Satellite People

I

Tuesday, 13 May 1969 was another day with an early start. My telephone rang at twenty-three minutes to eight, just as I put a cup of coffee down on the breakfast table. When I answered ‘Kristiansen, how can I help you?’ there was a couple of seconds of heavy breathing on the other end before a woman’s voice pierced my ear.

‘Is that Detective Inspector Kristiansen? If it is, please can you come immediately? There has been another murder.’

The voice was trembling, and yet impressively controlled and clear. I recognized it immediately as one of the voices I had heard at Schelderup Hall. It took a couple of seconds more before I realized it belonged to Magdalon Schelderup’s former wife, Ingrid. She spoke quickly and was remarkably informative.

‘I am in Skøyen, in my son’s flat. I came to see him this morning, but someone has been here before me. Leonard is lying on the floor with a bullet wound to his head and has obviously been killed. If you come, you can see for yourself!’

The choice of words was rather odd, but her voice was still impressively clear for a woman who had just found her only son murdered. I vaguely recalled Patricia’s words about the hard and strong satellite people involved in this case. Then I mumbled my condolences and asked her to stay where she was with the door locked until I got there. She promised to do this, but added that it was too late to save her son’s life or to catch the murderer.

So Tuesday, 13 May turned into one of the very few days when my breakfast was left untouched on the kitchen table. It took me less than thirty seconds from the time I put down the phone to when I slammed the front door shut behind me.

The drive to Skøyen, on the other hand, felt incredibly long. I remembered what a great experience it had been to watch Leonard Schelderup sail across the finishing line with rare majesty, his long fair hair flowing, to win gold in the Norwegian Championships at Bislett the year before. I also remembered only too well his frightened face at the reading of the will, and his terrified voice on the telephone last night. Now that Leonard Schelderup had in one fell move gone from murder suspect to murder victim, my sympathy welled up.

Alone in the car, I cursed several times the fact that I had not come out to see him last night. For the second time in three days a Schelderup had phoned me and for the second time he had died before I could speak to him. My only defence was that I had offered to station a policeman outside and he had said no. This time I had even ordered a constable to go there several hours later. But the facts of the matter were still brutal: Leonard Schelderup had telephoned me yesterday evening to say that he was frightened and this morning he had been shot and killed.

The investigation seemed to be more complicated than ever. I had never truly believed that Leonard Schelderup had murdered his father, but no more than a day ago he had been the only one of the ten who had stood out as a natural suspect, in addition to Synnøve Jensen. And now that he had become a murder victim himself, it felt as though the mystery was getting deeper, despite the fall in the number of possible suspects. Apart from Synnøve Jensen, I could not pick out any one of the nine remaining as a more or less likely double murderer than the rest.

The first person I met at the scene of the crime was the constable who had been standing guard. He immediately came forward when he saw me on the pavement outside. He was a down-to-earth, good police officer who gave a down-to-earth and good report, according to which he had driven here as soon as he had been asked last night and had been standing guard, with a clear view to both sides of the building, since ten to three in the morning. There had been no sign of life in either of the flats in the building at that point. No one had come or gone from either of them, until an older lady, who it turned out was the deceased’s mother, had rung the bell at around twenty past seven. The light in the neighbour’s flat had come on at ten past seven, but there was still no sign of life in Schelderup’s flat by that time.

Thus there was only one clear conclusion, and that was that if Leonard Schelderup had been murdered during the night, the murderer must have done it and left the building before ten to three in the morning.

Ingrid Schelderup stood patiently by the window in her son’s flat while I talked to the constable. She waited to unlock the door until I rang the bell, but then took only a matter of seconds.

The first thing I saw when I stepped into the flat was Ingrid Schelderup’s taut face. The second was her pale, shaking right hand, which was pointing to the floor. And the third was a revolver on the floor where she was pointing. The gun was lying on the carpet just inside the door. With a quick look I could confirm that it was an old Swedish-produced 7.5mm calibre Nagant revolver.

And so one of the small mysteries was solved. The revolver that had disappeared from Magdalon Schelderup’s cabinet had been found again. But that left another, deeper mystery. And that was who had taken it from Magdalon Schelderup’s gun collection in Gulleråsen a day or two earlier, presumably with the intention of aiming it at his younger son?

Leonard Schelderup himself was nowhere to be seen in the hallway. He was lying on the floor in the living room beside an armchair that was facing the television. His body was intact, clean and whole, apart from a bullet wound in his forehead from which the blood had poured freely. One look was enough to confirm that any hope of life was long gone. The flow of blood from the wound had already started to congeal. I quickly estimated that Leonard Schelderup had died in the early hours of the morning, at the latest, and perhaps even late in the previous evening.

With as much sensitivity as I could, I asked Ingrid Schelderup the one question that I needed an answer to here and now: had she found both the body and the gun exactly where they were lying now? She dried a tear before answering, but then gave a decisive nod. She had not touched the revolver and she had only gingerly touched her son on the neck and wrist to feel for any sign of life. The front door was unlocked when she arrived, she told me. When she discovered that, she was almost paralysed by fear. Then she had opened the door and seen the gun without hearing any sounds of life from the flat and had immediately realized that he had been murdered during the night.

It was easy to draw some conclusions, having looked around the flat. Leonard Schelderup had obviously been shot, presumably with a revolver that someone had stolen from his father’s house and brazenly left on the floor after the murder. Given Leonard Schelderup’s intense fear the night before, it was unthinkable that he might have forgotten to lock the door before going to bed. He must therefore have been murdered by a guest who either had a key or whom he had let in. But there was little more to deduce from the scene of the crime. Even if the list of potential murderers was limited to the nine remaining guests who had been at supper in Schelderup Hall when his father had been murdered two days earlier, it was impossible to exclude any of them.

I looked at Ingrid Schelderup without saying anything. She looked back at me, equally silent. Her eyes were not only sad, but frightened. I got the feeling that we were thinking the same thing. Namely, that it would seem Leonard Schelderup had been shot in much the same way that members of his late father’s Resistance group had been, but twenty-eight years later.

II

One detail in Leonard Schelderup’s flat quickly caught my attention. The two chairs on opposite sides of the kitchen table did not give away much in themselves, even if he did live on his own. But the kitchen table was set for two. The coffee cups served to reinforce the impression that young Schelderup had sat here the night before with a guest. When he called me at around ten o’clock, the guest had not yet arrived, or he had chosen not to tell me. There was not much more to be drawn from it. One of the cups had been used, but the cup and plate on the other side of the table were untouched. I was fairly convinced that Leonard Schelderup’s guest had been sitting on that side.

However, the most remarkable discovery was in the bedroom. It seemed unlikely that Leonard Schelderup had gone to bed, only to get up again and get dressed before being shot in his living room in the middle of the night. And yet it would appear that there had been considerable activity in his bed the day before. The pillows and duvet were in a tangle and the sheet was half pulled off the mattress. It might of course be the case that Leonard Schelderup had simply not made his bed when he got up yesterday morning, but his mother insisted that he was a very tidy and good boy who always made his bed as soon as he got up. There were no visible physical traces of sexual intercourse on the covers. The crucial proof that someone else had not only been in the flat in the past twenty-four hours, but also in the bed, lay on the pillow. The forensic team found two curly blond hairs that clearly came from Leonard Schelderup’s head, but also three longer, darker hairs that were quite obviously not his.

As I stood there looking at the three dark hairs, it seemed to me that the case had now leapt forwards towards a possible solution. I felt a stab of sympathy for the dark-haired Synnøve Jensen, but the evidence was certainly stacking up against her.

Ingrid Schelderup held her poise and control throughout our conversation and the examination of the flat. But then the tragedy apparently struck her. Sitting alone on the sofa, she suddenly broke down and collapsed in a sobbing heap. I managed to coax her back up intoa sitting position. It was of course no easy thing to comfort a woman who has just found her only son shot and murdered. In the end, the constable offered to drive her home and to stay with her until she was given some tranquillizers.

At half past eight, I was sitting on my own in Leonard Schelderup’s flat, with my dead host lying eternally silent and cold on the floor in the living room. My eyes rested on him while I used his telephone to call the main police station, who promised to send down some more forensic scientists to examine both him and the flat. His body was now finally released from the tension of the past few days. But his face was tense and frightened, even in death.

I sat there looking at the dead man. There seemed to be no way around it; all circumstances now seemed to point to Synnøve Jensen. Though why she should kill her other lover and fellow conspirator, if that was what Leonard Schelderup had been, was very unclear. But the hairs on the pillow were a strong indication that that was the case.

III

I did not need to go far to question my first witness. Leonard Schelderup’s neighbour was the obvious starting point and as luck would have it, she was at home.

