Satellite People

I

The following morning, 11 May 1969, started like every other Sunday in my life. I caught up with my lack of sleep from the previous week and did not eat breakfast until it was nearly lunch. The first few hours of the afternoon were spent reading the neglected papers from the week gone by. I even managed to read the first four chapters of the book of the week, which was Jens Bjørneboe’s Moment of Freedom.

When the telephone rang at twenty-five past five, I had just stepped out of the shower. I made absolutely no attempt to answer it quickly. The caller was remarkably persistent, however, and the phone continued to ring until I picked it up. I immediately understood that it was serious.

The telephone call was of course for ‘Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen’. It was, as I had guessed, from the main police station in Møller Street. And, to my horror, it concerned Magdalon Schelderup. Only minutes before, they had received a telephone message that he had died over the course of an early supper at his home – in the presence of ten witnesses.

On the basis of what had been reported by the constables at the scene, it was presumed to be murder, but which of the witnesses present had committed the crime was ‘to put it mildly, unclear’. The officer on duty at the police station had been informed that Schelderup himself had contacted me the day before. As none of the other detectives were available, the duty officer felt it appropriate to ask whether I might be able to carry out an initial investigation and question the witnesses at the scene of the crime.

I did not need to be asked twice, and within a few minutes was speeding towards Gulleråsen.

II

When I got there at ten to six, there was no trace of drama outside the three-storey Gulleråsen mansion where Magdalon Schelderup had both his home and head office. Schelderup had lived in style, and he had lived in safety. The house sat atop a small hill in the middle of a fenced garden, and it was a good 200 yards to the nearest neighbour. Anyone who wished to enter without being seen would have to make their way across a rather large open space. They would also have to find a way through or over the high, spiked wooden fence that surrounded the entire property, with a single opening for the heavy gate that led into the driveway.

I mused that it was the sort of house one finds in an Agatha Christie novel. It was only later on in the day that I discovered it was known as ‘Schelderup Hall’ by the neighbours.

There were eight cars parked in the space outside the gate, in addition to a police car. One of them was Magdalon Schelderup’s own big, black, shiny BMW. I was quickly able to confirm that he had told the truth: three of the tyres had been slashed with either a knife or some other sharp instrument.

The other cars were all smaller, but still new and of good quality. The only exception was a small, well-used blue Peugeot that looked as if it had been on the road since the early 1950s. I jotted down a working theory that all of the deceased’s guests were overwhelmingly upper-class, albeit with some obvious variations in their financial situations.

It was not a warm welcome. As I made my way to the front door, a cacophony of wild and vicious barking suddenly erupted behind me, and I spun round instinctively to protect myself against the attacking dogs. But fortunately that was not necessary: the three great Alsatians that were straining towards me were clearly securely chained. Nevertheless, the sight of the dogs only served to strengthen my feeling of unease and my conviction that Magdalon Schelderup must have felt safe in his own home. The threat had been in his innermost circle – as he had expected, but it had come two days earlier than anticipated.

At the front door, I greeted the two constables who had been first at the scene and were now standing guard. They were both apparently relieved to see me, and confirmed that despite the death, the mood in the house was surprisingly calm.

I soon understood what they meant when, one corridor and two flights of stairs later, I stepped onto the red carpet in Magdalon Schelderup’s vast dining room. At first it felt as though I had walked into a waxworks. The furniture and interior was in the style of the early 1900s. The fact that there were no pictures or decoration of any type on the walls only added to the cold, unreal feeling. There was a single exception, which was therefore all the more striking. A well-executed full-length portrait of Magdalon Schelderup filled one of the short walls.

The host himself was now laid out on a sofa by the wall, just inside the door. He was dressed in a simple black suit, and as far as I could see had no obvious injuries of any kind. His eyes were closed and his lips had a bluish tinge. I could quickly confirm that there was no sign of life when I felt for a pulse in his neck and inner wrist.

A large dark mahogany table set for eleven dominated the centre of the room. The roast lamb and vegetables had been served on porcelain plates and the undoubtedly excellent wine had been poured into the wine glasses. But none of the guests had shown any inclination to eat or drink. They also had champagne, which no one had touched.

What had obviously been Magdalon Schelderup’s throne at the head of the table was now empty. The ten guests, silent in their Sunday best, had taken their seats around the table again. They were all looking at me, but no one said a word. A swift headcount informed me that there were six women and four men. I noted a degree of uncertainty and surprise in some of the faces, but saw no evidence of grief in any. Not a single tear on any of the twelve ladies’ cheeks around the table.

Eight of the guests I reckoned to be fairly evenly distributed across the age group thirty to seventy. They all looked very serious and impressively controlled. There were two who stood out, each in their own way, and therefore immediately grabbed my attention, and they were the youngest in the party.

In the middle of the right-hand side of the table sat a slim, fair-haired young man in his late twenties, who was by far the most nervous person in the room. An hour had passed since the death, and yet he was still squirming on his chair, his face hidden in his shaking hands. There were no tears here either, only beads of sweat on his temples and brow. It struck me that there was something familiar about the young man. But it was only when he realized that I was looking at him and he took his hands from his face that I suddenly recognized him as the famous athlete, Leonard Schelderup.

I had no doubt read somewhere on the sports pages at some point that Leonard Schelderup was Magdalon Schelderup’s son, then promptly forgotten. A year ago, I had myself stood on the stands at Bislett Stadium to watch the Norwegian Championships and seen Leonard Schelderup fly past on his way to winning gold in the middle-distance race, his shoulder-length hair fluttering in the wind. And I had been very impressed. Partly by the manner in which he allowed his competitors to pass, only then to speed up dramatically when the bell rang to mark the final lap. And partly by the almost stoic calm he displayed during the thunderous applause when he passed the finishing line. I commented to the person standing next to me at the time that it seemed that nothing, but nothing, could make Leonard Schelderup lose his composure – which was why it now made such an impression on me to see the same man sitting there, looking up at me with pleading eyes. He was only a matter of feet away and apparently on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

The situation was no less bewildering when Leonard Schelderup then broke the silence, throwing up his hands and saying: ‘I don’t understand why he chose me to taste his food. It wasn’t me who started the tape. I didn’t taste the nuts. I have no idea who killed him!’

Leonard Schelderup’s outburst seemed to ease the tension ever so slightly. No one said anything else, but there were sounds of shuffling and sighs around the table.

And fortuitously, I caught the first smile in the room. It was fleeting and a touch overbearing, just as Leonard Schelderup fell silent. A few seconds later the smile was gone, and I never found out whether she saw that I had noticed. But I did. My gaze had swung almost instinctively a couple of places to the left to catch the reaction of the youngest person in the room.

At first glance, I thought it was my advisor, Patricia, who had somehow or other managed to sneak both herself and her wheelchair into Magdalon Schelderup’s home and had joined them at the dining table. Then I started to wonder if it was in fact all an absurd nightmare. Only, I didn’t wake up. The ten guests who remained seated at the table were very much alive. Magdalon Schelderup stayed where he was, lying stone dead on the sofa by the door. The young woman who sat to the right of his empty throne at the head of the table was of course not Patricia, though the girl who was sitting there also had dark hair and the same deliberate movements and held herself in the same self-assured manner.

Only, as far as I could see, this young woman was fully able, and about half a head taller than Patricia, as I remembered her from the previous spring; and also somewhat younger. I had never seen this woman before entering Magdalon Schelderup’s house. But somewhere, I had heard that his youngest child was an extraordinarily beautiful daughter, who left those she met awestruck.

Her gaze was no less bold when her eyes met mine. Another fleeting smile slipped over her lips.

It was in those few seconds that I stood there looking into the eyes of the eighteen-year-old Maria Irene Schelderup that I realized there was only one thing to be done. And that was first of all to gather as much information as possible about the death and the deceased from her and the other guests. Then I would have to hurry home and phone the number without a name at the back of my telephone book. The number to a telephone that sat on the desk of Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann, the professor’s daughter, at 104-8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. I had, with a hint of irony, written it down next to the emergency numbers for the fire brigade and the ambulance service.

III

I established the actual circumstances of Magdalon Schelderup’s death within minutes of my arrival. The ten statements were as good as unanimous.

Magdalon Schelderup had informed all those present, in writing, that he wanted to gather those closest to him for an early supper on the second Sunday of every month this spring. According to his manager, who was present, this had been done in a formal letter dated 2 January 1969. The food and drink would be served punctually at 4.30 p.m., and it would be considered ‘extremely unfortunate’ if not everyone was there, whatever the excuse. Those invited were Magdalon Schelderup’s wife, Sandra, and his young daughter Maria Irene, who both lived with him at Schelderup Hall. Others who were in the family and shared his surname were his sister Magdalena, his former wife Ingrid, and his grown-up sons Fredrik and Leonard. Magdalon Schelderup’s secretary, Synnøve Jensen, was also invited, as was Hans Herlofsen, his manager of many years. The last two people on the invitation list were an elderly couple, Else and Petter Johannes Wendelboe, whom Magdalon Schelderup had known since the war.

All those invited had taken the hint and arrived on time to every Sunday supper so far. The first four had passed without any drama. Today’s, however, had started rather differently. All the guests were sitting in their usual places when Mrs Sandra Schelderup put the food on the table at half past four. Once they had helped themselves, but before anyone had started to eat, they were interrupted by the fire alarm, so they had all left the table and the room for a few minutes and gathered by the front door on the ground floor.

It was quickly established, however, that it was in fact not the fire alarm that had gone off, but rather a recording of a fire alarm playing on the stereo system.

Magdalon Schelderup had cast an evil eye around the table, but all the guests had categorically denied any knowledge of this humorous little prank. Their host had been unusually agitated and annoyed by what had happened, and sat for a minute at least, deep in thought, without wishing everyone bon appétit. Then he had barked an unexpected command at one of his guests, his youngest son Leonard, to test the food on his plate.

‘I have a suspicion that the food on my plate has been poisoned. I am sure that no one would disagree it would be of less consequence if you were to lose your life than if I were!’ had been how he put it. No one had protested.

Leonard had been visibly nervous and had tried to say that surely there was no reason to suspect that the food was poisoned. His father had curtly replied that in that case, there was no reason to be scared of tasting it. After a couple more minutes of increasingly oppressive silence, the clearly terrified Leonard had eaten a slice of meat, half a potato and a piece of carrot from his father’s plate. When the young Leonard looked just as healthy five minutes later and said that he didn’t feel any symptoms of any sort, his father had declared dinner served at six minutes to five.

