Chameleon People

I

Saturday, 25 March 1972 started for me at half past seven – and on a low, as anticipated. Two of the morning papers carried short reports that the fiancée of the head of the Fredriksen investigation had been reported missing earlier the day before, but had then been found again in the evening.

The shooting at the National Theatre and the postponed signing of the Barents Sea agreement, on the other hand, were on all the front pages. All the newspapers were careful to point out that the incident was as yet unexplained, but all agreed that the signing of the agreement should be postponed as a result of this uncertainty. Any links to the Fredriksen case were still unclear, though even Aftenposten wrote that ‘the pressure on the head of investigation Kolbjørn Kristiansen will now be even greater.’ I could not even bear to think about what Verdens Gang would write.

Reading these reports in the papers felt like a hard start to the day. But gradually I came round to the idea that, in isolation, it was not such a bad thing. I was very glad that the drama with Miriam had not been picked up by the press. I was not sure that my boss had assessed the mood correctly with regards to the interpreter. I thought that her murder, if it remained unsolved, might be revisited by the press, certainly if the suspicions of a Soviet execution proved to be persistent. But if that was the case, it would be Danielsen’s problem and responsibility. My responsibility was limited to the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen and his daughter, which I now had every hope we could solve before Monday.

It suited me very well that the Fredriksen murders had been overshadowed by the shooting at the National Theatre. I could eat my breakfast in peace without the telephone ringing. Though they did call from the main station at a quarter past eight to say that I was invited to another meeting at the Soviet Embassy as soon as possible. I asked them to pass on the message that I would be there at nine.

II

The table was set for three today. It almost felt a little unsafe sitting there under the portrait of Brezhnev alone with two Soviet citizens. However, today’s meeting was much shorter and far more relaxed. The vice-ambassador came in with the same interpreter as yesterday and smiled as he shook my hand.

‘The vice-ambassador hopes that you are pleased with developments and thanks you for your help in resolving the situation without any unnecessary speculation or scandal,’ the interpreter said.

For which I thanked him, with somewhat mixed feelings. Then I asked if the embassy had any new information that might help to solve the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen.

‘The embassy would be more than happy to help and the vice-ambassador hopes that we can do so. We can first of all assure you that your meetings with our colleague Sergey Klinkalski in various parts of the city were pure coincidence. Comrade Klinkalski likes to familiarize himself with the different parts of the town or city where he is working, including the more working-class areas, so he spent a couple of days exploring the city. Unfortunately he could not be here himself today, as he has been transferred to an important position in another embassy at short notice. Klinkalski left Norway late yesterday evening. He asked us to pass on his best wishes and this, his written statement.’

I thanked him somewhat insincerely. The situation felt a little absurd – but at the same time, very exciting. And it was no less absurd or exciting when the vice-ambassador then produced a folded sheet of paper and handed it to me almost ceremoniously.

The folded sheet contained a typed statement in perfect Norwegian with a very elegant signature:

As a result of my wish to familiarize myself with Oslo, I found myself at Majorstuen in the evening on Saturday, 18 March 1972. There were not many people around. One of the men was Per Johan Fredriksen, whom I did not know at the time, but subsequently realized was a leading politician when I saw his photograph in the newspaper.

Fredriksen was first stopped on a street corner by a young boy on a bicycle. They exchanged a few words, then Fredriksen waved him off and carried on walking. The boy stood there for a while, then turned round, got onto his bike, and cycled slowly off in the opposite direction.

Fredriksen walked on to the next corner, where a middle-aged woman waved to him. The woman seemed to be known to Fredriksen, as he went over to her. They exchanged a few words, whereupon the woman drew a knife and stabbed Fredriksen in the chest. Fredriksen shouted, fell to the ground and lay there. The woman stood there for a few seconds, then ran as fast as she could down the street in the direction that Fredriksen had come from.

As I am unfamiliar with Norwegian society and conventions, I stayed where I was to observe, as I was uncertain whether the whole thing might have been staged in order to rob me. A few moments later, the boy on the bicycle came back. He leaned down over Fredriksen, pulled out the knife and then stood there with it in his hand. Then suddenly he hopped on his bike and pedalled off at high speed. Several other passers-by were now gathering around Fredriksen. I understood now that he really had been the victim of a crime, but that I might myself be suspected and so withdrew and went back to the embassy, rather than approaching the scene of the crime.

The woman who stabbed Fredriksen had dark hair and looked as though she could be somewhere between forty and sixty. She was bare-headed and wearing an old green winter coat. Because of the distance and the dark, I am unfortunately unable to give any more details about her features or clothes.

Dr Sergey Klinkalski, Oslo, 24 March 1972.

‘The vice-ambassador hopes that the information may be of help to your investigation into the terrible murder of Mr Fredriksen,’ the interpreter said.

I said that I hoped so too. Then I thanked the vice-ambassador for his help and cooperation. He left with me this time. We parted at the reception, with a firm and almost friendly handshake.

III

‘Exactly. Thank you. That is exactly what I was hoping for,’ Patricia said, and put the document down beside her cup of coffee.

I remarked that the document provided new information, but not about who killed Per Johan Fredriksen. I added that we might perhaps want to take what Klinkalski said with a pinch of salt, but that what he had written did fit well with what we already knew.

Patricia nodded. ‘Like a glove. All the stuff about him and his intentions is of course nonsense, but his eyewitness account is the truth, I think. There is no reason for him to lie about it. On the contrary, it is not only in his interests, but also in the embassy’s that this is cleared up. His statement does not tell us who the murderer is, but it does give important information about who it is not. Enough for me now to tell you who murdered Eva Bjølhaugen in 1932 and who killed Per Johan and Vera Fredriksen in 1972. So, we are talking about three murders and two murderers. But I warn you, evidence may be problematic, so having the murderers’ identities will not necessarily mean that the case is closed.’

I quickly agreed with her. I probably would have done that no matter what she said in the end. I felt slightly shellshocked – and intoxicated by the possibility that the case might soon be solved.

‘Per Johan Fredriksen’s death acted as a catalyst killing, to a certain extent, which dramatically escalated certain processes that triggered the deaths of three other people in only a matter of days. But the statement from Dr Death confirmed something that I have thought for some time now, in other words, that the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen had nothing to do with the deaths of his wife’s sister in 1932 and his daughter now in 1972. But shall we begin with 1932?’

I quickly said yes. The murder mystery from 1932 had a strange allure for me.

