Authors: Hans Olav Lahlum
So Friday, 24 March 1972 had indeed provided great relief, another death and some useful information. It had been a rollercoaster ride to the very end. I fell asleep just before midnight, alone
in my bed, with alternating pictures of Patricia and Miriam in my mind.
The picture that stayed just before I dropped off was of the sleeping Miriam as she tried to smile at me from her deep slumber at Ullevål Hospital. I tossed and turned in bed more than
usual before eventually I fell asleep.
Saturday, 25 March 1972 started for me at half past seven – and on a low, as anticipated. Two of the morning papers carried short reports that the fiancée of the
head of the Fredriksen investigation had been reported missing earlier the day before, but had then been found again in the evening.
The shooting at the National Theatre and the postponed signing of the Barents Sea agreement, on the other hand, were on all the front pages. All the newspapers were careful to point out that the
incident was as yet unexplained, but all agreed that the signing of the agreement should be postponed as a result of this uncertainty. Any links to the Fredriksen case were still unclear, though
even
Aftenposten
wrote that ‘the pressure on the head of investigation Kolbjørn Kristiansen will now be even greater.’ I could not even bear to think about what
Verdens Gang
would write.
Reading these reports in the papers felt like a hard start to the day. But gradually I came round to the idea that, in isolation, it was not such a bad thing. I was very glad that the drama with
Miriam had not been picked up by the press. I was not sure that my boss had assessed the mood correctly with regards to the interpreter. I thought that her murder, if it remained unsolved, might be
revisited by the press, certainly if the suspicions of a Soviet execution proved to be persistent. But if that was the case, it would be Danielsen’s problem and responsibility. My
responsibility was limited to the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen and his daughter, which I now had every hope we could solve before Monday.
It suited me very well that the Fredriksen murders had been overshadowed by the shooting at the National Theatre. I could eat my breakfast in peace without the telephone ringing. Though they did
call from the main station at a quarter past eight to say that I was invited to another meeting at the Soviet Embassy as soon as possible. I asked them to pass on the message that I would be there
at nine.
The table was set for three today. It almost felt a little unsafe sitting there under the portrait of Brezhnev alone with two Soviet citizens. However, today’s meeting was
much shorter and far more relaxed. The vice-ambassador came in with the same interpreter as yesterday and smiled as he shook my hand.
‘The vice-ambassador hopes that you are pleased with developments and thanks you for your help in resolving the situation without any unnecessary speculation or scandal,’ the
interpreter said.
For which I thanked him, with somewhat mixed feelings. Then I asked if the embassy had any new information that might help to solve the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen.
‘The embassy would be more than happy to help and the vice-ambassador hopes that we can do so. We can first of all assure you that your meetings with our colleague Sergey Klinkalski in
various parts of the city were pure coincidence. Comrade Klinkalski likes to familiarize himself with the different parts of the town or city where he is working, including the more working-class
areas, so he spent a couple of days exploring the city. Unfortunately he could not be here himself today, as he has been transferred to an important position in another embassy at short notice.
Klinkalski left Norway late yesterday evening. He asked us to pass on his best wishes and this, his written statement.’
I thanked him somewhat insincerely. The situation felt a little absurd – but at the same time, very exciting. And it was no less absurd or exciting when the vice-ambassador then produced a
folded sheet of paper and handed it to me almost ceremoniously.
The folded sheet contained a typed statement in perfect Norwegian with a very elegant signature:
As a result of my wish to familiarize myself with Oslo, I found myself at Majorstuen in the evening on Saturday, 18 March 1972. There were not many people
around. One of the men was Per Johan Fredriksen, whom I did not know at the time, but subsequently realized was a leading politician when I saw his photograph in the newspaper.
Fredriksen was first stopped on a street corner by a young boy on a bicycle. They exchanged a few words, then Fredriksen waved him off and carried on
walking. The boy stood there for a while, then turned round, got onto his bike, and cycled slowly off in the opposite direction.
