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.’