Chameleon People

I

I heard the alarm clock ring, but felt incredibly tired. I was relieved to discover that for some reason it was only ten past six – and so I went back to sleep.

I then slept very heavily until the alarm clock rang for a second time at ten to seven. At which point I woke with a start and sat bolt upright when I realized that I was alone in bed.

Fortunately, I remembered within seconds that Miriam had said that she had to go into the People Against the EEC office to sort out some post before her morning lecture.

I was still tired at ten to seven, so once again I was impressed by my fiancée’s irrepressible energy and efficiency. On my way to the bathroom, I mused on the possibility of a no vote in the autumn referendum, despite the hard sell by Labour and the Conservatives.

The flat felt very quiet and almost gloomy without Miriam’s bright voice, so I turned on the radio as I sat down to breakfast. The latest developments in the EEC debate were the second item in the morning news on Monday, 20 March 1972. The first was a minor sensation, and that was that Norway and the Soviet Union were close to reaching an agreement on rights in connection with any findings of oil and gas in the Barents Sea. Negotiations had progressed unexpectedly and it was hoped that a draft agreement would be ready for endorsement by next Monday. The acting leader of the Storting’s Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs considered this to be excellent news which could be of great importance to the future of the country. He expressed his hope that the draft agreement would be passed by the Storting as early as the end of the week.

For a few minutes, I forgot the murder investigation and listened to the news with keen interest. It was no more than a few years since one of the foreign engineers involved in exploratory drilling in the North Sea had stated that he could personally drink all the oil to be found there. But now oil was being extracted with such success that there was talk of establishing a government-owned oil company in Norway. In my discussions with my father last year, I had always maintained that the oil industry could be a possible solution to the increasingly obvious problems in traditional industry. He did not agree. Whereas I believed that the oil industry could provide an income of up to several hundred million a year, he believed that it would never be more than tens of millions at the most.

It was only once the report was finished that it struck me that Per Johan Fredriksen had been chairman of the Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs. If he had not been stabbed to death the day before yesterday, it would have been his voice that I heard on the radio just now.

The newspapers carried a couple of obituaries and matter-of-fact reports on the death of Per Johan Fredriksen, in between the headlines about the EEC and negotiations with the Soviet Union. They reported that he had been murdered and where he had been murdered, and that a suspect had been arrested fleeing the scene of the crime. Aftenposten had picked up on the fact that he was on a bicycle and that the suspect was young, but they had no further details.

The sparse newspaper coverage suited me very well. But I was fully aware that pressure was mounting. If we did not manage to identify the young suspect in the course of the day, we would have to consider publishing a request for information along with his photograph in tomorrow’s papers. This would not give a good impression and would no doubt lead to speculation and criticism of the police. Following my previous successes, the media and police force had precariously high expectations of me. And I was not at all certain that I could meet them in this investigation – certainly not without Patricia.

II

I was back at the station by eight o’clock. I met DI Danielsen in the doorway, as, of course, he had come a few minutes earlier in the hope that he would be there before me. His early rise had been to no avail. There were still no enquiries about anyone who could be the suspect. In fact, there had been no enquiries at all about the case, other than a growing number of calls from the press.

At a quarter past eight, I once again sat down opposite the arrestee. I did not expect to make any real progress and was not disappointed.

With a degree of irritation, I repeated my questions as to what he was called and who his parents were. He looked at me with raised eyebrows, but sat in silence.

I then confronted him with the fact that he had been spying on me outside my flat the previous autumn.

This did not appear to surprise him. He hesitated for a moment, then gave a quick but definite nod. A small smile slipped over his lips, but disappeared just as quickly. Once more, he sat there and did not say a word, his face almost devoid of expression when I asked why he had spied on me.

I played my final card and said: ‘When you told me yesterday that your name was Marinus, you were referring to Marinus van der Lubbe, weren’t you? You were trying to tell me that you are being made a scapegoat, just as he was, for a greater crime involving more powerful parties?’

I leaned forwards and tried to catch his eye. There was a sudden brief spark. He nodded – quickly and almost vigorously. Then he sank back into apathy without saying anything.

‘Van der Lubbe was at the scene of the crime, but claimed he had not seen who set fire to the Reichstag building. Did you see Per Johan Fredriksen being murdered on Saturday?’

He did not look at me, but shook his head almost imperceptibly in response.

I interpreted this to mean that he had not seen the murder, or who did it. But it could as easily mean that for some reason or other, he did not want to tell me what he had seen. Whatever the case, it felt more and more pointless to sit here questioning him.

He remained silent when I stood up and walked towards the door. But then, just as I put my hand on the door handle, he unexpectedly piped up: ‘If you don’t find out who the murderer is soon, my fate will be the same as Hauptmann’s.’

Then nothing more. He didn’t move a muscle when I asked who Hauptmann was, what had happened to Hauptmann and what he meant by all these riddles.

I left without getting an answer, and more confused than ever.

III

‘Well, there is some progress, at least he is saying something, even if it is still not a lot.’

I gave a brief nod to my boss’s first statement, and Danielsen gave a quick nod to the second.

Neither of them knew or remembered anything about any Hauptmann. We had just been informed that the unusually annoying lawyer, Edvard Rønning Junior, had been appointed as the defence, and that he found it ‘highly unsatisfactory’ that the police could not tell him his client’s name. The atmosphere in my boss’s office was somewhat strained, to say the least.

‘This is just a waste of time. The boy is clearly guilty, and the court will just have to decide whether he is too disturbed to go to prison or not. Let’s release his picture in the papers tomorrow if no one gets in touch, and in the meantime, we can get on with more meaningful work,’ Danielsen said, opening his hands in suggestion.

The boss looked at me questioningly. I answered diplomatically that that might well be true and that we should perhaps not use too many resources on the case. I was not opposed to Danielsen taking on more exciting tasks, but would myself prefer to keep working on this one. Until we knew the identity of the suspect, the motive would remain unclear and could well be significant in terms of whether he was of sound mind or not.

It was my turn to look questioningly at my boss. He dithered for a moment or two, before nodding gravely.

‘Let’s do as you both wish. Danielsen can move on to other jobs and Kristiansen, you can continue to work on possible motives in the hope of solving the question of the suspect’s identity. We will not make anything public yet.’

It was not a solution that any of us were entirely happy with, but it was one that we could all live with. Danielsen and I left the office together, but did not exchange a word or look.

I dutifully checked that no new information had come in that might help to identify the suspect. Then I left behind the growing pile of press enquiries to the switchboard and returned to my office. From there I rang Oda Fredriksen and asked if I could come and see her again.

IV

The drawing room in Bygdøy felt even larger when there were only two of us there. Oda Fredriksen and I sat alone at a huge mahogany table full of flowers.

The youngest daughter, Vera, was at home, and her son Johan was on his way. I had said to Oda Fredriksen that it would be best if we could first speak alone about things that she might not want her children to hear. She had pointed to the drawing room without saying a word. I was not entirely sure that she had understood what I meant.

I said that the flowers were beautiful. She flapped her hand with disinterest.

‘I have always liked flowers so much, but I can barely look at them now. It is only a week since his birthday. The drawing room was full of happy people. Now it feels so empty.’

Fredriksen’s widow appeared to be genuinely shocked by the news of her husband’s death, even now, a day and a half later. I felt a surge of sympathy and did not want to add to her burden in any way. So I assured her that I would do my best to solve her husband’s murder.

‘In the meantime, however, I have heard a very strange story about a different death altogether; it’s a very old case, but I am now obliged to investigate whether it might have any significance to our current case.’

I need wonder no longer how much Oda Fredriksen was taking in. She sat up on the sofa and sighed, then spoke.

‘You mean, of course, the tragic case from 1932, and you no doubt heard it from my eldest daughter. She called here yesterday evening to let me know in no uncertain terms that I should have told you myself. And I have to admit that this time she is right. It is just that the story of my sister’s death, even though it was a long time ago now, is still so painful that I quite simply could not face talking about it so soon after my husband had died, and when the children were there.’

I said that I understood and that she had done nothing wrong, but that she should now tell me about the case so that I could determine whether there were any links. It was hard to imagine there wouldn’t be some relevance, when the case had made such an impression on all those present that they continued to meet forty years later.

I hastened to add that I had read the police report and so knew the basic facts. I had noticed that there had been no autopsy, even though she had asked for one.

She sighed again, and swallowed a couple of times before starting to speak. ‘It is one of my greatest regrets that I was not more persistent in my demands for an autopsy during those desperate and bewildering days in the spring of 1932. Eva did not die of an epileptic fit, both my parents and I knew that perfectly well. She did have epilepsy, it’s true, and did sometimes faint after a fit. But she mostly suffered from petit mal, and two doctors had confirmed that her fits were not dangerous. I have always believed that Eva committed suicide. The problem was that my parents did too, and they were such religious and proud people. I wanted to know, rather than live with the doubt. But they preferred to live with the doubt than the scandal. And they got their way. My father was a man of authority with lots of contacts, and the police did not manage to find a motive or a suspect. So twenty-three years after my father’s death, I still have questions that will never be answered. The only positive thing that can be said really, is that now, after my husband’s death, I will perhaps think less about my sister’s.’

I took the hint and assured her that I would not ask more than was necessary, but that I would like to hear what she thought about the key in the corridor.

‘Not a lot. I couldn’t explain it in 1932 and I can’t explain it now. Eva may have thrown it out of the room, or someone who paid her a visit may have taken it by accident and dropped it. Both alternatives sound slightly bizarre, granted. And yes, I guess it is possible that one of the others killed my sister.’

We looked at each other in suspense. I heard myself saying that if that was the case, might she be able to tell me a little about the three other people who were there. She nodded.

