Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

The rest of the group had stayed in rooms on the same corridor. A certified transcript of the reception book documented the following:

Room 112: Solveig Thaulow, 22, Sande.

Room 113: Oda Bjølhaugen, 23, Sande.

Room 114: Hauk Rebne Westgaard, 25, Holmestrand.

Room 115: Per Johan Fredriksen, 25, Holmestrand.

Room 116: Kjell Arne Ramdal, 25, Tønsberg.

The bed in Room 111 had been used after it had been made up in the morning, but according to the police there was no technical evidence of sexual activity.

The deceased’s suitcase was in a corner of the room, but only contained two extra sets of clothes, a pair of shoes and three women’s magazines. There was a glass, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste in the bathroom, as well as a dressing gown, two used towels from the hotel, and some make-up. It appeared that nothing had been stolen from the room, and Eva’s purse with almost one hundred kroner in cash was still in her coat pocket. The only thing one might expect to find in the room that was not there was the key. The police report confirmed, without any further speculation, that it had been found on the floor outside Room 114.

None of the deceased’s friends said they had heard anything from her room or any of the other rooms in the few hours before she was found dead. The only exception was that Solveig Thaulow said she heard a muffled bang or thump at around half past seven. However, she was not able to say where it came from or what kind of noise it could have been. The deceased’s boyfriend suspected that she might have been strangled or suffocated, possibly with the help of a pillow. However, there were no marks on her neck and there was no saliva or other bodily fluid on any pillow.

The assumed cause of death was given in the end as ‘epileptic fit’. There was a short statement to say that, according to the deceased’s sister and parents, she suffered from epilepsy, and from the doctor’s initial findings, it seemed that she had had an epileptic fit that afternoon. Her sister Oda Bjølhaugen was very shaken and immediately demanded an autopsy. But when their parents arrived later that night, they asked if it would be possible not to have an autopsy, as it would only cause more distress for the family in a situation where everything indicated natural causes. Their daughter had ‘very reluctantly’ agreed to this in the end, and the police had done as the family requested. Thus there was no confirmation of the time and cause of death.

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.