Chameleon People

I

On Wednesday, 22 March 1972, I woke when the alarm clock went off at half past seven. I was clearly so full of adrenalin from the case that my need for sleep had diminished. I was wide awake and ready to face the new day within seconds of the alarm clock ringing.

Miriam, on the other hand, continued to sleep undisturbed, having cast a quick glance at the clock first. I was about to wake her again, but remembered that she did not have a lecture until a quarter past ten on Wednesdays. And I knew from experience that it was a bad idea to wake her unnecessarily early. Furthermore, I still had a lot to think about and a smidgen of a bad conscience. So I left her to sleep on and tiptoed out into the kitchen.

I ate breakfast alone with the newspapers, which made for less pleasant reading than the day before. The headlines were dominated by a new opinion poll that showed a fall in support for the anti-EEC movement, as well as stories on the Barents Sea agreement. It seemed that the agreement would be passed by a majority in the Storting on Friday afternoon and would be ready for signing by Monday. And in between the articles on the significance of the agreement, the reports about my investigation of the murder were becoming more critical. My name was not mentioned today, but both papers noted that the investigation was still ongoing and that the police would not divulge why.

Aftenposten found it reassuring that the police were taking the time to carry out a thorough investigation, even though a young man ‘from the east end, with a difficult background’ had been arrested and subsequently had taken his own life. Arbeiderbladet, on the other hand, questioned if this meant that the presumed killer had, in fact, proved to be innocent. The answer was that this certainly seemed to be the situation, and as such it was ‘a very dramatic development’ in the case.

Both papers carried small notices that a young woman had been found dead at Haraldsen’s Hotel in mysterious circumstances. Neither of them had as yet discovered her relationship to Fredriksen, or the story from 1932. And there was clearly a risk of longer reports once this became known.

I left home at ten to eight, having set the table for Miriam and written a note which read: ‘Did not want to wake you. Enjoy your breakfast and have a good lecture!’

It felt like the pressure was mounting on all sides, and, in a way, it was good that Miriam had slept while I had breakfast. During the night, I had once again abandoned the idea of telling her about my renewed contact with Patricia. If Miriam should hear that I had been in touch with her, I prayed that it would not coincide with the press discovering that the boy who had taken his own life in prison was in all likelihood innocent.

II

My boss was not in his office when I got there at eight o’clock. Outside my office door, however, hopping around impatiently, was a pathologist I had met in connection with one of my earlier cases a couple of years ago.

‘The preliminary autopsy report is ready, and quite sensational…’ he started.

I waved my hand dismissively. ‘I don’t think you will manage to surprise me this time either. The cause of death was water in the lungs, is that right?’

He nodded swiftly and rolled his eyes to show he was impressed. ‘How on earth…?’ he said.

‘It is actually quite logical that she was drowned. You just need to let go of the fact that it is not a method normally used for murder in a hotel room. I am more interested in knowing if there were any other signs of violence, but I am assuming there were not?’ I said.

A little more colour drained from the pathologist’s face, and he shook his head.

‘No, or that is to say, she had some light bruising on her neck that may indicate that someone held her down as she was being drowned. But otherwise, we have found no other signs of violence.’

I thanked him for this confirmation. Then I quickly closed the door on the slightly bewildered and very impressed pathologist.

I sat down and rang the Centre Party office. The party leaders were not available, due to meetings in the Storting. However, the Secretary General, Petter Martin Arvidsen, was there and when I told him that I was calling from the police about the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen, he said that he would be happy to meet me. He told me that he had an important meeting at ten o’clock, but had time available before then. And I replied that I did too. We concluded that I should go to meet him in his office as soon as possible. So I walked the few hundred yards over to the party office in Arbeider Street as quickly as I could.

III

I eventually found the Centre Party office on the fifth floor of 4 Arbeider Street, having first climbed the stairs past four floors occupied by the newspaper, Nationen. The Secretary General, Petter Martin Arvidsen, turned out to be a slim, yet very jovial man in his mid-thirties, with remnants of a Trønderlag dialect. He was swift to shake my hand and then pointed to a chair, before closing the door behind me.

He looked at me in expectation. I chose a gentle start and asked him to give me his impression of Per Johan Fredriksen.

‘You know, over the past few days, I have reflected on how strange it is that in politics today you can see someone every day for years without ever actually knowing them. That was certainly the case with Fredriksen. He was always there – at all the important meetings: the parliamentary party group, the representative body, the party conference. He appeared to enjoy all social occasions, with or without his wife. He was well respected and a powerful man within the party and, in recent years, had become even more prominent thanks to his keen interest in foreign policy. But I don’t think I could say that I knew him as a person, and I am not sure that anyone else did. He was an extremely good politician. He was knowledgeable, to the point, and at times even humorous, both as a speaker and a debater, and he was always very active and interested in his dealings with voters and members of the public.’

I waited a few seconds for a ‘but’, which never came. So I asked where the problem lay.

‘The problem was that the Centre Party is the most united party on the Right and Per Johan Fredriksen was not really a team player. He was an excellent individualist, but always and only an individualist. To put it another way, Per Johan was a man who was respected by all and trusted by none. He was also a touch too pragmatic at times, even for a result-oriented party like ours. People got the feeling that, for Per Johan, politics was not so much about social engagement as personal gain. And that is also probably why he was never part of the party leadership or government, as he so wanted to be.’

‘But he was still ambitious?’

Petter Martin Arvidsen gave an unexpectedly broad grin. ‘Goodness yes, the man certainly never suffered from any lack of ambition or belief in his own abilities. He had intimated that he wanted to stand again in the general election next year, and undoubtedly hoped for a ministerial post if the party got back into government. There was even speculation that, despite his age, he rather fancied himself as a new party leader if our current leader stepped down at next year’s party conference. And there were those who believed and feared-’ All of a sudden he stopped and sat in silence for a few moments. Then he said: ‘Please understand that I will do whatever I can to help the police, but that my position in the party might make it difficult to talk openly about a late party member like Fredriksen. Will this meeting be minuted in any way?’

I considered this for a moment or two, then said that as this was not yet a formal statement of any kind; he could talk openly without worrying that it might be recorded in the minutes. I could contact him again later if I needed confirmation of anything.

It was a practical compromise that I felt was acceptable in order to move on with the investigation. To my relief, he readily accepted what was basically a horse-trade.

‘Very good. I appreciate that. So, there are also those who believed and feared that Per Johan Fredriksen was about to betray the party. He was from good old-fashioned farming stock, but had been living in the city for a long time. With his wealth in properties in the city, he had always belonged to the side of the party that was closest to the Conservatives. His seat in Vestfold was no longer secure, and there was speculation that the Conservatives might offer him a senior position as part of their offensive in rural constituencies. And that would seriously damage the Centre Party in terms of next year’s election. And even more sensational than that…’

Petter Martin Arvidsen paused, his face blanched, and when he continued speaking it was in a hushed voice.

‘There has also been speculation that he might change sides in the EEC debate and come out in favour of Norway joining! If one of the leading politicians in the party and our representative on the Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs were to change sides, it would have an enormous and devastating impact on both the party and the no campaign. In such a case, it would almost be better if he swapped party.’

I had to ask if anyone in the party might have seen the threat as being so critical that they would commit murder.

Petter Martin Arvidsen sat quietly and looked out of the window briefly before answering. Then he turned to face me.

‘I wish that I could answer no, but I don’t know that I dare to at the moment. There are powerful emotions at play out there. For some people in our party and in others, this is a religious war. For others it is a fight for their livelihood and to keep the farm that has been in their family for generations. Having said that, I have no one in particular in mind. But I would not like to say that there is no one out there who might be prepared to kill for, or against, the EEC.’

It struck me that Miriam had said more or less the same. And then I thought that I might perhaps have met one such person, when I sat opposite Hauk Rebne Westgaard and heard him say that the EEC would spell the end of agriculture in Norway as we know it.

IV

It was on the way back to the main police station, following my visit to the Centre Party office, that he suddenly appeared for the third time.

When I threw a glance back over my shoulder, there he was on the pavement, moving in the same direction, about four yards behind me.

The man in the hat had changed his suit, and he had his hat discreetly tucked under his left arm. But it was the same hat, and even before I had seen it, I had recognized his walk and expressionless face.

My first thought was to stop and ask him who he was. But I was also afraid of the man, and did not want to confront him. The nightmare where he threw a knife at me on Karl Johan Street had suddenly come back to haunt me in broad daylight.

All I wanted was to get back to the safety of the police station and have some time to think over the situation. So instead of stopping, I carried on walking, speeding up my pace a little.

It felt very uncomfortable to have someone following me so close behind when I had no idea who they were. I tried to pretend I was not concerned, but looked back sooner than I should have.

My encounter with the man in the hat lasted no more than two minutes. We did not exchange a single word; we were never close enough to do so. But it was still a very frightening experience.

As I took those final steps into the main police station, I reflected on what Patricia had said about icebergs, and the fact that the bulk of them lies hidden under the surface. I had not found out who the man in the hat was, but I was certain that he was not a random passer-by. And I was even more certain that he was not good news.

V

I got back just in time for my meeting with the boss at ten o’clock. He was sitting waiting in his office and started to talk as soon as the door closed behind me.

‘The pathologist has informed me of his conclusions regarding the most recent murder. He was, with good reason, very impressed that you knew the cause of death before he told you.’

I thanked him with appropriate modesty, and said that when using the process of elimination, it was fairly logical. I added that we were therefore also clearly dealing with murder.

My boss nodded. ‘I asked the pathologist if it was possible for Miss Fredriksen to have taken her own life with the help of water. And according to him this was unthinkable, especially as she was lying on the sofa with no trace of water nearby. Someone had poured water down her throat and possibly held her down until she drowned, then dried away any splashes and disappeared. A clear case of murder. And this makes it even more natural to look for the clues in Fredriksen’s personal life.’

I chewed on this for a few seconds. Then I said tentatively that there were other possibilities. For example, that the person who killed Fredriksen had also killed his daughter to hide his or her tracks.

He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘That seems very unlikely. I think you should focus all your attention on Fredriksen’s family and friends; that is where you will find the murderer.’

I thought for a beat, then put my trust in Patricia and took the plunge. ‘And with all due respect, I think there is something important that you are not telling me. Something that may not be decisive, but that I should definitely know, as I am investigating the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen.’

My boss started as soon as I spoke. It was a bold shot in the dark: I would have nothing to say if my boss asked what I thought he was hiding. And my boss could be sharp when his authority was challenged. I saw his teeth as he prepared to fire a caustic reply. But instead, when he did finally open his mouth, he spoke in an unexpectedly calm, almost feeble voice.