‘The death in 1932 still cannot be explained in isolation. However, there is one interesting detail that I have thought about a lot. Solveig Ramdal heard a thump in the room next door at half past seven. That was because Eva Bjølhaugen fainted as a result of an epileptic seizure. The young Solveig obviously had very good hearing and was on the alert in her room, as only she and no one else heard it. She also heard footsteps in the corridor and neighbouring room earlier. After the bang, she becomes even more attentive and practically stands with her ear to the wall. But she hears nothing – even though a person must have been walking around in the room after Eva fainted. What do you think that means?’

I had never thought about it in that way – and was not sure what to answer when suddenly confronted with it from this angle. So my answer was somewhat noncommittal: ‘One possible explanation is that Solveig Ramdal is simply lying, as we only have her word for it.’

Patricia gave a thoughtful nod. ‘I have also considered that possibility. Solveig Ramdal had something to hide and she has lied before. She is an egotist and a cold-blooded chameleon, who would, no doubt, be capable of killing if it was in her interest. But she had no motive for the murder, unless Eva had threatened to reveal the secret of Solveig’s sexuality, but then Eva had no interest in doing that. So we can assume that Solveig is telling the truth. The key question here is which one of the others had the strongest motive, if you ignore the human considerations that most people would assume?’

‘Talking of important questions – have you worked out the significance of the key in the corridor?’

‘As far as 1932 is concerned, I have from the start worked on the theory that the key was a spontaneous attempt to point the suspicion at Eva’s boyfriend, Hauk Rebne Westgaard. And to give the impression that the position of the key was of real importance. But it was not: the murderer was let in by the victim. And forty years later, it was a premeditated attempt to give the impression that it was an enactment of the same murder. This was done by a murderer who had created a kind of alibi in doing this, who had an alibi for the death of Per Johan Fredriksen, and who at first glance was a highly unlikely candidate.’

As Patricia spoke, it suddenly dawned on me who she was referring to. At first it seemed slightly surreal, but then it seemed all the more strange to me that I had not considered this possibility before.

‘The last person that anyone remembers was there,’ I said, tentatively.

Patricia nodded.

‘The one who walks without a sound, even in shoes. So if she was walking on the carpet in the corridor in her stockinged feet, you would not hear her. She was let in by her sister. She knew about her sister’s illness, and understood immediately that she was having an epileptic fit. And she had an obvious motive: with her irritatingly beautiful and popular little sister out of the way, she would become a very attractive heir to a considerable fortune. And even more importantly, I think: she would be rid of a dangerous competitor for the affections of the man she wanted – and later got, with the help of the family fortune.’

So it was as I had thought for the past few minutes, and I still could not believe that I had not seen it until now. I was cheered to an extent when Patricia carried on.

‘To begin with, when the main focus was on Per Johan Fredriksen’s death, we almost lost sight of the grieving widow, who had an alibi. She was no doubt constantly worried that her husband would discover the truth of what happened in 1932. But he had not and nothing he said to his wife showed that he had. So she was genuinely surprised, and mourned his death. Paradoxically, it was only after the death of the daughter, who also did not suspect her mother, that I started to suspect Oda Fredriksen. In the case of Vera, it was not just that someone knew she was at the hotel, but also who she would let into the room. When Solveig Ramdal confessed to being the mystery guest in the next room, I focused more and more on the last person that Vera Fredriksen rang.’

‘But, she only made two phone calls, other than the call to me. Surely one must have been to her sister and the other to Solveig Ramdal?’ I said.

Patricia snorted. ‘Nonsense. She paid for two telephone calls earlier in the day. But she would of course not have paid for the call to her sister, as it was never answered. After she had spoken to Solveig Ramdal, the nervous Vera would undoubtedly have consulted with someone in her family before phoning you. First she rang her sister, who did not get to the phone on time. The other two possibilities were then her brother, who I knew had not killed her, and her mother. Vera Fredriksen really was a little naive, and made a fatal mistake when she trusted that her own mother was not the murderer. Solveig Ramdal arrived first, and was also prepared to kill her if her secret was about to be revealed. But she had no murder to hide and was smart enough to find out what Vera Fredriksen knew first.’

Patricia stopped and looked at me. I had no questions, so I gave an impatient wave for her to continue.

‘The mother, on the other hand, had a murder to hide and thought she had been discovered. She got straight down to business with almost impressive efficiency. She asked her daughter to sit tight and not open the door to anyone until she got there. Then she made herself a kind of alibi by phoning her other daughter just before she left the house. She also rang her son, but got no answer, which gave her an even better idea for an alibi. On her way to the hotel, she stopped at a telephone box, rang her son again, then hung up without waiting for an answer. She knew from previous visits to the hotel that she could get in without being seen from the reception area. As soon as she had been let into the room, she showed her true face and attacked. Poor fragile Vera fainted, as she so often did in frightening situations. Whereupon Oda Fredriksen drowned her youngest daughter in the same way that she had drowned her younger sister forty years earlier. It is a horrific story for those of us who want to believe in kind mothers and secure families. But that must be what happened, and it is unfortunately not unheard of that people with a strong ego or who are secretly deranged have killed members of their family.’

I had to agree with this.

Patricia had spoken for some time with great passion. Now she looked depressed and her hand was shaking when she lit a cigarette. She smoked half of it in silence, before continuing.

‘It is not a happy ending, if that is what you were hoping for. But it is the truth, and so the only solution I can give you to the two murders.’

The shock was subsiding now. I realized that my failure to react had disappointed Patricia, and felt that it was ungrateful of me. So I slowly clapped my hands – and assured her that I was more than happy to have established the truth about the two murders.

Patricia smiled when I started to clap. But if she really was happy, it did not last long. She stubbed out her cigarette, then leaned across the table towards me. Suddenly her face was inches away from mine. I found myself wondering if it was a coincidence that she was wearing a very loose white blouse and an undoubtedly expensive perfume that I had not smelt before. And suddenly found myself very jealous of Johan Fredriksen.

‘It is a little early to applaud, I am afraid. As the case stands, I am not sure that a good lawyer might not get her acquitted on the basis of reasonable doubt, with no witnesses or evidence. I have told you how it happened and the sequence of events, now you have to get her to confess. And at the same time, you might find out whether, behind the facade, she is slightly deranged or just extremely calculating. But the overlap there can be scarily hard to define. Come back when you have done that, and we can then hopefully talk about Per Johan Fredriksen and other things of mutual interest.’

I took the hint. Patricia did not want to tell me who had killed Per Johan Fredriksen yet. She knew, but she wanted me to come back – and she had given me the answer to two of the three murders. That qualified as a very good start to the day. On my way from the house into the centre of town, I pondered on who might have killed Per Johan Fredriksen, and what Patricia had meant by ‘other things of mutual interest’.