‘I guessed you might ask about that and have given some thought as to what I should say. Solveig Thaulow was my best friend at the time. More recently, I have met her for dinner every five years or so. It was as though a great mountain sprang up between us the day my sister died. We were from the same town, and Solveig was in the school year between Eva and me. When asked who was her best friend, she would often reply that she knew Eva and me equally well, and knew both of us better than anyone else. We never had a bad word to say about each other, but we could not help but think of Eva whenever we saw one another and wonder about what had happened. It is strange how a tragedy like that can bring some people closer together and drive others apart…’

‘Yes. And at the time, Per Johan was her fiancé, but soon afterwards became yours.’

She nodded. ‘Yes. But you will have to ask her about what happened and why she and Per Johan split up, because I was never told. Per Johan never talked about it to me. The only time I asked, he said it was a sad story and he wanted to put it behind him, and now he wanted to focus on me and think as little as possible about former girlfriends. I liked his answer. And I also worried what his reaction might be if I asked again. So I never did. I had the impression that things were already deteriorating between him and Solveig, and that Eva’s death was the push they both needed to break off the engagement. I had been jealous of Solveig because, to be honest, I had been in love with Per Johan for a long time. And then more than ever, I needed a supporting arm and a comforting voice. So she was not on my mind when he contacted me a few weeks later.’

I could not help but ask if that was before or after the engagement had been broken off. She gave a fleeting and crooked smile before speaking.

‘Before. But only a matter of days. And when he came to my door, I soon got the impression that his engagement to Solveig was now more of a formality than a reality. And Solveig found someone else too, not long after.’

I asked if she knew Solveig Thaulow’s married name and current address. She nodded.

‘Goodness, of course I do. I thought you knew. She is called Solveig Ramdal and lives together with her husband down at Frognerkilen. She and Kjell Arne got married six months after Per Johan and I, and we have lived barely a mile apart since the war. And yet, the four of us only meet every five years for dinner to mark the day my sister died.’

I asked whether I had understood correctly that Kjell Arne Ramdal had also been her husband’s business associate. Then I asked what more she could tell me about him.

‘He was definitely the one I knew least before that fateful trip. Kjell Arne Ramdal was a townie, unlike the rest of us. He was the son of a rich pharmacist in Tønsberg. He had been to Oslo more times than the rest of us put together and seemed very worldly. He was studying economics, had inherited a large sum at a young age and later went on to become a successful businessman. Believe it or not, I have very little idea of what kind of business involvement he and my husband had. Per Johan never wanted to bother me with his work and I never asked about it. The few times that I asked how business was going in the early years, he just gave me his most charming smile and said fine. I had no need to know any more.’

‘And then there was your sister’s boyfriend, Hauk Rebne Westgaard.’

‘Ah, Hauk, yes. He’s a chapter unto himself. The unusual name suits him. He even looks a bit like a bird of prey – a tall, thin, dark man with a sharp profile and even sharper eyes. Five years ago, on the way home from one of the dinners, my husband remarked that Hauk had scarcely changed in all these years. And that was more or less true three weeks ago too. He looked mature when he was young and so looked young for his age when we last saw him. He and Per Johan grew up together in Holmestrand, and were both in line to inherit big farms. Hauk’s father was an alcoholic and naturally he was affected by it. As a young man, he was, as I said, more mature and serious than the rest of us. He was a man of few words, but obviously well read and very compelling when he did have something to say. I was a little frightened of him when my sister first took him home, but then became increasingly impressed. Hauk stayed behind when the rest of us moved into Oslo. He still lives on the family farm out by Holmestrand. He’s been the mayor there several times and is reputedly a good shot. Hauk never says much when we meet, but as far as I know, he has never married and does not have any children.’

I jotted all this down. The gallery of people involved in the unsolved case from 1932 was more and more fascinating.

‘This tradition of meeting every five years seems rather odd, given that it’s now forty years since Eva’s death. How did it start?’

She sighed again. ‘It was Per Johan’s idea. He suggested it shortly before the fifth anniversary of my sister’s death. I did not want to go to that first reunion in 1937, nor to the second in 1942, but felt that I couldn’t say no when he asked. I’m assuming it was the same for the others. He rang them all and said that we were a family of fate, bound by our shared experience of the tragedy and unsolved mystery in 1932, and that we therefore had to keep in touch. It felt a little as though if you said no, the finger of suspicion would point at you. So we continued to meet on that date, and everyone has always been there. Officially it’s to honour my sister’s memory.’

I reflected that the members from the group who were still alive had to a certain extent become what Patricia had referred to in a previous case as human flies: people who continue to circle round a dramatic event and are not able to move on with their lives. I, of course, saw no reason to complicate the situation further by mentioning this concept. So instead, I asked sharply: ‘And unofficially?’

She gave an insipid smile. ‘Unofficially, for reasons I have never understood, my husband was even more obsessed with finding out what happened than I was. He once said that he suspected that one of the others was responsible for my sister’s death. But whoever he thought it was, he kept it to himself. It felt like we all wondered about the same thing and were always listening to hear if one of us said something that might throw light on the mystery. So the atmosphere was tense. Despite all the good food and vintage wines, the meals were never jolly affairs. I have not met Hauk, Kjell Arne or Solveig other than at these family-of-fate gatherings, as I still like to call them, since 1932. Our siblings of fate have become more and more estranged over the years. My husband never invited them to birthdays or any other kind of celebration here at home.’

‘And you last met three weeks ago – did anything in particular happen that night that might be relevant to your husband’s death?’

Oda Fredriksen did not answer at first. She sat in silence for a few seconds. Then she sighed twice before continuing.

‘I wish I could answer no to that. As things stand, with the arrest of a possibly mentally deranged young man, it is probably not relevant. But yes, I had thought of telling you about something quite striking that happened. My husband was very sociable and was generally the one who talked most at these dinners. This year, however, he barely said a word for almost the entire meal. He only spoke once, in fact. And that was just after the dessert had been served. He said two sentences. And the rest of the meal was finished in absolute silence.’

Oda Fredriksen stopped, took a couple of deep breaths. She was obviously prepared for my question and answered as soon as I asked her what those two sentences had been.

‘I now know exactly what happened the evening Eva died. And one of you knows too and must soon face the consequences.’

The two sentences made quite an impression now as well. Oda Fredriksen and I sat there and looked at each other for what felt like minutes.

I noticed that her hands were trembling and was almost surprised to see that mine were not. The tension around this old story continued to grow. I found it increasingly hard to believe that there was no connection to the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen.

However, our meeting did not end in silence. I still had two questions that had to be answered before I could leave. My first question was whether she had asked her husband for an explanation afterwards.

‘Of course. It was a strange and almost unreal evening. We barely said a word in the car on the way home. But about halfway through the journey, I asked him what he meant and whom he suspected of what. He replied that I would hopefully understand soon enough. He didn’t say any more and I didn’t ask. I was used to my husband being right when he spoke about the future. So I expected to hear something dramatic about one of the others over the next few days. But as far as I know, nothing happened to any of them.’

Once again we sat caught in our own thoughts. I imagined that something very dramatic had happened to Per Johan Fredriksen. And I felt certain that his widow was thinking the same, and now we were sat wondering who was responsible for his death.

Then I asked my final question. In other words, what she believed had happened that day in 1932 when her sister died.

‘As I said, I have always believed that my sister committed suicide. She was an impulsive young woman who had her ups and downs. It is most likely she did it with pills, although we never found any. It would be pure speculation for me now, forty years later, to say anything about what or who pushed her over the edge. Even though my husband’s death now overshadows everything, I would be very grateful to know should you find anything that might cast light on my sister’s death.’

I promised to let her know and thanked her for the information. I then added that I could speak to her children in another room if she wished to be left in peace. She replied that she felt she needed a bit of air now, so she would send the children in.

V

My conversations with her children were shorter. Young Vera was just as pale and seemed just as nervous as when we first met, but this subsided when we sat down. It appeared to be easier for her to talk when there were no other family members present.

I started by saying that as a formality, I had to ask the different members of the family about their civil status and future plans.

She gave a timid smile and said that she had a boyfriend, but hoped that he would soon be her fiancé. He was a ‘very handsome and exceptionally talented’ Dutch painter whom she had met while studying at Oslo University.

When it came to future plans, she let out a little sigh, and for a moment suddenly resembled her mother.

‘To me, my father was the kindest man in all the world. I don’t remember him ever saying no to anything I asked for. So it’s very sad that the last months we had together were clouded by our only disagreement. It was an unavoidable conflict of generations, I guess. My father was a conservative man and never really understood the trends and possibilities of our time. He liked typical, classical art, portraits and landscape watercolours, and had nothing but contempt for modern and more abstract cubism, which is where my boyfriend’s talents lie.’

She looked up at the portrait of her father. She gave him a sweet little smile, but then became serious again as soon as she lowered her eyes.

‘And now you finally have the opportunity to live your own life,’ I prompted, gently.

She nodded. ‘Yes. I would so much rather it had been because Father had changed his mind than because he had died. But I have to say, it is a great help to have a boyfriend who can support me in my grief, and that we now can realize our art project and live our dream.’

Vera Fredriksen was suddenly even more like her mother, it seemed to me. She spoke in a slightly poetic language, which, combined with the surroundings, made her appear somewhat dreamy. However, it was difficult not to be charmed by the deceased’s youngest daughter. There was something incredibly naive, graceful and almost angelic about her as she sat there in a simple black dress.

‘I have now heard the story about your aunt’s death in 1932, and that your father was still very preoccupied with it. Did you ever discuss it with him?’

She chewed a little harder on her gum, and waggled her head a couple of times before answering. ‘No, well – that is, yes. Once I’d heard the story from my sister, I took it up with both Mother and Father. You can’t help but be curious and I have always liked crime novels and other mysteries. Both were rather uncommunicative. Mother said that her sister’s death had been the cause of such grief that she did not want to talk about it, which was perfectly understandable. Father, however, told the bare facts about what happened and when I pushed him a bit, he gave me the names of the others who were there. Which made the whole thing even more interesting, as I actually knew two of them.’

She chewed her gum and looked at me expectantly, then carried on as soon as I asked whom she knew and how.