Fredriksen walked on to the next corner, where a middle-aged woman waved to him. The woman seemed to be known to Fredriksen, as he went over to her. They
exchanged a few words, whereupon the woman drew a knife and stabbed Fredriksen in the chest. Fredriksen shouted, fell to the ground and lay there. The woman stood there for a few seconds, then
ran as fast as she could down the street in the direction that Fredriksen had come from.
As I am unfamiliar with Norwegian society and conventions, I stayed where I was to observe, as I was uncertain whether the whole thing might have been
staged in order to rob me. A few moments later, the boy on the bicycle came back. He leaned down over Fredriksen, pulled out the knife and then stood there with it in his hand. Then suddenly he
hopped on his bike and pedalled off at high speed. Several other passers-by were now gathering around Fredriksen. I understood now that he really had been the victim of a crime, but that I
might myself be suspected and so withdrew and went back to the embassy, rather than approaching the scene of the crime.
The woman who stabbed Fredriksen had dark hair and looked as though she could be somewhere between forty and sixty. She was bare-headed and wearing an old
green winter coat. Because of the distance and the dark, I am unfortunately unable to give any more details about her features or clothes.
Dr Sergey Klinkalski, Oslo, 24 March 1972.
‘The vice-ambassador hopes that the information may be of help to your investigation into the terrible murder of Mr Fredriksen,’ the interpreter said.
I said that I hoped so too. Then I thanked the vice-ambassador for his help and cooperation. He left with me this time. We parted at the reception, with a firm and almost friendly handshake.
‘Exactly. Thank you. That is exactly what I was hoping for,’ Patricia said, and put the document down beside her cup of coffee.
I remarked that the document provided new information, but not about who killed Per Johan Fredriksen. I added that we might perhaps want to take what Klinkalski said with a pinch of salt, but
that what he had written did fit well with what we already knew.
Patricia nodded. ‘Like a glove. All the stuff about him and his intentions is of course nonsense, but his eyewitness account is the truth, I think. There is no reason for him to lie about
it. On the contrary, it is not only in his interests, but also in the embassy’s that this is cleared up. His statement does not tell us who the murderer is, but it does give important
information about who it is not. Enough for me now to tell you who murdered Eva Bjølhaugen in 1932 and who killed Per Johan and Vera Fredriksen in 1972. So, we are talking about three
murders and two murderers. But I warn you, evidence may be problematic, so having the murderers’ identities will not necessarily mean that the case is closed.’
I quickly agreed with her. I probably would have done that no matter what she said in the end. I felt slightly shellshocked – and intoxicated by the possibility that the case might soon be
solved.
‘Per Johan Fredriksen’s death acted as a catalyst killing, to a certain extent, which dramatically escalated certain processes that triggered the deaths of three other people in only
a matter of days. But the statement from Dr Death confirmed something that I have thought for some time now, in other words, that the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen had nothing to do with the
deaths of his wife’s sister in 1932 and his daughter now in 1972. But shall we begin with 1932?’
I quickly said yes. The murder mystery from 1932 had a strange allure for me.
‘The death in 1932 still cannot be explained in isolation. However, there is one interesting detail that I have thought about a lot. Solveig Ramdal heard a thump in the room next door at
half past seven. That was because Eva Bjølhaugen fainted as a result of an epileptic seizure. The young Solveig obviously had very good hearing and was on the alert in her room, as only she
and no one else heard it. She also heard footsteps in the corridor and neighbouring room earlier. After the bang, she becomes even more attentive and practically stands with her ear to the wall.
But she hears nothing – even though a person must have been walking around in the room after Eva fainted. What do you think that means?’
I had never thought about it in that way – and was not sure what to answer when suddenly confronted with it from this angle. So my answer was somewhat noncommittal: ‘One possible
explanation is that Solveig Ramdal is simply lying, as we only have her word for it.’
Patricia gave a thoughtful nod. ‘I have also considered that possibility. Solveig Ramdal had something to hide and she has lied before. She is an egotist and a cold-blooded chameleon, who
would, no doubt, be capable of killing if it was in her interest. But she had no motive for the murder, unless Eva had threatened to reveal the secret of Solveig’s sexuality, but then Eva had
no interest in doing that. So we can assume that Solveig is telling the truth. The key question here is which one of the others had the strongest motive, if you ignore the human considerations that
most people would assume?’