IV

It was a quarter past eleven by the time I parked outside the Fredriksens’ family home on Bygdøy, having first swung by to collect DI Danielsen from the station. Danielsen had been working his way through a pile of papers, but his face lit up and he immediately put on his jacket when I asked if he would like to help me with a final push in the Fredriksen cases.

I did not tell Danielsen how it all fitted together, just that it was an important interview. I felt under a lot of pressure but did not let it show. I did not doubt that Patricia was right with regard to the murder of Vera Fredriksen. But she was unfortunately also right with regard to the lack of evidence. I needed a confession. The chances of getting one would undoubtedly be best if I was alone with Oda Fredriksen in the drawing room. But that might cause problems if she did say something that incriminated her, but then later denied it.

The solution was that I took Danielsen with me, introduced him to the widow, and told her that he was only there as a matter of procedure, and that the two of us could talk together alone first, as it involved some very sensitive information. Danielsen gave his most charming smile and offered to wait outside in the hall.

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 same 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.’

The last exclamation was said in a very sharp voice. I spotted a tear in Patricia’s eye that she hastily wiped away. She shook her head angrily and then sat there with a cigarette in her mouth.

‘The boy’s confusing behaviour and the question of the knife are what roused my suspicion. There were soon so many who could have had a motive for killing Per Johan Fredriksen. But it remained a mystery why anyone would kill him with a knife. Unless of course it was the only murder weapon the murderer had or could get hold of,’ Patricia said, slowly.

I had not thought about this before, but started now to get an inkling of where she was going. And if that was the case, I could only agree that it was a terrible story.

Patricia then asked an unexpected question. ‘Did you ever find out more about Hauptmann, whom the boy on the red bicycle referred to the last time you spoke with him?’

Reluctantly, I had to admit that I had not thought about checking it in any more detail.

‘Well, I did, and there is more to it than you might think. The parallels are a good clue, as he clearly wanted to talk in riddles. Bruno Hauptmann had a box of money in his garage that was proved to be the ransom money from the Lindbergh kidnapping, but right up until his death, he claimed that he had never been given it. The boy on the red bicycle stood there with a knife that had been used to commit a murder, but he maintained until his death that he had not used it.’

‘But he was not Fredriksen’s son,’ I said.

Patricia nodded and let out the heaviest sigh I had ever heard from her.

‘No, I know that theory was wrong. But that does not rule out that his mother had a relationship with Fredriksen before he was born – or that Fredriksen later ruthlessly let her down. Perhaps that was the problem: that Fredriksen could have been the child’s father, but was not. You will have to ask his mother for the details. Whatever the case, the picture is not entirely clear: she bore him a grudge, and this turned into pure hate and a desire for revenge when Fredriksen again let her down when she was in such desperate need fifteen years later. It becomes more and more reminiscent of a Greek tragedy. The rich mother kills her own daughter from sheer egotism – to conceal the murder of her own sister. The poor mother kills her former lover out of desperation, and without knowing it, takes the life of her only son at the same time.’

‘So, behind his limp, speech defect and class complexes, the boy on the red bicycle was in fact completely rational?’

Patricia nodded. ‘Completely. From his perspective, it was completely rational to wait for Fredriksen there, to ask him for mercy for himself and his poor mother. He had his back to the wall and had no other hope, so why should he not try? But Fredriksen waved him off and simply referred him to the office manager, as he always did in those situations. The boy cycled off, but stopped – either because he heard the shout, or because he decided to try talking to Fredriksen one more time. Fredriksen did not come. Instead the boy suddenly saw his mother, who was supposed to be visiting his aunt, come round the corner at high speed and run off down the road. He wondered what had happened, limped around the corner and found the dying Fredriksen. The kitchen knife in Fredriksen’s chest was one that the boy on the red bicycle recognized from home. Bruno Hauptmann was, if he was telling the truth, sentenced for a serious crime committed by his best friend. Tor Johansen told the truth and was arrested for a serious crime committed by his best friend.’

Patricia paused and shook her head again furiously. She lit another cigarette, then carried on swiftly.

‘I have coincidentally read the biography of the foreign secretary Bevin that the boy’s teacher spoke about. In a short retrospective, Bevin commented that his mother was the only person he can remember showing any interest or doing anything good for him in his childhood. With a nod to the teacher, the boy on the red bicycle could probably have said much the same. No one had done anything for him, except his mother. Society had definitely done nothing to help him. He could not hand over his mother to upholders of that society, even though he knew that she had done something dreadfully wrong. So he took the murder weapon with him and fled to the home of a hero he had never spoken to before. He hoped and believed that either his mother would give herself up rather than let him take the blame, or that you would solve the mystery without him having to betray his mother. But he fell into despair on the Sunday when his mother did not give herself up and you had not solved the case. He had tried his very best, but still ended up carrying the blame for something he had not done. On Monday morning he was pushed over the edge and took his own life, tragically only a few hours before he might have been saved.’

Patricia stubbed out her cigarette, then sat there staring out into thin air.

I did not feel particularly buoyant either, despite the fact that the last murder case was now solved. My memory of finding the boy dead in his cell returned – along with my bad conscience. If only I had been able to see the connections earlier, I could truly have lived up to his belief in me and saved his life.

To begin with, I was angry with myself, and then angry with Miriam, who had not let me ring Patricia earlier. It struck me then that this was the first time in hours that I had thought about Miriam, and that she should be awake by now. But the thought was interrupted by Patricia’s voice.

‘You must not blame yourself. It was not easy to see the links at the time and we will never know what might otherwise have happened. However, there is one thing that struck me as rather odd, as you are otherwise usually quite observant. Danielsen supposedly gave the pad and pencil to the boy the day before. It is rather strange, then, that you did not notice them when you spoke to him for the last time.’

I had to think back to my last meeting with the boy on the red bicycle. It was painful – and also unsettling. I ran through the meeting in my mind, twice, and then I shook my head.

‘I had not thought about that, what with everything else. But the pad and pencil were not on the table and there were not many places he could have hidden them.’

Patricia gave a thoughtful nod, and lit another cigarette.

‘In that case, you were not the last person to speak to the boy before he took his life after all. You might want to have a word with Danielsen about that,’ she said, with another little sigh.

I said that I should probably speak to both him and the boy on the red bicycle’s mother as soon as possible.

Patricia nodded and said: ‘I do not envy you either of those conversations, so good luck with both of them.’

Then she sat still and stared straight ahead again.

