Chameleon People

I

The case was becoming more and more of an obsession. On Thursday, 23 March 1972, I leapt out of bed with the first ring of the alarm clock at a quarter past seven and rang Hauk Rebne Westgaard straightaway.

I guessed that he was an early bird, which quickly proved to be true. The telephone in Holmestrand was answered on the third ring.

I apologized for calling so early, then said that there were a number of new things in connection with Eva’s death in 1932 that I would like to discuss with him as soon as possible.

He replied that I could call him as early as I liked and could come to see him whenever it suited, if it would help to clarify what had happened when Eva died.

I took him at his word and said that I hoped to be there before ten.

The day’s newspapers were a less inspiring read. Arbeiderbladet used half the front page to cover the EEC debate and much of the rest was about the Government’s plans to establish a state-run oil company. Unfortunately, the murder case had crept onto the remaining space on the front page as it had in Aftenposten. Aftenposten was still positive about the way in which the police were dealing with the case. The newspaper reported that there might be ‘reason to question’ whether the investigation had the necessary resources. And if indeed it did not, whether the blame did not lie with ‘senior police officers’, but instead with the parliamentary majority who had not given the police enough resources.

I heaved a sigh of relief that neither the link to 1932, nor the possible links to the EEC question and espionage, had been discovered. At the same time, I shuddered to think what might happen if they were. It felt like this was the calm before the media storm. Something had to happen today.

All was quiet down at the station when I popped in. I picked up the paper bag with the three hairs in it from my pigeon hole. There was a short statement with it to say that it was head hair, but they could not use them to identify who they came from.

Neither my boss nor Danielsen had arrived yet, which suited me fine. I drove on to Holmestrand without waiting for them.

Today, however, I drove to Westgaard Farm via the sheriff’s office in Holmestrand. In the archives, I found a couple of yellowed pages about the transfer of Westgaard to Hauk. Having read them, I drove the last stretch faster than planned.

II

Westgaard looked just as peaceful and idyllic in the Vestfold landscape as it had the last time. And yet it felt like a different place when I got there at a quarter to ten. The weather was more overcast and neither the farmer nor the workers were anywhere to be seen. Not that this meant anything, of course. But it did feel rather ominous, nonetheless.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard had been waiting and opened the door within seconds of me ringing the bell. He was dressed in simple work clothes. His hat lay on the hat rack in the hall. I noted in passing that it was the same shape, if not the same colour, as the one worn by Alexander Svasnikov when he was following me around the streets of Oslo. Svasnikov’s hat was brown and this was green, but I thought to myself that on a dark street at night in Oslo, the hats could certainly look the same from a window.

We went into the living room. Almost instinctively, both Hauk Rebne Westgaard and I sat down in the same places as before with about three feet of table between us.

‘So, what brings you back to the farm today?’ my host asked.

I carefully put the bag with the hairs in it down on the table. He looked at me with bright anticipation, which faded as soon as I said that it was head hair from a person, but they could not establish the identity of the person from the hair. However, he perked up again when I said that we were starting to get an outline of what had happened. Up to the point it certainly seemed that Hauk Rebne Westgaard was genuinely interested in clearing up what had happened when his girlfriend died.

I told him in brief that Eva Bjølhaugen had in all probability been drowned in 1932. We had reason to believe that Per Johan Fredriksen had been in her room soon after Hauk himself, and that Kjell Arne Ramdal had been there after Fredriksen. However, we also had reason to believe that Ramdal left the room at a quarter past six, at which point, Eva had been unharmed and the bed untouched. We were now trying to establish what happened in the next two hours.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s eyes widened when I mentioned drowning, and he listened to everything that followed intently. When I said that I now had to ask him some personal questions and that the answers could be decisive in solving the case of his girlfriend’s murder, he quickly gave me the go-ahead.

‘All right, I will answer to the best of my abilities,’ he said, sitting up straight in his chair, his face serious in concentration.

I started tactfully by asking if Eva had been religious. He shook his head sharply.

‘Not particularly. She went to church at Christmas and Easter and the like, but did not have a strong Christian faith. In fact, her father despaired at her lack of faith. He was a little happier with her sister on that score, although never completely satisfied with either of them.’

This prompted me to ask what kind of relationship Eva had with her sister Oda.

‘Well, they were very different – the one blonde and gregarious, the other dark and taciturn. Eva was someone everyone noticed as soon as she walked into a room, and Oda was often the person you forgot being there at all. Eva dominated, despite being younger. They spent a lot of time together, but were often bickering. But that’s not unusual for sisters at that age, so I don’t think any of us gave it much thought.’

‘Eva liked attention, even after you became a couple.’

He gave an even sharper nod this time. ‘Absolutely. Eva got a lot of attention from a lot of men and was a rather self-centred young woman who didn’t say no. I took it all with a pinch of salt. I just thought I was lucky to have such a beautiful and attractive girlfriend. And I knew that she was a good girl, proper…’

He talked in a low and slightly tense voice. I increasingly got the feeling that this was leading somewhere.

‘Almost too proper, in fact,’ I pushed, gently.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard looked at me, his eyes still wide, and gave a barely discernible nod. It was the last encouragement I needed to spur me on.

‘Because the reason you were so upset and surprised about the hairs in Eva’s unmade bed, which you knew were not yours, was because you yourself had never been to bed with her.’

I fixed him with my gaze and thought about Patricia as I said this.

She was right again.

As I watched him, Hauk’s mask cracked and another person appeared. A vulnerable, unhappy and uncertain young man. His eyes filled with tears and his hands trembled violently. As did his voice when, eventually, he answered.

‘I had been to bed with her, but not like that. Not-’ He stopped and sat in silence for a moment, then carried on quickly. ‘I had not slept with her, no. And it became an obsession. She was my first girlfriend, the tension and expectations were so great. Day after day passed, week after week and month after month, with ever new excuses. To me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and she was so exciting and provocative. I knew that it would be over soon, but was determined that we could not split up before we had-’

He stopped again. I did not push him, but tried instead to coax him on whilst he remained in such an open and emotional mood.

‘And your life was not easy. So it felt as though the world was crashing down around you when she told you that she had fallen for someone else and wanted to end the relationship. Because that is what she said, isn’t it? She broke up with you and said that you would never get what you wanted most. You desired her and you hated her.’

I stared at him intensely. His nod was almost imperceptible, but his voice was controlled when he spoke.

‘Yes. That is what she said. I thought about throwing myself at her, but I didn’t. Instead, I turned around and fled. And I thought about knocking on her door later, but I didn’t. I hoped and prayed that she would have changed her mind by the time we went down to dinner. But she never came down. When we went up to her room, she was dead. I still do not know who was in bed with her before she died. And nor do I know who killed her. Please tell me if you know. Please.’

Hauk Rebne Westgaard talked in short bursts and stared straight ahead with a distant look in his eyes as he spoke.

I believed him. And I thought that if what he said was true, here was a man who had dedicated his adult life to his family and their land – without ever experiencing any physical love himself.

I did not think that Hauk Rebne Westgaard had killed his girlfriend in 1932, but could still not tell him who had. So I said that I was working on it and would let him know as soon as I could, and then continued with my questioning.

‘Some other things happened in 1932. It was not just your girlfriend who died, but your father as well. You gave me some false information the last time we spoke.’

I took out the Photostat copies of the documents from the sheriff’s office and laid them on the table between us.

‘Your father was not declared of unsound mind by the court. He died in what the sheriff described, after a short investigation, as an accident, having fallen from a cliff onto the rocks below, here on the property. But it was not an accident, was it?’

It was a challenging question that once again caused an abrupt change in mood. Within seconds, Hauk Rebne Westgaard took on a third face, one without tears or sorrow. It was a ruthless and cynical face. His eyes suddenly ceased to blink. And his voice was hard, almost threatening, when he spoke.

‘My father lived on the edge of insanity and was about to drink away the farm and himself to death. The court would have declared him of unsound mind. However, the hearing was postponed for several weeks as the judge was ill, so a new judge had to be appointed. And in the meantime, the ground was burning beneath our feet. My father was mad and would believe anything. The day before he had given away half an acre for a saucepan. In his confused and drunken state, he would often wander to all kinds of places, in all kinds of weather. It was slippery up there by the cliff, and when the rain had stopped there was no trace that anyone else had been there. So the sheriff quickly concluded that it had been an accident and that he had slipped and lost his footing. Everyone agreed that that must be what had happened.’

The shadow of a crooked smiled slipped over Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s lips when he said this. I was sitting out of his reach with a loaded gun and as far as I could see, he was unarmed. And yet I found it alarming to be sitting opposite him.

I remembered what Patricia had said about chameleon people and thought that I had certainly seen Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s other faces. It struck me then that I had discovered that one of the five people still alive from 1932 was indeed a murderer, only it was a murder that had nothing to do with my investigation.

I heard myself say: ‘But even though everyone agreed that that was how your father died, it was not.’

Hauk Rebne Westgaard stared at me without seeing, without blinking. Again, a hard, almost mocking smile played on his lips before he answered.

‘It could well be that you are right. But if anyone pushed my father to his death, it couldn’t be proved now. And what is more, the limitation period expired years ago. And it is in no way connected to the murders that you are investigating. For my part, I think about it as little as possible and hope that others do the same.’

This almost sounded like a threat, coming from Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s mouth. He realized this himself and raised an apologetic hand to show that it was not meant as such.

So there we sat, with this peculiar balance of power between us. He knew that I knew, and I knew that I could not pursue the case in any way. We were both right. The fact that I knew what had happened, and that he knew what was true, was of no practical importance.

‘Your father’s death was a saving grace not only for you, but also for your sister,’ I said.

He nodded quickly, and blinked his eyes for what felt like the first time since we had started to talk about his father’s passing.

‘I see my father’s death as inevitable, given his state of mind at the time. But I also believe that it was a saving grace for several people – not least Inger.’

I nodded pensively and said that events that were relevant to this year’s investigation were of course of more interest right now. Then I asked if he had anything more to add to his statement about Eva’s death.

He looked me straight in the eye and said: ‘No.’

Without looking away, I said: ‘You could still have murdered Per Johan Fredriksen last Saturday – if you had found out that it was he who killed Eva, and perhaps also if you had found out that it was he who had been in her bed.’

He did not flinch, and replied: ‘I could have. But I still do not know who killed Eva or who was in her bed. I have no idea who killed Per Johan. I was on my way back here when he was killed.’

That was the last thing that was said. He remained sitting at the table, while I stood up and left.

I had been sitting there face to face with a person who had killed his own father – and never regretted it. It was a frightening experience. Now I understood a little more of what Per Johan Fredriksen had meant, if he really had said that his childhood friend Hauk was a man he both respected and feared.

III

As I was driving out of Holmestrand at around eleven o’clock, I could tell that my working day was going to be long and busy. So I stopped at a telephone box and rang Ane Line Fredriksen at home. She picked up on the second ring.

‘Hello, hello. Who is calling me?’ said an unexpectedly happy and curious voice at the other end.

It was both calming and refreshing. I quickly expressed my condolences for her sister’s death, and said that I had some more questions that I would like to ask her as soon as she had the time and felt able to meet me. I added that I also had some new information that she might be interested to know.

