Chameleon People (32 page)

Rønning Junior replied that he had expected to hear from me sooner, but that of course he appreciated that I had telephoned him now and that he would come in person with his client. There
were certain practical problems involved in contacting his client, as she did not have a telephone or work anywhere with access to one. She did, however, ring him at three o’clock every day,
and he could ask her then if she would be able come to the station with him at four. I asked him to do that, and he promised with relative goodwill to call me back if it was not possible to meet
today.

Then at five to two, I called Patricia. I said that it was rather short notice, but there was a good deal of new information and I would appreciate talking to her as soon as possible.

She said that the maid should be able to rustle up some coffee with fifteen minutes’ notice.

I thanked her and said I would be there as soon as possible.

We hung up at the same time without saying any more. I thought that the case, after a hesitant start, now seemed to be of interest to Patricia. So I got up, rushed out to my car and drove to
Frogner.

At a quarter past two, I was sitting in my usual place opposite Patricia in her library. Coffee, cakes and biscuits had been put out on the table, but not touched by either of
us. Patricia listened in silence for twenty minutes as I told her the most important things from my meetings with Hauk Rebne Westgaard, the office manager Jørgensen and accountant Svendsen,
and Ane Line Fredriksen.

‘Good work in such a short time. But for the moment, the result is in fact more potential murderers for this year’s killings, rather than fewer,’ she said briskly with some
frustration.

I had to agree with that.

‘What about the hairs from 1932?’ Patricia asked.

I told her that they were head hairs, but that it was not possible to establish from whom.

Patricia sighed with frustration. ‘There really is not much help coming from anywhere in this case. Which leaves a theoretical doubt. With regards to who was in Eva’s bed just before
she died, the picture is now so clear that we should confront the person directly. After today’s adventures, you no doubt know who it is?’

The challenge was unexpected. I had absolutely no idea who had been in Eva’s bed. And I could not understand how I was supposed to know after the day’s events.

I thought that it had to be either something Ane Line Fredriksen had said which revealed that it was her father, or something Hauk Rebne Westgaard had said that revealed that it was him. My
guess was that it was Per Johan Fredriksen.

Patricia shook her head. It crossed my mind that no one could shake their head with such mild condescension and captivating arrogance as Patricia. She grabbed a pen and wrote something down on
her notepad, which she kept hidden behind her coffee cup.

‘It is sometimes alarming to discover what conservative mental barriers even relatively young and enlightened people can set for themselves in this day and age,’ she said with a
mocking smile as she held up the piece of paper.

I stared at it and immediately forgave Patricia for mocking me. I had to agree that even relatively young and enlightened people in 1972 could still have conservative mental blocks. And that I
should have worked this out on the basis of what I had heard earlier, if not before that.

The wall clock struck three as I stepped into the hall of the Ramdals’ house in Frognerkilen. I stood face to face with Kjell Arne Ramdal, who appeared to be on his way
out.

As was to be expected, he did not smile, but nor did he express any kind of concern or displeasure at seeing me again. He simply informed me that he had come home for a meal because he had an
important business meeting that was starting in half an hour.

I said that it was actually his wife I needed to speak to this time.

He nodded briskly and went on his way without showing any interest whatsoever in what I might want to talk to his wife about.

So there I was in the hallway with Solveig Ramdal. She very definitely did not look happy to see me, but kept up appearances nonetheless and said: ‘Welcome back. Let’s go into the
living room again.’ She closed the door, even though we were alone in the house. This little detail reinforced my impression that I was on the right track, and it was a very important
one.

‘So, what news from the investigation?’ she asked as she went over to the leather chair.

I went on the offensive and told her that we now knew who had been in the bed together with Eva just before she died, thanks to, among other things, new analyses of the hairs that had been found
there.

‘I see,’ Solveig Ramdal said, looking straight at me. There was no great change in her demeanour, but a slight tension in her voice galvanized me into making that final leap.

‘And so we discovered that you have lied to me in all your previous statements. The mysterious man in Eva’s bed was not your husband, or Per Johan Fredriksen or Hauk Rebne Westgaard.
It was you.’

