Satellite People

I

I disliked Sandra Schelderup more than I could ever remember having disliked a woman. However it was difficult not to be impressed by her willpower. In sharp contrast to her violent behaviour the night before, and despite her bleak future prospects, the woman who gave a confession and explanation to me in one of the interview rooms at the main police station on the morning of 17 May 1969 was focused and calm. She had been offered legal assistance, but had declined as she did not see what help that would be at the moment. So she sat there alone with me and a prosecutor, and answered all my questions clearly and concisely.

Her husband’s death had been a shock. As had the shooting of his son two days later. She knew nothing about these deaths. The reading of the will had been a nasty surprise that made her furious on her daughter’s behalf, and the tense situation had caused her to have increasingly wild thoughts in the days that followed. She had seen an opportunity when Leonard Schelderup died. The number of heirs had been reduced to two and she had every hope that any new murders would be attributed to whoever was responsible for the first two. She had first hidden her late husband’s key ring and then reported it as missing. And she had kept Magdalena Schelderup’s ring so that it could later be planted as a red herring, as she had intended to do the night before. She admitted that she had taken the ring before Leonard Schelderup was killed, but claimed that she had kept it ‘just in case’ after the reading of the will, though at that point she had no concrete plans. I reserved some doubts, but moved on to the murder of Synnøve Jensen.

The details of Sandra Schelderup’s confession were both clear and convincing. She had sneaked out late that evening and driven to the top of the hill behind Synnøve Jensen’s house in one of the company cars, which was kept in a parking place relatively close to Schelderup Hall. She immediately identified the key on her late husband’s key ring. She had been prepared to change her plan at any point, but then the temptation was too great when she got there without meeting a soul and was let into the house. Her hatred for her husband’s mistress had been overwhelming. She had shot the secretary and waited for her to die in the hope that she could camouflage it as suicide, but then fled when she heard me coming.

Sandra Schelderup’s description of the ensuing chase was exactly as I remembered it. She had asked for police protection at Schelderup Hall to ensure an alibi for a possible murder, and then given in to temptation. The fight for her innocent daughter’s legacy had become an obsession and she saw an opportunity to secure an undivided inheritance for Maria Irene and to get away with it. Fredrik Schelderup had always hated her and she had nothing but scorn for him. He was a man without a family, who would just squander the money if he got it. So she had decided to carry out her plan when she saw that there were no policemen guarding the house, only to be outwitted by me.

To my question as to how she had managed to get in and out of her own home unseen, she replied that there was a concealed passage from the cellar. Magdalon had once mentioned briefly that he had built a secret passage after the war as a combined hiding place and escape route in case of a crisis in the future. He had, however, asked her never to look for it until after his death, unless there was a crisis situation. The night after her husband’s death she had gone to find it, as she no longer need fear her husband’s reaction and she wanted to see if he had hidden anything of value there. And she had found a collection of gold and dollar bills, a valuable diamond and three guns in a cavity in the wall. She had guessed that the gold, money and diamonds were easily transportable valuables in the event of a crisis. In the 1960s, Magdalon had on a couple of occasions quite exceptionally mentioned his fear of a Soviet occupation.

She discovered that all the registration information had been filed off the oldest and largest pistol. So she had taken this with her and left it behind after she had shot Synnøve Jensen. The second gun was the smaller pistol with which she had intended to kill Fredrik Schelderup. Her plan was to leave the gun at Magdalena Schelderup’s house later, if necessary. She had also taken the ring for this very reason, and had thought of leaving it behind as a clue. Magdalena was obviously in a vulnerable position and she was a cold-hearted old woman with no children, and in any case did not have many years left to live.

It was not a story to be proud of but, unfortunately, it was true, said Sandra Schelderup, wringing her hands without looking me in the eye. I had to agree with her, but assured her that the confession was registered and would be considered by the court. She thanked me with a wan smile, and then unexpectedly apologized for the situation this had put me in. She had been treated with distrust by the others in the family and their circle of friends and had come to hate them all, but she had nothing against me and only wished me well in my career. Her daughter had also expressed great sympathy and admiration for me, she added in a quieter voice. She now realized that what she had done was not fair on her daughter, and she hoped that she would be able to explain herself to her as soon as possible. I found this a suitable point to finish the interview.

It was by now nine o’clock in the morning of 17 May and I felt an enormous relief settle over me. I telephoned my boss, who was very pleased indeed that the case had been solved and looked forward to hearing more details tomorrow. I was just about to compose a press release when I realized that some details were still missing, and that I had to inform Maria Irene Schelderup of the night’s dramatic developments as soon as possible.