‘Solveig Ramdal is very interested in art, and I started to speak to her and her husband at some exhibition. They seemed nice, but as soon as I said whose daughter I was, they stiffened and moved quickly on. I only really understood why when my sister told me the bizarre story from 1932. Then I thought it wasn’t so strange that they jumped a little, as my father had previously been engaged to the woman I was talking to. I have thought more about the case since then, especially in the past twenty-four hours, but I’m afraid I have not yet been able to solve the mystery from 1932 or think of anything else I know that might be of use to you.’

We ended there on a friendly note. She asked for my telephone number, in case she thought of anything that could help the investigation. I wrote down the number to the police station and my home number. I said that she could ring at any time, be it early or late, if she thought of something that could throw light on the deaths of her aunt in 1932 or her father in 1972. She promised she would and wished me good luck with the ongoing investigation.

Vera Fredriksen, just like her mother, was very light on her feet and she almost flew over the large floor.

Her older brother, Johan Fredriksen, had a heavier step, but was all the more steady and secure for it, when he entered the room shortly after.

We shook each other rather formally by the hand. And it struck me that in appearance, he was rather like me: the same height, hair colour, stature and build. And that, for some unknown reason, I did not particularly like him. I could not say why. There was something about his formality and reserve that was unappealing, even though I felt great sympathy for his situation following his father’s death.

He sat down on a chair opposite me without saying a word.

I asked whether there was any news in relation to the family fortune and his father’s estate.

He replied that it would take some time before they had a full overview, as his father had had quite an empire, including several tenement buildings that were valued at less than the market rate. The estimate of fifty to sixty million from the day before was possibly going to be too low rather than too high.

I then asked him, in as friendly a manner as I could, if he had any plans for his share of the inheritance. He told me that he would eventually like to start his own law firm and would therefore prefer the business to be sold and the profit to be divided up between them. It was something he still had to discuss with his mother and sisters, of course, but he thought his sisters would agree. Otherwise, the business could easily pay out a few million to each of the heirs.

Without further ado, I asked outright whether he knew what kind of business relationship there had been between Per Johan Fredriksen and Kjell Arne Ramdal.

Johan Fredriksen nodded pensively. ‘I also wondered about that. And according to the accountant, they made a number of investments and ran a couple of companies together about ten to twenty years ago. However, Ramdal sold his share in the early 1960s and they did not appear to have had any joint ventures after that. Ramdal has been far more successful on his own and has become a property magnate in Oslo. He had put in an offer to buy all Father’s real estate companies, in fact. Father had discussed it with his accountant and, rather unusually, with me as well. The offer was for forty-five million, which was, as far as we could see, above the market value. I said that I thought it would be a sensible move for the family. Father was getting older and still had political ambitions, and none of his children were interested in carrying on the property business. The feeling I had, and which I have had confirmed by the accountant, who felt the same, was that Father had focused more on politics in recent years and had been less successful in his business dealings. But Father was still hesitant, for reasons he kept to himself. He would have had to make a decision soon though, as Ramdal had set the deadline for his offer as 24 March.’

I noted down the date, and thought to myself that the timing of Per Johan Fredriksen’s death seemed to be becoming increasingly significant.

Out loud, I asked if Ramdal’s offer still stood, regardless of his father’s death, and if so, if it was now likely to be accepted.

‘The offer still stands, and I think it will probably be accepted. Though having said that, I would, of course, not want to jump the gun with regard to the reactions of my mother and sisters.’

Johan Fredriksen had become more communicative and I started to warm to him a little more. A feeling that was further strengthened when he continued of his own accord.

‘In all confidence, I must say that in what is already a very difficult situation, the fact that my father discussed his business so little with us is proving very challenging. After all, we only knew him as this kind and loving family man. In my conversations with the office manager and accountant I have come to realize that there were other sides to him that we did not see, but which were evident in his business dealings. It would perhaps be best if you asked them directly about this, if it’s of interest to you and the case.’

I said that I would and thanked him for his openness so far. Then I added that, as a matter of routine, I had to build a file on the people closest to the victim, and so had to ask about the civil status of his son.

Our conversation suddenly took a bit of a downturn. Johan Fredriksen furrowed his brow and paused before he started to speak again slowly.

‘To tell you the truth, I am not entirely sure what to say. I live alone, and I am unmarried and have no children. Nor am I engaged. But-’

He broke off and sat in thought.

‘But it would seem that you are now in a relationship or at the very start of one?’ I prompted.

Johan Fredriksen said nothing for a few more seconds, then he continued. ‘Yes, well, I certainly hope so. However, it was not entirely clear before all this happened, and does not feel any less complicated now. There are certain things about the lady in question’s private circumstances which make me reluctant to make her name known or to give it to the police. And for the moment I do not want the relationship to be made public. More importantly, I know that she doesn’t want it to be either. I could possibly ask her if I can give her name to the police, should that be necessary in connection with the ongoing investigation. But it doesn’t seem very likely, so in the meantime, you will just have to take my word for it that she has absolutely nothing to do with the case.’

In murder investigations, I tend to like the people who put their cards on the table best, and, as he spoke, I became rather curious about Johan Fredriksen’s secret girlfriend. However, I had to agree with his reasoning and felt a growing respect for him.

So I said that it was not optimal, but was acceptable for the present. We shook hands and walked out together.

VI

It was a quarter past twelve by the time I got back to the office. There were still no messages of any significance waiting for me. However, the phone did ring at twenty-five past twelve, when I was halfway through my packed lunch.

I heard the voice of the same annoyingly slow switchboard operator that I had heard the day before. She said there was another lady on the telephone who said she had some information that might be of importance to the Fredriksen investigation.

Naturally, I asked for her to be transferred immediately. A rather tense middle-aged woman came on the line, with a detectable east-end accent, accompanied by a clicking sound that told me she was calling from a telephone box.

‘Good afternoon, this is Mrs Lene Johansen. I was away visiting my sister at the weekend and just got back this morning. I was surprised not to find any sign of my son, Tor Johansen, who is just fifteen. And then I discovered that his school satchel was still here, and when I went to the school, they said that he hadn’t been there today. His bike is not here either. So I’m afraid that something serious might have happened to him over the weekend. I’ve told him so many times that he has to be careful when he’s cycling around on the wet streets. I shouldn’t have gone away.’

I heard an undertone of desperation in his mother’s voice. And I heard the suspense in my own when I asked her if she could perhaps describe her son in more detail.

‘Dark hair, thin, about five foot three. He should be easy to recognize as he has a limp in his right foot and a large birthmark on his neck.’

All the pieces fell into place as she spoke. I felt enormous relief, for my part, and great sympathy for the mother.

I told her, as calmly and reassuringly as I could, that her son was alive and unharmed, but that he had been remanded on suspicion of a very serious crime.

His mother gasped. It sounded as though she might faint right there in the telephone box. ‘Goodness! What on earth has Tor done now?’ she almost whispered.

I asked if she had heard that the politician Per Johan Fredriksen had been stabbed and killed. Her first answer was simply another gasp, then there was a sob and the clatter of the receiver falling.

I feared that the line would be broken, but her voice came back a few seconds later, even weaker than before.

‘Yes, I saw on the front page that he’d been killed and that a young suspect had been arrested. And I hoped that it wasn’t my Tor, but feared the worst. What a terribly, terribly sad story.’

Just then the pips started indicating that her time was up. So she spoke very quickly. ‘The line will be cut any minute, and I don’t have any more money. We live in a basement flat in thirty-six Tøyenbekken down in Grønland. Come here and I can tell you everything.’

The line was cut before I had the chance to ask her to come here instead.

I sat at my desk for a few seconds and mused on what possible connection there could be between a family from the east end and Per Johan Fredriksen. Judging by the mother’s reaction, there clearly was a connection, and just as we thought, it would be a tragic story.

It took me a couple of minutes to decide whether I should go to see the mother directly or have another talk with her son first. I came to the conclusion that as he was a minor, it was my duty to tell him that his mother would be coming soon and to inform him that we now knew his identity.

VII

The prison guard and I both instinctively took a couple of steps back as the door to the cell swung open.

My first thought was that there had been an earthquake. My second was that the prisoner had somehow managed to escape.

But there had been no earthquake – only a stool that had been pushed over and a bed that had been pulled apart, with the pillow and mattress left lying on the floor.

Tor Johansen was still in the room. He was hanging perfectly still and lifeless against the wall. The bedsheet had been torn into strips and plaited together to make a rope. One end of which was now firmly knotted to the bars on the window, and the other around his neck.

I felt a brief glimmer of hope when I took hold of him, as his body was still warm. But I had come too late. There was no sign of a pulse or breath.

I shouted to the prison guard that he should call a doctor, and heard his running steps disappear down the corridor as I stood there with the lifeless boy in my arms. I had seen death close at hand several times before in the course of my work, but standing here with a dead child in my arms was a horrible experience, all the same. To begin with I thought that I could not let him go until the doctor came. However, no matter how thin he was, he soon became heavy and I realized all hope was gone. So I slowly laid him down on the mattress on the floor.

I stood there and looked at the dead boy’s body for a small eternity before I eventually started to cast my eyes around the room. There was not much to see. His shoes stood neatly just inside the door and he was wearing all his clothes. The only things on the table were a pencil and notebook. And on it, he had written in large, simple capital letters:

BECAUSE EITHER IT IS THE WORLD THAT IS TURNED TO SLAVERY, OR ME… AND IT IS MORE LIKELY TO BE THE LATTER.

I read the note containing Tor Johansen’s last words to the world over and over again, until an out-of-breath doctor arrived and immediately declared the patient dead.

I had no idea where the words on the note came from – or whether indeed it was something he had read or come up with himself. Whatever the case, his note only increased my puzzlement as to who Tor Johansen had been and what he had been thinking.

VIII

Number 36 Tøyenbekken was at the very end of the street. The Grønland neighbourhood was far from one of the best in town, the street was far from one of the best in the neighbourhood and the building was far from one of the best in the street. The paint was flaking from the walls, the steps were worn down and what had once been a medium-sized basement flat was now divided into two much smaller homes.