None of the other guests had reacted to the food. Magdalon Schelderup, on the other hand, had had an acute reaction, whereby his throat and mouth swelled up dramatically. Unable to talk, he had waved his hands around and pointed down the table – seemingly at his two sons. His pulse had been dangerously high and racing, according to his wife, who had helped him over to the sofa after the attack. He then experienced violent cramps and died only minutes later. Magdalon Schelderup had clutched his heart in the final minutes of his life. The guests all agreed that heart failure was the most likely cause of death, though acute breathing problems were also a possibility.

The link became clear when the deceased’s wife detected evidence of powdered nuts in the meat still left on his plate. Young Leonard had covered his face in horror. He was so upset that he was unable to say for certain whether he had noticed a faint taste of nuts or not, or if there had been no trace in the piece of meat that he had eaten. The fact that Magdalon Schelderup suffered from a life-threatening nut allergy was well known to those in his closest circle. And for that very reason, nuts of all kinds were strictly forbidden on the property. Magdalon Schelderup had always been a strict enforcer of this rule.

It was swiftly established that all the guests had known about his nut allergy and that nuts were forbidden. They would all have had the opportunity to sprinkle some powdered nuts on his plate in the confusion that ensued after the fire alarm. They were the only ones who could have done it. Magdalon Schelderup had given his staff time off during these Sunday soirées. The host and his ten guests were alone in the house.

The food had been prepared by the host’s current wife, together with his former wife, who was also one of the guests. They sent each other scathing looks, but were in absolute agreement that there had been no nuts, in any shape or form, anywhere near the kitchen when they were making the food. And there was indeed no trace of nut powder on any of the plates other than that of Magdalon Schelderup. It therefore seemed most likely that the deadly powder had been added to the food after it had been put on the table. Which meant that it had been added by one of the guests, who had come not only with powdered nuts, but also a strong desire to kill the host.

I spent the next three hours taking down personal statements from all the ten witnesses in a guest room on the ground floor that became an improvised interview room. At nine o’clock, the deceased was collected by a police doctor, and I did not think there was much hope of getting any more from the ten survivors.

While it was quite clear to me that Magdalon Schelderup’s murderer had been sitting at the table, I still had no idea of where he or she had been sitting. And fortunately, neither did I know that it would take me seven long and demanding days to solve the crime, even with Patricia’s help. Nor could I have predicted that evening that any of the ten guests from Magdalon Schelderup’s final supper would follow him into death in the week that followed.

IV

I decided to start by questioning the person at the table who was closest in age to the deceased Magdalon Schelderup, namely his sixty-seven-year-old sister.

Magdalena Schelderup asked for permission to smoke during the interview. Given the dramatic situation, she seemed otherwise to be remarkably calm. Her body was thin and bony, and the firmness of her handshake was a surprise. I noticed that she was wearing a thin pewter ring, which seemed oddly out of character for an older woman who by all accounts was very well off. However, I deemed what I could not see on her hand to be more significant – a wedding ring, in other words.

In explanation as to why she still had the same surname, Magdalena Schelderup told me without hesitation that she had never been married. To which she added quickly that she had never had any children either. The family had always been small, but now she was the only surviving member of her childhood home. She had grown up with an older and a younger brother. The younger brother, however, had been weak both physically and mentally, and had died as the result of an illness in spring 1946. Magdalon had dominated his siblings ever since they were little. In his first two years, he had enchanted his parents so much that they decided to give their daughter a name that was as close to their son’s name as possible.

Their father had also been a successful businessman, and the children had grown up in very privileged material circumstances. Following the death of the younger brother after the war, Magdalon had taken over the running of the family business and quickly expanded. Magdalena had passed her university entrance exam and taken a two-year course at the business school. However, when her parents died, she was left such a tidy sum of money that she could dedicate herself to her interests without having to worry about making a living. She still received an annual share of the profit from her parents’ companies, which far exceeded her outgoings.

Magdalena Schelderup took a pensive draw on her cigarette when I asked if she had had a close relationship with her brother. Then she shook her head, slowly. They were in contact often enough and shared a circle of mutual friends, but they had not discussed anything of a more serious nature together for the past twenty-five years. She had the impression that her brother seldom sought the advice of others regarding important matters, and to a great extent followed his own beliefs and whims. He had certainly never asked his sister for advice in connection with business or more personal matters. But she did claim to know him better than anyone else, all the same, having watched him her entire life.

‘If you want to understand my brother, be it as a businessman or a person, you have to understand that he has always been a player, since he was a little boy,’ Magdalena Schelderup added, out of the blue.

She continued without hesitation when I asked her to expand on this.

‘Ever since he was a youth, Magdalon has played with money and people, the business, his private life; in fact, his entire existence became nothing but a great game. My brother often played with high stakes. If you were to say that he sometimes played crooked, I would not contradict you. Magdalon played to the gallery out there to gain recognition. But most of all, he simply played to win and to get whatever he wanted. Be it money, houses or women,’ she concluded, with a bitter smile.

Magdalena Schelderup sat in silence for a while, lost in thought, smoking yet another cigarette. Then she continued, at a slower pace.

‘You may perhaps hear from others, both inside and outside the firm, that my brother was a man with a head for money, but not for people. That is what people who do not know him or understand him often say. Magdalon’s greatest gift was in fact that he had a finely honed ability to understand all kinds of people. He was exceptionally good at seeing other people’s strengths and weaknesses, and could often predict exactly how they would react in various situations. But he only used this to his own advantage. I can understand that others might at times think of him as cold and heartless in his dealings with other people, including his own family. But there is actually a difference between being inconsiderate and not understanding when one should be considerate, if one bothered at all about other people.’

I gave a thoughtful nod, and followed this up with a question about his familial relations in general. His sister hesitated, and then said that perhaps his wife and children would know more about that than she did. From her place at the table, she judged her brother’s third marriage, which had also been the longest, to be the ‘least unhappy’. The transition from the first to the second, and the second to the third had both been difficult periods. Her brother had without a doubt expected more of his two sons, but his expectations were not easily matched. It seemed that his daughter was the child he appreciated most, but that might also be because she was the youngest and still lived at home.

As far as Magdalon Schelderup’s inheritance was concerned, his sister claimed to know very little. Her annual share of the profits from her parents’ companies was secured for the rest of her life, no matter who now inherited the companies. It did not really matter much to her. She already had more money in the bank than she could use in a lifetime, and she had no one to leave it to.

She did not say it in so many words, but I understood what she meant. She, for her part, had no possible financial motive for her brother’s murder.

This sounded logical enough. And she seemed to be so relaxed when she said it that I almost struck her from the list of suspects. However, I did note with interest that she lived only a short distance away, and that she had been at home alone in her flat on both Friday and Saturday. The deceased Magdalon Schelderup’s sister had known him longer than anyone else round the table, and in practice had had the opportunity both to puncture the tyres on his car and to put powdered nuts in his food.

V

From the deceased’s sister, I moved on to his widow, having first made sure that she was in a fit state to be questioned. There was still not a tear to be seen on her cheeks.

Sandra Schelderup was a relatively slight, dark-haired woman, with a straight back and a determined face which gave the impression of a strong personality and will. She stated her age as forty-five. With regard to her background, she informed me briefly that she had grown up on a smallholding in one of the rural communities outside Trondheim, that she had trained as a stenographer, and had met her husband when she came to work as his secretary nearly twenty years ago. The marriage had been a happy one, despite the age difference, and his death had been very unexpected.

She claimed to know nothing about her husband’s telephone call to the police the day before, or the fact that the tyres on his car had been slashed. She had, however, noticed that her husband had been obviously worried of late. He had been more alert, and had carefully checked that all the doors were locked in the evening. Some weeks ago, he had taken an old revolver from his collection and stowed it in his jacket pocket whenever he went out. At home, it often lay on his desk during the day, and she had seen it on the bedside table in the evening and morning.

But he had said nothing as to why he was worried. He was old-school, a man who would rather not discuss his troubles with his wife and children. She had taken the gun as a sign that her husband was getting old and anxious, but following his murder it was of course natural to see this in another light. And in autumn the year before, he had decided to buy three dogs to guard the house, he who had never shown any interest whatsoever in animals before.

As for the inheritance, Sandra Schelderup knew little more than what was written about it in the newspapers: that it was possibly worth several hundred million kroner in money, shares and property. She could find the name of the lawyers’ firm that helped her husband in legal matters, but she claimed to know nothing about the content of his will. Her husband had routinely kept his estate separate in all his three marriages. When the matter had been raised on a couple of occasions, he had simply promised his last wife that she would be well looked after for the rest of her life, and would inherit at least two million from him.

The business had dominated Magdalon Schelderup’s life more than anything else, and early on in the marriage he had made it clear that she should not worry herself about it. And so she had done as he advised. She added that it was possible that her daughter might know a little more about it than she did, but otherwise, one would have to ask the business manager.

When at home, Magdalon Schelderup had generally stayed in his combined office and library on the first floor, or in his bedroom, which was next door. His wife added that her husband slept at irregular times, and she had therefore preferred to have her own room, on the floor above. He could come and go as he pleased, as he had for all the years she had known him, she said, with a fleeting smile.

It all seemed to be rather undramatic so far. His wife’s description reinforced the picture of Magdalon Schelderup as a wilful man, but also the idea that he had been worried about a possible threat to his life in recent months. Her tone became sharper, however, when in conclusion I asked if she thought that it might have been one of those present who had killed her husband.

‘Well, that is obvious!’ was her terse reply.

Then she added swiftly, in a more passionate voice: ‘And I can promise you that it was neither me nor my daughter. But as far as the others are concerned, I would not exclude any of them right now.’

When I asked whether that meant that she would not exclude even her two stepsons from the list of possible murderers, she replied promptly: ‘Especially not them!’

A shadow passed over her face when she said this, fuelling my suspicions that the relationship between those closest to the deceased was not the best. I concluded my conversation with the deceased’s widow there for the moment. I was now extremely curious to know what his children thought, both about her and about his death.

VI

Fredrik Schelderup proved from the outset to bear very little resemblance to his dead father, either physically or mentally. He was thirty-eight years old, above average height, with dark hair and a pleasant appearance, as well as a friendly demeanour. The spare tyres around his middle and the redness of his cheeks sparked a suspicion that Schelderup Junior generally enjoyed far livelier gatherings than this one.

