‘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.’