Authors: Hans Olav Lahlum
I said that she had been of great help and asked if it would be possible to send a written version of her statement for her to verify and sign.
We looked at each other for a brief moment. Then she started to cough again and said that if it was important, perhaps I should take a written statement straightaway.
‘My cough is getting worse and worse,’ she said. ‘This past week I have been surprised to wake up every morning and realize that I am still alive.’ She chuckled and then
lit her pipe again, but it was clearly serious.
I wrote down her statement by hand on a plain sheet of white paper. She read it through, gave a brief nod and then signed her name, Henriette Krogh Hansen, underneath. Her ornate handwriting
would not have looked out of place on a scroll from another century. Her gnarled little hand reminded me of an eagle’s claw and it burned like a red-hot poker when I shook it, her eyes
unblinking when I said goodbye. Henriette Krogh Hansen was in no doubt as to what she had seen, and I was in no doubt that what she had seen was what happened.
My boss was supposed to go home at half past five, but at a quarter to six he was still sitting opposite me. Danielsen’s shift had finished at five, which was an enormous
relief.
The boss listened in silence to my account of the most recent development. His expression was inscrutable, but it seemed to me that there was something disapproving about him.
‘You are, as usual, to be praised for following up every lead, Kristiansen. How old did you say this new witness was?’
I took a deep breath, in and out. Then I replied: ‘One hundred and four. She is very old indeed, but has perfect vision and a clear head. I found her to be wholly credible.’
I hoped that my boss would nod. But instead, he just sat there waiting.
‘It is, however, a ripe old age for an eyewitness who has seen something through the window at dusk. The only thing she said that can be checked and that was not reported in the papers, is
that Fredriksen was stabbed twice. She might, of course, simply be guessing. That being said, it is unsettling news and could indicate that Fredriksen’s murderer is still at large. But it
might cause confusion and unfounded speculation if we were to step up the investigation after the prime suspect has committed suicide and left behind a note that was as good as a
confession.’
We fell silent. All at once, I found I was not sure of my boss. But I felt that I had to say something, before he asked me to wrap up the investigation as planned.
So I said that the solution would be to announce that the prime suspect had indeed taken his own life and left behind a note that could be interpreted as a confession, but that the police would
continue the investigation as a matter of course.
My boss gave a quick nod.
‘Yes, let’s do that. You follow up things with the family. Question whom you want, call in Danielsen if you need help and let me know immediately of any new developments.’
I promised to do that and stood up to leave. My boss remained sitting. I got the distinct feeling that there was something else, and that he was deliberating whether to bring it up. So I stayed
where I was.
He coughed and then said: ‘If we follow it through and remain open to the possibility that someone other than the late young Tor Johansen . . .’ he paused. ‘It seems more
likely that we should look for the clues in Fredriksen’s private life and any connection to the old mystery from 1932, rather than his political activities. So perhaps it would be best to
start with the friends in the group who are still alive?’
Further investigation into the mystery from 1932 was at the top of my list of priorities. So I agreed without hesitation, but added that we should in principle be open to all possibilities as
the victim had been a senior politician with many strings to his bow.
My boss could hardly disagree with this. So he simply nodded. I got the impression that he had more on his mind than he was willing to say, and left in anticipation of what more I might discover
about the murder mystery from 1932.
Miriam had been given the spare key to my flat and used it well. Supper was already on the table when I got home at twenty-five past six.
I thanked her for her understanding and apologized for being late. She replied merrily that it was important to use time efficiently, as she had a meeting at the party office at eight. She then
asked me to tell her without further ado about any developments in the investigation.
She lost her twinkle when I told her about the death earlier in the day and what had happened since then. Miriam looked as though she might burst into tears for a minute or two when she heard
the story of the boy and his mother. She sat deep in thought for the latter part of the meal.
‘Tell me again what the quote was,’ she said, eventually.
I got it out of my bag.
‘“Because either it is the world that is turned to slavery, or me . . . and it is more likely to be the latter”.’
She nodded mournfully. ‘Just as I thought. It’s from a book on the Norwegian literature curriculum – at the end of Jonas Lie’s
One of Life’s Slaves.
The
protagonist, Nikolai, is a young man who has grown up in very difficult circumstances and has done his utmost to be a law-abiding pillar of society, but he ends up in prison all the same. In the
novel, Nikolai ends up committing murder out of sheer desperation and frustration. So it could be interpreted however you want. But you don’t think he committed the murder, do you?’
Her question was unexpected, but I shook my head firmly all the same. ‘What about Hauptmann, then?’
Miriam gave this some thought while she ate the rest of her food.
‘I’m not sure. It’s a new name to me, but there is something familiar about it,’ she said. She sat quietly for a while longer. Then suddenly she pointed at me and jumped
up from the sofa.
‘I think we saw something about him when we went through the history book,’ she said.
Four seconds later she was already over by the bookshelf. She leafed with impressive speed to the middle of the book, then exclaimed with satisfaction: ‘And here we have Hauptmann! If he
is who I think he is. And it has to be, surely?’
I rushed over to her, looked at the picture and said without thinking that I agreed, it had to be him.
The photograph was from 1936. Hauptmann’s first name was Bruno. He was a dark, thin and serious young man in the photographs taken during a court case in New Jersey, where he was being
tried for the kidnapping and murder of the legendary pilot, Charles Lindbergh’s little boy. Hauptmann came from a simple background and the evidence against him was so controversial that he
was not executed until a year after the court case. Hauptmann was a German immigrant who could barely make himself understood, but maintained his stammering innocence until his death.
Miriam and I stood there in the middle of the room, with the book between us and read what was written with wide eyes. Then we looked at each other.
‘I think he was innocent,’ I said.
‘Hauptmann or the boy on the red bicycle?’ Miriam asked, more than a little pedantically.