Whether it was the offer of new information that made all the difference was unclear, but the response was certainly very positive. Ane Line Fredriksen said that she had done what she could for the moment, regarding the funeral arrangements, and that right now she was sitting sorting out some party matter. She could come to my office as soon as she managed to find a friend who could babysit. One o’clock should be fine, if that suited?

I had no sooner said that it would be fine, before she replied: ‘Great. See you at one, then. Now let me find a babysitter’ – and put down the phone. I did not even have time to ask which party she worked for. After the phone call, I sat in the car and speculated for a few minutes, but soon the investigation took hold of my attention again and I carried on to Oslo, driving straight to the offices of Per Johan Fredriksen A/S.

IV

The offices were just as short of space as last time and the faces, as far as I could see, were the same. The office manager was just finishing his lunch, which comprised a cup of coffee, two doughnuts and a piece of cake, but he threw down his serviette as soon as he saw me through the glass door.

The situation was all a bit awkward. The man gave me a friendly smile and made the time to talk to me, even though there was a huge pile of contracts and an even bigger pile of other papers on his desk. And I had a letter in my pocket where the same man confessed to embezzlement. I was here to ask critical questions that might determine whether he was not only a human chameleon, but also a murderer.

So I braced myself, and said that I had a few more questions for him. He said that he was more than happy to answer them, but that we should perhaps call in Svendsen, the accountant, straightaway as well.

I said, in a hushed voice, that I had to ask about something that involved him personally, in connection with a document that had been found in Fredriksen’s estate.

The office manager sank a little deeper into his chair. I could see beads of sweat break out on his forehead. But he managed to control himself and replied, in an equally hushed voice, that he would definitely prefer it if Svendsen were part of the conversation.

I said that was fine and let Svendsen in, who just happened to be standing outside the office door.

It was when Svendsen came in and sat down on the chair beside Jørgensen, only to pull it a little closer, that I understood the relationship between them. To be precise, it was when the accountant laid a protective, almost loving hand, on the office manager’s shoulder. The contact lasted barely a second, but it was long enough and clear enough for me to understand.

I started by asking a straightforward question as to whether there was any news on the takeover plans.

They both nodded in sync. Nothing had been signed yet, but Johan Fredriksen had called, on behalf of the inheritors, and asked if they could go through the conditions and draw up a contract for signature the next day. The heirs had decided that it would be good to clarify the situation without delay. And the administration was in agreement, Svendsen said. But he didn’t smile and Jørgensen looked rather upset.

In anticipation of the change in ownership and new guidelines, any tenants in arrears would now have a further fourteen days, at least, to settle any outstanding payments, the office manager explained tactfully. They would be sending out a letter about it today, but I could certainly mention it to Mrs Lene Johansen, if I happened to talk to her, the accountant added helpfully.

This reminded me of Patricia’s question about the relationship between Lene Johansen and Fredriksen. I asked the office manager if he could remember roughly when Lene Johansen had worked there.

He furrowed his brow, pulled a file from one of the shelves, and flicked through it at remarkable speed.

‘She started here in May 1954, on ten hours a week. That did not give her much time to clean the whole floor here, but she was so happy to have something permanent. As far as I understood, her husband was not doing very well and money was short. She resigned in September 1956, as she was going to have a child. It was a very pleasant meeting, I remember. I said that it was a shame that she had to resign, but it was for a very good reason. She smiled and said that it was a much-longed-for child and that she had been trying for ten years. Erling and I talked about it on the odd occasion later and hoped that she and the child were well. It was very sad for us to witness their sorry fate.’

Tor Johansen, an only child with a speech impediment and limp, had been born in February 1957. It was rather a striking coincidence that Mrs Johansen, who had been childless for so many years, only became pregnant while she was working here.

I looked directly at Odd Jørgensen and asked if he thought that there might have been some kind of relationship between Fredriksen and Mrs Johansen.

Jørgensen and Svendsen exchanged glances. Then Jørgensen replied: ‘I can neither confirm nor deny it, but now that you mention it, I did actually wonder myself at the time. There was one evening in the autumn of 1955 when I had been working late in the office, and was surprised when I left to discover that Fredriksen was still here. He had stopped to chat to Mrs Johansen while she worked. She was young and full of the joys of life back then, and was no doubt an attractive woman. I noticed him smile in a way I had never seen him smile before. But none of us really know the truth of the matter.’

I thanked him for this information. It was not confirmation, but definitely gave grounds for another conversation with Mrs Johansen. There were more and more strange little coincidences springing up in this case.

And now I could not postpone the inevitable. I put Jørgensen’s confession down on the desk and asked him to explain.

It was not a pleasant sight. The kind and apparently confident office manager broke down without even looking at the piece of paper. He collapsed forwards onto the desk and sat there with his face buried in his hands. He stayed like this for a minute or so, until the accountant gently put his arm across his rounded shoulders. This helped. The office manager slowly straightened up in his chair again.

I waited with a thumping heart to hear if he would now confess to murder. But he did not. When Odd Jørgensen did eventually speak, he only talked about the document.

‘What can I say, other than that I have hoped and prayed in recent days that that piece of paper, which I have lived in fear of for seven years now, had somehow miraculously disappeared. That piece of paper is a reminder of the only mistake I have made in my forty-five years as a law-abiding citizen, and it will now affect the rest of my life.’

I said, carefully, that it would be up to the heirs and possibly the public prosecutor to decide whether it was something they wanted to pursue or not, and that given the type of crime, the limitation period had probably elapsed.

Jørgensen shook his head and pointed out of the window.

‘Perhaps the public prosecutor will not bother with it, but the wolves out there will. And neither Ramdal, nor anyone else, will want an office manager who has embezzled funds. The sector has its channels and blacklists. If this got out, I would be lucky to find a job as a clerk. That is what Fredriksen said, that day in 1965. “If this ever leaves these four walls, Jørgensen, you are done for.” That is what he said. And he was right, of course.’

Once again, the office manager planted his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands. And once again the accountant laid his arm protectively round his shoulders. I had understood the secret of the relationship between them now. And they had both understood that I had understood. Certainly, none of us wished to go into any further detail. Instead, we continued to talk about the confession.

I told Jørgensen that it might not be necessary for it to become publicly known, but the best thing he could do now would be to tell me the truth.

‘The truth is, in short, that I am a weak person who made a fatal error of judgement and, for very personal reasons, embezzled a large amount of money from the company. It was meant as a loan just for a few weeks while I waited for a bank loan to be sorted out, but I was found out. Fredriksen didn’t go to the police. He let me keep my job, but demanded that I pay back the money the same day – and that I sign a confession, in the event that he might have a need for it later.’

I asked why he had done it. The office manager replied that it was highly personal. For once, he was contradicted by the accountant.

‘You are too hard on yourself and too kind to others, Odd,’ he said, in a quiet voice.

Then he turned to me and spoke normally. ‘It was not for Odd, but for my mother. She had been diagnosed with a cancer that could not be treated in Norway. Our only hope was a doctor in a private hospital in the USA, who had saved several patients with the same type of cancer, despite patients being diagnosed as terminal. My mother had no income. I am an only child and as a recent graduate did not have the means to help her. It was a matter of days, and no bank was willing to give us such a big loan in time. Odd desperately wanted to help me save my mother. He asked his employer for a loan – and borrowed the money anyway when Fredriksen, who was a multi-millionaire, said no.’

‘Erling never asked me to do it, and did not know about it either. It was my decision and my mistake,’ Odd Jørgensen said, with his face hidden in his hands.

‘But it was my mother – and for my sake. And you did nothing wrong, Odd. You did what you thought best. It was Fredriksen who not only proved how heartless he was, but also cynically used the opportunity to exploit us.’

‘And what about your mother?’ I asked, gently.

This gave rise to more tears from the office manager, who was clearly the more emotional of the two. The accountant had kept his composure throughout, but his voice was hard, brusque and angry when he answered.

‘Fredriksen demanded to have the money back the same day, and he got it. My mother never got to the doctor in the US. She died in Oslo a few months later.’

‘So, the short version is: Fredriksen’s heartless exploitation of the situation meant that you, Erling, lost your mother and you, Odd, have lived with the constant threat of scandal and being fired. And you both had to carry on working here year after year for poor pay.’

They both nodded.

‘We hated him and hoped that when the day came he would go straight to hell!’ the office manager said with unexpected intensity.

The accountant agreed in his concise, controlled manner.

I said that on a human level, I could understand that, but that I was duty-bound to ask them both where they were when Fredriksen was killed last Saturday evening.

They looked at each other – then there was a fleeting smile before they were both serious again.

‘We were where we always are on Saturday evenings. Together at Erling’s, behind closed doors,’ Odd Jørgensen said quietly and discreetly.

I found the situation rather embarrassing and awkward. But I looked at Erling Svendsen and asked where he lived.

‘I have a small one-bedroom flat in Eilert Sund’s Street,’ he replied, and then was suddenly quiet.

A heavy silence sank over the room. I sat and wondered whether it was just a coincidence that Eilert Sund’s Street was in Majorstuen, within walking distance of Jacob Aall’s Street and the corner of Kirk Road where Fredriksen had been stabbed.

Between the two piles of paper on Jørgensen’s desk lay a pipe and a box of matches. I had a sudden impulse to strike a match and burn Jørgensen’s confession. But I already had more than enough problems in terms of the investigation and did not need to add burning material evidence to the list. Furthermore, I was no longer sure that one of the two men sitting here, alarmingly close, had not taken the matter into their own hands and killed their much-hated boss. They had already admitted that they despised him. And the visit from the boy on the red bicycle’s mother a few days earlier must have been an uncomfortable reminder of just how heartless Per Johan Fredriksen could be when it came to business and other people.

I told them that I had to take the confession with me and that it would be up to the Fredriksen family and the potential new owner to decide what they wanted to do about the matter. I thanked them for their statements and requested that they both stay in town until the investigation into Fredriksen’s death had been closed.

They both nodded again. When I looked back from the doorway, Svendsen had put his arm around Jørgensen, which produced a small smile from the office manager. And I thought to myself that in the midst of all this tragedy, it was a touching picture of care and love between two people. I then again thought that one or both of these two hard-pressed men could have committed murder. I closed the door behind me and left without looking back.

V

It was a busy day for both me and the other people involved in the case. At two minutes past one, I was back in my office. Four minutes later, Ane Line Fredriksen came striding in at an admirable pace.

‘Sorry it took a bit longer than expected to find a babysitter. The lack of childcare in this city is a scandal – something needs to be done about it. What have you got to tell me?’ she said, without drawing breath. Then she sat down, without me having asked, and leaned across the desk towards me.

Once again, I thought that there was something refreshingly enthusiastic, direct and dynamic about the thirty-year-old redhead. Dressed in jeans and a green hand-knitted sweater, she seemed remarkably unaffected by the fact that she had lost both her father and her sister in the past five days, and as a result was about to inherit a fortune.

I tried to start gently by thanking her for coming at such short notice, and by asking which party she worked for.

