‘So what you are saying is that you suspected that he was in some way connected to Eva’s death?’
She gave a careful nod. ‘Suspected is perhaps too strong a word, but it was a possibility, and it hung over us like a dark cloud. The friend who told me what Per Johan had apparently said about me, had also heard him say that Eva was an alternative that he had considered more and more. And that was understandable too, because she was far prettier than I was, and heir to an even greater fortune. So it would be easy to imagine it was some kind of jealousy drama, until you see what happened after Eva died, because it wasn’t long before Per Johan married her less attractive sister, who had become sole heir in the meantime. So one might even suspect that the motive was purely gain. Perhaps you did not know that Per Johan got most of his property from the marriage? Oda was worth three times more than him when they got married.’
I said that I had not known that. And I thought to myself that it was a very possible murder motive. I first asked myself and then Mrs Ramdal who might have a motive for revenge now, forty years later.
‘Certainly not me, and not Kjell Arne. Hauk, on the other hand, would clearly have a motive. It would seem that the loss of his girlfriend had a profound effect on him and he never married or started a family. Oda might also have reason for revenge. Though I must say, I don’t think there was any love lost between them in 1932, but she did lose her only sister, after all. And if you were suddenly to discover that, for the past forty years, every day you had lived was a lie and you had been kept in the dark by a husband who had never told you that he had murdered someone close to you – well, I am sure that would be enough to make most people flip.’
That had crossed my mind too. And for the moment, I liked Solveig Ramdal best of the group from 1932, both when she was happy and when she was serious. Because it was definitely her serious face that I saw when asked what she made of the key found lying outside the room in the hotel corridor.
‘I still have no plausible explanation. Whatever else one might say about Per Johan, he was a strong and very focused man. It is unthinkable that he would have dropped the room key in the corridor without noticing, especially if he had just committed a crime. He might have put it there himself, as a kind of red herring, or someone else might have put it there, so that people would suspect him or Hank.’
As we were talking so intimately, I swiftly took the opportunity to ask what she thought about Per Johan Fredriksen’s statement at the group’s last anniversary dinner.
‘Much the same, really. He might have said it to deflect any suspicion, he might have been calling our bluff – or he might have found out that it really was one of us. The only thing I know for certain is that it was not me who killed Eva, if it was indeed one of us who did it.’
Without thinking, I lowered my voice and leaned forwards over the table when I asked if she could not even be certain that her husband had not done it. She remained calm and answered in a hushed voice in return: ‘Yes, that is correct. As far as Per Johan is concerned, I know that it was not Kjell Arne. He was here with me on Saturday night. We were sitting here together when we heard about the attack on the radio. But as for Eva’s death, I have always thought that Kjell Arne seemed a less likely murderer than Per Johan, Hauk and Oda. But no, I don’t know for certain.’
And with that, it was as though she had said all there was to say. She pursed her lips and turned her eyes away to gaze out of the window. And when the large wall clock behind us then struck ten, it felt like a natural end to our conversation.
I quickly noted that two of the group from 1932 could provide each other with an alibi for the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen. And that Mr Ramdal spoke of all the others by their surname, whereas Mrs Ramdal used their first names. Then I thanked her for her cooperation so far, and stood up.
XVII
It was twenty-five past ten by the time I parked outside my flat in Hegdehaugen. It had been a long and demanding day which had yielded some important answers, but also raised many new questions. Without being able to put my finger on why, the whole situation felt very unstable. I walked from the car towards the entrance and everything seemed to be as normal, and yet I was annoyingly gripped by a growing urge to look back. The sensation that there was someone behind me whom I had to see became more and more intense.
Reluctantly, I gave in to the fear and turned around without warning just as I reached the front door.
There was nothing to see. But as I went in I found myself wondering if perhaps there had been someone there before I turned around. On my way up the stairs, I chastised myself for not having turned around earlier, and for allowing my uncertainty about the case to tip into fear.
Once inside my flat, I realized that I still wasn’t tired. I stood alone by the window and looked out at the night.
The street below was empty. And yet I could see someone down there. Images of the boy on the red bicycle, who, two evenings before, had pedalled so frantically up the hill in front of the house, were still burned in my mind.
Even though there was much that was still unexplained, it now seemed clear that the boy had been innocent of murdering Per Johan Fredriksen and that he had cycled here in desperation because he trusted that I would discover the truth. The boy had wanted to give me his simple statement: that he was innocent, that he had only tried to help, and that Fredriksen had been dead when he went back. And it had all been true.
But there was also a sense that the boy on the red bicycle had in some way let me down, first by his lack of cooperation and then by taking his own life. Although of course, the stronger feeling was that I had let him down and betrayed the trust he had given me by failing to recognize his innocence in time to save his life.
I had a light snack alone at twenty to eleven. I felt pretty miserable and thought about the case as I ate two slices of bread and cheese in the kitchen, but was no closer to solving either the possible murder from 1932 or the murder from 1972.
At five to eleven, I went back into the living room. I sat there for several minutes looking at the telephone. The temptation to call my secret advisor, Patricia, only got stronger the longer I sat there. I was sure that Patricia would immediately make connections in the case that I could not see, if she was willing to help me. However, I wasn’t even convinced that she would want to help me. It was as though Patricia’s shadow now eclipsed the case for me. It felt like I had to phone her to find out whether she was willing to help, or if I was on my own.
I thought about the boy on the red bicycle and my meeting with his mother, and came to the conclusion that I should ring Patricia for their sakes. I still knew the number to the telephone on her table by heart. I was suddenly absolutely certain that she was still awake, sitting by the telephone in her library.
Twice I reached out to pick up the phone. The first time, I pulled my hand back before it even touched the receiver and the second time, I dialled the first two numbers before I put it down again. A picture of Miriam appeared and stood between me and the telephone. Miriam had not wanted me to contact Patricia this time and had really done her best to help me herself.
It was a horrible feeling; it would seem as if I lacked confidence in my fiancée if I now asked if I could call Patricia. But at the same time it felt like it would be a betrayal, almost treachery, if I were to ring Patricia without having spoken to Miriam about it first. So I sat there stewing over the dilemma. Then I made a decision and reached out to pick up the phone and ring Patricia.