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.’
The shadow of a crooked smiled slipped over Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s lips when he said this. I was sitting out of his reach with a loaded gun and as far as I could see, he was unarmed. And yet I found it alarming to be sitting opposite him.
I remembered what Patricia had said about chameleon people and thought that I had certainly seen Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s other faces. It struck me then that I had discovered that one of the five people still alive from 1932 was indeed a murderer, only it was a murder that had nothing to do with my investigation.
I heard myself say: ‘But even though everyone agreed that that was how your father died, it was not.’
Hauk Rebne Westgaard stared at me without seeing, without blinking. Again, a hard, almost mocking smile played on his lips before he answered.
‘It could well be that you are right. But if anyone pushed my father to his death, it couldn’t be proved now. And what is more, the limitation period expired years ago. And it is in no way connected to the murders that you are investigating. For my part, I think about it as little as possible and hope that others do the same.’
This almost sounded like a threat, coming from Hauk Rebne Westgaard’s mouth. He realized this himself and raised an apologetic hand to show that it was not meant as such.
So there we sat, with this peculiar balance of power between us. He knew that I knew, and I knew that I could not pursue the case in any way. We were both right. The fact that I knew what had happened, and that he knew what was true, was of no practical importance.
‘Your father’s death was a saving grace not only for you, but also for your sister,’ I said.
He nodded quickly, and blinked his eyes for what felt like the first time since we had started to talk about his father’s passing.
‘I see my father’s death as inevitable, given his state of mind at the time. But I also believe that it was a saving grace for several people – not least Inger.’
I nodded pensively and said that events that were relevant to this year’s investigation were of course of more interest right now. Then I asked if he had anything more to add to his statement about Eva’s death.
He looked me straight in the eye and said: ‘No.’
Without looking away, I said: ‘You could still have murdered Per Johan Fredriksen last Saturday – if you had found out that it was he who killed Eva, and perhaps also if you had found out that it was he who had been in her bed.’
He did not flinch, and replied: ‘I could have. But I still do not know who killed Eva or who was in her bed. I have no idea who killed Per Johan. I was on my way back here when he was killed.’
That was the last thing that was said. He remained sitting at the table, while I stood up and left.
I had been sitting there face to face with a person who had killed his own father – and never regretted it. It was a frightening experience. Now I understood a little more of what Per Johan Fredriksen had meant, if he really had said that his childhood friend Hauk was a man he both respected and feared.
III
As I was driving out of Holmestrand at around eleven o’clock, I could tell that my working day was going to be long and busy. So I stopped at a telephone box and rang Ane Line Fredriksen at home. She picked up on the second ring.
‘Hello, hello. Who is calling me?’ said an unexpectedly happy and curious voice at the other end.
It was both calming and refreshing. I quickly expressed my condolences for her sister’s death, and said that I had some more questions that I would like to ask her as soon as she had the time and felt able to meet me. I added that I also had some new information that she might be interested to know.
Whether it was the offer of new information that made all the difference was unclear, but the response was certainly very positive. Ane Line Fredriksen said that she had done what she could for the moment, regarding the funeral arrangements, and that right now she was sitting sorting out some party matter. She could come to my office as soon as she managed to find a friend who could babysit. One o’clock should be fine, if that suited?
I had no sooner said that it would be fine, before she replied: ‘Great. See you at one, then. Now let me find a babysitter’ – and put down the phone. I did not even have time to ask which party she worked for. After the phone call, I sat in the car and speculated for a few minutes, but soon the investigation took hold of my attention again and I carried on to Oslo, driving straight to the offices of Per Johan Fredriksen A/S.
IV
The offices were just as short of space as last time and the faces, as far as I could see, were the same. The office manager was just finishing his lunch, which comprised a cup of coffee, two doughnuts and a piece of cake, but he threw down his serviette as soon as he saw me through the glass door.
The situation was all a bit awkward. The man gave me a friendly smile and made the time to talk to me, even though there was a huge pile of contracts and an even bigger pile of other papers on his desk. And I had a letter in my pocket where the same man confessed to embezzlement. I was here to ask critical questions that might determine whether he was not only a human chameleon, but also a murderer.
So I braced myself, and said that I had a few more questions for him. He said that he was more than happy to answer them, but that we should perhaps call in Svendsen, the accountant, straightaway as well.
I said, in a hushed voice, that I had to ask about something that involved him personally, in connection with a document that had been found in Fredriksen’s estate.