II

To my relief, all was calm outside Schelderup Hall. The policeman on guard had stayed awake all night. The dogs had barked loudly and been restless for a few minutes around midnight. However, no one had tried to get into or out of the house. I could rest assured that Maria Irene had been there. She had obviously slept badly and had been seen at the window two or three times during the night.

Inside Schelderup Hall, a forensics team was in full swing with an investigation of the cellar, where they had found a well-camouflaged door into the secret tunnel, as described by Sandra Schelderup. The cavity that she had mentioned had also been found and I was given a list of the remaining contents, which tallied well with her account.

Maria Irene had sought refuge in her room. I was nervous about how she would welcome me this time, but soon found that that my fears were ungrounded. She embraced me as soon as the door was closed behind us. She had slept badly and had therefore got up several times during the night, and was very concerned to discover in the early hours of the morning that her mother’s room was empty.

But the eighteen-year-old’s equanimity was impressive. She listened with concentration to my account of the night’s dramatic events, including my tussle with her mother. There was a touching moment when she cried: ‘You weren’t hurt, were you?’ She added that I must not think ill of her, even though her mother had done terrible things. I felt a great relief wash over me and happily assured her that children could not be held responsible for the actions of their parents.

I remarked that her mother had expressed a wish to talk to her as soon as possible. Maria Irene replied coldly that she would no doubt have to visit her mother in prison one day, but that it would not be for a good while after this. On the other hand, she hoped that I would be kind enough to come and see her again as soon as the official investigation was over. ‘After this, I need someone I can talk to and lean on more than ever,’ was her sad conclusion. ‘And this time, I can at least promise you that my mother will not disturb us,’ she added with a quiet little smile.

I gave her a cautious hug, and was very pleased with my situation as I left Schelderup Hall. I thought to myself that I had never had a better reason to celebrate Norway’s national day. It was only when I was in the car on my way back to the station that I realized that I had not phoned Patricia following the arrest of Sandra Schelderup.

III

Patricia listened with great interest to my account of the night’s arrest, but then became more and more agitated as I told her about the interview and the visit to Schelderup Hall. When I eventually enquired if there was anything else she thought I should have asked Sandra Schelderup, her reply was fast and hard.

‘Yes, definitely. The simple and crucial question from a classic Simenon novel: what was the colour of the dress worn by the woman she claims to have killed?’

I must have seemed utterly astounded, as Patricia certainly lost all patience with me.

‘You ask your oh-so-suddenly cooperative arrestee about that, and then call me as soon as you have the answer!’ Patricia snapped, and put down the phone with unusual haste.

I called her up again ten minutes later. She answered the telephone after the first ring and appeared still to be angry.

‘She said that the dress was blue, which it was. And what is more, she gave a detailed description of the room and the sofa where Synnøve was sitting when she died. It all sounded fairly convincing to me.’

I had hoped and thought that this would make Patricia calm down. But instead she became even more vexed. First there was a deep sigh at the other end, then an explosive: ‘Buggeration!’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ I asked.

Then I anxiously enquired if in some mysterious way this entailed problems with our understanding of the deaths of Leonard Schelderup and Magdalon Schelderup. The voice at the other end of the phone sounded no more cheerful.

‘No, both those deaths have definitely been solved. But this does mean that there are still problems in connection with solving the murder of Synnøve Jensen. Come to see me as soon as you can, and I will explain why.’

I hesitated. She noticed and carried on swiftly.

‘On your way over here, ponder the problem of timing from 8 May 1945, but this time in connection with 15 May 1969. This time there are not too many seconds, but too few. Something that is even harder to explain. If it was Sandra Schelderup you chased up the slope behind Synnøve Jensen’s house, if you were only fifteen to twenty yards behind her, and if the door to the car up there was still closed… how on earth did she have time to open the door, get in, start the engine and drive off before you got close enough to see her?’

I felt the blood rushing to my head and the floor heaving beneath my feet, and then what felt like an icy-cold hand tightening round my throat. I finally heard my own voice say that perhaps she had a point, and that I would be there as soon as I could.

Patricia simply said ‘good’ before abruptly putting down the phone. It certainly did not sound like she meant it.

IV

‘It might perhaps have been possible if the car engine was running and the door was open. But impossible if the door was closed, which it was, according to the witness. And you heard the car starting. Ergo, Sandra Schelderup is lying. There must have been two people out under the cover of dark that night. One who committed the murder and was chased by you. Another who was sitting waiting in the car and who opened the door and started the engine as soon as they heard footsteps. And there is only one person who could possibly have been there with Sandra Schelderup, and Sandra Schelderup is now willing to be punished in order to protect her.’

