Chameleon People

I

On Tuesday, 21 March 1972, it was reported in the morning news on the radio that it now looked as though the Barents Sea agreement would get the support of all parties, even though some individuals in the Conservative Party had raised critical questions about the Soviet Union’s intentions. These were possibly in response to the fact that surviving members of the Communist Party of Norway had appeared on the barricades to proclaim the agreement was an example of the Soviet Union’s good intentions and genuine desire for peace.

Between the headlines and reports about the Barents Sea agreement and the EEC debate in the morning papers, I found some obituaries for Per Johan Fredriksen and several smaller reports about his murder. The two newspapers that I had delivered wrote that the suspect, who had been held in custody after having fled the scene of the crime, was a young man from the east end of Oslo, and he had since committed suicide in prison. From the evidence, it would seem that the murder was motivated by personal tragedy and the case was now considered closed.

The newspapers did not mention the suspect’s name, but did name the head of the investigation. Phrases such as ‘the young and already well-known Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen solved the case in record time’ made for pleasant enough reading. But I read them with mixed feelings, knowing as I did only too well that it could quickly backfire on the police in general and myself in particular. Especially if the press got wind of the fact that the arrestee, who had taken his own life in a cell, was innocent. I came to the conclusion that it might have been better if my name had not been mentioned. I quickly folded the papers and hurried to work.

I was in my office by twenty past eight, in other words, ten minutes early. All the incoming messages to do with the case were requests for interviews. I dealt with them swiftly, replying that the investigation was still ongoing and the police were still open to all possibilities.

At half past nine, I was in my car driving out of Oslo, on my way to meet a man who had apparently lived alone in Holmestrand since finding his girlfriend dead in a hotel room in Oslo forty years ago.

II

The farm was easy to find: not only was it the best signposted, but it was also the largest in the area. After seeing a sign for Westgaard on a side road, I drove for a good three minutes before coming to the farmhouse.

The man was not hard to find either. Hauk Rebne Westgaard was standing talking to two other men in front of the house when I drove up. It was very obvious who he was, thanks to his height, profile and clothes. Without reading very much more into it, I could see that he was the only gentleman there.

The description I had been given was very fitting. Hauk Rebne Westgaard was at least six feet tall, with unusually sharp features and a clean-shaven face, raven hair, a slim build and graceful movements; he could as easily have been forty-five as sixty-five. His handshake was strong and his voice was friendly when he said: ‘Welcome.’ But he did not smile, and walked into the house without saying another word.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s living room was large and tidy, but in terms of the furnishing and decor, it was like taking a step back in time to the early interwar period. With the possible exception of a couple of guns on the wall and some of the trophies on the top shelves, it looked as though nothing here was from after 1945. I found myself wondering whether my host’s internal life had remained equally untouched since 1932.

Out loud, I asked whether he lived alone or had any family. He replied: ‘I have three farmhands who live on the farm with their families, but I live on my own in the house. My parents died long ago, and my only sibling is a younger sister who also has her own house on the farm. I have never married and do not have the pleasure of my own children.’

‘But you were once in love and had a girlfriend, whom you lost – unexpectedly,’ I said.

He gave a strangely determined and abrupt nod. It was as though his sharp chin cleaved the air in two.

‘I understand that you are well acquainted with the events of 1932. Yes, I once had a girlfriend whom I loved very much and lost very unexpectedly. I have carried on with my life, done what I should and could on the farm and in the community, and I’ve managed well. But I still wonder about what happened, and what my life might have been like had it not occurred. And that I will never know. But I would be very grateful if you could solve the mystery.’

His voice was still friendly, but as he spoke his hawk-like eyes bore into me.

I felt the pressure mounting. So I swiftly replied that I would do my best, but that I first needed to hear his version of the events and how he had experienced them.

‘Eva and I had not been together for very long, just four months. And we were very different. She was an irrepressible optimist with a lust for life and had grown up without a care in the world. Whereas the situation here at home had left its mark on me and I was far more serious. But we got on very well together all the same, and in the days before the trip to Oslo had even talked about getting engaged. I was never one for parties really and thought I was the luckiest man in the world to have found such a beautiful and charming girlfriend. I could see that other men looked at me with envy. And I thought to myself many a time that it was too good to last, but I had no idea that it would end as tragically as it did.’

‘And in addition, she was rich,’ I said, tentatively.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard gave another of his sharp nods. ‘That was not important to me. I would have wanted Eva even if she was the daughter of a poor farmhand, but of course I knew full well that she was heir to land and property worth millions. I both saw and heard that it was important to other young men, from families that were often far richer than my own. The wealthy farmers down here used to joke that there were no engagements in Vestfold, only mergers.’

He smiled fleetingly when he said this. But the smile disappeared as soon as I asked if he had known that Per Johan Fredriksen had shown some interest in his girlfriend.

‘Yes. He paid a lot of attention to my girlfriend, and Kjell Arne Ramdal showed a lot of interest in both my girlfriend and Per Johan’s fiancée. So the atmosphere on the way into the capital and at the hotel was rather tense. I could feel that a drama was brewing, but the form it then took came as a shock. On the surface, Eva was the most carefree and relaxed of us all. She lived to be adored. We had discussed it and I was happy for her to be the centre of attention.’

I noted that jealousy could have been a possible motive for Hauk Rebne Westgaard. I then asked him what he believed happened.

‘It was not epilepsy that killed Eva, I am almost certain of that. I had been to the doctor with her a few days before. He had assured her that epilepsy was something she would die with, but not from. Otherwise she was as fit as a fiddle with no sign of any illness. It seems just as unlikely to me that she committed suicide. First of all, she had been in a remarkably good mood all spring, and still was only a few hours before. Second, I don’t understand how she committed suicide, if she did. I was with her when she packed and did not see medicine of any sort either then or later in the hotel room. I smelt her lips after she had died, and they did not smell of anything. Even though I cannot categorically dismiss the possibility that she committed suicide or died as a result of her illness, I have always believed that she was murdered. But how she was killed, why she was killed and by whom, remains as much of a mystery to me now, forty years on, as then. And I would be so grateful if you could tell me.’

There was a faint spark in the eyes of the man opposite me when he said this. Despite his control, he suddenly scared me a little, with the feeling only enhanced by all the guns and trophies on the wall.

I said that I was not able to tell him now, but that I would do my utmost to find out.

‘I thank you for that. It’s more than can be said of the police in 1932. They danced to her father’s tune. He was a very conservative and powerful old man who was less interested in finding out the truth than in hiding the potential scandal a suicide would have entailed. As her young boyfriend, and with no contacts in Oslo, I had no rights whatsoever and was ignored when I tried to support her sister’s demands for an autopsy. And, likewise, when I informed them that it was clear that another person had been in her room in the hour or two before she died, and also in her bed.’

Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s hard and defiant eyes pierced me to the core when he said this. He replied swiftly and without hesitation when I asked him how he could be so sure of that.

‘I was the first person into her room when we all went up. I immediately noticed that the bed, which had been made up earlier in the day, was now crumpled. Eva was full of energy and as good as never slept in the afternoons. She may, of course, have done so that day, but there were also three black hairs on her pillow. Eva had blonde hair, so they were clearly not hers. The police said they were unable to establish who the hair came from. They examined the bed as soon as they were told, but found no evidence of sexual activity and suggested that the hairs could have got there by all manner of ways that might not be directly linked to her death. But I can still only think of one plausible explanation, and that is that there was a dark-haired man in her room – and bed – only hours before she died.’

He said this in a very quiet voice, almost a whisper – which I could well understand. If his story was true, Hauk Rebne Westgaard had lived for the past forty years not only with the uncertainty of how his girlfriend had died, but also with the question of who she had been unfaithful with beforehand.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s still-black hair was right in front of my very eyes as we sat there looking at each other. So I cautiously asked if those black hairs might not be his own. He nodded very firmly to this and then spoke very fast.

‘Yes, I understand that you have to ask. I realized that that was what the police suspected. But Eva and I had not shared a bed that day and, in fact, I had been nowhere near the bed in her hotel room. So the hairs had to be from someone else. Per Johan and Kjell Arne both had dark hair at the time, so if it was either of them it would be difficult to say which one. There may of course have been a third man, unknown to me, but it seems much more likely that it was one of those two… and, of course, there is nothing to say that whoever was in the bed took Eva’s life afterwards, but again, it seems likely.’