Halldis Merete Abrahamsen was, in her own words, the seventy-nine-year-old widow of a successful pharmacist. She was well off and her mind and all her senses were still in perfectly good working order. And I could absolutely believe that. It was also obvious, however, that her social life and horizons had shrunk somewhat since her husband had died and the children had moved out. The pictures, books and furniture were all those of a woman who spent an increasing amount of time at home, with her thoughts drifting further and further back in time.

This was a sad situation for Halldis Merete Abrahamsen, but very good for the investigation, as she seemed to have developed a keen interest in her neighbours instead. A small pair of binoculars placed to hand on the windowsill in the kitchen confirmed my suspicions in this regard. And the young Leonard Schelderup held a special position amongst the neighbours. This was due no doubt to the fact that he lived in the flat next door, but perhaps even more to his name and family fortune. Mrs Abrahamsen proved she had an impressive memory when she rattled off her neighbour’s family tree and the most recent estimates of the family’s wealth.

‘One still reads the papers and takes an interest in those around one,’ as she put it.

The widow first of all expressed her shock at the news about the ‘handsome young man’s tragic death’, and then proceeded to tell me everything about him. As a neighbour he had been very considerate and never disturbed her in any way. He left for work early in the morning and often came home late at night, because of his training sessions. Other than his mother, he seldom had visitors, and on the rare occasions that he did, the guests all left early without making any noise in terms of music or other boisterous behaviour.

She then lowered her voice discreetly and confided in me that a mysterious man had come to see him in the evening several times this autumn. As she remembered him, he was a young, dark-haired man, but she was a little uncertain of his age as he had a beard, and was wearing a hat and a winter coat with the collar turned up. ‘As if he was doing his best not to be recognized by anyone. Isn’t that rather odd?’ she added in a whisper. The only thing she could say with any certainty about the guest was that it was a man, and that he was above average height.

I dutifully noted down all the information about this apparent stranger. It was clear that her description did not fit any of the guests from Magdalon Schelderup’s last supper, unless it was Fredrik who had come wearing a false beard. On the other hand, it seemed unlikely that the murder of Leonard Schelderup had nothing to do with the murder of his father the day before. With the exception of his family and their fortune, Leonard Schelderup appeared to have lived a quiet life.

I pressed on and asked if there were ever any lady visitors.

Mrs Abrahamsen leant in towards me and lowered her voice even more. It turned out that Leonard Schelderup had lived there for ‘more than four years and seven months’, but she could not ever remember seeing a woman come here, other than his mother. ‘But then last night,’ she whispered with glittering eyes, ‘last night of all nights, I think he had a visit from a lady! Now isn’t that a coincidence?’

I had to agree with her and made a quick note.

Halldis Merete Abrahamsen had unfortunately been in the bathroom when the mysterious lady arrived. So she had only heard the clicking of her heels when she arrived at a quarter to eight and then the door closing behind her. She left again at twenty-five to ten, just as it was starting to get dark. But the widow had managed to catch a glimpse of a mink coat, small red hat and high-heeled shoes. The visitor had walked quickly down the path without looking back and then disappeared from sight. A woman of ‘good social standing’, that was obvious, but Mrs Abrahamsen was unfortunately unable to give any more details about her age, hair colour or appearance. But she categorically dismissed my suggestion that it might have been Ingrid Schelderup who had popped by to see her son. She knew the mother’s footsteps too well. This was a lighter tread that she had not heard before.

The first part of the story only served to strengthen my suspicions regarding Synnøve Jensen, to the point that I nearly drove straight out to arrest her. But then I hesitated when I heard that the visitor had a mink coat. I could not imagine that Synnøve Jensen would possess such a garment and had certainly seen no sign of anything resembling that in her humble abode. This was followed by another cold shower when I realized that Leonard Schelderup had telephoned me after the woman had left. So it was difficult to imagine anything other than that he was still alive.

When I asked about any later visits, Mrs Abrahamsen was evasive and apologetic. As she was not expecting any further drama that evening, she had gone to bed around ten o’clock; she had slept soundly, as she was suffering from a cold. She had woken up around midnight and thought that she heard some hasty steps outside on the stairs, but had then fallen asleep again without hearing any more. The doorbell had not rung, because then she would have heard it. When I asked whether the footsteps she heard later on that night could have been the same, only this time perhaps without heels, she was ashamed to say she did not know. She had only been half awake, and did not dare say anything other than that the footsteps she had heard around midnight were hasty.

This could undoubtedly still be combined with my theory so far, that it was Synnøve Jensen if not both times, then certainly the second time, and it was she who had shot Leonard Schelderup in the early hours. It could well have been out of desperation because he had got cold feet and wanted to confess that he was the father of her child and that it was they who had killed his father.

The theory was in no way idiot-proof, I had to admit. It grated even on my ear. But still it grated less than all the other theories I could think of, so in the end I got into my car and drove out to Sørum.

IV

Synnøve Jensen sat at the kitchen table and cried.

For a long time. Her tears dripped onto my hand when I eventually reached out to put it on her shoulder. Either she was a particularly good actress with a talent for crying when the situation so required, or she was telling the truth when she maintained that she was very sad to hear about the death of Leonard Schelderup. She had never really had the chance to get to know him properly, but he was, after all, the brother of her unborn child and he had always seemed like such a quiet and good person, so she had not a word to say against him. And he had most certainly not had an easy life, caught between his divorced parents and in relation to his new stepmother. And another murder only two days after the first was an even greater shock. So Synnøve Jensen continued to weep.

It seemed pretty pointless after all this to ask if Leonard Schelderup had been her lover and if she had shot him. So I settled for saying that I had to ask them all to account for their movements yesterday evening. Synnøve Jensen dried her tears and mumbled that she had been at home alone all evening and gone to bed early. She had never been invited to Leonard Schelderup’s home and had definitely never gone there. She had once heard his father phone him from the office, but she could not recall ever having spoken to Leonard Schelderup on the telephone. She had no idea where he lived in Skøyen or which bus to get there. None of this sounded improbable but, on the other hand, there was no one who could confirm it.

Synnøve Jensen’s wardrobe was by the door and it did not take much time to look through it, limited as it was. It did in fact contain a pair of shoes that might with some goodwill be called high-heeled, but nothing that resembled a mink coat, even seen through an old lady’s eyes. It struck me that the generosity that Magdalon Schelderup had shown to his mistress in his will did not seem to bear any relation to the generosity he had shown her when he was alive. I did not quite trust the idea that everything he had ever given her was now hanging here.

I drove away from Sørum with the feeling that Synnøve Jensen would definitely end up in hell if her fingerprints were found anywhere in Leonard Schelderup’s flat. And if not, I almost believed her already when she said that she had never been there. And in that case I had no idea who the dark-haired woman from the evening before might be.

V

Back at the police station, I was told that the results from the fingerprint analysis were not ready yet. So in the meantime I telephoned Hans Herlofsen and Magdalena Schelderup. Both were composed and seemed to be surprised by the news of Leonard Schelderup’s death. Both denied categorically that they had either called him or been to see him the day before. Both denied, even more vehemently, any knowledge as to who might have killed him. Magdalena Schelderup said that she had been at home alone, but had nothing to back this up. Hans Herlofsen had an alibi until ten o’clock: he had been in the office in the centre of town, in a meeting with three other members of staff about the future of the companies. But after that he was, in his own words, also home alone.

I spoke to both Sandra and Maria Irene Schelderup as soon as I could and the answer was much the same. Unlike the others, however, the two ladies at Schelderup Hall had a reliable alibi. Sandra Schelderup had been on the telephone to me about the time that the mysterious woman in the mink coat had visited Leonard Schelderup, and the police outside Schelderup Hall could confirm that both the mother and daughter had stayed at home. They had appeared in the windows at various times during the course of the evening and no one had left the house. The dogs had been quiet all night.

I breathed a sigh of relief at this news and patted myself on the back for having maintained a police presence at Schelderup Hall overnight. The terrifying thought that young Maria Irene might be involved in the murders in any way receded, even though last night’s alibi did not mean that either she or her mother could be excluded from having taken part in the murder of Magdalon Schelderup.

Sandra Schelderup also seemed pleased to have an alibi. In light of this, I then let her decide whether she felt it was necessary to keep a police guard at Schelderup Hall or not. She thought for moment or two and then replied that as they had the dogs and since there was really nowhere to hide in the garden, the officers could perhaps leave the following day, unless of course there were any signs of danger in the meantime.

I had just lifted the receiver to call the Wendelboes when I suddenly remembered the questions that Patricia said I should ask about the war. I also needed to get hold of Fredrik Schelderup to tell him about his brother’s death, and to pay him a visit. So in the end I made a brief telephone call to both of them only to arrange a visit within the next couple of hours.