She smiled cheerfully, pointed at her red hair and replied: ‘The Socialist People’s Party. I inherited my political zeal from Father, but not my political views. I doubt that there is anyone in our family who agrees politically, in fact. I’m sure Mother always voted the same as Father, but she is actually totally disinterested in politics. Johan refuses to say who he votes for, but surely it’s Conservative, and Vera always leaned towards the Liberals, or something equally tame in the centre.’

I could not help but ask if she knew my fiancée, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen, through the SPP. She nodded energetically.

‘Yes, of course I do. Everyone knows Miriam – she more or less lives in the party office. Oh, so you are the mysterious boyfriend she never wants to talk about? I tried to ask her last year if she had a boyfriend, and she just said yes and stopped there. How exciting. How did you meet?’

I knew that Miriam did not like to talk about her private life either at university or in the party office, and I understood perfectly why she played down her relationship with a well-known policeman in those circles. So I gave her a simple, short answer and said that it had been in connection with an earlier murder investigation, and it was a long story that she would have to hear another time.

Ane Line Fredriksen looked as though she wanted to hear the long story straightaway. But a natural curiosity can quickly be turned in different directions and she listened intently and almost reverently to my account of the investigation into her father’s murder. Then all of a sudden her eyes brimmed with tears at the mention of her sister.

‘It was of course very sad with Father. But with Vera it is different – tragic. Vera has always been so fragile, physically and mentally. My brother and I had both thought and spoken briefly about the possibility that she would go before us. But then, only a few days after Father… No, it was unexpected and just dreadful. It feels terrible to have lost your only sister in that way without the chance to say goodbye.’

I used the opportunity to ask quickly when she had last spoken to her sister.

‘The evening before – and then we only spoke about Father’s funeral, the inheritance, practical things like that. It was a strange evening. Mother was distant and close to tears every time Father was mentioned. Johan was relatively together, but really only concerned with making a decision about the takeover that was weighing so heavily on him. We did not speak on the day she died. Though I do think she tried to call me.’

I immediately asked how she could know that.

‘There was a phone call at home around three, but I did not manage to pick up on time. Of course, I don’t know that it was Vera, but it was not Mother, Johan or my ex. If it was anyone else, they didn’t call back again later.’

I jumped slightly in my chair. Then I said that the timing fitted well with the phone calls that we knew had been made from the hotel.

This upset Ane Line Fredriksen even more. She had no idea what her sister might have wanted to say to her – and no explanation as to why her sister appeared to have called her and not her brother or mother.

Ane Line Fredriksen spoke quickly and was visibly upset; it felt possible that she might now give away secrets. So I pushed on.

‘The relationship between you and your sister was not the best, was it?’

This worked. She talked even faster and got even more upset. ‘Who said that? My mother? My brother? Both of them?’

The way Ane Line Fredriksen looked at me felt almost threatening. I answered with a counter-attack and said that I was unfortunately not at liberty to say, but that I would like to have an answer for the purposes of the investigation.

‘My family need to get a grip, they really do. I cared more about Vera and rang her more frequently than they both did. Mother only had eyes for Father, and my brother only had eyes for the mirror. It is true that we have argued a bit recently, yes. Smart girls like Vera have to be braver and stand up for their rights if there is ever going to be any equality in society. I told her as much, and said that she must not give any money to that slippery boyfriend of hers. She was indifferent about the former and vehemently disagreed with the latter. So yes, we had argued a bit recently, but no, we did not hate each other.’

I still liked Ane Line Fredriksen the best of the remaining members of the Fredriksen family. I thought she was a refreshingly engaging and honest person. But I felt less convinced of her honesty right now. Ane Line Fredriksen had just earned roughly thirty million kroner as a result of the deaths this week, she had argued with her sister, she was probably one of the people her sister had tried to contact a few hours before her death, and she clearly had a lively temperament.

So I said that as a matter of procedure I had to ask her if she had an alibi for the time of both her father’s and sister’s deaths.

She looked as though she was in danger of exploding. She shot forwards in her chair and boomed: ‘For goodness’ sake, man! Are you accusing me of killing my father and Vera?’

I was slightly taken aback by her reaction, but replied with measured calm: ‘For the moment, I am not accusing anyone of having killed either of them. I am trying to find out who did, and it is then a matter of procedure to ask everyone in the victim’s closest family for an alibi. It is clearly written in all police rules and guidelines.’

Strictly speaking, the latter was a slight exaggeration, but it did the trick perfectly. Ane Line Fredriksen calmed down in record time. She leaned back in her chair again and answered in a much quieter, slower voice: ‘Very well, if it is standard practice and included in the rules. When Father was killed on Saturday evening, I was at home with my daughter. She went to bed at seven, after which I sat alone working on some party matter until the priest came to my door at eleven. When Vera died, I was at home all day with my daughter until I took her to my ex-husband and his parents at around three o’clock. Then I drove home again and was on my own until a friend came to see me at five.’

I had hoped her alibis would be watertight. But they were not. It was becoming frustratingly hard to rule anyone out in this case.

I changed tack and said that there was something in connection with the company that she should perhaps know about. She nodded attentively and listened closely, leaning further across the desk as I told her the story of the office manager and the accountant. Her face was barely a ruler’s length from me, so I could see the tears when I told her that the accountant’s mother had died.

I put the confession down on the desk and said that it was up to her and her family to decide whether they wanted to report the case or not.

I had made a Photostat of the confession, in case it should prove to be relevant to the murder investigation, and I was glad that I had. Ane Line Fredriksen looked quickly at the confession, shed a couple more tears, then she produced a blue lighter from her pocket and set fire to it.

I did not try to stop her. We sat in silence and watched the confession burn.

I said with due care that the crime had taken place some time ago, but that she should at least discuss it with her brother.

‘My brother has so much to think about right now. He can concentrate on the figures and I will look after the people,’ she said, and winked almost mischievously at me.

‘It really was indecently greedy and heartless of my father. He clearly had many aspects to his personality that we, his family, did not see,’ she added quickly, with an angry shake of her head.

I said that there was one thing about her father that perhaps she should know. Again, she nodded attentively – then asked what it was, when I paused for a few seconds.

The suspicions that he was a spy were still strictly confidential. But I thought perhaps it was time to test his daughter’s reactions to the possibility that Per Johan Fredriksen had thought about changing party and sides in the EEC debate.

I did not have to wait long for her reaction. She thumped the desk with her fist and the rest of her shot up from the chair before she carried on in a very indignant voice.

‘Surely you can’t be serious? The Centre Party is one thing. But to change sides in the EEC debate would have been comparable to high treason for all concerned – including me and the rest of the family. That was the only thing we agreed on. Father came from farming stock, and knew what membership of the EEC would mean for lots of farmers. And he had been elected and re-elected to the Storting and as head of the Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs on the promise that he would oppose Norwegian membership.’

I said that all things being equal, it was apparently true. He also feared that if he did not, he would lose his seat in the Storting.

‘All the same… what an egocentric idiot, liar and political cheat. If you have no more questions for me, I have to get out into the fresh air before I throw up on your desk.’

Without waiting to hear if I had any more questions, she stood up and marched out of my office.

I thought to myself that she would hardly have behaved like this if she had killed Per Johan Fredriksen, no matter whether it was because of the inheritance or the EEC question. But it had clearly demonstrated to me that the EEC debate really could stir up strong feelings – and that Ane Line Fredriksen was a very complex person.

The day’s edition of Verdens Gang had arrived and proved to be more critical than the morning papers. ‘Despite all the respect that Detective Inspector Kolbjørn “K2” Kristiansen has earned’, there was reason to ask if more resources were not needed, as the investigation seemed to be very modest, given that both a leading politician and his daughter had been killed within the space of a few days. According to the newspaper, ‘K2’s reputation could take a nosedive’ if the investigation did not produce any concrete results before the week was out. However, the report did finish with the hope that the investigation was progressing and an expression of deepest sympathy for the victims’ family.

VI

I had to make two telephone calls. I made the one I was looking forward to least as soon as the office door had closed behind Ane Line Fredriksen. It was to Edvard Rønning Junior, the lawyer. I got hold of him without trouble at the offices of Rønning, Rønning, Rønning & Rønning. I said that there were some developments in the case that he should be informed of, and as a result of these, some questions that I would like to ask his client, Lene Johansen.

Rønning Junior replied that he had expected to hear from me sooner, but that of course he appreciated that I had telephoned him now and that he would come in person with his client. There were certain practical problems involved in contacting his client, as she did not have a telephone or work anywhere with access to one. She did, however, ring him at three o’clock every day, and he could ask her then if she would be able come to the station with him at four. I asked him to do that, and he promised with relative goodwill to call me back if it was not possible to meet today.

Then at five to two, I called Patricia. I said that it was rather short notice, but there was a good deal of new information and I would appreciate talking to her as soon as possible.

She said that the maid should be able to rustle up some coffee with fifteen minutes’ notice.

I thanked her and said I would be there as soon as possible.

We hung up at the same time without saying any more. I thought that the case, after a hesitant start, now seemed to be of interest to Patricia. So I got up, rushed out to my car and drove to Frogner.

VII

At a quarter past two, I was sitting in my usual place opposite Patricia in her library. Coffee, cakes and biscuits had been put out on the table, but not touched by either of us. Patricia listened in silence for twenty minutes as I told her the most important things from my meetings with Hauk Rebne Westgaard, the office manager Jørgensen and accountant Svendsen, and Ane Line Fredriksen.

‘Good work in such a short time. But for the moment, the result is in fact more potential murderers for this year’s killings, rather than fewer,’ she said briskly with some frustration.

I had to agree with that.

‘What about the hairs from 1932?’ Patricia asked.

I told her that they were head hairs, but that it was not possible to establish from whom.

Patricia sighed with frustration. ‘There really is not much help coming from anywhere in this case. Which leaves a theoretical doubt. With regards to who was in Eva’s bed just before she died, the picture is now so clear that we should confront the person directly. After today’s adventures, you no doubt know who it is?’

The challenge was unexpected. I had absolutely no idea who had been in Eva’s bed. And I could not understand how I was supposed to know after the day’s events.

I thought that it had to be either something Ane Line Fredriksen had said which revealed that it was her father, or something Hauk Rebne Westgaard had said that revealed that it was him. My guess was that it was Per Johan Fredriksen.

Patricia shook her head. It crossed my mind that no one could shake their head with such mild condescension and captivating arrogance as Patricia. She grabbed a pen and wrote something down on her notepad, which she kept hidden behind her coffee cup.

‘It is sometimes alarming to discover what conservative mental barriers even relatively young and enlightened people can set for themselves in this day and age,’ she said with a mocking smile as she held up the piece of paper.

I stared at it and immediately forgave Patricia for mocking me. I had to agree that even relatively young and enlightened people in 1972 could still have conservative mental blocks. And that I should have worked this out on the basis of what I had heard earlier, if not before that.

VIII

The wall clock struck three as I stepped into the hall of the Ramdals’ house in Frognerkilen. I stood face to face with Kjell Arne Ramdal, who appeared to be on his way out.

As was to be expected, he did not smile, but nor did he express any kind of concern or displeasure at seeing me again. He simply informed me that he had come home for a meal because he had an important business meeting that was starting in half an hour.

I said that it was actually his wife I needed to speak to this time.