I had to agree with both points, and asked him which of the two he suspected.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard gave it some thought, then answered in an even quieter voice. ‘I don’t know. I have thought about it a thousand times and changed my mind at least five hundred. I knew Per Johan best from childhood and have always liked him best. But from a very young age he was a man with many faces. On the other hand, I had never cared for Kjell Arne, but only ever saw one face. So it has always seemed more likely to me that it was my childhood friend, Per Johan, who took Eva’s life and left mine in ruins.’

He said the latter in an almost inaudible voice and with a faint glow in his eyes. I was aware of all the guns and trophies behind him and thought to myself that Hauk Rebne Westgaard was not someone I would like to have as an enemy.

He apparently realized that he had perhaps gone too far.

‘You asked, and I am giving you an honest answer. Obviously, I would not have said that if I had killed Per Johan. Which I didn’t. I still don’t know if I had a reason to hate Per Johan and I don’t know who killed him.’

I quickly followed this up by asking what his thoughts were when Per Johan made his unexpected announcement at the memorial dinner a few days earlier.

‘Initially I thought that he had found something out that linked Kjell Arne to the murder. Then I looked at Kjell Arne, and his only reaction was to knit his eyebrows and look puzzled. So then I thought perhaps Per Johan was saying it to deflect any suspicion, but it was hard to understand why he would do that now. And then he said nothing more. He raised his glass of water demonstratively and remained silent for the rest of the meal. It was an interesting meal in that respect, but left me none the wiser.’

I thought to myself that Patricia would be able to discern something from this, but I could not see what it might be.

Before I had time to ask another question, Hauk Rebne Westgaard suddenly moved – with unexpected speed and force. As though pulling a gun, he pulled out his wallet and put it down on the table between us. It was made of brown leather and, as far as I could see, was full of notes and coins. He put his fingers into a small side pocket and carefully took out a small white stamp bag.

And hey presto, there we were with three dark hairs from 1932 between us.

I stared intensely at them for a few seconds, but was unable to guess to whom they belonged.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard asked me in a quiet voice if technology was now so advanced that it was possible to establish someone’s identity from three forty-year-old strands of hair. I replied in an even softer voice that it was worth a try, but that normally it was not possible.

He said: ‘A small chance is still better than no chance at all,’ and pushed the bag containing the three hairs over towards me.

I put it carefully in my own wallet and said that I would look after it well. He said that he would like them back afterwards, and I promised him that he would get them.

‘And you have never had a girlfriend since?’ I asked, with some caution.

It was a somewhat bold question, but Hauk Rebne Westgaard took it well. He sat in silence for a few moments, but then spoke for a long time once he had started.

‘No, I never did. The fact that things were the way they were at home also played a part. Father flew into a rage if anyone forgot the double A in Westgaard. It’s a very old name and his family have been wealthy farmers here since the Dano-Norwegian Union. But my father drank himself into the ground, and almost did the same with the farm. After Eva’s tragic death I came home to another crisis and possible enforced sale of the farm. My mother and I went to court and managed to have Father declared incompetent in the nick of time, so that I could take over the running of the farm before it all collapsed. I was twenty-five years old when I took over a farm on the verge of bankruptcy, and the responsibility for my ten-year-old sister. In the first few years, we could barely pay anyone to help us with the sowing in spring or harvesting in autumn. In the years before and during the war, I was constantly battling against the frost and down payments for me and my mother. While others fought for their country, I had no time to do anything other than fight for my family’s farm. Hunting and shooting were my only form of relaxation and apart from that, I used every ounce of energy I had on the farm. So all I had to offer any potential wife was insecurity, and even so I did not have time to find one. But the shock was the hardest thing to bear. If you lose the love of your life at a young age, without being able to say goodbye, it does something to you. And when you don’t know what happened, it’s even worse.’

He stopped for a moment to draw breath, and then carried on at a slower pace, in a quieter voice.

‘It has always been said that there is a curse on the Westgaard men. My father’s father had two wives who both died when they were young. My mother told me more than once that marrying my father had been the greatest mistake of her life. As a modern man, I do not believe that the sins of the fathers are visited on their sons. But until the mystery of Eva’s death is solved, I will not be able to put my arms around another woman. And so here I am, a wealthy farmer, with no one to take over the family farm when my time comes.’

I now saw Hauk Rebne Westgaard as both a modern man and an old-fashioned farmer. And I could understand his sorrow.

I asked tactfully whether his sister had any children who might inherit the farm.

‘No,’ he replied, almost too swiftly. Then he continued in a steady voice. ‘There is a young widow on the neighbouring farm who has come to visit several times recently. She is very nice. But I cannot decide whether it is a good or a bad sign that she was born in 1932. It would be the last chance for a new generation to grow up here at Westgaard. But every time I see her, it’s as though Eva appears and stands between us. I think about the family curse, about the shock I got when I found Eva dead, and I am still unable to touch another woman. So I would be deeply thankful if you and the police could solve the case.’

I promised him that I would do my very best and that I would let him know immediately if there was any news. He spontaneously held out his hand and I took it. His hand was slim, strong and surprisingly warm; it burned in mine.

I dropped his hand and said that he must be completely honest with me. Then I asked if he had anything more of importance to tell me from that fateful day in 1932 when Eva died.

Hauk Rene Westgaard hesitated for a moment – and then a moment more. Then he continued: ‘Yes. You seem to be a fine, open-minded man. So I am going to tell you something that I did not tell the police in 1932. I said nothing because I didn’t trust them and I didn’t see how it could be significant, but also because I feared that others might take the opportunity to direct their suspicion at me. I was in Eva’s hotel room that afternoon. But I left at half past five, and she was still very much alive.’

My nod was almost a reflex and I asked him to tell me in as much detail as possible what had happened. He did so immediately.

‘I had been worried because Eva, even though she was in a good mood, had seemed distracted and had avoided looking at me earlier in the day. So I knocked on her door at a quarter past five and asked if everything was all right. She let me in, but was unusually serious and a bit evasive. Then she told me that she had found herself attracted to someone else, but that it was complicated, that she still loved me and that I had to give her some time to think about what she wanted to do. It felt as though the ground had opened beneath my feet. I could do nothing other than say that I loved her more than anything in the world, beg her to stay with me and that I would give her all the time she needed to think about the situation. I hugged her and could feel her trembling in my arms. Then I went. I left her standing in the middle of her hotel room, unharmed and alive. In fact, it was the last time I saw her alive. And it was exactly five-thirty when I got back to my room.’

He was now speaking faster again, as though fevered.

It was tempting to believe him. But then I thought that Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s own explanation still gave him a possible motive of jealousy – and the fact that his girlfriend had been confused and in a difficult situation could have resulted in suicide.

Out loud, I asked whether he was sure that the bed was still made and that he had not seen any pills or other means of suicide in the room. He gave a sharp nod in answer to both.

The only question that remained was a sensitive one. I paused for a beat and spoke slowly when I said that I had to ask everyone, as a matter of procedure, where they were when Per Johan Fredriksen died at half past eight on Saturday evening.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard conceded that he understood why I had to ask. Then he said: ‘Well, in my case, I was unfortunately on my own in the car driving back to Holmestrand. I had been at the anti-EEC conference as part of a delegation of Labour Party members who are against membership. It’s no coincidence that Kjell Arne ended up in the Conservative Party, Per Johan in the Centre Party and I in the Labour Party. Per Johan and I agreed on the EEC question. Membership would be catastrophic for rural Norway and the beginning of the end for agriculture as we know it. In fact, Per Johan and I met very briefly that day. We exchanged looks and nods, but no words, when he gave a short talk earlier in the day. I am sure we were both thinking what a social hotchpotch it was, the two of us and other veterans from various parties together with long-haired urban radicals of both sexes. The conference closed around half past seven. I got into the car and was back here around nine. I heard that Per Johan had been stabbed on the ten o’clock news.’

Neither of us said anything. Hauk Rebne Westgaard had been in Oslo on the day that Per Johan Fredriksen was murdered. Having left the conference an hour before, Hauk Rebne Westgaard did not have an alibi for the time of the murder, unless anyone could confirm that he was back here in Holmestrand before nine o’clock.

I asked in as friendly a manner as I could, whether his sister or anyone else here could confirm that he had been back by nine.

He shrugged with his palms up.

‘No, unfortunately not. The farm hands were finished for the weekend, so I did not see any of them. I did see my sister, but she would not be able to confirm the time.’

I was once again taken aback by the way in which Hauk Rebne Westgaard spoke about his sister. So I enquired if I could ask her that myself.

