Chameleon People (15 page)

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.

Reluctantly, I gave in to the fear and turned around without warning just as I reached the front door.

There was nothing to see. But as I went in I found myself wondering if perhaps there had been someone there before I turned around. On my way up the stairs, I chastised myself for not having
turned around earlier, and for allowing my uncertainty about the case to tip into fear.

Once inside my flat, I realized that I still wasn’t tired. I stood alone by the window and looked out at the night.

The street below was empty. And yet I could see someone down there. Images of the boy on the red bicycle, who, two evenings before, had pedalled so frantically up the hill in front of the house,
were still burned in my mind.

Even though there was much that was still unexplained, it now seemed clear that the boy had been innocent of murdering Per Johan Fredriksen and that he had cycled here in desperation because he
trusted that I would discover the truth. The boy had wanted to give me his simple statement: that he was innocent, that he had only tried to help, and that Fredriksen had been dead when he went
back. And it had all been true.

But there was also a sense that the boy on the red bicycle had in some way let me down, first by his lack of cooperation and then by taking his own life. Although of course, the stronger feeling
was that I had let him down and betrayed the trust he had given me by failing to recognize his innocence in time to save his life.

I had a light snack alone at twenty to eleven. I felt pretty miserable and thought about the case as I ate two slices of bread and cheese in the kitchen, but was no closer to solving either the
possible murder from 1932 or the murder from 1972.

At five to eleven, I went back into the living room. I sat there for several minutes looking at the telephone. The temptation to call my secret advisor, Patricia, only got stronger the longer I
sat there. I was sure that Patricia would immediately make connections in the case that I could not see, if she was willing to help me. However, I wasn’t even convinced that she would want to
help me. It was as though Patricia’s shadow now eclipsed the case for me. It felt like I had to phone her to find out whether she was willing to help, or if I was on my own.

I thought about the boy on the red bicycle and my meeting with his mother, and came to the conclusion that I should ring Patricia for their sakes. I still knew the number to the telephone on her
table by heart. I was suddenly absolutely certain that she was still awake, sitting by the telephone in her library.

Twice I reached out to pick up the phone. The first time, I pulled my hand back before it even touched the receiver and the second time, I dialled the first two numbers before I put it down
again. A picture of Miriam appeared and stood between me and the telephone. Miriam had not wanted me to contact Patricia this time and had really done her best to help me herself.

It was a horrible feeling; it would seem as if I lacked confidence in my fiancée if I now asked if I could call Patricia. But at the same time it felt like it would be a betrayal, almost
treachery, if I were to ring Patricia without having spoken to Miriam about it first. So I sat there stewing over the dilemma. Then I made a decision and reached out to pick up the phone and ring
Patricia.

But the telephone beat me to it: it started to ring while my hand was still in the air. As soon as I heard it ring, I knew who it was – and I was right.

Miriam was calling from a telephone box at her student accommodation. Her voice trembled slightly when she spoke: ‘I’ve tried to call you several times this evening without any
answer. I’m so glad that you are all right. Is there any news about the case?’

It felt as though she was asking me if I had been to visit Patricia. And I immediately regretted having tried to call her.

So I quickly told her that I had been to see the Ramdals and that there was some new information, but I could tell her more when we next met.

Miriam sounded pleased to hear this and said that she could leave the library a couple of hours earlier tomorrow so that we could have an early supper together before she went to her evening
meetings. This was a rare offer coming from her, so I agreed without hesitation. She promised to be here at four and would wait if I was later. I cheerfully asked her to take with her the book on
the history of the German language, and she equally cheerfully said that she would never dream of going anywhere without it.

Her coins and our conversation came to an end at twenty-five past eleven. We felt closer again. I was touched by my Miriam’s interest and found her curiosity charming. So I stopped
debating with myself whether to call Patricia or not. In any case, it was by now far too late for any more phone calls or visits today. I suddenly felt the exhaustion after a long and demanding day
overwhelm me.

I was in bed by a quarter to twelve and barely managed to set the alarm before I fell asleep. But the sheet on my own bed reminded me, all the same, of what I had seen at the main police station
earlier in the day. And I saw the boy on the red bicycle once again – dead in his cell.

Monday, 20 March 1972 came to a close with me dreaming that Miriam was back in my bed with me, but Patricia was sitting in her wheelchair in the middle of the room, looking at us with a grim and
reproachful expression.

On Tuesday, 21 March 1972, it was reported in the morning news on the radio that it now looked as though the Barents Sea agreement would get the support of all parties, even
though some individuals in the Conservative Party had raised critical questions about the Soviet Union’s intentions. These were possibly in response to the fact that surviving members of the
Communist Party of Norway had appeared on the barricades to proclaim the agreement was an example of the Soviet Union’s good intentions and genuine desire for peace.

Between the headlines and reports about the Barents Sea agreement and the EEC debate in the morning papers, I found some obituaries for Per Johan Fredriksen and several smaller reports about his
murder. The two newspapers that I had delivered wrote that the suspect, who had been held in custody after having fled the scene of the crime, was a young man from the east end of Oslo, and he had
since committed suicide in prison. From the evidence, it would seem that the murder was motivated by personal tragedy and the case was now considered closed.