I knew before I had even finished that I had hit the bull’s eye, with Patricia’s good help.

Solveig Ramdal started as if she had received an electric shock. Then suddenly she transformed into a wild cat. She was almost ready to leap from her chair, her fingers curled like claws. And
when she replied, she hissed more than spoke.

‘You must never tell another living soul – or it could be all the worse for you!’

I was prepared to defend myself physically if she moved in my direction. But she did not; I was at least four stone heavier than her and she was unarmed. But she looked like a wild animal in a
cage as she remained seated on her chair, hissing, quivering, and staring at me with pure hatred. I waited a few seconds to reflect before I continued.

‘I do not want to create any problems in your private life, only to solve the murders. You have lied to me on several occasions in the course of this investigation, and threatening me now
does not make your situation any better. In your own interests, you should just tell me the truth about what happened, immediately.’

Solveig Ramdal sat there fuming for a few seconds more. Suddenly she burst into tears. She sat with her face buried in her hands. After a couple of minutes she regained her composure, lowered
her hands and spoke in a weak voice.

‘I am so sorry, I was desperate and not thinking clearly. For the past forty years, my worst nightmare has been that my secret would get out one day. My husband and children must never
know. Yes, that’s right, I was in bed with Eva shortly before she died. She had asked me to come to her room at half past six. It was only a few minutes before we were in bed. We knew only
too well that we did not have much time. At ten past seven, I sneaked out of her room and back into my own. She was alive and unharmed when I left her. I got up and dressed, while she lay in the
bed naked. She smiled when she said “see you soon”. She did not say that she was expecting any more visitors. What happened after I left, I have no idea. What I said about hearing a
bang at half past seven is true. I heard a bang and got worried, but hoped that it was nothing dramatic. I was terrified that we would be discovered and didn’t dare go into her room again to
find out what had happened. It has haunted me ever since. Not knowing if I could have saved Eva if I had gone back. But I did not kill her. On the contrary, I loved her.’

This did not sound entirely implausible.

‘So that’s the story? Eva liked the attention of men, but in truth loved only women. And that was true of you too?’

She nodded and shook her head at the same time.

‘Yes and no. Eva only loved women and the attention, of course – or at least, that is what she told me. I thought at the time that I only loved women, but I realized afterwards that
I could love both men and women. My experience with Eva and her death was a shock. I have since only been to bed with two men: my first fiancé and my husband. I tell myself that Solveig
Thaulow was attracted to women, whereas Solveig Ramdal is quite normal and only loves men. It was a folly of my youth, but I have lived in fear ever since as a result. My husband and his family are
very conservative and have spoken with utter disgust about women who are attracted to women. And the children are more like my husband than me. If this were to get out, I would not only risk
divorce and being thrown out of my home, but also losing any contact with my family. So I beg you with all my heart not to let this go any further!’

She said this in an almost breathless whisper. Then she was silent and looked even smaller where she sat hunched up in a chair that was suddenly too big. The wild cat had vanished, and left in
its place was a small, trembling kitten. The kitten did not look in the slightest bit dangerous, but I had seen the furious wild cat that also lay hidden in Solveig Ramdal. And I did not doubt that
it could kill if it felt threatened and was given the opportunity.

We were caught in an uncomfortable situation, just as I had been with her husband the day before. Solveig Ramdal could not prove to me that Eva Bjølhaugen had been alive when she left the
hotel room that day in 1932. I could not prove the opposite. We still only had Solveig Ramdal’s word for the bang at half past seven.

The limitation period for the murder in 1932 had long since elapsed and it was really only interesting in terms of the investigation because of its relevance to the murders in 1972. The story
that Solveig Ramdal had now told me did not give her a new motive for the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen. On the other hand, it did give her a possible motive for killing Vera Fredriksen, if she
had been about to uncover what actually happened in 1932. And that was true regardless of whether she had killed Eva Bjølhaugen, or just gone to bed with her.