The woman who was waiting for me in the basement also seemed a little worn down. Her dark hair had started to grey, and her cheeks were wet with tears. I guessed that she was closer to fifty than sixty, but it did strike me that not so many decades ago she could well have been an attractive young woman. She was around five foot six and her body appeared slim yet shapely even under her old threadbare dress. The skin on her hands was creased and she was trembling with emotion.

‘Come in,’ she said quickly, and then closed the door behind us.

We went in and sat down in a room that was barely 150 square feet and appeared to be a combined kitchen, living room and bedroom. There was a table and a couple of chairs in the middle of the room, a made-up bed along one wall and a kitchen counter and cooker along the other.

It was half past two. The priest had been there before me. Lene Johansen knew why I was there. I, on the other hand, could still not see a connection.

The room gave me no clues whatsoever. The flat was clean and tidy, if incredibly small. The things I could see were somehow less striking than the things I could not see. I had not expected there to be a television in a basement flat in Grønland, but nor was there a radio or even any newspapers. There was no telephone or wall clock of any kind.

Above the bed, there was a simple old photograph of a couple in their thirties with a small child. The child was too young to be recognizable as Tor Johansen, but the woman was definitely his mother and she had indeed once been beautiful. The man beside her did not make much of an impression. He was just a clean-shaven, thin, dark-haired man. There was no striking resemblance to Tor Johansen, but nor were there any great differences. His smile was unusually broad, and he had his hand on the baby’s head.

The woman followed my eyes to the picture. ‘That was in 1957,’ she said quietly. ‘I was thirty-five, but felt younger and more optimistic than I had done for a long time. We had been married for twelve years without any children, and then all of a sudden, I was going to have one. It was a difficult pregnancy and a complicated birth. We never had any more children. So everything was focused on Tor. In the early days, when he was first born, we thought that everything was fine. But when he started to crawl, we noticed that he dragged one foot behind, and he struggled with words when finally he started to talk. So I had to give all my time to a child who would never learn to walk or talk properly. They were happy days all the same, while my husband was still healthy and alive. He had a good job at the steel works and spent practically everything he earned on the family. But then he fell ill and that same day lost any control over the bottle. Things went downhill with frightening speed. When my husband died three years ago, he left us seventy kroner in cash and twenty-three thousand, two hundred in debt. Since then, Tor and I have moved every year to smaller and smaller flats. And we can’t even manage to stay here now the rent has gone up.’

She pulled from her pocket a folded sheet of paper and placed it on the table in front of me.

The letter was short, formal and brutal. The tenancy agreement had been terminated as the rent had not been paid. If they did not move out voluntarily within ten days from the date on the letter, they would be evicted. It was signed by Odd Jørgensen, office manager at Per Johan Fredriksen Ltd.

I immediately thought that here was the link I should have seen. And then I thought that Patricia would have seen it.

Lene Johansen seemed to have aged even more during this conversation, and she buried her head in her hands before carrying on.

‘Tor was sitting here with the letter when I came home on Thursday, and was beside himself. He couldn’t bear the thought of moving yet again and asked where we were going to go now. I told him the truth, which was that I had no idea. Tor wanted to go and talk to Per Johan Fredriksen personally. I said that he must never do anything of the kind. Then I went down to the office myself the next morning. I begged on behalf of my sick child, I cried and even got down on my knees in front of them. But there was no sympathy and no hope. I left when they threatened to call the police if I stayed on their floor any longer. So I went to visit my sister in Ski to see if she could perhaps find a corner for us in the meantime. The evening before I went, Tor said again that he would go and see Fredriksen himself. I told him it would only make things worse. And that seemed to make him change his mind. So it’s not such a surprise that he might have tried to find Fredriksen. But I would never have thought that he would kill him. No matter how much Tor has suffered, he has never broken the law before. He was always kind and good like that.’

I took out a sealed bag with the murder weapon inside and put it down on the table. She quickly understood what it was, but looked at it with little interest.

‘That’s not from this kitchen, but there are plenty of other ways he could have got hold of it.’

I nodded thoughtfully. It was a piece that did not quite fit the puzzle, but it was in no way decisive.

‘There is still one thing I don’t quite understand… It is perhaps not so strange that he wanted to talk to Fredriksen. But it seems rather odd that he knew how to find Fredriksen in Majorstuen, and also knew the way from there to my flat.’

She let out a heavy sigh. ‘Sadly, it is perhaps not as strange as it might seem. Tor never had any money, still couldn’t walk properly or talk clearly. So there wasn’t much he could do with the others after school. I had to work a lot in the evenings and he didn’t like it here on his own. So he’d normally go to the library after school and sit there until it closed. Then he would cycle around in town for a few hours. He liked cycling more than walking, as then people couldn’t see his limp. He called his bike Andreas, and used to say that it was his best friend. When I asked him where he’d been he’d say “I’ve been out with Andreas”. They went all over Oslo, the two of them. Tor had a map of practically the whole town in his head. He never dared to talk to famous people, but could always remember where he’d seen them. He sometimes called himself a little spy. So Tor might have followed Fredriksen, if he’d come from the Storting, or waited for him at Majorstuen, if he’d seen him there several Saturdays before.’

That made sense. According to his mistress, Fredriksen had often been there on Saturdays.

I no longer doubted that Tor Johansen had killed Per Johan Fredriksen, but asked his mother all the same if she thought her son was capable of committing such a serious crime.

‘To be honest, I don’t know what to believe any more. Tor was my only child. I loved him, but I never really understood him. He was clever with books and things like that. He often understood much more than I did, and sometimes I just had no idea what was going on in his head. He’s never done anything wrong before, but I just don’t know what he might be capable of any more.’

We sat in silence briefly, before she gave a sombre nod and continued. ‘If he has, it’s because we’re so poor. If my son really has killed someone, it’s another tragic example of what poverty can do to a good person.’

Her voice had an edge of bitterness and accusation against society. It soon disappeared, though, when she carried on speaking.

‘It’s my fault as well, of course. I grew up in a poor family myself, but was quite smart when I was young. Got the best grades in middle school. A rich uncle of my father was impressed and wanted to lend me the money to carry on with school. And I have bitterly regretted every day for the past ten years not taking it. Instead, I got married young, to the wrong man. And stayed with him for as long as he was alive. Despite knowing that he drank a lot and even though for many years we didn’t have children. So it was partly poverty and partly the fact that I made the wrong choices that ruined the life of the only child I eventually managed to have.’

There was another silence. I racked my brains for something to say. Fortunately, she got there first.

‘If you want to talk to someone other than me about Tor… None of the other boys at school knew him well, which is a shame. But he really liked his teacher; Eveline Kolberg, I think she was called. It’s possible she might be able to help you, if you need someone smarter than me who might understand how my son thought.’

I wrote down the name. She asked me to take a note of her sister’s address in Ski as well. ‘In case you come back here and I’ve been thrown out, that’s where you’ll find me. Either there or at one of the schools where I’m a cleaner,’ she said, her voice breaking.

The atmosphere was heavy and I suddenly longed to get out of the flat, away from this street. I felt a great deal of sympathy for the poor cleaning lady, who had now, along with everything else, lost her only son, but I was unable to see what on earth I could do to help her. It seemed inevitable that her son’s story would sooner or later find its way into the press. And he would only ever be remembered as the person who murdered Fredriksen, the politician.

I took great care to assure her that it was never easy to see what the consequences of our choices might be in years to come, and that her son’s tragedy was mostly due to poverty rather than her choices.

She brightened a little when I said this and gave a fleeting smile as she stood up and insisted that I see her son’s room before I leave.

All I really wanted to do was get away as quickly as I could, but I realized that I should look at his room, now that I was here.

The late Tor Johansen’s room was like the rest of the flat: tidy, small and sparse. For a boy who had enjoyed reading so much, he had no bookshelves. There was a shelf’s worth of books lined up on the floor against the wall. None of them looked like they had been published after the war, and they all seemed well-thumbed.

There was not a single picture of the boy who had lived here on any of the walls. There were, however, some other pictures of a person I had not expected to see here. Namely, myself. Three newspaper clippings and photographs about my previous investigations were hanging on the wall. It was an unexpected and almost moving sight.

His mother’s voice sounded brighter when she spoke. ‘It’s so strange to have you standing here now, and such a shame that Tor is not here to see it. He read a lot about criminal cases in newspapers and books. He read everything he could about your cases. When you were investigating, he was outside the library first thing Saturday morning to read about the latest developments. It’s not so strange really that he’d found out where you lived.’

She was right about this and no doubt meant well in saying it. But it felt rather uncomfortable all the same. The boy on the red bicycle had almost instinctively sought me out in his hour of need and trusted that I would solve the case. Now he was dead and if he was innocent, I had not been able to help him in time.

I tried to push the thought to one side. I now had the answers I had needed from his mother. The boy had a connection to Per Johan Fredriksen and a motive, and the reason why he had known where I lived was obvious. It all added up with a double line under the name of the murderer.

Tor Johansen had slept on a mattress on the floor. The only furniture in his room was a small, old desk and a wooden chair. The desk was empty. A worn brown satchel stood by the chair.

I quickly looked through the satchel, but found no more than the usual schoolbooks. The only surprise was when I leafed through the one titled ‘Introduction to Science’. His writing was clear and succinct, and his knowledge was evidently not far behind my own. Tor Johansen had obviously had a good head on him, despite his problems with his tongue and foot.

I shared my thoughts with his mother. That her son had been extremely unlucky and had had a difficult life, but that he had been very intelligent in many ways. However, as the case stood now and based on what she had told me, there was little reason to doubt that he had in fact killed Fredriksen.

She wrung her hands, looked down and said that she saw no grounds to contradict me. To the extent that it could make any difference, she asked me to convey her condolences and apologies to the family. I had been extremely understanding, but unless there was anything else I wanted to know, she would now like to be left in peace to grieve.