Her reasoning was idiot-proof; I had understood this finally, better late than never, as I was on my way into Patricia’s library. I had a fervent hope that Patricia would have worked out another solution, but it was thus not entirely unexpected.

‘So what you are now saying, in plain language, is that you think Maria Irene Schelderup was driving the car when Sandra Schelderup went to murder Synnøve Jensen?’

Patricia looked even more dejected and shook her head.

‘No. Unfortunately it is far worse than that. What I am saying, in plain language, is that Sandra Schelderup was driving the car when Maria Irene went to murder Synnøve Jensen. And it is not just something I think, but that I know.’

I had not expected this, and it was definitely worse than anticipated. I sat as if paralysed and stared at Patricia.

The steaming cups of coffee remained so far untouched on both sides of the table. Patricia now emptied her cup in one go.

‘It is the only possible solution, sadly. I have in fact had my suspicions all along. Remember that there was no key to Synnøve Jensen’s house. Synnøve Jensen would never in her life have let Sandra Schelderup in, because she both hated and feared her. But she might well have let Maria Irene in as, naive and trusting as she was, she liked her and thought of her as an innocent child.’

The bottom of my world, my triumph and my future dreams fell out and came crashing down. I made a feeble attempt at protest.

‘But surely there are other possible explanations… for example, that she opened the door for Sandra Schelderup in the belief that it was me.’

Patricia poured herself another cup of coffee and drank it, then shook her head mercilessly when she was done.

‘Possibly, but highly unlikely. Synnøve Jensen did not even have a doorbell. She no doubt looked out of the window when someone knocked on the door, as she did on your first visit. But there are several more grave issues here. What Synnøve Jensen in her desperation was trying to tell you when she waved her hand towards the stairs and then patted her tummy was, first, that the murderer had gone upstairs, and second, that the murderer was the child. The reason that you suddenly thought of Leonard Schelderup as you ran up the slope was because the footfall of the person in front subconsciously reminded you of his, because, as you noticed earlier in the investigations, his sister has the same light step.’

We both sat there in sombre thought. Patricia lifted the coffee pot again to see if there was anything left, but then threw up a hand in exasperation when she found it empty.

I tried to ask Patricia how she had worked out the existence of the tunnel. She answered in a distracted and distant voice that she had developed that theory from quite early on. It did not seem likely that a former Resistance fighter of Magdalon Schelderup’s character would live in a house without a secret escape. This was confirmed by the times at which the dogs barked on the night that Synnøve Jensen was killed, as it chimed well with when the tunnel would have been used if the murderer came from Schelderup Hall. The dogs had registered sounds and movement even if the policemen on duty had not seen anyone.

‘I have to say you are right again, and that really does make this an incredibly depressing story,’ I eventually conceded.

Patricia gave an even sadder sigh.

‘But the most bitter pill is yet to be swallowed… namely, that we can sit here and know who the murderer is, but have no evidence to prove it in court. And legally that is not sufficient to pass a judgement; in fact, it will barely suffice to keep someone on remand. Sandra Schelderup’s confession is plausible, and, as far as I have understood, you have submitted a written report in which you state that you could not recognize the person you were chasing. The issue of the time it takes to open a car door thus becomes our word against hers. I can already hear the lawyer objecting to the hand on the stomach. Could that really be called evidence, that a dying pregnant woman instinctively puts her hand to her stomach…?’

Patricia took my cup of coffee and drank it straight down. Then she sat there as if all the energy had drained from her body. I heard my own voice quivering with emotion when I tried to sum it all up.

‘You are right about everything. We know who the real murderer is, but unless we find some technical evidence, we simply have to let her go – with an enormous inheritance.’

Patricia nodded almost imperceptibly. Despite her massive intake of caffeine, she sat as though otherwise dead in her wheelchair. Only her eyes showed that she was alive.

‘And that despite your enormous efforts, the like of which I have never seen,’ I added.

But Patricia was definitely not in the mood for more flattery today. She sat passively in her wheelchair for a few seconds more. Then she suddenly slammed her fist down on the table with unexpected strength.

‘So close yet so far. A thoroughly cynical, egocentric and evil person who shot a young, pregnant woman in her own home and then stood there and watched her and her unborn child die a painful death. And she may get off scot-free, with an astronomical inheritance into the bargain.’

I thought quietly to myself that the problem was even greater than that. Patricia was about to lose the battle with a young woman of the same age, who not only could walk, but also had the world as her oyster. This feeling was reinforced by her next comment.