I stopped by the door, turned around and said: ‘Thank you so much for all your help. You are incredible.’

Patricia smiled and waved two fingers, but said no more. On the way out, I realized that she had not asked me to come back, or not to come back, later.

VI

By two o’clock I had rung Edvard Rønning Junior, the lawyer, and agreed that he would meet me at his client’s home as soon after three as possible. I told him that we had important news in relation to the investigation of Per Johan Fredriksen’s murder, and he assured me that he would be more than happy to take a couple of hours out of his Saturday to hear what it was.

I had also informed Fredriksen’s remaining children. I had called Ane Line Fredriksen first. She said that she was shaken by the news of her mother’s arrest, but then quickly added: ‘But nothing in this family can shock me any more’ – and then asked to know the details. I told her, tentatively, that the investigation into the murder of her father would probably be closed in the course of the weekend, and that the guilty party quite clearly had no links to the family. I added that I would have to stop there as I still had to ring her brother. She offered spontaneously to call him herself. ‘We have become a bit closer as a result of all this, but have yet to have a proper talk about the situation. He was in a foul mood yesterday, by the way. As I understand it, things are not going well with his love life. Which is not entirely unexpected, but it’s sad, especially if I never get the chance to know who this secret girlfriend is.’

I noticed that what Ane Line said about her brother and his secret girlfriend buoyed my mood, even if it wasn’t for certain. I definitely had no wish to hear Johan Fredriksen’s voice at the moment, even though I did not have to see him. So I thanked her for the offer and said that I would appreciate it if she could inform her brother, and promised to telephone later to give her a full update when her father’s murder had been solved.

Miriam should have woken up by now, if all was as it should be at Ullevål Hospital. But there was barely time before what presumably would be the final act of the Fredriksen murder investigation, and I thought it might be better for both of us if I could tell her everything at once and that would give her more time with her parents and brother before I got there.

So I steeled myself for another difficult conversation instead, and went to Danielsen’s office.

He looked up, smiled briefly and said: ‘Good work this morning. Have you got any more exciting news?’

I closed the door and sat down. Then I told him the truth: that I believed we were nearing the end of the investigation into Per Johan Fredriksen’s murder as well, but there was a detail in the story of the boy on the red bicycle that we needed to talk about first, just the two of us, right now.

Danielsen looked at me, on guard. ‘Just the two of us right now, I see,’ he repeated.

I think he knew that I knew. And it felt awkward.

Only a few days ago, a conversation such as this would not have caused me to lose sleep. But now it did. Danielsen had shown me unexpected understanding and support when Miriam was kidnapped. And he had perhaps saved my life during the drama out at Bygdøy earlier today. But there was no way around it, now that we were here.

‘It is true that you were the one who gave him the paper and pencil, which he then used to write a suicide note. But it was not quite as you said, was it? I suddenly realized that I hadn’t seen the paper and pencil when I was in his cell on Monday morning. So he must have got it later. You must have gone in to see him just before he died.’

I looked at Danielsen. His face was very grave indeed and frightened in a way I had never seen it before. His face confessed before he said anything. But his voice did come eventually.

‘I thought – I thought that you had known that all along but had overlooked it for my sake. I was deeply grateful that you did not add to my burden, as it was heavy enough as it was. No matter where I looked in those first few days afterwards, I saw the boy sitting there as he had been the last time I saw him. I should not have come to work on Monday morning. I had had a sad encounter with the woman I had hoped would become my fiancée on the Sunday, who instead said she no longer wished to be my girlfriend. It would be too hard to live with a policeman, she said. So I was in a terrible mood and convinced that the boy was guilty. I became increasingly annoyed that he refused to answer either you or me. So I went back and banged the table a bit more. He still did not answer. He just sat there, silent, and stared straight ahead, as though I was not there.’

‘But you didn’t touch him, did you?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, not at all. He hung himself. But I may have said-’ Danielsen stopped abruptly, mid-sentence. I could not remember ever having experienced this before. He would not look at me when eventually he continued.

‘When I left the paper and pencil, I may have said – well, that he could now either write a confession about what had happened, or a suicide note. I think I must have said that. Of course, I did not mean it like that. His behaviour was just so strange. I really had no idea that he was innocent.’

I felt relieved as soon as he said that. So it was Danielsen, and not me, who had pushed the boy on the red bicycle over the edge. For my part, I felt easier. But with that came a new dilemma. Because as we sat there, I saw something I definitely had never expected to see: Danielsen crying. I felt a surge of sympathy I would never have believed I could ever feel for him. But in the back of my mind I also saw the boy on the red bicycle, pedalling furiously to get to me in time to be saved.

But Danielsen was there, living and breathing in the room with me right now. The boy on the red bicycle was not. Nothing could bring him back. Danielsen had perhaps saved my life earlier in the day. He had risked his own to do so. I thought about the sorrow it would cause the parents he had talked about if this became a cause for dismissal. And that, no matter what, we would never know what exactly had gone on in the head of the boy on the red bicycle in those final minutes of his life. That part of this murder mystery would never be solved.

So I said that in refusing to answer, the boy had behaved very oddly, no matter what his motives were or whether he was guilty or not, and that I believed that Danielsen had meant well, even though what he had done was wrong. And consequently, I thought it best if this stayed strictly between us.

The end of our meeting was very touching; Danielsen took my hand and assured me that he had meant no wrong. And I absolutely believed him.

All the same, in the minute it took to get back to my office, the thin, dark-haired boy flashed up in my mind several times. He was still cycling after me, even though he was nowhere to be seen. I feared that I would continue to see him for some time to come. At that moment I felt a bit like my boss: sensible, successful and cynical. It did not feel good. And suddenly I wondered what Miriam would have said about it all.

VII

At twenty past two, I was sitting alone in my office – not enjoying the silence there.

And it was then, in a flash, that I realized that there was one person whom Patricia had not included in her calculation who could have killed Per Johan Fredriksen.

The possibility felt more and more real as I thought it over. And it would be slightly less of a tragedy after all, if it were the case. It felt less and less tempting to make new allegations about Lene Johansen without having examined and checked all other alternatives. So at twenty-five past two, I asked Danielsen to meet me just before three at 36 Tøyenbekken in Grønland, and apologized in advance if I happened to be a few minutes late.

Then I got into the car and drove to Majorstuen.

Much to my relief, Harriet Henriksen answered her door straightaway. She was wearing a green dress today, not black. But the photograph of her dead lover was still on the table in the living room and a new candle burned beside it.