VI

One could not help but admire Fredrik Schelderup’s equilibrium, or be deeply shocked by his indifference. I tended more towards the latter. Whichever it was, he certainly seemed to be extremely at ease as he lounged opposite me in the comfort of a velvet sofa in his spacious home in Bygdøy. He had graciously accepted my condolences on the loss of his brother, but showed absolutely no sign of grief.

I thought to myself that Fredrik Schelderup’s home suited his personality: the house and furniture were of high quality, but their owner had done little to look after them. The room was dusty and untidy. The most striking feature was all the wine glasses and flutes that covered every surface, and the second most striking thing was the drinks cabinet that was larger than a fridge.

Within the last twenty-four hours, Fredrik Schelderup had lost a half-brother and seen his inheritance increase by millions. Neither of these things appeared to have made much of an impression on him. But the man was not entirely without social antennae. He quickly registered my surprise at his lack of interest and started to talk without being prompted.

‘You must excuse my lack of visible grief. That is what happens when you grow up in Schelderup Hall and have more money than you deserve. Leonard had a mother I did not care for and paid no attention to, and I had a mother he did not care for and paid no attention to. The only thing we shared was a father whom neither of us cared for, but both always paid attention to. And not only were we born to the same father from different mothers, we also inherited different genes from him. We shared many of the same problems, but solved them in very different ways. Leonard chose to rise to Father’s expectations by succeeding in arenas other than those Father had hoped for. And my choice to have no ambition whatsoever was even more provoking.’

I asked him to elaborate, which he immediately did.

‘I have been extremely fortunate in terms of the money I have inherited, but perhaps not the genes. The only thing my mother ever did to ensure an easy life was to trick my father into marrying her. I did not have to lift a finger in order to live a comfortable life. And so I never have. You see, I am not stupid, just lazy and lucky. I only hope that my liver holds out longer than my mother’s did. And here’s to that,’ he said, lifting the wine glass to his mouth. I suspected that it was neither the first nor would it be the last of the day.

The most important question in terms of my murder investigation was simply whether Fredrik Schelderup had visited his brother in his flat at any point over the past few weeks. His answer was a clear no. The last time he had been there was at least a year ago. Contact between the two brothers had been sparse in recent years. It was generally Leonard who got in touch for practical reasons, and a short phone call would suffice. I used this opportunity to ask whether they had been in touch by telephone the day before, but once again he shook his head.

Another question was whether Fredrik Schelderup knew of anyone who might have visited his brother. He immediately replied no to this as well. He and his brother moved in completely different circles, apart from family, and they had no mutual friends.

‘If anyone in the family knows anything about Leonard’s friends, it would be his mother. But I would not be surprised if she did not know much either. She of course worshipped him. But I was always under the impression that he kept everyone at a distance, even his mother.’

I sent him a questioning look. He continued without hesitation.

‘Growing up as Leonard and I did can generate very different responses. In Leonard’s case, it was obviously important for him to be able to go his own way, even in terms of his mother. His mother’s greatest dream was always to move back to Schelderup Hall. If Leonard had ever been asked to stay there again, I think he would have set a new national record in his bid to get away.’

Fredrik Schelderup emptied his glass and poured himself some more wine. He was in a chatty, if somewhat pensive, mood now.

‘There would be more atmosphere on the moon than at Father’s Sunday suppers. It must have been unbearable for Leonard. I was always surprised when he showed up. As long as he lived, Father had an almost hypnotic effect on us all, and Leonard would never have confronted him as he disliked conflict so much. All the millions we stood to inherit must have been important even to Leonard, but they were without a doubt more important to his mother.’

Fredrik Schelderup sat contemplating something in between two glasses of wine. He lit a cigar, but it did nothing to lift his mood. Now he spoke finally in a voice that was almost sad.

‘I have never believed that Leonard would ever be happy, and I don’t believe that he did either. Regardless of whether he won gold or a stipend to do a Ph.D. All the same, in recent months it seemed as though his heart was lighter. What a tragic end to a short and no doubt challenging life.’

He looked sombre when he said this. It seemed that the gravity of the situation had finally caught up with him. However, when I asked if the reason for his brother’s lighter mood in recent months was a woman, he shook his head with a disapproving look.

‘One should of course never give a categorical no when it comes to women, as I have learnt from experience. But I have never seen Leonard with a woman outside the family home for years, and have no reason to believe there was a woman in his life now. And in any case, I have enough problems with my own personal life as it is, without having to worry about my brother’s as well.’

His little joke cheered him up and he put his glass down on the table with purpose.

‘And talking of my personal life, I am expecting a guest soon and she may actually be one worth holding on to. We are going to celebrate my inheritance and then discuss the possibility of using some of it on a trip to Brazil’s balmy beaches, as soon as the investigation is over. So unless you have any more questions to ask today…’

I did not, and I longed to get out into the fresh air. I had started to realize that behind Fredrik Schelderup’s playboy image there might lurk a sadder story and a sharper observer than one might at first think. I did not trust him any the more for that, and though I doubted that a murderer would behave in this way, I felt uncomfortable sitting at the table with a man who, within hours of his only brother’s death, would be celebrating his inheritance with wine, women, and song.

Leonard Schelderup’s frightened voice from the evening before persisted in my mind like a bad conscience. As did the picture of his dead body and contorted face. So I quickly asked a final question as to whether Fredrik was aware of any changes in his father’s health in the past couple of years. He replied that he was not, but would not have been told until it was strictly necessary. His father had never liked to share his weaknesses and came from the old school that kept any such worries secret even from their family for as long as possible. Following this answer, I decided that there was nothing more to be gained from talking any further to Fredrik Schelderup today.

VII

Who could tell me about Leonard Schelderup’s life now that his father was dead, his mother was asleep and his brother knew nothing, proved to be a good question.

The head of the institute at the University of Oslo was not of much help. ‘Young Mr Schelderup’ had had very good qualifications and made a favourable impression, but he had only been there for six months and so had not yet got to know his more senior colleagues. As his supervisor had been abroad on sabbatical, the young Mr Schelderup had mostly worked on his own. The head of the institute thought that he seemed very nice, if a bit shy. I agreed with this conclusion, even though it did little to help. The conversation ended with the head saying that they had no doubt lost a great talent and that it would unfortunately mean a lot of work for the institute as the stipend would have to be advertised again.

The athletics club was my next port of call, but there was not much to be had here either. The chairman of the club expressed his sorrow and said what a loss it would be to the team only days before the annual Holmenkollen relay race, and then gave me the number of the man who had been Leonard Schelderup’s trainer for many years.

Other than the dead boy’s mother, the trainer was the first person who sounded as though he would genuinely miss him. He said in a gentle voice that not only was Leonard Schelderup one of the greatest talents he had ever met, but also one of the greatest people. There was an incredible contrast between his iron will and competitive instinct on the track and his gentle, considerate nature otherwise. As far as the trainer could remember, he had never said no when the club asked him to do something. In the past couple of years, however, it had been generally understood that it was best not to ask without warning. They could see that it made him uncomfortable and they feared it might ruin his concentration in competitions.

The trainer had met Leonard Schelderup’s mother on numerous occasions, and also his stepmother and sister a couple of times, but he only knew his father through the media. Leonard had been in the club since he was fourteen, but only his mother ever drove him to training in those early years. Then, when he was sixteen, he started to come on a bike and, later, when he had turned eighteen, in a car. But always on his own, as far as he could remember. It was not generally known in the club whether he had ever had a girlfriend. If I wanted, I could have the names and numbers of some of the people he had run and trained with, but it was unlikely that any of them had ever been to his home.

One of the youngest members of the relay team had once called Leonard Schelderup ‘the lone horseman’, obviously inspired by some boys’ book about the Wild West. And the nickname had stuck, as a fond sign of respect. He had always been quite reserved as a person, but presumably that was in part due to his family background and wealth. In contrast to his son, the father was widely discussed and disputed, the trainer added.

I understood what he meant. Though he had never actually been there in person, Magdalon Schelderup had affected his son’s life even in athletics circles. But to them, Leonard was simply the lone horseman, and apparently no one had tried to find out what was hidden behind his hero’s mask.

Otherwise, the trainer agreed that Leonard Schelderup had had more of a spring in his step in recent months. The trainer had thought that this was perhaps in part due to his steadily improving performance and in part to resolving his work situation. I thanked the trainer for all his information and asked if I might call again if necessary. He replied sadly that of course I could ring, but he was unlikely to be of any more help to me.