‘Now I feel as you did when you were chasing after the murderer. I can see her in front of me, I can see her face and even call her name, but I still cannot catch her.’

There was not much more to say. So we sat there in silence for a while longer.

Patricia had tears in her eyes when she eventually threw up her hands.

‘But there really is no more that I can squeeze from this lemon now, so no one else will be able to either. She has been both ingenuous and lucky. The known facts give no evidence against her. So perhaps you should just leave me alone to weep bitter tears over this tragedy. I am sure that you do not need Beate to show you out any more.’

I was reluctant to leave Patricia alone in such a despairing mood. But her voice was forceful and clear, and there was nothing I could say to cheer her up.

It was only after I had closed the door behind me that a new thought occurred to me.

I stopped for a moment, then turned around and went hesitantly back into the room with cautious steps.

I had not anticipated the sight that met me. Patricia was lying over the table with her face down. There was no movement or sound whatsoever, and with a cold blast of fear, I worried briefly that she too had lost her life in some mysterious way. But then, fortunately, I heard her sobbing.

I tiptoed out again as silently as I could, and knocked on the door. It took a few seconds before Patricia whispered that I should come in. When I entered again she was sitting up in her wheelchair, but looked broken and very gloomy. I thought I could see a redness to her eyes, and stood waiting by the door.

‘There was a small episode involving Maria Irene at Schelderup Hall that I have not wanted to mention before… but perhaps I should now, even though I am not sure how much it might help.’

I looked away as I said this and prayed that I was not blushing like a schoolboy. When I turned back, Patricia’s body language had changed entirely. She was now sitting up straight and as near to on her toes as she could be in a wheelchair, as though ready to jump over the table.

‘Well, sit yourself back down and tell me, then,’ she urged me.

So I sat down and told her.

It felt a little odd to start with the sentence: ‘I have danced with Maria Irene…’

Patricia rolled her eyes, but fortunately all she said was: ‘In principle, dubious but of very little practical use. Tell me as precisely and in as much detail as possible what she said, how she looked and what happened otherwise.’

Patricia listened in deep silence and concentration while I told her the story. Then a slow smile slid over her face.

‘It only remains to be seen whether that is sufficient evidence for a judgement. However, there is one very interesting detail in what you just told me, which certainly justifies another round of questions,’ she said.

‘Now I have her within reach again,’ she added, rubbing her hands with glee. ‘If she falls now, she truly is a victim of her own excessive ambition,’ Patricia remarked, with a cackling and wholly unsympathetic laugh.

V

‘Thus far it is all very understandable, if tragic and deplorable. My mother has murdered one person and attempted to murder another out of a misconstrued love for me and a desire to increase my share of the inheritance. I am obviously extremely upset about it. But why on earth should I be called in here; what more do you expect me to say?’

Maria Irene looked at me across the table of the interview room with pleading, nonplussed eyes. As did her lawyer, Edvard Rønning Junior, who was sitting beside her. The prosecutor, who was sitting beside me, also sent me a questioning look.

‘The problem is, first of all, that your mother cannot have committed the murder alone, as she describes. We have an eyewitness who confirms that the car door was shut. And it would not have been possible for the person ahead of me to open the door, get in, start the engine and drive off before I got there.’

All three slowly seemed to understand this. Maria Irene nodded thoughtfully.

‘You really have thought of everything in this investigation. But I am afraid that again I cannot help you. Now that you say it, I do not doubt that my mother had an accomplice who drove the car, but I have not the faintest idea of who that could be. As far as I know, my mother has no secret lover, nor any friends who would be willing to help her with something like this.’

‘Precisely,’ I said.

The silence in the interview room was becoming ever more oppressive. Maria Irene had understood the significance, but was holding out for as long as possible before admitting it.

‘So what you are now implying is that I was with her and drove the car? But that is absurd, as I do not even have a driving licence.’

‘That is correct, my client does not have a driving licence,’ Rønning Junior repeated emphatically.

I ignored the lawyer and looked straight at Maria Irene.

‘I am not saying that you drove the car. I am in fact saying that your mother drove the car and that you committed the murder.’

This time the reaction from both the defence and the prosecution lawyers was instantaneous. Maria Irene, on the other hand, sat there just as calmly for a few seconds before pulling a somewhat exaggerated face.

‘This is becoming more and more absurd. I have never committed a crime of any sort in my life.’

She was convincing and I saw the look of disbelief on both lawyer’s faces, so hurried on.