‘I should have known better than to think I could hide something from you, Kristiansen. I apologize as there is, indeed, something important that I’ve been keeping from you. I thought it was not significant and that it would be best for everyone concerned if you did not know. But it may be important and as head of the investigation you should know what it is, so that you are aware of the possibility. But this must be kept strictly between us – not even Danielsen can know.’

An incredible sense of relief flooded my body. I sent my heartfelt thanks to Patricia – and assured my boss that not even Danielsen would hear a thing about it.

‘What I have not told you is that when Fredriksen was killed, he was on the point of being arrested – on suspicion of being a Soviet spy. The police security service had been watching him for some time and believed they had grounds to arrest him. The timing was, as I am sure you can appreciate, highly sensitive in light of the imminent agreement.’

Initially, I was speechless. This was a totally unexpected and dramatic development that added a shocking new dimension to the case.

Then I asked in one and the same sentence if they had planned when they would arrest him, and how many people knew about it.

‘I think that only myself and a handful of people at the police security service were involved and knew about this – and now, of course, you do too. The police security service had been following Fredriksen for some months, but the operation was still top secret. I was only informed on Friday, because they had planned to arrest him in connection with a meeting that Fredriksen had arranged with his Soviet contact on Sunday evening.’

I said nothing as my brain worked overtime. Then I asked what the motive was, and my boss promptly carried on.

‘His motive is unclear. Politically he was, of course, conservative, and financial gain is not a likely motive for such a wealthy man. But in the past year, Fredriksen has had some suspicious meetings with representatives from the Soviet Embassy here in Oslo. The police security service believe they have sufficient evidence that he has handed over confidential information, and possibly also secret documents that he had access to through his work with the Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs. The hope was to catch him red-handed with the documents. It would then have been the most notorious Norwegian spy case since the war.’

Coming from my boss, these were strong words. And what was more, they were perhaps not strong enough. I reflected on my meeting with the Centre Party secretary general only an hour before, and tried to imagine what he might have said.

‘It would also be one of the greatest political scandals. And it could not only delay, but, in the worst case, sabotage the demarcation agreement with the Soviet Union and that would be a mighty blow for the Centre Party and the anti-EEC campaign. So there are plenty of people who would rather Fredriksen was murdered than arrested.’

My boss nodded. ‘I would not like to say whether motives of that sort might have influenced certain parties in the police security service. But the timing was highly controversial, in terms of both the agreement with the Soviets and the EEC referendum. The news that a leading spokesman for the no campaign was guilty of treason in favour of the Soviet Union could have had serious consequences.’

It was all too easy to agree with this. I mentioned the earlier incident outside with the man in the hat. Without mentioning my own fear, obviously, I said that this was now a mystery within the mystery that gave good grounds for concern. Then I said something that I had not thought of before: that it was possible that the man in the hat was working for the police security service.

It looked as though my boss, like me, was not convinced that the answer was no. He stared at me for a few moments. Then he dialled a telephone number from memory, and when the call was answered, he said: ‘It’s me. There has been a dramatic development in the case we were talking about on Friday. I think that we two and Detective Inspector Kristiansen should perhaps have a chat. You remember DI Kristiansen?’

After a short answer, my boss then said: ‘Good, we are on our way’, and put down the receiver.

‘Asle Bryne remembers you and has asked both of us to go over there as soon as possible,’ he said as he stood up.

I got to my feet without protest. I remembered Asle Bryne, the head of the police security service, well from my previous visits to Victoria Terrace, and was grateful that my boss was going to be there. Although it did not make the matter any less serious.

VI

It had been a year and a half since my last visit and the head of the police security service’s office had not changed one bit. Asle Bryne was sitting behind his desk with a pipe in his mouth. He gave a brief nod, but made no attempt to shake hands.

‘So,’ he said, then disappeared behind a small cloud of smoke.

I looked at my boss, who started by saying that this conversation must be kept strictly between us.

I nodded quickly, but did not see any reaction from Asle Bryne.

My boss obviously did not expect to get one. He gave a brief and to-the-point account of the latest developments, including the eyewitness and the murder of Fredriksen’s daughter. He concluded diplomatically by saying that there was in all likelihood no link to Fredriksen’s contact with the Soviet Embassy, but the possibility could not be ruled out. There was therefore a need now to ask Bryne some questions in connection with the murder investigation.

‘I see,’ was all Asle Bryne said, and then he looked at me.

I was not sure whether he filled his pipe with more tobacco on purpose or not, but the net result was that it was even harder for me to see his facial expressions through the smoke.

I felt like I had been left out in the thin, cold air. The journey from hearing the sensational news that Fredriksen was suspected of being a spy to the office of the head of the police security service had been so short that I had barely had time to think.

I tried to feel my way forwards and asked if Fredriksen had had direct contact with the Soviet ambassador.

It was a bad start. My boss rolled his eyes, and Bryne looked even less sympathetic when he spoke.

‘Obviously the ambassador himself is never directly involved in things like this, that would be far too compromising in the event it was discovered. At various times and places, Fredriksen had contact with three different, lower-ranking diplomats this year. The pattern was suspicious – they met as if by chance at different times and places where they were unlikely to be seen. And we have found information that can only come from closed meetings of the Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs in various Russian sources after these meetings, without me being able to go into any detail. So we know that someone or other, either the Ministry of Foreign Affairs or the Standing Committee, has passed on confidential documents that could threaten national security. We do not know for certain that it was Fredriksen, but it seems natural to assume there is a link.’

I found the answer somewhat vague, but doubted that any question to follow this up would make it any clearer. So I fired a double question instead: if any of Fredriksen’s contacts had been younger women, and what they thought might be his motive for espionage.

‘No, as far as we know, he has only met with male diplomats. We have of course considered the possibility of sexual liaisons, but have no indication that that was the case. Nor have we seen evidence of any monetary transactions. His motive is one of the mysteries that it may be very hard to establish now that Fredriksen is dead. As the case stands, there seems to be no better solution than to let it die quietly along with the spy, and thank our lucky stars that the leak was stopped before it could cause even greater damage.’

Asle Bryne blew out another little cloud of smoke. He did not look in the slightest bit glad about this or, indeed, anything else. To a certain extent I could understand him. If Fredriksen really had been a spy, his death had denied the police security service a considerable and much-needed boost.

‘Was the arrest imminent at the time of his death?’ I asked, trying to be more friendly.

Bryne’s clean-shaven chin moved up and down inside the cloud of smoke. ‘Within less than twenty-four hours. How we knew that, I cannot say. We knew that Fredriksen was due to meet one of his Soviet contacts on Sunday afternoon. We hoped and believed that he would have documents with him, and were of the view that we had enough on him to make him confess when caught in such a compromising situation.’

I then asked how long they had had Fredriksen under surveillance, and what had made them start in the first place.

The question did not make Bryne any more communicative. He answered curtly it was a matter of two or three months, and he could not say what had triggered it.

I was not very satisfied with the answer. So I threw down my only trump card. ‘During my investigation of Fredriksen’s murder, I have on several occasions been followed by a man. And I apologize, but I must ask if he is doing so on behalf of the police security service?’

My boss was completely still, whereas Bryne started in his chair. ‘That is absolute nonsense, young man. I practically never comment on who we have under surveillance, but will make an exception to say that we do not have any of our highly esteemed colleagues in the Oslo police under surveillance. The incompetent fools at the military intelligence agency might decide to do that, but I can assure you that the police security service never would.’

I felt I was on thin ice, but was still not convinced. ‘The man wears a suit and hat, is around five foot nine and has one distinguishing physical feature: the little finger on his right hand is missing the top joint. Are you absolutely sure that you know nothing about him?’

I thought at first that it was a bull’s eye and that my theory that the man in the hat was working for the police security service was right after all. A twitch rippled across Bryne’s otherwise stony face and with a sudden movement he put down his pipe. Then I realized that something was not right. Bryne knitted his thick brows and looked at me with something akin to paternal sympathy. His voice was far softer and more considerate when he spoke.

‘The man you are talking about definitely has no connection whatsoever with the police security service, and is not someone I am acquainted with; I do, however, know who he is. And this strengthens our theory regarding Fredriksen and the seriousness of the matter.’

Both my boss and I stared intently at Bryne, who appeared to have regained his composure. He lit his pipe again and took a couple of thoughtful puffs before opening a drawer in his desk. From it he pulled a photograph and an index card, which he lay down on the desk between us.

‘I am guessing that this is him,’ Bryne said.

My boss looked at me. I looked at the photograph. And I replied that it was definitely him.

The man in the hat had been photographed, in his suit and hat, from the side, from a street corner. Judging by the signs in the background, the photograph had been taken in London. It was indisputably the same man that I had seen behind me in Aker Street. And it appeared that he really was not good news.

According to the index card, the man in the hat was Alexander Svasnikov, who was also known by a number of aliases. He was forty-two years old, had a PhD in languages from the University of Moscow, but had worked for the KGB since 1965, at least.

‘The man with the missing pinky joint normally changes both his first and second name whenever he is posted to a new country. Here in Norway he is called Sergey Klinkalski. Here at the security service we simply call him Doctor Death, after the still-missing Nazi doctor. Svasnikov is, of course, not a medical doctor, but rather a polyglot genius who can learn most languages in no time at all. He has been stationed at embassies in Madrid, London, Bonn and Amsterdam for short periods. And in all cases, these stays have coincided with the unsolved murders of Soviet defectors living in that country. Svasnikov has always had diplomatic immunity and none of the murders can be linked to him in any way. And after a few days he moves on. As far as we know, he has never been to any of the Nordic countries before, so since his arrival we have been wondering what brings such a shark to these cold waters. Svasnikov has never been in a country without someone dying there in the most dramatic way within the space of a few weeks.’

Bryne blew out an unexpected amount of smoke after this tirade and looked even more pensive than usual. There was silence in the room. After a few seconds, I mustered my courage and shared my thoughts.

‘If the Soviets are aware that Fredriksen was about to be exposed, it would obviously be in their interests that he die before being arrested. In which case, this Svasnikov might well be Fredriksen’s murderer. He has killed before and he has just arrived in Oslo and has an obvious motive. It is almost too incredible to be a coincidence.’

My boss nodded. But Asle Bryne, on the other side of the desk, did not. ‘Nothing would make me and the police security service happier than to be able to prove that Fredriksen was a Soviet spy and that he was killed by a Soviet agent. But there are a couple of things that do not add up. First of all, the victim. As far as we know, Svasnikov has only been used to execute Soviet defectors – not to kill Western citizens. And second, the method. A couple of the earlier victims were shot and a couple died in apparent accidents. As far as we know, Svasnikov has never used a knife as a murder weapon before, and it would be rather risky if Fredriksen were to be killed on an open street.’