Having put down the receiver, I sat in my office for a few silent minutes, deep in thought. Leonard Schelderup had, to an apparently alarming extent, been, if not a man without character, certainly one without a private life. He was someone towards whom no one felt any ill will but, equally someone whom no one, not even his brother, would miss. Leonard Schelderup had, to all intents and purposes, walked a lonely path through the inhabitants of Oslo, from his flat to his office to the athletics track, interrupted only by unwanted family gatherings. Even though he had not been willing to follow the path his father wanted, his short life had been deeply influenced by him. I thought about Patricia’s concept about satellite people, and found it frighteningly fitting.

There appeared to be no conflicts outside family circles that would give anyone reason to want Leonard Schelderup dead. Yesterday’s lady visitor was now even more mysterious and interesting, as was the unidentified man who had apparently visited him several times in the past few months.

VIII

The Wendelboes’ house in Ski was more or less as I had expected it to be. Visibly smaller than Schelderup Hall, it was still larger than all the other houses on the street and most other houses in Oslo. There was only one car parked outside the house, but it was also quite possibly the largest and most expensive in the street. And it was a spacious white Volvo that I immediately recognized from outside Schelderup Hall. The car was newly polished and the lawn around the house had recently been cut.

I immediately felt more at home here than at Schelderup Hall. Petter Johannes Wendelboe opened the door himself and showed me into the living room. Having seated me in a comfortable chair by the dining table, he then said he would go and get his wife. I said that some of my questions were about the war and that we perhaps need not disturb her. He nodded and promptly sat down on the chair opposite me.

‘That is very considerate of you. This tragic event has brought up many old memories that are still very hard for my wife to bear,’ he told me.

I glanced quickly around the room. It was far more lived-in than the drawing room at Schelderup Hall. This was partly because the room was smaller. There were only eight chairs around the dining table. However, the main difference was all the family pictures on the wall. It is true that Wendelboe was not smiling in any of them but, photographed in shorts with his daughter and two grandchildren eating ice cream, he could be taken for a grandfather like all others. The sense of gravity was always there. The largest picture on the wall was an old black-and-white photograph of the couple in younger days, together with Ole Kristian Wiig. Mrs Wendelboe had one arm around her husband and one around her brother, but she was leaning most towards her brother.

He followed my gaze and cleared his throat.

‘My wife is a kind-hearted good woman and she was exceptionally close to her brother. It was a great loss to her that touched her life deeply.’

It struck me that this loss had also greatly affected Wendelboe’s life, but that he perhaps would rather die than admit it.

My initial questions about the recent events were quickly answered. He had heard about the young Leonard Schelderup’s death on the radio. It made the situation even more tragic and had been yet another blow for his wife. Neither Wendelboe nor his wife could claim to know Leonard Schelderup well, but they had seen him regularly since he was a child during the war.

‘We have talked about it many times. He was obviously a very talented young man, but quite unlike his father,’ he observed.

‘That nearly sounds like a compliment,’ I ventured.

Wendelboe tightened his lips.

‘Well, yes and no. They were, more than anything, incredibly different. Magdalon was a remarkably strong and successful man, but also a remarkably ruthless man. For a long time we have thought that his son seemed to be kinder, but also weaker.’

I nodded to encourage him on. He hesitated, but then continued.

‘My wife and I were by chance sitting in the grandstand when he won the Norwegian Championship last year. Our eldest grandchild was taking part, but was far less successful. We commented then that Leonard must have inherited some of his father’s willpower after all. My wife suggested that we wait for him outside the entrance after the ceremony, so we could congratulate him. And I am very glad now that we did. It was clear he was extremely grateful that we did.’

Wendelboe was not one to waste words, but it was easy to believe him when he said this. I suddenly understood what Leonard Schelderup had meant when he said that behind his mask Wendelboe had more human warmth than his own father.

However, Wendelboe did not have much more of any help to say. Neither he nor his wife had ever visited Leonard Schelderup in his flat. They had been at home together the evening before. Wendelboe had suggested inviting a couple to dinner, but his wife had not been up to it, he added, pointedly. I certainly found this to be believable, but noted down all the same that, in reality, the Wendelboes did not have an alibi.

It seemed to me that Wendelboe’s eyes flashed as soon as I said that we now needed to talk about the war. His replies were concise and relatively unemotional as long as we talked about the Resistance group. What he remembered about the dead Resistance men was more or less what was written in the archives. Hans Petter Nilsen had been found dead in his home on 12 May and Bjørn Varden on 5 September 1941. He explained his excellent memory by saying that the death of friends during the war was not something one forgot. Furthermore, he and his wife had talked a lot about it later. Nilsen had lived alone and had neither siblings nor parents who were still alive. Varden had a young wife by the name of Mona, who, as far as they knew, still lived at the same address in 32B Grønne Street.

I made a note of this and swiftly moved on to talk about when Magdalon Schelderup had joined the group. According to Wendelboe, it had happened rather unexpectedly in the summer of 1941: in other words, between the two murders. Wendelboe had at first been rather sceptical and pretended not to know him when Schelderup contacted him. They had studied together for their university entrance exam and their families knew each other, but they were not close friends. The fact that his brother and sister were both members of the NS certainly did not play in Schelderup’s favour. However, he was a man of action, the type of man they needed, and Wendelboe had somewhat reluctantly allowed himself to be persuaded by Ole Kristian Wiig to contact Schelderup again, who had been positively surprised and quickly proved himself to be trustworthy.

We sat looking at each other for a moment or two. He hesitated when I asked him in what way Schelderup had proved himself to be trustworthy.

I hastily added that the case would of course be time-barred and that I did not need any names, but had to know what happened. It could be of vital importance to the murder investigation and might even shed new light on the old war cases.

Wendelboe gave a brief nod to the former and a slower one to the latter. He leant forwards in his chair and continued in a hushed voice.

‘It was a liquidation. An NS member with a lot of power and too many contacts on the German side, who we thought might be a threat to us and other people on the right side. He already had numerous arrests on his conscience, and several of those arrested later lost their lives or health in German war camps. He left behind no wife or children. I have not regretted that action one single day, only that we did not take him out before. We had spoken about it even before Magdalon joined us. I was interested to see whether he would oppose it; after all, it was someone he had studied with and who was a business contact. However, it was in fact Magdalon who initiated the operation. He first suggested it sometime in December 1941. I remember the case was discussed here under the guise of a Christmas dinner.’

‘And the operation itself?’

Wendelboe hesitated for a moment again, but then carried on.

‘It took place later on in the spring, towards Easter 1942. He was shot when he was out skiing. I have promised never to say who was involved in those operations.’

‘But it may be vital, in terms of Schelderup’s role and his murder. I have to ask whether Schelderup was directly involved in the hope that you will either nod or shake your head?’

Wendelboe gave it a couple of moment’s thought, then gave a curt nod.

‘Ole Kristian Wiig?’

He nodded again.

‘Hans Herlofsen?’

He shook his head.

‘And yourself?’

He nodded. In that moment I believed his story and did not feel the need to press him any further. Certainly not at the moment. Instead I quickly changed the subject and threw down one of the trump cards that Patricia had given me.

‘One might go to these Sunday suppers because one is forced to, or because one is in love with someone who is there, or because one wants to eat, because one wants to drink, or because one likes to hear oneself talk. No one could force you to go if you did not want to; you are a loyal husband, you did not need to go there for food and drink, and you never said anything when you were there. So you went there for another reason…’

Wendelboe looked at me, his eyes even more alert. I also thought I caught a glimpse of respect there.

‘You went there to listen. And whatever it was that you hoped to hear was about the war, was it not?’

To my surprise, my strategy still worked. He nodded again.

‘The mystery of our friends who were killed in 1941 was still unexplained and unsolved. But even more, it was the other incident that spurred me to go, the one from Liberation Day.’

I asked him to tell me some more about the alleged murder. A fleeting shadow crossed his face before he answered.

‘Arild Bratberg was a well-meaning, if weak, man. We should never have taken him on. I can never forgive myself for letting us make that mistake. It would not have been easy to predict such a tragedy, but the link seemed to be clear enough. After all, he was caught with a smoking gun in his hand and a totally insane explanation of what had happened. So, in the end, I could live with it.’

‘But your wife…’

He nodded and gave a quiet sigh. His gaze suddenly left me and moved over to the wall.

‘I hoped that time would help to heal the wounds. But instead it seemed to get worse when the children left home and she had more time to dwell on the difficult memories. I could well have done without Magdalon Schelderup’s parties. But my wife continued to hope, so I sat there with her and listened for anything that might provide an answer. For him to say something about Ole Kristian’s death, or for her to say something about the others.’

I had to think for a moment before I understood what he meant.

‘And by her, you mean Magdalena?’

He nodded again.

‘She might know something about them?’

