Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

‘And talking of my wife, here comes the sun,’ Kjell Arne Ramdal said, without so much as a hint of a smile, or humour in his voice. ‘Do you have any more questions for me? If not, I will hand the stage over to my wife before it gets too late.’

Without waiting for an answer, Kjell Arne Ramdal stood up and left the living room. And as he did so, he reminded me of one of Ibsen’s serious, patriarchal family men whom Miriam and I had talked about only a couple of weeks ago.

I was afraid that Kjell Arne Ramdal might come back with his wife. But she came into the room alone and discreetly closed the door behind her.

Whether calling her the sun was accurate or not, I was unable to decide. It certainly seemed true. Following my deadly serious conversation with Kjell Arne Ramdal, the room definitely lit up when his wife came in. Despite her black hair, she seemed to be of a far brighter disposition than him, and her smile was open and friendly. She was slim and moved gracefully across the floor. Her dress was modern and fitted. I would have guessed that she was under fifty rather than her true age of over sixty.

Solveig Ramdal, née Thaulow, was clearly a confident and well-heeled upper-class lady. She had gold around her neck and on both hands, and in her husband’s absence she sat down on his throne. Her hand was small, but her handshake firm. Her voice was soft when she said: ‘Good evening. And how can I help you?’

My first thought was that she reminded me of a cat. And I sat there wondering if that sweet smile disguised some sharp teeth.

I did not imagine that she would have much to add to her husband’s statement regarding the business. So I cut to the chase and asked how she had experienced Eva Bjølhaugen’s death in 1932.

Her smile disappeared as soon as I mentioned the name.

‘It was terrible,’ Solveig Ramdal said, in an intense, hushed voice.

‘Terrible situations like that can push some people together and pull others apart,’ I said.

Solveig Ramdal was quick to understand my point. ‘That is very true, indeed. But in this case, the two who were pulled apart were already drifting in different directions. But one shouldn’t really speak ill of the dead…’ She bit her lip and fell silent.

‘Sometimes it is necessary to tell the truth about the dead. Particularly when they have been murdered,’ I countered.

She nodded vigorously, and it seemed to me that she was almost grateful. ‘You may well be right, inspector. You see, Per Johan was a very complicated man, who was very different in different situations. He could be a happy, charming and extremely kind man. He was my first great love, and we had many good times together. Only a few months before the trip to Oslo I had been madly in love and thought that he would be the only love of my life. But there were others who had experienced less sympathetic, colder sides of Per Johan. Then one day I was contacted by a friend who had overheard him say that he was more attracted to my inheritance than to me. This was perfectly plausible as I was an only child and the sole heir to a considerable fortune. Per Johan denied it, of course, and I so wanted to believe him. But the doubt was there like a wall between us. And then when another wall sprang up after Eva’s death, there was just too much doubt and suspicion.’

‘So what you are saying is that you suspected that he was in some way connected to Eva’s death?’

She gave a careful nod. ‘Suspected is perhaps too strong a word, but it was a possibility, and it hung over us like a dark cloud. The friend who told me what Per Johan had apparently said about me, had also heard him say that Eva was an alternative that he had considered more and more. And that was understandable too, because she was far prettier than I was, and heir to an even greater fortune. So it would be easy to imagine it was some kind of jealousy drama, until you see what happened after Eva died, because it wasn’t long before Per Johan married her less attractive sister, who had become sole heir in the meantime. So one might even suspect that the motive was purely gain. Perhaps you did not know that Per Johan got most of his property from the marriage? Oda was worth three times more than him when they got married.’

I said that I had not known that. And I thought to myself that it was a very possible murder motive. I first asked myself and then Mrs Ramdal who might have a motive for revenge now, forty years later.

‘Certainly not me, and not Kjell Arne. Hauk, on the other hand, would clearly have a motive. It would seem that the loss of his girlfriend had a profound effect on him and he never married or started a family. Oda might also have reason for revenge. Though I must say, I don’t think there was any love lost between them in 1932, but she did lose her only sister, after all. And if you were suddenly to discover that, for the past forty years, every day you had lived was a lie and you had been kept in the dark by a husband who had never told you that he had murdered someone close to you – well, I am sure that would be enough to make most people flip.’

That had crossed my mind too. And for the moment, I liked Solveig Ramdal best of the group from 1932, both when she was happy and when she was serious. Because it was definitely her serious face that I saw when asked what she made of the key found lying outside the room in the hotel corridor.

‘I still have no plausible explanation. Whatever else one might say about Per Johan, he was a strong and very focused man. It is unthinkable that he would have dropped the room key in the corridor without noticing, especially if he had just committed a crime. He might have put it there himself, as a kind of red herring, or someone else might have put it there, so that people would suspect him or Hank.’

As we were talking so intimately, I swiftly took the opportunity to ask what she thought about Per Johan Fredriksen’s statement at the group’s last anniversary dinner.

‘Much the same, really. He might have said it to deflect any suspicion, he might have been calling our bluff – or he might have found out that it really was one of us. The only thing I know for certain is that it was not me who killed Eva, if it was indeed one of us who did it.’

Without thinking, I lowered my voice and leaned forwards over the table when I asked if she could not even be certain that her husband had not done it. She remained calm and answered in a hushed voice in return: ‘Yes, that is correct. As far as Per Johan is concerned, I know that it was not Kjell Arne. He was here with me on Saturday night. We were sitting here together when we heard about the attack on the radio. But as for Eva’s death, I have always thought that Kjell Arne seemed a less likely murderer than Per Johan, Hauk and Oda. But no, I don’t know for certain.’

And with that, it was as though she had said all there was to say. She pursed her lips and turned her eyes away to gaze out of the window. And when the large wall clock behind us then struck ten, it felt like a natural end to our conversation.

I quickly noted that two of the group from 1932 could provide each other with an alibi for the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen. And that Mr Ramdal spoke of all the others by their surname, whereas Mrs Ramdal used their first names. Then I thanked her for her cooperation so far, and stood up.

It was twenty-five past ten by the time I parked outside my flat in Hegdehaugen. It had been a long and demanding day which had yielded some important answers, but also raised many new questions. Without being able to put my finger on why, the whole situation felt very unstable. I walked from the car towards the entrance and everything seemed to be as normal, and yet I was annoyingly gripped by a growing urge to look back. The sensation that there was someone behind me whom I had to see became more and more intense.