The conversation that followed did nothing to detract from this theory, and Fredrik spoke in a light, breezy tone. He opened by saying, without any encouragement, that he was more like his dead mother and had always felt very different from his father. His contact with his father had in recent years been ‘correct and formal’, if ‘rather sporadic and not particularly heartfelt’ on either part. Fredrik Schelderup explained that he had tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and his father and the business, and that was why he perhaps might seem to be unaffected by his father’s death. Which, indeed, was the case.

His death had been totally unexpected for Fredrik Schelderup as well, who had no suspicions as to who might have put the powdered nuts in his father’s food. He had been raised with a complete ban on anything that might resemble a nut, and had once, as a twelve-year-old, had his pocket money suspended for month because he had eaten a peanut on his way up the drive. He had since then respected the ban – to this very day. Fredrik Schelderup had come to the Sunday supper in his newest Mercedes, and had spent the last week either at or near to his home in the exclusive suburb of Bygdøy. He lived alone, but had a new girlfriend who had been with him every day last week. ‘And some nights too,’ he added, with a saucy wink.

Fredrik Schelderup struck me as being very unlike his father. When I asked what else he had done in his life so far, he quipped: ‘As little as possible, while I wait to inherit from my father.’ He went on to say that he had taken his university entrance exam and then studied a bit at the business school and university, but that he infinitely preferred the life of a student at the weekend to that during the week. He had stopped studying without any qualifications and had subsequently never been able to decide what he wanted to do. And fortunately, there was no real need to, either. While waiting for the anticipated substantial inheritance from his father, he had lived well on a more modest inheritance from his mother, and some income from various short-term jobs. Fredrik Schelderup jokingly remarked that he had loved driving ever since he was a boy – fast cars and beautiful women. In an even jollier aside, he added that when a beautiful woman asked him what his star sign was, he normally replied ‘the dollar sign’ – and then set about proving it. Otherwise his daily consumption was generally modest, ‘certainly on weekdays’. He was waiting to fulfil his wish of seeing more of ‘the world and its bars’ until he got his inheritance.

When asked about how much he expected to inherit, Fredrik Schelderup was almost serious for a moment. He replied that he hoped he would get a third of his father’s fortune, and it was reported in the papers that his total wealth was valued at more than 100 million. But he did not dare assume that he would get any more than the 200,000 kroner he had claim to as one of the heirs. He had been looking forward to receiving his inheritance for many years, but was in no way in any kind of financial straits and had not asked his father for money for years – knowing that should he ask, he was unlikely to get anything other than sarcasm in return.

Over the years, Magdalon Schelderup had repeatedly expressed his disappointment in his eldest son’s lack of initiative and business acumen. The son was no longer hurt by this and had, on a couple of occasions, responded by expressing his disappointment in his father’s treatment of his first two wives and their sons. The conversation had usually stopped there.

Fredrik Schelderup was again earnest for a moment when I asked about his dead mother. She had been four years younger than Magdalon Schelderup and had been a great beauty with many admirers, when, at the age of twenty-three, she said yes to his proposal of marriage. More than once in her later years she had told her son that Magdalon Schelderup had married her simply because it was the only way he could get her into bed – which apparently became an obsession from the first time they met. She had won over Magdalon Schelderup, but in doing so had lost herself, she often said with increasing bitterness.

Fredrik was the only child from a deeply unhappy marriage, which ended in a bitter divorce just before the war. Fredrik’s mother was a Christian and had very much enjoyed being ‘the Queen of Gulleråsen’ at Schelderup Hall. She was strongly opposed to divorce, but her husband had found someone else and eventually threw his first wife out of the house, ‘almost physically’. Fredrik had stayed with his father for several years after the divorce, ‘for reasons of pure ease’, but had then suddenly found it ‘more comfortable’ to move into his own flat once he had finished school. His mother did not suffer financially, but she never really recovered from the divorce. Nicotine and alcohol had both contributed to a permanent deterioration in her health, and she died of liver failure at the age of forty-nine.

With regard to his relationship with other members of the family, Fredrik Schelderup now declared that he liked his father’s second wife marginally more than the third, but that he had never had much contact with either of them. In terms of the rest of the family, he tended generally to have the warmest feelings for his eleven-year-younger half-brother. They had grown closer when his brother entered puberty and had himself become the child of divorced parents. But any contact was still sporadic. They were very different, and his brother had ‘been sensible enough to realize that I was not a good role model’ when he was about to come of age. Fredrik Schelderup’s relationship with his twenty-year-younger half-sister had always been distant. However, he did say that for someone her age, she appeared to be a remarkably determined and enterprising young lady.

A hint of seriousness returned once again to Fredrik Schelderup’s otherwise jocular expression when he said this. And when he had left the room, I sat and ruminated on whether I had also seen a hint of respect or fear when I looked in his eye.

VII

Leonard Schelderup was an intense, gum-chewing man of twenty-seven, about half a head shorter than me. He appeared to glide into the room, with the classic light step and lithe body of a long-distance runner. He had managed to regain some composure by the time he came in for questioning, two hours after the murder, but was clearly still deeply affected by the drama in the dining room. He admitted as much himself and started by apologizing for his confused behaviour. He then added that the day’s events really were quite extraordinary, and that he felt particularly exposed.

I said that I fully understood his situation, and then tagged on a comment that he and his dead father seemed to be very different. Leonard Schelderup chewed frantically on his gum for a few moments before his answer more or less tumbled out of his mouth: ‘Yes and no. It’s easy to understand that it might seem that way. I am very influenced by what other people think and say about me, and I actually care about other people’s feelings. Neither were ever traits of my father. I am often nervous when meeting people and have never been interested in business. But there were similarities. I have a lot of my father’s willpower and his competitive streak, but use it instead on the track and at university. And that was not what my father wanted. But in recent years it seemed that he did understand and respect me a little more. We have unfortunately never had a good relationship. But I hope that it was not quite so bad in the last year of his life.’

He swiftly added: ‘I was eight when my father came into my room one day and told me that my mother was moving out and that I would be staying here without her. Our relationship never really moved on from there. I have long since accepted that my father is who he is and had absolutely no reason at all to wish him dead now. It still seems very unreal that he has been murdered, and why he chose me to taste his food is a mystery.’

The formulation ‘had absolutely no reason at all to wish him dead now’ immediately caught my attention. I asked, in a sharper tone, whether that meant that he had previously wished his father were dead.

Leonard Schelderup’s jaws worked even harder on the chewing gum before he answered.

‘I may have said something of the sort to him when I was a teenager, when I was rebelling. I thought he treated my mother appallingly both before and after the divorce, and whatever I did was apparently of no interest whatsoever to him. Shouting at my father was like banging your head against the wall. He never lost control and just looked down at me and through me, superior in every way. Even when I was taller than him. It always ended with me coming to apologize. And then he still just looked at me overbearingly. Deep down I hated him for many years, and in my youth I had some violent outbursts. But I have never really wanted to kill him and, what’s more, have never done anything to attempt it.’

He squirmed in his chair and added in a quiet voice: ‘Though God knows who will believe that now.’

I sympathized with him. Leonard Schelderup was indeed in an exposed situation vis-à-vis the others around the table, partly because he had been selected to taste the food, and partly because he was the one his father had pointed to after swallowing the powdered nuts. And what was more, he had no alibi when it came to the punctured tyres. According to his statement, he had been in the Oslo area in the days before the murder, tramping along the well-worn path from his flat in Skøyen to the track at Bislett, and to his office at the university.

Leonard Schelderup appeared to be as ill-informed about the inheritance situation as his older brother – and far less interested. He hoped that he would get a third of the fortune, but was fully prepared for the eventuality that it might be the minimum amount of 200,000 kroner. His older brother had wanted to discuss the issue with him several times, but he had tried to think about it as little as possible. It would make relatively little difference to his life if he inherited 200,000, a million or thirty million. He was happy working on his Ph.D. in chemistry at the university, and was getting better and better on the track. Any notion of joining the business was alien to him. If he inherited five million, two would go into his own account and three to his mother, who he believed should have got more after the divorce. But they both had healthy balances as it was. Leonard Schelderup did not have his own family and had no plans to get one. He added, without any prompting, that his experiences from childhood did not make it an attractive prospect.

As for the guests who were not part of the family, Leonard Schelderup had really only ever exchanged pleasantries with them. He did comment though that Wendelboe, behind his grave mask, was possibly a warmer person than his own father had ever been.

Leonard Schelderup told me that he had only sporadic contact with his older brother. The two of them had always got on well, despite the age difference, and there had never really been any serious conflicts between them. However, their differences had become more pronounced over the years, and they now had very little in common outside the family. Their father had on one occasion remarked to the young Leonard that his lack of interest in the business was a disappointment, but he had at least had one son who was interested in something other than the next party.

Leonard Schelderup said that he had had a good relationship with ‘Aunt Magdalena’ ever since he was a child, but that they did not meet very often. Leonard Schelderup did not hide the fact that he disliked his father’s new wife, who he believed had used her youth and beauty to usurp his mother’s place. However, they now had a formal and relatively relaxed relationship. She was an intelligent and active woman, who always asked politely about his running results and work situation whenever they met on social occasions. Leonard Schelderup grimaced when he added that, in recent years, his stepmother had in fact shown more interest in his life than his own father ever had done.

‘There is one episode from last year that I should perhaps mention to you,’ he said abruptly. His voice was trembling slightly when he continued. ‘I bumped into my father on Karl Johan, where he was standing talking to a business contact. My father took me almost respectfully by the hand and said “This is Director Svendsen and he saw you at Bislett and wanted to congratulate you on winning the Norwegian Championships. And I would also like to do that. You really have become an impressively good runner!” I shook them both by the hand. Then I went and sat alone in the corner of a cafe and cried over a cup of coffee. I was twenty-six years old and it was the first time that I had ever heard my father say anything positive about my running. And the last time too.’

Leonard Schelderup had very little contact with his younger half-sister. Like his brother, he had the impression that she was unusually intelligent and determined. Even though she did not do any sports, he believed that his sister was also an exceptionally competitive person.

‘We really only meet on social occasions, and my little sister is like a cat in the company of adults. She slips in and out without making any noise, but looks like she keeps her eyes and ears keen as a predator. I suspect that her claws and teeth might also be very sharp, without ever having tried to find out,’ he concluded.

My curiosity regarding Magdalon Schelderup’s daughter was in no way diminished by this remark. In fact, it led me to conclude my interview with Leonard Schelderup relatively swiftly. He appeared to be relieved and asked for permission to continue with his training and work as normal. He shook my hand with something akin to enthusiasm when I granted him this, and promised that he would be available in the event of any further questions.

