Authors: Hans Olav Lahlum
The group had visited the capital out of season. There were a total of eighteen rooms in the hotel, over two floors, and all the other rooms had been empty that night. The receptionist had been
alone on duty that evening, and had seen no one other than the six guests. The window in the room was closed from the inside and the door was locked. I could understand perfectly well why this had
been deemed to be a natural death, the strange detail of the key aside.
I called Ane Line Fredriksen in again. It did not take her long as she was standing waiting impatiently no more than a few feet from my door.
‘Is there anything new about the lack of an autopsy?’ she asked, before I managed to get a word out.
I replied that there had been no autopsy at the request of Eva’s parents, even though her mother had very clearly wanted one. Ane Line Fredriksen said that she thought it was odd, and I
said I agreed. Then I quickly moved on to the names of the other members of the party.
She shook her red mane when I said Solveig Thaulow, and then again when I said Hauk Rebne Westgaard. However, she gave a firm nod when I said Kjell Arne Ramdal.
‘I’ve never heard the first two names, but I have heard Kjell Arne Ramdal mentioned a few times. Father almost never spoke about business at home, but judging by some of the
telephone messages I overheard, I think Kjell Arne Ramdal was some kind of business associate. When I was a teenager and later, I always wondered what he looked like, as it was not often that I
heard the names of any of Father’s business contacts. In fact, I would be very grateful if you could tell me a bit about my father’s life outside the family home at some point after the
investigation. I never really knew him other than as a father.’
I nodded, half to myself, half to her. There was clearly a thread running from 1932 to 1972, which was becoming more and more interesting. But I was as yet unable to see any connection
whatsoever to the still-nameless boy on the red bicycle.
I therefore decided to make another attempt to find out more about him. I managed to leave the office on the second try, having twice assured Ane Line Fredriksen that I would let her know as
soon as there was any news about her father’s murder and that I would not hesitate to call her if I had any further questions. I resisted the temptation, for the moment, to ask her how the
three siblings could be so very different in both colouring and personality.
After my surprisingly interesting meetings with the victim’s mistress and daughter, my meeting with the suspected murderer was yet again a disappointment. The press were
ringing for details, but no new information about the mysterious young man had come in. I could not remember it ever having taken so long to confirm the identity of someone being held in custody.
But not only that, I could not think of another arrestee who would be so easily recognizable.
To begin with, I tried to be pedagogical, and asked if he had any questions. His response was succinct: ‘The bicycle?’ He nodded when I told him it was being kept in a safe place and
said no more.
I started by asking about his name. To which he did not respond.
I went on to explain that we would appoint a lawyer for him tomorrow morning, even though he had not asked for one, to ensure that he was treated fairly. His nod was almost imperceptible, and
there was no other reaction.
I could see that there might be a connection, if the boy on the red bicycle was the son or grandson of one of the parties from 1932. I therefore decided to confront him with the names and give
no further explanation. He looked at me with a glimmer of interest in his eyes when I said what I was going to do. But as far as I could judge, he did not react to any of the names I read out.
Again I tried to ask why he had killed Per Johan Fredriksen. Again, he replied almost mechanically: ‘I didn’t kill him. He was dead when I went back.’
I asked why he was not willing to help me, or himself, by telling me what he had seen.
He said nothing, and looked at me as if he had not understood.
‘Well, then I am going to go home to my fiancée. And what are you going to do?’ I asked, eventually giving up.
‘Wait,’ he replied.
His answer was solemn and concise, but he said no more when I asked him what on earth he was waiting for.
I stood up. I still felt some sympathy for the young boy, and did have my doubts that he was the murderer. But I could not work him out and his demonstrative silence was starting to irritate
me.
Then just as I turned to leave, to my great surprise, he spoke.
‘You can call me Marinus.’
It did not make the case any less complex. I had never heard the name Marinus before. I turned back, looked down at him and asked: ‘Marinus what?’
