Chameleon People (9 page)

‘In the meantime, however, I have heard a very strange story about a different death altogether; it’s a very old case, but I am now obliged to investigate whether it might have any
significance to our current case.’

I need wonder no longer how much Oda Fredriksen was taking in. She sat up on the sofa and sighed, then spoke.

‘You mean, of course, the tragic case from 1932, and you no doubt heard it from my eldest daughter. She called here yesterday evening to let me know in no uncertain terms that I should
have told you myself. And I have to admit that this time she is right. It is just that the story of my sister’s death, even though it was a long time ago now, is still so painful that I quite
simply could not face talking about it so soon after my husband had died, and when the children were there.’

I said that I understood and that she had done nothing wrong, but that she should now tell me about the case so that I could determine whether there were any links. It was hard to imagine there
wouldn’t be some relevance, when the case had made such an impression on all those present that they continued to meet forty years later.

I hastened to add that I had read the police report and so knew the basic facts. I had noticed that there had been no autopsy, even though she had asked for one.

She sighed again, and swallowed a couple of times before starting to speak. ‘It is one of my greatest regrets that I was not more persistent in my demands for an autopsy during those
desperate and bewildering days in the spring of 1932. Eva did not die of an epileptic fit, both my parents and I knew that perfectly well. She did have epilepsy, it’s true, and did sometimes
faint after a fit. But she mostly suffered from petit mal, and two doctors had confirmed that her fits were not dangerous. I have always believed that Eva committed suicide. The problem was that my
parents did too, and they were such religious and proud people. I wanted to know, rather than live with the doubt. But they preferred to live with the doubt than the scandal. And they got their
way. My father was a man of authority with lots of contacts, and the police did not manage to find a motive or a suspect. So twenty-three years after my father’s death, I still have questions
that will never be answered. The only positive thing that can be said really, is that now, after my husband’s death, I will perhaps think less about my sister’s.’

I took the hint and assured her that I would not ask more than was necessary, but that I would like to hear what she thought about the key in the corridor.

‘Not a lot. I couldn’t explain it in 1932 and I can’t explain it now. Eva may have thrown it out of the room, or someone who paid her a visit may have taken it by accident and
dropped it. Both alternatives sound slightly bizarre, granted. And yes, I guess it is possible that one of the others killed my sister.’

We looked at each other in suspense. I heard myself saying that if that was the case, might she be able to tell me a little about the three other people who were there. She nodded.

‘I guessed you might ask about that and have given some thought as to what I should say. Solveig Thaulow was my best friend at the time. More recently, I have met her for dinner every five
years or so. It was as though a great mountain sprang up between us the day my sister died. We were from the same town, and Solveig was in the school year between Eva and me. When asked who was her
best friend, she would often reply that she knew Eva and me equally well, and knew both of us better than anyone else. We never had a bad word to say about each other, but we could not help but
think of Eva whenever we saw one another and wonder about what had happened. It is strange how a tragedy like that can bring some people closer together and drive others apart . . .’

‘Yes. And at the time, Per Johan was her fiancé, but soon afterwards became yours.’

She nodded. ‘Yes. But you will have to ask her about what happened and why she and Per Johan split up, because I was never told. Per Johan never talked about it to me. The only time I
asked, he said it was a sad story and he wanted to put it behind him, and now he wanted to focus on me and think as little as possible about former girlfriends. I liked his answer. And I also
worried what his reaction might be if I asked again. So I never did. I had the impression that things were already deteriorating between him and Solveig, and that Eva’s death was the push
they both needed to break off the engagement. I had been jealous of Solveig because, to be honest, I had been in love with Per Johan for a long time. And then more than ever, I needed a supporting
arm and a comforting voice. So she was not on my mind when he contacted me a few weeks later.’

I could not help but ask if that was before or after the engagement had been broken off. She gave a fleeting and crooked smile before speaking.

‘Before. But only a matter of days. And when he came to my door, I soon got the impression that his engagement to Solveig was now more of a formality than a reality. And Solveig found
someone else too, not long after.’

I asked if she knew Solveig Thaulow’s married name and current address. She nodded.

‘Goodness, of course I do. I thought you knew. She is called Solveig Ramdal and lives together with her husband down at Frognerkilen. She and Kjell Arne got married six months after Per
Johan and I, and we have lived barely a mile apart since the war. And yet, the four of us only meet every five years for dinner to mark the day my sister died.’

I asked whether I had understood correctly that Kjell Arne Ramdal had also been her husband’s business associate. Then I asked what more she could tell me about him.

‘He was definitely the one I knew least before that fateful trip. Kjell Arne Ramdal was a townie, unlike the rest of us. He was the son of a rich pharmacist in Tønsberg. He had been
to Oslo more times than the rest of us put together and seemed very worldly. He was studying economics, had inherited a large sum at a young age and later went on to become a successful
businessman. Believe it or not, I have very little idea of what kind of business involvement he and my husband had. Per Johan never wanted to bother me with his work and I never asked about it. The
few times that I asked how business was going in the early years, he just gave me his most charming smile and said fine. I had no need to know any more.’

‘And then there was your sister’s boyfriend, Hauk Rebne Westgaard.’

‘Ah, Hauk, yes. He’s a chapter unto himself. The unusual name suits him. He even looks a bit like a bird of prey – a tall, thin, dark man with a sharp profile and even sharper
eyes. Five years ago, on the way home from one of the dinners, my husband remarked that Hauk had scarcely changed in all these years. And that was more or less true three weeks ago too. He looked
mature when he was young and so looked young for his age when we last saw him. He and Per Johan grew up together in Holmestrand, and were both in line to inherit big farms. Hauk’s father was
an alcoholic and naturally he was affected by it. As a young man, he was, as I said, more mature and serious than the rest of us. He was a man of few words, but obviously well read and very
compelling when he did have something to say. I was a little frightened of him when my sister first took him home, but then became increasingly impressed. Hauk stayed behind when the rest of us
moved into Oslo. He still lives on the family farm out by Holmestrand. He’s been the mayor there several times and is reputedly a good shot. Hauk never says much when we meet, but as far as I
know, he has never married and does not have any children.’

