Satellite People

I

When I sat down to breakfast on Wednesday, 14 May 1969, the only thing I could say with any certainty was that the anonymity with which Leonard Schelderup had lived his life, despite being the heir to millions and an athletics star, contrasted dramatically with the fame he achieved in death. The main story of the day was a major fire in the centre of Tromsø, but all the big newspapers reported on Leonard Schelderup’s death in the sports pages, and most of them ran a headline on the front page. ‘Olympic Flame Snuffed Out’ was the headline across the top of Dagbladet’s front page. The papers all wrote that at the time of his death, Leonard Schelderup had been one of Norway’s greatest hopes for the Summer Olympics in 1972, something I could not recall any of them having written before.

All the newspapers had pulled out photographs from last year’s national championships. I was struck by how unruffled and earnest he looked both before and after he crossed the finishing line, and when he stood on the podium to receive his medal. Petter Johannes Wendelboe was not the only person involved in this case who never smiled. I had never actually seen Leonard Schelderup smile, in a photograph or in real life. With the exception of the carefree, partying older son, any smiles from Magdalon Schelderup’s supper guests were few and far between. I thought to myself that what Patricia had said about how terrible the case was, and how cold and bleak it was out there in the spheres of the surviving satellite people, was entirely appropriate.

I opened the door to my office at nine o’clock on the dot, just as the telephone started to ring.

‘Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen,’ I rattled off when I picked up the phone. The first thing I heard was a relieved sigh, followed by an unidentified man’s voice.

‘Thank goodness that I have managed to get hold of you. I have nothing whatsoever to do with the murder of Leonard Schelderup, but I am the person who visited him last night between ten o’clock and midnight. I would be more than happy to tell you what little I know, if that can help solve the murder. I would rather not come to the police station if at all possible. Could I meet you somewhere else later on today?’

It was my turn to be silent for a while. As he spoke, I finally understood the circumstances.

Just to make sure, I asked if he had by any chance visited the flat on other occasions through the spring, and if so, what he had been wearing. He replied immediately that he had been there several times and that he had been wearing a hat and a coat with the collar turned up. It occurred to me that I had heard his voice somewhere before, but I was not able to place it without seeing him.

I heard myself saying that I was a liberal young man under forty too, and did not wish to cause any problems for him. So I suggested that we meet in a cafe on one of the side streets off Karl Johan, the main shopping street, at midday, and added that there was a reasonable chance that his name could be kept out of the public eye if he answered all my questions. He assured me that he would do as much as he could to help solve the murder and promised to be waiting at a table at the back of the cafe at midday. Then he put down the phone.

Left alone with the dialling tone, I decided that I had managed to clear up some of the mystery surrounding Leonard Schelderup, but that I was still far from solving his murder. I sat there and speculated idly about where on earth I had heard his guest’s voice before. But that was a mystery that would hopefully be solved soon enough. So in the meantime I let it go, having first gone through a quick elimination round to make sure that it did not belong to anyone I had met in the course of the investigation.

II

As there were no better clues to follow up in the Leonard Schelderup case, I turned to the overgrown paths from the Second World War for the rest of the morning.

The first thing I encountered was a setback. The census records for Arild Bratberg stopped with the note that he was registered dead on 14 March 1969. He was recorded as living at an address in Rodeløkka, but according to his file had also spent substantial periods in Gaustad Mental Hospital. He was last registered as leaving there in December 1968, following a sojourn of one year.

I finally managed to get hold of the head doctor who had been responsible for the ward where Arild Bratberg had stayed during his last periods there.

The doctor’s voice on the other end of the phone was deep-frozen to begin with. Fortunately it then thawed somewhat when he realized that I was ‘that well-known detective inspector from the newspapers’, and that the case might also be connected to the ‘much-talked-about and very interesting Schelderup murders’. By this stage he was almost friendly.

The doctor was willing, ‘between you and me’, not to make too much fuss about confidentiality, given that the person in question was dead and had no family. He could therefore tell me that Arild Bratberg’s death had been long anticipated. He had for many years been a ‘committed chain-smoker and heavy drinker’, and had developed lung cancer. At his own wish, he had been discharged so that he could celebrate Christmas at home and then die. The doctor added that there might well have been a celebration at Bratberg’s home in Rodeløkka, but it was not likely that there had been many guests. Both his parents were dead and his siblings had not been in touch for years. The doctor said, by way of explanation, that seeing Bratberg was often not a pleasant experience.

The only person who had visited Arild Bratberg in recent years was a ‘very caring’ elderly neighbour from Rodeløkka, a widow by the name of Maja Karstensen. She had no doubt looked after him when he got home. His answer to my question whether Arild Bratberg had been seriously and chronically mentally ill was a definitive yes. His answer to my question whether the war had contributed to this was also yes, though it was very likely that there was something there from birth or childhood. The staff all knew about the judgement after the war and he had ‘maintained repeatedly on many occasions and often with great intensity’ that he had never killed anyone. However, all he could do was regurgitate his ridiculous explanation over and over again. In recent years it seemed that he had become less violent, though he could still be threatening if anyone mentioned the case or challenged him in this connection.