Magdalon Schelderup’s youngest son certainly seemed to be far less sure of himself here in his childhood home than when I had seen him at the Norwegian athletics championships at Bislett last year. I had to admit though that I still liked him and hoped that he was not the murderer. But given the circumstances I could not disregard that possibility.

VIII

With the few steps that it took Maria Irene Schelderup to enter the room, I understood immediately what her brother had meant with the cat metaphor. The eighteen-year-old floated in across the carpet, self-assured and almost silent, on light, agile feet. Her handshake was unexpectedly firm, without any of the trembling I had felt in her older brother’s hand. Once she was sitting comfortably in the armchair she leaned forward with something akin to eagerness, but waited to speak until she had heard my question.

In the first part of our conversation, Maria Irene Schelderup did not waste words and gave clear, concise answers. Yes, her father’s death had been unexpected. No, she had no reason to suspect anyone present more than anyone else.

Then she slowed down and added calmly that her father’s dramatic death should strictly speaking not have been a surprise – given that his life had always been so dramatic.

‘In a way,’ she added, ‘he was cut down in his prime today, at just the right time.’

I looked at her questioningly and she carried on, with equal calm: ‘My father was a very dynamic sixty-nine-year-old, but he was born in the eighteen hundreds, after all. Time was starting to take its toll. Over the past few years, he has become more cautious. You could even notice it in his driving. Before, he consistently drove above the speed limit; now he drove just under. The past decade has seen a peak in his career, but I doubt that he would have been able to lead the company on to achieve new records over the next ten years. His personality and will were just as forceful, but he did not understand the new technology well enough, nor the changing demands and expectations of younger generations. He preferred to continue scaring people into doing what he wanted. Nowadays, appearing to be nice and considerate is obviously a far more effective strategy.’

I stared with a mixture of fascination and fear at the young Maria Irene Schelderup and asked what her thoughts were on the future of the company. Her reply was unexpectedly quick.

‘That all depends on what we are now waiting for with baited breath: in other words, my father’s will. We came to these suppers for the most part because he was Magdalon Schelderup, but also because we were waiting for him to tell us at some point about his will. But that never happened. Either he was still in doubt, or he just wanted to keep us on tenterhooks.’

She hesitated briefly, but then continued with youthful zeal.

‘And as regards the inheritance, perhaps my father died a few years too early. The only one of his children who is capable of taking over – in other words, me – is still too young, in practical and legal terms, to head a consolidated company of that size. The alternative is to divide up the business, and that would not be profitable at this point. The company is on the offensive, and appears to be in the middle of several transaction processes that make the situation unclear for the next year. My father also liked to keep secrets from those closest to him. It was part of his strategy for holding the reins and keeping everyone around him on their toes. So none of us know what it says in the will. I know that my mother has pressured him to leave a company that was as consolidated as possible to me, but I have no idea whether she succeeded or not. It was not easy to persuade my father to do anything – not even for my mother. I presume that you will shortly be told the content of the will and I would be very grateful if you could telephone as soon as the mystery has been clarified.’

The latter was said with a tiny sweet smile. I registered vaguely that I was nodding in reply, and that her smile widened with even greater sweetness. Maria Irene Schelderup was her father’s daughter: a player who needed to be watched. This feeling was in no way diminished when she continued.

‘So, the situation is this: I may have a motive for murder, but if that is the case, it depends on the content of a will that I know nothing about. But I did not kill my father, regardless of what it says. I realized that he did not have many more years left, and anyway I wanted to study for a few years before taking over the business. So time was in my favour.’

I felt I was slightly at sea and tried to regain control of the interview by asking about her and her father’s relationship with her two half-brothers.

‘I for my part feel very little for either of them, positive or negative. Leonard is of course closer to me than Fredrik, both in age and personality. But the distance between us is still too great for me to have any sisterly feelings. The fact that we have different mothers who cannot stand the sight of each other has naturally taken its toll. I have grown up as my mother’s only child, but have always been painfully aware that my father had two older sons.’

I resisted the temptation to ask her whether she had feelings for anyone other than herself, and instead indicated that she should carry on telling me about her brothers. And this also seemed to be a topic she had thought about a lot.

‘As regards my half-brothers’ relationship with our father, I don’t think he ever saw much hope in Fredrik. A father who paid attention to every detail and a son who cares about nothing are not compatible. I would not be surprised if my father had not always stayed on the right side of the law, but it mattered to him greatly that he had never been convicted of anything, and that no one should be given the opportunity to do this. Fredrik, on the other hand, could have papered an entire wall with his speeding and parking fines. Father once commented that he had hoped to have a son who understood the laws of the land well enough to avoid them, but instead he had a son who did not even realize that laws existed. I am sure it was a great disappointment and, based on that alone, I do not think that Fredrik will get much in the will. But my father was an unpredictable man, even for me, and he had some strange and highly irrational old-fashioned ideas about the eldest son and the family’s reputation and things like that. I may be wrong, but I would guess that Fredrik will fare least well.’

She continued with a slightly more earnest expression.

‘I see Leonard as a more dangerous contender. He has never used his talents in the way that Father wanted him to. But Leonard has both talent and willpower, and it seemed as though Father felt closer to him in more recent years. Leonard’s success on the track was eventually to his advantage. Father had no interest whatsoever in athletics, but he approved of any quantifiable success that was discussed in the papers and by the people he met. So my bet would perhaps be that Fredrik receives the two hundred thousand that he has the legal right to claim, whereas the rest will be divided between Leonard and myself in some way or other.’

Now I really was staring at her with horrified fascination. It was easy to understand what her brother had meant when he said that she was a competitive person.

‘So what you are actually saying is that Leonard could have a very strong financial motive for wanting to kill his father now – before time played to your advantage?’

Her smile was brief and unexpectedly wide. It made me think of a young female lion who has an antelope in her sight.

‘As you yourself said, given the peculiar sequence of events, it is a conclusion that I would not dismiss. But it is hard to know. Leonard is, no matter how reliable, rather unpredictable in his own way. He is one of the weakest strong people I know – or if you prefer, one of the strongest weak people. Leonard is strongest in the places where he feels secure and is known, be it the running track or the library. However, he becomes very weak when he is forced into places where he does not feel secure, and my guess is that he is a very lonely man. So if I were you, I would hold all options open.’

I was reminded of what Magdalena Schelderup had said about her brother having understood other people exceptionally well, but having only ever acted in self-interest. It would appear that his daughter resembled him in this respect too. She was by now positively chatty, and carried on after a brief pause.

‘So, thanks to my half-brothers’ inadequacies, I became, over the years, my father’s favourite child, even though he actually preferred sons to daughters. I recall that on a couple of occasions when I was young, he was asked about the position of women in our time, and he cited a former Danish prime minister who had said that he for his part still liked women best in a horizontal position. But the experience of having me and my half-brothers seemed to change that somewhat. In the past year he has said to me a couple of times that despite my thin arms, I was the one of his children who had the greatest ability and strength.’

‘And what about your mother?’

Maria Irene smiled again.

‘I have something from them both. My mother is one of the strongest and most clear-sighted people I know, but she often reacts emotionally, all the same. So if I were you, I would keep all options open there too.’

Unlike her older brother, Maria Irene seemed to be unexpectedly at ease in an interview situation. I noticed that her tone was very familiar, and that I wasn’t opposed to it. She held my eye, and was keen to carry on.

‘You must understand that my father was a conservative man in many ways, but he was also a very complex character. One group of people in society that he could not stand, a group that Fredrik came to symbolize more and more, was those who had been given every opportunity in life but had taken none. Father was not a generous man. He gave small amounts to charity only when it would obviously improve his reputation. But he did have a certain respect, I might even venture to say love, for people of strong will who had worked their way up to become something despite a more difficult start in life. And I think it was that, as well as pure physical desire of course, that prompted him to start an extramarital relationship with my mother.’

Maria Irene Schelderup took a deep breath. Then she continued with determination.

‘And I suppose that that was the very reason why he betrayed her nearly twenty years later with another, even younger woman. History repeated itself in a way that must have been deeply unpleasant for my mother.’

I was staring at her intensely – and noticed that she liked it.

‘Did your father have a new lover in his later years?’

She was obviously relishing the situation and permitted herself to smile before continuing.

‘Oh, so you hadn’t heard yet… I thought it was something that we all knew, but never talked about. Mother must know, though we have never discussed it. It is perhaps less certain that my half-brothers or aunt know, as they do not live here. But I would have thought that they knew too. My father’s history of relationships with his secretaries is well known, after all, and then last year he announced that she was going to be given her own room here on the ground floor.’

Finally I got the picture.

‘So you maintain that, despite the forty-year age difference, your father and his secretary Synnøve Jensen were having a sexual relationship. Is that something you know or just think?’

She flashed a self-assured smile before carrying on.

‘Something I know. My bedroom is directly above hers. The walls are quite thin, and my father was physically strong and active, despite getting on in years. His secretary was also surprisingly vocal in bed, when you consider how meek she is otherwise.’

We sat in silence for a few seconds. I studied the young Maria Irene Schelderup’s face for any sign of emotion. I expected some anger towards her father for his obvious betrayal of her mother. But I could detect nothing, not even when she carried on talking, not in her face, her voice or her body language.

‘So, the situation with the secretary is also an unknown now. If she has been left a substantial sum in his will, then it is possible that he promised it to her and so she also has a possible motive.’

I had to agree with her, but swiftly added: ‘In other words, soon your conclusion will be that everyone has a motive – except you, who only maybe has one?’

She smiled her predator smile again.

‘Your words. I suppose what I am saying in as many words is that everyone around that table has a possible motive. There was some old stuff between my father and his sister Magdalena, and the Wendelboes, and even Mr Herlofsen. Something to do with the war that was never mentioned, which I therefore know nothing about. You will have to ask those who were there about that. Depending on the content of the will, I may also have a motive, in which case I still maintain that I did not avail myself of the opportunity.’

I noted this down and said that I had no more questions for her, for the moment. She immediately stood up. In contrast to her older half-brothers, her hand was still as dry and firm when she left the room as when she had come in. With an arch smile, she said that it had been a very interesting conversation, and that I was welcome to contact her at any time, should I have any more questions.

She looked me in the eye as she said this – and it felt to me as though she saw straight through my uniform and me.

I hurried to close the door behind her, and then called in the secretary, Synnøve Jensen, as my next witness.