When she said this, I feared that she might be harbouring thoughts of suicide. However, I had no more questions to ask and nothing more to say. So once again I expressed my condolences and wished her all the best.

Our eyes met briefly as I turned to go, and I was impressed by the steadiness of her gaze and her firm handshake.

I left without looking back. But all the while I saw the boy’s bare room in my mind’s eye, the satchel on the floor and the pictures of me on the wall.

IX

Outside the building in Tøyenbekken, only a few yards from my car, my thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected little incident.

As I glanced over my shoulder, I saw a man around my age, who I at first mistook for someone I had gone to school with. He was around five foot nine and of slim build, with the same oval-shaped face and brown hair as one of my old classmates. He was also wearing the same kind of wide-brimmed hat that my friend often did.

I spontaneously lifted up my hand to wave, only to realize that the man was not my classmate at all. This man had broader shoulders and a brisker, more determined step.

The man with the hat, somewhat bewildered, raised his hand in response, only to see it was a misunderstanding. He lowered his hand again in embarrassment. The stranger then continued on his way and did not stop as he passed me where I stood by my car. I could not help but notice that the upper joint of the little finger on his right hand was missing.

I stood by the car for a few seconds and wondered who the man in the suit and hat with the missing joint on his finger might be. And what he was doing here in Tøyenbekken. He and I both stood out in relation to the others walking on the street, and I had no doubt that I would have to stand there for some time before I saw another man in a hat and tie.

It made me wonder if the strange murder case had started to affect my nerves and make me slightly paranoid. So I got into the car and drove back to the main police station, without giving the man in the hat another thought.

X

It was half past three. I had given my boss and Danielsen a report of the latest developments in the case.

I had feared that Danielsen might claim that he had been right, but he was remarkably quiet and seemed almost uninterested. The explanation came when my boss asked a question that I had not considered.

‘How did he get hold of the paper and pencil?’ he asked.

I immediately replied that it was not from me. Danielsen squirmed uncomfortably and said that he had given the prisoner the paper and pencil yesterday, in case he found it easier to write down his statement. This was a reasonable gesture, given that the boy had a speech impediment, but Danielsen apologized profusely and said that perhaps he should have mentioned it before.

Neither my boss nor I put too much importance on this. I, for my part, was happy as long as no one asked any critical questions as to whether I might have contributed in some way to his suicide. And no one did. Danielsen seemed uninterested in the case, and my boss almost content.

Danielsen said hastily that it was what we had thought, then, and that the death had actually made our work easier.

Our boss nodded and asked that I use the rest of the week to tie up any necessary loose ends and inform the Fredriksen family, as well as write a press release and some internal reports – in that order. I said that I was more than happy to do this.

The atmosphere when we parted at a quarter to four was light and almost friendly. Danielsen and I wished each other a good evening before heading off in our separate directions. At times like this, I almost liked him. But the feeling usually passed very quickly.

XI

I telephoned Mrs Oda Fredriksen and informed the victim’s family of the latest developments. I heard considerable relief in her voice when I finished my account. She thanked me for letting her know, offered straightaway to tell her children, and had no objection to the details being released in the morning papers. She added that it had been of great comfort to the family that the person in charge of the investigation had shown so much understanding.

I thanked her, and asked her to convey my greetings and best wishes to her children. We finished the phone call in good spirits at a quarter past four.

I then sat down to write a press release, and had just formulated the first few sentences when the telephone rang at twenty past four. The switchboard operator’s voice was like a snake slithering into paradise; she said that there was an elderly lady from Majorstuen on the telephone who insisted on speaking to me as soon as possible.

The voice at the other end certainly sounded like a woman well past retirement age. So what she said was all the more surprising.

‘Good afternoon, inspector. This is Randi Krogh Hansen calling you from Kirk Road in Majorstuen. I apologize if I’m interrupting, but my old mother claims that she saw something through the window here the day before yesterday that you absolutely need to know.’

It was unexpected. Before I had even thought, I remarked that her mother must be very old. Fortunately, she took it well.

‘You can certainly say that. My mother has been on this earth for over a hundred years now. But her eyesight is still good and after reading today’s newspapers she is convinced that she saw something that you must know, today. Unfortunately, her legs are not what they used to be, so it would be difficult to get her to the police station. Would you be able to come and see us here as soon as possible?’

I had had time to gather my thoughts now and was curious as to what the witness might have seen. So I said I would come immediately.

XII

The address that Randi Krogh Hansen had rung from was a three-storey building on the corner of Bogstad Road and Kirk Road, a couple of blocks down from the station. Once I had parked the car, I quickly checked that there was a clear view from the windows to where Per Johan Fredriksen had been attacked. Then I made my way to the main entrance.

Randi Krogh Hansen was standing ready to greet me just inside the door. Her face was wrinkled and she could easily have been in her eighties, but she was a slim lady who was still light of foot. Her thin hand shook slightly in mine. There was no one else in the hall, but she still lowered her voice and leaned forwards when she spoke.

‘Welcome to our humble abode. I do hope we haven’t called you here unnecessarily. It’s my doing that you were not contacted before. My mother said yesterday morning that she had seen a man being stabbed on the street opposite the evening before. She sometimes dozes off in her chair and starts dreaming, so I thought that was probably what had happened. She eventually gave in with some reluctance. Then, about an hour ago, she read in the newspaper that a politician had been stabbed here and, let me tell you, she gave me a piece of her mind. So I had to ring the police immediately and now only hope that what she has to tell you will be of interest.’

My first thought was that we could perhaps have been spared a lot of work if we had got the message yesterday. But it had not been withheld with malice, so I forced myself to smile at the elderly lady in front of me and assured her that her reaction was perfectly understandable.

She smiled back, relieved, and repeated in a hushed voice that her mother had bad legs and weak lungs, but that her mind was clear and her eyes were still sharp as a pin, despite her great age.

We went up to the second floor and somewhat formally knocked on the door of a room that looked out over the street below. ‘Come in,’ said a high, sharp woman’s voice from within. The daughter promptly opened the door and showed me through, but stayed standing outside herself.

A wall of heat hit me as soon as the door opened. A fan heater hummed merrily and the only person in the room was puffing on a good old-fashioned pipe. She was sitting in a rocking chair in front of the stove, looking straight at me. The tiny old lady looked as though she could not weigh much more than six stone, all wrapped up in her blanket. Her arms were skin and bone, her face wrinkled as a raisin, and some white wisps were all that was left of her hair. But her lips were still red and her blue eyes were piercing, with almost a twinkle, as she focused them on me. She nodded in acknowledgement when I held out my hand, and then shook it with an unexpectedly firm grasp.

‘Welcome, young man. I do apologize that my daughter’s neurotic objections prevented me from contacting the police yesterday, and also that it is so warm in here.’

Whether it was intentional or not, she was then racked by a coughing fit that lasted some thirty seconds, only to be replaced by a smile and the pipe moments later.

‘As you can hear, my lungs are about to pack up on me. The cold seeps into my marrow and there is no reason to be frugal with the electricity or the tobacco. I celebrated my hundred and fourth birthday last week, and know perfectly well that it will be my last. I smoked my first pipe here in 1880. I gave birth to my first child here in 1884, while the great men in the Storting were fighting for independence. I was standing down on the harbour with my first grandchild on my arm when the new king and young crown prince came sailing to an independent Norway in the autumn of 1905. So I have been here a long time and seen many things. I got my first pension from the Nygaardsvold government, and have cost the state coffers dear. So I thought that this might be my final chance to do something useful for the country, and I should use it.’

I said that I was very impressed and that her daughter also looked remarkably well for her age if she was born in 1884.

She shook her head disapprovingly. ‘My eldest children died a long time ago. She was an afterthought, and was not born until 1898. Unfortunately, she is not the brightest of the bunch. What nonsense it was not to call the police yesterday. But she is kind and does her best, and she is the only one of my children who is still alive. So I really shouldn’t complain.’

I nodded politely to this and looked at the shrunken, ancient woman in the rocking chair with something akin to awe. All of a sudden, she reminded me of an eighty-year-old Patricia. I said, out loud, that she was absolutely right and what she had seen could be of great interest to the police.

She nodded and took a couple of puffs on her pipe before continuing. ‘My eyes and brain are about the only things that work any more. So, I was sitting here resting on Saturday evening. My thoughts were wandering in the past, but snapped back to the present when I saw something very unexpected on the street out here. Unfortunately, it had started to get dark, so I could really only see shadows and silhouettes, not faces. However, what I saw, clearly enough, was a tall, rather stout chap, who must have been the right honourable Fredriksen, walking towards the station. There was a shorter, slimmer person waiting for him at the corner. Fredriksen stopped when he saw this person and they exchanged a few words. Then suddenly the person drew a knife and stabbed him. He fell to the ground. The attacker ran off down the street, away from the station. Fredriksen was left lying on the pavement. Then another person came along who knelt down and leaned over him. And then some more people came.’

Thus far, it all seemed to tally with what we knew had happened – and with what the newspapers had reported. I asked if Fredriksen had been stabbed once or several times. We had not released this information to the press.

She replied without hesitation, and without blowing any smoke in my direction.

‘Twice. The person pulled out the knife, but Fredriksen remained standing. So he or she stabbed him again, and then he fell to the ground with the knife still in him.’

It felt as though the room was heating up around me. It was true that Fredriksen had been stabbed twice in the chest, just as she described.

I asked whether she had seen a bicycle. She shook her head.

‘No, there was no bicycle when it happened. They were both on foot.’

Which did not necessarily prove anything, I told myself. Tor Johansen may have left the bike somewhere close by and run back to get it afterwards. But if she had seen him running, she should have been able to see if he limped.

‘Even though it was dark, did you notice anything more about the attacker? Could you tell me, for example, if the person ran in an unusual way?’

The old woman blew out another cloud of smoke and looked at me fiercely. ‘Yes, I could, and there was nothing unusual about him or her. The person who stabbed Fredriksen was perfectly normal.’