He nodded briskly and went on his way without showing any interest whatsoever in what I might want to talk to his wife about.

So there I was in the hallway with Solveig Ramdal. She very definitely did not look happy to see me, but kept up appearances nonetheless and said: ‘Welcome back. Let’s go into the living room again.’ She closed the door, even though we were alone in the house. This little detail reinforced my impression that I was on the right track, and it was a very important one.

‘So, what news from the investigation?’ she asked as she went over to the leather chair.

I went on the offensive and told her that we now knew who had been in the bed together with Eva just before she died, thanks to, among other things, new analyses of the hairs that had been found there.

‘I see,’ Solveig Ramdal said, looking straight at me. There was no great change in her demeanour, but a slight tension in her voice galvanized me into making that final leap.

‘And so we discovered that you have lied to me in all your previous statements. The mysterious man in Eva’s bed was not your husband, or Per Johan Fredriksen or Hauk Rebne Westgaard. It was you.’

I knew before I had even finished that I had hit the bull’s eye, with Patricia’s good help.

Solveig Ramdal started as if she had received an electric shock. Then suddenly she transformed into a wild cat. She was almost ready to leap from her chair, her fingers curled like claws. And when she replied, she hissed more than spoke.

‘You must never tell another living soul – or it could be all the worse for you!’

I was prepared to defend myself physically if she moved in my direction. But she did not; I was at least four stone heavier than her and she was unarmed. But she looked like a wild animal in a cage as she remained seated on her chair, hissing, quivering, and staring at me with pure hatred. I waited a few seconds to reflect before I continued.

‘I do not want to create any problems in your private life, only to solve the murders. You have lied to me on several occasions in the course of this investigation, and threatening me now does not make your situation any better. In your own interests, you should just tell me the truth about what happened, immediately.’

Solveig Ramdal sat there fuming for a few seconds more. Suddenly she burst into tears. She sat with her face buried in her hands. After a couple of minutes she regained her composure, lowered her hands and spoke in a weak voice.

‘I am so sorry, I was desperate and not thinking clearly. For the past forty years, my worst nightmare has been that my secret would get out one day. My husband and children must never know. Yes, that’s right, I was in bed with Eva shortly before she died. She had asked me to come to her room at half past six. It was only a few minutes before we were in bed. We knew only too well that we did not have much time. At ten past seven, I sneaked out of her room and back into my own. She was alive and unharmed when I left her. I got up and dressed, while she lay in the bed naked. She smiled when she said “see you soon”. She did not say that she was expecting any more visitors. What happened after I left, I have no idea. What I said about hearing a bang at half past seven is true. I heard a bang and got worried, but hoped that it was nothing dramatic. I was terrified that we would be discovered and didn’t dare go into her room again to find out what had happened. It has haunted me ever since. Not knowing if I could have saved Eva if I had gone back. But I did not kill her. On the contrary, I loved her.’

This did not sound entirely implausible.

‘So that’s the story? Eva liked the attention of men, but in truth loved only women. And that was true of you too?’

She nodded and shook her head at the same time.

‘Yes and no. Eva only loved women and the attention, of course – or at least, that is what she told me. I thought at the time that I only loved women, but I realized afterwards that I could love both men and women. My experience with Eva and her death was a shock. I have since only been to bed with two men: my first fiancé and my husband. I tell myself that Solveig Thaulow was attracted to women, whereas Solveig Ramdal is quite normal and only loves men. It was a folly of my youth, but I have lived in fear ever since as a result. My husband and his family are very conservative and have spoken with utter disgust about women who are attracted to women. And the children are more like my husband than me. If this were to get out, I would not only risk divorce and being thrown out of my home, but also losing any contact with my family. So I beg you with all my heart not to let this go any further!’

She said this in an almost breathless whisper. Then she was silent and looked even smaller where she sat hunched up in a chair that was suddenly too big. The wild cat had vanished, and left in its place was a small, trembling kitten. The kitten did not look in the slightest bit dangerous, but I had seen the furious wild cat that also lay hidden in Solveig Ramdal. And I did not doubt that it could kill if it felt threatened and was given the opportunity.

We were caught in an uncomfortable situation, just as I had been with her husband the day before. Solveig Ramdal could not prove to me that Eva Bjølhaugen had been alive when she left the hotel room that day in 1932. I could not prove the opposite. We still only had Solveig Ramdal’s word for the bang at half past seven.

The limitation period for the murder in 1932 had long since elapsed and it was really only interesting in terms of the investigation because of its relevance to the murders in 1972. The story that Solveig Ramdal had now told me did not give her a new motive for the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen. On the other hand, it did give her a possible motive for killing Vera Fredriksen, if she had been about to uncover what actually happened in 1932. And that was true regardless of whether she had killed Eva Bjølhaugen, or just gone to bed with her.

I promptly changed tack, looked her straight in the eye and asked if she would now like to change her statement regarding the day Vera Fredriksen died.

And because we were looking straight into each other’s eyes, we both knew what happened next. She was confused and hesitated for a few seconds too long to be able to lie afterwards. So she bit her lip and answered.

‘Yes, I am afraid that I have to do that as well. Apart from the fact that we both had our clothes on, it is a very similar story forty years on. I was in the hotel room and met Vera, and it must have been shortly before she was killed. But she too was alive and unharmed when I left. And again, it was she who asked me to come, but all we did was talk for a few minutes.’

I asked for more details about what happened. Solveig Ramdal continued without stopping to think. Either she was telling the truth, or her mind worked very quickly.

‘I knew Vera a little, but it was still a surprise when she rang me. She said that she had found a document in her father’s desk that might shed some light on what had happened in 1932. She had gone to the hotel herself and thought that what her father had written could be true. But she wanted to discuss it with someone who had been there at the time, before going to the police. I didn’t know what she knew, but was panicked that she might know my secret and reveal it. So I said that I would get there as quickly as I could. I was beside myself with desperation. Then I put a tea towel over the receiver, rang the hotel and reserved a hotel room, pretending to be a neurotic.’

She stopped for a moment and looked at me expectantly, but carried on hastily when I waved her on.

‘The receptionist was not a stickler for rules and regulations, and I managed to get to my room without being seen. I met Vera, who was very agitated indeed. She only talked about the murder and there was nothing to indicate that she knew about my little secret. She had left the document in her father’s desk. But she told me that his theory was that Eva had been drowned and that it was my husband who had killed her. Vera said that she wanted to tell me before she went to the police, to tell them about this theory. I said that I appreciated it, and told her the truth – that I was not aware that my husband had committed murder, but could not rule it out either. I said that she should tell the police if she knew anything that might be relevant to her father’s death, but said that I would appreciate it if she did not mention our conversation. She promised not to, and we parted as friends around half past three. She was full of life and standing in the middle of the room when I left.’

She was breathing very heavily, but she held my eye as she spoke.

‘So what you are saying is that when you went to the hotel, you had planned for a situation where you were willing to kill Vera Fredriksen if she was about to reveal your secret? And you claim that that situation never arose?’

Solveig Ramdal started slightly, but managed to keep impressive control over her voice.

‘What I am saying, very clearly, is that no such situation arose and I did not kill Vera Fredriksen. What I thought and imagined about the various situations that never arose is a matter for me, my conscience and God.’

Solveig Ramdal let out a long breath, then looked at me with pleading eyes. She gave a curt ‘no’ in answer to my question as to whether she had anything to add to her earlier statement about the day on which Per Johan Fredriksen died.

I thought that this made the picture of what happened in 1932 and 1972 clearer, but frustratingly didn’t make it any clearer who might have committed the murders. Solveig Ramdal could be lying and she could have carried out one or both of the murders. But I had no proof. If her story was true, it gave me few leads. In fact, Vera Fredriksen’s death became even more of a riddle. Given that Solveig Ramdal was the mysterious hotel guest and that the three telephone calls that Vera Fredriksen had made were to her mother, Solveig Ramdal and me, it was even more puzzling how and why the murderer had gone to the hotel. This weakened the credibility of her story, but did not disprove it.

Solveig Ramdal appeared to have fully regained control when she spoke again.

‘I understand that my position is pretty weak and I would appear untrustworthy. So I can only hope that you soon find out the truth about all these murders, as it will prove that I did not kill anyone. I have lied to you in our previous conversations, for which I apologize profusely. But there was a danger that I would be accused of a murder I did not commit, or that the secret of a mistake in my youth would be uncovered and ruin my life. In the past few days I have thought a great deal about how people react in different situations. Even though it might take different forms, I believe that most people would, like me, do whatever they could to save their own skins. You can call it egotism, if you wish; I call it self-preservation. It sounds a bit nicer, even though the meaning is much the same.’

I interpreted her concluding words as showing some degree of self-awareness, without feeling any more certain that the rest of what she had told me was therefore true; she had lied to me too much already.

My final words to Solveig Ramdal before I left were that she should stay locally until the investigation was closed, and that I had no need at the moment to tell her husband about her secret. She gave a little nod. She stayed sitting on the chair like a timorous kitten, staring out into thin air.

I found my own way out. It was only when I was in the car that I realized it was now ten to four, and that I had an important meeting back at the station at four. And it was only when I was heading back into the centre of town that I realized that I had not seen even a glimpse of the man in the hat today. Not that I missed the Soviet agent, but it did make me wonder what his sudden disinterest might mean.

IX

I met them on my way into the police station at five past four. They made a very odd couple: he was still a young man, with a lorgnette, suit and hat, and she was an older middle-aged woman with nothing on her head, wearing a worn green winter coat. There was an almost comical performance when both Edvard Rønning Junior and I apologized at the same time for being a few minutes late.

Once we were settled in my office, however, the seriousness of the situation was obvious. To my relief, Lene Johansen was not visibly broken by the events of the past few days. But she was still a tired and sombre woman. Her hair looked a bit greyer than when I had first met her, and I could easily have taken her to be over sixty. There was something heavy and slow about her movements when she sat down.

She looked at me questioningly without saying anything. Her lawyer said: ‘Thank you for the invitation to come here. We await with great interest to hear your update and questions.’

I quickly filled them in on developments. I told them that we now had an eyewitness, an old lady who lived in Majorstuen who claimed to have seen the murder, and she was adamant that the perpetrator did not limp. But there was still considerable uncertainty: the eyewitness was over a hundred and had not been able to give a description of the murderer. We had chosen to keep all possibilities open and to continue the investigation. Information had been gathered that could give several people possible motives for killing Fredriksen, but so far we did not have sufficient evidence to arrest anyone. Due to the ongoing investigation I was not able to give them any more details.

Lene Johansen listened attentively. She nodded gratefully when I said that I had been in contact with the company and that she need not worry about being evicted until the case had been solved.

‘Well, we will have to accept that as a provisional account and hope to hear better news in the coming days. What are your questions for my client?’

I looked at Lene Johansen and said that as a matter of procedure we now had to follow all leads and all possible links. I therefore had to ask her to explain why she had not previously mentioned that she had any connection with Fredriksen and his company.

The lawyer looked a little taken aback, but his client quickly rose to the challenge.