He looked at me with a mixture of reproach and bewilderment, as though I had understood nothing. All of a sudden he reminded me of Patricia. Then he said: ‘Of course. My sister is at home. Follow me, you can ask her all the questions you like.’

III

Silent and slightly puzzled, I followed Hauk Rebne Westgaard across the farmyard. We approached what from the outside looked like a very ordinary wooden cabin.

I realized that something was amiss when I saw that the door was locked from the outside; my host produced a key and unlocked the padlock before opening the door.

An even greater shock was waiting behind the door.

The wooden cabin was like any other modern home with a bedroom and a bathroom. The four walls were painted in four different colours – one red, one green, one yellow and one blue. There were no bookshelves or anything else on the walls. And on the floor, in the midst of building blocks and toy animals, sat a plump woman in her fifties.

I looked around for a child, but there was no one else in the room. It finally dawned on me when the woman jumped up, clapped her hands and shouted: ‘Food! Yum yum!’

I understood the full horror of my mistake when the woman turned towards us. Her face radiated a childlike joy, but her eyes were empty and uncomprehending. Her expression became fearful and her smile disappeared when she saw that her brother did not have food with him, but instead a man she didn’t know.

Fortunately, Hauk Rebne Westgaard dealt with the situation very calmly.

‘It’s too early for your morning snack, but you will get some food soon. In the meantime, this nice man has come to see us and would like to ask you some questions. His name is Kolbjørn,’ he said, in a friendly voice.

Her brother’s voice seemed to banish the child-woman’s fear straightaway. She clapped her hands again and said: ‘Visit! Hooray!’

She beamed up at me and held out her hand. Then she stood there looking at me expectantly as she rocked back and forth on her heels.

Having recognized my blunder, all I wanted to do was to turn around and run out. But that was not possible without frightening the fifty-year-old woman who it would seem had the mental capacity of a five-year-old. So I started by asking her what she was called.

She replied, delighted: ‘I’m called Inger!’

I thanked her and then asked dutifully if Hauk was a kind big brother.

She answered immediately: ‘Yes, Hauk is kind. He brings me yummy food.’

Her mouth smiled when she spoke, but in her eyes I could also see a deep, serious fear and uncertainty. And I thought to myself that this fear and uncertainty had lain hidden there for all these years. It had been there ever since the day in her lost childhood that she discovered that grown-ups she did not know asked questions she could not answer, more and more frequently. The day she understood that she would never be able to understand. As we stood there looking at each other now, she was back there again, the little girl who didn’t understand.

I tried to pull myself together and asked her if Hauk had brought her supper to her on Saturday evening, and if so, at what time. But as far as I could see there was no clock in the room, and the woman who lived here was not likely to have any concept of time. And I knew that a court would never place any importance on her testimony even if she could answer. The whole exercise felt pointless.

Suddenly she pointed down at the floor and said: ‘Look – I’ve built a tower of eight blocks!’

Her brother said it was a great tower and looked at me expectantly.

I said that it was very good and that I was grateful that she had been able to answer all my questions so well.

She nodded and waved gratefully as we left. The fear and uncertainty in her eyes had vanished. Once again, it was clear that she lived a good life here, without a care, in her eternal playroom.

Hauk’s hand was trembling slightly as he locked the door behind him. We walked together across the yard back to my car, without looking back.

‘I apologize for my blunder,’ I said, when we got to the car.

‘I perfectly understand. You had a duty to ask, and she was having one of her good, happy days,’ he said.

After a brief pause, he carried on: ‘That was one of the hardest responsibilities in the years that I struggled to save the farm. As I see it, I managed to escape the madness in my father’s family and my sister inherited it all. Sweet Inger is as happy as can be here and she must be allowed to stay here until she dies. The thought that she might be forced to leave and hidden away in some asylum cubbyhole was too awful to bear.’

I told him I fully understood. And it struck me that Hauk Rebne Westgaard was the incarnation of a good family man, just without having his own family. Having met him and his sister, I wanted to believe that he was innocent, as regards to both the death of Eva Bjølhaugen in 1932 and the death of Per Johan Fredriksen in 1972. But I was still not certain. It seemed to me that he, too, was a complex man with many faces.

IV

It was already ten past one by the time I got back to Oslo. There was a visitor waiting in my office, who had been sent there by my boss when he had demanded to talk to the head of the investigation. I was at first curious about my guest, only to be disheartened when I met him.

The lawyer Edvard Rønning Junior was sitting comfortably on my visitor’s chair, dressed as usual in a black suit, with a lorgnette and his briefcase on the table in front of him. This could have been from the 1950s, but the rest of him looked as though he had stepped straight out of the 1920s. The impression was in no way diminished when he started to talk.

‘Ah, there you are, Detective Inspector Kristiansen. And not before time. It is far from satisfactory that I have wasted the past thirty minutes sitting here waiting for you. It is even more unsatisfactory, however, for a defence lawyer not to know the name of his client, who is furthermore a minor, before the said client is dead. And none of this is made any better by the fact that the client died in police custody. Indeed, police scandal might be an appropriate phrase, if it is later proved that he was entirely innocent of the crime for which he stood accused. This would be highly unfortunate for both you and the police in general, and I will be strongly recommending that the deceased’s mother seeks compensation.’

I listened to him talk with a rising sense of panic. I had to admit that he had a point – it could be a very difficult case indeed.

Out loud, I simply said that it was hard to protect clients from themselves if they wanted to commit suicide and that we had spent a day and a half trying to identify his client as he refused to give us his name and no one had reported him missing. The question of guilt remained unresolved, but we were currently investigating other possible suspects and hoped that the lawyer would appreciate this.

This helped a little, but not enough. The lawyer looked at me pointedly over the top of his spectacles and answered: ‘The latter is, of course, positive, but in the current situation also a given. The investigation and your good self shall be granted sufficient time to establish the facts regarding the matter of his guilt. I do, however, expect to be informed immediately if there is any new evidence relating to the question of guilt that is of significance to my late client’s case. Furthermore, I also expect to be contacted in advance should you wish to talk to the deceased’s mother again. Her situation is, as I am sure you are aware, extremely difficult.’

I caught a whiff of idealism behind the lawyer’s formal language when he mentioned the mother. So I replied that I knew about the mother’s difficult situation, and that he would of course be informed as soon as the question of guilt with regard to his late client had been resolved.

The lawyer could not say that he was anything other than happy with that and so, after a brief, formal handshake, he left.

Edvard Rønning Junior’s visit lasted no more than five minutes. But it was still an uncomfortable reminder of the seriousness of my situation in terms of the investigation into the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen, and the tragedy of the boy on the red bicycle.

I no longer thought that the boy had committed the murder and did not think that he held the answer. But I was still curious about his role in the story and so decided that I would have a chat with the teacher he had apparently been so fond of. However, that would have to wait until the end of the school day. For now, having tried without success to find answers in Per Johan Fredriksen’s close family and his friends involved in the 1932 tragedy who were still alive, I wanted to get to know the businessman and politician.

V

The company, Per Johan Fredriksen A/S, had centrally located premises in an office block on Roald Amundsen’s Street, close to the National Theatre, but they were far smaller than I had expected. Three office clerks sat side by side, squeezed between the bookshelves in a room that was smaller than my office. The offices of the office manager and accountant were also surprisingly small and filled to bursting with lever arch files.

The office manager, Odd Jørgensen, was a slightly overweight, thin-haired besuited man with horn-rimmed spectacles, who looked around fifty or so. He was sitting half buried in a pile of rental contracts, but cleared his desk as soon as I arrived. He suggested that we might like to call in the accountant, Erling Svendsen, straightaway.

I agreed that this was a practical idea, even though there would not be much room round the table in Jørgensen’s office. Svendsen was a few years younger, had a bit more hair, a bit less girth and smaller glasses, but was otherwise remarkably like Jørgensen.

I started by asking about the company’s financial situation. Jørgensen left this to Svendsen, who gave a very sombre account, similar to the one I had heard from Kjell Arne Ramdal. The company was operating with a healthy profit and had a sound property portfolio, but in recent years had lost ground and momentum in a rapidly expanding market. The investments that had been made in the older flats, for which there was falling demand, were not sufficient and the administration was too overworked to keep a full overview of existing properties and possible new acquisitions.

Jørgensen nodded in agreement to this and then took over, having exchanged a glance with Ssvendsen.

‘To be frank, even though it is only days since he died, part of the problem was that Fredriksen was too shortsighted and averse to risk as a businessman. He liked to say that his strategy was to go for the best possible gains next month without the risk of losses this month. He was what is called a quarterly capitalist.’