‘Talking of important questions – have you worked out the significance of the key in the corridor?’
‘As far as 1932 is concerned, I have from the start worked on the theory that the key was a spontaneous attempt to point the suspicion at Eva’s boyfriend, Hauk Rebne Westgaard. And
to give the impression that the position of the key was of real importance. But it was not: the murderer was let in by the victim. And forty years later, it was a premeditated attempt to give the
impression that it was an enactment of the same murder. This was done by a murderer who had created a kind of alibi in doing this, who had an alibi for the death of Per Johan Fredriksen, and who at
first glance was a highly unlikely candidate.’
As Patricia spoke, it suddenly dawned on me who she was referring to. At first it seemed slightly surreal, but then it seemed all the more strange to me that I had not considered this
possibility before.
‘The last person that anyone remembers was there,’ I said, tentatively.
Patricia nodded.
‘The one who walks without a sound, even in shoes. So if she was walking on the carpet in the corridor in her stockinged feet, you would not hear her. She was let in by her sister. She
knew about her sister’s illness, and understood immediately that she was having an epileptic fit. And she had an obvious motive: with her irritatingly beautiful and popular little sister out
of the way, she would become a very attractive heir to a considerable fortune. And even more importantly, I think: she would be rid of a dangerous competitor for the affections of the man she
wanted – and later got, with the help of the family fortune.’
So it was as I had thought for the past few minutes, and I still could not believe that I had not seen it until now. I was cheered to an extent when Patricia carried on.
‘To begin with, when the main focus was on Per Johan Fredriksen’s death, we almost lost sight of the grieving widow, who had an alibi. She was no doubt constantly worried that her
husband would discover the truth of what happened in 1932. But he had not and nothing he said to his wife showed that he had. So she was genuinely surprised, and mourned his death. Paradoxically,
it was only after the death of the daughter, who also did not suspect her mother, that I started to suspect Oda Fredriksen. In the case of Vera, it was not just that someone knew she was at the
hotel, but also who she would let into the room. When Solveig Ramdal confessed to being the mystery guest in the next room, I focused more and more on the last person that Vera Fredriksen
rang.’
‘But, she only made two phone calls, other than the call to me. Surely one must have been to her sister and the other to Solveig Ramdal?’ I said.
Patricia snorted. ‘Nonsense. She paid for two telephone calls earlier in the day. But she would of course not have paid for the call to her sister, as it was never answered. After she had
spoken to Solveig Ramdal, the nervous Vera would undoubtedly have consulted with someone in her family before phoning you. First she rang her sister, who did not get to the phone on time. The other
two possibilities were then her brother, who I knew had not killed her, and her mother. Vera Fredriksen really was a little naive, and made a fatal mistake when she trusted that her own mother was
not the murderer. Solveig Ramdal arrived first, and was also prepared to kill her if her secret was about to be revealed. But she had no murder to hide and was smart enough to find out what Vera
Fredriksen knew first.’
Patricia stopped and looked at me. I had no questions, so I gave an impatient wave for her to continue.
‘The mother, on the other hand, had a murder to hide and thought she had been discovered. She got straight down to business with almost impressive efficiency. She asked her daughter to sit
tight and not open the door to anyone until she got there. Then she made herself a kind of alibi by phoning her other daughter just before she left the house. She also rang her son, but got no
answer, which gave her an even better idea for an alibi. On her way to the hotel, she stopped at a telephone box, rang her son again, then hung up without waiting for an answer. She knew from
previous visits to the hotel that she could get in without being seen from the reception area. As soon as she had been let into the room, she showed her true face and attacked. Poor fragile Vera
fainted, as she so often did in frightening situations. Whereupon Oda Fredriksen drowned her youngest daughter in the same way that she had drowned her younger sister forty years earlier. It is a
horrific story for those of us who want to believe in kind mothers and secure families. But that must be what happened, and it is unfortunately not unheard of that people with a strong ego or who
are secretly deranged have killed members of their family.’