Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

Miriam and I stood there in the middle of the room, with the book between us and read what was written with wide eyes. Then we looked at each other.

‘I think he was innocent,’ I said.

‘Hauptmann or the boy on the red bicycle?’ Miriam asked, more than a little pedantically.

‘Both,’ I said.

She nodded in agreement and we kissed on it.

‘Your memory is impressive. I should have called you as soon as he mentioned Hauptmann,’ I said.

We both stepped back and fell silent. The thought that the boy on the red bicycle had been innocent and that he might still have been alive if I had realized this sooner, was very unsettling. It seemed Miriam understood.

‘But I was in the library, so you would not have been able to get hold of me by phone. And in any case, we will never know whether the outcome might have been different. He certainly didn’t make it easy for you. He was clearly a well-read and intelligent boy, despite his handicap. But it does seem strange that he only added to his problems by speaking in riddles in the way that he did,’ she said, slowly.

Again, I had to agree. The young Tor Johansen’s mental state remained a mystery within the murder mystery, and we might never know the answer. It did not make the investigation any easier, even though we now assumed that he had come to the scene of the crime after the murder, and had not seen who did it.

‘Why on earth did he take the knife with him if he wasn’t guilty?’ I wondered.

Miriam stood thinking. Then she sighed heavily and said: ‘I don’t know. It’s just one of the things we’ll have to ponder. But right now I have to leave for the meeting at the party office, if I’m going to be on time. And tomorrow I’m afraid I have a Socialist People’s Party regional meeting and an anti-EEC meeting…’

She looked rather apologetic when she said this. I said that I would be more than happy to drive her, but she replied that public transport was more environmentally friendly and also more efficient timewise. Then she made a speedy exit. I had to dash after her to say thank you for her input today and that I would phone her at the halls of residence tomorrow before her meetings.

Then once again I stood alone at the window and watched Miriam become smaller and smaller until she was just a smudged shadow in the evening dark. And I thought about the big question we had not had time to discuss today – in other words, Patricia.

I was absolutely convinced that Patricia would get more out of the facts of the case. I thought to myself that no matter how irregular my contact with Patricia was, it was in a way my duty to call her when I thought that her help might be vital to solving the case.

But even after Miriam had disappeared from sight, I felt that it would be too much of a betrayal to phone Patricia behind her back. Also, I still wasn’t sure if Patricia would be willing to help me while Miriam was still around.

So I pushed it to one side and sat down on my own to listen to the news. I was somewhat relieved that the only mention of the politician’s murder was a brief report to say that the prime suspect had taken his own life in prison.

As was to be expected, the main stories were about the EEC and the demarcation line agreement with the Soviet Union. The first item was just as controversial today as it had been yesterday, whereas it seemed that the demarcation line issue was now close to agreement. The Government had had a draft agreement confirmed and the opposition was largely in favour of it, though it did have some reservations.

Despite this exciting news, my thoughts kept turning back to the murder investigation. When the evening news had finished reporting on my case, I was finished with it. I sat and looked through the papers I had been working on before I left the office.

They were copies of a short press release and two telegrams that had been sent to Oda Fredriksen at Bygdøy and Lene Johansen at Grønland, telling them that the investigation would continue for a few more days. Then there was a note of two telephone numbers, to three people I had not spoken to yet: Hauk Rebne Westgaard, and the couple Kjell Arne and Solveig Ramdal. The investigation was now becoming an obsession. It was increasingly clear to me that I would not be able to wait until tomorrow to pursue it.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard answered the telephone when I rang at twenty-five to nine. ‘Westgaard, how can I help?’ he said, in a steady and controlled voice, without the slightest hint of joy.

Our conversation was short and to the point. I told him that I was leading the investigation into the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen and therefore had to ask him some routine questions in connection with the events that took place in 1932. He in turn told me that he had heard about the murder on the news and had been expecting the police to contact him. We agreed that it was a little too late to travel either to or from Holmestrand today. He said that he would be more than happy to talk to me, but was in the middle of renovations at the farm and would therefore not be able to come to Oslo until late afternoon the following day. I offered to drive down to Holmestrand and meet him there around ten o’clock in the morning. He said that that would work well for him and that I was very welcome.

My next telephone call was answered by a man who said: ‘The Ramdals, you are talking to Director Ramdal himself.’

When he heard who I was, he said that of course he knew what it was about and that they had expected to be contacted. His wife was at present visiting a daughter and would not be home until later, but he himself was there and had time if I wished to meet him now. I thanked him and said that I would.

I got into my car at a quarter to nine and drove to Frognerkilen. On my way there, I passed within a few hundred yards of Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. I wondered how Patricia was. I imagined her sitting there as she always did, in the library with the papers and reports about the case spread out in front of her. But I had made my decision, at least for today. And I did not even consider turning off into Frogner.

The Ramdals’ home was a generous detached house in a garden in the best part of Frognerkilen, with a view to the fjord in the background. Both the house and garden were bigger than I had anticipated. On my way up the drive, I found myself wondering whether the Ramdals knew the Borchmanns, and if they also had servants.

The answer to this proved to be no. When I rang the bell, the door was eventually opened by Kjell Arne Ramdal himself. He was a slightly overweight man with grey streaks in his hair and beard, and yet clearly in good health and fit for his sixty-five years.

There were two pairs of skis leaning up against the wall in the hallway, beside a full to bursting cupboard. The photographs of children and grandchildren on the walls all added to the impression of a happy, upper-class home. Ramdal himself was in several of the photographs together with a slim, black-haired woman whom I assumed was his wife. It occurred to me that there was something odd about the pictures, but I could not put my finger on it.

‘As I said, my wife is visiting one of the family – our children moved away from home a long time ago. So I am the only one here at the moment. Which is perhaps a good thing, if we are to talk about business or the old case from 1932,’ Kjell Arne Ramdal remarked.

I said that I agreed and followed him into the living room. He sat down on a rather majestic brown leather chair and indicated that I should sit on a slightly smaller leather chair on the other side of a mahogany table. The furniture was very elegant and the living room one of the biggest I had seen, though of course it could not be compared with the drawing room of the late Per Johan Fredriksen.