‘It is perhaps true that you had never committed a crime before the evening in question. But that evening you committed a murder. I was close enough to recognize your tread, which is remarkably similar to that of your late brother. And what is more, you are the only person Synnøve Jensen would have let in. You knocked on the door and were admitted, you pulled out the pistol and shot her, you stood there waiting for the poor woman to die, and you cunningly dropped the pistol, then ran and hid when I knocked on the door.’

Six eyes were staring at Maria Irene with increasing interest. Her gaze was steadily fixed on me, as calm and irritatingly self-assured as ever.

‘With all due respect, this is all nonsense, unfounded speculation. I was at home in my bed at Gulleråsen when this terrible tragedy took place at Sørum. I was obviously on my own, so the lack of witnesses is hardly surprising.’

Rønning Junior rushed to his client’s aid, in a long-winded way.

‘May I be permitted to say, Detective Inspector, that you are now making very serious accusations indeed on rather flimsy evidence. We seem to be caught in a classic situation of one person’s word against another’s – in this case yours against my client’s – as to whether she was at the scene of the crime or not. And according to the fundamental principles of law, her word carries as much weight as yours. I would therefore like to ask why my client has not been confronted with this charge before, when you claim to have identified her already on the night of the murder?’

I nodded.

‘A very timely question, sir. The answer is that there was still a good deal of uncertainty regarding the involvement of your client’s mother, and that we were waiting for stronger evidence, which we now have.’

All three stared at me in silence, Maria Irene with an apparently genuine look of surprise and slightly raised eyebrows.

I produced the pistol and showed that there were six bullets left in the magazine before putting it down on the table.

‘This is the murder weapon. The two bullets that are missing are the one that killed Synnøve Jensen and the warning shot that I fired over the murderer’s head. You and your mother found the weapon hidden in the secret passage in Schelderup Hall. You used it without knowing that this was the gun your father had used to liquidate two other members of the Resistance group he was in during the war.’

Maria Irene shook her head resolutely.

‘I did not know that my father had shot anyone from the Resistance during the war and have never seen that pistol before now. And I knew nothing about the secret passage until this morning.’

I hurried on as soon as she had closed her mouth.

‘It is quite probably the case that you did not know about your father’s crimes during the war. But it is not true that you have never seen this pistol, or that you have never been in the secret passage.’

I took a short, dramatic pause.

‘You will perhaps remember that at an earlier stage of the investigation I danced with you briefly in your room?’

Both lawyers were once again taken aback. Maria Irene nodded, with a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

‘This breach of normal investigation standards was made solely in the hope of securing evidence in the case. Which I did.’

I opened my briefcase and took out another object which I then placed on the table. The red diamond and gold chain sparkled in the light.

‘You can, I presume, confirm that you were wearing this diamond?’

Maria Irene suddenly understood the connection. She looked first at the diamond, then at me, then back at the diamond, her eyes darkening as she thought. Her voice was still impressively controlled when she answered.

‘No. You must have remembered wrong. I have never seen that necklace before and have certainly never worn it!’

The silence in the room when she finished speaking was breathless. I stared at her with a thrilled awe. The eighteen-year-old Maria Irene Schelderup lied without so much as a flutter. Just as I hoped she would.

So I continued to follow Patricia’s plan and swiftly carried on.

‘Neither you nor your mother perhaps knew that this is an extremely valuable diamond that has been missing since 1915, when your grandparents were paid a considerable sum in insurance because they claimed that the necklace had been stolen. But you do know, all too well, that you were wearing this diamond when you danced with me. It was hidden in the secret passage, along with the pistol that was used in the murder. You had taken the diamond from there without your mother knowing.’

Maria Irene shook her head again. Her voice was still controlled and her cheeks were still dry.

‘I can only repeat, absolutely no. I had never seen the pistol before you put it down on the table, I have never been in the secret passage, and I have never seen that necklace before.’

Her lawyer’s voice was slightly more uncertain, but still firm when he again offered his services.

‘We are, without a doubt, still in a situation where it is one person’s word against the other’s: that is, that of the detective inspector against that of my client, as was the case before. My young client’s word is still no less credible than your own.’

I nodded blithely.

‘Of course not. Providing that your young client can give a credible explanation as to why her fingerprints are then on the necklace.’

The expression ‘deadly silent’ suddenly seemed appropriate. Three pairs of eyes were trained on Maria Irene. She was completely still, almost as if dead, on her chair. I tried to keep an eye on the second hand of the clock on the wall behind her. Every second felt like a minute. After forty insufferably long seconds, Maria Irene turned to her lawyer and asked: ‘Do I have to answer that now?’

‘No. You are in no way legally obliged to answer the detective inspector’s question here and now.’