IX

Synnøve Jensen was slightly younger than I had first guessed. She told me that she was twenty-nine, and now that I saw her at closer quarters in a better light, it seemed possible. Her skin was young, although her eyes were serious. Her body was slim, and not without grace, but her movements were unsure. She stood gingerly by the door and did not approach the table until I had asked her twice.

I started with some tentative routine questions about how Magdalon Schelderup was as a boss. She replied earnestly and responsibly that he could at times be very demanding, but that he was also inspiring and nice as long as one did what was required. She had seen the job as a great opportunity and had thrown herself into it. After waiting a while to see how things went, he had declared himself satisfied with her work, and given her a pay rise as well as presents on her birthday and festive holidays. His death was completely unexpected and she had no idea who might have killed him. The idea had never entered her head and his death was a great personal loss to her. She did not want to say anything negative about either his family or the other employees on the day that he died.

Synnøve Jensen told me that she herself had grown up on a smallholding in Sørum and that she still lived in the small house that her parents had left to her. She had neither a driving licence nor a car, and took the bus to and from work every day. It was Magdalon Schelderup who had suggested that, during a very busy period at work, she should have her own bedroom here. She had accepted this, but always stayed at home at weekends and generally also during the week. Synnøve Jensen was single, had no brothers or sisters, and in fact had no close relatives at all following the death of her parents some years ago. After completing school and a secretarial course, she had for several years had various short-term office jobs. It was a great relief to her to have found a position that offered not only a regular and secure income, but also an employer and work that she liked.

She had thus far kept up her appearance as a conscientious secretary impressively well. But this crumbled rapidly as soon as I commented that her relationship to the deceased was perhaps somewhat closer than she intimated. She sat with her face in her hands for a short while. Then suddenly everything came out in a torrent.

‘I didn’t plan it! No matter what they say, it is not something I had planned when I started to work for him. I desperately needed a job and was shocked and overjoyed when he employed me. The idea that anyone in this house might have an interest in me other than as a secretary was ridiculous. I am not clever and I am not beautiful. And I never tried to seduce him in any way.’

I attempted a nod that was at once pacifying and encouraging. It all sounded plausible enough, given what I knew of Magdalon Schelderup so far.

‘But he was tempted all the same – and you did not deny him?’

She gave her head the tiniest shake and sighed deeply.

‘No, I admit it. It would not be easy for anyone to deny Magdalon Schelderup what he wanted – especially one of his employees who was dependent on the income. But to be honest, I am not sure that I would have stopped him otherwise. Magdalon could be harsh, but he was a fascinating and very charming man for all that. He was the first man who had ever really cared about how I was and thought that I deserved better.’

‘And he had the money to give you a better life.’

She nodded.

‘Absolutely, and that may have played a role. I have never had much. My father drank and my mother took out all her frustration on me. I was not going to bite the hand that fed me. So I put up no resistance when one day it slid round my waist.’

It was easy to feel sympathy for the plain Synnøve Jensen and her story, in the midst of all the rich people around the table. My feelings remained mixed, however. She clearly was not innocence itself, and she also had potential motives for murder. Maria Irene’s words were still ringing in my ears. Synnøve Jensen was apparently surprisingly vocal in bed considering how meek she was otherwise – even when her lover’s wife and daughter were there in the same house.

‘Now that he’s dead, your job is presumably in danger? Certainly if his wife knows about this?’

She nodded again.

‘Which I am sure she does. She is not stupid and he hardly bothered to hide it. I assume that I will be without a job tomorrow. But that is not my biggest problem right now.’

I looked at her, mystified. She didn’t say anything and for a moment again hid her face in her hands before she continued.

‘You see – I no longer have just myself to think about.’

It started to dawn on me what she meant. And the picture was clear as soon as she patted her tummy gently.

‘Magdalon has three children, but leaves behind four. Another one will be born just before Christmas,’ she said, very quietly.

All life and sound in the room seemed to stop for few seconds. Synnøve Jensen shed a few tears and then dried them with a whispered apology.

In the meantime, I thought about the consequences of this sensational news. It took perhaps half a minute before I asked whether he had known. She nodded in answer.

‘I had no idea what to do when I found out, and had thought of saying nothing for as long as possible. But Magdalon guessed himself – it was Sunday, exactly a week ago. He had come to know me very well and was good at noticing things. And I could not lie when he asked if I was expecting a baby. I was terrified that he would be furious. But not at all. ‘Ha!’ was all he said at first. Which was what he often said when he saw or understood something that pleased him. Then he asked if I was absolutely certain that he was the father of the child. I told him the truth, that there was no doubt whatsoever. For the past few months I had been working for him literally night and day. He was the only man who had shared my bed, not only in the past year but in all the years before that. This made him very happy and he was in an excellent mood. He laughed, hugged me and said that I need not worry – he would make sure that both I and the child had everything we needed.’

She stopped there, hesitant, until I prompted her to continue.

‘But then…’

She gave a bewildered shrug.

‘But then he said nothing more about it! I trusted what he had said, and did not want to nag. And strangely enough, he did not mention it all week. And now he is dead and I have no idea what is going to happen to me or our child!’

Synnøve Jensen looked mournful for a few seconds, with tears in her eyes, but then she continued.

‘Believe it or not, I did try to warn him that it might all result in a child. But he said there was no danger of that, that he could no longer have children with any woman. He seemed irritated when he said it, so I asked no questions. I was so afraid that he might get angry. But he seemed to be happy, even though making mistakes or incurring unexpected costs were not something he generally liked. So I chose to believe that he loved me and that he wanted to have our child. It is a thought that will comfort me tonight.’

I quickly interjected to ask if they had ever discussed the possibility of him divorcing his wife. Synnøve Jensen shook her head firmly, and assured me that this was never discussed. She admitted that she would not have protested if he had wanted to divorce his wife in order to marry her. But he had never mentioned the possibility, and she had never expected the matter to be raised. She had been prepared to be a single mother with no income and was more than happy with his promise to look after herself and the child. Now that he was gone, who knew what might happen, she concluded with a deep sigh and heart-rending sob. The child was his, but to prove it might be difficult. In the meantime, she was left with neither work nor income, a fatherless child in her womb and no more than five hundred kroner in the bank.

When asked if she knew what was in the deceased’s will, her reply was a firm no. It was only a few days since he found out about the unborn child so he would barely have had time to make any changes, she added with a sob. He had never mentioned anything to her about how he had divided his wealth amongst his three older children.

Synnøve Jensen claimed that she did not have a bad relationship with the children of her boss and lover. She had known the young Maria Irene since she was fourteen, and had an intuitive affection for her. It felt as though they understood one another’s difficulties. On the other hand, the secretary had thought at first that Mrs Sandra Schelderup was very demanding, then power-crazed, then jealous and, finally, downright hateful. It was not hard to see why the two older boys had such a difficult relationship with their stepmother.

Magdalon Schelderup’s sister had always been very correct in relation to the secretary, if more than a little distant and patronizing. It was not easy to understand the relationship between Magdalon and his sister. Magdalena was often in the house, but never talked much with her brother when she was here.

There were not many people on the company staff. Magdalon Schelderup did not waste unnecessary money on wages. The manager, Hans Herlofsen, ran the office in the centre of town and was the only person who had an office at Schelderup Hall. He had the best overview of company business and was a very good businessman whom Magdalon Schelderup seemed to trust enormously, but still did not treat particularly well. Schelderup appeared to take his manager for granted, and the manager simply accepted all his sarcasm without ever threatening to resign.

Magdalon Schelderup’s relationship with Petter Johannes Wendelboe seemed to be more equal, according to the secretary. Wendelboe had his own company and had long since sold any shares that he once had in Schelderup’s company. But Schelderup remained in regular contact with Mr Wendelboe and his wife. And as with the sister, it did not appear to be a relationship where they talked much. The secretary had been taken aback by the frequent presence of the Wendelboes, especially as Schelderup had very little contact with anyone outside the immediate family unless for very good reason. She had simply accepted that it was because they had known each other since the war and had probably been close back then. Whatever the case, it was none of her business.

As far as Synnøve Jensen understood, Hans Herlofsen had also known the others since the war, even though he must be around fifteen years younger than Magdalon Schelderup and Petter Johannes Wendelboe. The otherwise good-natured Herlofsen had always made it very clear, though in a friendly way, that he did not want to talk about the war and the years immediately after. Magdalon Schelderup himself never talked about the war, but that was because he was so focused on the present and the future that he did not dwell on the past.

The secretary seemed relieved and stood up as soon as I said that we were finished for today. When she reached the door, she asked for permission to take the first possible bus home. She was tired and it was not very tempting to stay here at the mercy of Sandra Schelderup. I agreed once I had obtained a telephone number where I could contact her. It was perfectly understandable that Synnøve Jensen was tired, and that she had no particular desire to stay there with Magdalon Schelderup’s wife. I asked her to stay in the Oslo area. She looked at me with sad eyes and asked in response where on earth she would go otherwise.

For one reason or another, I stood by the window and watched Synnøve Jensen until she was safely outside the gate. It did not take long. She left the house swiftly and walked away fast, with her head down. It struck me that she was the only one of those questioned so far who would actually miss Magdalon Schelderup.

X

The manager, Hans Herlofsen, was a slightly overweight man of fifty-five, with greying hair, dressed in a simple grey suit. I could imagine him being a jovial and kind uncle at any other time. But now he was visibly affected by the day’s events and seemed to be somewhat tense at the start of our conversation.

He calmed down when my first questions were about Magdalon Schelderup’s company. Herlofsen quickly proved to have an exceptional head for figures. He could reel off turnover and market shares from the 1940s, the 1950s and the 1960s without any pause for thought. His conclusion was that the Schelderup business empire was going from strength to strength. According to Herlofsen’s calculations, the recent estimate of Schelderup’s worth at 100 million was in fact too low rather than too high. He himself reckoned it to be somewhere between 125 and 130 million, taking into account various estimated fees and charges and the possibility that the value of the company might fall if the company and property portfolio were to be divided up.

With regard to himself, Hans Herlofsen told me in a succinct and practised manner that he was a widower and lived on his own on the first floor of his childhood home in Lysaker. His only son was now a grown man, who lived with his wife and two children on the ground floor. Hans Herlofsen had always devoted himself to his work, and other than his son and his family the greater part of his social life was linked to work. Magdalon Schelderup had been a friend of his father’s, so they had known each other since Herlofsen was a youth. Herlofsen had been employed by the company since the autumn of 1944 and been the manager since 1946.