He coughed. ‘This may sound strange. At first we all thought that the Dark Prince had to be a man. But if the Dark Prince was in fact a woman, then it was not unthinkable that…’

I gave Petter Johannes Wendelboe a sharp look. He looked directly at me and his eyes did not waver. And in that moment I felt a peculiar fearful admiration for him.

‘We have for all these years hoped and believed that the member of the NS whom we shot in the spring of 1942 was the Dark Prince. There were no further murders later. Magdalena Schelderup was one of the few people who might have known enough about us to be the Dark Prince. Or she may have known who it was. Whatever the case, we listened well to what she said. But there was nothing new to be learnt there, certainly not as long as we or Hans Herlofsen were close by. Magdalon, on the other hand, said something very interesting during the previous meal…’

He stopped abruptly, but then continued when I sent him a quizzical look.

‘He suddenly announced that he had been thinking about some questions from the past in recent months, and hoped that he would finally find some answers. It was, certainly for my wife and me, reasonable to interpret this to mean the war and the Dark Prince.’

He stopped there, with one of his ambiguous smiles. Then he added: ‘We of course hoped that he would say more this Sunday.’

‘Did you notice if any of the others reacted at the time?’

He shook his head.

‘It was completely out of the blue and said in passing. We did not notice any reaction from Herlofsen or the former Mrs Schelderup, either then or during the meal. Both my wife and I looked at Magdalon first, then quickly over at his sister. She looked, as no doubt the rest of us old-timers did, first surprised and then tense. And then there was not much more to be gleaned.’

‘And you did not ask Magdalon about it later?’

He shook his head.

‘No. I realize that may seem strange. But it was impossible to raise the question there and then with eleven people around the table. And I knew Magdalon well enough not to ask later. I knew that he would not answer and he of course knew that I would not ask, for that very reason. If Magdalon knew more about the Dark Prince and other things from the war, he would let me and the others know as and when it suited him.’

‘Let’s go back to Liberation Day 1945. If I have understood correctly, the drama took place in the home of a former NS man who had been exterminated?’

Wendelboe nodded, and again I thought I caught a glimpse of admiration in his eyes. But it still took a few moments before I summoned the nerve to follow this up, and when I did it was again in anticipation.

‘Do you remember when he was killed?’

Wendelboe nodded, but said nothing.

‘On a skiing trip in spring 1942?’

He nodded again, and gave an appreciative shrug.

‘That was why we went to his house on Liberation Day in 1945. We hoped that we would find some papers, weapons or anything else that might confirm that he was the Dark Prince and had been responsible for the death of our two friends. Then we could finally lay the case to rest. Instead the expedition ended in tragedy with us losing one of our men, and this time one we could ill afford to lose.’

‘It is easy to understand that these things have deeply affected you and your wife. Imagine if we were now, many years later, to discover something that in some way linked Magdalena Schelderup, or even Magdalon Schelderup, to any of these murders, how would you react?’

When I looked up, it was all I could do to stop myself from pulling back. Petter Johannes Wendelboe controlled himself well and remained sitting in his chair, his face directly in front of mine, and spoke in a hard, low whisper.

‘We now live in a free country and a constitutional state, my young man, which was not the case during the war. I would immediately telephone you or someone else in the police.’ His eyes were suddenly piercing and hard.

‘But the first two murders are already time-barred, and the third will be so shortly. So let us imagine that for this reason or other formal reasons, a case could not be raised…’

‘Then I do not know what I would do. But that has not happened.’

I nodded in agreement. To contradict Petter Johannes Wendelboe in his current frame of mind was not a tempting idea at all.

‘No one is claiming that it has. But it is a possibility that you and your wife have discussed, is it not? That Magdalon Schelderup might himself in some way have something to do with the deaths?’

He nodded and hurried to reply.

‘We did not believe it, but did not dare to rule anything out. The cases were so extraordinary and you never knew what Magdalon might do.’

‘Magdalon was a hard man to fathom.’

‘We know of nothing that might link him to the deaths and we have no idea who killed him.’

‘And the disturbed Resistance man, Arild Bratberg, have you ever encountered him since?’

He shook his head firmly.

‘Never. I went to the trial after the war for a day, and he cut a pathetic figure. It only served to strengthen my belief that it must have been him who killed my brother-in-law. And I have never seen him since, nor wished to.’

This was said with intensity and absolute conviction. I believed him and he felt it. When I thanked him for his help and stood up a couple of minutes later, we were suddenly on an almost friendly footing again.

Wendelboe was once more his normal relaxed and controlled self when he showed me out. I liked him better than I had when I arrived. But I had also seen a glimpse of the other Petter Johannes Wendelboe. The one who had, once upon a time, taken decisions regarding life and death, and then ensured that those decisions were carried through. And in that moment I had understood what people meant when they said that Petter Johannes Wendelboe was perhaps the only person Magdalon Schelderup was afraid of. At the end of the day, I did not think that Wendelboe had killed Magdalon Schelderup or had anything whatsoever to do with Leonard Schelderup’s death. But if I had ever been in any doubt that he might under certain circumstances be capable of killing someone, I no longer was.

We shook hands by the front door. His handshake was warm, but I was also surprised by its strength. He said once again how grateful he was that it had not been necessary to disturb his wife and added that he hoped that what he had told me would be of some help.

Just as Wendelboe was about to unlock the door, I asked one final question that might be of significance.

‘Do you happen to know the name of the man Magdalena Schelderup was engaged to, the one who broke off the engagement in autumn 1940?’

He stopped mid-movement and stood stock-still looking at me fora moment.

‘Yes. There was a time when I knew Magdalena Schelderup’s fiancé well. He died many years ago now.’

I nodded, but still did not understand the connection.

‘I would still like to know his name before I go.’

He nodded, and it struck me that he seemed almost relieved.

‘Magdalena Schelderup’s fiancé was called Hans Petter Nilsen. He was an unusually good man, who deserved someone better,’ was Petter Johannes Wendelboe’s curt reply.

Then he opened the door for me. Outside, on the front step, I commented that it might perhaps be worth my while to speak to Mona Varden. He answered swiftly that it might be a good idea, but that I should also perhaps consider talking more to Magdalena Schelderup first.

I had to concede this point, but did not mention that there was in fact a third woman I definitely had to talk to first. I was very interested to find out what Patricia would make of all of this.

IX

Back at the office, I looked through the preliminary findings from Leonard Schelderup’s flat. The pathologist was confident that the cause of death was a bullet to the head, fired at close range. The time of death was less certain, but he could say with 90 per cent certainty that the shot was not fired before half past twelve and with 100 per cent certainty that it was not fired before midnight. The ballistics expert could add that the bullet in Leonard Schelderup’s head definitely came from the revolver that had been found lying on the floor in the hallway.

The report from the flat was hardly sensational and not particularly uplifting. There were no fingerprints on the gun. This fact, and the position of the gun in a different room from the body, precluded all theories of suicide.

An examination of the living room and bedroom had thus far produced traces of only two sets of fingerprints. One naturally belonged to the deceased, Leonard Schelderup. The other, which was found on both the bed and the sofa, did not belong to any of the nine living suspects.

And so I had to admit to myself, if no one else, that my theory that it was Synnøve Jensen who had paid a visit to Leonard Schelderup’s bed had come crashing down like a house of cards. Without any great hope of a breakthrough, I asked if they could examine the other rooms and also start to compare the new fingerprints with those registered in our archives. The former would take another day, the latter possibly more.

The time was no more than three in the afternoon. For want of more clues to follow up in relation to Leonard Schelderup, I turned to the questions Patricia had given me regarding his father.

Finding Magdalon Schelderup’s doctor proved to be as simple as finding his telephone number. I was given both in a two-minute telephone conversation with Sandra Schelderup. Getting through to the doctor was, however, not so easy. To begin with, the telephone was engaged for ten minutes, but the problems began in earnest when someone finally answered. It took me five minutes at least to convince the super-pedant of a nurse that I really was a detective inspector. Then it took a further ten minutes to persuade her that a murder investigation had to take precedence over a consultation with a patient, even when the patient was over forty-five and had a blood pressure that was several per cent more than average.

The doctor himself was a pleasant surprise when he finally came on the line. He was so unbureaucratic and informative with his answers that I almost made up for the time lost on the engaged signal and the pedant nurse. Yes, he had been Magdalon Schelderup’s personal doctor for many years, twenty-one to be precise. Yes, Schelderup had been in generally good shape both physically and mentally. Yes, something dramatic had happened to his health a year ago. Again, to be precise, on 8 July 1968.