It was Rønning Junior who broke the electric silence between her and me.

‘I am, however, obliged to inform you that with regard to any future trial, it would clearly be considered a major issue in terms of evidence if you are not able to give a credible answer now to the detective inspector’s highly relevant question.’

The clock on the wall ticked on for another fifty seconds. Maria Irene moved her mouth twice as if she was about to speak, but then stopped both times without making a sound.

I should have had ample time to prepare myself for an explosion. I had previously discovered that incredibly calm people often erupt violently under extreme pressure. And I already knew that Maria Irene had a mother with an explosive temperament. But she sat there, apparently still calm and composed, and with such a relaxed face that it took us all off guard when in a furious rage she swept the necklace off the table and grabbed the gun. I only vaguely registered that both lawyers dived under the table, from either side.

Maria Irene leapt up and took three feather-light steps back, keeping her eyes trained on me. Her eyes were glittering so fiercely that for a second I was seriously afraid that they would fire splinters out into the room.

For a brief moment I felt once again the same strong desire for physical contact with Maria Irene that I had experienced a couple of days earlier in her room. But everything had changed in the intervening forty-eight hours. She had not only killed another young woman, she had also lied to me in cold blood. When I was now confronted with her true egotistical and heartless self, all I wanted to do was to strike the pistol from her hand and twist her arms hard up behind her back.

I relived for a second the moment in my last case when I suddenly found myself staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. Despite the instinctive feeling of unease, I also felt a deep sense of satisfaction and triumph. Maria Irene’s soft iron mask had finally shattered. Her eyes were burning and her slim hand trembled dangerously with the weight of the pistol. When she broke the silence, her voice was also trembling dangerously.

‘I did not think you were that intelligent!’ she said, with a delightful undertone of desperation.

I relished the apparently menacing situation, and mentally thanked Patricia for her meticulous preparation before I answered.

‘In which case you have underestimated me again. Because I was certainly smart enough to replace the bullets in the murder weapon with blanks before putting it down within your reach,’ I told her, with hard-won composure.

And in the most incredible fashion, all the tension in the room dissolved into what could almost be described as a relaxed peace in the course of a few seconds. I remained seated and observed the threatening spark die in Maria Irene’s eyes. Then I got up and reached for the pistol. She stood and hesitated for a moment before she slowly gave it to me. Her hand was no longer shaking, and for a moment I thought I caught the hint of a smile.

Then I sat back down, impressed by my own self control. I did have a burning desire to throw myself over Maria Irene and twist her arms up behind her back, but instead I kept my calm and enjoyed my triumph in silence as I watched Maria Irene sink back down onto her chair.

It was only then that I discovered that the prosecutor was also back in his chair. Rønning Junior peeped over the edge of the table and said in a remarkably level voice: ‘Based on this latest development in the case, it might perhaps be beneficial to all parties if I had a brief consultation with my client in private.’

I gave him a friendly nod, picked up the gun and waved to the prosecutor to follow me. The gold chain and diamond were still on the floor by the door. I bent down discreetly and picked them up as I passed.

The prosecutor and I stopped outside the door. He congratulated me on my successful investigation. To begin with, I said simply that it had been a complicated and tragic affair, with many pieces that had gradually fallen into place. When he then congratulated me for a fourth time, I allowed myself to say that I was extremely pleased with my own performance. At that moment, the door opened and Rønning Junior waved us in again.

‘In order to avoid any further misunderstandings in this case, I would just like to confirm that the outcome of the current murder investigation is naturally of no importance to the question of Magdalon Schelderup’s will. It is clear that my client had nothing to do with the deaths of her father and half-brother. Synnøve Jensen was not an heir, and the foetus had no legal status prior to birth.’

I looked at the defence lawyer with horrified fascination. Then I looked at the prosecutor, who gave me a short nod. Which I then returned, though reluctantly.

‘Now that the framework is clear, my client is willing to confess to the murder of Synnøve Jensen and to cooperate with the police with regard to resolving the final details of the case. She will plead guilty to the murder. We will, however, cite several mitigating circumstances. In addition to the confession, these include my client’s age, family wealth and her rather unusual upbringing, as well as the emotional shock and grief triggered by the sudden deaths of her father and brother. Her version is that it was her mother who planned the murder and persuaded her to carry it out, and we have every hope that a revised statement from her mother will support this interpretation.’

My initial sense of triumph was now giving way to far more complex feelings. There was something about the combination of the lawyer’s voice and Maria Irene’s expressionless face that made me want to scream out my frustration at her shocking lack of grief and other human emotions, and her inhuman treatment of Synnøve Jensen.