I thanked the doctor and then picked up the telephone directory. And sure enough, there was a Maja Karstensen listed who lived on the same street in Rodeløkka as Arild Bratberg. She was at home and would be happy to talk to me if it was of any help. It might perhaps be best if I could come to her, she said, with a small sigh. Her legs were not what they used to be and she had sold her bicycle. I suggested that I could be there at half past one, and she promised to have the coffee ready when I got there.

The next mystery from the war was in connection with the Dark Prince. According to the census records, Mona Varden was very much alive and still listed in the telephone directory as living at 32B Grønne Street. She picked up the telephone on the second ring, saying: ‘Mona Varden, can I help you?’

I introduced myself as Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen and apologized for disturbing her. I would be very grateful, however, if she could answer some questions regarding the unsolved murder of her husband.

‘Finally,’ she said slowly, her voice trembling.

After a couple of moments’ silence, she continued.

‘Please don’t put the phone down. Every day for the past twenty-eight years I have waited for the police to call and ask about the murder of my husband. You can come here or I can come down to the police station, whichever suits best. I will answer all your questions.’

I felt a vague sense of guilt on behalf of the police. So I mumbled that perhaps someone should have called her before, but that I would very much like to meet her today, and that I was more than happy to come to her house if that was easier for her. She did not hesitate.

‘I would gladly walk barefoot from here to the police station if it would help to clear up the murder of my husband. But it is perhaps best if you come here. Then at least you can see the room where he was killed. I have left it untouched for all these years, in case someone should ask about it one day. So you are more than welcome whenever you want to come.’

I heard myself asking if three o’clock would be suitable. She replied immediately that it would be fine and that she looked forward to meeting me.

I sat holding the receiver for a while after she had hung up. The feeling that I had had before ringing Mona Varden was now stronger than ever. It was true that Magdalon Schelderup’s death was unearthing more and more interesting stories involving other people’s lives.

III

I arrived at the agreed cafe to meet Leonard Schelderup’s mysterious guest at four minutes past midday, having first quickly changed into civilian clothes. I ordered a coffee and a piece of cake and then made my way towards the back. There was only one man sitting there, but I could not see his face as a waiter was standing between us. I had come just in time to see the waiter, a young man of around twenty, take back a piece of paper with an autograph on it.

I caught a glimpse of the name as the excited waiter dashed past me. But by then I had already seen who the guest was and realized where I knew his voice from. It was from the sports news on the radio, and the football pitch. He was still high on the list of top scorers in the Norwegian premier league, and had played a good many games in the past decade or so with the Norwegian flag on his shirt.

He gave a short, friendly nod as I sat down. His voice, which had been loud and jocular in his conversation with the waiter, was now quiet and serious.

‘It was me who called you at around nine o’clock this morning, and I’m not sure that any further introduction is necessary?’

I nodded and held out my hand. His handshake was firm, but I noticed that his hand was clammy and trembling.

‘I would like to thank you for your discreet handling of the case so far. This has been a huge dilemma for me, as I very much want to help as far as I can to solve the murder of my dear friend, but must also confess to being afraid of causing a scandal and of being suspected of murder. It was very considerate of you to come in civilian clothing, and your announcement was so carefully phrased. The use of the word “person” and the wording “to be cleared from the case” indicated that you had understood the situation, but did not wish to blow our cover.’

I nodded and said that the words had been carefully chosen. Fortunately he accepted without further question that it was I who had composed the announcement.

‘So I am the person who visited Leonard Schelderup late yesterday evening. We had agreed a few days earlier that I would come. I did call him earlier in the day to say that perhaps it would be better if I didn’t come, given the situation. He said that he felt cornered and that he needed to talk to me. So I went as agreed, despite the additional risk that it now entailed. I cared a lot for Leo. More than for anyone else in the world.’

He said the latter very quietly indeed. I gave an appreciative nod and lowered my voice too when I replied.

‘Then it is undoubtedly your hair and fingerprints that were found in the flat, and in the bedroom. Is that right?’

He gave a tiny nod. Even though we were sitting on our own, at a safe distance from the few staff and customers who were there, his voice was almost a whisper when he answered.

‘Yes. But not a lot happened there yesterday. We lay with our arms around each other; that was it. Leo needed intimacy more than anything, and was too nervous and tense to do any more.’

Again I gave an understanding nod, as if we were discussing the football results. A couple of new, younger, customers who had just come in pointed, or rather, waved at us. The man I was talking to gave a friendly wave back.

‘That is quite usual, and really rather nice,’ he explained in a whisper. ‘Both Leo and I were quite comfortable with our fame. But of course our already peculiar double life was all the more peculiar because of it. It was very odd at times, in the midst of our joy, to know the fear of rejection and what the reaction might be if our secret got out.’

‘And how long had this been going on?’

‘We have known each other for five years, but have only had secret trysts at his flat for the past seven months. We had met relatively frequently in various connections before we dared to admit it, even though we both felt more and more certain. In the end it was I who had to take the initiative, by dropping in at his place uninvited. He was extremely careful in public, more cautious than most. But he was all the more affectionate when I then came to him.’

It was easy to imagine the situation and I saw no reason to ask for more details.

‘Since then, things have developed as quickly as secrecy permits. Our happiness within the confines of his flat was in stark contrast to our increasing fear and paranoia outside. I think it was even worse for Leo than for me. He was terrified of how his family would react if the truth came out, especially his conservative and more than slightly tyrannical old man.’