His response was to raise his hands in a gesture that was at once defensive and condescending.
I left, closing the door behind me a little harder than planned. The boy seemed to be playing with me for reasons I could not understand. Rather reluctantly, I had to admit that perhaps
Danielsen was right, and the only question of any interest in this case was whether the murderer should be sent to prison or a mental hospital.
I got to the Theatre Cafe at twenty-eight minutes past six. The air was cold, but I felt the warmth spread through my body as I approached.
She was right where I hoped she would be standing, where she always stood: leaning discreetly against the wall with a book in her hand. From what I could see it was a thick blue book about the
history of Nordic literature in the nineteenth century. She had only read the introduction when she left yesterday, but was now almost a third of the way in. I was impressed – and happy when
she snapped the book shut as soon as I put my hand on her arm. We gave each other a quick hug and then moved towards the door.
We had been there before, but not many times. Miriam thought that the Theatre Cafe was too expensive for normal Sunday suppers, and I did not want to protest. So we came here about once every
two months or so. And then, whenever possible, we sat at a table for two in the middle by the window. Our favourite table was available, and there was no one else within earshot. It was
perfect.
I started romantically by asking her if she had had a good day, and if there was anything more we needed to discuss about the wedding.
This, of course, did not work at all. She swiftly replied: ‘My day was good. I studied all day. And of course there’s more to talk about regarding the wedding, but there’s no
rush. So, how is the investigation going?’ she asked in a hushed voice, as soon as the waiter left us. Then we sat there more or less whispering to each other for the rest of the meal. The
staff clearly thought it was terribly romantic and gave us friendly smiles as they passed. Whereas what we were actually talking about was the stabbing of a politician and an underage murder
suspect.
I knew that this was in part down to Miriam’s inherent curiosity, but was still touched by the interest she showed in my work. Just how interested she was dawned on me when she said no to
dessert. That had never happened before, certainly not at the Theatre Cafe.
Once we were back in the car, we returned to our normal voices.
‘The story from 1932 is a strange and incredible coincidence,’ I remarked.
‘I agree. It’s almost too incredible not to be connected in some way. But there is not much to be gleaned from details of the crime scene, and we know too little about the others to
conclude anything more,’ she said.
I had to concede to this and promised to talk as soon as possible to the four friends from the 1932 drama who were still alive.
‘And the current case is no less mysterious. With a mysterious suspect, to boot,’ I said.
Miriam nodded quickly. ‘Yes, both things are very odd indeed. It’s so strange that he won’t say anything even to you, when you are so good at talking to people.’
She said it in a way that was so characteristic of her, just as a passing comment. But it still made me so happy that I leaned over and kissed her quickly on the cheek once we were over the
junction.
We were soon at Hegdehaugen. We walked in silence to the front door, as though we were suddenly scared that someone might hear us even if we whispered.
Once we were installed on the sofa with a cup of coffee in one hand and holding each other’s hand in the other, we carried on discussing the case.
‘Per Johan Fredriksen was also a bit of a mystery in terms of his politics,’ she said.
I squeezed her hand and asked her to elaborate.
‘He is part of the richest and most conservative group in the Centre Party, and is sometimes said to be right of even the Conservatives. Which is not a compliment in my circles. But he
would take completely different stances on different issues, so he has also been called left of Labour. He was deemed to be a very important man for the no campaign, tactically, because he could
potentially influence a number of the rich Conservatives.’
‘But all that has nothing to do with the murder case, surely,’ I joked.
Miriam was suddenly very still. She looked out of the window and her hand trembled faintly in mine.
‘Surely it can’t? People in Norway do not kill each other for their political persuasions,’ I said, trying to reassure her.
Miriam carried on looking out of the window when she finally answered. ‘Three months ago, I would have said no and laughed. But now I am not so sure. There are a lot of powerful and
frightening emotions out there in the dark at the moment. I have been called the most incredible things by men in suits, and the day before yesterday an old woman spat at me when I was manning the
stand. Parents and children have stopped speaking to each other and a lot of people are worried about their partners and their jobs. I don’t think anyone would kill in connection with an
election in Norway, but I’m not so sure any more that some fanatic or other might not kill in connection with the referendum.’