When asked who he thought might have killed Magdalon Schelderup, Hans Herlofsen replied that the only thing he could say with 100 per cent certainty was that it was not he who had done it. As for the others, he would rather not hazard a guess. With a slightly self-deprecating smile, he added that with eleven others round the table, minus himself and the deceased, there was only an 11.1 per cent chance of getting it right.

I saw no reason, for the moment, to add to his burden by saying that I personally was operating on the assumption of a 10 per cent chance. I had not got any further and did not dare strike Hans Herlofsen from the list of suspects until I knew what was in the will.

As Hans Herlofsen stood up to leave, I realized that I should ask whether he had worked together with Magdalon Schelderup when they were in the Resistance. His answer was another surprise.

‘Yes, of course. But I was more of an assistant to the senior members of the Resistance and was not there when it happened. If you think it might have anything to do with that strange episode from 8 May 1945, you will have to ask the Wendelboes or even Magdalena Schelderup.’

I nodded to show that I understood. Then made a note that I had to ask the Wendelboes about the strange episode that took place on Liberation Day in 1945.

XI

My conversation with the deceased’s ex-wife was brief and without any great surprises. She had a slim body and her neck was almost perilously thin. Her hair, on the other hand, was raven black and her voice was spirited. She seemed far younger in body and mind than her actual sixty years of age.

Ingrid Schelderup was also visibly shaken by the death of her former husband, but her predominant focus was the situation of her son Leonard. She assured me repeatedly that she could guarantee he had nothing to do with his father’s death, and expressed her concern that he would take this very badly, given his sense of duty and responsibility. His relationship with his father was not the best, but it was far better than it had been. And Leonard was the world’s sweetest boy, who would never wish to hurt anyone. It was completely incomprehensible that his father had asked him, of all people, to try his food and then later pointed at him. The only explanation she could think of was that Magdalon Schelderup was no longer the man he had once been, even though that might seem strange to all who knew him.

The conversation dwelled on this theme for a few minutes without going anywhere. She then sat up abruptly in her chair and raised her voice: ‘You must forgive me if I am repeating myself and talking too much about my son. It is all too easy when you are a divorced woman who has only one child. And even though it is now many years since our divorce, Magdalon’s death today was a great shock.’

I immediately felt that she was opening up and assured her that I had the utmost sympathy for her situation. Then I expressed my surprise at the fact that she still regularly visited her ex-husband’s home, so many years after the divorce. She gave a sad shrug.

‘That’s what happened and how I am, unfortunately. I am still Magdalon Schelderup’s wife – even though he threw me out over twenty years ago, and is now dead. I have never got over the divorce. Latterly my life has solely been about the son of the man who threw me out.’

I started to understand the lie of the land and took a small chance: ‘So you never got over the divorce – and never stopped hoping that he would ask you to come back again one day?’

She gave a brief and serious nod.

‘Yes, terrible, but true. Winters passed and summers passed, year after year, and nothing happened. And yet I could never give up hope. I continued to live in Gulleråsen, only minutes away. That was partly so that I could see my son as often as possible, but mostly so that I could be here quickly if ever asked. For ten years, I hoped that it was Magdalon whenever the phone rang. Every time I was invited here I dyed my hair, put on my make-up and arrived dressed up and on time. And every time Magdalon asked me to do something, I said yes and smiled as beautifully as I could. In some strange way, I thought that if I could only do as he wished and come whenever he invited me, the day would then come when he would ask me to stay. And so I hoped, year in and year out, that one day he would throw her out in order to take me back – just as he had thrown me out on 12 April 1949, so that she could move in. But neither God nor life is fair.’

Any discussion of how fair God may or may not be was beyond my competence, so I said that it must have felt very odd for her to prepare the food together with Sandra Schelderup.

‘She is a good cook, I will give her that. But yes, it was a rather bizarre and uncomfortable situation. It was Magdalon’s idea and neither of us dared to ask why. So we just made the food together as best we could and talked as little as possible while we did it. And I can guarantee that there were no powdered nuts or any other form of poison in the food when it left the kitchen. We both kept a close eye on each other the whole time.’

I did not doubt that. But I did comment that she herself had usurped the place of an older woman here at Schelderup Hall. Her sigh was heavy.

‘That was different. Magdalon and I were happy until the day she turned up here like a snake in paradise. His first wife was unhappy here, though she may not have recognized that herself, and they should never have got married. But of course it was not very nice then and it still is not nice now. Her fate was even more tragic than my own. No woman has a child with Magdalon Schelderup without the rest of her life being marred by it. And apparently no one is thrown out of Schelderup Hall without wanting to come back. It is strange, the power he holds over us. In that way he was a true sorcerer.’

Irene Schelderup cheered up unexpectedly when I asked if she knew that Magdalon Schelderup had a new lover.

‘The illiterate secretary?’ she said, with an almost joking expression on her face.

I looked at her questioningly. She blushed a touch and cleared her throat before carrying on.

‘It was Magdalena who asked me if the illiterate secretary had moved in now, and I knew immediately what she meant. The secretary is no doubt well above the average literacy in her own family, but still well below the average in ours. So I thought perhaps he wanted something else from her and am only too happy to admit that I hoped that was the case. It certainly would have been a twist of fate and only fair if Sandra was also thrown out on the rubbish pile in favour of a younger, more attractive secretary. He once joked to me that he believed that any marriage was doomed when the average age of the partners was over fifty. And his new marriage had certainly crossed that line by a good margin.’

The corners of her mouth twitched for a moment as she said this, but it was a bitter smile that did not reach her eyes.

Ingrid Schelderup also denied any knowledge of the contents of the deceased’s will. She had received less financially after the divorce than she had hoped, but had sufficient to live without any worries when she added the inheritance from her parents.

Magdalena, the sister, had come to visit regularly in all the years that Ingrid Schelderup had lived here. And yet she had the impression that the relationship between the two siblings was formal rather than heartfelt. Others who appeared to be close to him in the time that she lived here were the three guests seated at the table today: Herlofsen, the manager, and the Wendelboes. Apparently after she left the neighbours had started to say: ‘The only thing that changes at Schelderup Hall is the name of the wife and the number of children.’ She thought that the relationship with Herlofsen had been close, almost friendly, in the years immediately after the war, but Magdalon had later treated him with sarcasm and scorn.

Ingrid Schelderup stopped suddenly and sat deep in thought after having spoken about her former husband and his manager. I eventually realized that she was sitting like this with her brow furrowed so that I would ask her a question. Which I then did: I asked her to tell me what she was wondering whether she should tell me.

She smiled with relief, but it felt slightly forced.

‘I must say you really are very observant and quick, Detective Inspector. Yes, in the years just after the war, I once had a very odd experience with the manager, Hans Herlofsen, which I still can scarcely believe happened… I was passing my husband’s office when the door opened, but no one came out. Then I tripped over something on the floor. Which turned out to be Hans Herlofsen. He stood up immediately and apologized profusely, but offered me no explanation. He was so pale and so frightened, I would almost say terrified, that I only recognized him because of his suit. I could feel his entire body trembling when I put my hand on his shoulder. I carried on without saying anything, and never mentioned the episode to either my husband or Herlofsen. It all seemed so very unreal, and yet I am still certain that it did actually happen.’

My interest was of course piqued and I immediately asked when this had happened. She shrugged apologetically, but thought it must have been shortly before she was forced to leave the house in spring 1949.

I was not quite sure what to think, but noted down the story with interest. Ingrid Schelderup herself seemed quite upset by the memory, and repeated a couple of times that she was quite certain that it was as she remembered. She then calmed down again when we started to talk about the others who were present.

Magdalon Schelderup’s relationship with the Wendelboes seemed to be more balanced, and if there was a man he respected other than himself, it was Petter Johannes Wendelboe, she thought. But still she found herself wondering why the Wendelboes were such frequent visitors to the house, as they seldom said very much or made their presence known. But then there was hardly a relaxed social atmosphere at Magdalon Schelderup’s gatherings. Laughter and jokes were not encouraged among the younger members of the family, either, with Magadalon Schelderup at one end of the table and Petter Johannes Wendelboe at the other. She had never asked about any details from the war, but had always assumed that they had both seen and done difficult things. Neither of them became any less serious or authoritarian as they got older. But whereas Wendelboe appeared to be utterly unchanged, she had the impression that Magdalon’s moods had become even darker in recent years.

‘There were two Magdalons: the one who was all seriousness and work, and the one who was the world’s most charming man. Unfortunately, I have not seen the latter for many years now,’ Ingrid Schelderup added in a quiet voice. She had had no idea, however, that her former husband felt that he was now in danger.

When I asked her who she thought might have killed Magdalon Schelderup, she became grave and thoughtful.

‘If things are as you say with the secretary, well then there is an obvious motive for his current wife, in terms of both jealousy and money. But that is, of course, simply something I hope, not something I know. I can give you my word with regard to myself and my son. And as for the others, I suspect all and none of them.’

I was starting to realize that this would be a long and difficult investigation. But for the present, I had no more questions for Ingrid Schelderup. She also asked for permission to leave, and was granted this once she had given me a telephone number and a promise to stay in town.

XII

I had initially thought of calling in the Wendelboes separately. However, when he then came marching in with her in tow and seemed so determined, I did not dare protest.

Petter Johannes Wendelboe said that he was sixty-seven years old, and despite his white hair he was still a straight-backed and solid man with lithe, dynamic movements. Else Wendelboe was sixty-three, petite, and still a natural blonde. It struck me that she must have been extremely beautiful in her youth. I noted down that her maiden name was Wiig.

They said almost in one voice that they had been married since 1932, had three grown children and five grandchildren, and lived in a large house in Ski. Petter Johannes Wendelboe was a trained officer, but had changed career to become a businessman at an early age. He had held a number of different shareholder and board positions, but had now retired and left the business to his eldest son.

In terms of their relationship with the Schelderup family, he told me that it was the war that had brought Magdalon Schelderup and Petter Johannes Wendelboe together. They had continued to meet regularly through the years since the war, but were not necessarily what one might call close friends. In recent years, in fact, any contact had been entirely social and routine. Wendelboe had had shares in Schelderup’s company for a while, but had cashed them in without it leading to any conflict when the company had become firmly established in the mid-1950s, following an optimistic expansion.

The Wendelboes had been in Bergen visiting their daughter for the past few days, but had flown back today and driven out here in order to make the supper. They hesitated in response to my question as to whether the Schelderups were as keen to visit them, but then answered that they had had very few social gatherings at home with people other than the closest family in recent years. But when they did have parties, the Schelderups were of course invited, and as far as they could remember had always come. And so they felt that it was perfectly natural to visit an old war comrade whenever he had invited them.