Again I nodded to show my understanding. It all sounded believable enough.

‘So no one in his family knew about this?’

He shook his head, tentatively.

‘Not as far as I know. Some of them may have had their suspicions, but Leo thought that they still knew nothing. He was afraid that someone might discover us, and that his siblings and stepmother might even use their suspicions to turn his father against him. And he was worried that his mother would find it hard to accept. I am absolutely certain that he told no one, not even his mother. It was largely because he could not bear the thought of the pressure from his family – he feared that more than losing the money.’

He gave a deep sigh, and looked longingly out of the window as he carried on. Suddenly, despite his size and muscle, he reminded me of a small caged bird.

‘Leo commented only a few weeks ago that if he only inherited a third of the money when his father died, then we could let the world think what it liked and escape to a more tolerant city in a more tolerant country for a few months. Somewhere where we could walk hand in hand in the streets, like other couples who are in love, and not worry what other people thought of us.’

He still had a dreamy look in his eye when he turned back from the window. Then he recognized the danger and had to backtrack.

‘Please don’t misunderstand. I think it was never more than a romantic dream for him to comfort himself with when life got too demanding. If he had inherited the money, we could both have left our jobs easily enough, but it would still have been very hard to leave our families and sports, certainly if we ever wanted to return. I am absolutely sure that Leo did not kill his father. Off the tracks, Leo was the kindest man on earth. I remember the qualms he had after killing a wasp in the window last autumn. That is what I liked most about him. He was a good, kind man through and through, whose only wish was to be allowed to live his life in peace without creating problems for others.’

I slipped in a quick question as to whether, only hours before his own death, Leonard Schelderup had said anything about his father’s murder. His guest shook his head in apology.

‘I told him last night that I would always love him, even if it turned out that he had killed his father. But all he said was that it was not him and that he had no idea who put the nuts in his father’s food. He stood there in the middle of his living room and repeated it again and again, for the last time just as I left. They were the last words I heard him say.’

He looked out of the window again as he said this. I was about to put my hand on his shoulder, but then changed my mind. The situation felt fraught enough as it was, without any physical contact.

‘It’s so sad that Leo is dead. I miss him terribly already and it hasn’t really sunk in that he’s gone. But in a way, it might have been worse if he had to live his whole life constantly having to hide who he was. On several occasions we talked about the possibility that maybe, towards the end of our lives, society might have changed so much that people like us could show our love without fear or shame. I am an optimist and believe that it will happen. Leo was not so certain. He could be quite the pessimist, no doubt thanks to his family and upbringing. There had not been much joy in his life. And now it’s over. And I, the great love of his life, have nothing to remember him by. I don’t even know if I dare go to the funeral.’

The tears were running down his cheeks now. He tried to disguise it with a shallow cough, and then dried his face with a light-blue handkerchief.

‘So I sincerely hope that you will find whoever killed him. I think it must have been someone in his family, but have no idea who. His father would have been my prime suspect, had he not already been murdered himself. You only have to ask if you have any more questions, but to be honest, I am not sure that I have anything more to tell.’

He answered the remaining routine questions clearly and concisely. Leonard Schelderup had been frightened by the threatening telephone call, but had not said who he thought it might be. It looked as though he had had another visitor earlier in the evening, but he had not wanted to say who it was or what they had discussed. There had been cups and plates on the table when he arrived, and they were still there when he left.

In answer to my final question regarding his own alibi, the man opposite me said that his wife and perhaps his two older children would be able to verify that he came home at ten to midnight.

It was only then that I fully understood the absurdity of the situation. But I could also safely say that the man I was talking to had left the scene of the crime before the fateful shot was fired. I sympathized with his grief and pain. But the idea that he would be welcomed home that evening by his blissfully unknowing wife and children, who had not the faintest idea of his double life and betrayal, was hard to swallow. So I left what remained of my cake, thanked him for the information without shaking his hand, and hurried back out onto Karl Johan. It was nearly one o’clock and almost time for my next appointment.

IV

Widow Maja Karstensen was older and greyer than I had imagined. She must have been closer to eighty than seventy and used two sticks to walk the few steps across the floor of her tiny flat. But her smile was youthful and the coffee was ready on the table. When I asked her if she had known Arild Bratberg for a long time, she replied in a voice that was both friendly and helpful.

‘Yes, I would say so. Arild was born in the flat next door, and I visited him and his mother the very same evening. She was my best friend, Mrs Bratberg. You see, I couldn’t have any more children of my own, the doctors had told me so three years earlier when I barely survived the birth of my second son. So it was a real joy to have a little one on the stairs again.’

I nodded and let her take the time she needed to continue. Her progress was steady, if not fast.

‘Arild was a bit of surprise. His brother and sister were about fifteen years older and his father was over fifty. He died just a few years after Arild was born, so things were often not easy for Arild and his mother. Arild was small and puny as a boy, never the strongest or the smartest. But he was as kind and helpful as the day was long. And he seemed to be doing all right for himself just before and during the war. He had got himself a job as a messenger boy down at the Schelderup office in town and seemed quite optimistic about the future. He had a bicycle and dreamt of buying his own car one day. But then…’

She suddenly floundered and fell silent, but found her voice again after drinking some coffee.

