It was hard not to say that I understood. So I did just that. She smiled faintly.
‘Thank you for your kind thoughts. I hope you can continue with your investigation without having to worry about me. After forty years of peace, my life has been rocked by two explosions in just four days. But despite now being the widow of a landowner, I still come from farming stock. My great-grandmother’s sister survived her three children and her husband, and barely had clothes and food in her old age. I have more than enough of both, and two grown-up children and a grandchild. So don’t worry about me. Just do what you can, and let me know as soon as you find out who killed my husband and my child.’
There was a faint glow in her eyes as she spoke. I thought to myself that Oda Fredriksen was to a certain extent what Patricia had in a past investigation called a satellite person. For decades she had circled her husband and children. Now her husband was suddenly gone. She was visibly shaken, but could still stand on her own two feet in the middle of the vast room. And I believed that she would stay standing after I had left, and that with time, she would find herself a new orbit.
So I solemnly thanked her for her help and took the envelope containing the three documents with me out to the car.
I left with three new clues, all of which could lead me to a murderer. I felt an intense need to discuss the case with someone. An image of Patricia in her wheelchair squeezed its way into my mind, between Miriam and my boss, as I sat in the car and flicked back and forth between the three documents. Each time, I stopped at the third document, with the notes about 1932. I was only a couple of miles away from the Ramdals’ house in Frognerkilen, so after debating it for a few minutes, I drove straight there.
IX
I stood and looked out over the water at Frognerkilen before I turned and walked to the Ramdals’ front door. The view of the fjord below with the sailing boats rocking gently on the waves was idyllic. I had grown up with a father who mockingly called Frognerkilen the Black Sea. By this he was referring to all the black money that he believed the rich upper classes had squirrelled away in the form of unnecessary yachts. I suspected that my father might be exaggerating a little. But as I took the final steps up to the house, I did think that the idyllic scene felt false and could be hiding something darker.
I did not need to ring the bell. Solveig Ramdal saw me from her watch post on the first floor. She waved and then disappeared from the window, clearly with the intention of opening the door. When she did, she said that her husband was unfortunately still at work, but that she would be happy to oblige if there was anything she could help me with.
Solveig Ramdal did not smile today, not when she waved to me from the window, nor when we stood there face to face at the door. I could understand that. There had been another death since we last met. And perhaps she also had a personal reason to be upset. My misgivings followed me into the living room. She sank down into her husband’s chair more heavily than the last time, before starting to speak.
‘It was so awfully sad to hear about Vera’s death. We sent flowers today. These must be terrible days for poor Oda.’
I said there was no doubt about it. I also asked Solveig Ramdal if she had been in direct contact with Vera in the days after her father’s death. She looked slightly confused, thought about it, but then shook her head without saying anything.
There was coffee on the table. Solveig Ramdal was still the perfect hostess and she was still youthful and feline in her movements. But as we sat there, I suddenly felt certain that she was hiding something from me. Only I had no idea what.
I started by saying that as a matter of procedure I had to ask for alibis for the previous afternoon.
She nodded pensively. ‘I understand. My husband is possibly more fortunate than I am this time. He was at work until he came home at a quarter past five. I was, as usual, at home alone. The only time I went out the gate was when I popped down to the shop around four, half past four. The staff there know me and could probably vouch for that, but it is sadly not possible to prove that I was here the rest of the time.’
The alibi was not as poor as she might think. Given that Miriam had spoken to Vera on the telephone just before half past three, that wouldn’t leave much time for Solveig Ramdal to murder her in Ullern and be back at the shop by four. But it was still a possibility.
Solveig Ramdal seemed inexplicably uneasy about her lack of alibi. I felt I was glimpsing a crack in her mask and wanted to know what lay behind it. So I pressed on with a bluff.
‘We now have strong indications from, amongst other things, some notes left behind by Per Johan Fredriksen, that your relationship with him in more recent times was far closer than you have previously led me to believe.’
She sat without saying anything, and kept up appearances well. But there was a new uneasy undertone to her voice when she replied.
‘I am a little uncertain as to what you mean. Per Johan and I have, for many years now, only met at these dinners every five years. When, roughly, was this and what kind of contact are you talking about?’
Her answer was testing me. She was unsure about how much I knew. And I was unsure if I was on the right track.
‘The mid-fifties. And you met – when no one else was present.’
We were beating around the bush, but it was like playing poker. I had no more details and the little I knew that I was now brazenly betting on, was based on Oda Fredriksen’s impressions and the fact that her husband had said Solveig’s name in his fevered sleep. She, for her part, however, could not know what Per Johan Fredriksen had written.
I was right. Her nod was reluctant and grave.
‘It is true that Per Johan and I did meet, one on one, around that time. But it is not true that we had an affair. We only met twice, in 1955, and neither time did we end up in bed.’
She looked at me guardedly. I had nothing up my sleeve which might prove this to be wrong, so I said: ‘You should have told me this yesterday, of course, but I am ready to hear it now, too. But you must lay all your cards on the table now and tell me exactly what happened.’
It worked. She nodded several times then carried on swiftly.
‘I did think that I should have told you. But it is just such a complex family history. You first have to realize that my marriage of many years has been no more than an empty facade. It started as a marriage of convenience. He was the safe harbour I sought after all the turbulence of Eva’s death and my broken engagement with Per Johan. Kjell Arne has been a good provider for me and a good father for my children for nearly forty years. But if I ever had any passionate feelings for him, they were gone by the time our first child was born. He perhaps hoped to develop stronger feelings for me, but, if he ever tried, he never managed it. My husband is a very good and rational businessman, and this carries through to his dealings with his family. If he ever possessed any stronger or more romantic feelings, they were perhaps for another woman. But I have kept my marriage vow and have never been physically unfaithful to him. The only men who have ever been in my bed are Per Johan, back in 1932 and then Kjell Arne ever since.’
She sat staring at the living-room wall. I noticed again that Kjell Arne Randal was not smiling in any of the family photographs that hung there. Solveig Ramdal suddenly reminded me of Nora in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, a play that I had seen with Miriam last autumn.
‘And the woman he loved before you was…?’
She gave a brief nod. I caught a glimpse of two small catlike teeth when she replied.
‘Eva, of course. Even a man like him, without a romantic bone in his body, was enthralled by Eva. They all were. She was the most beautiful and sparkling of all the young women in Vestfold, as well as being the only one who knew how to exploit it. She could wrap men round her little finger and would then pull them along behind her to a cliff edge, it was said. Her sister was forgotten the moment Eva came into a room, as was I. So in a strange way, Eva was a symbol of beauty but also a trophy. One that Kjell Arne would have given anything to win. But he never got her – as far as I know. And either way, Eva was gone by the time anything happened between Kjell Arne and me. Although I still had to compete with her for his attention. I have always been second choice and a poor surrogate for something he never even had.’