I tried to ease the atmosphere a bit by asking what they could remember of Magdalon Schelderup’s dead brother from the 1930s and 1940s. They both started. Mr Wendelboe replied that they certainly could remember him, but it did not give them much pleasure. The first time they had met Magdalon Schelderup, he had confided in them how ashamed he was to have a brother who traded with the Germans and earned money from it. Thanks to Magdalon Schelderup’s record in the Resistance movement, nothing more was ever really made of this. He had, however, on several occasions expressed sorrow over his brother’s failings, and had, when he inherited his brother’s wealth, given a sum of several hundred thousand kroner to a charity for those bereaved by the war.

The rumours rumbled on for several years, and when Magdalon Schelderup started his political career in the Conservative Party there were some who opposed it and had tried to use this against him. They had, however, not succeeded. He had been elected to the Storting in 1949 as he had hoped and had pulled out again four years later, even though he could have been re-elected.

‘But something unexpected happened on Liberation Day itself, in which Magdalon Schelderup was involved,’ I probed. The Wendelboes exchanged fleeting glances before they nodded. But Petter Johannes Wendelboe’s voice was still calm when he continued.

‘It promises well for the investigation that you have already managed to unearth the story, though it can hardly have any connection to the murder today. It was a strange and tragic incident, but did not seem to cause Magdalon much concern afterwards. His explanation was reasonable enough and the guilty party was a mentally disturbed man, who gave an insane statement. So there was little doubt as to the outcome. But things like that are often a burden. And though I never heard Magdalon mention it later, I do think that it plagued him.’

I gave him a quizzical look, but he said nothing until I asked for further details.

‘Our group in the Resistance was small, but still had a dramatic and important history. We never had any more than six or seven members, and now that Magdalon is gone, my wife and I and Herlofsen are the only ones left alive. The group was established as early as winter 1940-41 and managed to carry on operating without being caught until Norway was liberated. Magdalon joined in summer 1941. He contacted me himself. It was a very difficult year. We lost a member in the spring and another in early autumn. Both were found shot dead in their own homes. The murderer was never found, either during or after the war. We have to this day simply called him the Dark Prince. He was given the name because he only fired in the dark of night, and no one ever saw him in daylight.’

I was fascinated, in part by the story and in part by the expressionless face and controlled voice with which Wendelboe told it.

‘For the remainder of the war, Magdalon and I and the other members of the group slept in rooms without windows, with the door locked. As I understood it, he continued to do this for many years, even though he was not a man who was easily scared. The Dark Prince never made another appearance after 1941 and we never found out whether he was a German or a Norwegian defector. During the war we believed and hoped that he was a German who had either been killed or left Norway, but afterwards we thought it was perhaps more likely that he had been a Norwegian. The modus operandi was not German. They generally came in uniform with dogs in the early morning. We hoped that maybe the Dark Prince was one of the Nasjonal Samling members we liquidated later. We suspected one of them. But we still do not even know if it was a man. I would dearly like to know for certain before I die who the Dark Prince was.’

I was writing all this down as fast as I could. Fortunately, Wendelboe spoke relatively slowly. It had become a two-way communication with short questions from me and long answers from him. I vaguely registered his wife, who was sitting on the sidelines on the sofa, nodding from time to time.

‘So this Resistance group also carried out liquidations?’

Wendelboe nodded in confirmation and looked even more serious when he continued.

‘Our country was at war, young man, and no one could predict the outcome. We did what we had to whenever we could. Even when it cost the enemy their lives and us our peace of mind and a good night’s sleep for many years to come. But we are talking about a total of five men over the course of four years, and in all cases there was no doubt about the guilt and evil of those men. I will carry those five names with me to the grave. And I will also take with me the knowledge that they all had the lives of good Norwegians on their conscience, whether directly or indirectly, and would have deserved to be shot by the Norwegian state if we had not killed them during the war.’

Petter Johannes Wendelboe had leaned forwards in his chair so that his face was now alarmingly close to mine. It was not hard to see why his presence resulted in a subdued atmosphere at dinner parties in the house, or to understand that he was a man Magdalon Schelderup had respected. I had no desire to ask Wendelboe whether the five would truly have been executed after the war. I had a feeling that he was not entirely satisfied with the treason trials.

‘The names are not strictly relevant here. Now, is my understanding correct, that both you and Magdalon Schelderup took part in liquidation operations in the latter part of the war?’

He nodded.

‘Yes, we both had to carry that burden. My wife did not participate in any such operations, but each and every man in the group took part in one or more. Even the young Hans Herlofsen was involved in one liquidation only a few months before liberation.’

I made some more quick notes. Hans Herlofsen obviously had a more dramatic past than his present jovial demeanour betrayed.

‘And was this in any way connected to the situation on Liberation Day?’

Wendelboe shook his head firmly.

‘Not at all. That was completely separate, and far more tragic than anything we experienced during the war.’

For a moment, there was silence in the room. Then there was a loud sob, which I realized must have come from Mrs Wendelboe. Her husband sent her a couple of long looks, then carried on talking when she did not.

‘In 1944-5 there were three leaders in our group: Magdalon Schelderup, Ole Kristian Wiig and myself. Ole Kristian Wiig was the youngest of us, but also the most ideological and the best. During the war we often talked about it and agreed that the world would be his oyster afterwards if he only survived. And I believe so even more keenly in retrospect. Unlike Magdalon and myself, Ole Kristian encapsulated the political spirit of the time. He had a background in the Labour Party youth league and was precisely the kind of new young man they appointed to important posts in the years immediately following the war.’

I now noticed that Mrs Wendelboe had started to weep. She was crying silently, but all the more intensely for that. Within seconds the tears were flowing. And, annoyingly, it was her husband who once again had to tell me the reason.

‘Ole Kristian Wiig was my wife’s younger brother. So we knew each other extremely well, even before the war.’

I shifted my gaze to Mrs Wendelboe, who was sitting as still as a statue on the sofa. The only movement in her face was the tears that continued to stream down her cheeks.

I mumbled my condolences and asked whether they had had any more siblings – and immediately regretted doing so. Mrs Wendelboe’s eyes blazed. Her composure in the midst of her grief was impressive. She remained seated with stoic calm for a short while, but when she then spoke, her voice was firm.

‘No. There were only the two of us. He was so kind and bright that I was more than happy always to be in his shadow. Ole Kristian did not have a family himself, but instead was the best uncle in the world to my children. For the full five years of the war I lived without a thought for myself, but in constant fear that something might happen to my husband, my children or my little brother.’

There was another moment of silence. Her husband and I waited patiently until she was ready to continue.

‘I remember the incredible relief that I felt on 8 May 1945 as if it were only yesterday. Ole Kristian lived close to us in Ski and had a key to our house. He was the one who came running across the lawn, overjoyed, to wake us with the news that the Germans had capitulated and that all our suffering was over. I remember thinking to myself that the sun had never shone so brilliantly on Norway as it did that morning. Ole Kristian left us for a few hours, and then the light vanished just as suddenly from my life. And it has never returned. It feels as though I have been living in a twilight ever since, even on the brightest summer day.’

Mrs Wendelboe once again fell silent and sat motionless on the sofa. It was a relief when her husband finally came to her rescue.

‘It was an extremely sad and emotional experience for us all. It happened that very afternoon. We’d set about preparing a celebratory meal. Ole Kristian had gone to sort out a few things, but had promised to be back by three. It was an unusual day, of course, but we started to get a bit anxious when half past three came and went without any sign of him. At a quarter to four, we sighed with relief when Magdalon Schelderup’s big black car swung into view down the road. We assumed that Ole Kristian was with him. But our joy was short-lived. We could soon see that Magdalon was alone in the car and that he was driving towards us at a dangerous speed. My wife took my hand and said that something was wrong, even before Magdalon stopped the car. We could see from his face that something ghastly had happened. Magdalon was not a man who was easily moved, but on that day his emotional turmoil was clear to all. He came over to us and embraced us, told us that there had been a terrible accident and that Ole Kristian was dead.’

Now, almost twenty-five years later, time had once again stopped for Mrs Wendelboe. Even her tears had stopped falling and she sat as if petrified. Her husband gently took her arm before he continued.

‘The accident had involved a gunshot, he told us, and the circumstances were indeed deeply unfortunate. Magdalon and Ole Kristian had driven to the home of a dead Nazi with a younger member of the group, to secure his property and papers. The police arrived at the same time and there were no enemies present. However, Ole Kristian had still fallen victim to a fatal gunshot inside the house, which had been fired by the younger man from our group. Magdalon felt frightfully guilty and apologized profusely for having taken the young man with them. But I was the one who had accepted him into the group, so we were both to blame. The man had seemed so sincere and well-intentioned, but we should of course have realized how weak and mentally unbalanced he was in those final weeks of the war. It is strange to think how different things might have been had I realized that.’

Now it was Wendelboe’s turn to sit in silence and his wife’s to reach out her hand and stroke him. But it was he who took up the story again, his voice sharp and concise.

‘The case was clear enough. The man was standing with the gun in his hand when the police came in. Magdalon himself had been in the room and seen him fire the shot, and the man’s statement was so incredible that no one could believe it. He was declared of unsound mind in the court case and has apparently spent much of the rest of his life in an asylum. So we just had to accept that it was the work of a madman, no matter how odd it all seemed. But whatever the case, it was a great loss to us which has been difficult to live with.’

I nodded with understanding and put down my notebook. I had more detailed questions about Magdalon Schelderup’s war experiences, but first wanted to check the police report about Ole Kristian Wiig’s death for myself.

In conclusion, I asked as a matter of procedure whether the Wendelboes had reason to suspect any of those present of the murder. They both hesitated and then said that Magdalon Schelderup had been a very forceful and complex person who might have been in conflict with many of the people around him, but that the actual circumstances did leave the younger son in a very awkward position.

‘If we were to point out one of those around the table as a suspect, it would, however, be his sister, Magdalena,’ Mr Wendelboe added abruptly, in a very grave voice. My surprise in no way diminished when his wife then immediately nodded in agreement.

He swiftly explained: ‘We realize that it may sound strange and that she appears to be trustworthy these days, but you should ask her to tell you the story of her broken engagement. And then you should ask her what she was doing during the war, while her brother risked his life in the Resistance. We have often wondered why he continued to invite her to his parties for all these years, especially when he also invited Hans Herlofsen and us.’