The lawyer’s voice droned on without cease, as if he were already in court.

‘The defence will accordingly request seven years’ imprisonment, with the hope of parole after four for good behaviour.’

My feelings of revulsion at Maria Irene’s lack of humanity in no way diminished, but did have to give way to a reluctant admiration in the face of her renewed composure. It was she who held out her hand when we stood up to leave, and congratulated me on carrying out such a thorough investigation. She added quickly that she did not hold a personal grudge against me and that the pleasure would be hers entirely should we meet ‘under more favourable circumstances later in life’.

Her hand felt dry, cold and hard in mine. I withdrew my hand rather sooner than usual and in a strange way found the cigarette smoke outside the interview room rather refreshing.

VI

‘What a turniphead she turned out to be after all!’

Patricia smiled her smuggest smile, and paused demonstratively before helping herself to some cauliflower. The clock on the wall had just struck eleven. It was late evening on 17 May, the day we celebrate Norway’s constitution, but more importantly now, the day we celebrated the conclusion of another successful murder investigation. The adrenaline was still pumping in our veins and we were now well into the main course of a truly celebratory meal.

‘Her critical mistake was to deny any knowledge of the necklace instead of the pistol. Had she instead admitted that she had taken the diamond necklace from the secret passage and worn it during the meeting with you, it would hardly have been possible to link her to the pistol and the murder. But I guessed that she was not that intelligent, and it had been luck so far.’

I nodded. Tonight I would accept practically anything that Patricia said.

‘You should be very happy with what you have achieved, it really is quite remarkable. Not only did you solve three apparently inexplicable murders from the present day, you also solved three murders from the war,’ I told her.

Patricia’s smile was even broader.

‘And, please do not forget an almost fossilized case of insurance fraud,’ she added. ‘The diamond case was so old that it is unlikely that anyone from the insurance company is alive to remember it, but the truth will always out, even if it takes decades.’

I nodded, but said nothing.

‘You do not seem to be overly happy, despite the fact that the investigation is now closed and all the murders are solved,’ she commented, after a pause.

I shook my head.

‘When I do a headcount of the ten guests from Magdalon Schelderup’s last supper, there are now two dead, two in prison and two on the verge of a nervous breakdown… The host’s Machiavellian plan to spread fear and chaos amongst his guests has worked alarmingly well.’

Patricia gave a pensive shrug and waggled her head at the same time.

‘Yes and no. It was a truly Machiavellian plan that took the lives of some of his guests and ruined the lives of other. It remains to be seen how Mrs Wendelboe and Ingrid Schelderup will cope with life after this. But the others from the war who are still alive, including Mona Varden and Maja Karstensen, did finally get an answer as to what actually happened. Herlofsen will certainly have a better life for however long remains, and that may also be the case for Magdalena Schelderup and the Wendelboes. Fredrik Schelderup perhaps does not deserve it, but he will have an even more carefree life than before. The Schelderup mother and daughter have to take full responsibility for their egoism and greed. So tragedy really only applies to the two young people who died. We were in the nick of time to save the useless Fredrik Schelderup’s life and inheritance, but not to save his far nicer brother, Leonard, or the hardworking and honest Synnøve Jensen. Unfortunately, the lot of a murder investigator is that one can do no more than solve frightful crimes and bring those responsible to justice. It is normally very difficult to solve a murder before it has happened.’

I was well aware of that, but still could not force myself to be pleased. She realized this and continued quickly.

‘As for Magdalon Schelderup, it can only be said that he did to a certain extent succeed in his final great gamble, but he did not succeed in his great act. If Magdalon Schelderup, against all odds, could see us now, be it from heaven or hell, I can promise you that he would curse us from the bottom of his heart for having unmasked him. In a matter of days, the whole of Norway will know not only that Magdalon Schelderup committed suicide, but also that he was a criminal and a traitor during the war, and that he wanted to spread death and destruction amongst his family and friends. His true character will eventually be revealed and he will be publicly condemned as the callous man that he was. And as for you, you will hopefully get all the honour and recognition you deserve for your achievement.’

I have to confess that the last thing Patricia said did manage to raise my spirits a little.

‘Yes, thank you, I have to say it is overwhelming. Congratulatory messages are flooding in already, despite the fact that it is a public holiday, and the weekend newspapers will no doubt make pleasant reading. But remember that for the past week I have been out there meeting these people, including Maria Irene. It frustrates me immensely that the person responsible for such a grotesque crime should get away so lightly. Synnøve Jensen and her unborn child are gone for ever, whereas Maria Irene will be released before she is twenty-five, and has earned tens of millions from the murder.’