I started to feel slightly hot around the collar. And I thought to myself that something was not right. Then I heard my own voice asking if she was sure there was nothing special about the way the attacker ran off.

‘No, as I said. The person who stabbed Fredriksen walked perfectly normally and easily. But the first person to the scene afterwards limped heavily on the right foot. It was quite obvious when he came and when he ran away. And I was very surprised when the limping shadow ran off with the knife.’

The words hit me like snow falling from the roof. Suddenly my body felt ice cold, despite the heat of the room.

I sat there, unable to utter a word. The shock must have been apparent on my face, because the old lady in the rocking chair looked at me with increasing concern.

‘I do hope I have not said anything wrong. I only wanted to help, not create more problems. I am too close to the grave to lie and I am absolutely certain that that is what I saw. The person who stabbed Fredriksen moved without any difficulty. But the person who came after, pulled out the knife and took it away. That person limped so heavily on the right foot that I thought he must have a club foot or something.’

I heard myself saying that she had absolutely done the right thing and that this could be very important and I believed every word she said. Then I asked if she had seen any other people down on the street before the second person came.

‘Yes. There was one other person. He stood without moving on the other side of the road and watched the whole incident, the stabbing and then the person with the limp coming along and pulling out the knife. I was rather taken aback, but then thought that perhaps he was either looking the other way or was in a state of shock. The onlooker left at the same time as the person with the limp, only in the opposite direction. I say he, but it could equally have been a woman. It was not much more than a shadow I saw, but he was wearing a man’s hat.’

The hat may have been a coincidence, but I was not convinced that it was. I felt as though I had been winded. The ancient woman in the rocking chair had turned everything upside down in the space of five minutes. Here she was sitting with a vital piece of the puzzle that only proved I had put it together completely wrong.

I had an overwhelming feeling of paralysis, but could also feel the adrenalin starting to surge. There was a strange sense of relief for the boy on the red bicycle and his mother, too, and mounting curiosity as to what had actually happened when Per Johan Fredriksen was killed.

I said that she had been of great help and asked if it would be possible to send a written version of her statement for her to verify and sign.

We looked at each other for a brief moment. Then she started to cough again and said that if it was important, perhaps I should take a written statement straightaway.

‘My cough is getting worse and worse,’ she said. ‘This past week I have been surprised to wake up every morning and realize that I am still alive.’ She chuckled and then lit her pipe again, but it was clearly serious.

I wrote down her statement by hand on a plain sheet of white paper. She read it through, gave a brief nod and then signed her name, Henriette Krogh Hansen, underneath. Her ornate handwriting would not have looked out of place on a scroll from another century. Her gnarled little hand reminded me of an eagle’s claw and it burned like a red-hot poker when I shook it, her eyes unblinking when I said goodbye. Henriette Krogh Hansen was in no doubt as to what she had seen, and I was in no doubt that what she had seen was what happened.

XIII

My boss was supposed to go home at half past five, but at a quarter to six he was still sitting opposite me. Danielsen’s shift had finished at five, which was an enormous relief.

The boss listened in silence to my account of the most recent development. His expression was inscrutable, but it seemed to me that there was something disapproving about him.

‘You are, as usual, to be praised for following up every lead, Kristiansen. How old did you say this new witness was?’

I took a deep breath, in and out. Then I replied: ‘One hundred and four. She is very old indeed, but has perfect vision and a clear head. I found her to be wholly credible.’

I hoped that my boss would nod. But instead, he just sat there waiting.

‘It is, however, a ripe old age for an eyewitness who has seen something through the window at dusk. The only thing she said that can be checked and that was not reported in the papers, is that Fredriksen was stabbed twice. She might, of course, simply be guessing. That being said, it is unsettling news and could indicate that Fredriksen’s murderer is still at large. But it might cause confusion and unfounded speculation if we were to step up the investigation after the prime suspect has committed suicide and left behind a note that was as good as a confession.’

We fell silent. All at once, I found I was not sure of my boss. But I felt that I had to say something, before he asked me to wrap up the investigation as planned.

So I said that the solution would be to announce that the prime suspect had indeed taken his own life and left behind a note that could be interpreted as a confession, but that the police would continue the investigation as a matter of course.

My boss gave a quick nod.

‘Yes, let’s do that. You follow up things with the family. Question whom you want, call in Danielsen if you need help and let me know immediately of any new developments.’

I promised to do that and stood up to leave. My boss remained sitting. I got the distinct feeling that there was something else, and that he was deliberating whether to bring it up. So I stayed where I was.

He coughed and then said: ‘If we follow it through and remain open to the possibility that someone other than the late young Tor Johansen…’ he paused. ‘It seems more likely that we should look for the clues in Fredriksen’s private life and any connection to the old mystery from 1932, rather than his political activities. So perhaps it would be best to start with the friends in the group who are still alive?’

Further investigation into the mystery from 1932 was at the top of my list of priorities. So I agreed without hesitation, but added that we should in principle be open to all possibilities as the victim had been a senior politician with many strings to his bow.

My boss could hardly disagree with this. So he simply nodded. I got the impression that he had more on his mind than he was willing to say, and left in anticipation of what more I might discover about the murder mystery from 1932.

XIV

Miriam had been given the spare key to my flat and used it well. Supper was already on the table when I got home at twenty-five past six.

I thanked her for her understanding and apologized for being late. She replied merrily that it was important to use time efficiently, as she had a meeting at the party office at eight. She then asked me to tell her without further ado about any developments in the investigation.

She lost her twinkle when I told her about the death earlier in the day and what had happened since then. Miriam looked as though she might burst into tears for a minute or two when she heard the story of the boy and his mother. She sat deep in thought for the latter part of the meal.

‘Tell me again what the quote was,’ she said, eventually.

I got it out of my bag.

‘“Because either it is the world that is turned to slavery, or me… and it is more likely to be the latter”.’

She nodded mournfully. ‘Just as I thought. It’s from a book on the Norwegian literature curriculum – at the end of Jonas Lie’s One of Life’s Slaves. The protagonist, Nikolai, is a young man who has grown up in very difficult circumstances and has done his utmost to be a law-abiding pillar of society, but he ends up in prison all the same. In the novel, Nikolai ends up committing murder out of sheer desperation and frustration. So it could be interpreted however you want. But you don’t think he committed the murder, do you?’

Her question was unexpected, but I shook my head firmly all the same. ‘What about Hauptmann, then?’

Miriam gave this some thought while she ate the rest of her food.

‘I’m not sure. It’s a new name to me, but there is something familiar about it,’ she said. She sat quietly for a while longer. Then suddenly she pointed at me and jumped up from the sofa.

‘I think we saw something about him when we went through the history book,’ she said.

Four seconds later she was already over by the bookshelf. She leafed with impressive speed to the middle of the book, then exclaimed with satisfaction: ‘And here we have Hauptmann! If he is who I think he is. And it has to be, surely?’

I rushed over to her, looked at the picture and said without thinking that I agreed, it had to be him.

The photograph was from 1936. Hauptmann’s first name was Bruno. He was a dark, thin and serious young man in the photographs taken during a court case in New Jersey, where he was being tried for the kidnapping and murder of the legendary pilot, Charles Lindbergh’s little boy. Hauptmann came from a simple background and the evidence against him was so controversial that he was not executed until a year after the court case. Hauptmann was a German immigrant who could barely make himself understood, but maintained his stammering innocence until his death.

Miriam and I stood there in the middle of the room, with the book between us and read what was written with wide eyes. Then we looked at each other.

‘I think he was innocent,’ I said.

‘Hauptmann or the boy on the red bicycle?’ Miriam asked, more than a little pedantically.

‘Both,’ I said.

She nodded in agreement and we kissed on it.

‘Your memory is impressive. I should have called you as soon as he mentioned Hauptmann,’ I said.

We both stepped back and fell silent. The thought that the boy on the red bicycle had been innocent and that he might still have been alive if I had realized this sooner, was very unsettling. It seemed Miriam understood.

‘But I was in the library, so you would not have been able to get hold of me by phone. And in any case, we will never know whether the outcome might have been different. He certainly didn’t make it easy for you. He was clearly a well-read and intelligent boy, despite his handicap. But it does seem strange that he only added to his problems by speaking in riddles in the way that he did,’ she said, slowly.

Again, I had to agree. The young Tor Johansen’s mental state remained a mystery within the murder mystery, and we might never know the answer. It did not make the investigation any easier, even though we now assumed that he had come to the scene of the crime after the murder, and had not seen who did it.

‘Why on earth did he take the knife with him if he wasn’t guilty?’ I wondered.

Miriam stood thinking. Then she sighed heavily and said: ‘I don’t know. It’s just one of the things we’ll have to ponder. But right now I have to leave for the meeting at the party office, if I’m going to be on time. And tomorrow I’m afraid I have a Socialist People’s Party regional meeting and an anti-EEC meeting…’

She looked rather apologetic when she said this. I said that I would be more than happy to drive her, but she replied that public transport was more environmentally friendly and also more efficient timewise. Then she made a speedy exit. I had to dash after her to say thank you for her input today and that I would phone her at the halls of residence tomorrow before her meetings.

Then once again I stood alone at the window and watched Miriam become smaller and smaller until she was just a smudged shadow in the evening dark. And I thought about the big question we had not had time to discuss today – in other words, Patricia.

I was absolutely convinced that Patricia would get more out of the facts of the case. I thought to myself that no matter how irregular my contact with Patricia was, it was in a way my duty to call her when I thought that her help might be vital to solving the case.

But even after Miriam had disappeared from sight, I felt that it would be too much of a betrayal to phone Patricia behind her back. Also, I still wasn’t sure if Patricia would be willing to help me while Miriam was still around.

So I pushed it to one side and sat down on my own to listen to the news. I was somewhat relieved that the only mention of the politician’s murder was a brief report to say that the prime suspect had taken his own life in prison.