The doctor had noted the date partly because it was his best-known patient, and partly because it was the first time he had experienced a patient having a heart attack in his waiting room. The nurse had called the doctor when she discovered Schelderup sitting almost lifeless with his eyes closed on a chair in the waiting room, mumbling incomprehensible words. He had been treated quickly and the situation had not been life-threatening. At his own wish, Schelderup had gone home after only a few hours in hospital. The heart attack had, however, revealed serious heart disease which meant that Schelderup was not likely to live much more than two or three years longer, with the risk of a new and more serious heart attack within the next twelve to sixteen months.

Nor had the doctor ever known a patient to receive such grave news with such calm as Magdalon Schelderup showed. He had later come to several routine check-ups, but had never asked any questions or made any comments as to how he felt about the situation. He had not revealed who he had told about his heart, but the doctor had the impression that he had kept it to himself.

My final question to the helpful doctor was whether he had heard anything of what Magdalon Schelderup had said when he was semi-conscious after the heart attack. The doctor remarked with a merry little laugh that that was something that Magdalon Schelderup had also asked, a few hours after the attack. He could only tell me what he had told him – and that was that the name ‘Synnøve’ was the only thing that had been clear to anyone in the midst of all the incomprehensible burble. Schelderup had commented with an almost joking smile that it was, in principle, perhaps not such a good thing to mention your secretary rather than your wife, but at least no great secrets had been revealed.

In short, Patricia had once again been right. Something dramatic had happened in Magdalon Schelderup’s life in the summer of 1968, which provided a credible explanation as to the origins of his first will. However, any deeper significance in relation to his dramatic death in May 1969 was still unclear to me, to say the least.

My ponderings on the cases from the war were suddenly interrupted by a heavy pounding on the door. A breathless constable came into the room and, obviously impressed, informed me that they had just received a phone call from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The foreign minister, Jonas Lykke, was leaving on a trip to Eastern Europe the following morning, but would take the time to see me this afternoon if I could go there immediately.

X

The foreign minister, Jonas Lykke, was smaller than he looked on the television, but otherwise more or less as I expected.

The former Resistance fighter and prime minister was what could be described as corpulent with greying hair. But his gaze was still intense, his voice was dynamic and his handshake was firm. Sitting behind a large desk in his office, Jonas Lykke radiated precisely the calm and dignity that one would expect of a foreign minister.

There were two tall piles of paper in front of him. To my surprise, they both appeared to be about the mandate possibilities in the up-and-coming general election, rather than the day’s foreign policy issues.

‘I must say that I am not entirely sure how I can be of use with regards to your ongoing murder investigation. But I will of course do everything I can to help you,’ he said after a couple of moments, in his characteristic dialect.

I took the hint that the foreign minister’s time was limited and promptly launched into a hastily improvised list of questions.

In answer to my first question about the treason trials after the war, the foreign minister apologized that he unfortunately knew nothing about them. He had spent the final years of the war in Sweden. He denied any knowledge of operations carried out by Resistance groups in Oslo during that time, and he had only heard about the ‘tragedy on Liberation Day’ after the event. From what he had read, there was something very odd about the circumstances surrounding Ole Kristian Wiig’s death. But legally the case appeared to be cut and dried and had quickly been overshadowed by the trials against leading Nazis.

Lykke sat lost in thought fora few moments after he had mentioned this, but then quickly returned to the present. He concluded in a grave voice that he unfortunately could not be of much help to me with regard to the war either. He had met both Magdalon Schelderup and Petter Johannes Wendelboe several times later, but did not know either of them particularly well and had never discussed with them what went on in the war. At the time, Schelderup had been more interested in the Cold War and contingency plans for a possible Soviet invasion. Even after fifty, he seemed to be a man who preferred to guard against possible future scenarios rather than dwell on the past.

Jonas Lykke became obviously more animated and informative when the subject turned to the Conservative parliamentary group after the war. In fact, I thought to myself that he was remarkably informal given that he was still a senior politician. He remarked with a quiet, dry chuckle that Magdalon Schelderup had come across as ‘unusually intelligent, unusually clear-sighted, unusually conservative and unusually cynical, even for a Conservative member of parliament for Akershus or Oslo!’

I ventured to ask why, then, Schelderup’s career in national politics had been so short-lived. Lykke answered with another gentle smile that that problem had in fact been Magdalon Schelderup’s clear-sightedness. He quite obviously preferred to be in a position of power and was realistic enough to admit that it would be many years before the Conservatives would ever form a government. When he stood down in 1953 he was fifty-four years old and had decided to concentrate on his extremely successful business empire.

It had become standard practice that the war was not mentioned unnecessarily when Magdalon Schelderup was present. But the court case from 1945 had been mentioned now and again when he was not there. Lykke added with a dry laugh that the Conservatives had a habit of dealing with sensitive issues in this way. However, he did not remember the issue from the war being raised in connection with the question of Schelderup’s renomination in 1953. Lykke had certainly never mentioned it himself at that time.

Continuing in this jolly and frank vein, the foreign minister added that he had not been sorry when Schelderup decided not to stand again in the general election.

‘We needed a right-wing coalition, and he was not someone who promoted that. He was far too conservative for those on the left, and too urban for members of the Centre Party. And the Christian Democrats strongly disapproved his divorces.’

I understood what he was saying and had to reluctantly concur with Jonas Lyke that there was not much of relevance to the murder inquiry here either. As a politician, Magdalon Schelderup had been respected, but not liked, not even within his own party. He appeared to have left politics of his own volition, and if it was the case that he was pushed, it certainly seemed to have nothing to do with events during the war. I did not think that Jonas Lykke knew anything more of importance about the war, and was fairly sure that if he did, I would not be able to wheedle it from him.

So I thanked the foreign minister cordially for his time. He shook my hand and jokingly wished me luck with ‘both the spring murder investigation and the autumn election’.

The final seat in Oslo was evidently very uncertain and could be decisive, according to the sheet on the top of the left-hand pile that I glanced at as I left the room. Jonas Lykke had already turned his attention back to the papers by the time I closed the door behind me.

XI

The yellowing papers from the war were waiting on my desk when I got back to the office.

According to these papers, the NS member whose house Magdalon Schelderup and Ole Kristian Wiig had visited on Liberation Day 1945 was called Jens Rune Meier.

I quickly found the case in the archive for unsolved murders under 1942, and could thus confirm that Wendelboe had thus far proved to be reliable. Jens Rune Meier had indeed been shot when out skiing at the start of Easter 1942. The operation had obviously been well planned. The police found the tracks of the perpetrators, who had clearly been familiar with his route and lain in wait behind some undergrowth on a more deserted stretch. The ski tracks led back to the car park, and even though considerable resources were given to the case, not enough evidence was found to pursue it.

At the time of his death, Jens Rune Meier was unmarried. He was a thirty-two-year-old lawyer who lived in Kolsås; a Norwegian citizen from a good middle-class family, but his grandfather had been from Germany, so he had a German surname. It would appear that the occupying forces and the NS had had high hopes for him and, if rumour was to be believed, he was being touted as a possible cabinet minister in Quisling’s government.

Jens Rune Meier glared at me from a black-and-white passport photograph dated autumn 1941, and from a report about the attack in the NS newspaper, Fritt Folk. I sat there for a couple of minutes looking him in the eye without finding the answer as to whether he had been the Dark Prince or not. Following liberation in 1945, no guns were found that in any way resembled the missing 9×19mm calibre Walther pistol. I sat there a little longer musing on where it might be today, as I wrote the short daily report for my boss. The report was not the best I had written, in terms either of language or content. My thoughts were preoccupied with what Patricia might be able to deduce from the new information about the case. In the end, I put the report to one side and drove over to see her a quarter of an hour earlier than agreed.

XII

Patricia listened while we ate the starter and I told her in detail about how Leonard Schelderup was found and the circumstances surrounding his death. She uttered a disapproving ‘hmmh’ several times. And this was clearly not with reference to the delicious vegetable soup.

But she really only got into her stride shortly after the main course had been put on the table and I finally told her about my visit to Petter Johannes Wendelboe. She then became so intensely interested that it took several minutes before she even touched the tenderloin on her plate. I had both expected and hoped that she would show greater interest in Magdalena Schelderup and her wartime fiancé. What instead fascinated Patricia was the chronology of her fiancé’s death and other events that took place within the group.

‘Hans Petter Nilsen was killed on 12 May and Bjørn Varden on 5 September 1941. Magdalon Schelderup joined the Resistance group in the summer of 1941, and the NS member, Jens Rune Meier, was executed at Easter 1942, following Schelderup’s suggestion just before Christmas 1941… The pattern is so striking that I do not for a moment believe that it is coincidence.’

I nodded and racked my brains to discover what this striking pattern might be.

‘Did you ask Wendelboe if he could remember what date Magdalon Schelderup joined the group? Because that is one of the two key questions that I need to have answered before I can move on.’

