I walked into the drawing room behind her and made sure not to close the door completely. Then I sat down on the sofa and nodded to the chair opposite. Oda Fredriksen sat down – with her back to the door. She had shoes on, and yet seemed to glide across the carpetless floor without a sound. I hoped that Danielsen would hear most of what was said in the event of a later dispute.
And there we sat, Oda Fredriksen and I, face to face in the drawing room, with all the red velvet furniture and a sea of flowers on the table beside us.
‘You wanted to ask me some personal questions?’ she said, in her slightly distracted voice.
‘I understand that this is still a very difficult time for you, following your husband’s death. But we have to go back in time first. To your childhood in Vestfold. Your sister was by all accounts a very beautiful and popular young lady. But from what other people have said, I also understand that she could be quite difficult and that it was not always easy for you, being the big sister.’
Oda Fredriksen frowned for a moment, but responded swiftly.
‘I don’t know who you have been speaking to, but they are right. Eva was always the most beautiful and brightest of us. And she knew it, and what is more, liked it. She had our parents wrapped around her little finger until she was confirmed. And then she started to wrap men around her fingers. I was always just, well, the ugly stupid little sister, even though I was the eldest.’
She sounded angry and bitter when she said this, with knitted brows. I saw a new Oda Fredriksen emerge in the scowl and unblinking eyes. A bitter, older woman looking back on the frustrations in her life. And I wanted to feed this feeling.
‘It must have been very hard for you. Especially when she fell in love with the man you loved.’
She nodded vigorously, almost furiously.
‘Not only was it hard, it was unbearable. Eva must have known by then that he was the one I wanted. I lay in bed crying alone for hours, whenever he came to visit her. And the evening that I heard that they had broken up, I stood jubilant in front of my mirror.’
‘But your victory was not yet won. Another woman you knew inconveniently took her place.’
Her gaze was fixed on me and she nodded again – a little less vigorously this time.
‘Solveig Thaulow, yes. My only friend. Clever Solveig. She was also prettier and smarter than me. That is what they all said. I heard them. If only Oda could be a bit more like Solveig, or like Eva, my mother once said to her parents. Then they all nodded. My father, as well. Solveig was less annoying than my sister. But all the same, the fact that they started going out together was terrible, and then even worse, they got engaged. I did not see anyone for several days. When finally I ventured out, I went down to the jetty and seriously considered throwing myself into the water.’
She did not blink and her face had hardened. A third face now appeared from the past. It was a younger, more self-conscious and dangerous face. I sat there and watched, fascinated, as I carried on talking.
‘But you did not jump, and you discovered new hope. You watched and saw that all was not well between Solveig and Per Johan. And this became even clearer on the trip to Oslo, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, I kept a close eye on them, and could tell even on the train. They did not sit together and barely spoke. I ingratiated myself with Solveig that evening, said she looked so serious, asked if everything was all right. She told me that things were not going well with Per Johan and that she was considering breaking off the engagement. Then she said that she thought he might be interested in me, and perhaps it might be better if that was the case. It was one of the greatest moments in my life. I had never been together with a man, and I had been unhappily in love with Per Johan for several years.’
‘Suddenly your goal and your great love were within reach. But then your sister appeared again, like the serpent in Paradise. She fluttered her greedy eyes at Per Johan once more. That is what you discovered that afternoon when you went to her room, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. She told me. She was dressed when I got there. But I could see that the sheet was crumpled. When I asked her who had been there, she smiled her meanest and most horrible smile. She told me that Per Johan had been there and that he wanted her back. And she said that she had to think about it, but probably would take him back. It might make me even more jealous and unhappy, but she could not let that stop her. She was so indescribably mean.’
This was said with a hiss. Oda Fredriksen’s face was now unrecognizably stiff. I understood better than ever before what Patricia meant when she talked about chameleon people, and instinctively pulled back a little for fear that her tongue might suddenly dart out.
‘It certainly sounds like it. You did not go there with the intention to harm her. But then she had one of her epileptic fits and fainted. You might even have helped to get her onto the sofa. Then it struck you just how vile and mean she was, and that her death would solve all your problems. It was actually a very smart idea.’
She nodded, almost without thinking.
‘Thank you. Yes, I thought it was quite smart myself. No one would think that she might have drowned. Mother and Father would think it was suicide, and as the good old Christian fools they were, they would refuse permission for an autopsy. And if there was an autopsy, they would discover that she had drowned, but would still not know who had killed her.’
I nodded with encouragement.
‘Suspicion was more likely to fall on her boyfriend, whom she was in the process of jilting. Especially if you left the room key on the floor outside his door. That was quick thinking and very smart.’
She nodded again, pleased. ‘I was not as stupid as everyone thought. I fooled them all. I got the man I wanted, and I managed to keep him, right until . . .’
Suddenly her face changed completely – to the grieving widow. She covered her eyes with her hands and I saw the tears sliding down her cheeks.
‘Right until someone killed him. Which was terrible. But were you not sad about Vera? Your sister was nasty, but Vera was so young and kind.’
It did not take much more for the embittered face to appear again. She carried on talking, fast, and pointed her finger as though accusing me.