‘Both,’ I said.
She nodded in agreement and we kissed on it.
‘Your memory is impressive. I should have called you as soon as he mentioned Hauptmann,’ I said.
We both stepped back and fell silent. The thought that the boy on the red bicycle had been innocent and that he might still have been alive if I had realized this sooner, was very unsettling. It
seemed Miriam understood.
‘But I was in the library, so you would not have been able to get hold of me by phone. And in any case, we will never know whether the outcome might have been different. He certainly
didn’t make it easy for you. He was clearly a well-read and intelligent boy, despite his handicap. But it does seem strange that he only added to his problems by speaking in riddles in the
way that he did,’ she said, slowly.
Again, I had to agree. The young Tor Johansen’s mental state remained a mystery within the murder mystery, and we might never know the answer. It did not make the investigation any easier,
even though we now assumed that he had come to the scene of the crime after the murder, and had not seen who did it.
‘Why on earth did he take the knife with him if he wasn’t guilty?’ I wondered.
Miriam stood thinking. Then she sighed heavily and said: ‘I don’t know. It’s just one of the things we’ll have to ponder. But right now I have to leave for the meeting at
the party office, if I’m going to be on time. And tomorrow I’m afraid I have a Socialist People’s Party regional meeting and an anti-EEC meeting . . .’
She looked rather apologetic when she said this. I said that I would be more than happy to drive her, but she replied that public transport was more environmentally friendly and also more
efficient timewise. Then she made a speedy exit. I had to dash after her to say thank you for her input today and that I would phone her at the halls of residence tomorrow before her meetings.
Then once again I stood alone at the window and watched Miriam become smaller and smaller until she was just a smudged shadow in the evening dark. And I thought about the big question we had not
had time to discuss today – in other words, Patricia.
I was absolutely convinced that Patricia would get more out of the facts of the case. I thought to myself that no matter how irregular my contact with Patricia was, it was in a way my duty to
call her when I thought that her help might be vital to solving the case.
But even after Miriam had disappeared from sight, I felt that it would be too much of a betrayal to phone Patricia behind her back. Also, I still wasn’t sure if Patricia would be willing
to help me while Miriam was still around.
So I pushed it to one side and sat down on my own to listen to the news. I was somewhat relieved that the only mention of the politician’s murder was a brief report to say that the prime
suspect had taken his own life in prison.
As was to be expected, the main stories were about the EEC and the demarcation line agreement with the Soviet Union. The first item was just as controversial today as it had been yesterday,
whereas it seemed that the demarcation line issue was now close to agreement. The Government had had a draft agreement confirmed and the opposition was largely in favour of it, though it did have
some reservations.
Despite this exciting news, my thoughts kept turning back to the murder investigation. When the evening news had finished reporting on my case, I was finished with it. I sat and looked through
the papers I had been working on before I left the office.
They were copies of a short press release and two telegrams that had been sent to Oda Fredriksen at Bygdøy and Lene Johansen at Grønland, telling them that the investigation would
continue for a few more days. Then there was a note of two telephone numbers, to three people I had not spoken to yet: Hauk Rebne Westgaard, and the couple Kjell Arne and Solveig Ramdal. The
investigation was now becoming an obsession. It was increasingly clear to me that I would not be able to wait until tomorrow to pursue it.
Hauk Rebne Westgaard answered the telephone when I rang at twenty-five to nine. ‘Westgaard, how can I help?’ he said, in a steady and controlled voice, without the
slightest hint of joy.
Our conversation was short and to the point. I told him that I was leading the investigation into the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen and therefore had to ask him some routine questions in
connection with the events that took place in 1932. He in turn told me that he had heard about the murder on the news and had been expecting the police to contact him. We agreed that it was a
little too late to travel either to or from Holmestrand today. He said that he would be more than happy to talk to me, but was in the middle of renovations at the farm and would therefore not be
able to come to Oslo until late afternoon the following day. I offered to drive down to Holmestrand and meet him there around ten o’clock in the morning. He said that that would work well for
him and that I was very welcome.
My next telephone call was answered by a man who said: ‘The Ramdals, you are talking to Director Ramdal himself.’
When he heard who I was, he said that of course he knew what it was about and that they had expected to be contacted. His wife was at present visiting a daughter and would not be home until
later, but he himself was there and had time if I wished to meet him now. I thanked him and said that I would.
I got into my car at a quarter to nine and drove to Frognerkilen. On my way there, I passed within a few hundred yards of Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. I wondered how Patricia was. I
imagined her sitting there as she always did, in the library with the papers and reports about the case spread out in front of her. But I had made my decision, at least for today. And I did not
even consider turning off into Frogner.
The Ramdals’ home was a generous detached house in a garden in the best part of Frognerkilen, with a view to the fjord in the background. Both the house and garden were bigger than I had
anticipated. On my way up the drive, I found myself wondering whether the Ramdals knew the Borchmanns, and if they also had servants.
The answer to this proved to be no. When I rang the bell, the door was eventually opened by Kjell Arne Ramdal himself. He was a slightly overweight man with grey streaks in his hair and beard,
and yet clearly in good health and fit for his sixty-five years.
There were two pairs of skis leaning up against the wall in the hallway, beside a full to bursting cupboard. The photographs of children and grandchildren on the walls all added to the
impression of a happy, upper-class home. Ramdal himself was in several of the photographs together with a slim, black-haired woman whom I assumed was his wife. It occurred to me that there was
something odd about the pictures, but I could not put my finger on it.
‘As I said, my wife is visiting one of the family – our children moved away from home a long time ago. So I am the only one here at the moment. Which is perhaps a good thing, if we
are to talk about business or the old case from 1932,’ Kjell Arne Ramdal remarked.