Patricia nodded in agreement, but smiled all the same.

‘Of course, it is a paradox. She will naturally be punished far too lightly in the end and will have far more money than she deserves. But you will have to comfort yourself with the knowledge that you did all that you could and she did not get away with it. I can assure you that every day in prison is hell for human predators like her, and she is not likely to enjoy the company in Breitvedt Women’s Prison. It will be a long and hard road should she ever want to find a good husband after the court case has been reported in the press. But, most importantly, her plans to inherit all the money and run the business single-handedly are in ruins because we prevented the murder of her half-brother.’

I had to say that Patricia was right in her reasoning, but I was still not happy with the situation. She was not put off by this and carried on after a pause for thought.

‘In the midst of all this tragedy, it is actually quite amusing that Maria Irene fell victim to her own absurd ambition to such an extent. She tried to lay a trap for you, and ended up being trapped herself!’

Patricia burst out laughing, then attacked her ice cream dessert with a healthy appetite. It struck me that she was a very complex young person. And behind the mask, she had invested some powerful emotions in this case.

I personally was too relieved by the outcome of the case to want to pursue the topic any further. Instead I asked Patricia if she had found the answer to her question as to why I was still alive. She suddenly became very serious, but it did not last long, and soon a mischievous smile crept over her lips again.

‘That was in fact one of the things that convinced me that it was Maria Irene who had killed Synnøve Jensen. I saw no reason why Sandra Schelderup would not have shot you in that situation. On the other hand, there were two possible reasons why Maria Irene Schelderup instead put down the gun and ran. One was that she found you so handsome and attractive that she could not shoot you, and perhaps still even hoped that she would get all of the inheritance and all of you.’

I nodded. The explanation was neither reasonable nor unreasonable.

‘And what was the second possible reason?’

Patricia swallowed the last spoonful of ice cream and leant back.

‘I am tempted to say, don’t pretend to be more stupid than you are… The second reason is of course that she considered you to be so naive and gullible that she thought you would not understand what had happened and that she would manage to escape without being seen.’

This was a far less attractive option, but sadly it was equally neither reasonable nor unreasonable; I had to admit that.

‘Which of those theories do you believe to be true?’

Patricia shot me a delighted and teasing smile.

‘My friend, when will you understand that more than anything I hate to make mistakes, and therefore would rather not give my conclusions before I am as good as 100 per cent certain that they are correct. It might even be a combination. I believe more in one explanation than the other, but only Maria Irene could tell us which one is right. And my guess is that you would not want to ask her.’

I most certainly would not. It struck me as I sat there that Patricia, despite her obvious mood swings, was both physically and mentally more mature than she had been the previous year. If I had not realized this before, I certainly did at a quarter to twelve when Beate suddenly appeared with a bottle of superb vintage French wine. I took only a small glass, whereas Patricia drank two generous glasses and became increasingly gregarious. After the first glass, she laughed and remarked that she would dearly have loved to have been in the interview room and seen Maria Irene with ‘her mask and trousers finally down’. I could not remember having heard this expression before and strongly suspected that Patricia had made it up.

It was around half past midnight by the time I got up and went over to Patricia to embrace her goodbye, and discovered something that was indeed different this year. Patricia had not unbuttoned her blouse as far as Maria Irene had two days ago. But she had undone the top two buttons. And I saw that, despite her handicap, she had become a beautiful young woman. My cheek touched hers briefly, and as I pulled back our eyes met for a moment. And I got the same feeling that I had at Schelderup Hall only days before when I was dancing with Maria Irene Schelderup. I somehow instantly knew that if I had tried to kiss Patricia she would not have protested, but rather would have kissed me passionately back. The tension and opportunity lasted for a few breathless moments. This time no one knocked on the door. I turned to the side at the last moment, and so it was a light kiss that I planted on her cheek rather than a passionate kiss on the mouth.

When I think back to this episode now, it is still unclear to me whether it was the strange similarity with the situation with Maria Irene, Patricia’s handicap, the age difference between us, or something else I do not understand that made me hold back. What is clear is that I did. Then I left the room, somewhat more hastily than planned. I felt an urgent need to get out into the night and to think things through by myself.

Patricia, of course, stayed sitting where she was, on her own in the wheelchair by the table. When I looked back briefly on my way out, her smile was more inscrutable than ever. Then, with a discreet little yawn, she wished me a good journey home, and in closing said that I should not hesitate to contact her again if I worked on any more interesting murder cases where she might be of help. But by then I was already rushing through the door and out into the safety of the dark night.