I shook my head apologetically. Patricia’s reaction was as instantaneous as it was surprising. She lifted her telephone from the table and held the receiver out to me.

‘Then ring him and ask now!’

I looked at Patricia, astonished, and saw that she was deadly earnest and impatient.

‘Please call Petter Johannes Wendelboe at once! This is extremely important, and will possibly determine whether my theory is correct or not. And if my theory is right, we will have taken a great leap forward.’

I was not entirely sure about calling the Wendelboes at this time in the evening, so tried to bide my time.

‘And what date would Schelderup have to have joined for your theory to be confirmed?’

Patricia did not bat an eyelid and replied immediately.

‘If I was going to give a date for when he joined the Resistance movement, I would say 23, 24 or 25 June 1941. But any time within a fortnight after would also fit. If, on the other hand, Wendelboe says that Magdalon Schelderup joined earlier, then my otherwise alluring theory falls apart.’

I understood nothing. Not a jot. Either about what kind of theory one might build around the chronology of these events, or where the dates 23, 24 or 25 June had sprung from. I sent Patricia a pleading look, but she continued to stare at me without touching her food. As I then continued to prevaricate, Patricia did the most extraordinary thing. She dialled the number from memory and quickly handed me the receiver. I had barely had time to put it to my ear when I heard an authoritative male voice say: ‘You have called the Wendelboes, can I help you?’ Patricia leant forward across the table to hear what he was saying.

I stammered an apology for disturbing him again, but assured him that I only had one short, straightforward question about the Second World War, which was of some importance, and that was if he could remember around what date Magdalon Schelderup had contacted him in 1941 to offer his services.

‘The twenty-fourth of June.’

The date rang out in my ear. I had to put my other hand up to the receiver in order not to drop it in surprise. And above the telephone I saw Patricia sitting waving her hands triumphantly above her head in silence, like a footballer who has just scored a goal.

‘And you are absolutely certain of that?’

I could hear the sceptical edge in my own voice, but there was no doubt whatsoever in his.

‘Absolutely certain. I understand if you find that hard to believe. But 24 June was my brother-in-law Ole Kristian’s birthday, and I was on my way home from his place when I was stopped by Magdalon. And given what happened later, we have always felt that it was a bizarre coincidence.’

I had to agree with him there. I thanked him and put down the receiver. Patricia had now began to eat her meat with gusto, an unusually smug smile on her lips.

‘The cook really has found a perfect tenderloin this time. Sheer luck, of course,’ she commented, after a few mouthfuls.

I gave her a deeply exasperated and admiring look.

‘You would have been burnt as a witch in the Middle Ages for less, Patricia. How on earth did you manage that? And why on earth was 24 June 1941 significant, except for Ole Kristian Wiig’s birthday?’

Patricia took pleasure in slowly swallowing a mouthful of meat before answering. Then she took the book about battles of the First and Second World War from the pile and put it down on the table between us.

‘Fortunately we are not talking about the Middle Ages, but about the Second World War. Nothing special happened on the 23, 24 or 25 June 1941 but, as you know, that made what happened on 22 June all the more dramatic. Keyword: Operation Barbarossa.’

I inwardly cursed my lack of interest in history at school and waved her impatiently on.

‘Germany invaded the Soviet Union, slowcoach, only the greatest military offensive in the history of the world. Three million soldiers marched in a line that was nearly 1800 miles long. And still it caught Stalin and his generals by surprise. The German military machine appeared to be indomitable. Some intelligent and far-sighted people in different parts of the world realized quickly what was about to happen – that Germany was going to bite off more than it could chew, that a great backlash would start in this confrontation with the Soviet Union’s vast population and hard winters. And one of them was Magdalon Schelderup of Gulleråsen in Norway, who, when the opportunity arose a couple of days later, joined the side that he now thought would win the war.’

Patricia ate a few mouthfuls more, licked her lips and looked very pleased with herself when she continued.

‘The balance of resources in the war definitely tipped in favour of the Allies when the USA was forced to join the war following the Japanese strike on Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941. Once again, a technical military success that was also a huge mistake on the part of the Axis powers. A few days later, Schelderup contacts Wendelboe again, this time to suggest that he and the others should liquidate the NS member who they suspect is the Dark Prince. The chronology of the war and Schelderup’s movements in Oslo is remarkable.’

‘But was this Jens Rune Meier really the Dark Prince, then?’

Patricia shook her head, but took the time to help herself to some more meat before answering. There was certainly nothing wrong with her appetite any more.

‘We’re on less firm ground there. But lots of pieces fall into place if Jens Rune Meier had to die not because he was the Dark Prince, but because he knew who the Dark Prince was. Particularly if my theory of who the Dark Prince was is correct.’

Patricia chewed happily for a minute before looking up at me. I was still so confused by this sudden change in scenario that it was all I could do to ask who had killed Hans Petter Nilsen and Bjørn Varden then, according to her theory. The answer was like a punch in the stomach.

‘Magdalon Schelderup, of course. You are forgetting to eat,’ Patricia remarked. It was only then that I woke from my trance-like condition.

‘What extraordinary reasoning. You have surpassed yourself. But we cannot be sure about that.’

Patricia nodded thoughtfully.

‘No. But we are starting to get to know the quite remarkable Magdalon Schelderup rather well, following his death. He thought, as his sister said, more like a player than a normal person. He would sooner change the wind than his coat. But if the wind was not for changing, he would swiftly turn his coat. And it is quite obvious that this is what he did in 1941. Whether he went so far as to kill two members of the Resistance is, however, not so clear. There are other possible explanations.’

‘That Magdalena Schelderup was the Dark Prince, for example?’ I asked. It was a theory that I had found hard to dismiss, particularly given the information that the wartime fiancé who had let her down was one of those murdered. It was tempting to think that arresting her for the two old murders and two new ones would tie up all the loose threads in this extraordinary case.

Patricia nodded.

‘For example, yes. Or Herlofsen. Or Wendelboe. Or even Mrs Wendelboe or Ingrid, Magdalon Schelderup’s wife at the time. Keep a note of anything you find of interest when you speak to Mona Varden and others tomorrow. But in the meantime, Magdalon Schelderup is at the top of my list of suspects for the two murders. And I would double the odds on him. He obviously seems to have known who else was in the group when he contacted Wendelboe on the way home from Wiig’s birthday. Again, the chronology fits suspiciously well. In spring 1941 there was great optimism on the German side, and the outcome was not yet clear. From a player’s perspective, it makes perfect sense that Magdalon Schelderup engaged in a secret operation for the Germans. In autumn 1941, the campaign in the Soviet Union still looked unexpectedly promising for the Germans. This may have inspired Schelderup to carry out another murder and, for example, tell his contact that he had joined the group as a double agent.’

I had to agree to the logic in this, but still found it hard to accept that Magdalon Schelderup was the Dark Prince. We agreed to hold the option open in anticipation of further information.

‘What about the other incident from the war, the mystery of what happened on Liberation Day?’ I asked.

Patricia put down her cutlery and leant forwards across the table.

‘That is also of increasing interest. There is a possible connection to the other murders in that it happened in the house of the liquidated NS man. There is also one striking detail that the police do not seem to have noticed. But let us wait with that and the other stories from the war until tomorrow. In the meantime, try to find not only Mona Varden, but also the mentally disturbed Resistance man, Arild Bratberg, who supposedly killed Ole Kristian Wiig. If you find Bratberg, and if he is not too mad to answer some questions, then ask him the same question that you asked Wendelboe: that is, whether Wendelboe or any of the others we know have contacted him in recent years. There were five people around the table who had been there during the war and all of them could have strong motives for murder if they, rightly or not, suspected Magdalon Schelderup of wartime crimes. So please try to find this Arild Bratberg.’

I promised to do that.

‘And what about the murder of Leonard Schelderup?’

Patricia sighed deeply.

‘It is a shame to bring it up now when we are having such a nice time, but it really is unavoidable. I think that we are closer to solving the mystery of what happened during the war and the murder of Magdalon Schelderup than we are to solving the new mystery of Leonard’s death. I have a couple of theories about who might have visited him last night, but still lack the information to confirm or disprove them. The witness account from the lady next door is important, but at the same time so full of holes when it comes to numbers, time and gender that there is not much to build on. The only person we know for certain was there and had a key is the mother, but that can be dismissed more or less out of hand. It is highly unlikely, both rationally and emotionally, that she would have killed her only child, especially when she might have earned millions more by murdering him a year earlier. It is difficult to see a motive for murdering Leonard, especially when both the mother and daughter at Schelderup Hall have an alibi. And Synnøve Jensen and Fredrik Schelderup were both too happy with their inheritance to want to murder someone in the hope of gaining a few million more.’

‘Or perhaps Synnøve Jensen, if she and Leonard were having a relationship and had conspired to kill his father,’ I ventured.