I started by saying that the old murder from 1932 and the murder of Vera Fredriksen had now been solved. At first she seemed uninterested, but livened up when I said that Oda Fredriksen had committed both murders. ‘I always thought that she couldn’t be as wonderful as everyone said. It is just a shame that Per Johan never discovered her true nature while he was alive. Everything would have been different then and he might still be here with me now,’ she said in a quiet, intense voice.

‘And what is more, we now believe that we are close to solving the murder of Per Johan himself. But that requires that you answer me more truthfully than you have done so far,’ I said.

This made her start. She stiffened and sat without moving for a few seconds.

‘You betrayed him,’ I said, and waited.

She stood there, breathing heavily for a while, but when she spoke, it all came tumbling out.

‘Yes, I did betray him. And it will always haunt me as it was the end of our love story. But I did not kill him. And as far as I know, informing the police security service about illegal contact with other countries is not a criminal offence,’ she said.

That was when I finally got the picture. I had hit the bull’s eye, only the target was not the one I had anticipated.

I told her the truth: that it was not illegal if that was all she had done, and as this was a murder investigation I was now duty-bound to ask her for a full explanation. And it should be credible, I added.

‘The truth is hopefully always credible, certainly when it concerns a lonely, middle-aged woman’s egotism and dreams. I am an anti-communist through and through, but will not try to make myself sound any better than I am. I had lost all hope that Per Johan would leave his marriage for my sake, as long as he was a leading politician. But I thought that if he got caught up in a scandal and had to resign as a politician, the marriage might fall apart anyway. And then I would be the one who was left and who would give him all the support, and a new family with me would be a new start for him. So I told the police security service about his contacts at the Soviet Embassy – on the promise that they would never reveal their source. And it is very disappointing that they have now broken that promise.’

I assured her that I had not heard it from the police security service, but had worked it out myself. Then I added that, strictly speaking, it was not the main line of inquiry in the murder investigation.

She nodded quickly and smiled in appreciation.

‘Very good. Given how things stand now, it would be best for everyone if it never got out. Per Johan was unbelievably naive in his dealings with the Soviets. He thought that as an individual he could play an important role in building a bridge between the East and West. And he thought that he would gain widespread recognition if he succeeded. I tried to tell him it was unrealistic, but he didn’t want to listen. I am still glad that he discussed it with me, though.’

I saw no reason to start an unnecessary conflict with Harriet Henriksen, so I said that as far as I knew, she was the only one he had spoken to about this. I did not point out the irony that he was then betrayed by the one person he confided in. She did not appear to have thought along those lines herself.

‘Oh, how wonderful. I really was the one whom he trusted and loved,’ she exclaimed. She stood there with her hand in front of her mouth for a few seconds, before she added, ‘But one thing does bother me, as I start my new life alone: I hope that my contact with the police security service had nothing to do with Per Johan’s death?’

I suddenly heard a strong undertow of fear when she said this. Again I was struck by the paradoxical similarities between her and Oda Fredriksen. Both deified a man, and then continued to orbit around him like satellites even after he was dead, even when they were aware of his less virtuous sides. However, the difference was also clear and important. Oda Fredriksen was a rich woman with a family, who had killed her own daughter and sister. Harriet Henriksen was not rich, she was alone, and she had not done anything criminal. So I told her the truth: that the betrayal of her lover had put him in a very dangerous situation, but as far as we knew, it had not been a factor in his death.

She immediately held out her hand and said that it was an enormous relief to hear that. We parted on good terms. It was now ten to three.

VIII

Danielsen was standing in the hallway with Lene Johansen and Edvard Rønning Junior, the lawyer, when I arrived at five minutes past three. Rønning gave me a stern look over his lorgnette, but let his feathers be smoothed when I apologized for my lateness and then said that all the murders in this case could now be seen as solved.

It apparently dawned on us all at the same time that there were not four chairs anywhere in the flat. I suggested that we could just stay standing where we were, as it would not take more than a few minutes. Everyone nodded. And it suited me well. There was a coat stand beside us that was missing three hooks. The only item of clothing hanging there was an old green winter coat. It was the final proof that I needed.

I told them that Oda Fredriksen had been arrested and had confessed to the murder of Vera Fredriksen. Then I took a dramatic pause.

‘That is, of course, very interesting, but what about the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen? My client would very much like to have her son’s innocence proved,’ Rønning said.

My chance was there, and I grabbed it.

‘Your client has known all along that he was innocent. The knife that killed Fredriksen came from this kitchen, and he was not the one who used it,’ I said.

It worked. Rønning dropped his lorgnette again and his client lost all self-control at the same time. In a matter of seconds, the colour drained from her face and she swayed as though about to faint before I even had a chance to continue.

‘Fredriksen had treated you very badly, so there may well be mitigating circumstances. But your betrayal of your son afterwards, and the attempt to exploit his death for economic gain was heartless,’ I said.

It was not a nice thing to say. But when I heard my own words I realized I felt very indignant. And it worked. She gasped loudly for air and leaned heavily against the wall.

‘Good gracious!’ Rønning exclaimed, having finally regained the power of speech and retrieved his lorgnette. But I was not to be put off my stride by him.

‘We have a new statement, from a man with a PhD, no less, who witnessed the murder and has given a description that fits your client perfectly. According to him, the murderer was a dark-haired, middle-aged woman in a green winter coat,’ I said, and pointed at the coat stand.

Rønning looked as though he was about to protest. But Lene Johansen looked at me and beat him to it.

‘I didn’t mean it to end like this. I thought that either we would be allowed to stay here a bit longer, or Tor would be looked after and have the chance of a better life than me. Yes, I ran away from the scene of the crime when I saw there was a chance that I might get away with it. My instincts kicked in. But I had never thought of laying the blame on Tor. I almost fainted in the telephone box when I heard that he’d been arrested. I thought I would confess when you came to speak to me, but then the priest got here first and told me that Tor was dead. And then I had no one to live for except me.’

Lena Johansen looked so tragic standing there, swaying. But she had first of all committed a murder, then not told the truth after her son’s death, and threatened to sue me and the police. So I still felt no sympathy and saw no reason to be considerate.

‘But the sheer audacity – to claim that you are innocent and demand compensation for your son’s death, when you yourself were guilty…’

On the far left of my vision, I registered that Danielsen had paled. I looked straight at Lene Johansen, who pointed an almost accusing finger at the lawyer.

‘I just wanted to crawl silently into a hole under the ground in the hope that no one would see me for the rest of my life. But then he came to my door and said that I might have rights and could perhaps get fifty or a hundred thousand in compensation. I have never got anything from society, so I felt that I owed no one anything. And fifty thousand is an incredible amount when you only have two kroner to your name and are about to be thrown out onto the street any day.’

