Chameleon People (16 page)

There was a faint spark in the eyes of the man opposite me when he said this. Despite his control, he suddenly scared me a little, with the feeling only enhanced by all the guns and trophies on
the wall.

I said that I was not able to tell him now, but that I would do my utmost to find out.

‘I thank you for that. It’s more than can be said of the police in 1932. They danced to her father’s tune. He was a very conservative and powerful old man who was less
interested in finding out the truth than in hiding the potential scandal a suicide would have entailed. As her young boyfriend, and with no contacts in Oslo, I had no rights whatsoever and was
ignored when I tried to support her sister’s demands for an autopsy. And, likewise, when I informed them that it was clear that another person had been in her room in the hour or two before
she died, and also in her bed.’

Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s hard and defiant eyes pierced me to the core when he said this. He replied swiftly and without hesitation when I asked him how he could be so sure of that.

‘I was the first person into her room when we all went up. I immediately noticed that the bed, which had been made up earlier in the day, was now crumpled. Eva was full of energy and as
good as never slept in the afternoons. She may, of course, have done so that day, but there were also three black hairs on her pillow. Eva had blonde hair, so they were clearly not hers. The police
said they were unable to establish who the hair came from. They examined the bed as soon as they were told, but found no evidence of sexual activity and suggested that the hairs could have got
there by all manner of ways that might not be directly linked to her death. But I can still only think of one plausible explanation, and that is that there was a dark-haired man in her room –
and bed – only hours before she died.’

He said this in a very quiet voice, almost a whisper – which I could well understand. If his story was true, Hauk Rebne Westgaard had lived for the past forty years not only with the
uncertainty of how his girlfriend had died, but also with the question of who she had been unfaithful with beforehand.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s still-black hair was right in front of my very eyes as we sat there looking at each other. So I cautiously asked if those black hairs might not be his own. He nodded
very firmly to this and then spoke very fast.

‘Yes, I understand that you have to ask. I realized that that was what the police suspected. But Eva and I had not shared a bed that day and, in fact, I had been nowhere near the bed in
her hotel room. So the hairs had to be from someone else. Per Johan and Kjell Arne both had dark hair at the time, so if it was either of them it would be difficult to say which one. There may of
course have been a third man, unknown to me, but it seems much more likely that it was one of those two . . . and, of course, there is nothing to say that whoever was in the bed took Eva’s
life afterwards, but again, it seems likely.’

I had to agree with both points, and asked him which of the two he suspected.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard gave it some thought, then answered in an even quieter voice. ‘I don’t know. I have thought about it a thousand times and changed my mind at least five hundred.
I knew Per Johan best from childhood and have always liked him best. But from a very young age he was a man with many faces. On the other hand, I had never cared for Kjell Arne, but only ever saw
one face. So it has always seemed more likely to me that it was my childhood friend, Per Johan, who took Eva’s life and left mine in ruins.’

He said the latter in an almost inaudible voice and with a faint glow in his eyes. I was aware of all the guns and trophies behind him and thought to myself that Hauk Rebne Westgaard was not
someone I would like to have as an enemy.

He apparently realized that he had perhaps gone too far.

‘You asked, and I am giving you an honest answer. Obviously, I would not have said that if I had killed Per Johan. Which I didn’t. I still don’t know if I had a reason to hate
Per Johan and I don’t know who killed him.’

I quickly followed this up by asking what his thoughts were when Per Johan made his unexpected announcement at the memorial dinner a few days earlier.

‘Initially I thought that he had found something out that linked Kjell Arne to the murder. Then I looked at Kjell Arne, and his only reaction was to knit his eyebrows and look puzzled. So
then I thought perhaps Per Johan was saying it to deflect any suspicion, but it was hard to understand why he would do that now. And then he said nothing more. He raised his glass of water
demonstratively and remained silent for the rest of the meal. It was an interesting meal in that respect, but left me none the wiser.’