‘Yes, I realized afterwards that I should have mentioned that I cleaned there a couple of evenings a week for two years. But that was ages ago now, and I never really saw much of Fredriksen. It was the office manager I spoke to when I was employed and when I resigned.’

The lawyer looked pointedly at me and asked if the matter was now clarified.

I trusted Patricia and was bolstered by my success with Solveig Ramdal. So I carried on unperturbed.

‘I am afraid we can’t give up that quickly. It is true that Fredriksen himself was not often in the office. But you were a beautiful young woman, and according to the staff, he showed great interest in you. Indeed, the staff speculated on whether or not you might be meeting elsewhere as well. Not least when you resigned because you were going to have a child, after having been married for many years without children.’

Rønning dropped his lorgnette and stared aghast at his client, making no attempt to pick it up. And she sat there, frantically shaking her head.

‘Are you sitting there saying that Fredriksen and I – that’s crazy. We were from completely different worlds. Do you really think that I would let my son live in poverty, as he did, if his father was a multi-millionaire?’

She looked at me indignantly. It was a simple counter-question that I had not considered and I almost found myself blaming Patricia because she had not thought it through.

I was on the defensive now. Lene Johansen looked more and more indignant and then carried on without my asking.

‘A poor widow from the east end certainly has to put up with a lot in this town. First I lose my only son, and now you’re sitting there saying that he might have killed the rich father he never had. It’s all lies, and I can prove it, if you just give me a moment.’

Both Rønning and I sat as if paralysed and stared at her as she quickly pulled from her coat pocket an old purse. I could not see any notes in it, only a few coins. But her trembling fingers fished out an old black-and-white photograph which she held up for me.

‘This is my husband,’ she said.

I recognized him from the photograph in the flat. And I understood straightaway what she meant to say with it.

The birthmark on her husband’s neck was far smaller than the one on the neck of the boy on the red bicycle. But it was on the same side and was the same shape. It could not be a coincidence.

The situation was uncomfortable enough already, before Rønning Junior’s voice filled the room.

‘We understand that you have to investigate all possible leads in the investigation. However, we hope that you now recognize that this is a wild goose chase and that you will apologize immediately to my client. If you do not have any further questions, we will take our leave and hope that you will be able to give us some better news over the next few days. If not, this could turn into a rather unfortunate matter for both you and the force in general. I had not expected you to stoop so low, Kristiansen.’

Lene Johansen nodded in agreement, put the photograph back in her purse, and stood up abruptly. ‘This has been a rather nasty experience. I want to go home,’ she said, her voice shaking.

I felt humiliated and in a very vulnerable position. So I did what I could to save the situation, I apologized and told them that I sincerely hoped that I would have better news next time.

I heard Rønning say the words ‘… recommend filing a…’ to his client as the door slammed behind them.

Another shock followed when my boss knocked on my door and did not wait for an answer before coming in. I was worried that he had come to reprimand me for my unwarranted allegations against one of the parties involved in the case – or for the continued lack of results in the investigation.

But my boss had not come to reprimand me at all. He had come to say that the Soviet Embassy had rather unexpectedly requested a meeting with the head of the investigation. But before that we would need to go to the prime minister’s office to give him a report.

X

I had met the leader of the Labour Party, Trond Bratten, a couple of years earlier in connection with another murder investigation, and I had been to the prime minister’s office. But I had never met Trond Bratten in the prime minister’s office. He had only moved in there the year before, when disagreement about the EEC had ripped apart the blue coalition government, which had been led by the Centre Party’s Peder Borgen. In terms of my political preferences, this was an improvement, even though my personal meeting with Peder Borgen here had been very nice.

I was curious to see if Mrs Ragna Bratten had also been included in the move from Young’s Square to the prime minister’s office. I soon had my answer. She was sitting on a chair in the reception area and jumped up as soon as she saw me. She embraced me and thanked me warmly for all I had done a couple of years earlier. The prime minister’s wife assured me that both she and her husband were deeply grateful and that her husband was looking forward to meeting me again. She added hastily that she was here so that she could drive him home after the meeting, but did not know what the meeting was about. So she asked me to look after her husband in the meantime, and then pointed to the door to his office.

My boss and I had been told that it would be a highly confidential briefing. Just how confidential it was became apparent when we entered the prime minister’s office and saw that Trond Bratten was there alone, sitting behind a large desk.

If Trond Bratten really had been looking forward to meeting me, it was not clear to see. He said a brisk ‘Good afternoon’ and shook our hands.

My boss took care to close the door behind us, and then we settled into two chairs that were on the other side of the desk. I noticed that the desk was larger than when I had been here before, and the chairs pulled slightly further back.

Trond Bratten stayed sitting behind the desk and looked at us expectantly.

My boss cleared his throat and said that the prime minster had requested a strictly confidential briefing on the part of the investigation into the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen that might affect the oil agreement and the Soviet Union, as we had now been asked to a meeting at the embassy.

Bratten replied: ‘Yes, a short and confidential account.’ Then he looked me and said no more.

A short and confidential accounted suited me well. So I reported, without going into any details, that the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen was still unsolved, but that Fredriksen had been suspected of being a spy and was killed, apparently, only a matter of hours before he was due to be arrested. It was not clear whether he was guilty or not, and we had no grounds for claiming that he had been assassinated. The timing was, however, striking, and in the course of the investigation, I had been followed by a man, whom we had now identified as a Soviet agent, who probably had many deaths on his conscience, in a number of countries. He was officially linked to the Soviet Embassy in Oslo and had diplomatic immunity.

‘A challenging situation,’ was Trond Bratten’s succinct comment when I had finished. Then he sat and pondered, without saying any more.

My boss asked carefully if the prime minister had any advice for us with regard to our visit to the Soviet Embassy, in this challenging situation.

‘Say as little as possible, without offending them,’ Bratten said, in a monotone voice. Then once again, he sat there staring into space, deep in thought.

I noted down the advice and thought to myself that it might be easier said than done.

A few more minutes passed in breathless silence. Finally, I broke it by asking the prime minister what he thought about the situation and how we should go forward.

‘Democracy must as far as possible be allowed to take its course, and the agreement that the Storting is due to ratify tomorrow could be of the utmost importance to the nation’s future. But it would be both politically and morally impossible for a democratic country to enter into an agreement with a non-democratic country that had just violated the democratic country’s sovereignty by carrying out terrorist activities there.’

He spoke without hesitation and the formulation was so precise that I almost broke out into spontaneous applause. Fortunately, I managed to stop myself in time, and instead asked how he would deal with the matter from this point on.

‘The ratification procedure must be allowed to run its course, unless there are any dramatic developments in the case. The Government must be informed immediately if there are any such developments, in order to assess the ratification procedure.’

I took the hint and said that the prime minister’s office would be told immediately if there was any important news.

My boss and I had barely opened the door before Ragna Bratten slipped in past us. I wondered how much she would be told about this strictly confidential case – and how such different people could function together in a marriage. But then I had more than enough problems of my own to think about.

My boss and I left the prime minister’s office in silent thought at five to five. Fifteen minutes later we presented ourselves, still grave and thoughtful, at the reception of the Soviet Embassy in Drammen Road.

XI

The receptionist at the Soviet Embassy was a raven-haired man somewhere between thirty and fifty, who, with his stony face and grey suit, looked just as I had expected a receptionist at the Soviet Embassy to look. His expression did not change in the slightest when we introduced ourselves. He then picked up the internal telephone and relayed a short message in Russian.

We stood waiting for three minutes, until another member of staff, who looked like the first’s big brother, appeared. After a brief handshake, he said: ‘Please, follow me.’

The atmosphere was not conducive to small talk. We followed him along a dark hallway into a large meeting room with four chairs positioned around a big table set with cake, water and vodka. The member of staff pointed at the two chairs closest to the door, said ‘Wait here’, and then left the room. So there we sat under a five-foot portrait of the Soviet Union’s leader, Leonid Brezhnev. He looked condescendingly down at us, his chest covered in orders and medals.

‘Not a promising start,’ I said to my boss in a hushed voice, once we were alone in the room. He instantly raised a warning finger to his mouth. I realized my mistake and showed my palms in acknowledgement. There was no reason to believe that the room was not bugged.

Just then, there was a light knock on the door. This pre-empted a pleasant surprise. In walked a dark-haired, slim and attractive woman in her twenties.

She gave us a timid little smile, shook our hands with an unexpected firmness, and said in perfect Norwegian: ‘Welcome. My name is Tatiana Rodionova and I will be the interpreter for your meeting with the vice-ambassador, Igor Sokolov. The vice-ambassador is unfortunately currently caught up in another important meeting, but should be here shortly.’

I was instantly charmed and I remarked that she spoke impressively good Norwegian.

Her smile widened and she replied: ‘Thank you, it is a very interesting and beautiful language. I have a PhD from Moscow University. I have only been here for three months, but have given some guest lectures in Russian and been to a few lectures in Norwegian at the university here in Oslo.’

It all started so promisingly. But that all changed when the door opened again, this time without a warning knock. It then slammed closed behind a six-foot-five bald man in his fifties wearing a double-breasted black suit and patent leather shoes. He was the tallest man I had ever met, as far as I could remember, and possibly also one of the heaviest. His build and body language made me feel as though I was standing in front of the great Russian bear, a feeling that was in no way diminished by his unusually powerful handshake.

Vice-Ambassador Igor Sokolov’s arrival changed the atmosphere in the room completely. All of a sudden my boss and the interpreter were serious and focused. Sokolov spoke fast and in bursts like a machine gun. The interpreter’s voice was flat and serious as she translated.

‘The vice-ambassador would like to welcome you and he thanks you for coming at such short notice. The embassy is aware that the investigation into the tragic murder of a leading Norwegian politician, Mr Per Johan Fredriksen, is still ongoing. This is of course an internal, Norwegian case in which the embassy does not wish to become involved. The embassy is, however, concerned that one of the biggest Norwegian newspapers is planning to make public some unfounded rumours that Fredriksen had improper contact with the embassy here and that this may have been the reason why he was killed.’

This was unexpected. My boss and I exchanged a swift glance, without becoming any the wiser. It was unnerving that the Soviet Embassy had better knowledge than we did of what the Norwegian media planned to write about an ongoing criminal investigation. But more than anything, it would be very uncomfortable for us if such speculations were published in the newspapers.

The vice-ambassador did not give us long to think before unleashing a new volley of verbal gunfire.

‘Normally, the ambassador would have taken the matter very seriously, but given the timing, he now finds it particularly pressing. We cannot see any explanation other than that enemies of the Soviet state, by means of these evil rumours, are attempting to block an agreement that is of great national importance to the Norwegian state as well.’

The vice-ambassador’s face was grim, the voice of the translator staccato, and I myself thoughtful. I looked over at my boss. He coughed and said: ‘We were not aware that some of the press were planning to publish such reports. We have a free press in Norway that cannot be overruled by the police or politicians. What does the embassy wish us to do?’

The response was rapid. ‘We want the Verdens Gang newspaper to be given the necessary instructions to stop that report being published tomorrow. Alternatively, as soon as the reports are published, the press and politicians could be informed immediately that the reports are completely unfounded. Unless, of course, the police are sitting on evidence that gives grounds for such suspicions. In which case, the embassy should have been contacted long ago in order to clear up any misunderstandings and to disprove such allegations.’

