Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

‘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.