I looked at Svendsen, who nodded vigorously. It was clear that the two men had worked together for a long time and were reading from the same page when it came to their assessment of the situation. Svendsen quickly took over where Jørgensen left off.

‘The offer he was given by Ramdal was extremely good and possibly a few million too high, if one was to add up the estimated value of the properties right now. We both recommended that Fredriksen should accept the offer. But he was hesitant, and we almost wondered if he was considering turning it down. Despite all his years in the capital, he was still a farmer at heart and was inherently sceptical about giving away land and property. In many ways, the business was his life’s work.’

I asked if they, for their part, were in favour of the possibility of a takeover. They exchanged a quick look and then nodded simultaneously. The office manager was the one who spoke.

‘We and the rest of the office staff were all in favour of it. Ramdal is known to be a demanding but fair boss and open to suggestions from his staff. We hoped that we might get a bit more space, less overtime and, more than anything, slightly more humane working conditions.’

I gave them a puzzled look and said that according to his family, Fredriksen had always been a kind-hearted and generous man.

They exchanged glances again. Jørgensen nodded and Svendsen spoke.

‘His son said the same thing when he came here, and we have to admit that it came as a surprise to us. Fredriksen never invited us to his home and until his son came to the office, we had never met any of his children. We only knew the businessman. And the word heartless would be closer to the truth in describing him, I’m afraid. In fact, Odd and I have remarked more than once that the only time we have seen Fredriksen smile is when he was being a politician on television, but never when he was here as a businessman.’

Svendsen suddenly fell silent, as though he felt guilty and ashamed of what he had said. Jørgensen swiftly picked up the thread and continued in the same vein.

‘Fredriksen has not been here much in recent years. He concentrated more and more on his role as a politician and only spoke about the office when someone asked him about business. Fredriksen’s instructions to us were clear and ruthless: anyone who falls behind with the rent is to be evicted as soon as it is legally possible, and new tenants are to be offered the highest rent permitted by the law and the market. But the rental market is a hard place to be heartless: plenty of poor and desperate people come to our door, not knowing that we can’t help them.’

‘And one of the poorest and most desperate came here last Thursday, didn’t she?’ I said.

They both nodded at the same time. Jørgensen took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment or two. Svendsen came to his rescue and carried on talking in a tremulous voice.

‘It was the most terrible experience. The woman had obviously done her utmost in a very difficult situation. But the only thing that mattered in terms of our instructions was that she had no money and no means of earning any money. One former tenant shot himself the day after being evicted, but there were no changes to our instructions as a result. And we had to follow the instructions. We feared that it might end in suicide, but obviously had no idea that it would ultimately affect Fredriksen himself – if it was her son who killed Fredriksen.’

I deftly avoided answering that and emphasized that I was in no doubt that they had simply been following instructions. However, Jørgensen hastily came to their defence.

‘It was heartbreaking all the same. And what made it worse was that the woman was a former employee. She had worked here as a cleaner in the mid-fifties. It was before Erling’s time, but soon after I had started. She only worked for a few hours in the evening. However, I met her in the doorway several times and remember thinking that she was a beautiful and always cheerful woman, despite her simple clothes and poor pay. It was not easy to see her on her knees, so desperate here the other day.’

I immediately latched on to this new loose connection between the two deceased men, but it was hardly conclusive. To begin with, we already had a clear motive for the boy on the red bicycle to kill Per Johan Fredriksen, and what was more, he had in all likelihood not done it. However, there were clearly a puzzling and striking number of knotted threads that criss-crossed this case.

Jørgensen lowered his hand when he stopped talking. I saw two tears before he hastily wiped them away and put on his glasses again. Even though his crying was silent and discreet, it made quite an impression on me to see an office manager in his fifties, dressed in a suit, sit in his office and cry.

I asked them in conclusion if it was only because of the money that they both had continued to work for Fredriksen for so many years, despite the very difficult working conditions and extremely unpleasant brief.

The office manager and accountant were still remarkably synchronized; as was now to be expected, Svendsen answered my question about their finances and Jørgensen nodded in agreement.

‘The wages are not particularly high, in fact, they are probably a band or two below what is normal for similar positions in the sector, but we have permanent jobs with a relatively good salary, and we know what needs to be done, and there is a good atmosphere in the office, despite the lack of space. Better the devil you know, as they say, especially in times like these. So we gritted our teeth when tensions ran high and sat tight waiting for better times. Which we hope will finally come now.’

On my way down the stairs, I thought how Per Johan Fredriksen really had been a very complex person with many faces, as his childhood friend Hauk Rebne Westgaard had said. And then I got something else to think about.

VI

It was as I opened the main door and stepped out onto Roald Amundsen’s Street that I saw him for the second time.

Just a brief glimpse, and he was doing nothing alarming. But, all the same, I felt a stab of fear when I saw him.

The man in the hat was dressed in a lighter suit and had no tie today. But he was wearing that same hat and he looked straight at me from where he was on the other side of the street.

He was standing still when I opened the door, but started to walk away as soon as he registered that I had seen him. I took three strides out into the road, but then stopped again without making any attempt to catch up with him.

The man in the hat was already about to disappear into the early afternoon crowds on the main street, Karl Johan. Even if I did catch up with him, I had no reason to demand an explanation. He had not done anything wrong, other than be in the same place as me twice within as many days – in two very different parts of town.

It could still be a coincidence, but I no longer thought it was. So I stayed standing where I was for a couple of minutes and racked my brains as to who the man in the hat might be and why he was interested in me. There was something alarmingly cold and calculating about him.

I wondered whether I should mention the man in the hat to Miriam or whether to spare her this for the moment. And then thought to myself that I would give my eye teeth to know what Patricia would make of this part of the story.

VII

At ten past two, the school bell rang to mark the end of the day at Tøyen School. As I walked through the gates I had to push against a stream of boys aged around fifteen. I wondered if they were the classmates of the dead boy on the red bicycle. If they were, they did not appear to be affected by the news of his death. Most of them had eager bodies and happy faces. Some of them were smiling, others kept their heads down. Some were in groups, others in twos and only a few alone.

The boy on the red bicycle would almost certainly have been one of those walking alone. I imagined that when the bell rang last Friday, he had walked by himself at the back of the crowd, with his worn satchel and limp. And now, on Tuesday, he was gone forever. There would be an empty desk in a classroom somewhere in this four-storey brick building.

According to a plaque by the entrance, Tøyen School had celebrated its ninetieth anniversary this year. And I thought about all the young people who had burst out through the gates over the years – many to a better life, and many to various forms of human tragedy

I met her leaving the staffroom on the first floor. She was a blonde woman of around thirty, about five foot two, and was hurrying towards the exit.

‘How can I help you?’ she said with a curious smile when I stopped her. I asked if Eveline Kolberg was around.

‘Yes, I’m Eveline Kolberg. But I have to collect my one-year-old from the babysitter before three,’ she added quickly, before I had a chance to say anything.

When I explained that I was a detective and that I wanted to ask her some questions about her now dead pupil, Tor Johansen, her immediate response was: ‘Well, the babysitter will have to wait a few minutes, then.’

She led me down the corridor and opened the door to a big classroom.

‘We have plenty of space now as the number of pupils has fallen,’ Eveline Kolberg commented with a wry smile as we sat down on either side of a brown desk.

The desk resembled its owner: small, tidy and in good condition. Exercise books for social studies lay in a neat, almost perfectly right-angled stack, parallel with the edge of the desk, ready for tomorrow.

‘There will always be a number of children with very sad fates in such a big school. But Tor Johansen was one of the saddest.’

She said this before I had even had time to ask a question, and there was a zeal about her that was inspiring. I promptly asked what she meant.

‘He was possibly one of the pupils with the least friends. I always feel sorry for those who have learning difficulties, but even more so for those who have difficulties making friends. He and his mother had had to move a number of times, so he only started here last spring. All the other pupils knew each other and he knew no one. He was not able to play football with them in the breaks, and even though he always gave the right answer when I asked him a question, the others inevitably laughed at his speech impediment. Teenagers are heartless. Last year, he would often stand and watch the others playing football in the break and then try to talk to some of them about football afterwards. But then he seemed to give up. He generally stayed at his desk with a book during the breaks. He was the only pupil we ever saw reading in breaks and the only boy who ever took library books to school.’

I asked whether she thought that he suffered because of his physical handicaps, and if he was also retarded in any way. She thought for a moment or two before she shook her head.

