But the telephone beat me to it: it started to ring while my hand was still in the air. As soon as I heard it ring, I knew who it was – and I was right.
Miriam was calling from a telephone box at her student accommodation. Her voice trembled slightly when she spoke: ‘I’ve tried to call you several times this evening without any answer. I’m so glad that you are all right. Is there any news about the case?’
It felt as though she was asking me if I had been to visit Patricia. And I immediately regretted having tried to call her.
So I quickly told her that I had been to see the Ramdals and that there was some new information, but I could tell her more when we next met.
Miriam sounded pleased to hear this and said that she could leave the library a couple of hours earlier tomorrow so that we could have an early supper together before she went to her evening meetings. This was a rare offer coming from her, so I agreed without hesitation. She promised to be here at four and would wait if I was later. I cheerfully asked her to take with her the book on the history of the German language, and she equally cheerfully said that she would never dream of going anywhere without it.
Her coins and our conversation came to an end at twenty-five past eleven. We felt closer again. I was touched by my Miriam’s interest and found her curiosity charming. So I stopped debating with myself whether to call Patricia or not. In any case, it was by now far too late for any more phone calls or visits today. I suddenly felt the exhaustion after a long and demanding day overwhelm me.
I was in bed by a quarter to twelve and barely managed to set the alarm before I fell asleep. But the sheet on my own bed reminded me, all the same, of what I had seen at the main police station earlier in the day. And I saw the boy on the red bicycle once again – dead in his cell.
Monday, 20 March 1972 came to a close with me dreaming that Miriam was back in my bed with me, but Patricia was sitting in her wheelchair in the middle of the room, looking at us with a grim and reproachful expression.
DAY FOUR: Some New Faces – and a Slightly Surreal Situation
I
On Tuesday, 21 March 1972, it was reported in the morning news on the radio that it now looked as though the Barents Sea agreement would get the support of all parties, even though some individuals in the Conservative Party had raised critical questions about the Soviet Union’s intentions. These were possibly in response to the fact that surviving members of the Communist Party of Norway had appeared on the barricades to proclaim the agreement was an example of the Soviet Union’s good intentions and genuine desire for peace.
Between the headlines and reports about the Barents Sea agreement and the EEC debate in the morning papers, I found some obituaries for Per Johan Fredriksen and several smaller reports about his murder. The two newspapers that I had delivered wrote that the suspect, who had been held in custody after having fled the scene of the crime, was a young man from the east end of Oslo, and he had since committed suicide in prison. From the evidence, it would seem that the murder was motivated by personal tragedy and the case was now considered closed.
The newspapers did not mention the suspect’s name, but did name the head of the investigation. Phrases such as ‘the young and already well-known Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen solved the case in record time’ made for pleasant enough reading. But I read them with mixed feelings, knowing as I did only too well that it could quickly backfire on the police in general and myself in particular. Especially if the press got wind of the fact that the arrestee, who had taken his own life in a cell, was innocent. I came to the conclusion that it might have been better if my name had not been mentioned. I quickly folded the papers and hurried to work.
I was in my office by twenty past eight, in other words, ten minutes early. All the incoming messages to do with the case were requests for interviews. I dealt with them swiftly, replying that the investigation was still ongoing and the police were still open to all possibilities.
At half past nine, I was in my car driving out of Oslo, on my way to meet a man who had apparently lived alone in Holmestrand since finding his girlfriend dead in a hotel room in Oslo forty years ago.
II
The farm was easy to find: not only was it the best signposted, but it was also the largest in the area. After seeing a sign for Westgaard on a side road, I drove for a good three minutes before coming to the farmhouse.
The man was not hard to find either. Hauk Rebne Westgaard was standing talking to two other men in front of the house when I drove up. It was very obvious who he was, thanks to his height, profile and clothes. Without reading very much more into it, I could see that he was the only gentleman there.
The description I had been given was very fitting. Hauk Rebne Westgaard was at least six feet tall, with unusually sharp features and a clean-shaven face, raven hair, a slim build and graceful movements; he could as easily have been forty-five as sixty-five. His handshake was strong and his voice was friendly when he said: ‘Welcome.’ But he did not smile, and walked into the house without saying another word.
Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s living room was large and tidy, but in terms of the furnishing and decor, it was like taking a step back in time to the early interwar period. With the possible exception of a couple of guns on the wall and some of the trophies on the top shelves, it looked as though nothing here was from after 1945. I found myself wondering whether my host’s internal life had remained equally untouched since 1932.
Out loud, I asked whether he lived alone or had any family. He replied: ‘I have three farmhands who live on the farm with their families, but I live on my own in the house. My parents died long ago, and my only sibling is a younger sister who also has her own house on the farm. I have never married and do not have the pleasure of my own children.’
‘But you were once in love and had a girlfriend, whom you lost – unexpectedly,’ I said.
He gave a strangely determined and abrupt nod. It was as though his sharp chin cleaved the air in two.
‘I understand that you are well acquainted with the events of 1932. Yes, I once had a girlfriend whom I loved very much and lost very unexpectedly. I have carried on with my life, done what I should and could on the farm and in the community, and I’ve managed well. But I still wonder about what happened, and what my life might have been like had it not occurred. And that I will never know. But I would be very grateful if you could solve the mystery.’
His voice was still friendly, but as he spoke his hawk-like eyes bore into me.
I felt the pressure mounting. So I swiftly replied that I would do my best, but that I first needed to hear his version of the events and how he had experienced them.
‘Eva and I had not been together for very long, just four months. And we were very different. She was an irrepressible optimist with a lust for life and had grown up without a care in the world. Whereas the situation here at home had left its mark on me and I was far more serious. But we got on very well together all the same, and in the days before the trip to Oslo had even talked about getting engaged. I was never one for parties really and thought I was the luckiest man in the world to have found such a beautiful and charming girlfriend. I could see that other men looked at me with envy. And I thought to myself many a time that it was too good to last, but I had no idea that it would end as tragically as it did.’
‘And in addition, she was rich,’ I said, tentatively.