Again she was talking as if in a trance. Danielsen moved soundlessly closer as she spoke. He was only a few feet behind her now. He stopped there and hesitated, as if waiting for a signal from me. I understood his dilemma. Oda Fredriksen had her shaking finger on the trigger. The chances that the gun would go off and that the bullet would hit me if he launched himself at her were considerable. In the midst of all this, I suddenly felt sorry for Danielsen.
I did not dare to stop her talking. So I said that she would be arrested even if she fled to Sweden. The police would find her no matter where she went, and the sentence would be all the more severe if she shot a policeman.
‘Is there someone behind me?’ she asked in a strained voice. Her finger shook even more violently on the trigger when she said this.
I managed to think that the chances of her shooting me might be less if she knew that she would immediately be arrested by another policeman. And that I would be able to throw myself over her if she turned around to shoot Danielsen.
So, with forced calm, I replied: ‘Yes. Detective Inspector Danielsen, who came here with me, is standing right behind you now. You cannot get away, even if you shoot me.’
We stared at each other for a few eternal seconds. She was shaking with emotion – and the pistol was shaking with her.
I saw the flash in her eyes and realized that she was going to shoot a second before she did so.
So I was already moving to the right when she fired; like a football keeper diving for a penalty kick, I found myself thinking, as I sailed through the air and saw the bullet penetrate the velvet sofa behind me.
I hit the floor and at the same time my foot hit the table. All the flowers were knocked off, just as Oda Fredriksen also fell to the floor with Danielsen on her back.
Oda Fredriksen lay there on the floor with Danielsen on top of her, and no means of escape. But she did not let go of my pistol. Her hand gripped it tightly like a claw. From my position by the table leg, I saw Danielsen banging her wrist three times without her letting go of the gun. Only then did I realize that I was alive and unharmed.
I leapt up and ran over to Oda Fredriksen, grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled at it so hard that I was frightened her arm might break. But still she did not let go of the pistol. I had to grip it with both hands and pull with all my might to get it free. There was a faint sob from her as I managed to pull it away. But even without her weapon she was still acting like a desperate wild animal as she fought and struggled on her drawing-room floor. She kept twisting her hands away, refusing to give up. It was only on the third attempt that I managed to get the handcuffs round her right wrist and it took two more to get them locked on her left.
And then finally it was over. Suddenly, almost alarmingly so, she regained her self-control. She panted furiously for a few seconds and then relaxed and accepted her fate.
‘I apologize, I did not want to kill you. My self-preservation instinct got the better of me,’ she said. Her voice was almost as expressionless as it usually was.
I was unharmed, but still in shock. So I did not answer. Danielsen was also paler than I remembered having ever seen him before, and did not look as though he wanted to say any more to Oda Fredriksen. In silent understanding, we each put a hand on her shoulders and walked out with her between us.
None of us said a word on the way out. I only heard a low, animal snarl from Oda Fredriksen as we got into the police car. I looked up and understood why, when I saw that a passer-by had stopped and was looking at us. For her, it was a taste of the disgrace that would follow when her arrest for murder became public knowledge. So I pushed her into the back of the car and then got into the passenger seat without saying any more.
I was still wound up and shaken by the unexpected drama in the drawing room at Bygdøy. It was only halfway back into Oslo that I discovered blood running from a wound under my right eye.
V
The time was five to one. I had returned to 19 Møller Street and handed over Oda Fredriksen.
I was now back at Patricia’s in Frogner, and had told her what had happened out at Bygdøy. She showed unexpected concern about the scratch on my face and expressed relief when I assured her that it was nothing serious. I thought to myself that perhaps Patricia had become more empathetic over the years, and I was now seeing a more humane side of her.
‘A family tragedy of devastating proportions. Behind her mask, she must have suffered from serious mental illness for years. I understand that it must have been a very unnerving experience for you. But as you came out of it unscathed, the outcome is good, in that the guilty party has been arrested and the question of guilt is indisputable,’ Patricia said firmly.
She finished her coffee, but as yet had not touched the packet of cigarettes on the table. Patricia was solemn and distant. She was in no rush to tell me what she had understood earlier today. At first I wondered if she was thinking about the situation with her boyfriend – and then to what extent I should take that into consideration. I waited a minute before carrying on.
‘Well, then, perhaps we should push on and talk about how this all started – in other words, the murder of Per Johan Fredriksen.’
Patricia seemed to wake up and look at me. And at the same time, her hand stretched out towards the cigarette packet.
‘Yes, of course. I am sorry, I got lost in my own thoughts. Yes, we should carry on, even though it is in many ways an even sadder story. The statement from Doctor Death confirmed what I already believed, and that is that Fredriksen’s murder had nothing to do with the murder in 1932. Nor did it have anything to do with his business. Which rules out all the men, and his wife had an alibi.’
‘Solveig Ramdal, then?’ I asked.
Patricia smiled. ‘Perhaps not so clear. But I think that we can rule her out all the same when it comes to Fredriksen’s murder. For a start, she does not really fit the description in terms of physique and clothes. Furthermore, the motive would still be unclear, as she had no murder to hide from 1932. Plus, she also had an alibi of sorts from her husband. One could perhaps construct a motive for Solveig Ramdal or Kjell Arne Ramdal for killing Per Johan Fredriksen, but it is hard to imagine a situation where they would both have a motive for killing him – and what is more, trust each other enough to do it together. So their alibi is better than it may seem.’
I recalled my conversations with the Ramdals and had to concede.
‘If we are to believe Doctor Death’s statement, we can assume that the description also rules out both the Fredriksen sisters and the boy on the red bicycle,’ I added quickly.
‘Naturally. But I have never at any point thought that any of those three killed Fredriksen. However, I have suspected throughout that one of them might be of more importance than at first we realized. I just struggled to understand the reasons for, and the significance of, his apparently confused behaviour. But there are no other possibilities now. It was no one from Fredriksen’s family, nor from his business contacts, nor any of his fated friends from 1932. We will have to see the spying aspect of the case as solved, even though it is still unclear how far Fredriksen went with his contacts and how the police security service found out. But the solution to his murder does not lie there. So we have dismissed those who did not commit the murder, but still do not know who did it. We are back where we started: at the sad story of the boy on the red bicycle, and the question of whether he was of sound mind and why he behaved so oddly. Oh, this really is a terrible story.’
The last exclamation was said in a very sharp voice. I spotted a tear in Patricia’s eye that she hastily wiped away. She shook her head angrily and then sat there with a cigarette in her mouth.