We sat in silence and pondered this over our cups of coffee. I had assumed that the young murderer might be disturbed, but I hadn’t even considered that the killing could have been
politically motivated.
I said that it was food for thought. Then I went out into the hall and got the photographs of the suspect which I put down on the table in front of us.
Miriam leaned forwards and stared at them intensely, but then shook her head. ‘He must be a very lonely boy, if no one has reported him missing. It all seems like a terrible tragedy.
He’s not active in any of the political parties’ youth wings in Oslo, otherwise I would have known him. If his limp and speech impediment are so striking, I’m sure I would have
known about him if he was active in any of the neighbouring constituencies.’ She fell silent, sat there and stared at the photographs. ‘I have never seen his face before. And yet, when
I look at his pictures, I get the strange feeling that I’ve seen him in passing somewhere.’
I put my arm round her, kissed her on the cheek and asked her to think hard. She sat in deep concentration for about a minute before she said anything else.
‘I might be wrong, but do you remember the cyclist we saw a couple of times outside here at a distance last autumn?’
I had to think for a while myself before answering. It was not something I had given much thought to. But now that she mentioned it, it gradually came back to me that we had noticed a cyclist
outside here a couple of times. He had just been standing with his bike further down the road. Close enough for us to see him and his bike, but too far away for us to see any details.
The first time we saw him, he cycled off after about thirty seconds. The second time, he stood there for longer, and Miriam had wondered as we went in whether we should ask if he needed help.
Maybe he was lost or was having problems with his bike, she said. I turned back somewhat reluctantly, and walked towards the cyclist with her, but when we were only a matter of yards away, he
hopped on his bike and disappeared down the hill.
‘It could certainly have been him. But that only makes things more bizarre, slightly crazy, in fact, if he was watching the flat already last autumn, only then to cycle all the way up here
after he had murdered someone in Majorstuen.’
Miriam nodded. ‘It’s all very odd, no matter what. The strangest thing really is that he so purposefully sought you out after the murder.’
I took a couple of deep breaths, then I said: ‘Do you think I should ring the Genius of Frogner?’
‘The Genius of Frogner’ was Miriam’s nickname for Patricia. Not only had Miriam been the first to suggest that I should call Patricia in connection with my last murder
investigation, she had actually phoned Patricia and persuaded her to help me. But now, when I suggested it myself, she seemed far less keen on the idea.
‘You can, of course, do as you wish and whatever you think will be best for the investigation. But I don’t think you should call her, not yet anyway. At the moment it seems most
likely that there won’t be a major murder investigation, as the solution lies in the sad life of a disturbed young man. And in any case—’ She stopped mid-sentence and did not
continue until I asked her to.
‘And in any case, she is a genius, of course, but you are much smarter than you appear to be when all you do is follow her instructions. You would have solved your last murder cases
without her, it would just have taken a bit more time and you might have needed a bit more help from me. So I don’t think you should call her just yet, I think you should talk to me a bit
more first.’
Miriam smiled her lopsided, mischievous smile as she said this. I smiled back, kissed her and said that I would definitely rather talk to her than Patricia in her luxury palace in Frogner.
‘Have you by any chance ever heard the name Marinus here in Norway? I don’t think he is actually called that, but there must be a reason for him telling me that he was.’
Miriam straightened up and shook her head. ‘No. It’s an ancient Roman name that I’ve never heard used here. In fact, the only Marinus I have heard of since the Middle Ages, is
the man who was beheaded after the Reichstag fire in Germany. I can’t remember his surname – Lubbe, or something like that? That was also a very strange story and a sad fate, if I
remember rightly. It must have been sometime in 1933, or 1934 at the latest.’