‘But then there was that terrible murder on Liberation Day. There were so many awful things going on at the time, and so many good men found their lives turned upside down by some terrible thing that happened one day during the war. Arild was one of those whose lives changed most, and in the most inexplicable way. But it was the word of a rich man from the best part of town against that of a poor lad from the east end. So Mrs Bratberg and I quickly realized how the court case would end.’

I took the liberty of commenting that the version of events that Arild Bratberg wanted the court to believe was rather wild. She let out a sad sigh.

‘Yes, indeed, it was a bizarre story. Even I doubted it until more recently, and there were times over the years when he really did seem slightly mad. But then, as time passed, I too became more certain that it did not happen in the way it was told in court. Arild had his clear moments when he was sober. And he always repeated that the court judgement from 1945 was wrong. He used to say, “I might well be mad now, but I wasn’t back then.”’

Maja Karstensen was not the quickest of people and perhaps never had been. But I suspected that for most of her life she had been one of the kindest. Her voice was still gentle when she continued.

‘It was quite obvious that Arild did lose his mind. When he was released from prison he came back home and his mother looked after him as best she could. She had little time for anything else. He was never really himself again. At any time of the day or night he would suddenly start to rant and rave about the murder; he said so many strange things, even when he had not touched a drop. His mother left the flat to him before she died in 1955. She thought that his brother and sister could manage fine on their own without it. But they didn’t like that at all, did they? So he was left completely on his own after the death of his mother.’

Maja Karstensen took another short pause. Suddenly her gaze fled out of the window, over the back fence. In a strange way, this grey-haired woman reminded me in that moment of the national football player I had met earlier in the day.

‘I gave my own sons to Norway and the sea, and neither Norway nor the sea gave them back. The elder one was on a boat that was torpedoed, and drowned somewhere near Shetland on 5 April 1944. I was informed of it in a letter that I received one day after the war, when I still hoped that he would come back. My younger son was on a ship that sank in the Pacific, and after seven days at sea in a lifeboat he finally managed to swim ashore to Australia. He wrote to me that he would never dare venture out onto the water again. So he stayed there, on the other side of the world, and is still there today, as far as I know. I still send letters to his old address at Christmas and Easter, but the last reply I got was for Christmas in 1953. So after my friend died, I ended up looking after her son. It was not always easy, believe me. For many years he was unbearable when he was drunk, and very depressed when he wasn’t.’

I nodded in sympathy. It was easy enough to imagine. Maja Karstensen had escaped her own loneliness by continuing in her best friend’s orbit around her sick son.

Arild Bratberg’s life was clearly a terrible tragedy. But I did not feel that I was any closer to solving the murder mysteries from 1969 – until Maja Karstensen suddenly uttered a couple of short, but very intriguing sentences.

‘Despite being ill, Arild seemed to be calmer in the final few months of his life. I suppose it was in part because he realized that he was going to die and accepted it. And perhaps, more importantly, he had finally met a couple of people who seemed to believe him.’

I gave her my full attention and encouraged her to carry on. She gave another of her gentle smiles, but then shrugged and opened her hands.

‘As far as I could understand, a man and a woman came to ask him about the old case, and it seemed that they both believed what he told them. But I am afraid that I don’t know who they were. Whether they meant it or not, I am very grateful to them because they helped to ease his burden in those last few months.’

I of course immediately asked when these visits had been, and whether she could remember any more of what Arild had said about them. She hesitated for a while.

‘It must have been in the winter or early spring. As I understand, the man came first and the woman shortly after. He mentioned them separately, but I can’t be sure. Arild was not the most orderly person and sometimes months could pass before he told me things. It is also possible that they never came at all and that in his despair he imagined they did. But I don’t think that is the case.’

And neither did I. And I would have given my eye teeth to have seen the faces of the two people who had been there. I had a strong feeling that I would recognize them both.

I asked what had happened to Bratberg’s flat. Maja Karstensen sighed heavily.

‘I washed and cleaned it and removed all the empty bottles, but otherwise it is as it was when he died. It turned out that a few weeks before he died, he left everything to me in his will. So his brother and sister, who have not been here for nearly twenty years, have now sent a letter through their lawyer stating that the will is not valid because he was mad. Where the case will end, heaven only knows.’

I expressed my sympathy and said that I hoped that she would get the inheritance she deserved. Then I asked if it would be possible in the meantime to have a look at the flat. She nodded and then slowly, almost ceremoniously, unhooked one of the two keys on her key ring.

V

Arild Bratberg had spent his final years and died alone in a one-bedroom flat on the second floor of a building in Rodeløkka. The flat was not a particularly inviting place in which to do either. The walls were impregnated with smoke and the paint was flaking in several places. It only took a quick look to see that Maja Karstensen had done a very thorough job of clearing the place after his death. Any hope of finding fingerprints left by guests who had been there a few weeks or months ago was as good as zero.

Arild Bratberg had obviously not been a systematic man or writer. He had left behind a substantial collection of books, but only a small pile of handwritten papers. The writing was simple, with a mixture of small and capital letters. I found seven postcards with Christmas greetings on them, all addressed to Gaustad, all written by either his mother or Maja Karstensen. There were also four pages, torn out from magazines, of crosswords that had been abandoned halfway. The pile also contained three reminders for electricity bills, the last of which was very pointed. Then I found two rough drafts of a will that did indeed leave ‘my flat and contents, 325 kroner in my post office savings account and the two ten-kroner notes under the coffee tin, and anything else of value that I might own, to my precious neighbour, Maja Karstensen’.