The situation felt more and more tense. We had no evidence to give the embassy, but equally could not rule out any contact. My boss looked at me questioningly. It felt like I was jumping into an ice-cold lake when I took the plunge and started to speak.

‘In an open democracy such as Norway, the police cannot instruct the free press on what they can and cannot write. We will of course follow all press coverage closely and assess the need to make a statement, should any of the reports tomorrow be misleading with regard to the situation. We do not believe that the murder of Fredriksen was in any way linked to the Soviet Union. The problem is that in a constitutional state such as Norway it is difficult for the police to make a categorical statement about who has not committed a crime as long as the investigation is ongoing and we have not arrested anyone for the murder.’

I felt my pulse rising as the interpreter translated my answer into Russian, in a slightly less staccato voice. Behind his iron mask, Igor Sokolov was clearly either very well prepared or a very intelligent man. He replied within seconds of the interpreter finishing her translation.

‘The vice-ambassador finds it surprising that it is difficult to make such a statement, unless the police themselves also doubt the Soviet state’s good intentions. He is also surprised that the investigation has not yet resulted in an arrest almost one week after the murder.’

I looked at my boss, and when he did not answer, did so myself.

‘The police do not, of course, doubt the Soviet state’s intentions in any way, but the investigation is complex and we are duty-bound to keep all possibilities open. As I said, we will assess the need for a statement as soon as we see what is in the papers tomorrow morning. There are a couple of things that we think may have contributed to these rumours, which, now that we are here, it seems natural to raise. The first is that, on several occasions, Fredriksen was seen having long conversations with representatives from the embassy.’

I looked at my boss as I spoke, and to my huge relief, he nodded in agreement. I hoped, while I waited for the interpreter to finish, that my boss would think the same about my second reason.

Again, we did not have to wait long for the vice-ambassador’s reply.

‘The vice-ambassador is adamant that there has been no improper contact. Various representatives from the embassy participate, as part of their work to build a friendly relationship between our countries, in a large number of arrangements and talk to various people in this connection. It is perfectly natural that Fredriksen may have spoken to a number of them. To be on the safe side, we have checked with all our employees and can assure you that none of them have had anything other than short, fortuitous meetings with Fredriksen. We are not frightened to call anyone who claims otherwise a liar.’

The vice-ambassador was playing high stakes and spoke even faster than before. I thought I saw a hint of fear in the interpreter’s eyes when she said the latter, and hoped that she did not think the same about me. In the midst of it all, I was suddenly very impressed by the interpreter. It could not be easy to interpret such a fast-paced and intense conversation simultaneously – and her Norwegian was almost perfect.

I looked at my boss for a last time, and then turned back to the vice-ambassador. I felt a little frightened, but also rather angry. So I threw caution to the wind and my only trump card down onto the table.

‘The other thing that may have given rise to these unfounded suspicions is that a person with connections to the embassy has on several occasions appeared in my vicinity at various places linked to the investigation. This man is called Sergey Klinkalski, but we have reason to believe that his real name is Alexander Svasnikov.’

I quickly glanced sideways at my boss as I spoke. To my relief, he was calm. I did not dare take a breath while I waited for the answer. That was not the only reason the interpreter paused for a beat before she started to translate this time, I thought to myself.

As she spoke, the vice-ambassador’s face tightened. For the first time, he was quiet for a few seconds before answering. But his words were all the more rapid and hard as they broke the tense silence.

Then he jumped up and left the room – without shaking our hands or waiting for the translation. The interpreter held her mask, but there was a tremor in her voice when she relayed the translation after the door had slammed shut behind her.

‘The vice-ambassador has every reason to believe that it is purely a matter of unfortunate coincidence. He finds it hard to understand how this should give rise to unfounded suspicions, unless journalists have also been following the head of investigation, or unless the police themselves have informed the press. However, the vice-ambassador takes the matter very seriously and will immediately double-check this new information with Comrade Klinkalski. The vice-ambassador hopes that the investigation will soon have some results and urges the head of investigation to consider measures against the press if unfounded rumours are published in the papers tomorrow. Above all, it is hoped that this does not cause any problems for the pending agreement, and the embassy will do everything in its power to prevent this from happening.’

These final words almost sounded like a threat to me. The interpreter’s voice trembled a little as she said them. Then she stood up and closed the meeting by quickly shaking us both by the hand. Her hand was dry and trembled in mine. I smiled at her and got a fleeting smile in return. But before I could say any more than ‘goodbye’, she had turned and left the room.

My boss and I sat there and looked at each other, without wanting to say anything in the room under the eyes of Brezhnev. We did not have to wait long. Two minutes later the door was opened again.

The interpreter came back in, dressed in a thin red jacket, and said: ‘I will show you out.’

We followed her obediently through the corridors. She passed through reception with quick steps and carried on out onto Drammen Road and then a couple of blocks more before turning down a side street. I watched her go. She was dressed in thin clothes and wasn’t wearing anything on her head, and looked so small and wet in the early spring evening rain. The interpreter had certainly charmed me and I hoped that she was happy, despite what was obviously a demanding job.

XII

We did not say a word until we were in the car and the engine was running. My boss’s first sentence came as a relief: ‘The prime minister was right about this being a very difficult situation. You handled it extremely well.’

I exhaled carefully, but felt anything but relaxed.

‘Thank you. I don’t think there was much more we could do in there. But what do we do now?’

My boss thought for a few seconds, and his voice was just as steady and solid as usual when he replied.

‘I will write a strictly confidential memorandum to the prime minister’s office about the meeting. Then I will draft a press release that we can send out if the papers print the reports we expect them to. You carry on with the investigation as planned. And we can assess the need for more resources first thing tomorrow morning. The contents of the press release will say something to the effect that while we do not suspect any foreigners to be involved or that the murder is connected to other countries, as the investigation is still ongoing, we have to keep all possibilities open.’

I replied just as we swung into the main police station: ‘I agree. But the whole thing does feel a bit like an iceberg: there is still an awful lot of it underwater and we can only guess the size of it.’

‘A good image. There is definitely something big and cold just under the surface. And I think it could be dangerous. I only hope that it is not dangerous for you.’

My boss had always shown me great trust in his taciturn and efficient way, and I had always appreciated it. Our drive back from the embassy was short and we only said a few sentences, but it felt somehow as though we were closer. At the same time, it felt as though we had never been faced with a more puzzling case – or a more demanding situation.

XIII

My boss quickly disappeared into his office after we got back. And I was unexpectedly stopped by DI Danielsen just as I was about to go into mine.

‘There you are at last, Kristiansen. I won’t stick my nose into the investigation by asking where you have been, but I received an urgent telephone call for you half an hour ago, and I promised to give you the message as soon as you were back.’

I was naturally curious to know who had called and for a moment glimpsed the possibility of a solution. However, the answer was more like a cold shower.

‘Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen – who is your fiancée, if I remember rightly. It was a short message: there is something that she has to talk to you about in person as soon as possible. She was clearly frustrated when I told her you were not here and I did not know where you were. She asked me to tell you that she will come to your flat at seven, and it is very important that you are there.’

It was another punch in what was already a difficult situation.

Miriam was very concerned about keeping as low a profile at my workplace as possible and had never left a telephone message before. She was also well aware that I did not particularly like Danielsen and had herself not formed a very good opinion of him when they had met briefly during a previous investigation. So the fact that she had left a message with him was surprising enough in itself. The content of the message made it even more unsettling. The ominous possibility that she might have heard that I had been in contact with Patricia again crossed my mind.

For a few moments, I forgot the murder mysteries, the suspicions of espionage and worry about tomorrow’s headlines. My mind and body froze.

Far off in the distance I heard Danielsen’s voice say: ‘She sounded very agitated. But of course I did not ask what it was about, as I presumed it was of a personal nature.’

The words were friendly, as was the voice, but I detected a forced kindness that left a bad taste in my mouth – which was only made worse by the pat he gave me on the shoulder. Danielsen worked hard, and as far as anyone in the station knew, had not had a girlfriend since the mid-sixties. He was well known for his quiet schadenfreude when things were not going well in his colleagues’ relationships.

I said that it was probably personal, but there was no need to worry. I could tell by Danielsen’s smile that he did not believe me, which I could understand, as I did not entirely believe it myself. But whatever the case, I could not bear to see or hear any more of Danielsen right now. So I thanked him for the message, and with a stiff smile, wished him a pleasant evening shift before slipping quickly into my office.

The wall clock showed thirty-three minutes past six. I grabbed the phone and called the halls of residence. But the phone was not answered by Miriam or anyone else. I called the number twice and let it ring for a long time, without it making any difference.

So I rang Patricia instead. She answered on the second ring. It felt good to hear her familiar voice, even though all she said was: ‘Yes, it’s me.’

So I quickly said that there was a good deal of new information, but we were still not any closer to solving the case. I still had a lot to do, so I did not know when I might be able to call her or drop by.

She said with a degree of tension in her voice that she would try to be available for me for the next couple of hours, wished me luck, and hung up.

It was now nearly twenty to seven. I hurried out of my office and then out of the station. I was very unsure of what was about to happen, but one thing was clear and that was that under no circumstances could I not be home by seven o’clock this evening.

XIV

I opened the door to the flat at five to seven. It was dark, quiet and empty. I was glad to be home first this time, but there was still something unnerving about the darkness.

Without a thought for the electricity bill, I turned on the lights in all the rooms. Then I went and stood by the window and looked down the road.

As I stood there, I did not doubt for a moment that Miriam would come. She was sometimes a couple of minutes later than agreed, when the bus was delayed, or she had missed the one she planned to take. But she had never not come as agreed. And I was convinced that she would come on time today given that she had suggested the time herself.

With every minute that passed I became increasingly worried about what Miriam would have to say when she came. I had only one cause for guilt and one secret from her, but it felt heavier and more treacherous by the second.

It seemed to me that the most likely explanation was that Miriam had somehow found out about my renewed contact with Patricia. In which case, no matter how well I now knew Miriam, I was not sure at all how she would react. Anything seemed possible, from her pulling a face and accepting that it was necessary, to her threatening to break off the engagement. Of course, I hoped that her reaction would be closer to the first, but had a horrible feeling that it might be the latter. I regretted more and more as the minutes passed and Miriam did not appear that I had not told her myself that I had been in touch with Patricia.

The minutes dragged by as I stood there alone with all my doubts and fears. The buses ran more frequently at this time of day, but delays were more often the rule than the exception. Thus it was almost impossible to guess when Miriam would come.

At two minutes to seven, I still believed she would be on time. But the clock crept up to the hour, without her appearing out of the dark.

One and a half minutes later there was a movement down on the street, but to my disappointment, it turned out to be an elderly lady from the neighbourhood walking her dog. My anxiety increased when another movement at three minutes past seven proved to be an old neighbour. I followed him with my eyes until he let himself in the front door. Miriam was still nowhere to be seen when I looked up again. I could feel my pulse racing.