‘Still waters run deep, as they say. Tor was quiet on the surface, but no one bothered to find out what went on underneath. His written work was consistently some of the best in the class and he nearly always gave the right answer on the rare occasions that he put up his hand. Once when I passed him as he was watching the others play football, I said that he should consider taking the university entrance exam. “It’s a long way off. But a nice thought. Thank you,” he stammered with a shy smile. I never thought that he had any impediments, other than an inferiority complex driven by poverty. And he was not alone in that, only his complex was perhaps stronger than it is for most.’

Eveline Kolberg was now on a roll. She paused briefly and then carried on.

‘I read a biography of the British politician Bevin last week. In the introduction about his childhood, it said that two poorer people than he and his mother have never lived. It made me think of Tor and his mother. His father died long before they moved here, so I never met him. Tor only had his mother and she had practically nothing to give him. He adored his mother – she was his rock and perhaps the only person he believed had ever done anything for him. But he was a teenager now and could also see his mother’s weaknesses. “Mum drinks too much and thinks too little,” he said once when I asked him how things were at home. So that part of his life was also tragic. He had more reason than most to feel excluded and rail against society. And yet-’ She stopped all of a sudden and looked at me intensely.

‘And yet – you don’t think…’ I prompted.

She gave me a fleeting, tight-lipped smile and carried on with renewed passion.

‘And yet I do not think he murdered anyone, no. It would be so out of character. He always handed things in on time, and never protested if we said he had to go out in the breaks. He would just take his book with him and limp out. If you had come here last Friday and told me that one of our pupils would commit a violent crime over the weekend, he is the last person I would have thought of. It’s true, he was very interested in old court cases and the like, but I don’t remember him showing any interest in weapons or ever laying a hand on one of his classmates. Physically, he was very reserved. So no, unless you have come to show me photographs and evidence, I do not believe that my pupil killed that politician Fredriksen.’

She said this in a quiet, intense voice. Eveline Kolberg sat fidgeting in her chair, and then leaned forwards over her desk.

I said, as diplomatically and vaguely as I could, that the investigation had to keep all leads open, but that there was an eyewitness whose account gave reasons to doubt that her pupil had been the murderer.

‘What kind of eyewitness, what did they see?’ she asked, leaning even further forwards over the desk.

It frustrated me that I had to say, for obvious reasons, that I was unfortunately unable to tell her more.

‘Of course. I understand. Confidentiality is important,’ she said, with palpable disappointment in her voice, and finally leaned back in her chair.

Then she said that she would soon have to relieve the babysitter, if there was nothing more she could help me with.

I replied that there was nothing for the moment, but that I would contact her again if it became necessary. Then I added that I would inform her when the question of Tor’s guilt had been clarified.

We left the now empty middle school together. Outside the gates, we stopped at the bus stop. She hesitated at first, but then pointed over the road.

‘A couple of times when I came out from evening meetings, I saw Tor cycling past on his way home. I sometimes wondered if I should stop him and ask where he had been and how he was. But, unfortunately, I never did. And now that he’s dead, I regret that. I should have done more for him while he was alive. But that’s the trouble when you have too many pupils in each class, and a husband and child at home.’

I agreed with her that that was how it was; whether you were a policeman or a teacher, it was not possible to help everyone you met who needed it. She had no reason to reproach herself for the tragedy that had struck one of her pupils. Whether he was guilty or not, she very definitely was not. To the contrary, I had come to see her because his mother had told me how much he appreciated her.

Eveline Kolberg was so happy to hear this that she nearly missed her bus. We separated with a brief hug before I more or less pushed her onto the vehicle.

I stood there and watched the bus drive off. I thought that it had been a rare and inspiring meeting with a rare and idealistic teacher, whom I would gladly meet again under different circumstances. But she had a husband and a child who had to be collected from the babysitter. I had only one hour left before having supper with my fiancée – and more than enough to think about in the meantime.

VIII

It was five to four before I could leave the police station. The day’s meeting to report back to my boss was longer than expected.

Based on my description, my boss had no idea who the man in the hat might be, and he thought that it might well just be a coincidence. Otherwise he praised me for having taken the time to interview both Per Johan Fredriksen’s employees and Tor Johansen’s teacher, but could still not see any clues that might point to another murderer. It all rested on a somewhat unreliable observation by a 104-year-old woman who only contacted the police two days after the murder took place.

My boss was not in the best mood today. He was fortunately more interested in Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s story and agreed that after hearing his version, the death from 1932 was even more suspicious. At a quarter to four, we agreed that it was a serious breach of duty that an autopsy had not been carried out at the time. Three minutes later we also agreed that I should keep all possibilities open and carry on with the investigation, but that it still seemed natural to focus on Per Johan Fredriksen’s private life, in light of the mysterious death in 1932.

I was very relieved to hand over the hairs from 1932 for technical examination. And then I drove home – pleased that the investigation was to continue, but unsure about how to go about it. Already the case had too many uncertain details that pointed in too many different directions.

Once again I longed for Patricia’s clear, sharp voice. As I parked the car, I decided that I would discuss the matter with Miriam over a good meal and then ask for her permission to ring Patricia if we still had not got any further. I suspected that Miriam would not like it, but thought that she would accept that we now had to try every means possible to draw out the truth and prove the innocence of the boy on the red bicycle.

But I did not have the opportunity to discover whether this tactic would work. I did not even have time to say my planned ‘sorry I’m a little late’ when I got to the flat at five past four.

‘There you are, at last. Vera Fredriksen rang for you about half an hour ago. She seemed to be happy and rather excited and said that it was really important that she spoke to you as soon as possible. I said that you were not home yet, and asked if I could give you a message. She asked me to tell you that she was at Haraldsen’s Hotel and that she thought she could explain to you what had happened there. I immediately understood what she was talking about, but didn’t say anything. I just promised to give you the message as soon as you got in. So you have to go there, straightaway, don’t even think about it.’

Miriam was obviously fired up by this unexpected chance of a solution. As was I, of course. So I thanked her and promised to be back as soon as I could.

She said that she would wait until six, but then had to go to her meetings, and would then be back around ten. I gave her a quick kiss on the mouth before running down the stairs and back out to my car.

IX

It was rush hour in Oslo, and I got stuck in traffic twice. So it was twenty to five by the time I got to Haraldsen’s Hotel in Ullern. It was a small but reputable old hotel which looked as though nothing had changed since before the war, either inside or out.

And the amount of business now did not bode well for the future. I saw myself reflected in two elegant full-length mirrors on the wall in reception. The only other person I saw was a well-dressed male receptionist, possibly in his sixties, who also looked as though he had been there since before the war. According to his name badge, he was the head of reception and his name was Valdemar Haraldsen.

He looked at me with a friendly smile and asked: ‘And what can I do for you? Apologies if I seem a little distracted, but it has been an unexpectedly busy day here today.’

This seemed slightly comical, given that he did not seem to be in the least distracted and it did not look like he had had a busy day.

I introduced myself and said that I had agreed to meet a Miss Vera Fredriksen, who was staying at the hotel.

He squinted at me over his glasses with a smile, then looked down at a good old-fashioned guest book.

‘Yes, that is correct. The young lady turned up around midday, without prior warning, and asked if Room 111 was available. It is rather unusual to ask for a specific room, but she paid in cash and made a very favourable impression. Miss Fredriksen asked about the hotel’s history and thanked me politely when I could confirm that there has been no major renovation since just after the First World War. Room 111 is as it was then – it had an en suite bathroom even back then.’

The receptionist was obviously a friendly and patient man by nature. I felt a little less patient and a little less friendly right now. So I asked if he could please call Room 111 to let her know that I had arrived.

Valdemar Haraldsen replied in a manner that was just as friendly and patient, that the hotel, true to style and tradition, had not yet installed telephones in the rooms. However, Room 111 was the first room to the left down the corridor upstairs, and he would be happy to go and knock on the door if I so wished.

I assured him that I was perfectly able and happy to do so myself, thanked the head of reception for his help and started up the stairs.

I found the corridor and Room 111 without any difficulty. However, there was not a sound to be heard inside when I knocked on the door. I knocked twice and called out Vera’s name once without getting any reaction. The door was locked when I tried it.

The feeling that something was wrong seemed to grow as I stood there in the otherwise empty, dim hotel corridor. And it did not improve when I pressed the light switch.

The light flashed on a small object that was lying on the floor outside Room 114. It was a key. And it said ‘Room 111’ on the tag.

In a strange way, it felt like I had travelled back to 1932, even when I carefully reached out for the keyring and picked up the key, then put it in the lock of Room 111.

I knocked on the door one last time, without hearing any reaction from within.