I promptly changed tack, looked her straight in the eye and asked if she would now like to change her statement regarding the day Vera Fredriksen died.

And because we were looking straight into each other’s eyes, we both knew what happened next. She was confused and hesitated for a few seconds too long to be able to lie afterwards. So she
bit her lip and answered.

‘Yes, I am afraid that I have to do that as well. Apart from the fact that we both had our clothes on, it is a very similar story forty years on. I was in the hotel room and met Vera, and
it must have been shortly before she was killed. But she too was alive and unharmed when I left. And again, it was she who asked me to come, but all we did was talk for a few minutes.’

I asked for more details about what happened. Solveig Ramdal continued without stopping to think. Either she was telling the truth, or her mind worked very quickly.

‘I knew Vera a little, but it was still a surprise when she rang me. She said that she had found a document in her father’s desk that might shed some light on what had happened in
1932. She had gone to the hotel herself and thought that what her father had written could be true. But she wanted to discuss it with someone who had been there at the time, before going to the
police. I didn’t know what she knew, but was panicked that she might know my secret and reveal it. So I said that I would get there as quickly as I could. I was beside myself with
desperation. Then I put a tea towel over the receiver, rang the hotel and reserved a hotel room, pretending to be a neurotic.’

She stopped for a moment and looked at me expectantly, but carried on hastily when I waved her on.

‘The receptionist was not a stickler for rules and regulations, and I managed to get to my room without being seen. I met Vera, who was very agitated indeed. She only talked about the
murder and there was nothing to indicate that she knew about my little secret. She had left the document in her father’s desk. But she told me that his theory was that Eva had been drowned
and that it was my husband who had killed her. Vera said that she wanted to tell me before she went to the police, to tell them about this theory. I said that I appreciated it, and told her the
truth – that I was not aware that my husband had committed murder, but could not rule it out either. I said that she should tell the police if she knew anything that might be relevant to her
father’s death, but said that I would appreciate it if she did not mention our conversation. She promised not to, and we parted as friends around half past three. She was full of life and
standing in the middle of the room when I left.’

She was breathing very heavily, but she held my eye as she spoke.

‘So what you are saying is that when you went to the hotel, you had planned for a situation where you were willing to kill Vera Fredriksen if she was about to reveal your secret? And you
claim that that situation never arose?’

Solveig Ramdal started slightly, but managed to keep impressive control over her voice.

‘What I am saying, very clearly, is that no such situation arose and I did not kill Vera Fredriksen. What I thought and imagined about the various situations that never arose is a matter
for me, my conscience and God.’

Solveig Ramdal let out a long breath, then looked at me with pleading eyes. She gave a curt ‘no’ in answer to my question as to whether she had anything to add to her earlier
statement about the day on which Per Johan Fredriksen died.

I thought that this made the picture of what happened in 1932 and 1972 clearer, but frustratingly didn’t make it any clearer who might have committed the murders. Solveig Ramdal could be
lying and she could have carried out one or both of the murders. But I had no proof. If her story was true, it gave me few leads. In fact, Vera Fredriksen’s death became even more of a
riddle. Given that Solveig Ramdal was the mysterious hotel guest and that the three telephone calls that Vera Fredriksen had made were to her mother, Solveig Ramdal and me, it was even more
puzzling how and why the murderer had gone to the hotel. This weakened the credibility of her story, but did not disprove it.

Solveig Ramdal appeared to have fully regained control when she spoke again.

‘I understand that my position is pretty weak and I would appear untrustworthy. So I can only hope that you soon find out the truth about all these murders, as it will prove that I did not
kill anyone. I have lied to you in our previous conversations, for which I apologize profusely. But there was a danger that I would be accused of a murder I did not commit, or that the secret of a
mistake in my youth would be uncovered and ruin my life. In the past few days I have thought a great deal about how people react in different situations. Even though it might take different forms,
I believe that most people would, like me, do whatever they could to save their own skins. You can call it egotism, if you wish; I call it self-preservation. It sounds a bit nicer, even though the
meaning is much the same.’