At six minutes past seven, I tried another tactic. I moved away from the window and crossed the room to the telephone. It looked just as it always had and did not make a sound. I thought that it was strange that Miriam had not phoned if she knew she was going to be late, but of course she might have tried before I got home. I went back to my post by the window, with the intense wish that Miriam would now be in view.

She was not. There was not a living soul to be seen on the dark evening street.

Then I started to get annoyed that Miriam, having summoned me for seven o’clock, had not bothered to come on time herself. But this soon spilled over into fear. I felt painfully convinced that Miriam had tried to get here on time, but something out there in the dark had prevented her. The bus could have broken down, or something else equally undramatic, but as the minutes passed, I thought such an everyday occurrence was less and less likely. A numbing fear that something had happened to my fiancée overwhelmed me.

At twelve minutes past seven, I could not bear to stand by the window doing nothing any longer. I had to do something. I went over to the telephone again and with a trembling finger dialled the number of the halls of residence.

The telephone was answered by a happy-sounding voice that I recognized. It belonged to Katrine Rudolfsen, a very nice, if dialectically challenged, friend of Miriam’s who had the room next door to hers.

I did not want to worry Katrine unnecessarily, and tried to sound as calm as possible, but I thought I could feel a slight tremor in my voice as I said: ‘Hello, this is Kolbjørn Kristiansen. Is Miriam there?’

There was a few seconds’ silence before Katrine answered. And when she did, I became absolutely convinced that something serious had happened. It was not only what she said, but her voice as well.

‘No, but is she not there? How strange. I met Miriam rushing out when I came back from university about three quarters of an hour ago. I asked where she was going as we passed, and she said she was going to yours and might be out all evening. It’s a bit strange that she wouldn’t be there yet…’

Katrine’s voice sounded frightened. I said that she might have got delayed en route to mine, but that it was rather odd. If Miriam had left three quarters of an hour ago, she should have been here by now.

I asked Katrine to stay on the line, put down the receiver and went over to the window again. I thought it looked even darker out there than before, but could still see no one there.

So I went back to the telephone and said to Katrine that I would wait for another five minutes before driving up to the halls of residence.

I waited by the window for three minutes. Then I ran out, crossed the empty square outside the building, and got into my car.

XV

Katrine was waiting and opened the door as soon as I rang the bell, but she shook her head clumsily before I had a chance to ask anything. Miriam had neither come back nor phoned.

I suggested that, given the situation, we should perhaps look in her room to see if we could find any clues. I did not have a key, but knew that Katrine did. She said that she already had, but had not found anything that might help explain. And nor did I when I made a quick inspection.

A pad with notes from her lectures was on the desk, but it only served to confirm that Miriam had been to the morning lecture on Norwegian language history. Beside it was a pile of novels and course books. There was nothing else lying around, and nothing was missing, as far as I could see. Her school satchel, which she had had since primary school and to which she was so charmingly and childishly attached, was standing on the floor by the desk.

It had been cloudy but dry when Miriam had left. According to Katrine she was wearing her green raincoat and was carrying the thick blue book as well as a large white envelope, but no bags or anything to indicate that she was intending to go any further than mine.

I said we should go out and see if we could find any clues on the way to the bus. Katrine nodded silently and turned towards the front door.

There was a light wind outside and it was now drizzling. Katrine’s long blonde hair was caught by the wind and her slim body was shaking. We said nothing, just walked in silent concentration along the well-known path to the bus stop, which was about two hundred yards away. Miriam had walked here a thousand times, often reading as she walked. There was no possibility whatsoever that she had got lost, despite her hopeless sense of direction.

Katrine and I walked slowly and kept our eyes open for anything unusual. We got to the main road without seeing anything out of the ordinary. And there was nothing of interest in the first few yards along the pavement.

It was just as we rounded the bend, barely thirty yards from the bus stop, that Katrine suddenly grabbed my arm and shouted: ‘Look! There! In the ditch!’

I felt how violently her hand was shaking on my arm, and wondered if I might see Miriam lying dead in the earth when I turned around. I stood paralysed by fear for a few moments before I could see anything at all.

Miriam was still nowhere to be seen, either alive or dead. But I knew what Katrine meant straightaway. And this confirmed beyond all doubt that something terrible must have happened.

At the bottom of the ditch, between two stones, in a small puddle of water, lay the thick blue book with a library bookshelf reference on the spine.

I stepped down into the ditch and carefully picked up the book. I had recognized it as soon as I saw it. And there was only one possible explanation as to how it had ended up here. It was unthinkable that Miriam had thrown the library book down or dropped it and walked on without noticing.

‘Someone has kidnapped Miriam,’ I heard myself saying. It sounded so calm and controlled but I felt anything but. In fact, it felt more like I was standing in the middle of an earthquake, my head full of chaos and the ground shaking under my feet.

I heard a faint sobbing beside me and realized that it must be Katrine. Then I heard my own voice saying that I would accompany her back to the halls of residence. I then asked her to stay put and not to panic, and I would inform the police at the station.

XVI

I was back at the station by ten to eight. My boss had been on his way home when I arrived, but immediately turned around without protest when I told him that something very serious had happened.

I stopped and thought for a moment outside my office door. Then without being able to explain why, I went over to Danielsen’s office and asked him to come in too. It somehow felt safer to have more people to talk to. Danielsen was the one who had taken the telephone call from Miriam. And as soon as I saw him I realized that he could have been the last person to have spoken to her alive.

Danielsen looked a little surprised, but got up as soon as I said I would like him to come to an important meeting.

We sat round the table in my office and I told them in short what had happened. A heavy silence descended in the room. My boss’s face did not so much as twitch.

For the first time, I felt a good deal of support from Danielsen. ‘How terrible if criminals have started to kidnap policemen’s nearest and dearest,’ he said with unexpected feeling.

We both looked at the boss, who hesitated for a while at first and then spoke very slowly and deliberately.

‘This is a very difficult situation, for several reasons. Normally, we would not start a search when someone has only been missing for a couple of hours, and it could well provoke unfavourable reactions if it becomes known that we have done so in the case of a leading policeman’s fiancée. But the circumstances undeniably give us reason to fear the worst…’

He stopped talking. Then he asked, in a quieter voice: ‘Has she shown any signs of depression or other illness recently? I am sorry that I have to ask, but desperate young women have done stranger things than throw away books in a ditch before committing suicide.’

For a moment I wondered if Miriam would really have been that desperate if she had heard that I had been to see Patricia. And if, then, I could live with that. But again I found it unthinkable that she would do anything like that. So I replied, in a firm and controlled manner, that Miriam had not shown any signs of being mentally unbalanced, and had to the contrary been happy and full of life in the past few days. And even though I had been working long hours, we had not had any arguments.

My boss and I now both looked at Danielsen. ‘That was more or less how she sounded on the telephone. It was a short conversation and she seemed full of life, if a little agitated, but in no way desperate or depressed,’ he said, to the point.

My boss nodded. ‘Then we shall consider this to be exceptional circumstances and start an investigation immediately without raising the alarm publicly quite yet. Kristiansen, you continue with your own investigation as before. Danielsen will lead the investigation into Miriam’s disappearance. We can discuss the matter again in the morning and update each other as and when necessary.’

I was too exhausted, too scared and too bewildered to protest. So we both said in short that we agreed. Then my boss stood up and left.

I wrote down the necessary facts, and the names and addresses of family and friends for Danielsen. I said that there was probably not much to be found where the book had fallen or at the halls of residence, but that the places should of course be searched. Then I asked him to pass on my sympathies to Miriam’s parents and to be gentle in his dealings with them.

He promised to do this. We shook each other almost warmly by the hand before he left.

Once I was alone in the office, I sat there looking at the telephone for a few seconds. My head was in turmoil. I could only remember two telephone numbers. One was Miriam’s number at the halls of residence. The other was Patricia’s. And I thought that no matter how strange it felt, there was no one other than Patricia I could turn to for help in finding my Miriam.

She picked up the telephone on the second ring, and with unusual calm, said: ‘What has happened? Are you all right?’

Her concern for me was heart-warming in the situation. I quickly replied: ‘Someone has kidnapped Miriam.’

There was silence on the other end for a few tense seconds. Then Patricia said: ‘Goodness, what on earth do they want with her?’

I felt anger bubbling up, before I realized that the question would actually be decisive in our search for the kidnappers. Patricia also pulled herself together, and hastily added: ‘I mean, either it must be because she has discovered something important herself, or to have some kind of leverage over you. I sincerely hope that it is the latter.’

Without thinking, I asked why she hoped this. The answer was like being punched in the stomach.

‘Because that would increase the chances that your fiancée is still alive.’

I was completely unable to think clearly about what might be the most likely reasons for the kidnapping. I said to Patricia that I had to see her. She replied that I was welcome any time.

XVII

When I entered Patricia’s library, I realized that the table was empty. It was something I had never experienced before. Patricia had a packet of cigarettes in her hand, but there was not even a cup of coffee on the table. She said that if I would like anything to eat or drink, I just had to say, and I told her that I could not even face the thought at the moment.

I sat down and told her about the last few hours and Miriam’s disappearance.

Patricia seemed to be unusually unsettled by the situation. She lit a cigarette after only a few minutes and I saw that her hand was shaking. Even though the room was smoky and warm, she was still shivering. This made me even more anxious, but I was also touched by Patricia’s concern for Miriam.

‘There really are not many leads here,’ Patricia said, with a heavy sigh when I had finished.

I had to agree. Practically anyone could, in theory, have driven past and bundled Miriam into a car – especially if she was, as usual, reading as she walked. All that was needed was two people and a car. Another possibility was even more terrible: one person in a car could have stopped, shot her and then taken the body to conceal the crime.

‘Unfortunately, I think it is more likely that Miriam has been kidnapped in an attempt to render her harmless because she knows too much, rather than as possible leverage against you,’ Patricia then said, gently.

She carried on quickly before I had time to ask why she thought so.

‘Partly because kidnapping in order to exert pressure of some kind on a police officer would be tricky and entail a greater risk for the perpetrator. But it is also the matter of the book.’

It was beyond my understanding how she could deduce that from the book, and I was not in the mood to guess. So I asked what she meant. I added that the book was about languages and that Miriam had had it with her the day before as well.

‘Exactly. But according to what you said, she only had fifty pages left to read the day before. It would take me no more than half an hour to read them, and I would be surprised if your fiancée was any slower. So if she still had not finished the book, she must have spent a lot of time thinking or doing something else in the meantime. And I would dearly like to know what it was she did instead, as it could be crucial. Do we know anything about her day, before she disappeared?’

I said the same to Patricia that I had to Danielsen: we knew what Miriam had planned to do, but not necessarily what she had actually done. Miriam was going to go to a lecture from a quarter past ten to twelve, as she normally did on a Thursday. She would then go to the library until about three o’clock, before spending a couple of hours at the party office. Danielsen had no doubt started to map out what she had actually done.

‘Excellent. Let me know as soon as you have any more information. Otherwise, I wonder what was in the envelope she was carrying. That could also be crucial. There was no sign of that?’

I shook my head. Patricia sighed again.

‘Well, it is certainly clear that we cannot expect help from any quarter in this case. Let me know as soon as there is any news on what your fiancée did today or about the envelope. In the meantime, please tell me what you did earlier on this afternoon, as the investigation and kidnapping may well be related.’

