the matter was now clarified.
I trusted Patricia and was bolstered by my success with Solveig Ramdal. So I carried on unperturbed.
‘I am afraid we can’t give up that quickly. It is true that Fredriksen himself was not often in the office. But you were a beautiful young woman, and according to the staff, he showed great interest in you. Indeed, the staff speculated on whether or not you might be meeting elsewhere as well. Not least when you resigned because you were going to have a child, after having been married for many years without children.’
Rønning dropped his lorgnette and stared aghast at his client, making no attempt to pick it up. And she sat there, frantically shaking her head.
‘Are you sitting there saying that Fredriksen and I – that’s crazy. We were from completely different worlds. Do you really think that I would let my son live in poverty, as he did, if his father was a multi-millionaire?’
She looked at me indignantly. It was a simple counter-question that I had not considered and I almost found myself blaming Patricia because she had not thought it through.
I was on the defensive now. Lene Johansen looked more and more indignant and then carried on without my asking.
‘A poor widow from the east end certainly has to put up with a lot in this town. First I lose my only son, and now you’re sitting there saying that he might have killed the rich father he never had. It’s all lies, and I can prove it, if you just give me a moment.’
Both Rønning and I sat as if paralysed and stared at her as she quickly pulled from her coat pocket an old purse. I could not see any notes in it, only a few coins. But her trembling fingers fished out an old black-and-white photograph which she held up for me.
‘This is my husband,’ she said.
I recognized him from the photograph in the flat. And I understood straightaway what she meant to say with it.
The birthmark on her husband’s neck was far smaller than the one on the neck of the boy on the red bicycle. But it was on the same side and was the same shape. It could not be a coincidence.
The situation was uncomfortable enough already, before Rønning Junior’s voice filled the room.
‘We understand that you have to investigate all possible leads in the investigation. However, we hope that you now recognize that this is a wild goose chase and that you will apologize immediately to my client. If you do not have any further questions, we will take our leave and hope that you will be able to give us some better news over the next few days. If not, this
could turn into a rather unfortunate matter for both you and the force in general. I had not expected you to stoop so low, Kristiansen.’
Lene Johansen nodded in agreement, put the photograph back in her purse, and stood up abruptly. ‘This has been a rather nasty experience. I want to go home,’ she said, her voice shaking.
I felt humiliated and in a very vulnerable position. So I did what I could to save the situation, I apologized and told them that I sincerely hoped that I would have better news next time.
I heard Rønning say the words ‘. . . recommend filing a . . .’ to his client as the door slammed behind them.
Another shock followed when my boss knocked on my door and did not wait for an answer before coming in. I was worried that he had come to reprimand me for my unwarranted allegations against one of the parties involved in the case – or for the continued lack of results in the investigation.
But my boss had not come to reprimand me at all. He had come to say that the Soviet Embassy had rather unexpectedly requested a meeting with the head of the investigation. But before that we would need to go to the prime minister’s office to give him a report.
X
I had met the leader of the Labour Party, Trond Bratten, a couple of years earlier in connection with another murder investigation, and I had been to the prime minister’s office. But I had never met Trond Bratten in the prime minister’s office. He had only moved in there the year before, when disagreement about the EEC had ripped apart the blue coalition government, which had been led by the Centre Party’s Peder Borgen. In terms of my political preferences, this was an improvement, even though my personal meeting with Peder Borgen here had been very nice.
I was curious to see if Mrs Ragna Bratten had also been included in the move from Young’s Square to the prime minister’s office. I soon had my answer. She was sitting on a chair in the reception area and jumped up as soon as she saw me. She embraced me and thanked me warmly for all I had done a couple of years earlier. The prime minister’s wife assured me that both she and her husband were deeply grateful and that her husband was looking forward to meeting me again. She added hastily that she was here so that she could drive him home after the meeting, but did not know what the meeting was about. So she asked me to look after her husband in the meantime, and then pointed to the door to his office.
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