Then I turned the key and opened the door.

The situation felt slightly unreal. For a moment I expected to see Eva Bjølhaugen lying there dead on the sofa.

But the woman lying there was, of course, not her.

Vera Fredriksen looked more confident and calmer in death than I had ever seen her in life. All the nervousness had vanished from her face. She was lying with her eyes closed and her face relaxed, and there were no signs of violence or illness. It looked as though she was taking a peaceful afternoon nap on the sofa.

For the second time in two days, I was standing alone in a small room with the body of a young person. The woman on the sofa had been dead slightly longer than the boy on the red bicycle. There was still some warmth in her body, but the skin on her face was cold, and there was no pulse.

I stood there frozen for a few moments, staring at the young, dead Vera Fredriksen, before I managed to pull myself together and look around the room.

There was no sign that anyone else had been there, and there was no sign of a murder weapon or a suicide note of any kind. I sniffed at her mouth, but could not detect anything that smelt like poison. There were no needle marks on her arms either.

I went out into the corridor, which was still empty. Then I went back into Room 111, to make sure that it was not some bizarre dream. But Vera Fredriksen was still lying dead on the sofa. I was in total bewilderment as I walked back down the stairs to reception, in order to ring the station.

X

The head of reception was impressively calm and composed, even when he heard that there had been a suspicious death in the hotel in the past few hours. His statement was clear and to the point, and was taken while I waited for technical assistance from the main police station.

The hotel had very few guests at present, and the head of reception had been the only person on duty since breakfast. Four overnight guests had checked out in the morning and the hotel unfortunately had no further bookings for that night.

However, Vera Fredriksen had shown up without a prior booking around midday. And then at two o’clock or thereabouts, something even more unexpected had happened, when someone telephoned to book a room for the night with a voice that had been distorted. The person who called claimed to be suffering from nerves and was in need of peace and quiet and they were willing to pay for two nights in advance with a tip, if they could come and go without meeting anyone today.

The head of reception was willing to believe this story and agreed to withdraw from the reception area for a couple of minutes so that an envelope with the payment in cash could be left on the counter. The cash was left as agreed, so the head of reception then put out a key and again withdrew for a few minutes. When he came back, the key was gone. He had written the name ‘Hansen’ down in the guest book for the sake of appearances, but because the voice had been distorted he could not say if it had been a man or a woman who had called.

The head of reception wrung his hands and admitted that it was a deeply unfortunate breach of normal practice, but that the hotel needed more guests, and they had had guests with nerve problems before and there was, at that point, no reason to suspect something criminal.

I said rather impatiently that we would still need to check his story about the mysterious guest and take a statement from him or her.

He immediately agreed to this and took a universal key to Room 112 with him.

We let ourselves in, having knocked twice on the door with no response. The door was unlocked.

The key was lying on the table. It was the only sign that the very mysterious guest had even been in the room.

The head of reception had only seen Vera Fredriksen and myself pass through reception that afternoon. This did not necessarily mean that we two and the mysterious guest were the only people who had been in the hotel. One or more could have passed through in those few minutes when the reception was not manned. There was also a back door at the opposite end of the corridor, by Room 118. The lock meant that it should only be possible to open the door from the inside. However, anyone who was already inside could easily have let others in, and it was not unthinkable that a burglar who came prepared could pick the lock from outside.

Vera Fredriksen had rung my flat from a telephone booth by the hotel reception at around half past three. She had paid for the call in cash at reception, and for two other phone calls she had made earlier in the day – the first around one o’clock and the second around three. Both of the earlier phone calls could not have been longer than a few minutes, but the numbers she had called were not registered anywhere.

XI

I was able to give my boss an update from the telephone in my office at half past six. And it did little to lift spirits.

We had another dead person, and, until the results of an autopsy were clear, no idea of the cause of death.

We knew that there had been another guest in the neighbouring room, but had no idea of the person’s identity.

We knew that Vera Fredriksen had made two telephone calls a few hours before her death, but had no idea who she had called or what had been said.

My boss took it much better than I did. He remarked that we did not yet even know if something criminal had occurred. According to what I had said myself, Vera Fredriksen suffered from nerves and her father’s death may have triggered suicidal thoughts. Young ladies with a nervous disposition had been known to commit suicide in the most spectacular ways at times, so it was not unthinkable that she had chosen a dramatic replay of the tragedy that her parents had experienced in 1932.

He did, however, concede that the situation was highly suspicious, especially as the mysterious guest from Room 112 had disappeared. If there was any connection to Per Johan Fredriksen’s death, this only strengthened the assumption that the explanation was to be found in Fredriksen’s private life.

I said that I agreed, and in return he accepted that a priest should be allowed to talk to the three remaining members of the family first, before the police contacted them again.

We also agreed that a forensic investigation should be launched, and that we would talk again as soon as the preliminary autopsy report was ready. I immediately said yes when he suggested ten o’clock the following morning.

I put the telephone down at a quarter to seven, and sat there pondering, looking at it for a few minutes more.

I thought that Miriam would by now have gone to her meetings, and would not be back until late this evening. Then I thought that she would surely be happy for me to ring Patricia now, as yet another young person had lost her life. I concluded that the situation was now so critical that I could not not phone Patricia, regardless of what Miriam might think.

At ten to seven, I took the plunge. I lifted the receiver and dialled Patricia’s number from memory.

The telephone was answered after two rings.

The woman’s voice at the other end simply said: ‘Yes?’ But I recognized it straightaway all the same and felt a surge of relief and hope that the deaths from 1932 and 1972 could all be solved before a scandal ensued. It all depended on whether or not I was now able to persuade Patricia to help me.

‘Hello, it’s me,’ I said.

There was a few seconds’ silence on the other end. For the first time, it felt as though Patricia was surprised that I had rung her, and she needed a few seconds to consider the significance of it. But this did not take long.

‘I suppose this is about the Fredriksen case, then. I think there are several very good reasons why I should steer clear.’

I was afraid she was going to put the telephone down, but the line was not broken. There was still hope.

She said nothing about what these reasons might be, and I certainly did not feel like asking. Instead, I tried to tempt her with titbits from the investigation.

‘The case is far more interesting than it might at first seem. We now have a statement from an eyewitness that indicates that the young suspect who took his own life did not kill Fredriksen. Though who then might have done still remains a mystery. And then this afternoon, Fredriksen’s youngest daughter was found dead in the very hotel room where her mother’s sister was found dead in 1932. Fredriksen himself was also there at the time, as one of a group of her friends. So I think I can say that I have never been involved in a more puzzling or tragic case.’

Again, there was a few moments’ silence at the other end.

‘It certainly sounds that way so far. I am sure that the case is both interesting and important. But for strictly personal reasons I do not think I should get involved in your investigation.’

That was, of course, where the problem lay. But now that it was staring me in the face I could solve it. The telephone line remained open.

I breathed in and out with the utmost control a few times. Then I said: ‘I can understand that. Miriam did not want me to contact you about the case either. But I felt that I now owed it to those young people to call you all the same. I believe that only you can help me. So that is why I called, without her knowing.’

I spoke in a hushed voice, even though I knew perfectly well that Miriam was sitting in a meeting a couple of miles away and that no one could hear the conversation.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. I looked at the clock to keep my mind focused in the pregnant silence and counted to nine before Patricia answered.

‘Well, if it is so important to you and for those young people, we will have to see if there is anything I can do to help. If you come here in half an hour, I will see if I can get the servants to whip something up for your dinner by half past seven.’

Patricia said this quickly and with determination. Then she put the receiver down without waiting for an answer.

I sat there with the mute receiver in my hand, and a feeling of enormous relief – tinged with a slight guilt.

XII

The White House at 104-108 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street was just as impressive from the outside as I remembered it from previous visits. In the midst of my most complicated and bewildering murder case, there was something enormously calming and reassuring about the very sight of the Borchmanns’ monumental family home.

But this time it was tempered by a level of unease. I looked around before I parked the car, before I walked up to the house and before I rang the bell. But no one was following me on the almost empty evening street.

In terms of formality, I was still high and dry: I was officially simply visiting a friend. In reality, though, I would divulge information that could cost me my job if it were ever discovered. But I had done this many times before, and my concern about this side of the matter was minimal. I had known Patricia’s late parents since I was a child, and I was absolutely convinced that no information given by me would leak from here. I had successfully convinced myself that I had to do everything within my power to solve the murder case I was investigating.