At the bottom of the pile lay a small, plain sheet of paper with nothing on it but a name and a date. It left me transfixed, however, for a couple of minutes.

Then I put down the rest of the papers in the pile and took the single sheet of paper with me. I went back to Mrs Maja Karstensen and asked if she recognized the name on the piece of paper.

She thought about it long and hard and, in the end, said that she could not recall ever having met the man, but that Arild had mentioned his name. Could it perhaps be someone who worked at the Schelderup office during the war? I nodded, thanked her for her help and rushed away.

I was very impatient to get an explanation as to why there was a piece of paper with only ‘Hans Herlofsen, 12 February 1969’ written on it in the late Arild Bratberg’s flat. But I would have to wait for a few more hours to find out. It was already half past two, and I had agreed to meet a woman at three o’clock who had been waiting twenty-eight years for my visit.

VI

At first glance, Mona Varden looked younger than I had expected. She was fifty-two, but in a photograph could easily have been mistaken for a woman in her forties, with her black hair and pale skin. There was, however, something about her face and movements that was heavy and serious, which aged her when you met her in the flesh. She gave a small smile when she saw me. I got the impression that she had not laughed for years – perhaps not since the end of the war. Her hand was heavy and firm, and rested in mine for a few moments.

‘Thank you so much for coming. I am so grateful that a young policeman such as yourself wants to make amends for the neglect of your seniors, even though I do realize that it is the more recent murders that have sparked this interest in my husband’s death.’

I could not deny this. So I gave a friendly nod and assured her that I would very much like to clear up the mystery surrounding her husband’s death at the same time.

Mona Varden had a spacious and tastefully decorated two-bedroom flat from the early 1900s. The most striking feature was a door that was barricaded by a large bed.

The coffee and cakes were already on the table when I came into the living room. As was Bjørn Varden. The photograph was old, but his eyes were still clear. The picture showed a tall, fair-haired and handsome man in a dark suit on his wedding day. His wife’s dress was a dazzling white, as was her smile.

She pointed to the picture and gave another fleeting smile.

‘That was on Sunday, 13 October 1939, in Gamle Aker church. The war had already started in Europe, but here in Norway everything still felt very safe. We had to marry in a bit of a rush, but were thrilled to do so. We had been together for a little over two years and I had wanted to get married for as long. But Bjørn had had a hernia when he was younger and was afraid that he might not be able to have children. And in that case, he wanted me to be free to choose another man, or so he said. Even though I assured him time and again that he was the only one for me. Then on 1 October 1939, I told him that I was pregnant. He wept with joy and asked me to marry him on the spot. We ran hand in hand to the priest, who granted us dispensation and agreed to marry us two Sundays later. We were the happiest people in the world that autumn, even though we only had a room in my mother’s flat and had to borrow money for the wedding meal.’

I nodded and waited patiently for her to continue. Mona Varden lost herself in her memories for a while, but came back to earth before the coffee got cold.

‘When our love child was born, she was born into an occupied Oslo. It has plagued me since that I tried to stop Bjørn the first time he mentioned joining the Resistance. I thought that his primary duty was to make sure that his daughter had a father. He said that his duty was to ensure that all the brothers and sisters she would have later were able to grow up in a free country and lead valuable lives. And he was, of course, right. My saving grace is that I soon gave in and later supported him wholeheartedly.’

She looked slightly worried when she said this. I hastily commented that I was sure that he understood and appreciated that.

‘We lived in constant fear. Especially after Hans Petter Nilsen was killed by an unknown murderer in his own home. We hoped that we would be safer because there were two of us.’

With a slowness in her body, she stood up and pointed towards the bed that was barricading the door.

‘My daughter and I slept in that bed, which was pushed up against the door to the bedroom behind. The idea was that if a murderer broke in, he would stop either out of compassion or because he could not get past us without causing a commotion that would wake Bjørn. I have since realized that Bjørn thought differently. He knew that the window was the risk, and we would be safe on the other side of the door.’

She carefully pushed the bed to one side and waved for me to follow her into the bedroom. I got quite a shock when I crossed the threshold, and only reluctantly went into the room.

Bjørn Varden’s bedroom had been kept as a museum of his murder, and of the man who had died in the bed here twenty-eight years ago. Some photographs of him had been hung on the wall. But the rest of the room was exactly as it had been on the morning she came in and found him dead, his widow assured me. I believed her.

‘My daughter and I had all the space we needed in the rest of the flat. For many years I could not face walking through this door and, as I said, I have waited until today for the police to come and ask questions.’

She took a couple of deep breaths before she continued.

‘We did realize that the window might be a risk. It was easy to open from the inside in case he needed to escape, but it was equally easy to open from the outside if the person trying to get in knew what kind of window it was. We thought it would be safe, as we were on the first floor, but an intruder would need no more than a short ladder to get in. We truly believed that no one would do it, and that no one knew which window and bedroom it was. But we were wrong.’

I asked quickly who might have known about it. She let out a great sigh and then answered.