As was to be expected, the main stories were about the EEC and the demarcation line agreement with the Soviet Union. The first item was just as controversial today as it had been yesterday, whereas it seemed that the demarcation line issue was now close to agreement. The Government had had a draft agreement confirmed and the opposition was largely in favour of it, though it did have some reservations.

Despite this exciting news, my thoughts kept turning back to the murder investigation. When the evening news had finished reporting on my case, I was finished with it. I sat and looked through the papers I had been working on before I left the office.

They were copies of a short press release and two telegrams that had been sent to Oda Fredriksen at Bygdøy and Lene Johansen at Grønland, telling them that the investigation would continue for a few more days. Then there was a note of two telephone numbers, to three people I had not spoken to yet: Hauk Rebne Westgaard, and the couple Kjell Arne and Solveig Ramdal. The investigation was now becoming an obsession. It was increasingly clear to me that I would not be able to wait until tomorrow to pursue it.

XV

Hauk Rebne Westgaard answered the telephone when I rang at twenty-five to nine. ‘Westgaard, how can I help?’ he said, in a steady and controlled voice, without the slightest hint of joy.

Our conversation was short and to the point. I told him that I was leading the investigation into the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen and therefore had to ask him some routine questions in connection with the events that took place in 1932. He in turn told me that he had heard about the murder on the news and had been expecting the police to contact him. We agreed that it was a little too late to travel either to or from Holmestrand today. He said that he would be more than happy to talk to me, but was in the middle of renovations at the farm and would therefore not be able to come to Oslo until late afternoon the following day. I offered to drive down to Holmestrand and meet him there around ten o’clock in the morning. He said that that would work well for him and that I was very welcome.

My next telephone call was answered by a man who said: ‘The Ramdals, you are talking to Director Ramdal himself.’

When he heard who I was, he said that of course he knew what it was about and that they had expected to be contacted. His wife was at present visiting a daughter and would not be home until later, but he himself was there and had time if I wished to meet him now. I thanked him and said that I would.

I got into my car at a quarter to nine and drove to Frognerkilen. On my way there, I passed within a few hundred yards of Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. I wondered how Patricia was. I imagined her sitting there as she always did, in the library with the papers and reports about the case spread out in front of her. But I had made my decision, at least for today. And I did not even consider turning off into Frogner.

The Ramdals’ home was a generous detached house in a garden in the best part of Frognerkilen, with a view to the fjord in the background. Both the house and garden were bigger than I had anticipated. On my way up the drive, I found myself wondering whether the Ramdals knew the Borchmanns, and if they also had servants.

The answer to this proved to be no. When I rang the bell, the door was eventually opened by Kjell Arne Ramdal himself. He was a slightly overweight man with grey streaks in his hair and beard, and yet clearly in good health and fit for his sixty-five years.

There were two pairs of skis leaning up against the wall in the hallway, beside a full to bursting cupboard. The photographs of children and grandchildren on the walls all added to the impression of a happy, upper-class home. Ramdal himself was in several of the photographs together with a slim, black-haired woman whom I assumed was his wife. It occurred to me that there was something odd about the pictures, but I could not put my finger on it.

‘As I said, my wife is visiting one of the family – our children moved away from home a long time ago. So I am the only one here at the moment. Which is perhaps a good thing, if we are to talk about business or the old case from 1932,’ Kjell Arne Ramdal remarked.

I said that I agreed and followed him into the living room. He sat down on a rather majestic brown leather chair and indicated that I should sit on a slightly smaller leather chair on the other side of a mahogany table. The furniture was very elegant and the living room one of the biggest I had seen, though of course it could not be compared with the drawing room of the late Per Johan Fredriksen.

It was as if Kjell Arne Ramdal had read my thoughts as he started by saying: ‘If you have been to Fredriksen’s home, you will know that mine can in no way compete with his. But fortunately the same is not true of our financial situation.’

‘Because in recent years you have been more successful in terms of business. And as I understand it, you have given an offer for more or less all of his companies?

His nod was brisk and almost too keen.

‘All his properties in Oslo and Akershus, yes. It will be my largest investment to date if it all goes through, and I believe it will also be my best. The geographical profile of his properties will complement my own and the advantages of having a large company will be even greater. I have always been more strategic and daring than Fredriksen, which is probably why I have been more successful.’

I asked him without further ado what he had to say about the man, both as a businessman and a person.

‘Fredriksen could be very different when in different situations. More recently I have known him mostly in his role as a businessman. And as such he was cautious and focused on the short-term gains to be had from his properties, without having any particular strategy or future vision. For the past fifteen years, he has been more interested in politics and less in the markets than before. His business was healthy and robust. But he stagnated while others expanded and was reluctant to make the necessary investments at a time when people expect a higher standard of accommodation than before. He had a very good accountant and office manager who have been with him for years, but they were constantly overworked and he had too few staff. Over the past three or four years he has let some good opportunities go, and the value of his companies has fallen rather than increased.’

‘And does your offer to buy the companies still stand, even though he is now dead?’

He nodded slowly and forcefully. ‘His son rang me today to check whether the offer still stands and whether it would be possible to extend the deadline. I told him that of course the offer still stands, but that as I have the bank on standby and my administration have been working very hard on it, I could only offer an extra twenty-four hours before I needed a decision. He thanked me for this and as far as I understand, they are likely to accept the offer. What Fredriksen would have done is less clear, and now we will never know. He had acquired larger and smaller properties throughout his adult life and it was not in his nature to sell, even for a good price.’

I noted that Kjell Arne Ramdal still only used Per Johan Fredriksen’s surname, despite having known him for more than forty years. And also it seemed that they had been competitors, rather than associates. I asked if I was correct in understanding that they had once worked together?

‘The two companies first worked together for a period after the war and then we had some joint ventures between the mid-fifties and the mid-sixties. We were never close friends even though we were in business with one another, and we did not fall out when we stopped working together. Our business assessments were based on different strategies and ambitions, so in the end, we were better off working alone.’

I made a note to the effect that this was more or less in line with what Fredriksen’s children had said. But also that the situation regarding the two companies did give Ramdal a possible motive for murder, albeit a fairly weak one. I then asked about the case from 1932.

Kjell Arne Ramdal lost some of his enthusiasm and sat silently for a moment before he answered.

‘It is a tragic story that is still a mystery to this day. We had seen Eva, just as beautiful, young and full of life as she always was, only hours before. Then suddenly there she was lying dead and cold in our midst. I think the shock had a lasting effect on us all. We were carefree youths who became serious, responsible adults overnight. I was on my own in my hotel room for the three hours before we found her, and really don’t know what more I can say about the case. Paradoxically, the only thing that is certain is that what became the official truth is not the truth at all. It was not epilepsy that killed Eva. She only had petit mal, which is not life-threatening, and she was otherwise in good shape. But whether it was suicide or murder, and if it was murder who was responsible, I would not like to say, not even today.’

As though to underline this, he pursed his lips and promptly fell silent in his leather chair.

Kjell Arne Ramdal was clearly an intelligent man who had more theories and thoughts about what happened in 1932 than he wanted to say. So I decided that first I would ask him straight about what and who he thought had caused Eva Bjølhaugen’s death. He replied that he did not want to answer that here and now, as it would be pure speculation.

I got the feeling that it was some kind of accusation against Per Johan Fredriksen that he did not want to verbalize only a few days after Fredriksen himself had been killed, and while he, Ramdal, was still waiting to hear if his offer to buy up the companies had been accepted. But this was, in turn, no more than speculation on my part. I asked him instead about his wife’s engagement to Per Johan Fredriksen, and the circumstances surrounding their break-up.

Kjell Arne Ramdal replied that he did not know much about that side of the case, and that it really was up to his wife whether she wanted to say anything about it or not.

As we sat there, it suddenly struck me that Kjell Arne Ramdal never smiled. Not here, nor in the family photographs on the walls, as far as I could see. He was intelligent, correct and in no way unfriendly, but apparently a man with no sense of humour or joy. I was reminded of the title of one of the most popular Norwegian films in recent years, The Man Who Could Not Laugh. Then I remembered what Kjell Arne Ramdal had said, and wondered to what extent the events of 1932 were to blame.

I pondered on this and he looked as though he was thinking about something, though I had no idea what and he was not likely to tell me. So we sat in silence for a while.

Then I thought of another question – about the most recent of their five-year-anniversary meals and what had happened there.

He nodded cautiously in acknowledgement. ‘I understand that you are already well informed. So no doubt you know that we met every five years on the day that Eva died, and that at the last meeting, only a few weeks ago, Per Johan suddenly made a very unexpected statement. He said that he now finally understood what had happened, and that one of us also knew and should face the consequences. He said nothing more about what he thought had happened, and the rest of the meal was a cold war where none of us said a word. I could only see surprise, not fear or regret in any of the others’ faces. If one of the people round that table was responsible for her death, they kept up appearances well. All I know for certain is that if the murderer was sitting at the table, it was not me.’

I promptly asked if he was certain that his wife had not committed the murder.

He answered in a very solemn voice: ‘I would never have married her if I thought that was the case. I have always believed that it was one of the others. But in such situations one can only be certain of what one has seen with one’s own eyes, wouldn’t you say?’

I had to agree with him there. But at the same time, I could not help thinking that it must be very uncomfortable not to be certain whether your spouse had committed murder or not.

‘I do know for certain, however, that she did not murder Per Johan. She was at home here with me on Saturday evening,’ he added, hastily.

Just then, we heard light footsteps out in the hall.

‘And talking of my wife, here comes the sun,’ Kjell Arne Ramdal said, without so much as a hint of a smile, or humour in his voice. ‘Do you have any more questions for me? If not, I will hand the stage over to my wife before it gets too late.’

Without waiting for an answer, Kjell Arne Ramdal stood up and left the living room. And as he did so, he reminded me of one of Ibsen’s serious, patriarchal family men whom Miriam and I had talked about only a couple of weeks ago.

XVI

I was afraid that Kjell Arne Ramdal might come back with his wife. But she came into the room alone and discreetly closed the door behind her.