The door was opened by a maid who looked exactly the same as before, and once again gave me a cautious smile as she welcomed me in. I thought that it was perhaps Benedikte, but still could not be sure that it was not her twin sister Beate. Not that it really mattered. Though she would never admit it herself, Patricia was still in the very best hands and in the safest environment.

The servants had indeed managed to whip up a supper for half past seven. The onion soup starter was already waiting at my usual place at the table when I was ushered into Patricia’s library.

Patricia was sitting there herself in her wheelchair on the other side of the table, sovereign of her own small realm. She looked exactly as she had done before. I knew that she had celebrated her twenty-second birthday only a couple of months ago, but could still have mistaken her for a teenager. It struck me that there was something strangely dollish, almost childlike, about Patricia.

I was happy to see her again. So I went around the table and gave her a hug. This seemed to take her by surprise. Her body trembled faintly, but her cheek was warm and her voice a little softer than usual when she said: ‘How nice to see you again. I have already eaten. Sit yourself down – eat. And at the same time tell me all that I need to know about Per Johan Fredriksen and his death.’

I sat down, ate, and talked my way through the starter, main course and dessert. Patricia listened with extraordinary concentration as I told her everything about the case so far. She had a large cup of coffee on the table beside her, but did not touch it once. Her hand noted down some names and dates to begin with, without any apparent cooperation with her head. Her eyes were fixed on me the whole time.

When I told her about Eva Bjølhaugen’s death in Room 111 in 1932, her eyes sparked for a moment.

‘Did the room have an en suite bathroom or not?’ she asked quickly.

I told her that the room had an en suite bathroom, which had also been searched without any results. She waved me on, and then sat without moving until I had finished with the story of Vera Fredriksen’s death that afternoon. Then she smiled almost merrily for a moment, before once again sitting there gravely in deep concentration.

It was half past eight by the time I had finished my account, put down the almost empty bowl of rice pudding and said: ‘So, what do you think? Was it natural causes, suicide or murder, both in 1932 and 1972? As far as 1972 is concerned, we will perhaps get the answer when the preliminary autopsy report comes tomorrow morning.’

And if I had ever thought otherwise, Patricia was no less sharp than she had been before. She sighed in mild exasperation and replied: ‘Murder, without a doubt, in both 1932 and 1972. And I am almost certain I know how the murders were committed as well, though one always has to bear in mind poisoning in such situations. It is actually quite obvious, if one just looks beyond the fact that it is a rather unusual way to kill people in a hotel room.’

Patricia fell silent, and took an artful sip of coffee. She immediately started and rang the bell to call the maid.

In the brief minute before the maid knocked on the door, I sat and wondered what Patricia had meant.

‘The coffee you served was far too cold, Beate. Pour it out and make some new coffee immediately. And this time make sure the hot plate is on, please!’

Beate rolled her eyes at me and looked like she would love to say that the coffee had been warm when she poured it an hour and a half ago. But all she said was ‘Of course, sorry’, and then took the coffee cup with her when she left.

The door closed behind the maid and I still did not understand Patricia’s meaning. So I had to bite the first bullet and ask how, according to this theory, Eva Bjølhaugen was murdered in 1932 and Vera Fredriksen was murdered in 1972.

Patricia gave a semi-triumphant smile and a swift answer: ‘They were drowned. With water from the tap in the bathroom which was poured down their throat as they lay there unconscious. Eva Bjølhaugen fainted after one of her epileptic fits, thus giving the murderer an opportunity that he or she then ruthlessly exploited. Vera Fredriksen could have been knocked unconscious, but as there is no physical evidence of this, it is more likely that she fainted at the sight of an unexpected intruder or something else that frightened her. According to her family she has a tendency to do this when confronted with powerful emotions. In both cases, the murderer then wiped away any spilt water with the towel from the bathroom and left the room.’

It felt slightly absurd when Patricia first said the word drowned. And then utterly logical once she had explained how it happened.

I sat almost thunderstruck, looking at her. She gave a chirpy smile, but was soon serious again.

‘So that means that the murderer this afternoon was the same as in 1932?’

Patricia shook her head pensively. ‘It is clearly possible that the murderer is one of the group of four friends from 1932 who is still alive. But equally, this is not the only possibility.

‘Per Johan Fredriksen had finally understood how the murder was committed when he spoke out at the dinner a few weeks ago. And the reason he raised his water glass was to show the person he believed was the murderer that he knew. The youngest daughter had either heard it from him, or worked it out for herself when she went to the hotel to ask if the room had had an en suite bathroom even in 1932. But that is not to say that the father and daughter actually knew for certain who the murderer was in 1932, nor does it mean that the same person murdered her now. Someone else may have guessed how it was done and used the same method to get rid of Vera, for example, because she now, consciously or unconsciously, had put you onto her father’s murderer’s trail. Or one of her siblings might have taken the opportunity to get ten million more in inheritance money. There are too many possibilities here. You have given me enough information to work out how Vera Fredriksen died, but not why or who killed her. Her siblings, boyfriend, mother and the others from the 1932 group who are still alive might all have done it, perhaps even someone we are yet to know about. Based on the known facts, it would be pure guesswork to say who she phoned, or who the mysterious guest in the neighbouring room was, and who else might have been in the hotel.’

Patricia had to pause to draw breath, but was obviously in her stride now. She continued a couple of moments later, without waiting for any questions.

‘Much the same is true of Eva Bjølhaugen’s murder in 1932. We can pretty much say with certainty that she first had a visitor in her bed, that shortly afterwards she had an epileptic fit and then was killed by drowning. We do not, however, know if the person in the bed was the same person who killed her, and again, we do not know who killed her full stop. As things stand, I have possible scenarios that fit for the other five in the group.’

‘And what about the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen?’ I asked.

Patricia sighed heavily.

Just then we were interrupted by a knock at the door. The maid came in with a fresh, steaming mug of coffee. She seemed to realize that she had come at the wrong time and made a hasty retreat without saying anything.

Patricia sipped her coffee.

‘Now it is slightly too hot,’ she said, and put the cup down. Then she looked straight at me again.

‘The murder of Per Johan Fredriksen is, if possible, even harder to work out. Whereas the murder in 1932 had a limited number of possible killers, the possibilities for the first murder in 1972 are as good as infinite. I have a number of theories, but need more information in order to establish which of them is right. And, what is more, I am not sure that we have a full overview of all the alternatives. There are lots of people with different backgrounds and motives who might want to kill a man like Per Johan Fredriksen. Fredriksen himself was obviously a chameleon man, and I think that the chances are considerable that he was killed by another chameleon person.’

Patricia blew on her coffee, then cautiously took a sip. I had the distinct feeling that she was waiting for me to ask her to explain the concept, and had no alternative but to do just that.

‘Goodness, apologies, I was obviously not thinking and used a concept that I made up myself and have since used so much that I forget that it is not generally known. But it is very appropriate and almost self-explanatory. The crime novelist Sven Elvestad based his novel Chameleon on the phenomenon in 1912. A chameleon person is someone who can move seamlessly between different circles and switch appearances depending on where they are.’

‘Surely that is relatively normal?’ I objected.

Patricia wiggled her head from left to right, and carried on speaking.

‘Yes and no. Fortunately, most of us behave slightly differently depending on who we are with and which social setting we are in. It is called social skills. But real chameleon people are different: they can change their face, behaviour and even personality within seconds, depending on what they think will serve their interests. Hauk Rebne Westgaard touched on it when he said that, ever since he was a child, Fredriksen had had many different facets and faces. And in more recent years, he had been perceived very differently as a businessman and a family man. His mistress has another impression of him, and people in political circles yet another. I would like to know more about the latter. Even though it may be painful for them, I think you should ask his family what they know about his earlier mistresses. And bear in mind all the time that several people may turn out to have several faces, and that some of those who do not appear to be dangerous on first meeting could be just that. Chameleons are generally thought of as small, innocuous animals, but they can suddenly change face and swallow their prey when least expected.’

I listened to her, fascinated, and promised to bear it in mind.

‘The boss is very reluctant to give up on the boy on the red bicycle as a possible perpetrator, but it would seem now that it is just a red herring?’ I suggested.

The coffee was no longer steaming. Patricia took another sip and thought for a while before answering.

‘We obviously cannot disregard the possibility that the murder may have something to do with Fredriksen’s life as a callous businessman and a heartless landlord. I think it is highly likely that what your eyewitness saw is true, despite her age, and that the poor boy was innocent. But we should not take that as a given yet.’

‘If the boy was innocent, it seems very odd that he then took the murder weapon with him when he fled to my home,’ I remarked.