‘Everyone in the group: the Wendelboes, Magdalon Schelderup and Hans Herlofsen, as well as the late Ole Kristian Wiig. They had been here for a meeting only three days earlier. And then there was, well, the one who I always thought…’

‘In other words…’

‘In other words my former friend, Magdalena Schelderup, who very conveniently happened to come by for a coffee only a few days before. We had just moved in, you see, so I played the good hostess and showed her around the flat when she asked. Of course, I did not mention the issue with the window, but goodness knows whether her eagle eyes picked it up.’

I nodded appreciatively, and felt my pulse racing. Once again, there seemed to be much to implicate Magdalena Schelderup. I asked if there had been any contact since.

‘With Magdalena? No, nothing. Either she killed my husband, or understood that I suspected her of it. She was certainly wise enough to stay away.’

Mona Varden stood alone with her sad memories for a moment or two. Then a cautious smile slipped over her lips.

‘The others were terrific. I got money from the Wendelboes and Schelderup, so that I could stay here for the rest of the war. One day after it ended, Magdalon Schelderup himself came to see how we were, my daughter and I, and to ask how much we would need for the years ahead. He spoke to Wendelboe about it, and since then, they have deposited all the money I need into my account in January each year. I received 6,000 kroner a year from 1946 to 1951, then it was 8,000 until 1958, and from 1959 I have received 10,000 kroner every year. I have always thought that Magdalon suspected his sister but was not certain, and that he therefore showed a generosity that was not seen by many. Whatever the case, it was incredibly kind of him.’

I had to agree. It was incredibly kind of Magdalon Schelderup. And not like him in the slightest. Out of interest, I asked how long the money had continued to come into her account. Mona Varden looked almost ashamed when she replied.

‘I still get it. I wrote to them when my daughter moved away from home a few years ago, and said that I could now start to work again, but the money continued to come. It was around that time that Bjørn’s first grandchild was born. So I simply accepted the money and used the time to look after my daughter’s child.’

I could not think of any other questions, so I asked how life was for her daughter and grandchild.

‘As well as could be hoped. My daughter did not suffer the financial difficulties that many other children without fathers did after the war. But she did grow up without a father and things did not go as well at school as I had hoped, even though I got a private tutor for her for a while. Bjørn was not here and I was here all the time. I suppose she is too much like me and too little like him.’

She looked serious when she said this, but then she brightened up again.

‘She has a son who is three years old now. He is called Bjørn, and is so like his grandfather. Come, have a look!’

The boy in the photograph was very sweet and all smiles. However, other than the colour of his hair, I could see no noticeable similarity between him and the Bjørn Varden in the old photographs. But it was not relevant to my investigation and I trusted that Mona Varden was a better qualified judge of that. So in my friendliest voice I said that there was a remarkable similarity and that he was obviously a very intelligent little boy. She responded with a warm smile.

To get back on track again, I then asked if she had lived here alone with her daughter for all these years.

‘Yes. I said before the wedding that it was him or no one, and there was no one after him. In the years after the war, there were a few not entirely unsuitable men who showed an interest. But I wanted to dedicate my life to Bjørn’s daughter, and, well, when you find the person you love dead and never manage to find out who killed him, it breaks something in you that can never be fixed.’

That was understandable enough. But I had to ask whether any of those who had shown an interest were men she had known during the war.

‘Never Magdalon Schelderup and never Petter Johannes Wendelboe, if that is what you mean. Both had married well, and when Schelderup later got divorced, he was married again within a matter of weeks. So the help that he gave me seems to have been with no strings attached. On the other hand…’

She hesitated, but then carried on when I indicated impatiently that she should.

‘On the other hand, there was a time when I got the impression that the manager, Hans Herlofsen, was interested. It was in the period just after he had lost his wife, when life was no doubt difficult for him and his young son.’

She noticed my astonishment and promptly continued.

‘It was completely harmless. He stopped by a couple of times after work, talked about how much time and money two single parents, each with their own child, might save by getting married. He was not someone I would have chosen anyway. And, more importantly, I still had nothing to give any man other than Bjørn, and did not think that I ever would. I helped him to understand this and he paid no more visits. It has always been pleasant enough whenever we have met again over the years. But I really do not see what that has to do with any of the murders.’

Neither did I, if truth be told. However, I noted down a new question for Hans Herlofsen, and reflected that he had obviously forgotten to tell me rather a lot.

I remarked that I had probably seen all that I needed to in the room where her husband had been killed and that she could now do whatever she wished with the room, with a clear conscience. She shook her head sadly.

‘I would love to tidy out the room, but I am not ready for it yet. I hope that I will be able to start the day after you tell me who murdered my husband.’

I took the hint and stood up to leave. I heard my voice promise to do my best and said that I would let her know as soon as I discovered anything new. At the same time I thought to myself that, no matter who had killed Magdalon Schelderup, he had indeed left a sad collection of people and fates in his wake.

VII

When I left Mona Varden at around four o’clock, it was clear to me, given the day’s findings, that I should pay another visit to one of the parties. It would be impossible to finish the day without having confronted Hans Herlofsen with the new information, in particular the piece of paper from Arild Bratberg’s flat. I stopped by the office to see if there was anything new there.