I kept looking at Lene Johansen. I vaguely registered that Rønning, to my right, was now even paler than Danielsen. And that he had started to speak.

‘I realize now in retrospect that my behaviour then may have seemed odd. However, I did all that I did in the good faith that my client and her dead son were innocent, and given certain terms and conditions, I was obliged to inform her about her rights,’ he said.

I continued to ignore the lawyer, and looked straight at his client. She was leaning heavily against the wall, but still looked as though she might collapse at any minute. Her hair was grey, her eyes were red and her expression black.

I saw her other face now. And even though it was a murderer’s face, it was still a face I felt sympathy for. So I said, in a slightly more conciliatory tone, ‘Fredriksen had exploited you and let you down, that was why you hated him.’

She nodded; suddenly there was a spark in her eyes. ‘He was my last hope and then everything fell to pieces. It was the first time for years that anyone had asked me out and given me things. He was so charming and kind then. The fact that I got pregnant was unexpected, but once he got over the surprise he was happy. He talked about getting divorced a couple of times and promised at least to look after me and my son. Everything could have been different if only Tor had not been born with that birthmark. I cried when I saw it and knew that he was my husband’s son. Per Johan realized as well as soon as he came to the hospital. He pointed at the birthmark and said: “That child is not mine, so good luck with him.” Then he laughed scornfully, and threw a fifty-øre coin onto the bedside table and left. He showed a very different, cruel side of himself that day. And I saw that face again at Majorstuen on Saturday, when I asked for a month’s reprieve on the rent, and he laughed that same scornful laugh. It was only when he laughed that I finally decided to kill him. And he deserved no better! I may regret everything else I’ve done in my life, but not that!’

She almost shouted this and looked so desperately bitter now. After my experience earlier in the day, I discreetly took a couple of steps back. Rønning wiped the sweat from his brow, and also retreated a few steps, and said in a very quiet voice that it was a case of a life that had been very difficult for many years, with several mitigating circumstances.

‘Believe me, I’m not a bad person, I’ve just done a bad thing. That is what poverty and all that comes with it can do to a person,’ Lene Johansen said suddenly, with only desperation in her voice now.

I was about to say that, in the end, it was all about self-preservation, both for her and for Oda Fredriksen. But it felt wrong to compare the two, and when I looked around me, I had to acknowledge that there was some truth in what she had said about poverty. I said that it was up to the court to consider the mitigating circumstances, and that we really should go now.

I did not want to put handcuffs on Lene Johansen. And after a brief exchange of glances, nor did Danielsen. He held her by the arm to support her out of the flat, and I took with me the green winter coat. The coat stand with its three missing hooks was left naked and alone in the hall. I left the basement flat without looking back; the air felt stuffy now and a few yards behind us an old school satchel was lying on the floor of a boy’s empty room. I could not face seeing it again.

IX

It was ten past four when I was let in to see Miriam at Ullevål Hospital. To my great relief, she was in her room, and was lying flat out on the bed.

I hurried in and shut the door, and as it closed, I said: ‘I am so sorry that I was not here when you woke up. I had to wrap up the murder investigation and thought that it might be better if you were able to wake up and spend some time with your family first.’

I went over to the bed, bent down and gave Miriam a gentle hug. It was not the welcome I had hoped for. Her cheek was unusually cold and stiff.

I had not noticed yesterday how small the room was. It was just big enough for a bed and a chair. I sat down on the seat, a few feet away from her head on the pillow. It suddenly felt uncomfortably close, even though I had been much closer to Miriam many times before.

She finally spoke when I sat down. ‘That’s fine. The investigation has to come first, and I only woke up a couple of hours ago,’ she said. But she said it in a serious, monotonous voice, without any trace of joy at seeing me again.

I said that I had spoken to her mother several times over the past couple of days, and asked if it was nice to see her parents and brother again.

‘Yes. They were very relieved, and Mum could not praise you enough. But you should have rung Katrine. She only heard that I was all right today and was very upset about it.’

I realized that in the midst of everything else I had completely forgotten Miriam’s friend – even though she had helped with the investigation. I apologized profusely, and said that yesterday I had been overcome with fear about her safety and then with relief when she came back.

Miriam’s head looked so small and her face so pale against the white pillow. If she nodded, it was impossible to see. She still did not look happy. I still felt pretty miserable myself, despite all the developments in the investigation.

I carried on hastily and said that it was fantastic to have her back, and I asked how the whole experience had been and how she felt now.

She paused, and then spoke for longer than I had expected.

‘I am fine now. I don’t have much movement in my arms yet, but the doctor says that should be better by tomorrow and with a bit of physiotherapy, they will be as good as new. I can’t really tell you much about what happened, unfortunately. I was walking along the road when I was pushed into a car with two men in it and someone put a rag over my mouth and nose, then I blacked out. I woke up with my hands tied behind my back in a basement somewhere and stayed there all day. A man in a mask came in twice. I thought he was going to kill me, but instead he fed me. Then they put a rag over my mouth and nose again, and this time I was certain I was going to die. I have blurred memories of wandering around in a street and talking to some people, but it all feels like a dream. Then I woke up here. I understood while I was sitting there in the basement, wherever it was, that it was the Soviets who had taken me and felt the hand of a dictator touch me personally. But I can’t prove anything without the envelope that I got from Tatiana, and I guess that has disappeared?’

I confirmed that it had and asked her what had been in the envelope.

‘A copy of the KGB file on Fredriksen, which Tatiana had risked her life to get. And a written statement where she confirmed that the agent who had arrived recently had gone out early last Saturday evening, and seemed inexplicably tense when he came back around ten. It was to be her ticket to a new life and my biggest gift to you. But that is not how it turned out.’

For a few seconds, I thought about the white envelope and what a difference it could have made. An image of Asle Bryne popped up in my mind and I wondered if he would have smiled, if I had been able to give him that evidence. But all I said was that the most important thing for me was that Miriam had survived without being harmed.

She was about to smile, but then paused and asked me to tell her what had happened after she was abducted.

So I sat on the chair by her bed and told her everything that had happened since we last spoke, leaving out Danielsen’s last conversation with the boy on the red bicycle and my contact with Patricia. I thought that Miriam would have to know about it at some point, but this was perhaps not the right time.

It helped to tell her. Miriam listened intently and smiled a couple of times. But towards the end she became very serious, almost melancholic.