His wife nodded again, in loyal agreement with her husband until hell froze over. They then left the room together, with my silent consent.

I remained sitting where I was to look through my notes and to think about what I had heard and seen. In light of this new information, I would very much have liked to talk to Hans Herlofsen and Magdalena Schelderup again, but they had both already left Schelderup Hall. I therefore ended up calling in the deceased’s current wife for the final interview of the day.

XIII

My second conversation with Sandra Schelderup also got off to a good start. She asked about the contents of the will almost as soon as she came through the door. I replied that this had still not been confirmed, but assured her that I would contact the law firm as soon as possible, and that as the deceased’s wife she would of course be informed. She thanked me for this and told me that the name of the law firm was Rønning, Rønning & Rønning.

After a moment’s hesitation, Sandra Schelderup added without any shame that she had already called their lawyer there. However, he had said that in light of the ongoing murder investigation, it was not possible for him to give any information over the telephone as to the content of the will.

I answered diplomatically that I had been in contact with the law firm on a previous occasion and would do my best to find out as soon as possible what was in the will.

In response to my question regarding Magdalon Schelderup’s relationship with his daughter, Sandra Schelderup replied thoughtfully that it had been ‘better than expected’. Magdalon Schelderup had wanted a son and did nothing to hide it. He had commented several times during the pregnancy it was unlikely that he could be as unlucky with a third son. ‘Better luck next time!’ had been his first response when he came to the hospital and she told him that he had a beautiful daughter.

‘But there never was a next time. It bothered him, and I was fearful of my position as I could not give him the son he so wanted. But in the end his relationship with Maria Irene was surprisingly good. It was not unknown for him to hit his sons, but he never touched his daughter. And in recent years he commented several times that, of all his children, she was the one who resembled him most. On a couple of occasions he even added that it was no doubt because, of all of his wives, I was the one who resembled him most. So he acknowledged more and more frequently that we were the two who were closest to him. I just hope that he was sufficiently aware of this to recognize it in the will.’

I took a deep breath and asked her whether she knew that her husband had kept a young mistress for the past couple of years.

Her reaction was unexpectedly relaxed. A shadow crossed her face, but she was otherwise in full control of her expression and movements.

‘I pretended not to know, both to him and my daughter. But of course I noticed. And he made no effort to disguise it. One would have to be remarkably naive not to understand, when she more or less moved in here at his suggestion. It was terrible to begin with and for the first six months I expected to be thrown out at any moment. But over time I came to realize that this was no new great love, but rather the final physical fancy of a vigorous yet ageing man. There was no indication that he had any plans for a third divorce. After all, if he were to get married for a fourth time to an uneducated girl who could be his grandchild, it would make his life very difficult. It was bad enough when he left his former wife to marry me, and he had become more careful over the years. Of course, I did not like her or her presence here in the slightest, but I gradually came to see her as less of a threat. And now it is over. She will no longer have a job to come to tomorrow morning.’

It was impossible for me not to tell her the truth – that Synnøve Jensen was in fact pregnant.

This time the reaction was dramatic. Sandra Schelderup leapt out of her chair, hit the table with balled hands and shouted: ‘Impossible. It can’t be his child!’

When I asked whether it had been medically proven that Magdalon Schelderup could no longer have children, she shook her head sheepishly, then suddenly blushed deeply.

It struck me that I already appeared to be tainted by the ruthless atmosphere at Schelderup Hall. I realized that this was a great blow to Sandra Schelderup both as a woman and a wife, but could not feel any real sympathy for her.

‘That too,’ she said, sitting down with a heavy sigh. ‘And unborn children have the same inheritance rights as other children, don’t they?’ she added, quickly.

I confirmed this, but said that it could often be difficult to prove in such cases.

‘And obviously that will be true here – unless he has left behind some kind of written acknowledgement that he is the father?’

I nodded.

‘So Magdalon’s will is even more important than ever – both for your investigation and for my life.’

I agreed with her and repeated that it was my hope that we would be informed of the contents of the will within the next day or so. As if by unspoken arrangement, we both stood up at the same time.

Sandra Schelderup commented from the doorway that I had no doubt already heard unfavourable things about her from the others. She asked me to bear in mind that there are always two sides to a story and that she had had her struggles too. She was a country girl who had had to work her way up from simple beginnings when she was young. It had not been easy to be married to Magdalon for eighteen years, nor had it been easy to be accepted as his third wife.

I found this to be entirely credible, but let the door close firmly behind her all the same before I made ready to leave.

XIV

The air felt clearer and sweeter when I finally managed to get away from Schelderup Hall and the irascible dogs. But the situation remained very unclear for all that. The next question was whether my first phone call should be to Patricia or to the lawyers, Rønning, Rønning & Rønning.

When I finally got home at around nine o’clock, I followed my instincts and called Patricia first. She answered the telephone on the second ring. To my great relief, her voice sounded exactly as it had one a year ago. And she seemed to brighten up when she heard that it was me and that I was calling about a new murder investigation. For the next half hour, she listened without saying a word while I outlined my initial impression of the case.

‘And your conclusion?’ I asked, optimistically.

‘That I still do not know who murdered Magdalon Schelderup. There are far too many alternatives and theories that may prove to be true. But I would be more than happy to help you find out. We managed very well with seven potential murderers in the same building last year, so we will just have to see if we can extend our repertoire to include ten possible murderers in a mansion this year.’

I was very happy to hear Patricia sounding so optimistic and enthusiastic, and she hurried on.

‘There are several strange and significant things that I would like to discuss with you tomorrow. But you have no doubt already given some consideration to what is currently the strangest and most significant point. Have you discovered any explanation as to why on earth Magdalon Schelderup could be so certain that there was no risk of an attempt on his life before Tuesday? After all, Tuesday afternoon is very specific…’

I said that I had given it some thought, but had not found any good explanation. The latter being more true than the former.

Patricia’s voice sounded even more amused; I could almost see her smile down the telephone wire.

‘There are several possible explanations. Now, what happens with remarkable predictability at some point late on Tuesday mornings that might be of considerable significance here? Hint: every day, with the exception of Sundays and holidays…’

I racked my brain, but following a longer pause for thought, declared that I was unable to solve the mystery – despite her hint. Patricia’s first triumph was audible, even on the phone.

‘And the correct answer is: the first delivery of post sent on Monday is on Tuesday morning. Let us imagine that Magdalon Schelderup was holding back an important announcement about his will or the future of the business, for example, and therefore did not need to fear for his life until he had let those concerned know. If he then posted this to those concerned on Monday, he need not anticipate an attack until Tuesday afternoon at the earliest. Which does not sound entirely unfeasible, especially if we imagine that this was something about his will that he had planned to announce to the guests at dinner on Sunday, but that he was waiting to post until Monday, in anticipation of his meeting with you. The primary question would then be what he was going to write. The next question would be who he was going to send it to. The third question would be whether he had already written the letter, and the fourth question would then be where has he stowed it. Are you following so far?’

I croaked a ‘yes’, but that was already only just.

‘Excellent. Then you will check tomorrow whether there are any unsent letters in his office or bedroom, and then, if necessary, ask his wife, his secretary and his manager. Find out what more Hans Herlofsen and Magdalena Schelderup have to say in their defence. Take with you anything that you find of interest in the war archives regarding the Dark Prince and the circumstances surrounding Ole Kristian Wiig’s death on Liberation Day in 1945. Might a rather unromantic but possibly very interesting supper at my place tomorrow at half past five tempt you?’

I replied that unless there were any unexpected surprises in the course of the day that would be very tempting indeed. She thanked me politely, then added somewhat more discourteously that I should call Rønning, Rønning & Rønning immediately, in order to solve the hopefully more manageable mystery of Magdalon Schelderup’s will.

I took the hint and put down the receiver. I needed a few minutes to gather my wits before I looked up the number for Edvard Rønning Junior in the telephone directory. With alarmed delight I recognized the fact that I still lagged behind as soon as Patricia’s reasoning accelerated, but that my investigation was already picking up pace before I had even had my first meeting with her.

XV

Following a couple of abortive attempts, I managed to get hold of Edvard Rønning Junior at home at around ten o’clock. He informed me that the deceased had requested that the will be read at Schelderup Hall, and had provided a list of those he wished to be present. However, there were no specific instructions as to when the will should be read, as had been the case with Harald Olesen. I therefore suggested that it should be the following afternoon, on the condition that as head of the murder investigation I should be informed of the most salient points in the will. Rønning Junior pointed out that officially a court ruling was required, but added that he ‘had no objections per se, provided that the solution ensured that the will was read in accordance with the wishes of the deceased’. There was, however, a temporary practical problem in that the will was in his office, which was now closed for the weekend.

The practical-versus-principle compromise was that Mr Rønning Junior would be in the office by half past eight on Monday morning and would phone me immediately to let me know the contents of the will. He would then instruct his office to telephone or telegraph those people named on the list to request their presence at the reading of the will in the deceased’s home at three o’clock that afternoon. I assured him that this would be easy enough to organize, as the deceased’s nearest and dearest had all been instructed to stay in town and were unlikely to have made plans for the following day. I felt that we were both more relaxed towards the end of the conversation and I saw no reason to make more problems than I already had with the investigation. We thanked each other courteously for being so accommodating and even put the receiver down at the same time.

It was only then that it crossed my mind that I had yet to make a very important phone call – to the commanding officer. It struck me instantly that the case might be taken from me before it had even started. I could under no circumstances wait until the following day for fear that one of my colleagues might hear about the case in the meantime and snatch it from me. So I looked up the commanding officer’s home number on my telephone list and dialled straight away.

Fortunately I caught my boss before he went to bed, and as luck would have it, he was in the better of his two known moods. He listened patiently for ten minutes to my account of the start of this peculiar case, then for another two minutes while I reminded him of my success as head of investigation for last year’s most spectacular murder case. Then to my delight he interrupted me to say that it was his wish that I should also head this murder investigation, certainly until further notice. He added that there might be changes if too many days passed without a breakthrough, and that he would like a short report of the day’s events every evening. He merrily quoted the former foreign minister, Halvdan Koht: ‘That is my opinion, and I must respect it!’ I had heard him say this several times before, but laughed heartily all the same and did not object in any way to his conclusions.

I was in bed by eleven o’clock, as I knew that Monday could well be a long and demanding day. But I lay there unable to sleep until about midnight, but still had not managed to find an answer to the Magdalon Schelderup mystery. I was barely able to pick out one of the guests as a more likely murderer than the others.