Patricia heaved a heavy sigh.

‘But they obviously were not,’ she said.

‘Even though I can see no reason why, could the murderer perhaps have been someone from outside the family, with no connection whatsoever to Magdalon Schelderup’s death? The hairs and fingerprints show that someone else had been there recently. And the mysterious guest has still not been identified,’ I added.

Patricia lightened up, and laughed her not entirely sympathetic laugh. Then she smiled secretively.

‘I shouldn’t laugh; after all, murder is a serious thing. Of course the person who was not only in the flat, but also in the bed, was an outsider. I don’t know who it was, but I do know what happened. What is more, I think I know how you might get hold of this mysterious guest, if that is of interest. None of it is directly linked to the murder, though. But it might still be of interest to talk to the person who left the fingerprints and the hairs in the flat yesterday.’

I stared at Patricia in fascination and nodded eagerly. With what could have passed for a shrug, she picked up her notebook and wrote down a short text, the content of which was: ‘The police request that the person who visited the deceased Leonard Schelderup in his home in Skøyen on Sunday, 12 May between 10 p.m. and midnight, please contact Oslo Police Station as soon as possible. This person is not suspected of being connected with his death in any way, but must be cleared from the case.’

‘Ask for this to be read out on the radio tomorrow, and I would be very surprised if you do not hear from the person in question pretty soon thereafter. The person will no doubt be following news of the case closely.’

I looked at Patricia with some scepticism and pensively stroked my finger over the last sentence.

‘But, my dear Patricia, the person who visited Leonard Schelderup yesterday will naturally not contact us if he or she was, despite what we think, party to the murder. The opposite is more likely to happen. The person will not contact us for fear of being unfairly suspected of being involved in the murder. And possibly for fear of a public scandal.’

When I said the latter, my head finally started to clear.

‘Because we are talking about some secret lady love, are we not?’

Patricia sighed.

‘I thought the situation would be clear to any intelligent person under forty. But apparently that is not the case. Secret lady love or something of the sort is certainly an acceptable general description, yes. But that is only down to luck, really.’

I was not entirely sure what age or luck had to do with it, but nodded in agreement and took it to mean that we were talking about a lover. How Leonard Schelderup had met this lady was interesting enough in itself.

‘But how can you be so certain that this outsider, who left proof of their presence in the flat yesterday, did not murder Leonard Schelderup?’

Patricia sighed again.

‘Theoretically it is not impossible. But the very reason that Leonard Schelderup did not want police protection was clearly that he was expecting a visit from this person, and wanted it to go ahead as planned. He would hardly have done that if it was someone who might have a motive for killing him. It is of course possible to make mistakes. If any theory that it was an outsider with no connection to Schelderup Hall was to hold water, however, it would, to put it mildly, be hard to explain how this person managed to get hold of the revolver from the gun cabinet at Schelderup Hall.’

I had known that, just forgotten it – or so I hoped. Fortunately, Patricia was on a roll and promptly carried on.

‘Here is something to cheer you up: the investigation may in fact uncover a criminal alliance. But if that were the case, it would not in any way be linked to the murder, and would not be something that you or anyone else at the police station would wish to pursue through the courts in the given situation. And if we return to things that are of greater interest, in terms of the murder, the most striking thing in this case is in fact the murder weapon,’ she added, swiftly.

I felt somewhat at sea, but still made a feeble attempt to protest.

‘But surely that is the most obvious fact? You yourself just said that the revolver found at the scene of the crime was the murder weapon and that someone had taken it there from Schelderup Hall?’

Patricia nodded.

‘So far so good. But why on earth did the murderer leave the gun lying on the floor by the front door? If you can give me one credible reason for that, I am almost certain that I could promise to find out who it was within twenty-four hours.’

Unfortunately, I could not. I had not given the position of the revolver much thought until Patricia mentioned it now, whereas she clearly had.

‘This was in no way a crime of passion. It would seem that the murderer stole the gun from Schelderup Hall with the intention of using it to shoot Leonard Schelderup. It might of course be smart to take the murder weapon away with you in order to avoid leaving any clues. Or, one could leave the weapon beside Leonard Schelderup’s dead body, which would also open up the possibility of suicide. But why on earth did the murderer take the gun out of the room, only to leave it by the front door of the flat? Say, for a moment, that the murderer was very absent-minded and forgot to leave the gun behind and only realized this on reaching the front door, the most logical thing would then be to go back and leave it by the body. There are of course several possible motives here, that one or other of the inheritors wants to increase their share, or that there is an avenger out there who, having killed Magdalon Schelderup, has now started on his children. But neither of these alternatives give any reason to leave the murder weapon in such a peculiar place. So I simply do not have a clue what to make of the murder of Leonard Schelderup.’

The maid came into the room at this point and Patricia demonstratively kept her lips closed.

‘Excuse me, but are you Beate or Benedikte?’ I asked the maid as she approached with the dessert. I should not have done that. She looked questioningly at Patricia, who chose to answer on her behalf.

‘That is most definitely Beate. And, may I add, she is the only one you will see here now, because if Benedikte was here you would have no problem telling them apart.’

Patricia sighed and shook her head in exasperation, while the colour drained from Beate’s face and she looked as though she wished she was anywhere other than here. I could of course not help but ask what had happened to Benedikte. And I should not have done that either. Patricia immediately transformed into a gossiping teenage girl. And a rather self-centred and unbearable one at that.

‘Well, would you believe what the ninny has managed to do now? She let the latest of her halfwit boyfriends get her pregnant and so will now be busy with the preparations, delivery and consequences of childbirth for the entire summer. It is very tempting to say that she made the bed so she could lie in it. But it is Beate and I who have to bear the brunt of it, Beate because she now has to work every day for the whole summer, and me because the help I get will not be so good!’

Sometimes I seriously doubted whether Patricia was actually joking or not. This was one such time. I sat there, waiting for the laughter that never came. Patricia composed herself and apologized for her outburst. But she still looked more irritated than self-deprecating when she added: ‘It is all very inconvenient for me, just before summer. And I could never bear little children, not even when I was one myself. Excessive IQ is really not a problem in that family. Let us hope that Beate is smarter than her sister, though she barely knows what IQ is, all the same.’

Beate’s face blanched even more and she made a hasty exit as soon as she had gathered up the plates.

There were times when I wondered whether Patricia was serious, but knew that she could be truly horrible. And this was certainly such an occasion. But at such a critical stage in a murder investigation, it would perhaps not be prudent to raise the issue. So I took the episode as another example of how self-centred Patricia could be, and how vulnerable she became when the order in her domestic universe was threatened. In order to lighten the situation as swiftly as possible, I quickly asked how she knew the Wendelboes’ telephone number off by heart.

‘I have memorized the numbers of all those involved. You have nothing to fear, though, I will most definitely leave all direct contact with them to you. I have always found it easy to remember numbers, and being able to keep telephone numbers in my head has proved – as just demonstrated – to be very practical.’

I had to agree with her, yet again.

XIII

Around nine o’clock I went back to the police station to finish my report. Once I had done this I wrote out Patricia’s suggested wording for a police bulletin. In the absence of any new findings, I could think of no other means of solving the murder of Leonard Schelderup. It was still a mystery to me who of the possible suspects might want to kill Leonard Schelderup and how it had come to pass. Even though I did not place as much weight on the position of the murder weapon as Patricia did, I had to admit that it was yet another puzzling piece within the greater mystery.

The police bulletin that Patricia had written was relayed to the national broadcaster at Marienlyst by phone, and they promised to read it out on the morning news. I was still somewhat sceptical as to whether Leonard Schelderup’s unidentified guest would contact us voluntarily, but saw no reason not to try.

The switchboard informed me that the newspapers had shown far more interest in Leonard Schelderup’s death than they had in his father’s. Both news desks and sports desks were on the story now. I hastily wrote a short press release to confirm that Leonard Schelderup had been found shot in his own home, and that the police were working on the premise that there might be a direct connection with his father’s death two days earlier. I also left a message that I would like to receive the census files for Arild Bratberg and Mona Varden as soon as possible the following day.

I finally drove home at around ten o’clock. Tuesday, 13 May 1969 had been a long and demanding day. After having watched a short report about Leonard Schelderup’s death on the evening news, I went to bed with one more murder investigation than I had had at the start of the day. Despite this, I went to sleep that night with a growing belief that the case would be solved within a few days.

For some reason, I fell asleep with the image of two young ladies playing on my mind. One was not surprisingly Patricia Louise Borchmann, and the other was Maria Irene Schelderup. It bothered me that both the possible motives for the Schelderup murders that Patricia had mentioned could also constitute a danger to Maria Irene’s life.