Whether calling her the sun was accurate or not, I was unable to decide. It certainly seemed true. Following my deadly serious conversation with Kjell Arne Ramdal, the room definitely lit up when his wife came in. Despite her black hair, she seemed to be of a far brighter disposition than him, and her smile was open and friendly. She was slim and moved gracefully across the floor. Her dress was modern and fitted. I would have guessed that she was under fifty rather than her true age of over sixty.

Solveig Ramdal, née Thaulow, was clearly a confident and well-heeled upper-class lady. She had gold around her neck and on both hands, and in her husband’s absence she sat down on his throne. Her hand was small, but her handshake firm. Her voice was soft when she said: ‘Good evening. And how can I help you?’

My first thought was that she reminded me of a cat. And I sat there wondering if that sweet smile disguised some sharp teeth.

I did not imagine that she would have much to add to her husband’s statement regarding the business. So I cut to the chase and asked how she had experienced Eva Bjølhaugen’s death in 1932.

Her smile disappeared as soon as I mentioned the name.

‘It was terrible,’ Solveig Ramdal said, in an intense, hushed voice.

‘Terrible situations like that can push some people together and pull others apart,’ I said.

Solveig Ramdal was quick to understand my point. ‘That is very true, indeed. But in this case, the two who were pulled apart were already drifting in different directions. But one shouldn’t really speak ill of the dead…’ She bit her lip and fell silent.

‘Sometimes it is necessary to tell the truth about the dead. Particularly when they have been murdered,’ I countered.

She nodded vigorously, and it seemed to me that she was almost grateful. ‘You may well be right, inspector. You see, Per Johan was a very complicated man, who was very different in different situations. He could be a happy, charming and extremely kind man. He was my first great love, and we had many good times together. Only a few months before the trip to Oslo I had been madly in love and thought that he would be the only love of my life. But there were others who had experienced less sympathetic, colder sides of Per Johan. Then one day I was contacted by a friend who had overheard him say that he was more attracted to my inheritance than to me. This was perfectly plausible as I was an only child and the sole heir to a considerable fortune. Per Johan denied it, of course, and I so wanted to believe him. But the doubt was there like a wall between us. And then when another wall sprang up after Eva’s death, there was just too much doubt and suspicion.’

‘So what you are saying is that you suspected that he was in some way connected to Eva’s death?’

She gave a careful nod. ‘Suspected is perhaps too strong a word, but it was a possibility, and it hung over us like a dark cloud. The friend who told me what Per Johan had apparently said about me, had also heard him say that Eva was an alternative that he had considered more and more. And that was understandable too, because she was far prettier than I was, and heir to an even greater fortune. So it would be easy to imagine it was some kind of jealousy drama, until you see what happened after Eva died, because it wasn’t long before Per Johan married her less attractive sister, who had become sole heir in the meantime. So one might even suspect that the motive was purely gain. Perhaps you did not know that Per Johan got most of his property from the marriage? Oda was worth three times more than him when they got married.’

I said that I had not known that. And I thought to myself that it was a very possible murder motive. I first asked myself and then Mrs Ramdal who might have a motive for revenge now, forty years later.

‘Certainly not me, and not Kjell Arne. Hauk, on the other hand, would clearly have a motive. It would seem that the loss of his girlfriend had a profound effect on him and he never married or started a family. Oda might also have reason for revenge. Though I must say, I don’t think there was any love lost between them in 1932, but she did lose her only sister, after all. And if you were suddenly to discover that, for the past forty years, every day you had lived was a lie and you had been kept in the dark by a husband who had never told you that he had murdered someone close to you – well, I am sure that would be enough to make most people flip.’

That had crossed my mind too. And for the moment, I liked Solveig Ramdal best of the group from 1932, both when she was happy and when she was serious. Because it was definitely her serious face that I saw when asked what she made of the key found lying outside the room in the hotel corridor.

‘I still have no plausible explanation. Whatever else one might say about Per Johan, he was a strong and very focused man. It is unthinkable that he would have dropped the room key in the corridor without noticing, especially if he had just committed a crime. He might have put it there himself, as a kind of red herring, or someone else might have put it there, so that people would suspect him or Hank.’

As we were talking so intimately, I swiftly took the opportunity to ask what she thought about Per Johan Fredriksen’s statement at the group’s last anniversary dinner.

‘Much the same, really. He might have said it to deflect any suspicion, he might have been calling our bluff – or he might have found out that it really was one of us. The only thing I know for certain is that it was not me who killed Eva, if it was indeed one of us who did it.’

Without thinking, I lowered my voice and leaned forwards over the table when I asked if she could not even be certain that her husband had not done it. She remained calm and answered in a hushed voice in return: ‘Yes, that is correct. As far as Per Johan is concerned, I know that it was not Kjell Arne. He was here with me on Saturday night. We were sitting here together when we heard about the attack on the radio. But as for Eva’s death, I have always thought that Kjell Arne seemed a less likely murderer than Per Johan, Hauk and Oda. But no, I don’t know for certain.’

And with that, it was as though she had said all there was to say. She pursed her lips and turned her eyes away to gaze out of the window. And when the large wall clock behind us then struck ten, it felt like a natural end to our conversation.

I quickly noted that two of the group from 1932 could provide each other with an alibi for the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen. And that Mr Ramdal spoke of all the others by their surname, whereas Mrs Ramdal used their first names. Then I thanked her for her cooperation so far, and stood up.

XVII

It was twenty-five past ten by the time I parked outside my flat in Hegdehaugen. It had been a long and demanding day which had yielded some important answers, but also raised many new questions. Without being able to put my finger on why, the whole situation felt very unstable. I walked from the car towards the entrance and everything seemed to be as normal, and yet I was annoyingly gripped by a growing urge to look back. The sensation that there was someone behind me whom I had to see became more and more intense.

Reluctantly, I gave in to the fear and turned around without warning just as I reached the front door.

There was nothing to see. But as I went in I found myself wondering if perhaps there had been someone there before I turned around. On my way up the stairs, I chastised myself for not having turned around earlier, and for allowing my uncertainty about the case to tip into fear.

Once inside my flat, I realized that I still wasn’t tired. I stood alone by the window and looked out at the night.

The street below was empty. And yet I could see someone down there. Images of the boy on the red bicycle, who, two evenings before, had pedalled so frantically up the hill in front of the house, were still burned in my mind.

Even though there was much that was still unexplained, it now seemed clear that the boy had been innocent of murdering Per Johan Fredriksen and that he had cycled here in desperation because he trusted that I would discover the truth. The boy had wanted to give me his simple statement: that he was innocent, that he had only tried to help, and that Fredriksen had been dead when he went back. And it had all been true.

But there was also a sense that the boy on the red bicycle had in some way let me down, first by his lack of cooperation and then by taking his own life. Although of course, the stronger feeling was that I had let him down and betrayed the trust he had given me by failing to recognize his innocence in time to save his life.

I had a light snack alone at twenty to eleven. I felt pretty miserable and thought about the case as I ate two slices of bread and cheese in the kitchen, but was no closer to solving either the possible murder from 1932 or the murder from 1972.

At five to eleven, I went back into the living room. I sat there for several minutes looking at the telephone. The temptation to call my secret advisor, Patricia, only got stronger the longer I sat there. I was sure that Patricia would immediately make connections in the case that I could not see, if she was willing to help me. However, I wasn’t even convinced that she would want to help me. It was as though Patricia’s shadow now eclipsed the case for me. It felt like I had to phone her to find out whether she was willing to help, or if I was on my own.

I thought about the boy on the red bicycle and my meeting with his mother, and came to the conclusion that I should ring Patricia for their sakes. I still knew the number to the telephone on her table by heart. I was suddenly absolutely certain that she was still awake, sitting by the telephone in her library.

Twice I reached out to pick up the phone. The first time, I pulled my hand back before it even touched the receiver and the second time, I dialled the first two numbers before I put it down again. A picture of Miriam appeared and stood between me and the telephone. Miriam had not wanted me to contact Patricia this time and had really done her best to help me herself.

It was a horrible feeling; it would seem as if I lacked confidence in my fiancée if I now asked if I could call Patricia. But at the same time it felt like it would be a betrayal, almost treachery, if I were to ring Patricia without having spoken to Miriam about it first. So I sat there stewing over the dilemma. Then I made a decision and reached out to pick up the phone and ring Patricia.

But the telephone beat me to it: it started to ring while my hand was still in the air. As soon as I heard it ring, I knew who it was – and I was right.

Miriam was calling from a telephone box at her student accommodation. Her voice trembled slightly when she spoke: ‘I’ve tried to call you several times this evening without any answer. I’m so glad that you are all right. Is there any news about the case?’

It felt as though she was asking me if I had been to visit Patricia. And I immediately regretted having tried to call her.

So I quickly told her that I had been to see the Ramdals and that there was some new information, but I could tell her more when we next met.

Miriam sounded pleased to hear this and said that she could leave the library a couple of hours earlier tomorrow so that we could have an early supper together before she went to her evening meetings. This was a rare offer coming from her, so I agreed without hesitation. She promised to be here at four and would wait if I was later. I cheerfully asked her to take with her the book on the history of the German language, and she equally cheerfully said that she would never dream of going anywhere without it.

Her coins and our conversation came to an end at twenty-five past eleven. We felt closer again. I was touched by my Miriam’s interest and found her curiosity charming. So I stopped debating with myself whether to call Patricia or not. In any case, it was by now far too late for any more phone calls or visits today. I suddenly felt the exhaustion after a long and demanding day overwhelm me.

I was in bed by a quarter to twelve and barely managed to set the alarm before I fell asleep. But the sheet on my own bed reminded me, all the same, of what I had seen at the main police station earlier in the day. And I saw the boy on the red bicycle once again – dead in his cell.

Monday, 20 March 1972 came to a close with me dreaming that Miriam was back in my bed with me, but Patricia was sitting in her wheelchair in the middle of the room, looking at us with a grim and reproachful expression.