‘Vera was young and kind, but she was so spineless – weak. I always knew that I would outlive Vera. She somehow did not have any fight of her own. Per Johan loved Vera and looked after her well. And now that he was dead, she would die too. She had tried to take her own life before and would have succeeded in the end, if I had not helped her. Sooner or later she would have poisoned herself or starved to death. And in the meantime she would have squandered all her inheritance on that artist twit of a boyfriend. It was not easy. I saw Per Johan’s face in hers as she lay there on the sofa and did think it was terribly sad. But Vera was not worth it, and she was threatening to expose me!’
And with that, everything had been said and explained. And suddenly, as if the trance had been broken, Oda Fredriksen was back in the present again. She recognized me and pressed her hands to her face. Her voice was almost normal again, but the bitter undertone remained, when she carried on talking after a brief pause.
‘You have no idea what it is like. To live every minute, every hour and every day for so many years in the constant fear of being caught. I hoped it would get better over the years, particularly once the limitation period had expired. But it didn’t get easier. My greatest fear was in fact not that I would be caught by the law, but be exposed by my husband, my children and everyone I knew. Keeping it secret became an eternal obsession. Behind the mask, you become an animal, a predator – your instincts and survival mechanisms kick in, especially when threatened.’
Earlier in the conversation I had experienced a horrified fascination listening to Oda Fredriksen. But now the fascination had gone, and only the horror remained. I was still uncertain as to whether she was in her right mind, but the court would have to decide that. I had all the answers I needed, and suddenly felt a great reluctance
to talk any more with this emotionally cold, egotistical person.
‘Self-preservation instinct is what some people call it. Well, I guess it’s time for us to go back to the station and get you a lawyer.’
Oda Fredriksen nodded curtly and stood up unexpectedly fast. She stood there, still as a statue, while I got up.
The movement was sudden, just as I was about to stand up straight. I caught a glimpse of some long, sharp nails and thought that they reminded me of a lioness’s claws, before I felt them scratching just under my eyes. Instinctively, I raised my hands to stop her claws. They disappeared from my eyes and instead I felt a hand fumbling around inside my jacket. The hand was thin and burning hot against my skin and the nails tore at me like claws.
Then I heard a semi-triumphant ‘haah’ and caught another quick movement as she jumped two steps back.
And, for the second time in my life, I found myself looking down the barrel of a loaded gun.
This time it was my own service gun. The experience was no less frightening because Oda had managed to fumble the safety off, and her finger was now shaking violently on the trigger.
The woman in the black dress was now unrecognizable. Her eyes flashed, and she gasped for breath as she hissed: ‘Who else knows that I killed Vera?’
I thought about the only other time I had looked down the barrel of a pistol. It had also been a terrifying experience that hounded me in nightmares for months after. But that time I knew that the person holding the pistol was entirely rational. I thought about what Patricia had said: that the overlap was hard to define. I looked at Oda Fredriksen’s wild eyes and feared that she might pull the trigger, intentionally or unintentionally, at any moment.
The question was a rational one from her perspective. She repeated it: ‘Who else knows that I killed Vera?’
I answered with the truth: ‘Only one other person knows that you killed Vera, but several people know that I am here. The truth will come out, whether you shoot me or not. And if you shoot a policeman, you will get a life sentence.’
As I said this, I noticed Danielsen in the background.
He came in quietly, in his socks, gliding cautiously over the floor. He was unarmed. But he was in the room and it was an enormous relief that I was not alone with a half-mad murderer.
It was not clear to me if Danielsen’s arrival increased or diminished the chance that I would be shot within the next few seconds. Oda Fredriksen’s finger was still shaking violently – and the pistol was still pointing at my chest.
‘If I am caught, I will be sentenced to life regardless, for the murder of my daughter. My only chance is not to get caught, so I have to shoot you first. Shoot you, hide your body and escape in the car – to Sweden or somewhere like that.’
Again she was talking as if in a trance. Danielsen moved soundlessly closer as she spoke. He was only a few feet behind her now. He stopped there and hesitated, as if waiting for a signal from me. I understood his dilemma. Oda Fredriksen had her shaking finger on the trigger. The chances that the gun would go off and that the bullet would hit me if he launched himself at her were considerable. In the midst of all this, I suddenly felt sorry for Danielsen.
I did not dare to stop her talking. So I said that she would be arrested even if she fled to Sweden. The police would find her no matter where she went, and the sentence would be all the more severe if she shot a policeman.
‘Is there someone behind me?’ she asked in a strained voice. Her finger shook even more violently on the trigger when she said this.
I managed to think that the chances of her shooting me might be less if she knew that she would immediately be arrested by another policeman. And that I would be able to throw myself over her if she turned around to shoot Danielsen.
So, with forced calm, I replied: ‘Yes. Detective Inspector Danielsen, who came here with me, is standing right behind you now. You cannot get away, even if you shoot me.’
We stared at each other for a few eternal seconds. She was shaking with emotion – and the pistol was shaking with her.
I saw the flash in her eyes and realized that she was going to shoot a second before she did so.