I suddenly saw a new side of Asle Bryne as he talked. Behind the cloud of smoke and tight-lipped manner, he was clearly still a quick-thinking policeman. When he carried on, he even managed to sound quite considerate.

‘As regards your own situation, I appreciate that it might feel rather unnerving. But the danger of an attack on you is probably very small. They have never harmed a policeman on this side of the Iron Curtain, and what is more, you are well known, so killing you would entail a great risk. But you should be armed, and if you would like, we can have someone tail you.’

I was only partially mollified by the knowledge that killing me would entail a great risk because I was so well known. The fear sparked by the sighting of the man in the hat outside on the street, now flared up again as I sat here inside, in an office, between my own boss and the head of the police security service.

My initial reaction was to say yes please to both a gun and a guard. But then I realized that the possibility of my visits to Patricia being logged in a security service archive would not be particularly smart, either for me or her.

So I said that I was not worried about my personal safety and that I certainly did not want to waste the police security service’s resources, but that having a gun did seem like a good idea if that could be arranged.

‘Of course it can,’ Bryne replied, and my boss hastily agreed.

We could have concluded the meeting there and then, in a congenial atmosphere of agreement. However, I could not help but ask one last question about what significance the imminent agreement with the Soviet Union might have for the situation.

Bryne straightened up in his chair, lit his pipe again and gave me a piercing look. Even through the smoke I could see that his face had hardened and closed once more.

‘That depends on what you mean, my young man. The answer should be obvious anyway. As far as the Soviets are concerned, it was absolutely in their best interest to avoid any spy allegations only days before such an important agreement, especially when they were so pleased with the agreement and worried that their counterparty might regret it later. And as far as the police security service is concerned, it is of course inconceivable that we would allow political considerations to influence the timing of such a situation. The incompetent fools in the military intelligence agency might take account of such short-term factors, but the police security service would never do that.’

I tried to ease the tension by saying that I of course meant how it would affect the situation in terms of the Soviets.

We ended the meeting there. I recognized the old Asle Bryne, but had also seen a better side of him this time. He shook my hand briefly and wished me luck with the investigation. It was an unexpected gesture, but one that I was afraid I would need.

VII

I was back in my office by half past eleven, where I filled in and submitted the necessary form for carrying a service gun.

Then I made the first of several urgent telephone calls. I had not been looking forward to it. It was to a woman who had lost her husband and then her daughter within the space of three days.

The telephone rang and rang, but was eventually answered on the eighth ring. ‘Fredriksen’, said the voice, very quietly and quickly this time.

Once again I offered my condolences on her family’s great loss. Then I assured her that the investigation into the two murders had been given top priority and that there had been some new developments. I did, however, need to ask her some more questions as soon as she felt able to answer them.

There was a few seconds’ silence before she answered.

‘I have been thinking a lot about something I once read by an American writer. When she lost her husband, she said: the life we shared is over, I walk on alone – but I am still walking. That is what I have to do now. I may be weeping, but I am alive. Otherwise, I am just rattling around in this home of mine and wondering what on earth has happened. So please come whenever you can or like. I had actually thought of calling you about some documents left by my husband.’

I was impressed by the strength of this apparently delicate and slightly theatrical lady. I was also very curious as to what kind of documents she had found. So I said that it was admirable of her and that I would be there as soon as I could.

I picked up my service pistol on the way out. My application had clearly been processed at record speed. I was not entirely sure how reassuring I found that. The situation felt unsafe and what Bryne had said, about Svasnikov never going to a country without someone being killed within the week, was still echoing in my ears.

VIII

The sea of flowers on the drawing-room table in Bygdøy was even bigger today. But the woman on the sofa beside them was, to an impressive extent, the same, only a day after she had been told of her younger daughter’s death.

‘The children were here all yesterday evening. We agreed to grieve alone today,’ she said slowly. It was as if she had read my thoughts and seen my surprise that the family was not together.

‘It still feels unreal, that the priest came yesterday. And yet, it was not entirely unexpected that I would outlive my youngest child. Vera has always been too good for this world, really. So small when she arrived, much smaller than the other two. So much more delicate and fragile as a child. Vera was a beautiful, fair little girl as long as the sun shone, but as soon as the clouds gathered she cried or ran and hid. She was always more distant with me and her older brother and sister, but was very close to Per Johan. So, in an odd way, when he died I thought, well, now I am sure to lose Vera as well.’

She did not look at me when she was talking, she gazed out of the window instead. It struck me that she was looking out at the big garden where no doubt Vera had played as a child and cried when it rained.

The situation felt uncomfortable. But I understood her grief and gave her time. It helped. She turned back to me, an odd look in her dark brown eyes: at once focused and distant.

‘There were several periods when she was growing up that Vera simply refused to eat food. She tried to take her own life by swallowing a whole lot of pills when she was nineteen and unhappily in love. That is possibly when we all accepted the idea that we might lose her one day. But my little Vera did not take her own life yesterday, did she?’

I shook my head and told her briefly what we knew about the cause of death. Her whole body trembled and she held her hands to her eyes as I spoke.

‘My sweet Vera, who was so frightened of water and was thirteen before she even dared to swim – and she drowned in the end. But you are not able to tell me who killed her yet, are you?’

Her voice was weak, yet tense. I had to tell her that I could not at present, but that we were working as fast as we could on the case and that I had some questions to ask her concerning it.

‘Yes, of course. Ask away, and I will answer,’ she said, and once again she looked at me with oddly ambivalent eyes.

I started by asking when she had last seen or spoken to her daughter. Her face did not relax any for my question.

‘Sadly, the truth is that I did not even speak to my daughter on the day she died. I slept late yesterday. She had already gone out when I got up at half past ten. She had left a note on the kitchen table to say that she had gone out and would probably not be home until the evening. I thought she had gone to see a friend or to the university. And I did not hear anything from her until the priest came to tell me she was dead. The last time I saw my younger daughter was the evening before. We sat here in the drawing room, all four of us, talking about the future now that Per Johan had died. Vera thought we should sell the businesses to Ramdal, and came out with a couple of confused sentences about how important art and her boyfriend were to her now. Otherwise she did not say much.’

My next question for Oda Fredriksen was naturally whether she believed that her daughter’s boyfriend might have anything to do with the case. This provoked a scornful smile.

‘You will have to rule him out, I’m afraid. He travelled to Paris last Thursday to see a friend’s exhibition, and is still there. I actually sent him a telegram yesterday to let him know about Vera’s death in a respectable manner. Just a moment, I will show you the reply I got today.’

She got up and walked across the floor on light feet, almost without a sound, to the bookshelves. Then she came back with a telegram that she passed to me without even looking at it.

I could understand her irritation when I read the telegram myself. The text was short and still managed to be shocking.

‘Devastated by the news and loss of my true love. Hope I will receive inheritance to realize our great dream. Know she would want that.’

‘But that is not going to happen, is it?’ I said and looked at her.

She shook her head angrily. Her displeasure with her daughter’s boyfriend had pulled her back and she was now fully present in the room.

‘Absolutely not. They were not even engaged, and Vera had not written any kind of will. Her share of the inheritance will be divided between her brother and sister, and neither of them will give her charlatan of a boyfriend so much as a krone. We have already discussed this.’

The picture was clear. Vera Fredriksen’s boyfriend had not been in the country, and what is more, did not have a motive. His motive for falling in love appeared to have been a financial gain that he would not now get as his girlfriend had died.

I noted down the name so that I could confirm with the French police that he was in France, but did not hope for much help from those quarters.

Then I said, as tactfully as I could, that at this point I had to check the alibis of all the members of the family.

She took this unexpectedly well.

‘If you think that I first killed my husband to hide the forty-year-old murder of my sister, and have then murdered my daughter to hide the murder of my husband – well, I hope you understand that that feels rather absurd and unjust. I know that you have to ask, and as far as my husband is concerned, the answer is easy. I was at a party at my cousin’s in Holmenkollen when I received the telephone call about his death, and had been there for several hours. As far as my daughter’s death is concerned, I was here yesterday. It might not be so easy to prove. It depends on when my daughter died. Can you tell me?’

I of course knew that it must have happened between half past three and half past four, but said that we were still waiting for the final autopsy report to confirm the time of death. In the meantime, I asked her to tell me as precisely as

possible the times in the afternoon for which she had an alibi.

‘Well, let me see… there were several flower deliveries that I had to sign for, the first came around midday and the last was delivered just after three. I rang my eldest daughter at around half past three and then again at five.’

I quickly noted that, based on this, the mother seemed to be an unlikely murderer and that she could not have been the mysterious hotel guest, but that she did still lack an alibi for the time frame in which her youngest daughter was murdered.

I asked if she had also tried to ring her son. She nodded thoughtfully.

‘Yes. I rang my son three times – the first time after I had called my eldest daughter at half past three, then around four, and then again at half past four. But there was no answer until around half past five. I can guarantee that he is also innocent. Johan could never do such a thing. But I understand that you are obliged to check his movements too as a matter of procedure.’

I felt a tension rising in my body. There might be many good reasons why Johan Fredriksen had not answered the telephone. But it was certainly worth finding out, especially in a situation where his little sister’s death had earned him roughly ten million kroner.

I said to his mother that no doubt there was a natural explanation, but that I was duty-bound to enquire.

I then added quickly that I was also obliged to check out whether any of Per Johan Fredriksen’s former mistresses might have anything to do with the case, and so I had to ask if she knew who some of them were.

She let out a heavy sigh. ‘Not really. I wanted to know as little as possible about them. My greatest fear has always been that he has an illegitimate child somewhere, but so far there has been no evidence of that. His mistresses were not exactly something we discussed at the dinner table. But I could always see it in my husband. He was more distant and less interested in me for periods. There was a period in the mid-fifties, just after Vera had been born, when he acted this way for a long, long time, and I was worried that I might actually be losing him to another woman. But it passed and faded towards the end of 1956 and the start of 1957. I never found out who it was. But I do have a dreadful suspicion…’

She suddenly pursed her lips and sat in silence for a while. I asked her to please finish what she was saying, and to let me decide whether it was of importance to the case or not.

‘Well, I would rather not spread rumours about others. My husband was not loose-tongued and wasn’t usually a sleep-talker. But one night in the autumn of 1955, when he had a fever, he suddenly started uttering words in his sleep. I couldn’t make out much of it, but several times he clearly said my name and the name of a woman I know. It may of course be a coincidence, but it was strange all the same.’

She fell silent again, then took a deep breath. It was clear that it was difficult for her to talk about this. It was while I sat there watching her struggle to find the words that I understood the connection.

‘Can I hazard a guess that the name he said was Solveig?’

Oda Fredriksen sighed heavily – grimly, in fact. Suddenly she looked old and bitter.