The newspapers did not mention the suspect’s name, but did name the head of the investigation. Phrases such as ‘the young and already well-known Detective Inspector Kolbjørn
Kristiansen solved the case in record time’ made for pleasant enough reading. But I read them with mixed feelings, knowing as I did only too well that it could quickly backfire on the police
in general and myself in particular. Especially if the press got wind of the fact that the arrestee, who had taken his own life in a cell, was innocent. I came to the conclusion that it might have
been better if my name had not been mentioned. I quickly folded the papers and hurried to work.

I was in my office by twenty past eight, in other words, ten minutes early. All the incoming messages to do with the case were requests for interviews. I dealt with them swiftly, replying that
the investigation was still ongoing and the police were still open to all possibilities.

At half past nine, I was in my car driving out of Oslo, on my way to meet a man who had apparently lived alone in Holmestrand since finding his girlfriend dead in a hotel room in Oslo forty
years ago.

The farm was easy to find: not only was it the best signposted, but it was also the largest in the area. After seeing a sign for Westgaard on a side road, I drove for a good
three minutes before coming to the farmhouse.

The man was not hard to find either. Hauk Rebne Westgaard was standing talking to two other men in front of the house when I drove up. It was very obvious who he was, thanks to his height,
profile and clothes. Without reading very much more into it, I could see that he was the only gentleman there.

The description I had been given was very fitting. Hauk Rebne Westgaard was at least six feet tall, with unusually sharp features and a clean-shaven face, raven hair, a slim build and graceful
movements; he could as easily have been forty-five as sixty-five. His handshake was strong and his voice was friendly when he said: ‘Welcome.’ But he did not smile, and walked into the
house without saying another word.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s living room was large and tidy, but in terms of the furnishing and decor, it was like taking a step back in time to the early interwar period. With the possible
exception of a couple of guns on the wall and some of the trophies on the top shelves, it looked as though nothing here was from after 1945. I found myself wondering whether my host’s
internal life had remained equally untouched since 1932.

Out loud, I asked whether he lived alone or had any family. He replied: ‘I have three farmhands who live on the farm with their families, but I live on my own in the house. My parents died
long ago, and my only sibling is a younger sister who also has her own house on the farm. I have never married and do not have the pleasure of my own children.’

‘But you were once in love and had a girlfriend, whom you lost – unexpectedly,’ I said.

He gave a strangely determined and abrupt nod. It was as though his sharp chin cleaved the air in two.

‘I understand that you are well acquainted with the events of 1932. Yes, I once had a girlfriend whom I loved very much and lost very unexpectedly. I have carried on with my life, done
what I should and could on the farm and in the community, and I’ve managed well. But I still wonder about what happened, and what my life might have been like had it not occurred. And that I
will never know. But I would be very grateful if you could solve the mystery.’

His voice was still friendly, but as he spoke his hawk-like eyes bore into me.

I felt the pressure mounting. So I swiftly replied that I would do my best, but that I first needed to hear his version of the events and how he had experienced them.

‘Eva and I had not been together for very long, just four months. And we were very different. She was an irrepressible optimist with a lust for life and had grown up without a care in the
world. Whereas the situation here at home had left its mark on me and I was far more serious. But we got on very well together all the same, and in the days before the trip to Oslo had even talked
about getting engaged. I was never one for parties really and thought I was the luckiest man in the world to have found such a beautiful and charming girlfriend. I could see that other men looked
at me with envy. And I thought to myself many a time that it was too good to last, but I had no idea that it would end as tragically as it did.’

‘And in addition, she was rich,’ I said, tentatively.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard gave another of his sharp nods. ‘That was not important to me. I would have wanted Eva even if she was the daughter of a poor farmhand, but of course I knew full well
that she was heir to land and property worth millions. I both saw and heard that it was important to other young men, from families that were often far richer than my own. The wealthy farmers down
here used to joke that there were no engagements in Vestfold, only mergers.’

He smiled fleetingly when he said this. But the smile disappeared as soon as I asked if he had known that Per Johan Fredriksen had shown some interest in his girlfriend.

‘Yes. He paid a lot of attention to my girlfriend, and Kjell Arne Ramdal showed a lot of interest in both my girlfriend and Per Johan’s fiancée. So the atmosphere on the way
into the capital and at the hotel was rather tense. I could feel that a drama was brewing, but the form it then took came as a shock. On the surface, Eva was the most carefree and relaxed of us
all. She lived to be adored. We had discussed it and I was happy for her to be the centre of attention.’

I noted that jealousy could have been a possible motive for Hauk Rebne Westgaard. I then asked him what he believed happened.

‘It was not epilepsy that killed Eva, I am almost certain of that. I had been to the doctor with her a few days before. He had assured her that epilepsy was something she would die with,
but not from. Otherwise she was as fit as a fiddle with no sign of any illness. It seems just as unlikely to me that she committed suicide. First of all, she had been in a remarkably good mood all
spring, and still was only a few hours before. Second, I don’t understand how she committed suicide, if she did. I was with her when she packed and did not see medicine of any sort either
then or later in the hotel room. I smelt her lips after she had died, and they did not smell of anything. Even though I cannot categorically dismiss the possibility that she committed suicide or
died as a result of her illness, I have always believed that she was murdered. But how she was killed, why she was killed and by whom, remains as much of a mystery to me now, forty years on, as
then. And I would be so grateful if you could tell me.’