Chameleon People (29 page)

She nodded eagerly, raised her chin and said: ‘Of course,’ then snuggled closer.

I thought to myself that the situation was actually becoming rather alarming, but it was too late now to turn back, and nor did I want to.

So I sat there on the sofa, close to my Miriam, and more or less whispered the story of my visit to the head of the police security service to her, and told her that Per Johan Fredriksen was
suspected of being a spy.

I struggled with a horrible mix of feelings as I sat there. One moment I was terrified of the consequences this might have should it ever get out; the next, it felt right to be telling her.
Miriam’s shoulders were permanently damaged by an injury she had sustained when trying to help me in my last case and her actions had very probably saved the current prime minister’s
life. She had never let slip a word to anyone about what I had told her then. It did not feel right that I should now hide this from her – especially as it was no more than two hours since I
had told another woman.

It made Miriam happy in her own way, without any great display of affection or gushing words. ‘Gosh, that really is a dramatic development,’ was all she said. Then she sat there deep
in thought on the sofa. I could feel her body vibrating with tension.

Then suddenly she stood up and said: ‘I have a lecture at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, so I have to get to bed early. But I will think more on this tomorrow.’

I followed her to the door, and offered without success to drive her home. I was not sure whether it was her lecture tomorrow morning or my investigation she was thinking about, but it was
obvious that she was mulling something over. Miriam’s eyes and voice were both unusually distant. She had the big blue book tucked under her arm. In the doorway on her way out, she said, to
my joy, something that Patricia had not said today: ‘Good luck with the investigation. Remember to watch out for the man in the hat and any other dangers.’

I kissed her on the mouth, and almost replied that she had to stay; she couldn’t possibly leave me in such a frightening and unsafe situation. But I said nothing. Then suddenly she was
gone, and I heard her quick steps disappear down the stairs.

I stood by the window and watched her go. I thought that I had never loved anyone as much as I loved Miriam, but I still felt pulled and stretched in every direction.

For the first time, it was not a disappointment to see Miriam disappear into the night. I had a sudden need to be alone and think about the investigation and my own life, though it could hardly
be said that I made much progress with either. I managed to write a list of people I should talk to tomorrow in connection with the investigation. This included Hauk Rebne Westgaard, Ane Line
Fredriksen and Lene Johansen, as well as the office manager Odd Jørgensen and the accountant Erling Svendsen. I was impatient to get on, but could not do much more tonight.

Physical exhaustion overwhelmed me without warning. It was eleven o’clock when I set the alarm for a quarter past seven, and went to bed. It was a matter of minutes before I was
asleep.

On Wednesday, 22 March 1972, I fell asleep alone, safely locked in my own flat, but with a great deal of uncertainty about what tomorrow would bring. I tried to think about Miriam, but fell
asleep with Patricia’s sharp, accusing eyes staring me down.

The case was becoming more and more of an obsession. On Thursday, 23 March 1972, I leapt out of bed with the first ring of the alarm clock at a quarter past seven and rang Hauk
Rebne Westgaard straightaway.

I guessed that he was an early bird, which quickly proved to be true. The telephone in Holmestrand was answered on the third ring.

I apologized for calling so early, then said that there were a number of new things in connection with Eva’s death in 1932 that I would like to discuss with him as soon as possible.

He replied that I could call him as early as I liked and could come to see him whenever it suited, if it would help to clarify what had happened when Eva died.

I took him at his word and said that I hoped to be there before ten.

The day’s newspapers were a less inspiring read.
Arbeiderbladet
used half the front page to cover the EEC debate and much of the rest was about the Government’s plans to
establish a state-run oil company. Unfortunately, the murder case had crept onto the remaining space on the front page as it had in
Aftenposten. Aftenposten
was still positive about the
way in which the police were dealing with the case. The newspaper reported that there might be ‘reason to question’ whether the investigation had the necessary resources. And if indeed
it did not, whether the blame did not lie with ‘senior police officers’, but instead with the parliamentary majority who had not given the police enough resources.

I heaved a sigh of relief that neither the link to 1932, nor the possible links to the EEC question and espionage, had been discovered. At the same time, I shuddered to think what might happen
if they were. It felt like this was the calm before the media storm. Something had to happen today.

All was quiet down at the station when I popped in. I picked up the paper bag with the three hairs in it from my pigeon hole. There was a short statement with it to say that it was head hair,
but they could not use them to identify who they came from.

Neither my boss nor Danielsen had arrived yet, which suited me fine. I drove on to Holmestrand without waiting for them.

Today, however, I drove to Westgaard Farm via the sheriff’s office in Holmestrand. In the archives, I found a couple of yellowed pages about the transfer of Westgaard to Hauk. Having read
them, I drove the last stretch faster than planned.

Westgaard looked just as peaceful and idyllic in the Vestfold landscape as it had the last time. And yet it felt like a different place when I got there at a quarter to ten. The
weather was more overcast and neither the farmer nor the workers were anywhere to be seen. Not that this meant anything, of course. But it did feel rather ominous, nonetheless.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard had been waiting and opened the door within seconds of me ringing the bell. He was dressed in simple work clothes. His hat lay on the hat rack in the hall. I noted in
passing that it was the same shape, if not the same colour, as the one worn by Alexander Svasnikov when he was following me around the streets of Oslo. Svasnikov’s hat was brown and this was
green, but I thought to myself that on a dark street at night in Oslo, the hats could certainly look the same from a window.

We went into the living room. Almost instinctively, both Hauk Rebne Westgaard and I sat down in the same places as before with about three feet of table between us.

‘So, what brings you back to the farm today?’ my host asked.