‘Yes, it was. It was as though a ghost from the distant past had appeared in our bedroom. I remember that it felt like the bed under me froze to ice when he said her name, and it was still hard to sit beside her at the dinner nearly two years later. If it really was her he was dreaming about, I never heard anything more. And then things returned to normal a year or so later, and everything was better. Until the one in Majorstuen appeared a couple of years ago, like a snake in paradise, just when I thought my husband was finally done with other women.’

I saw the outline of another face when Oda Fredriksen talked about her late husband’s mistresses, even though she remained remarkably controlled.

‘You have met my husband’s last mistress, haven’t you?’

I replied in short that I had gone to see her to get her statement. I gave no more details and Oda Fredriksen did not ask. Instead, she stood up again, walked over to the bookcase and came back with an envelope, on which was written ‘strictly confidential’. It had been sealed, but the seal was now broken.

‘I went through my husband’s office here at home yesterday, and found this in the bottom drawer of his desk. I could not resist opening it, and found three separate documents that might all be of interest to you. One of them is about his mistress.’

I had a quick look and had to agree with her. All three were of interest to me and one was clearly to his mistress.

The first was an undated, typed document, which stated: ‘I, Odd Jørgensen, admit that I am guilty of embezzling 30,000 kroner from my employer’s company, Per Johan Fredriksen A/S, in the autumn of 1965.’

It was signed by the office manager; I had seen his signature on the notice of termination sent to the mother of the boy on the red bicycle. To see it again here was unexpected, to say the least. I added the office manager’s name to the list of people I needed to talk to again, and moved on to the next document.

The second document was in an envelope and I did not recognize the handwriting on the front.

‘That is my husband’s handwriting,’ Oda Fredriksen said, over my shoulder. Judging by the text, that was the case. The letter was dated 18 March 1972 and read as follows:

To my heart’s greatest love and my mind’s best inspiration,

No one has given me more or greater pleasure than you. It should have been you and me for the rest of our lives. But sadly, that cannot be. There is too much left of your life and too little of mine. And my duties to my children mean that I can never give you the children you so want. You should therefore have children with another man before it is too late. And I must try to live without you. In my heart, I will always be in your arms and in my mind, always in your bed.

Your ever grieving, Per Johan.

I read the letter twice, thinking how hard it must be for his widow to read this. When Per Johan Fredriksen broke up with his mistress, he mentioned the children, but did not say a word about his wife of nearly forty years.

I looked at Oda Fredriksen. She looked at me, but not the letter. At that moment, it was as if she could read my thoughts.

‘It was not easy to read that three days after my husband’s death. But regardless of whether the letter was delivered or not, it was a relief all the same to find out that in his final days he had planned to end the relationship with his mistress and come back to me.’

She swallowed deeply a few times as she said this. I had to admire her courage in facing one challenge after another, even after her husband’s and daughter’s deaths. I felt that I could read her thoughts, too, and that in that moment that she was thinking the same as me; that this gave the mistress the possible motives of jealousy and revenge.

I carried on reading. The third document was written in the same hand as the previous one. It was more keywords than notes, but no less interesting for that. The date was also sensationally recent: 5 March 1972. And I found the rest of the text of even more interest.

Eva’s death.

A new thought after all these years: could she have been drowned at some point between six and half past seven?

Met Kjell Arne in the corridor at a quarter past six – with a water glass!

But what about the bang at half past seven? Was that something else? In which case, what? Or did Kjell Arne go back afterwards?

Change of theory: think Eva was drowned by Kjell Arne! But not sure. Will try it out this evening – nothing to lose.

Oda Fredriksen was still standing beside me, and this time she was reading over my shoulder.

I half turned around and asked what she thought about it. Her voice was distant again when she answered.

‘Nothing. That is to say, when I read it, I had lots of thoughts, but I know nothing more than I did before. It was just so long ago, and after losing my husband and then my daughter, my sister’s death feels even more distant.’

It was hard not to say that I understood. So I did just that. She smiled faintly.

‘Thank you for your kind thoughts. I hope you can continue with your investigation without having to worry about me. After forty years of peace, my life has been rocked by two explosions in just four days. But despite now being the widow of a landowner, I still come from farming stock. My great-grandmother’s sister survived her three children and her husband, and barely had clothes and food in her old age. I have more than enough of both, and two grown-up children and a grandchild. So don’t worry about me. Just do what you can, and let me know as soon as you find out who killed my husband and my child.’

There was a faint glow in her eyes as she spoke. I thought to myself that Oda Fredriksen was to a certain extent what Patricia had in a past investigation called a satellite person. For decades she had circled her husband and children. Now her husband was suddenly gone. She was visibly shaken, but could still stand on her own two feet in the middle of the vast room. And I believed that she would stay standing after I had left, and that with time, she would find herself a new orbit.

So I solemnly thanked her for her help and took the envelope containing the three documents with me out to the car.

I left with three new clues, all of which could lead me to a murderer. I felt an intense need to discuss the case with someone. An image of Patricia in her wheelchair squeezed its way into my mind, between Miriam and my boss, as I sat in the car and flicked back and forth between the three documents. Each time, I stopped at the third document, with the notes about 1932. I was only a couple of miles away from the Ramdals’ house in Frognerkilen, so after debating it for a few minutes, I drove straight there.

IX

I stood and looked out over the water at Frognerkilen before I turned and walked to the Ramdals’ front door. The view of the fjord below with the sailing boats rocking gently on the waves was idyllic. I had grown up with a father who mockingly called Frognerkilen the Black Sea. By this he was referring to all the black money that he believed the rich upper classes had squirrelled away in the form of unnecessary yachts. I suspected that my father might be exaggerating a little. But as I took the final steps up to the house, I did think that the idyllic scene felt false and could be hiding something darker.

I did not need to ring the bell. Solveig Ramdal saw me from her watch post on the first floor. She waved and then disappeared from the window, clearly with the intention of opening the door. When she did, she said that her husband was unfortunately still at work, but that she would be happy to oblige if there was anything she could help me with.

Solveig Ramdal did not smile today, not when she waved to me from the window, nor when we stood there face to face at the door. I could understand that. There had been another death since we last met. And perhaps she also had a personal reason to be upset. My misgivings followed me into the living room. She sank down into her husband’s chair more heavily than the last time, before starting to speak.

‘It was so awfully sad to hear about Vera’s death. We sent flowers today. These must be terrible days for poor Oda.’

I said there was no doubt about it. I also asked Solveig Ramdal if she had been in direct contact with Vera in the days after her father’s death. She looked slightly confused, thought about it, but then shook her head without saying anything.

There was coffee on the table. Solveig Ramdal was still the perfect hostess and she was still youthful and feline in her movements. But as we sat there, I suddenly felt certain that she was hiding something from me. Only I had no idea what.

I started by saying that as a matter of procedure I had to ask for alibis for the previous afternoon.

She nodded pensively. ‘I understand. My husband is possibly more fortunate than I am this time. He was at work until he came home at a quarter past five. I was, as usual, at home alone. The only time I went out the gate was when I popped down to the shop around four, half past four. The staff there know me and could probably vouch for that, but it is sadly not possible to prove that I was here the rest of the time.’

The alibi was not as poor as she might think. Given that Miriam had spoken to Vera on the telephone just before half past three, that wouldn’t leave much time for Solveig Ramdal to murder her in Ullern and be back at the shop by four. But it was still a possibility.

Solveig Ramdal seemed inexplicably uneasy about her lack of alibi. I felt I was glimpsing a crack in her mask and wanted to know what lay behind it. So I pressed on with a bluff.

‘We now have strong indications from, amongst other things, some notes left behind by Per Johan Fredriksen, that your relationship with him in more recent times was far closer than you have previously led me to believe.’

She sat without saying anything, and kept up appearances well. But there was a new uneasy undertone to her voice when she replied.

‘I am a little uncertain as to what you mean. Per Johan and I have, for many years now, only met at these dinners every five years. When, roughly, was this and what kind of contact are you talking about?’

Her answer was testing me. She was unsure about how much I knew. And I was unsure if I was on the right track.

‘The mid-fifties. And you met – when no one else was present.’

We were beating around the bush, but it was like playing poker. I had no more details and the little I knew that I was now brazenly betting on, was based on Oda Fredriksen’s impressions and the fact that her husband had said Solveig’s name in his fevered sleep. She, for her part, however, could not know what Per Johan Fredriksen had written.

I was right. Her nod was reluctant and grave.

‘It is true that Per Johan and I did meet, one on one, around that time. But it is not true that we had an affair. We only met twice, in 1955, and neither time did we end up in bed.’

She looked at me guardedly. I had nothing up my sleeve which might prove this to be wrong, so I said: ‘You should have told me this yesterday, of course, but I am ready to hear it now, too. But you must lay all your cards on the table now and tell me exactly what happened.’

It worked. She nodded several times then carried on swiftly.

‘I did think that I should have told you. But it is just such a complex family history. You first have to realize that my marriage of many years has been no more than an empty facade. It started as a marriage of convenience. He was the safe harbour I sought after all the turbulence of Eva’s death and my broken engagement with Per Johan. Kjell Arne has been a good provider for me and a good father for my children for nearly forty years. But if I ever had any passionate feelings for him, they were gone by the time our first child was born. He perhaps hoped to develop stronger feelings for me, but, if he ever tried, he never managed it. My husband is a very good and rational businessman, and this carries through to his dealings with his family. If he ever possessed any stronger or more romantic feelings, they were perhaps for another woman. But I have kept my marriage vow and have never been physically unfaithful to him. The only men who have ever been in my bed are Per Johan, back in 1932 and then Kjell Arne ever since.’

She sat staring at the living-room wall. I noticed again that Kjell Arne Randal was not smiling in any of the family photographs that hung there. Solveig Ramdal suddenly reminded me of Nora in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, a play that I had seen with Miriam last autumn.

‘And the woman he loved before you was…?’

She gave a brief nod. I caught a glimpse of two small catlike teeth when she replied.

‘Eva, of course. Even a man like him, without a romantic bone in his body, was enthralled by Eva. They all were. She was the most beautiful and sparkling of all the young women in Vestfold, as well as being the only one who knew how to exploit it. She could wrap men round her little finger and would then pull them along behind her to a cliff edge, it was said. Her sister was forgotten the moment Eva came into a room, as was I. So in a strange way, Eva was a symbol of beauty but also a trophy. One that Kjell Arne would have given anything to win. But he never got her – as far as I know. And either way, Eva was gone by the time anything happened between Kjell Arne and me. Although I still had to compete with her for his attention. I have always been second choice and a poor surrogate for something he never even had.’

‘I understand. So when Per Johan contacted you one day, you had no misgivings. But what did he want, if not a mistress?’