‘The story of the boy on the red bicycle really is tragic. But it is all over and solved now,’ I said, gently, at the end.

Miriam sighed. ‘So Klinkalski was not the murderer after all, and the spying intrigue in fact had nothing to do with your investigation. But you would not have been able to work all this out in such a short time without the genius of Frogner. When did you contact her?’ Miriam asked.

I was tempted to say that it was only in a panic when Miriam had been kidnapped. But I thought the situation was bad enough without me lying. So I told her the truth: that I had contacted her after Vera Fredriksen was murdered on Monday night, and that I had regretted bitterly not telling her then.

‘It would have been better if you had told me. Hearing it now is a lot more difficult, but I guess it is something I can live with,’ she said.

Everything went quiet. The room felt even smaller now.

‘Hopefully there is nothing here that you could not live with?’ I said, carefully.

Miriam sighed into the pillow, then took two deep breaths before she spoke.

‘There is. My friend Tatiana was killed yesterday and now you tell me that no one is going to do anything about it because she was not Norwegian. I could live with all the rest, but not that.’

I immediately told her that I had questioned that as well. I told her what my boss had said when I raised the issue. I had also been very unhappy about it, but had had to accept that that was the way of the world and the situation we were in.

Miriam sighed again. Then she spoke from the pillow in a very quiet and firm voice.

‘Yes, it is the way of the world and the situation we find ourselves in. So I now have to live with the fact that she was killed because of her contact with me and because she tried to help me help you with the investigation. And you have to live without me.’

She said it so calmly and so decisively. I felt as though I had been paralysed. For a moment I thought about how deeply ironic it was that our love story should end in exactly the same place that it had started only two years before: with only the two of us present in a room at Ullevål Hospital, where she was lying injured in a bed because of me.

I sat in silence for a while. Time had stopped once again. I would later find it hard to say whether it was ten seconds, a minute or five minutes. However, I remember only too well the great sorrow that I felt – but also, the relief that grew stronger and stronger.

Eventually, I said that I was incredibly sad to hear that, and that it was, of course, entirely my fault and not hers. And that she had been caught up in something only because she was trying to help me for a second time.

Then I asked, without knowing how she would respond, if the problem was in fact Patricia more than Tatiana.

I realized my mistake as soon as I had said it. I should not have mentioned Patricia’s name. Miriam gave a little jolt, as though she had been given an electric shock. But her voice was still just as controlled when she answered.

‘I think that it is more to do with Tatiana, as I said. I will think of her with sorrow and guilt for the rest of my life. But naturally, your contact with the genius of Frogner is hard for me to swallow as well. I have tried so hard to do right, as a former president of the United States once said. I did everything I could to help you. And in the end the only result was that one of my friends was killed and you had to get help from the genius of Frogner to save me. I had hoped that I could be of the same help to you as she was. But I realize now that I could never take her place.’

I hastened to say that there had never been anything physical between Patricia and me – and almost bit my tongue when I realized that I had said her name again. Miriam did not react visibly to the name this time, but her reply was succinct and firm.

‘I never thought there was. And I, for my part, have not had a physical relationship with anyone else since we got together. But it is not a good sign that we have to tell each other that.’

I had to admit that she was right.

For a moment I became deeply worried about what might happen if she were to tell anyone what I had told her. But in the next moment I was certain that she would not pass it on. If I mentioned it now, she would only tell me that all my secrets were safe with her, and that it was sad that I had to ask her. So, despite all that was happening, there was still a strange unspoken trust between us.

I wanted to spare her that. So instead I said that I was very sorry for all of this and for all the terrible things she had experienced because of me. Then I asked her if there was anything more I could say or do to help her.

There was silence in the hospital room for a few seconds. Then she answered, slowly, in a slightly tremulous voice: ‘As I am unfortunately unable to move my arms right now, I have to ask if you could please take off my engagement ring?’

I thought how paradoxical it was that a day that had given me so many answers, should end with such a painfully difficult question. But I answered, slowly, in a voice that was in danger of breaking, that of course I could not refuse.

Her arms lay still by her side. But they were unexpectedly tense and her fingers surprisingly warm. My hand was shaking so much that it was embarrassing. It was such a painful moment that I just wanted to throw myself down on the floor and beg not to have to do this, and say that I would give anything for her to forgive me. But I did not. Again I felt the relief when finally the ring slipped off and I no longer had to feel her hand against mine.

I took off my own ring and put it on the bedside table. She thanked me for my help, her chin barely moving on the pillow. She was not crying. But I saw that there were tears in her eyes, and could feel them in my own.

I had to turn around and was on my way out when she said: ‘There is just one little thing I would like to ask.’

‘What is it?’ I stopped in my tracks, without turning around.

‘What happened to the library book?’ she said.

I told her that I had picked the book up out of the ditch, and that it was in safekeeping at the police station, and that I could either post it to her or come by with it one day.

‘Thank you. I think it would be best to post it, if it’s not too expensive,’ she whispered.

That felt like the final, decisive blow. Suddenly I could not bear to see Miriam any longer, and did not want to hear her voice again. But I could not leave the room and let our final words after two years be about a library book.

So I said, without turning: ‘Please give my best wishes to your parents. Thank you for everything. I will never forget you.’

‘Thank you. Likewise,’ she said, almost inaudibly.

It was only three words, and her voice was barely a whisper, but I could hear that she was crying now. I felt the tears on my own cheeks, but I did not want to see her crying. And I did not want her to see my tears.

So I left, alone, without looking back.

It was no more than ten yards from her room to the stairs. But it felt like I had walked for miles. When I got to the staircase it felt like I tumbled all the way down it, even though I could see my legs moving as normal, taking each step at a time, down the endless stairs.

X

It was raining when I got home. And it continued to rain. From half past five until half past six, I just stood by the window and watched the downpour.

I had several telephone calls to make. I should have rung Ane Line Fredriksen to tell her who had killed her father the Saturday before; I should have rung Hauk Rebne Westgaard to tell him what had happened that spring day in 1932 and to finally give him peace, and I should have rung my parents to tell them about my broken engagement. But even though I did not like the silence, I could not bear to hear another voice at the moment.

I tried instead to put on a record, but it didn’t help. The first song was ‘Days of My Life’ by The Seekers. I stood there until the chorus faded out, turned the record player off when the voice of the female vocalist disappeared, and just stayed standing by the window.

At a quarter past nine that Saturday evening, it would be exactly a week since I had stood here and seen the boy on the red bicycle pedalling furiously up the hill. It felt like an age ago. The boy was dead and would be buried within the next few days. His bicycle was being held in the police stores, and would never go out on the road again. Three other people had lost their lives this week, and my life would never be the same again.