Most of the staff had gone home for the day and, as I expected and feared, there were no new messages from the forensic department.

There was something that caught my attention, however, waiting all alone on my desk. It was a small, slim envelope addressed to ‘The head of the investigation into the murder of Magdalon Schelderup’.

The typeface was the same as the letter that I had received the day after Magdalon Schelderup’s death. This envelope also contained a single sheet of white paper. However the text was even shorter this time.

Here, now.

So one of the dictator’s children has gone.

More may follow, if you do not soon find out which of us is doing wrong…

I sat there staring at the piece of paper. Patricia’s preliminary conclusions about the first letter were certainly reinforced by the second. If the sender really was the murderer, he or she was without doubt a mediocre poet who for some reason or other felt the need to show off to the police.

But I was unable to glean any more than that from the brief letter. And there was one obvious and disturbing conclusion: that more dramatic deaths were to be expected.

The sender had, reasonably enough, not signed this letter either. I made a photostat copy of it and sent the original to be checked for fingerprints – without any high hopes. With the naked eye, I could see that it was the same type of envelope, addressed in the same way as the last letter.

But there was one small, strange difference. Whereas the back of the last envelope had been white and unblemished, I discovered a tiny mark from a green pen on this one. It was a straight line, not even an inch long. But somehow I could not bring myself to believe it was accidental. In a peculiar way that I could not even explain to myself, the short green line only increased my confusion and concern about future developments in the case.

VIII

Hans Herlofsen’s house out at Lysaker was larger than I had expected. It was of roughly the same size as the Wendelboes’ house, a spacious home spread over two floors, with a well-kept garden. Herlofsen’s old Peugeot somehow looked out of place.

The front door was opened by a young woman with a small toddler dozing on her arm. She gave a cautious smile and said that her husband had not yet come home from work, but that her dear father-in-law upstairs was at home.

I found Hans Herlofsen in a large dining room, seated alone at a big table with the remains of an early supper in front of him. He immediately indicated that I should sit down on the other side of the table. His face took on a doleful expression when I complimented him on such a beautiful, well-kept house.

‘It would be hard to find another man in this town who is more attached to his house than me. I was born on the ground floor and have lived here for all fifty-five years of my life. We have a wonderful arrangement now whereby the younger generation live downstairs, on the promise that I can live here until I die. I could not imagine my life without this house and my son. It is a small miracle that I have been able to keep them both. And to have acquired a daughter-in-law who is a good cook into the bargain.’

‘The contents of the will must have been an enormous relief for you?’

He nodded.

‘I am more than happy to admit that. It was as though a dead weight I had been carrying around for some twenty years had been lifted, when I heard the will being read. As long as there are no complications or anything like that, I can now forget my past and start saving my own money. I have learnt to live frugally, so with no more interest and down payments to make, I should be able to save around 4,000 to 5,000 kroner a year. With the current interest rate, that could amount to nearly 100,000 before I am seventy and can retire. Which means that I could leave my son and his family a house with no mortgage and a healthy bank account. I have never asked for more, after all that has happened.’

It seemed a shame to ruin his happy, carefree mood. But it was easier to do so now that I knew he had withheld important information.

‘I apologize, but I am afraid that I have to ask you some more difficult questions. I am, after all, leading a murder investigation, and Magdalon Schelderup’s death was clearly a great release for you.’

Hans Herlofsen wiped his brow with a look of concern.

‘No one would deny that, but I have been perfectly open about it. There are at least three others who have gained considerably more than I did, before you even count the unborn child. I had no idea that the will had been changed and, had it not, his death would quite frankly have spelled my ruin. So I find it hard to see that as a motive and, in any case, I did not kill him.’

His reasoning was logical enough. But there were still some questions regarding issues that Herlofsen had not been so open about, and I was intrigued to see how he would react.

‘I went to speak to Bjørn Varden’s widow today. She told me that you courted her shortly after the war. She even remembered your calculation of how much you could save if the two of you got married.’

Herlofsen was thoughtful for a moment. A sad smile twitched at the corners of his mouth before he answered.

‘And I still remember those figures too: the average financial outgoings of both households multiplied by 0.75… That is an embarrassing episode that I had hoped she had forgotten, and I cannot see how it bears any relevance to the present murder investigation. It only illustrates how desperate I was for the first two or three years after my wife’s death, both socially and financially. Mona Varden made it clear in a very considerate manner that she was not interested and I left without protest. I later realized that it was best for everyone. I had no money and was living under such enormous pressure that I would not have been a good husband to her or any other woman. And I have since understood that she is still deeply affected by the painful memories of her husband’s death. So it would have been like the deaf leading the blind.’

‘There are those who would see that as a possible motive for killing her husband – if it is assumed that the killer was in fact someone else in the Resistance group.’

Herlofsen looked at me with a sudden cold animosity.

‘Well I sincerely hope that no one does. Bjørn Varden was a good friend of mine and I would never have harmed him. What is more, I was myself happily engaged when he died. It is of course not unthinkable that his murderer might have been one of the six surviving members sitting at the table when Magdalon Schelderup died. But in that case, it must have been one of the other five.’

I gave him a friendly smile, and intensified my attack on his crumbling defences.

‘I want to believe you, but you will first have to give me a credible explanation for this document, which I found earlier today in Arild Bratberg’s flat.’