Solveig Ramdal gave me a fleeting, scornful smile before she continued.

‘It’s almost a bit strange that it did not lead to an affair. His own marriage was like mine; the only difference was that his wife was far more fond of him than I was of my husband. From his perspective, it was a sham. We had both been strongly attracted to each other once upon a time in our youth, but it was impossible to find that magic again. Eva and her death in 1932 was there like a wall between us. And that is what it was all about. Per Johan rang one day while my husband was at work, and asked if we could meet to discuss Eva’s death. He said that the case continued to haunt him and that he thought it had been murder. Per Johan said that he was pretty sure that I had not killed Eva, but that it could have been any of the other three. Of course I knew that it was not me, but I also had my suspicions and Per Johan was still a charmer when he wanted to persuade someone. And that’s how we ended up one day, sitting in a hotel room, the door locked, discussing whether one of our spouses could have committed murder. It was still all about Eva, more than twenty years after her death.’

‘Did you come to any conclusion?’

She shook her head lightly. ‘Not really. We just went round and round the possibilities. He did not even rule out the possibility that Oda might have killed her little sister – for the inheritance and finally to be out of her shadow. The sisters did not have a particularly good relationship, but that is not so unusual for sisters at that age. Per Johan was obsessed by the thought of who had been to bed with Eva that day. It was certainly not him, he said several times. So then it must have been Hauk or Kjell Arne. He had seen Kjell Arne in the corridor at around a quarter past six and it looked as though he was heading towards Eva’s room. But then -’

She took a short dramatic pause after this piece of information, and looked once again at the family photographs. Her thin, catlike mouth trembled. I thought how her story so far was in line with Per Johan Fredriksen’s notes – and that it was pushing her own husband further into the spotlight.

‘But then there was the bang that we never managed to work out. I was in the room next to Eva, and had heard a bang or thump around half past seven. Per Johan asked me several times if I was certain that the sound had come from her room. And I was then, and I am now. At the time I thought that perhaps Eva had tripped or dropped something on the floor. Later I figured it must have been when she fell, but then that was always odd as she was on the sofa. I put my ear to the wall in the minutes after the bang, but heard nothing more. The bang in itself does not mean that Eva didn’t die earlier, nor that Kjell Arne might have killed her. But it gave rise to doubt, and Per Johan and I could not get past it. Our main theory in the end was that Eva had turned her affections towards Kjell Arne and that it was Hauk who had killed her in a fit of jealousy. Per Johan still had his doubts back then, and what he may or may not have thought about the case in later years, I have no idea.’

Her conclusion was rather abrupt and a bit unexpected. I asked if there was any particular reason for suspecting Hauk.

‘It was rather woolly – so woolly, in fact, that we were not really sure of it ourselves. But I had always found Hauk rather distant and a little frightening. So I found it easier to believe that he had committed a murder than my husband or former fiancé. The story of the jilted lover turning to murder is not an unfamiliar one, not then and not now. Per Johan was vague about it, but he implied that Hauk’s family situation was very difficult. He also thought that Eva had treated him rather badly. Behind Per Johan’s friendly veneer, there were actually very few he respected and even fewer he feared. But when we met in 1955, so many years on, I could tell that he really did both respect and fear Hauk. I got the impression that he thought it was Hauk, but that it was something he could live with. Hauk was stuck down in Vestfold, so was not someone he had to see or deal with often.’

It felt like Solveig Ramdal was starting to open up now. Following a brief pause, she carried on.

‘I, for my part, would not completely dismiss the possibility of suicide. I only heard that one single bang between seven and eight – no footsteps. And I had heard steps out in the corridor and inside her room an hour earlier. I must say, I thought that some of the footsteps I heard in her room earlier were heavier than hers, which would indicate that at least one or more men had visited her. But anyway, I obviously cannot be certain about the footsteps, and there may have been others that I did not hear. Oh, I really don’t know what to believe.’

I could certainly say with a clear conscience that I agreed with the last statement. I had lost count of the number of possible explanations for the death in 1932. I noted down this last theory regarding Hauk and said that I clearly had to talk to Kjell Arne himself.

‘Of course you must. Kjell Arne normally works late in the afternoon, so no doubt you will find him in the office at Lysaker. I would also appreciate it if you say as little as possible to my husband about our conversation, but I understand if you must mention it.’

I said that I could not promise anything, but that I would do my best.

She gave a tight-lipped smile, held out her hand and wished me luck with the investigation. She bravely kept up appearances as the stalwart, bourgeois housewife. I understood that Solveig Ramdal had not had an easy life, despite her material comfort. But I did not trust at all that she had told me everything she knew, either about 1932 or 1972. I also noticed on the way out that there were a lady’s hat and two men’s hats on the rack in the hallway, which made me think. The fact that I was being followed by a Soviet agent did not prove that he had been the shadow with the hat on the night Per Johan Fredriksen was killed.

X

It was half past three by the time I got to Lysaker and found the right building. I met a group of three office workers on their way out. The premises of Kjell Arne Ramdal & Co. were clearly larger than those of Per Johan Fredriksen A/S. They had an entire floor of offices, providing more than enough space for the ten or so employees who were still hard at work.

A receptionist in her early twenties, who resembled an air hostess, smiled broadly at me, but then became more serious when I showed her my police ID. I said that I had to speak to Director Ramdal in person immediately and with a slight tremble in her finger, she pointed me in the direction of the corridor.

I found him at the end of the corridor, in the largest office on the floor, behind what was, no doubt, the largest desk in the office. He was none too pleased to see me, but held his composure even better than his wife.

‘So,’ he said briskly, as soon as I had settled in the chair in front of his desk and politely declined the offers of coffee and mineral water.

Kjell Arne Ramdal sat with his elbows on his desk like a great shield between us.

I started by asking whether there was any news on the possible acquisition of Fredriksen’s companies.

He replied shortly that there was not, but, given developments in the case, he had not expected there to be. He had personally rung Johan Fredriksen earlier in the day to give his condolences on the loss of his sister and had told him that under the circumstances, a twenty-four-hour extension of the deadline was acceptable. It had been a ‘constructive’ conversation, and he was still of the opinion that the takeover would go ahead.

He spoke confidently and almost enthusiastically about the deal, then stopped abruptly.

I decided to get straight to the point and said that it would appear that Vera Fredriksen had been murdered. As a matter of procedure, I had to ask both the family and others involved of their whereabouts that afternoon.

Kjell Arne Ramdal didn’t move a muscle when he answered.

‘I was here at the office all day, from nine yesterday morning until I drove home at half past four. Almost all of the staff here attended a conference in the second half of the day, but the office manager and receptionist should be able to confirm that I was here until they left at half past three. Then I was here on my own for the last hour.’

I noted down that Kjell Arne Ramdal’s alibi had fallen apart in front of my very eyes. Encouraged by this, I took a leap back to 1932.

‘The situation regarding Per Johan Fredriksen’s death is still unclear. However, some new information has come to light regarding the death of Eva Bjølhaugen in 1932. We have found some papers that were left by Per Johan Fredriksen and other material that could indicate that he had discovered how she had been murdered and that he suspected that you were behind it.’

Kjell Arne Ramdal raised his eyebrows, but otherwise remained calm. I was not sure whether to be impressed or frightened by his being so calm in the face of such a serious accusation from a dead friend.

‘If Per Johan Fredriksen had found out how Eva was murdered, it would be impressive – we have all given it a lot of thought over the years. The fact that he suspected me is less surprising. A distance had grown between us in the last few years. I figured that he was either jealous of my success or thought that I had something to do with Eva’s death. He had reason to be jealous, but not to suspect me of murder. If I am to give a more informed answer to the accusation, you might like to tell me how she was murdered and why Per Johan Fredriksen thought that I did it.’

Kjell Arne Ramdal looked at me intensely when he spoke, and it seemed to me that his elbows were weighing more heavily on the desk.

‘Fredriksen believed, correctly, that she had been drowned. He suspected you because he had seen you at a quarter past six that day coming out of her room with a glass in your hand.’

Kjell Arne Ramdal sat behind his desk with impressive and irritating composure. There was not so much as a ripple of surprise to be seen on his face. Although it could perhaps be detected in the ten-second pause he took this time before speaking. And then it was only to say: ‘Should I perhaps call one of my lawyers at this point?’

I replied that he was more than welcome to do so should he wish, but that there was still no reason to, if he told me the truth and it did not involve a crime.

He nodded, almost gratefully, at that. ‘Excellent. Then I will. I did not commit a crime of any sort. And what I did was also morally acceptable, given that I was at the time a young man without obligations. It was before I got involved with my wife, who at that point was engaged to someone else. It is true that I was in Eva Bjølhaugen’s room that afternoon. But nothing dramatic happened there. She was alive and unharmed when I left the room at a quarter past six, and I did not see her again until she was discovered dead two hours later.’

I immediately asked why he had gone to her room and what had happened there.

‘It is not a very honourable story. Eva was very beautiful and charming. I was – like all the young men who met her – very attracted to her. I have to admit that I went to Oslo because I hoped a romance might blossom, and I did not want to take the chance that the other two might get in there before me. Earlier in the day, Eva had behaved in a way that gave me reason to believe that this hope might become a reality. She avoided her boyfriend, and was exceedingly friendly towards me. I should have realized that that was just how she was: Eva was a flirt who liked to play different men off against each other. And I made a genuine mistake. I knocked on her door at five past six to offer her my love. I left the room at a quarter past six crestfallen at having been rejected. She turned me down in her characteristically charming way: “Maybe sometime, who knew what the future might hold…” but the reality was clear. At one point I tried to put my arm around her and with a scornful smile she shook her head and took a step back. I left without accomplishing my mission. I don’t remember the glass, but it is not unthinkable that I took it with me by mistake in my heartbreak. I was truly nervous that day.’

Kjell Arne Ramdal did not, however, look nervous today. He finished there.

I didn’t know what more to say. His version was consistent and plausible. And I was not able to check there and then whether it was true.

I asked if the bed was still made when he left the room. He nodded quickly.

‘The bed was made up and untouched when I came and when I left. It’s fair to say that I had hoped it would not be when I left. But, all the same, it was very definitely made up. I came out with my trousers between my legs, as we say in Vestfold.’

It was the closest thing to humour I had ever heard from Kjell Arne Ramdal. But the mood was too sombre for either of us to smile. We were caught in a frustrating situation. I could not prove that the bed was not still made up when he left the room and he could not prove that it was.

In all honesty, I believed that the bed was still untouched and that Eva Bjølhaugen had been alive when he left. And that left an hour and a half afterwards where anything could have happened. Including the possibility that Kjell Arne Ramdal went back and killed Eva Bjølhaugen having built up a jealous rage; a motive which he had just given me himself.