I thought to myself that Patricia would be able to discern something from this, but I could not see what it might be.

Before I had time to ask another question, Hauk Rebne Westgaard suddenly moved – with unexpected speed and force. As though pulling a gun, he pulled out his wallet and put it down on the
table between us. It was made of brown leather and, as far as I could see, was full of notes and coins. He put his fingers into a small side pocket and carefully took out a small white stamp
bag.

And hey presto, there we were with three dark hairs from 1932 between us.

I stared intensely at them for a few seconds, but was unable to guess to whom they belonged.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard asked me in a quiet voice if technology was now so advanced that it was possible to establish someone’s identity from three forty-year-old strands of hair. I replied
in an even softer voice that it was worth a try, but that normally it was not possible.

He said: ‘A small chance is still better than no chance at all,’ and pushed the bag containing the three hairs over towards me.

I put it carefully in my own wallet and said that I would look after it well. He said that he would like them back afterwards, and I promised him that he would get them.

‘And you have never had a girlfriend since?’ I asked, with some caution.

It was a somewhat bold question, but Hauk Rebne Westgaard took it well. He sat in silence for a few moments, but then spoke for a long time once he had started.

‘No, I never did. The fact that things were the way they were at home also played a part. Father flew into a rage if anyone forgot the double A in Westgaard. It’s a very old name and
his family have been wealthy farmers here since the Dano-Norwegian Union. But my father drank himself into the ground, and almost did the same with the farm. After Eva’s tragic death I came
home to another crisis and possible enforced sale of the farm. My mother and I went to court and managed to have Father declared incompetent in the nick of time, so that I could take over the
running of the farm before it all collapsed. I was twenty-five years old when I took over a farm on the verge of bankruptcy, and the responsibility for my ten-year-old sister. In the first few
years, we could barely pay anyone to help us with the sowing in spring or harvesting in autumn. In the years before and during the war, I was constantly battling against the frost and down payments
for me and my mother. While others fought for their country, I had no time to do anything other than fight for my family’s farm. Hunting and shooting were my only form of relaxation and apart
from that, I used every ounce of energy I had on the farm. So all I had to offer any potential wife was insecurity, and even so I did not have time to find one. But the shock was the hardest thing
to bear. If you lose the love of your life at a young age, without being able to say goodbye, it does something to you. And when you don’t know what happened, it’s even
worse.’

He stopped for a moment to draw breath, and then carried on at a slower pace, in a quieter voice.

‘It has always been said that there is a curse on the Westgaard men. My father’s father had two wives who both died when they were young. My mother told me more than once that
marrying my father had been the greatest mistake of her life. As a modern man, I do not believe that the sins of the fathers are visited on their sons. But until the mystery of Eva’s death is
solved, I will not be able to put my arms around another woman. And so here I am, a wealthy farmer, with no one to take over the family farm when my time comes.’

I now saw Hauk Rebne Westgaard as both a modern man and an old-fashioned farmer. And I could understand his sorrow.

I asked tactfully whether his sister had any children who might inherit the farm.

‘No,’ he replied, almost too swiftly. Then he continued in a steady voice. ‘There is a young widow on the neighbouring farm who has come to visit several times recently. She is
very nice. But I cannot decide whether it is a good or a bad sign that she was born in 1932. It would be the last chance for a new generation to grow up here at Westgaard. But every time I see her,
it’s as though Eva appears and stands between us. I think about the family curse, about the shock I got when I found Eva dead, and I am still unable to touch another woman. So I would be
deeply thankful if you and the police could solve the case.’

I promised him that I would do my very best and that I would let him know immediately if there was any news. He spontaneously held out his hand and I took it. His hand was slim, strong and
surprisingly warm; it burned in mine.

I dropped his hand and said that he must be completely honest with me. Then I asked if he had anything more of importance to tell me from that fateful day in 1932 when Eva died.

