‘The two companies first worked together for a period after the war and then we had some joint ventures between the mid-fifties and the mid-sixties. We were never close friends even though we were in business with one another, and we did not fall out when we stopped working together. Our business assessments were based on different strategies and ambitions, so in the end, we were better off working alone.’
I made a note to the effect that this was more or less in line with what Fredriksen’s children had said. But also that the situation regarding the two companies did give Ramdal a possible motive for murder, albeit a fairly weak one. I then asked about the case from 1932.
Kjell Arne Ramdal lost some of his enthusiasm and sat silently for a moment before he answered.
‘It is a tragic story that is still a mystery to this day. We had seen Eva, just as beautiful, young and full of life as she always was, only hours before. Then suddenly there she was lying dead and cold in our midst. I think the shock had a lasting effect on us all. We were carefree youths who became serious, responsible adults overnight. I was on my own in my hotel room for the three hours before we found her, and really don’t know what more I can say about the case. Paradoxically, the only thing that is certain is that what became the official truth is not the truth at all. It was not epilepsy that killed Eva. She only had petit mal, which is not life-threatening, and she was otherwise in good shape. But whether it was suicide or murder, and if it was murder who was responsible, I would not like to say, not even today.’
As though to underline this, he pursed his lips and promptly fell silent in his leather chair.
Kjell Arne Ramdal was clearly an intelligent man who had more theories and thoughts about what happened in 1932 than he wanted to say. So I decided that first I would ask him straight about what and who he thought had caused Eva Bjølhaugen’s death. He replied that he did not want to answer that here and now, as it would be pure speculation.
I got the feeling that it was some kind of accusation against Per Johan Fredriksen that he did not want to verbalize only a few days after Fredriksen himself had been killed, and while he, Ramdal, was still waiting to hear if his offer to buy up the companies had been accepted. But this was, in turn, no more than speculation on my part. I asked him instead about his wife’s engagement to Per Johan Fredriksen, and the circumstances surrounding their break-up.
Kjell Arne Ramdal replied that he did not know much about that side of the case, and that it really was up to his wife whether she wanted to say anything about it or not.
As we sat there, it suddenly struck me that Kjell Arne Ramdal never smiled. Not here, nor in the family photographs on the walls, as far as I could see. He was intelligent, correct and in no way unfriendly, but apparently a man with no sense of humour or joy. I was reminded of the title of one of the most popular Norwegian films in recent years, The Man Who Could Not Laugh. Then I remembered what Kjell Arne Ramdal had said, and wondered to what extent the events of 1932 were to blame.
I pondered on this and he looked as though he was thinking about something, though I had no idea what and he was not likely to tell me. So we sat in silence for a while.
Then I thought of another question – about the most recent of their five-year-anniversary meals and what had happened there.
He nodded cautiously in acknowledgement. ‘I understand that you are already well informed. So no doubt you know that we met every five years on the day that Eva died, and that at the last meeting, only a few weeks ago, Per Johan suddenly made a very unexpected statement. He said that he now finally understood what had happened, and that one of us also knew and should face the consequences. He said nothing more about what he thought had happened, and the rest of the meal was a cold war where none of us said a word. I could only see surprise, not fear or regret in any of the others’ faces. If one of the people round that table was responsible for her death, they kept up appearances well. All I know for certain is that if the murderer was sitting at the table, it was not me.’
I promptly asked if he was certain that his wife had not committed the murder.
He answered in a very solemn voice: ‘I would never have married her if I thought that was the case. I have always believed that it was one of the others. But in such situations one can only be certain of what one has seen with one’s own eyes, wouldn’t you say?’
I had to agree with him there. But at the same time, I could not help thinking that it must be very uncomfortable not to be certain whether your spouse had committed murder or not.
‘I do know for certain, however, that she did not murder Per Johan. She was at home here with me on Saturday evening,’ he added, hastily.
Just then, we heard light footsteps out in the hall.
‘And talking of my wife, here comes the sun,’ Kjell Arne Ramdal said, without so much as a hint of a smile, or humour in his voice. ‘Do you have any more questions for me? If not, I will hand the stage over to my wife before it gets too late.’
Without waiting for an answer, Kjell Arne Ramdal stood up and left the living room. And as he did so, he reminded me of one of Ibsen’s serious, patriarchal family men whom Miriam and I had talked about only a couple of weeks ago.
XVI
I was afraid that Kjell Arne Ramdal might come back with his wife. But she came into the room alone and discreetly closed the door behind her.
Whether calling her the sun was accurate or not, I was unable to decide. It certainly seemed true. Following my deadly serious conversation with Kjell Arne Ramdal, the room definitely lit up when his wife came in. Despite her black hair, she seemed to be of a far brighter disposition than him, and her smile was open and friendly. She was slim and moved gracefully across the floor. Her dress was modern and fitted. I would have guessed that she was under fifty rather than her true age of over sixty.
Solveig Ramdal, née Thaulow, was clearly a confident and well-heeled upper-class lady. She had gold around her neck and on both hands, and in her husband’s absence she sat down on his throne. Her hand was small, but her handshake firm. Her voice was soft when she said: ‘Good evening. And how can I help you?’
My first thought was that she reminded me of a cat. And I sat there wondering if that sweet smile disguised some sharp teeth.
I did not imagine that she would have much to add to her husband’s statement regarding the business. So I cut to the chase and asked how she had experienced Eva Bjølhaugen’s death in 1932.
Her smile disappeared as soon as I mentioned the name.
‘It was terrible,’ Solveig Ramdal said, in an intense, hushed voice.
‘Terrible situations like that can push some people together and pull others apart,’ I said.
Solveig Ramdal was quick to understand my point. ‘That is very true, indeed. But in this case, the two who were pulled apart were already drifting in different directions. But one shouldn’t really speak ill of the dead…’ She bit her lip and fell silent.
‘Sometimes it is necessary to tell the truth about the dead. Particularly when they have been murdered,’ I countered.
She nodded vigorously, and it seemed to me that she was almost grateful. ‘You may well be right, inspector. You see, Per Johan was a very complicated man, who was very different in different situations. He could be a happy, charming and extremely kind man. He was my first great love, and we had many good times together. Only a few months before the trip to Oslo I had been madly in love and thought that he would be the only love of my life. But there were others who had experienced less sympathetic, colder sides of Per Johan. Then one day I was contacted by a friend who had overheard him say that he was more attracted to my inheritance than to me. This was perfectly plausible as I was an only child and the sole heir to a considerable fortune. Per Johan denied it, of course, and I so wanted to believe him. But the doubt was there like a wall between us. And then when another wall sprang up after Eva’s death, there was just too much doubt and suspicion.’