I said that we also had indications that Per Johan Fredriksen had suspected Hauk Rebne Westgaard, and asked Kjell Arne Ramdal if he knew anything about that.

He nodded quickly and once again spoke briskly. ‘The extent to which that is true, I am not able to say, but that suspicion was very definitely the case at one point. There is a bit of a history there that I should probably tell you, though I do not like to spread rumours about other people and things that are none of my business…’

He gave me a questioning look. I said that he should certainly tell me everything that might be relevant to the sequence of events and motives.

He nodded again, almost gratefully, and carried on talking with renewed vigour.

‘In that case, the situation was that Eva was beautiful, charming, flirtatious and possibly slightly power-crazy. She loved being the centre of attention. Per Johan Fredriksen had had a brief romance with her the year before, which lasted about a month. After a few drinks, he confided in me that he, despite several attempts, had never managed to take off so much as her blouse, let alone her underwear. Behind her flirtatious front, she was pretty demanding and prudish, he said. She was a woman who often said A without wanting to do B. One day she broke it off and told him that he was not going to get what he wanted so badly, at least not for now. It was a humiliating defeat for him and he was visibly jealous of his childhood friend when she started to go out with Hauk Rebne Westgaard instead. But Fredriksen was not convinced that Westgaard had achieved what he so badly wanted either – even after they had been together for a few months. So, between the two of them, there was a lot of competition and a lot of emotion. Westgaard also had a slight inferiority complex in relation to us: his father was half crazy, their farm was smaller than ours and he had less money. So if Eva treated him badly, or if he believed he was about to lose her to one of us, it is easy to imagine that he might have killed her in a fit of rage. Eva was a girl who played with fire. She could have burnt herself on Hauk Rebne Westgaard. But I have absolutely no idea if that is what happened.’

And I certainly did not either. The only thing I felt fairly certain about was that I still had no grounds to arrest any of the suspects for anything.

I said to Kjell Arne Ramdal that it would have made things a little easier if he had told me all this the day before yesterday. He moved his head in a way that, with a bit of goodwill, could be interpreted as a nod. Then I asked if he had anything to add today and he replied succinctly: ‘No.’

His answer was the same when I asked if he had been in direct contact with Vera Fredriksen at any point after her father’s death. So the question as to who Vera had called remained unanswered.

I thanked him equally succinctly, then, taking these new thoughts with me, I headed for the door.

XI

I had that feeling of general unease when I got back to the station at twenty past four. Things were relatively calm there, though the switchboard had experienced an increase in calls from the media. I prepared a new press release which confirmed that the woman found dead in Ullern was Fredriksen’s youngest daughter and that any possible connections were now being investigated, but that no further comment could be made in light of the ongoing investigation.

My boss waved me into his office before I was even at the door. He listened attentively to what I had to tell him, and seemed almost relieved that nothing new had emerged regarding the espionage aspect of the case.

He had given considerable thought to the case and concluded that the investigation should of course continue, but as discreetly as possible for the moment in order not to attract public attention until it was strictly necessary.

In short, the conclusion was that I should continue to work on the case and would get whatever help I needed, but that I should report directly to my boss and not tell Danielsen anything about the possible spy implications.

It seemed that my boss was having second thoughts about our meeting with Asle Bryne at Victoria Terrace. He was unusually sombre and said twice that this was a very sensitive case and that I must not betray his trust, now that it was so important. I promised to do my utmost not to do this.

I made four telephone calls before I left work.

I reached Miriam at the party office and told her that I would have to work late with the murder investigation, but that we could meet around half past eight. She was very understanding and did not ask for any details – even though I could hear in her voice that she was dying to know more.

Then I rang Patricia and asked if we could meet sometime around seven o’clock. She replied positively to this and then hung up without wasting any more of her time or mine.

I still had two hours until I was due to meet Patricia so I called Fredriksen’s mistress in Majorstuen, and then his son at Sognsvann.

XII

The door was opened as soon as I rang on the bell at 53B Jacob Aall’s Street in Majorstuen. The woman who answered the door no longer had tears in her eyes, but she still had red cheeks and was wearing a black mourning dress. The photograph of Per Johan Fredriksen remained on the coffee table, with a lone candle burning beside it.

The clock on the wall in the hall had stopped at half past eleven, and had not been rewound since, which seemed rather symbolic to me. Time had stopped for the moment for both the flat and the woman who lived in it.

I had some critical questions to ask her and not very much time. But sitting here beside the candle and photograph of Per Johan Fredriksen, I found it hard to get straight to the point.

So I delayed by asking how she was.

‘Not good at all, but better than on the evening he died,’ she said.

I had to ask her something else, so I asked what her thoughts were about the flat and her future.

‘Thank you for asking. I have not been able to face moving the furniture or even a picture yet. It gets harder each day and will no doubt be very painful on Saturday. I just have so many memories of Per Johan here and am constantly finding myself expecting to see him coming round the corner whenever I look out of the window. So I’ve decided I’m going to go and stay with my mother’s family in France for a few months. If I am going to carry on without being weighed down by the past, I have to get away, both from this flat and from Oslo. My current dilemma is whether I should try to sneak into the back of the church for the funeral. It should be possible, as no one in the family has met me.’

I did not want to share my thoughts on whether Fredriksen’s mistress should attend the funeral or not. So instead I took the chance to ask her if she had ever been in touch with Vera Fredriksen. She shook her head.

‘No. He showed me pictures of his children when I asked, and talked about them a good deal – and particularly about Vera. His paternal urge to care and protect was strongest for her. Probably something to do with the fact that she was the youngest, but also, she had suffered more than the other two. I was not in the slightest bit jealous – in fact, I started to care for them because they meant so much to him. It was obvious that I could not meet them before his wife was either dead or they were divorced. So, sadly, I never saw his daughter except in a photograph, and I never heard her voice.’

I was happy with this answer. It was hard to imagine that Vera Fredriksen would ring her father’s mistress, no matter what she thought might have happened in 1932. Furthermore, it was even harder to imagine that his mistress would have gone to Haraldsen’s Hotel to murder her late lover’s daughter.

I had thought a little about who Per Johan Fredriksen would talk to if he wanted to discuss his Soviet contacts or his future political plans with someone. And I had come to the conclusion that the two most likely people would be his youngest daughter or his mistress. And what his mistress had to say would be even more interesting now that his daughter was dead.

So I asked if she had been aware of any ups and downs in her lover’s political life and if he had said anything about his future plans.

To my surprise, she replied without hesitation. ‘Yes, of course. I should have mentioned it last time you were here, but it seemed so unlikely that his death had anything to do with that. It was something he had been thinking about for a long time and soon he had to make a decision. He was increasingly unconvinced of his party’s scepticism towards membership of the EEC. To begin with, he only said that he could see that there were some advantages to be had with membership, but then through the course of the winter he started to think that there were, in fact, more advantages than disadvantages to joining. He believed that the EEC would grow with or without Norway, and that the terms and conditions would be less favourable if we waited to join. By the new year it was more a question of when, rather than if, he would make it public.’

I thanked her for this interesting piece of information and said that he must have been prepared for strong reactions from his own party. She immediately confirmed that that was the case.

‘But of course. He was preparing for death threats and comparisons with the devil. He initially thought about changing party, but then decided that it would be better to just let his new views on the EEC be known. The consequences would probably be that he was squeezed out of the party and into a new party, but he decided that that was a better way to leave.’

It sounded like Per Johan Fredriksen had had a reasonable plan, and some very bad news for his party and the no campaign in general. Something that could indeed be the cause of a politically motivated attack. The question was who else might have known about it.

I asked Harriet Henriksen what she thought about this, and if she had mentioned it to anyone else. She shook her head firmly at the suggestion.

‘I knew no one in his party and never discussed what he told me with others. I was happy about it. After all, I am half French and the rest of my family live within the EEC and have always believed in cooperation inside the Western Bloc. So I was pro and liked to think that I had some influence on him there. And in addition, I thought that if he was going to change his stance on the EEC and his party, then perhaps there was a chance that he would change his mind about his wife as well.’

She said this with an almost coy smile.

She was beautiful when she smiled, and despite the fact that I disagreed on the EEC question, I could perfectly well understand that Per Johan Fredriksen had been charmed by her.

The smile disappeared when I asked if there were other aspects of his political life that he had discussed with her. She shook her head and said that he had only talked about the EEC issue and changing party. It seemed reasonable that he had discussed the EEC matter and plans for next year’s general election with his mistress, but apparently he had not mentioned his contact with the Soviet Embassy even to her.

It was now half past five and I had run out of my easier questions. So I had no choice but to put the handwritten letter from Per Johan Fredriksen down on the table between us and say that unfortunately I had to ask her to read it.

Harriet Henriksen was a woman whose emotions changed swiftly and easily. Three minutes ago she had been smiling and almost happy at the thought that she may have influenced her lover. Now she was shedding tears as she saw whose handwriting the letter was penned in. Then she flinched as she read what was written. Afterwards, she sat trembling. I hoped that there might be another emotional outburst. But there was not. She just sat there with tears streaming down her cheeks, her fists balling tighter and tighter.

When I realized that she was not going to say anything without help, I asked if she had been given this letter by her lover during his last visit.

She slowly shook her head. Her voice was strained, but still coherent when she started to speak. She began slowly, but then the words just came tumbling out.

‘No, I have never seen this letter before. But he did say as much to me as we sat at the table here eating supper on Saturday. It came as quite a blow, but not a shock as such. He had been fretting about it for a long time, that I should find a younger man and have children before it was too late. And he brought it up again then. I said that there wasn’t a younger man in the whole wide world I would want more than him, and that I would rather be childless all my life than have children with anyone else. The whole time I was scared that he would simply get up and leave. He was visibly touched by what I said then he turned to me and he said that I was the only person in the world who loved him for who he was and not his money. As usual, we went to bed after the meal. And afterwards any doubt I ever had in him was forgotten. He kissed me before he left and said that we should meet again soon and talk some more. So even though I had had a shock and still had to live with the uncertainty, I continued to be optimistic.’

Harriet Henriksen had slowed down again and seemed distant. Suddenly she reminded me of Oda Fredriksen. It struck me that the two women in Per Johan Fredriksen’s life, despite their differences, had both weathered these terrible days and resolutely clung to their love for him.

I thought about how we still only had his mistress’s word that Per Johan Fredriksen had not in fact broken up with her on his last visit, as he had intended to do in his letter. And I also only had her word that he had hinted at it but then changed his mind. I had to be open to the possibility that she had run out after him, begged him to come back and then stabbed him when he walked away. The fact that the murder weapon was a kitchen knife fitted well with this theory.

I consequently needed to check Harriet Henriksen’s alibi, so I asked tactfully if the last time she saw her beloved it had been through the window.