So I was already moving to the right when she fired; like a football keeper diving for a penalty kick, I found myself thinking, as I sailed through the air and saw the bullet penetrate the velvet sofa behind me.
I hit the floor and at the same time my foot hit the table. All the flowers were knocked off, just as Oda Fredriksen also fell to the floor with Danielsen on her back.
Oda Fredriksen lay there on the floor with Danielsen on top of her, and no means of escape. But she did not let go of my pistol. Her hand gripped it tightly like a claw. From my position by the table leg, I saw Danielsen banging her wrist three times without her letting go of the gun. Only then did I realize that I was alive and unharmed.
I leapt up and ran over to Oda Fredriksen, grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled at it so hard that I was frightened her arm might break. But still she did not let go of the pistol. I had to grip it with both hands and pull with all my might to get it free. There was a faint sob from her as I managed to pull it away. But even without her weapon she was still acting like a desperate wild animal as she fought and struggled on her drawing-room floor. She kept twisting her hands away, refusing to give up. It was only on the third attempt that I managed to get the handcuffs round her right wrist and it took two more to get them locked on her left.
And then finally it was over. Suddenly, almost alarmingly so, she regained her self-control. She panted furiously for a few seconds and then relaxed and accepted her fate.
‘I apologize, I did not want to kill you. My self-preservation instinct got the better of me,’ she said. Her voice was almost as expressionless as it usually was.
I was unharmed, but still in shock. So I did not answer. Danielsen was also paler than I remembered having ever seen him before, and did not look as though he wanted to say any more to Oda Fredriksen. In silent understanding, we each put a hand on her shoulders and walked out with her between us.
None of us said a word on the way out. I only heard a low, animal snarl from Oda Fredriksen as we got into the police car. I looked up and understood why, when I saw that a passer-by had stopped and was looking at us. For her, it was a taste of the disgrace that would follow when her arrest for murder became public knowledge. So I pushed her into the back of the car and then got into the passenger seat without saying any more.
I was still wound up and shaken by the unexpected drama in the drawing room at Bygdøy. It was only halfway back into Oslo that I discovered blood running from a wound under my right eye.
V
The time was five to one. I had returned to 19 Møller Street and handed over Oda Fredriksen.
I was now back at Patricia’s in Frogner, and had told her what had happened out at Bygdøy. She showed unexpected concern about the scratch on my face and expressed relief when I assured her that it was nothing serious. I thought to myself that perhaps Patricia had become more empathetic over the years, and I was now seeing a more humane side of her.
‘A family tragedy of devastating proportions. Behind her mask, she must have suffered from serious mental illness for years. I understand that it must have been a very unnerving experience for you. But as you came out of it unscathed, the outcome is good, in that the guilty party has been arrested and the question of guilt is indisputable,’ Patricia said firmly.
She finished her coffee, but as yet had not touched the packet of cigarettes on the table. Patricia was solemn and distant. She was in no rush to tell me what she had understood earlier today. At first I wondered if she was thinking about the situation with her boyfriend – and then to what extent I should take that into consideration. I waited a minute before carrying on.
‘Well, then, perhaps we should push on and talk about how this all started – in other words, the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen.’
Patricia seemed to wake up and look at me. And at the s
ame time, her hand stretched out towards the cigarette packet.
‘Yes, of course. I am sorry, I got lost in my own thoughts. Yes, we should carry on, even though it is in many ways an even sadder story. The statement from Doctor Death confirmed what I already believed, and that is that Fredriksen’s murder had nothing to do with the murder in 1932. Nor did it have anything to do with his business. Which rules out all the men, and his wife had an alibi.’
‘Solveig Ramdal, then?’ I asked.
Patricia smiled. ‘Perhaps not so clear. But I think that we can rule her out all the same when it comes to Fredriksen’s murder. For a start, she does not really fit the description in terms of physique and clothes. Furthermore, the motive would still be unclear, as she had no murder to hide from 1932. Plus, she also had an alibi of sorts from her husband. One could perhaps construct a motive for Solveig Ramdal or Kjell Arne Ramdal for killing Per Johan Fredriksen, but it is hard to imagine a situation where they would both have a motive for killing him – and what is more, trust each other enough to do it together. So their alibi is better than it may seem.’
I recalled my conversations with the Ramdals and had to concede.
‘If we are to believe Doctor Death’s statement, we can assume that the description also rules out both the Fredriksen sisters and the boy on the red bicycle,’ I added quickly.
‘Naturally. But I have never at any point thought that any of those three killed Fredriksen. However, I have suspected throughout that one of them might be of more importance than at first we realized. I just struggled to understand the reasons for, and the significance of, his apparently confused behaviour. But there are no other possibilities now. It was no one from Fredriksen’s family, nor from his business contacts, nor any of his fated friends from 1932. We will have to see the spying aspect of the case as solved, even though it is still unclear how far Fredriksen went with his contacts and how the police security service found out. But the solution to his murder does not lie there. So we have dismissed those who did not commit the murder, but still do not know who did it. We are back where we started: at the sad story of the boy on the red bicycle, and the question of whether he was of sound mind and why he behaved so oddly. Oh, this really is a terrible story.’
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