Chameleon People (25 page)

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.’

‘I understand. So when Per Johan contacted you one day, you had no misgivings. But what did he want, if not a mistress?’

Solveig Ramdal gave me a fleeting, scornful smile before she continued.

‘It’s almost a bit strange that it did not lead to an affair. His own marriage was like mine; the only difference was that his wife was far more fond of him than I was of my husband.
From his perspective, it was a sham. We had both been strongly attracted to each other once upon a time in our youth, but it was impossible to find that magic again. Eva and her death in 1932 was
there like a wall between us. And that is what it was all about. Per Johan rang one day while my husband was at work, and asked if we could meet to discuss Eva’s death. He said that the case
continued to haunt him and that he thought it had been murder. Per Johan said that he was pretty sure that I had not killed Eva, but that it could have been any of the other three. Of course I knew
that it was not me, but I also had my suspicions and Per Johan was still a charmer when he wanted to persuade someone. And that’s how we ended up one day, sitting in a hotel room, the door
locked, discussing whether one of our spouses could have committed murder. It was still all about Eva, more than twenty years after her death.’

‘Did you come to any conclusion?’

She shook her head lightly. ‘Not really. We just went round and round the possibilities. He did not even rule out the possibility that Oda might have killed her little sister – for
the inheritance and finally to be out of her shadow. The sisters did not have a particularly good relationship, but that is not so unusual for sisters at that age. Per Johan was obsessed by the
thought of who had been to bed with Eva that day. It was certainly not him, he said several times. So then it must have been Hauk or Kjell Arne. He had seen Kjell Arne in the corridor at around a
quarter past six and it looked as though he was heading towards Eva’s room. But then –’

She took a short dramatic pause after this piece of information, and looked once again at the family photographs. Her thin, catlike mouth trembled. I thought how her story so far was in line
with Per Johan Fredriksen’s notes – and that it was pushing her own husband further into the spotlight.

‘But then there was the bang that we never managed to work out. I was in the room next to Eva, and had heard a bang or thump around half past seven. Per Johan asked me several times if I
was certain that the sound had come from her room. And I was then, and I am now. At the time I thought that perhaps Eva had tripped or dropped something on the floor. Later I figured it must have
been when she fell, but then that was always odd as she was on the sofa. I put my ear to the wall in the minutes after the bang, but heard nothing more. The bang in itself does not mean that Eva
didn’t die earlier, nor that Kjell Arne might have killed her. But it gave rise to doubt, and Per Johan and I could not get past it. Our main theory in the end was that Eva had turned her
affections towards Kjell Arne and that it was Hauk who had killed her in a fit of jealousy. Per Johan still had his doubts back then, and what he may or may not have thought about the case in later
years, I have no idea.’

Her conclusion was rather abrupt and a bit unexpected. I asked if there was any particular reason for suspecting Hauk.

‘It was rather woolly – so woolly, in fact, that we were not really sure of it ourselves. But I had always found Hauk rather distant and a little frightening. So I found it easier to
believe that he had committed a murder than my husband or former fiancé. The story of the jilted lover turning to murder is not an unfamiliar one, not then and not now. Per Johan was vague
about it, but he implied that Hauk’s family situation was very difficult. He also thought that Eva had treated him rather badly. Behind Per Johan’s friendly veneer, there were actually
very few he respected and even fewer he feared. But when we met in 1955, so many years on, I could tell that he really did both respect and fear Hauk. I got the impression that he thought it was
Hauk, but that it was something he could live with. Hauk was stuck down in Vestfold, so was not someone he had to see or deal with often.’

It felt like Solveig Ramdal was starting to open up now. Following a brief pause, she carried on.

‘I, for my part, would not completely dismiss the possibility of suicide. I only heard that one single bang between seven and eight – no footsteps. And I
had
heard steps out
in the corridor and inside her room an hour earlier. I must say, I thought that some of the footsteps I heard in her room earlier were heavier than hers, which would indicate that at least one or
more men had visited her. But anyway, I obviously cannot be certain about the footsteps, and there may have been others that I did not hear. Oh, I really don’t know what to
believe.’

I could certainly say with a clear conscience that I agreed with the last statement. I had lost count of the number of possible explanations for the death in 1932. I noted down this last theory
regarding Hauk and said that I clearly had to talk to Kjell Arne himself.

‘Of course you must. Kjell Arne normally works late in the afternoon, so no doubt you will find him in the office at Lysaker. I would also appreciate it if you say as little as possible to
my husband about our conversation, but I understand if you must mention it.’

I said that I could not promise anything, but that I would do my best.

She gave a tight-lipped smile, held out her hand and wished me luck with the investigation. She bravely kept up appearances as the stalwart, bourgeois housewife. I understood that Solveig Ramdal
had not had an easy life, despite her material comfort. But I did not trust at all that she had told me everything she knew, either about 1932 or 1972. I also noticed on the way out that there were
a lady’s hat and two men’s hats on the rack in the hallway, which made me think. The fact that I was being followed by a Soviet agent did not prove that he had been the shadow with the
hat on the night Per Johan Fredriksen was killed.

It was half past three by the time I got to Lysaker and found the right building. I met a group of three office workers on their way out. The premises of Kjell Arne Ramdal &
Co. were clearly larger than those of Per Johan Fredriksen A/S. They had an entire floor of offices, providing more than enough space for the ten or so employees who were still hard at work.

A receptionist in her early twenties, who resembled an air hostess, smiled broadly at me, but then became more serious when I showed her my police ID. I said that I had to speak to Director
Ramdal in person immediately and with a slight tremble in her finger, she pointed me in the direction of the corridor.

I found him at the end of the corridor, in the largest office on the floor, behind what was, no doubt, the largest desk in the office. He was none too pleased to see me, but held his composure
even better than his wife.

‘So,’ he said briskly, as soon as I had settled in the chair in front of his desk and politely declined the offers of coffee and mineral water.

Kjell Arne Ramdal sat with his elbows on his desk like a great shield between us.

I started by asking whether there was any news on the possible acquisition of Fredriksen’s companies.

He replied shortly that there was not, but, given developments in the case, he had not expected there to be. He had personally rung Johan Fredriksen earlier in the day to give his condolences on
the loss of his sister and had told him that under the circumstances, a twenty-four-hour extension of the deadline was acceptable. It had been a ‘constructive’ conversation, and he was
still of the opinion that the takeover would go ahead.

He spoke confidently and almost enthusiastically about the deal, then stopped abruptly.

I decided to get straight to the point and said that it would appear that Vera Fredriksen had been murdered. As a matter of procedure, I had to ask both the family and others involved of their
whereabouts that afternoon.

Kjell Arne Ramdal didn’t move a muscle when he answered.

‘I was here at the office all day, from nine yesterday morning until I drove home at half past four. Almost all of the staff here attended a conference in the second half of the day, but
the office manager and receptionist should be able to confirm that I was here until they left at half past three. Then I was here on my own for the last hour.’

I noted down that Kjell Arne Ramdal’s alibi had fallen apart in front of my very eyes. Encouraged by this, I took a leap back to 1932.

‘The situation regarding Per Johan Fredriksen’s death is still unclear. However, some new information has come to light regarding the death of Eva Bjølhaugen in 1932. We have
found some papers that were left by Per Johan Fredriksen and other material that could indicate that he had discovered how she had been murdered and that he suspected that you were behind
it.’