She understood what I was asking. After a rather tense moment, she replied that she had seen him from the window and that she had not gone out, either with him or after him.

I apologized before asking if there was anyone who could confirm this.

She, for her part, apologized that she could only reply that there was no one. No one had come to see her before I rang the next day. She had no one she could call to talk to about her situation – not after he had gone, nor after she had heard the news that he had been stabbed.

She still just called him ‘he’ and looked so lonely sitting there on her own. I felt a great deal of sympathy for her. But she did have a motive, and she was the only one of those involved who was still alive and had been in Majorstuen on the evening that Per Johan Fredriksen had died. So when I carried on to Sognsvann, I did not yet dare strike Harriet Henriksen from my list of possible murderers.

XIII

Johan Fredriksen lived in a terraced house a few hundred yards from the lake at Sognsvann. His house was just as I had imagined it would be: larger than was usual for a single lawyer of thirty-five without his own firm, but incomparable to his father’s or Kjell Arne Ramdal’s in terms of size.

The door was opened no more than ten seconds after I had rung the bell. Seeing him again, I was more struck than ever by how much he resembled me in appearance. And if his sister’s death had caused any emotional response, it was not possible to see it on his face or hear it in his voice.

‘Welcome,’ he said in a staccato tone, and then turned around. I followed him into the living room. It was also more or less as I had imagined: clean and tidy, but not very exciting. If there had been any photographs of girlfriends, Johan Fredriksen had removed them before I got there. There was not a single picture up on the walls, and as far as I could see, the bookcase only contained books about law and economics.

The only thing lying on the living-room table was a pile of accounts for Per Johan Fredriksen A/S.

I pointed at the accounts and asked if there was any news about the business and the possible takeover.

He told me that the offer was still on the table at a few million more than the actual value, and that the family were inclined to accept the offer and move on. That was what had been agreed at a meeting the evening before last, but they had not managed to talk about it again since Vera’s death.

I suddenly thought about what Solveig Ramdal had said about her husband also being a businessman in his private life. The same could be said of Johan Fredriksen. However, when he started to speak again, it was apparent he was a much younger and softer businessman.

‘You must excuse me if I appear to be unmoved. My youngest sister’s death has affected me deeply. I am just not as good as my father and others at showing my feelings. In fact, I am not as good as my father at anything.’

I asked him how he saw his relationship with his sisters.

‘I am not really very close to them in any way, I have to admit. We are different ages, have different personalities and interests. Vera and I never argued, as far as I can remember, but that is perhaps because we did not talk much. Ane Line was closer to her – perhaps because they are both girls. Although I think more recently, they were talking less. As far as I understood it, they had argued about something. Ane Line and I live our own lives and have our own opinions, but we do speak when needs be. We are both pragmatists, in our own way.’

I noted down that I should ask Ane Line Fredriksen what she and her sister had argued about. Otherwise, this was more or less what their mother had said, and I did not think there was much to be garnered here.

So we looked at each other and waited. Then Johan Fredriksen got up, went over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a glass of wine. He raised the bottle, looking at me questioningly, then nodded with understanding when I said that I could not drink on the job.

‘Many gifted young men have bemoaned the fact that they are not the only and eldest son of a rich father. For me it was the opposite. I often thought when I was growing up that it would have been nice to have a brother, who could blaze the trail and relieve some of the pressure and expectation. But I had no older brother, only two younger sisters. My father was kind enough never to complain. But I could tell that he was disappointed, and I heard others say the same. They said that I was doing fine, but that they had expected more of Per Johan Fredriksen’s only son. I have always been good, but never great. My sporting achievements were good, my results were good, but I was never the best at anything. I lacked the charisma of which my father had so much. My greatest triumph in life is that I was the fifth best in my year to graduate from law school. The examiner said, “You are not the brightest one here, but you are the one who works hardest to be so.” I took that as a compliment and hoped that it heralded my breakthrough.’

He paused briefly and finished his wine. I was glad that he was opening up, and allowed him the time to pour another glass before I said: ‘But it was not?’

He grimly shook his head.

‘No, it was not. Father congratulated me and smiled, but I could see that coming fifth, which was such an achievement for me, meant nothing to him. He still didn’t want to involve me in running the business, and wouldn’t give me an advance on my inheritance so I could start my own practice. “You are not robust enough yet to stand on your own two feet as a businessman,” he had said to me with this kind but patronizing smile. Apparently I had to get more work experience and preferably also a sensible and helpful wife. So once again, I did what he told me, got a boring job as an associate, while I waited for better times.’

‘And now you finally have your chance – because of a tragedy,’ I said.

He nodded, but did not smile. ‘Not just a tragedy, but a double tragedy. I inherited around twenty million when my father was killed on Saturday, and another ten million yesterday when my little sister died. Suddenly, I have all the opportunities I ever wanted, but this is certainly not how I had wished for it to happen. My little sister was killed, wasn’t she? She attempted suicide once a few years ago, but I’m sure that’s not what happened this time.’

I confirmed that it did look like his sister had been murdered. In addition, we now also had to keep all possibilities open regarding his father’s killer, as a new witness had thrown doubt on whether the boy on the red bicycle had done it.

Johan Fredriksen took this news with unexpected composure. He put his wine glass down and looked at me with a serious, though not unfriendly, expression on his face.

‘Then I have a problem, which I am afraid may cause a problem for you too. I was here at home on both Saturday evening and yesterday afternoon, but have no one to confirm that.’

‘So you are saying that you were at home alone?’ I asked.

He took another sip of wine, then shook his head.

‘No. What I am saying – and it is the truth – is that I was here with my girlfriend. But I cannot ask her to confirm that for me. She has made it quite clear that she, for very personal reasons, does not want her name to be public or to be pulled into the investigation in any way. She is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in all my life. I am even more scared of losing her now, having just lost two of my closest family members. I simply cannot burden her with that. So in a situation where I know that I am innocent and did not murder my father and little sister, I choose to respect my girlfriend’s wish to remain anonymous, even though I realize that it may not make life any easier for me.’

I could not work Johan Fredriksen out, nor could I decide what I thought of him. On the one hand, I could understand him, even empathize with him, but on the other, it did create a problem for the investigation.

I tried to push him by saying that his mother claimed she had phoned him several times yesterday afternoon without getting an answer. He nodded sharply.

‘Yes, I can confirm that, without being able to give you the precise times. I heard the telephone ring out here in the sitting room at least twice. I had a strong suspicion that it was my mother, and indeed, when I then answered the phone at around half past five, I had this confirmed. When she had called earlier, I was in a room with another person, in the middle of things I did not want to interrupt, so I couldn’t talk to my mother on the phone.’

He said this somewhat defiantly, and then raised his glass before draining it.

I was still unsure as to how I felt about Johan Fredriksen, but realized that it would be impossible to get anything more out of him now. So I asked him to think hard about the situation. He promised to do that, but said that it was unlikely that anything would change with regards to his alibi and his girlfriend’s identity. He added that she had been here with him when both the murders happened, and clearly had no connection to the case. She had never met either his parents or his sisters.

I was increasingly intrigued by Johan Fredriksen’s mysterious girlfriend. However, it was perfectly clear that she had no links to the case. And it was not obvious who that young woman might be. I had more than enough parties to juggle with as it was. And what was more, I did not think that Johan Fredriksen would make up a story like that if he had killed his father or sister. His story tallied with what his mother had said and indirectly gave him a kind of alibi. So I dropped it – and left with slightly more respect for Johan Fredriksen than I had arrived with.

XIV

It was after I had got into the car just by Sognsvann at a quarter past seven that I saw him for the fourth time.

The man in the hat was not wearing a hat today, nor was he following me. He was just standing there, casually leaning against a wall on the corner of the street. I started the car.

The encounter lasted no more than a few seconds and felt far less threatening than our previous meetings. I was sitting in a car with a loaded gun in its holster under my jacket. It also helped that I now knew who the man in the hat was, even though I therefore also knew that he was dangerous.

However, seeing him again was an uncomfortable reminder that I was being watched, and that we were still no further forward on the spying aspect of the case.

I drove to Patricia’s house and round the block one more time to make sure that no one was following me before I stopped and parked the car a few hundred yards from the house, at twenty past seven. I kept my eyes peeled as I walked from the car to the front door. The man in the hat was nowhere to be seen. And yet still I had the feeling that I had not seen him for the last time.

XV

‘Hmm,’ Patricia said. She had finished her tomato soup and roast pork with sweet potatoes, but still listened carefully to my account of the day’s developments.

I had carried a small dilemma with me as I entered the house that day, but had resolved it by deciding to speak openly about my meeting with the head of the police security service and the suspicions that Per Johan Fredriksen may have been a spy.

I was fully aware that this formally constituted a breach of confidentiality, which could cost me my job if it was ever discovered. What surprised me was that I did not have any particular misgivings about it. I was absolutely certain that Patricia would never tell anyone. And given that, I saw it more or less as my duty to do all that I could to clear up a matter of such national importance. Furthermore, the case had become something of an obsession and the pressure was such that I was willing to go to pretty much whatever lengths necessary to solve it.

Patricia seemed to take it for granted that I told her everything and didn’t even look surprised. She had put her soup to one side and given a little nod when I mentioned the suspicions that Fredriksen was a spy, but that was the only reaction I registered.

‘So, where shall we begin?’ I asked, when the maid had disappeared with the leftovers of supper.

Patricia answered without hesitation: ‘At the beginning – in 1932!’

It was eight o’clock already and I was starting to worry that I might be late for my date with Miriam at half past. Patricia did not know about it, of course, and seemed to have all the time in the world. She thought for nearly a full minute before continuing.

‘It is possible there are some links here, but they are still so tenuous that it would be best to work with this as three separate murder mysteries. As far as 1932 is concerned, the picture is becoming a bit clearer, but not so clear that we can see the murderer’s face. The more we get to know about the great beauty Eva Bjølhaugen, the more she resembles Marilyn Monroe: she liked attention and played with the men who liked to give it to her. All three men desired her, and all three had been to her room. For now, up until a quarter past six, everything is clear…’

I was getting lost already. I said that according to Hauk himself, he had been there before half past five and Kjell Arne Ramdal was there between six and a quarter past six, but it was never said that Per Johan Fredriksen had been there.

Patricia gave a contemptuous snort before carrying on. ‘Of course he had. He wonders in his note who might have drowned Eva between six and eight. The only logical explanation for the time frame is that he went to see her just before six. So he was there some time before six, presumably with the same mission as Kjell Arne Ramdal, and obviously was equally unsuccessful. Even though both these assumptions are uncertain, we also know that Eva was alive and the bed still made up when Kjell Arne left the room at a quarter past six, and that she was alive until the bang which Solveig maintains she heard at half past seven. In which case, Eva had in the meantime gone to bed with a guest and then been killed either by that person or another guest. Do we agree so far? And in that case, do you have any suggestions as to who it might be?’

