‘Hello, it’s me,’ I said.
There was a few seconds’ silence on the other end. For the first time, it felt as though Patricia was surprised that I had rung her, and she needed a few seconds to consider the significance of it. But this did not take long.
‘I suppose this is about the Fredriksen case, then. I think there are several very good reasons why I should steer clear.’
I was afraid she was going to put the telephone down, but the line was not broken. There was still hope.
She said nothing about what these reasons might be, and I certainly did not feel like asking. Instead, I tried to tempt her with titbits from the investigation.
‘The case is far more interesting than it might at first seem. We now have a statement from an eyewitness that indicates that the young suspect who took his own life did not kill Fredriksen. Though who then might have done still remains a mystery. And then this afternoon, Fredriksen’s youngest daughter was found dead in the very hotel room where her mother’s sister was found dead in 1932. Fredriksen himself was also there at the time, as one of a group of her friends. So I think I can say that I have never been involved in a more puzzling or tragic case.’
Again, there was a few moments’ silence at the other end.
‘It certainly sounds that way so far. I am sure that the case is both interesting and important. But for strictly personal reasons I do not think I should get involved in your investigation.’
That was, of course, where the problem lay. But now that it was staring me in the face I could solve it. The telephone line remained open.
I breathed in and out with the utmost control a few times. Then I said: ‘I can understand that. Miriam did not want me to contact you about the case either. But I felt that I now owed it to those young people to call you all the same. I believe that only you can help me. So that is why I called, without her knowing.’
I spoke in a hushed voice, even though I knew perfectly well that Miriam was sitting in a meeting a couple of miles away and that no one could hear the conversation.
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. I looked at the clock to keep my mind focused in the pregnant silence and counted to nine before Patricia answered.
‘Well, if it is so important to you and for those young people, we will have to see if there is anything I can do to help. If you come here in half an hour, I will see if I can get the servants to whip something up for your dinner by half past seven.’
Patricia said this quickly and with determination. Then she put the receiver down without waiting for an answer.
I sat there with the mute receiver in my hand, and a feeling of enormous relief – tinged with a slight guilt.
XII
The White House at 104-108 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street was just as impressive from the outside as I remembered it from previous visits. In the midst of my most complicated and bewildering murder case, there was something enormously calming and reassuring about the very sight of the Borchmanns’ monumental family home.
But this time it was tempered by a level of unease. I looked around before I parked the car, before I walked up to the house and before I rang the bell. But no one was following me on the almost empty evening street.
In terms of formality, I was still high and dry: I was officially simply visiting a friend. In reality, though, I would divulge information that could cost me my job if it were ever discovered. But I had done this many times before, and my concern about this side of the matter was minimal. I had known Patricia’s late parents since I was a child, and I was absolutely convinced that no information given by me would leak from here. I had successfully convinced myself that I had to do everything within my power to solve the murder case I was investigating.
The door was opened by a maid who looked exactly the same as before, and once again gave me a cautious smile as she welcomed me in. I thought that it was perhaps Benedikte, but still could not be sure that it was not her twin sister Beate. Not that it really mattered. Though she would never admit it herself, Patricia was still in the very best hands and in the safest environment.
The servants had indeed managed to whip up a supper for half past seven. The onion soup starter was already waiting at my usual place at the table when I was ushered into Patricia’s library.
Patricia was sitting there herself in her wheelchair on the other side of the table, sovereign of her own small realm. She looked exactly as she had done before. I knew that she had celebrated her twenty-second birthday only a couple of months ago, but could still have mistaken her for a teenager. It struck me that there was something strangely dollish, almost childlike, about Patricia.
I was happy to see her again. So I went around the table and gave her a hug. This seemed to take her by surprise. Her body trembled faintly, but her cheek was warm and her voice a little softer than usual when she said: ‘How nice to see you again. I have already eaten. Sit yourself down – eat. And at the same time tell me all that I need to know about Per Johan Fredriksen and his death.’
I sat down, ate, and talked my way through the starter, main course and dessert. Patricia listened with extraordinary concentration as I told her everything about the case so far. She had a large cup of coffee on the table beside her, but did not touch it once. Her hand noted down some names and dates to begin with, without any apparent cooperation with her head. Her eyes were fixed on me the whole time.
When I told her about Eva Bjølhaugen’s death in Room 111 in 1932, her eyes sparked for a moment.
‘Did the room have an en suite bathroom or not?’ she asked quickly.
I told her that the room had an en suite bathroom, which had also been searched without any results. She waved me on, and then sat without moving until I had finished with the story of Vera Fredriksen’s death that afternoon. Then she smiled almost merrily for a moment, before once again sitting there gravely in deep concentration.
It was half past eight by the time I had finished my account, put down the almost empty bowl of rice pudding and said: ‘So, what do you think? Was it natural causes, suicide or murder, both in 1932 and 1972? As far as 1972 is concerned, we will perhaps get the answer when the preliminary autopsy report comes tomorrow morning.’
And if I had ever thought otherwise, Patricia was no less sharp than she had been before. She sighed in mild exasperation and replied: ‘Murder, without a doubt, in both 1932 and 1972. And I am almost certain I know how the murders were committed as well, though one always has to bear in mind poisoning in such situations. It is actually quite obvious, if one just looks beyond the fact that it is a rather unusual way to kill people in a hotel room.’
Patricia fell silent, and took an artful sip of coffee. She immediately started and rang the bell to call the maid.
In the brief minute before the maid knocked on the door, I sat and wondered what Patricia had meant.
‘The coffee you served was far too cold, Beate. Pour it out and make some new coffee immediately. And this time make sure the hot plate is on, please!’
Beate rolled her eyes at me and looked like she would love to say that the coffee had been warm when she poured it an hour and a half ago. But all she said was ‘Of course, sorry’, and then took the coffee cup with her when she left.
The door closed behind the maid and I still did not understand Patricia’s meaning. So I had to bite the first bullet and ask how, according to this theory, Eva Bjølhaugen was murdered in 1932 and Vera Fredriksen was murdered in 1972.
Patricia gave a semi-triumphant smile and a swift answer: ‘They were drowned. With water from the tap in the bathroom which was poured down their throat as they lay there unconscious. Eva Bjølhaugen fainted after one of her epileptic fits, thus giving the murderer an opportunity that he or she then ruthlessly exploited. Vera Fredriksen could have been knocked unconscious, but as there is no physical evidence of this, it is more likely that she fainted at the sight of an unexpected intruder or something else that frightened her. According to her family she has a tendency to do this when confronted with powerful emotions. In both cases, the murderer then wiped away any spilt water with the towel from the bathroom and left the room.’