I jotted all this down. The gallery of people involved in the unsolved case from 1932 was more and more fascinating.

‘This tradition of meeting every five years seems rather odd, given that it’s now forty years since Eva’s death. How did it start?’

She sighed again. ‘It was Per Johan’s idea. He suggested it shortly before the fifth anniversary of my sister’s death. I did not want to go to that first reunion in 1937, nor
to the second in 1942, but felt that I couldn’t say no when he asked. I’m assuming it was the same for the others. He rang them all and said that we were a family of fate, bound by our
shared experience of the tragedy and unsolved mystery in 1932, and that we therefore had to keep in touch. It felt a little as though if you said no, the finger of suspicion would point at you. So
we continued to meet on that date, and everyone has always been there. Officially it’s to honour my sister’s memory.’

I reflected that the members from the group who were still alive had to a certain extent become what Patricia had referred to in a previous case as human flies: people who continue to circle
round a dramatic event and are not able to move on with their lives. I, of course, saw no reason to complicate the situation further by mentioning this concept. So instead, I asked sharply:
‘And unofficially?’

She gave an insipid smile. ‘Unofficially, for reasons I have never understood, my husband was even more obsessed with finding out what happened than I was. He once said that he suspected
that one of the others was responsible for my sister’s death. But whoever he thought it was, he kept it to himself. It felt like we all wondered about the same thing and were always listening
to hear if one of us said something that might throw light on the mystery. So the atmosphere was tense. Despite all the good food and vintage wines, the meals were never jolly affairs. I have not
met Hauk, Kjell Arne or Solveig other than at these family-of-fate gatherings, as I still like to call them, since 1932. Our siblings of fate have become more and more estranged over the years. My
husband never invited them to birthdays or any other kind of celebration here at home.’

‘And you last met three weeks ago – did anything in particular happen that night that might be relevant to your husband’s death?’

Oda Fredriksen did not answer at first. She sat in silence for a few seconds. Then she sighed twice before continuing.

‘I wish I could answer no to that. As things stand, with the arrest of a possibly mentally deranged young man, it is probably not relevant. But yes, I had thought of telling you about
something quite striking that happened. My husband was very sociable and was generally the one who talked most at these dinners. This year, however, he barely said a word for almost the entire
meal. He only spoke once, in fact. And that was just after the dessert had been served. He said two sentences. And the rest of the meal was finished in absolute silence.’

Oda Fredriksen stopped, took a couple of deep breaths. She was obviously prepared for my question and answered as soon as I asked her what those two sentences had been.

‘I now know exactly what happened the evening Eva died. And one of you knows too and must soon face the consequences.’

The two sentences made quite an impression now as well. Oda Fredriksen and I sat there and looked at each other for what felt like minutes.

I noticed that her hands were trembling and was almost surprised to see that mine were not. The tension around this old story continued to grow. I found it increasingly hard to believe that
there was no connection to the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen.

However, our meeting did not end in silence. I still had two questions that had to be answered before I could leave. My first question was whether she had asked her husband for an explanation
afterwards.

‘Of course. It was a strange and almost unreal evening. We barely said a word in the car on the way home. But about halfway through the journey, I asked him what he meant and whom he
suspected of what. He replied that I would hopefully understand soon enough. He didn’t say any more and I didn’t ask. I was used to my husband being right when he spoke about the
future. So I expected to hear something dramatic about one of the others over the next few days. But as far as I know, nothing happened to any of them.’

Once again we sat caught in our own thoughts. I imagined that something very dramatic had happened to Per Johan Fredriksen. And I felt certain that his widow was thinking the same, and now we
were sat wondering who was responsible for his death.

Then I asked my final question. In other words, what she believed had happened that day in 1932 when her sister died.

‘As I said, I have always believed that my sister committed suicide. She was an impulsive young woman who had her ups and downs. It is most likely she did it with pills, although we never
found any. It would be pure speculation for me now, forty years later, to say anything about what or who pushed her over the edge. Even though my husband’s death now overshadows everything, I
would be very grateful to know should you find anything that might cast light on my sister’s death.’

I promised to let her know and thanked her for the information. I then added that I could speak to her children in another room if she wished to be left in peace. She replied that she felt she
needed a bit of air now, so she would send the children in.

My conversations with her children were shorter. Young Vera was just as pale and seemed just as nervous as when we first met, but this subsided when we sat down. It appeared to
be easier for her to talk when there were no other family members present.

I started by saying that as a formality, I had to ask the different members of the family about their civil status and future plans.

She gave a timid smile and said that she had a boyfriend, but hoped that he would soon be her fiancé. He was a ‘very handsome and exceptionally talented’ Dutch painter whom
she had met while studying at Oslo University.

When it came to future plans, she let out a little sigh, and for a moment suddenly resembled her mother.

‘To me, my father was the kindest man in all the world. I don’t remember him ever saying no to anything I asked for. So it’s very sad that the last months we had together were
clouded by our only disagreement. It was an unavoidable conflict of generations, I guess. My father was a conservative man and never really understood the trends and possibilities of our time. He
liked typical, classical art, portraits and landscape watercolours, and had nothing but contempt for modern and more abstract cubism, which is where my boyfriend’s talents lie.’