Just then there was a knock at the door. Patricia forced a rather tart smile as the maid came in and served us coffee and cakes, before slipping out again. My mind was whirring, but I could not come up with any possible candidates.

‘Well?’

Patricia’s voice was no less tart than her smile. I had to admit sheepishly that I could not suggest any names.

‘I agree with your summary, but cannot see where it goes from here. There is nothing to indicate which of the three was suddenly granted grace and why.’

Patricia nodded quickly, almost appreciatively.

‘Precisely. If two of the three enamoured young men had been rejected earlier, it would be natural to suspect the third. But when all three had received a rap on their trouser flies that afternoon, it’s apparently not so easy to see who, then, suddenly got their hands on the treat that everyone wanted…’

She paused for one of her most unsympathetic girlish titters. Once again, I thought to myself that a contemptuous seventeen-year-old still hid behind her more adult face. However, she quickly returned to her astonishingly mature and highly developed intellectual self once more.

‘It may seem strange, but I think I have an answer to the mystery of who went to bed with the beautiful Eva. The problem is: A, it is not entirely certain, and B, it does not necessarily give us the answer as to who killed her.’

Patricia sat lost in thought in her wheelchair, looking out into thin air, not meeting my eye. She moved her lips a couple of times as if to talk, before a sound finally came out.

‘No, it is too uncertain to say anything, even though I think I am right. I have to sleep on it. There are a couple of pieces that still need to fall into place. If you have time, confront Hauk with the new information and ask him outright if he had been to bed with Eva. It may be important both for him and the others who were there. And at the same time, ask him if she was religious. And also, even if it is not possible to find out to whom a hair belongs, you can usually tell whereabouts on the body it’s from, can’t you? In which case, I would like to know where those three hairs in Eva’s bed came from.’

I did not understand what she was getting at, but was used to Patricia asking strange questions that later proved to provide decisive answers. So I promised to check both things.

It was now a quarter past eight. I remembered my meeting with Miriam and felt the pressure mounting. So I asked if we could perhaps fast-forward to the present.

Patricia nodded and her face took on a more strained expression.

‘Yes, but there is less that is new here, unfortunately. There are still too many possibilities and too many details to verify them in relation to Per Johan Fredriksen’s death and that of Vera Fredriksen. And possibly also too many people with hidden faces…’

Patricia fell silent again. I remarked that the identification of the man in the hat and the fact that Per Johan Fredriksen was suspected of being a spy were important developments.

‘Yes, of course. The identification of the man in the hat is very interesting and rather unsettling. It not only indicates that Per Johan Fredriksen had crossed the line with his Soviet contacts, but also that they knew that he could be exposed. I would certainly like to know what made the police security service start to suspect him, but it would be no easy task to get an answer out of Asle Bryne. The espionage aspect of the case is highly sensitive. So you will just have to keep your ears open and your eyes peeled. In other circumstances, I would have said that it was most likely that Per Johan Fredriksen had been liquidated by a Soviet agent. But the method and place give rise to some questions. If the agent did kill him to avert a very untimely exposure, why did he kill him with a knife, and what did he talk to Fredriksen about before he killed him? If the agent came to Norway to murder Fredriksen, but wanted to avoid a scandal, why is he still here two days later? If it was to kill Fredriksen’s daughter, why on earth is he still here today, and how on earth did he find out about the story from 1932?’

Again, Patricia stopped to ponder before she continued. I finished off one of the small cakes and started to get very agitated about the time. As she still had not said anything by twenty past eight, I prompted her.

‘The office manager now also has a motive, does he not?’

She nodded. ‘Certainly. The office manager cannot explain everything, but he may be able to explain an important part that can unravel the rest. Fredriksen was clearly blackmailing him in some way. But the question is, how much of a motive does that give the office manager? Ask him about it. And ask the accountant at the same time. And when you are talking to them about it, also ask how long the boy on the red bicycle’s mother worked in the office and compare that with when her son was born. Ask the mother herself, if their answer is not good enough.’

This was taking a direction I had not even thought about until now. So I tried to follow the thread, though I was still somewhat reluctant to do so.

‘But – surely we have established that the mysterious woman in Fredriksen’s life in the mid-fifties was Solveig Ramdal. She confirmed it herself!’

Patricia let out a slightly exasperated sigh. ‘Nonsense. A chameleon like Fredriksen could quite easily conduct two extra-marital affairs at the same time, particularly if he only wanted to talk about the mysteries from 1932 with one of the women. It may be a coincidence. However, I am not yet willing to conclude that the boy on the red bicycle was simply a red herring in the investigation. The link is too strong, especially given that his mother worked in Fredriksen’s office at a time when Fredriksen found himself a new mistress. And given that her marriage had been childless for many years, and she then gave birth to a son around this time. So please do check this in the morning.’

Patricia picked up her first cake and took a bite, but did not seem to be happy with the taste.

‘A slightly technical question, which could be very important: were the floors in the hotel carpeted? Both in the hall and in the room?’

I answered straightaway: ‘Yes, in both places. I asked the receptionist, and he said there had been no changes there either.’

‘Excellent,’ Patricia said. She looked a bit happier when she took her second piece of cake. Rather abruptly, she added: ‘Another thing – if you are able to, check what is to be found in the archives about the court case against Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s father and what happened, before you speak to him. His family history may be relevant here, and there is something about Hauk and the way that the others perceive him that I cannot work out.’

I promised, somewhat distractedly, to do this. Then I asked if there was anything more she would like to discuss today – and stood up a little too fast when she said: ‘Sadly, no.’

It was now one minute to half past eight. Patricia still did not know that I had arranged to meet Miriam, but I could see in her eyes when I stood up that she suspected as much and she clearly disliked it intensely. The situation I found myself in was so uncomfortable it almost hurt.

XVI

I was ten minutes late when I opened the door to my flat. I had seen from outside that the light was on. Miriam had, as usual, kept her promise and arrived on time. When I came into the living room, she was sitting on the sofa in her usual reading position – with the big blue book about nineteenth-century Nordic literature. The book looked as though it might be some eight hundred pages long, but she only had about fifty pages left.

I went over to her, said that she was an impressively fast reader, and apologized that I was late, but it had been an unexpectedly busy day. She snapped the book shut, jumped from the sofa and said: ‘That’s OK. But why was it so long?’

I was not sure if she was actually asking whether I had been to see Patricia or not. As her name was not mentioned, I more than gladly took it to be a question about what had happened in the investigation. So I told her about the day’s meetings with the remaining members of the group from 1932, and with Fredriksen’s mistress and son.

I gave her a summary of the reasoning and conclusions in the case so far, without of course mentioning where they came from. Miriam got very excited when I explained how Fredriksen’s own explanation revealed between the lines that he too had gone to Eva’s room before six. She remarked again how well I was doing on my own. And again, we steered clear of mentioning Patricia.

I finished my account of the 1932 case by saying that we had therefore come a bit further, but were yet to identify who had been in Eva’s bed – and who had killed her.

Miriam showed a genuine interest in both questions, without being able to suggest any revolutionary solutions.

So far, so good. But all the time, I felt the weight of my spy dilemma. I knew without a doubt that Miriam was trustworthy through and through, but I still did not trust her in the way that I did Patricia. And I felt horribly guilty that I could show more faith in her than in my fiancée.

But Miriam clearly knew me too well as suddenly she said: ‘There’s something you are not telling me. Is there something about the investigation that you can’t share with me?’

At first I said: ‘Yes, I am sorry, but that is unfortunately the case.’

She looked disappointed, but nodded and said: ‘You know you can always trust me. But of course I understand if you can’t tell me. I just won’t be able to help you with it, I suppose.’

It was when I heard her say that, that my bad conscience got the better of me. I assured her that I trusted her wholeheartedly, but that she must never tell another living soul what I was going to tell her now.

She nodded eagerly, raised her chin and said: ‘Of course,’ then snuggled closer.

I thought to myself that the situation was actually becoming rather alarming, but it was too late now to turn back, and nor did I want to.

So I sat there on the sofa, close to my Miriam, and more or less whispered the story of my visit to the head of the police security service to her, and told her that Per Johan Fredriksen was suspected of being a spy.

I struggled with a horrible mix of feelings as I sat there. One moment I was terrified of the consequences this might have should it ever get out; the next, it felt right to be telling her. Miriam’s shoulders were permanently damaged by an injury she had sustained when trying to help me in my last case and her actions had very probably saved the current prime minister’s life. She had never let slip a word to anyone about what I had told her then. It did not feel right that I should now hide this from her – especially as it was no more than two hours since I had told another woman.

It made Miriam happy in her own way, without any great display of affection or gushing words. ‘Gosh, that really is a dramatic development,’ was all she said. Then she sat there deep in thought on the sofa. I could feel her body vibrating with tension.

Then suddenly she stood up and said: ‘I have a lecture at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, so I have to get to bed early. But I will think more on this tomorrow.’

I followed her to the door, and offered without success to drive her home. I was not sure whether it was her lecture tomorrow morning or my investigation she was thinking about, but it was obvious that she was mulling something over. Miriam’s eyes and voice were both unusually distant. She had the big blue book tucked under her arm. In the doorway on her way out, she said, to my joy, something that Patricia had not said today: ‘Good luck with the investigation. Remember to watch out for the man in the hat and any other dangers.’

I kissed her on the mouth, and almost replied that she had to stay; she couldn’t possibly leave me in such a frightening and unsafe situation. But I said nothing. Then suddenly she was gone, and I heard her quick steps disappear down the stairs.

I stood by the window and watched her go. I thought that I had never loved anyone as much as I loved Miriam, but I still felt pulled and stretched in every direction.

For the first time, it was not a disappointment to see Miriam disappear into the night. I had a sudden need to be alone and think about the investigation and my own life, though it could hardly be said that I made much progress with either. I managed to write a list of people I should talk to tomorrow in connection with the investigation. This included Hauk Rebne Westgaard, Ane Line Fredriksen and Lene Johansen, as well as the office manager Odd Jørgensen and the accountant Erling Svendsen. I was impatient to get on, but could not do much more tonight.

Physical exhaustion overwhelmed me without warning. It was eleven o’clock when I set the alarm for a quarter past seven, and went to bed. It was a matter of minutes before I was asleep.

On Wednesday, 22 March 1972, I fell asleep alone, safely locked in my own flat, but with a great deal of uncertainty about what tomorrow would bring. I tried to think about Miriam, but fell asleep with Patricia’s sharp, accusing eyes staring me down.