I carefully put the bag with the hairs in it down on the table. He looked at me with bright anticipation, which faded as soon as I said that it was head hair from a person, but they could not
establish the identity of the person from the hair. However, he perked up again when I said that we were starting to get an outline of what had happened. Up to the point it certainly seemed that
Hauk Rebne Westgaard was genuinely interested in clearing up what had happened when his girlfriend died.

I told him in brief that Eva Bjølhaugen had in all probability been drowned in 1932. We had reason to believe that Per Johan Fredriksen had been in her room soon after Hauk himself, and
that Kjell Arne Ramdal had been there after Fredriksen. However, we also had reason to believe that Ramdal left the room at a quarter past six, at which point, Eva had been unharmed and the bed
untouched. We were now trying to establish what happened in the next two hours.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s eyes widened when I mentioned drowning, and he listened to everything that followed intently. When I said that I now had to ask him some personal questions and that
the answers could be decisive in solving the case of his girlfriend’s murder, he quickly gave me the go-ahead.

‘All right, I will answer to the best of my abilities,’ he said, sitting up straight in his chair, his face serious in concentration.

I started tactfully by asking if Eva had been religious. He shook his head sharply.

‘Not particularly. She went to church at Christmas and Easter and the like, but did not have a strong Christian faith. In fact, her father despaired at her lack of faith. He was a little
happier with her sister on that score, although never completely satisfied with either of them.’

This prompted me to ask what kind of relationship Eva had with her sister Oda.

‘Well, they were very different – the one blonde and gregarious, the other dark and taciturn. Eva was someone everyone noticed as soon as she walked into a room, and Oda was often
the person you forgot being there at all. Eva dominated, despite being younger. They spent a lot of time together, but were often bickering. But that’s not unusual for sisters at that age, so
I don’t think any of us gave it much thought.’

‘Eva liked attention, even after you became a couple.’

He gave an even sharper nod this time. ‘Absolutely. Eva got a lot of attention from a lot of men and was a rather self-centred young woman who didn’t say no. I took it all with a
pinch of salt. I just thought I was lucky to have such a beautiful and attractive girlfriend. And I knew that she was a good girl, proper . . .’

He talked in a low and slightly tense voice. I increasingly got the feeling that this was leading somewhere.

‘Almost too proper, in fact,’ I pushed, gently.

Hauk Rebne Westgaard looked at me, his eyes still wide, and gave a barely discernible nod. It was the last encouragement I needed to spur me on.

‘Because the reason you were so upset and surprised about the hairs in Eva’s unmade bed, which you knew were not yours, was because you yourself had never been to bed with
her.’

I fixed him with my gaze and thought about Patricia as I said this.

She was right again.

As I watched him, Hauk’s mask cracked and another person appeared. A vulnerable, unhappy and uncertain young man. His eyes filled with tears and his hands trembled violently. As did his
voice when, eventually, he answered.

‘I had been to bed with her, but not like that. Not—’ He stopped and sat in silence for a moment, then carried on quickly. ‘I had not slept with her, no. And it became an
obsession. She was my first girlfriend, the tension and expectations were so great. Day after day passed, week after week and month after month, with ever new excuses. To me, she was the most
beautiful woman in the world, and she was so exciting and provocative. I knew that it would be over soon, but was determined that we could not split up before we had—’

He stopped again. I did not push him, but tried instead to coax him on whilst he remained in such an open and emotional mood.

‘And your life was not easy. So it felt as though the world was crashing down around you when she told you that she had fallen for someone else and wanted to end the relationship. Because
that is what she said, isn’t it? She broke up with you and said that you would never get what you wanted most. You desired her and you hated her.’

I stared at him intensely. His nod was almost imperceptible, but his voice was controlled when he spoke.

‘Yes. That is what she said. I thought about throwing myself at her, but I didn’t. Instead, I turned around and fled. And I thought about knocking on her door later, but I
didn’t. I hoped and prayed that she would have changed her mind by the time we went down to dinner. But she never came down. When we went up to her room, she was dead. I still do not know who
was in bed with her before she died. And nor do I know who killed her. Please tell me if you know. Please.’

Hauk Rebne Westgaard talked in short bursts and stared straight ahead with a distant look in his eyes as he spoke.

I believed him. And I thought that if what he said was true, here was a man who had dedicated his adult life to his family and their land – without ever experiencing any physical love
himself.

I did not think that Hauk Rebne Westgaard had killed his girlfriend in 1932, but could still not tell him who had. So I said that I was working on it and would let him know as soon as I could,
and then continued with my questioning.

‘Some other things happened in 1932. It was not just your girlfriend who died, but your father as well. You gave me some false information the last time we spoke.’

I took out the Photostat copies of the documents from the sheriff’s office and laid them on the table between us.

‘Your father was not declared of unsound mind by the court. He died in what the sheriff described, after a short investigation, as an accident, having fallen from a cliff onto the rocks
below, here on the property. But it was not an accident, was it?’

It was a challenging question that once again caused an abrupt change in mood. Within seconds, Hauk Rebne Westgaard took on a third face, one without tears or sorrow. It was a ruthless and
cynical face. His eyes suddenly ceased to blink. And his voice was hard, almost threatening, when he spoke.

‘My father lived on the edge of insanity and was about to drink away the farm and himself to death. The court would have declared him of unsound mind. However, the hearing was postponed
for several weeks as the judge was ill, so a new judge had to be appointed. And in the meantime, the ground was burning beneath our feet. My father was mad and would believe anything. The day
before he had given away half an acre for a saucepan. In his confused and drunken state, he would often wander to all kinds of places, in all kinds of weather. It was slippery up there by the
cliff, and when the rain had stopped there was no trace that anyone else had been there. So the sheriff quickly concluded that it had been an accident and that he had slipped and lost his footing.
Everyone agreed that that must be what had happened.’