Hauk Rene Westgaard hesitated for a moment – and then a moment more. Then he continued: ‘Yes. You seem to be a fine, open-minded man. So I am going to tell you something that I did
not tell the police in 1932. I said nothing because I didn’t trust them and I didn’t see how it could be significant, but also because I feared that others might take the opportunity to
direct their suspicion at me. I was in Eva’s hotel room that afternoon. But I left at half past five, and she was still very much alive.’

My nod was almost a reflex and I asked him to tell me in as much detail as possible what had happened. He did so immediately.

‘I had been worried because Eva, even though she was in a good mood, had seemed distracted and had avoided looking at me earlier in the day. So I knocked on her door at a quarter past five
and asked if everything was all right. She let me in, but was unusually serious and a bit evasive. Then she told me that she had found herself attracted to someone else, but that it was
complicated, that she still loved me and that I had to give her some time to think about what she wanted to do. It felt as though the ground had opened beneath my feet. I could do nothing other
than say that I loved her more than anything in the world, beg her to stay with me and that I would give her all the time she needed to think about the situation. I hugged her and could feel her
trembling in my arms. Then I went. I left her standing in the middle of her hotel room, unharmed and alive. In fact, it was the last time I saw her alive. And it was exactly five-thirty when I got
back to my room.’

He was now speaking faster again, as though fevered.

It was tempting to believe him. But then I thought that Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s own explanation still gave him a possible motive of jealousy – and the fact that his girlfriend had
been confused and in a difficult situation could have resulted in suicide.

Out loud, I asked whether he was sure that the bed was still made and that he had not seen any pills or other means of suicide in the room. He gave a sharp nod in answer to both.

The only question that remained was a sensitive one. I paused for a beat and spoke slowly when I said that I had to ask everyone, as a matter of procedure, where they were when Per Johan
Fredriksen died at half past eight on Saturday evening.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard conceded that he understood why I had to ask. Then he said: ‘Well, in my case, I was unfortunately on my own in the car driving back to Holmestrand. I had been at the
anti-EEC conference as part of a delegation of Labour Party members who are against membership. It’s no coincidence that Kjell Arne ended up in the Conservative Party, Per Johan in the Centre
Party and I in the Labour Party. Per Johan and I agreed on the EEC question. Membership would be catastrophic for rural Norway and the beginning of the end for agriculture as we know it. In fact,
Per Johan and I met very briefly that day. We exchanged looks and nods, but no words, when he gave a short talk earlier in the day. I am sure we were both thinking what a social hotchpotch it was,
the two of us and other veterans from various parties together with long-haired urban radicals of both sexes. The conference closed around half past seven. I got into the car and was back here
around nine. I heard that Per Johan had been stabbed on the ten o’clock news.’

Neither of us said anything. Hauk Rebne Westgaard had been in Oslo on the day that Per Johan Fredriksen was murdered. Having left the conference an hour before, Hauk Rebne Westgaard did not have
an alibi for the time of the murder, unless anyone could confirm that he was back here in Holmestrand before nine o’clock.

I asked in as friendly a manner as I could, whether his sister or anyone else here could confirm that he had been back by nine.

He shrugged with his palms up.

‘No, unfortunately not. The farm hands were finished for the weekend, so I did not see any of them. I did see my sister, but she would not be able to confirm the time.’

I was once again taken aback by the way in which Hauk Rebne Westgaard spoke about his sister. So I enquired if I could ask her that myself.

He looked at me with a mixture of reproach and bewilderment, as though I had understood nothing. All of a sudden he reminded me of Patricia. Then he said: ‘Of course. My sister is at home.
Follow me, you can ask her all the questions you like.’

Silent and slightly puzzled, I followed Hauk Rebne Westgaard across the farmyard. We approached what from the outside looked like a very ordinary wooden cabin.

I realized that something was amiss when I saw that the door was locked from the outside; my host produced a key and unlocked the padlock before opening the door.