Patricia shook her head fiercely. ‘To the contrary, his behaviour there and then is perfectly logical, if you look at what happened in isolation, in the sequence that he experienced it. Imagine how you would react in that situation. You are out in the street and see a man who has collapsed with a knife in his heart. What would you do?’

‘I would run over to see if he was alive. Then I dare say I would pull out the knife,’ I said.

Patricia nodded. ‘Precisely. Pulling out the knife does not in any way improve the victim’s chances of survival, but it is a natural reaction. Then there is the next stage. Fredriksen is clearly dead. The boy is standing there with the murder weapon in his hand and no other suspect in sight. He realizes in a flash that makes him the prime suspect regardless of whether he is caught at the scene of the crime with his fingerprints on the knife, or leaves the knife with his fingerprints on it behind. His life has never been easy and he does not have much self-esteem or trust in society. He does, on the other hand, have absolute trust in his hero, in other words you, and knows where you live. Given that he is both innocent and intelligent, it is then quite rational that he takes the murder weapon with him, jumps on his bike and cycles to your flat. What is confusing, and what makes me hesitate to dismiss him as the perpetrator-’ Patricia stopped in the middle of the sentence and sat there staring into thin air.

‘Once again, you are right. What is confusing is not his behaviour after the murder, but his behaviour after his arrest,’ I said.

Patricia nodded. ‘Precisely. Though to be fair, he did say specifically that Fredriksen was dead when he went back, and he shook his head when you asked him if he had seen the murder. So perhaps he did not have much more to say. The parallels with Hauptmann and van der Lubbe indicate that he was well aware of the situation, despite his communication problems. But his refusal to give his name or other details is very strange and clearly did not help his already difficult situation. There is something irrational about it which could indicate mental disturbance and thus make it possible that he did commit the offence after all. But it was most probably due to shock or an exaggerated belief that you would quickly be able to uncover the truth. Whatever the case, the story of the boy on the red bicycle is so puzzling that we cannot simply write him off as a tragic red herring. However, the most interesting thing is, in fact, not the boy’s reaction, but-’

Patricia stopped speaking and looked very pensive indeed. It was obvious that the cogs in her brain were whirring furiously.

‘But the mother’s reaction?’ I tried tentatively.

Patricia shook her head with what looked like irritation. ‘No, no, given that she had been away for the weekend and did not get back until Monday, that part of the story is believable enough. What I find strange is your boss’s reaction. In part because he is so keen to close the case and put the young boy down as the perpetrator. And in part because he keeps saying that if the investigation is to continue, the focus should be on Fredriksen’s private life and the tragedy in 1932. At the risk of sounding paranoid, I wonder whether Fredriksen’s murder might be like an iceberg, and that we still cannot see the bulk of what is hidden under the surface. There is one thing that could point in that direction, and I do not like it one bit.’

Patricia fell silent again. Then suddenly she drank the rest of her coffee in one go. Then she said five words: ‘The man in the hat.’ She sat deep in thought without saying anything as the seconds ticked by. ‘I would very much like to know who the man in the hat is. If he really is just a passer-by whom you happened to meet twice in the same day, it is all far less dramatic and I wouldn’t fret. However, I do not think that is the case. If he was following you, he could of course be a friend, relative or private detective who is following you on behalf of someone in the Fredriksen family, his mistress, the Ramdals or Hauk Rebne Westgaard. But it would be fairly risky for any of them to ask someone to follow a police detective like that. And what they stood to gain by knowing where you were going is unclear. So I doubt that that is the explanation. In which case, the man with the hat points to something bigger which is still lurking beneath the surface, in possibly rather icy water. Too much importance should not be placed on his missing finger joint, in isolation, but that detail does not make the case any more pleasant…’

Patricia’s hands were shaking ever so slightly when she lifted the coffee cup to her mouth. She appeared to be lost deep in her own thoughts and did not notice that the cup was empty.

‘No, there are far too many possibilities here for me to be able to give you any more help tonight. I need more facts in order to discard those that don’t work. Let me know when you have more. Check the alibis of everyone we have spoken about, ask the family if they know about any of Fredriksen’s other mistresses, follow up his political life, be open to the possibility that your boss is not telling you everything he knows about the case – and meanwhile, take good care of yourself.’

The latter was said in a slightly tremulous voice.

I was deeply touched by Patricia’s concern in the midst of it all. I told her so, thanked her for her help so far and gave her a hug as I made to leave. Patricia’s reply was short: ‘Good. We will talk again tomorrow, then.’ But her cheek burned hot against mine, and I felt that our meeting had been unexpectedly successful.

It was only when I was at the door that I realized what we had not talked about, and that was Miriam. Patricia had not asked after her and I had not mentioned her.

XIII

Despite the new conclusions and Patricia’s warnings, as I drove home I thought less about the investigation and more about the dilemma I now found myself in. The magic and optimism of my renewed contact with Patricia receded as soon as I could no longer see or hear her. It felt almost as though I had been unfaithful to Miriam, simply by visiting Patricia without having asked her first. It reached the point by the end of the journey where, despite the progress we had made on the investigation, I regretted having gone and was more worried about what Miriam’s reaction might be were she to find out.

It seemed increasingly to me that the best solution for all parties would be if the case could be solved within a day or two, without Miriam ever needing to know about Patricia’s involvement. Patricia appeared to be happy with the situation and her role being kept secret, from Miriam as well, and obviously did not need any form of recognition. Miriam was happy when she could discuss the case with me, without knowing that I was also discussing it with Patricia.

My flat lay in darkness when I parked outside at half past nine. I had by then decided that the solution to my great dilemma would be that I would not tell Miriam about my visit to Patricia unless absolutely necessary, but that I would answer honestly if she asked if I had contacted Patricia.

XIV

The night was dark and there was a fine drizzle in the air. I sat indoors alone and stewed until about half-past ten, but did not manage to pull myself together enough to think systematically in any way about the case.

For the first time I found myself thinking it would perhaps be just as well if Miriam did not come as agreed, so that I could talk to her in the morning when I was rested instead. But I knew she would come: partly because she was curious about the case, but mostly because she had promised she would. And I was right, of course. Two minutes after the half-past-ten bus had passed, a familiar figure in a raincoat with a thick book in her hand emerged from the dark.

Miriam snapped the book shut as soon as I opened the door to the flat. ‘Sorry, the last meeting dragged on. Did young Vera Fredriksen bring the investigation any closer to a conclusion?’ she asked, before she had even taken off her shoes.

I had to tell her that Vera Fredriksen had unfortunately been killed herself before she had a chance to tell me anything and that the investigation was therefore now even more complex.

To begin with, Miriam was very sad to hear about young Vera’s death, but soon became increasingly interested to know what had happened.

I had tried to ease my bad conscience by preparing a late supper with the best food I could find in the fridge, which Miriam seemed to appreciate. She ate more than me, of course; I had already had a three-course meal, and was struggling with my guilt. Otherwise, everything went unexpectedly well. Miriam digested the food and the story of Vera Fredriksen’s death at the same time, and did not ask about Patricia. It struck me that the situation was the same as it had been at Patricia’s: Miriam did not ask, and I did not divulge.

I did not mention the explanation as to why the boy on the red bicycle had taken the murder weapon with him when he fled the scene of the crime. And I kept my worries about the man in the hat to myself. But I did say that it had struck me, before the results of the autopsy were clear, that one possibility was that both Eva Bjølhaugen and Vera Fredriksen had been drowned, using water from the bathroom.

Miriam was very impressed and said that the idea was a good example of my creative thinking when it came to investigations. There was a slightly awkward atmosphere when she said this, but it was the closest that we got to mentioning Patricia that evening. We quickly changed tack; it felt as though both of us wanted to.

XV

On Tuesday, 21 March, I lay awake tussling with my conscience, long after Miriam had gone to sleep.

Around half past midnight, I changed my mind and came to the conclusion that I should have told Miriam about going to see Patricia as soon as she arrived. But Miriam was already deep in sleep by then. So I kissed her tenderly on the cheek and whispered that we would have to talk about it tomorrow. Shortly after, I fell asleep too, finally at some kind of peace with myself.

I woke once, briefly, during the night, when the man in the hat visited me in my dreams. In my dream, he threw a knife at me on Karl Johan Street. I woke up with a start, but the man in the hat was nowhere to be seen, and the woman I was engaged to was asleep in the bed beside me. That calmed me. For the rest of the night I slept the dreamless sleep of an exhausted man – a deep, contented sleep, without the faintest idea of what dramas tomorrow would bring.