It felt good to talk about something else, so I told her without further delay.

Patricia smoked in silence, but nodded with a little smile when I told her about my meeting with Solveig Ramdal. She did not look happy, however, and waved me impatiently on when I told her about my disastrous meeting with the lawyer Rønning and Lene Johansen. Then she listened attentively when I told her about the meetings at the prime minister’s office and the Soviet Embassy.

‘It could be a coincidence, but has it struck you that one of the key parties in the Fredriksen case lives near Sogn halls of residence?’ I asked.

Patricia had clearly thought about this too. She nodded quickly, but opened her hands at the same time.

‘Johan Fredriksen lives at Sognsvann, yes. It must be a coincidence. Even though he is about to become a very rich man, following the deaths of his father and sister, it is hard to imagine that he would have a motive for kidnapping your fiancée, and that he would have the resources to do so. Kidnapping for the purposes of extortion would be both complicated and risky for him and anyone else in the family or group of friends from 1932. Most likely they would all need help in order to do it, and they would be in great danger of being caught sooner or later. I think rather that Miriam has been kidnapped because she knew too much, about something significant that has happened or is about to happen. In which case, one might start to think in a different direction…’

‘To the East, you mean?’ I said.

Patricia nodded gravely and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘The Soviets have the resources and a possible motive linked to the oil agreement. And even more worryingly, they currently also have a man in Oslo who has killed before. But if it was them, it will not be easy to prove. The big question is how Miriam might have discovered something important in that connection? Did she know about that side of the case?’

My throat tightened, but I managed first to nod, and then to regain my voice. It all fitted uncomfortably well. Miriam had heard about the case from me the evening before – and had been visibly shaken.

Patricia looked as though she wanted to say something. But instead she finished another cigarette, stubbed it out and said: ‘I think that is where the answer lies, but we do not have enough information yet to make the connection. Think about it, and get in touch as soon as there is anything new. I will be up first thing and waiting. And in the meantime, know that I am thinking about you. This must be an extremely difficult situation for you.’

I was once again touched by Patricia’s concern – and told her so. We hugged each other affectionately and then I left.

XVIII

It was quite a shock to be outside. The rain was heavier and felt cold on my face and head. I thought about how hard it would be to find clues at the spot where Miriam had been taken, if there were any. I suddenly realized how hungry I was.

I could not face going home, and even less making food. So I stopped at a cafe in Frogner that was still open and had a steak alone at a table in one of the darker corners of the cafe. It helped to ease my hunger, but not the feelings of fear and restlessness in the rest of my body.

At ten o’clock I finally went home. There was a brief glimmer of hope when I saw that the light was on in my flat. I ran up the stairs with a thumping heart. But my hope was soon snuffed out. The flat was quiet and empty and there was no sign that Miriam had been there. I had obviously just forgotten to turn off the light when I ran out.

The telephone rang as I sat there, and I answered in the wild hope that I would hear Miriam’s voice. But it was her mother’s broader Hedemark dialect that I heard at the other end. She asked how I was – and if there was any news of Miriam. I was deeply touched by the fact that she had thought of me in the middle of all this, and said so. But sadly I could not tell her anything about Miriam other than that an investigation had started and we hoped for good news, but everything was very uncertain.

She wondered if they should perhaps come to Oslo. I told her that there was not much they could do here at present, and it was perhaps best to stay where they were – in case Miriam or anyone else contacted her family home. She replied that that was a good idea and that they would hold the fort at home, but added that they were ready to come to the capital straightaway if they could be of any help.

I promised to ring her as soon as there was any news. We quickly agreed that the phone line should be kept open in case Miriam or anyone else tried to call. And then I was alone again in the world.

I stood by the window and looked out at the empty street. I had seen Miriam walking up here in her green raincoat many a time. I could just picture her. But she was not there now. There was no one to be seen at this time of evening.

Having stood there for a few minutes, I suddenly felt absolutely certain that I would never see Miriam walking up towards the house again. At the same time, I felt certain that she was alive, somewhere out in the rain and darkness, only I did not know who was holding her prisoner, or where – or how to find out.

At ten to eleven, the phone was still silent, the darkness just as dark and I was still just as restless. I did not know what to do with myself. But I knew that I had to do something. So I went out, got into the car and drove back to the station.

XIX

Danielsen was sitting in his office with the door open and jumped up when he saw me.

‘Any news?’ he asked.

I shook my head and said that I had neither seen nor heard anything from Miriam. I mentioned Patricia’s theory about the book, which could indicate that she had been preoccupied, and asked if he had found out what she had done during the day.

He nodded quickly.

‘There was not much information to be had from the halls of residence. But I did talk to a librarian on the telephone who knew your fiancée by sight. Miriam had come to the library a bit later than usual after the lecture, around half past twelve or oneish. Then she had sat and read some books that were still lying at her place. But the librarian thought she seemed restless, and thinks she left around half past two. They had not seen her at the SPP party office. So we know where she was until around half past two, but not where she was in those few hours until she called here.’

I thanked him for the information. Then I went to my office to telephone Patricia with the latest news on Miriam’s movements.

The telephone at Frogner was not answered. In my nervous state, I was taken aback by this, but then remembered that she had promised to get up early the next day and was probably asleep.

There was no more to be done at the station. I was still agitated and anything but tired, so I drove up to the student halls of residence.

This detour to the halls of residence was basically an emotional whim. I did not believe that I would find any evidence that Danielsen and the others had not found. But I did think that I might find inspiration if I went there again. And that I should talk to Katrine again.

Katrine opened the door as soon as I rang the bell, but only shook her head when she saw me. She had been sitting up and could not think about anything other than Miriam and what might have happened to her.

‘But something odd did happen,’ she said. ‘The phone in the hall rang at around ten o’clock, but I didn’t manage to answer in time. And then it rang again, but the voice only said “Miriam” – and then the person hung up when I said she wasn’t here. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that, but it was so unexpected.’

I told her that it was fine, especially in a situation where Miriam’s disappearance was not yet an official case. The telephone call could of course have nothing to do with her disappearance. I asked Katrine all the same if she could say any more about the voice on the phone. She took her time and then said that it was not easy, as the person had only said one word. But she was fairly sure that it was a woman and someone she did not know.

I thanked her and once more promised to let her know as soon as there was any news of Miriam. Katrine said again how worried she was and assured me that she would stay where she was until the situation was clarified. I could see that she was close to tears and I so desperately wanted to say something that might comfort her, but I had nothing to say.

So I left and walked the route down to the bus stop alone this time. I could imagine Miriam, in her old green raincoat with the thick blue book, as though she was there in front of me. But this inspired no new ideas of what might have happened, even when I passed the spot where we had found the book in the ditch.

It was now nearly half past eleven, the road was dark and there was no one to be seen. I stood there alone at the edge of the road for a couple of minutes and looked up at the stars above. In that moment I wondered if there was a God or anyone else out there somewhere who knew what had happened.

As I stood there, I heard a car coming down the road and turned to look, to make sure that it did not hit me. It was a large car, possibly a van of sorts, but I was not able to see it in detail in the dark. I could make out the shadows of two people in the front and guessed that the large figure behind the wheel was a man and the smaller one in the passenger seat was a woman.

Just as the car passed, I caught a glimpse of the face of the person in the passenger seat. It was close enough to see, just as I lost my footing and fell into the ditch myself.

The passenger in the car was Patricia.

She was looking straight ahead and did not see me there by the side of the road in the dark. It looked as though she was talking to the person beside her, because her mouth was moving. Her expression was tense and grim, almost angry.

I stood there staring after the car until it disappeared into the dark – in the direction of Frogner. I suddenly felt more alone than I’d ever felt before. Miriam had been kidnapped and I no longer knew if I could trust Patricia.

I stood there for a few minutes more before walking unsteadily back to the car and driving home. It felt like the air was freezing, even though the rain was still pouring down.

XX

As I walked up the stairs, I thought about how happy I would be if Miriam was now sitting in her usual place on the sofa. I would shout with joy, carry her around the flat like a trophy and never let her out of my sight again. But I knew there was no hope. I had seen that the flat was dark. And when I opened the door, I saw straightaway that the sofa was just as empty as when I had left the flat.

Just then the telephone started to ring. I rushed across the room, grabbed the receiver, but all I heard was the dialling tone. Everything felt jinxed that day.

I stood there for a couple of minutes wondering who might have called, but the possibilities were endless. It struck me as odd that someone had tried to ring me so late, which is perhaps why they did not wait long and I thought in particular of the telephones at the halls of residence. It was probably just a journalist or someone else who knew as little about the kidnapping as I did.

I did not want to sit down on the sofa. So instead I sat down on the chair opposite and reflected on what a terrible day it had been. The night before I had felt stressed enough, but that was nothing compared to the fear I now felt. Yesterday evening Miriam had been sitting here with me, and I had trusted Patricia one hundred per cent. Now I no longer knew what to believe about Patricia and I had no idea where on earth Miriam was – if she was still alive.

I had stood here alone and feared for Miriam’s life once before, in connection with an earlier investigation. But then at least I knew where she was, what state she was in, and that she would have the best help she could get at the hospital. And I had known that the situation would be clearer the following day.

Now I did not know where Miriam was or how she was, and had no reason to believe that she was with anyone who wished her well. But the worst thing was the uncertainty. The thought that I might never know what had happened was petrifying.

As I sat there, I understood better than ever before the problems that some people, whom I had met in connection with other murder investigations, had with simply getting on with their lives after a dramatic event. Suddenly I thought of Hauk Rebne Westgaard, who had had to live with the pain of losing his girlfriend, and who had not been able to touch anyone else since. I at least had hope, something that he had never had. Miriam might come back unharmed and healthy. But I had less and less faith in that happening. It felt far more likely that I myself would have to live as a human fly – without Miriam, but with the constant doubt and feelings of guilt.

I went to bed at midnight – not because I was tired, but because I could not stand being awake alone any longer. And I hoped that tomorrow would be a better day – it could hardly be much worse – and that it would come sooner if I went to bed.

I couldn’t bring myself to believe that Patricia had anything to do with the kidnapping. But I did not dare to rule it out completely, and came to the conclusion that I would have to confront her with the fact that I had seen her. It did cross my mind that she might have gone there to look at the scene of the crime, even though it would be very unlike her and I could not imagine what she would achieve by doing so. But then the car she was in had passed the scene of the crime at quite a speed and she had not even taken a sideways glance.

It was quite simply a mystery, what Patricia had been doing there and who had been in the car with her. I wondered if she might in fact be a chameleon person herself, with a dangerous side that I had never experienced. I recalled Solveig Ramdal’s words about self-preservation being the driving force for all people in critical situations. And I asked myself if Patricia had pointed to the Soviet lead in a bid to divert attention.

I fell asleep eventually around one o’clock in the morning, but the night that followed was as restless and horrible as the day had been. I woke up and fell asleep again three times between nightmares. Each time I woke, it was with the dream of Miriam’s sleeping face on the pillow beside me, only then to discover to my distress that the pillow was empty. And each time I fell asleep, it was with the image of Patricia’s grim and angry face in the car window in my mind.