I knew that the rain would stop, and on Monday the papers would be singing my praises louder than ever before. But I was far more miserable now than I had been a week ago. Only three days before, I had stood here and watched Miriam leave in her raincoat, with the library book under her arm, without knowing that it would be the last time I watched her leave. The tears stung in my eyes when I thought that I would never again see her coming up towards the house.

Among all the other happy memories of my two short years with Miriam, I remembered the evening we went to the theatre to see A Doll’s House. It had been Miriam’s suggestion, and I had dutifully said yes after a long working week. But it had been an unusually good Saturday evening. On the way home I had said how glad I was that we had gone, and that we should not wait too long to go to the theatre again. She had not answered, just smiled her charming, happy, lopsided smile. But I had never done anything about it – never suggested another play.

And now it was too late for trips to the theatre. And although it was I who had physically walked away that day, it felt like it was she who had done the walking. I felt that she had left the man she thought she loved, just like Nora, because he still did not understand what was important to her. I felt like Helmer, as I had seen him in that final act. And it was not a nice feeling.

At a quarter to seven, I remembered a quote that the now accused murderer, Oda Fredriksen, had used after her husband had died. ‘The life we shared is over, I walk on alone – but I am still walking.’

I stood there and reflected on the quote for a few minutes. Then the silence became unbearable. I grabbed my jacket and went out into the rain.

XI

There were no other cars parked outside.

If I had seen a van there, I would have turned round immediately and fled. But there was no one. So I went up to the door and rang the bell.

The maid answered surprisingly quickly; I had only counted to twelve by the time the door opened.

I said that I did not want to disturb the owner of the house if she had visitors, but that I would be grateful to talk to her if she was alone.

The maid smiled to herself and said that I had been expected. The owner of the house was at home and did not have visitors.

This was encouraging, but even so I could not remember ever having arrived here feeling quite so anxious or with quite such a hammering heart.

She was sitting alone in her wheelchair, and her smile had an air of condescension when I came into the room.

‘You are a little later than expected. I guessed half past six to Benedicte,’ she said, cheerfully.

The maid nodded to confirm this and then withdrew.

‘Sorry that I am a bit late,’ I said with an uncertain smile, and put my hands on the table. Patricia looked at them, then nodded briefly without saying anything.

I had no idea what to say. So I told her quickly about my meeting with Lene Johansen. The story upset me and I could see that it upset Patricia too, although there were no cigarettes on the table for her to puff on. I made it as brief as possible and once again thanked her for having seen the solution.

‘I never doubted it. But thank you for your thanks all the same,’ she said with a coy smile.

This annoyed me and I added that I had discovered, on my own, how the police security service had found out about Fredriksen. And I told her about my visit to Harriet Henriksen.

Patricia looked rather peeved to begin with, but then started to smile towards the end.

‘I had not thought about that. You were lucky there, I think. Congratulations all the same!’

I asked in passing if Patricia had ever considered that Harriet Henriksen might be the murderer.

Patricia shook her head. ‘And I hope that you didn’t either. It would barely have been possible for her to stay where she was when Fredriksen left and then to get past him unseen, and wait for him on a street corner a few hundred yards further on.’

I said that I agreed and moved swiftly on.

‘You certainly made a good point about chameleon people. And there were a lot of them involved in this case. When you said that there was only one of the five friends from 1932 who was not a chameleon person, you were thinking of Kjell Arne Ramdal, weren’t you?’

Patricia nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Some were of course more dangerous, but all the others were chameleons with several faces. But it would seem Kjell Arne Ramdal only has one face and is what he appears to be. He is himself and probably very decent – if not particularly charming or attractive.’

I was not sure whether I dared to say what I was thinking. But it was as if Patricia read my mind and came to my aid.

‘Not a very exciting man to be married to, I am sure. But Solveig Ramdal found that out a long time ago.’

I took the plunge and asked if she had ever considered that Johan Fredriksen was in many ways more like Kjell Arne Ramdal than his father.

Patricia smiled cheerfully, and then burst into laughter.

‘Yes, it has occurred to me. And that was one of the reasons why I broke up with him on Thursday night. Which is also why I may have looked rather grim when I passed you. The mood in the car had become rather sour.’

The relief went straight to my head when I heard this. And I dared to ask if there were other reasons why she had broken off the relationship.

She nodded and shook her head at the same time. ‘The short version is that I had been sitting here alone for far too long, and at the beginning thought that Johan Fredriksen looked like my dream man, but soon discovered that he only looked like him. I do not regret the relationship, but nor do I regret finishing it.’

I put my hands on the table again, to be sure that Patricia had understood. She glanced at them again, and nodded impatiently.

‘Kidnappings can be difficult,’ I said slowly, testing the water.

Patricia nodded and replied without mirroring my speed and caution.

‘No doubt about it. And by the way, I did not want to pick bones when you were in the middle of it, but the police really must learn to use the word abduction. Kidnapping should only be used about children for obvious reasons, and this was your ex-fiancée, although at times she was as naive as a child.’

Miriam was in fact three years older than Patricia. But I took the hint. Patricia did not want to hear her name or to talk any more about my ex-fiancée – at least, not now. I was a little unsure as to whether she wanted to say anything more about her ex, but hoped she would not.

So I said: ‘Well, that was quite a case. With our combined efforts, we managed to solve all the murders and both lose our partners along the way.’

Patricia yawned and stretched her arms demonstratively. ‘Ah well, the case was exceptionally interesting, if also exceptionally tragic. And as far as partners are concerned, I for my part think that when a relationship cannot weather a stormy week, then it is not going to last in the long run. So better to discover it now than in ten years’ time, with two children. So, with a bit of humour, you could say that we have unearthed the truth about four murders and two relationships.’

She looked at me with her head cocked as she said this, her eyes curious.

Miriam’s face flashed in front of me, and I was not entirely sure that I saw it in the same way as Patricia did. But I got the point and laughed out loud.

‘I could kick the staff into action, if you would like to stay for supper,’ Patricia said, happily.

I sat there for a few seconds and wondered if she had used ‘kick’ figuratively or not. But whatever the case, I had decided.

So I said that I thought that her staff deserved the night off, and we deserved to go out for a meal, having worked our way through four murders and two relationships so far this week. And as I had had so many good meals here, I would be delighted to be able to repay her.

I felt my heart beating even faster when I said this.

‘That,’ Patricia said with her most provocative smile, ‘is the best suggestion you have made for as long as I have known you.’