Herlofsen looked at the piece of paper and pulled a grim face. He sat in silence for a minute, sighing heavily twice before starting.

‘Both the name and the date are correct. I should have told you, but I feared that I would be unfairly suspected of murder and estimated that the risk of any traces being left of my visit was fairly slim. The truth is that I visited Arild Bratberg on 12 February this year. I had pondered on it for a long time, because I wanted to find the answer to one of the mysteries from the war. I had heard rumours that he was in a very bad way indeed and thought to myself, well, it’s now or never. Which turned out to be the case. According to the notice in Aftenposten, he died thirty-two days after my visit.’

‘And how was the visit?’

He shook his head sadly.

‘Very difficult. Emotional conversations like that have never been easy for me. The man was very obviously dreadfully ill, slightly intoxicated and smoked incessantly. He struck me as being rather unbalanced. He repeated his story from the trial over and over again and swore on his mother’s grave that it was Magdalon Schelderup and not he who had shot Ole Kristian Wiig on 8 May 1945. He wept as he spoke and, by the end, was almost on his knees, begging me to believe him. It was an extremely uncomfortable experience and I regretted ever going there.’

‘But what did you say to him?’

He looked straight at me, without flinching.

‘In the end, I told him the truth: that I believed him. It made him so happy. I still think the details of his version were incredible. But I knew Magdalon well enough to know that he was capable of doing more or less anything if his own interests were at stake. Arild Bratberg was so deeply unhappy and sincere that I estimated the likelihood that he was telling the truth to be well over 50 per cent.’

He pointed at the piece of paper.

‘He seemed to recognize me as soon as I arrived, even after all these years. I did not say my name and was not sure that he knew who I was. Obviously he did. So even though he was confused about other things, it would seem that the events from the war were still very clear in his mind.’

I nodded in agreement. Hans Herlofsen was a logical man and obviously remembered more than just numbers. I thought I noticed a tremor and was even more ruthless in my attack.

‘During the visit, did Arild Bratberg ask you to kill Magdalon Schelderup?’

I half expected that he would collapse in his chair. Instead, he straightened up. Again I caught a glimpse of the stronger, harder man behind the pleasant façade.

‘No, certainly not directly. He repeated several times that Magdalon was a calculating killer who should have been shot after the war. But he never said a word about killing him now, and did not ask me to, either. He was a broken and resigned man.’

‘Do you know if any of the others involved in the case have been to see him – before or after you?’

He shook his head firmly.

‘No. He did not mention anyone, but he did say that I was the first person to visit him for years, other than the woman next door. I did not contact him again later and none of the others have said that they went to see him.’

We finished the conversation there, on a relatively civil note. I asked him to let me know if he had anything more to tell me. It seemed to me that he hesitated for a second, but then he replied that he had nothing more to tell or declare, as he put it with a small smile. He repeated that he had not murdered Magdalon and did not know who had done it.

We said goodbye fairly politely at five o’clock. His hand was definitely sweaty now.

On the way back into the centre of Oslo, I passed Lysaker station just as a train was pulling out. Standing alone on the platform was a young man in his twenties who had obviously run to catch the train, but not made it. He looked so lonely and bewildered that I hoped his life would not be off-kilter for more than an hour or so. But that image of a completely unknown young man at the railway station stayed with me as an illustration of the tragedy of the now-deceased Arild Bratberg’s life. No matter whether he was guilty of murder or not, Arild Bratberg had been left alone on the platform as the train pulled out after the war with all the others on board. And no matter whether he was guilty of murder or not, his loneliness and confusion were so great that he stayed there for the rest of his life.

As far as Hans Herlofsen was concerned, I knew that he had not had an easy life either, and I did feel some sympathy for him. But all the same, I did not trust that he was not the murderer, in fact even less now that he had told me the truth. When I thought about it, the same was also true of several of those who were still alive. And I would meet one of them very shortly, as I was now on my way to Magdalena Schelderup’s flat in Gulleråsen.

IX

‘Why did you choose not to tell me that your fiancé in 1940 was none other than Hans Petter Nilsen, who was shot by the Dark Prince the following year?’

Magdalena Schelderup looked tired and fractious. It struck me that she appeared to be older and more bitter than when I met her five days ago. She defiantly lit another cigarette before answering.

‘Well, first of all, because I did not think it was relevant any more. And secondly, because I assumed that either the Wendelboes or Herlofsen would have told you already, and that you would ask if you felt there was a need. It is not something that I am proud of. A broken engagement in 1940 with a man who left me because I was a member of the NS, and who then became a war martyr. I have talked about it as little as possible since.’

‘There is much to indicate that the Dark Prince may well have been one of the others who were around at the time. There are no doubt some who might think that revenge on a man who let you down was a possible motive.’

Magdalena Schelderup blew some smoke out into the room and then crushed the cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray.

‘I know more than a few who would dearly love to believe that, yes. But it is pointless all the same. The very idea that it was a crime of passion founders on the fact that I never loved Hans Petter and that he did not leave me for another woman. I did not miss him after he broke off the engagement. But I did cry for several hours when I heard that he was dead. Even though I did not love him, he was a good man. The fact that he had been shot in the dark in his own home by an unknown killer did not make it any easier. After all, I had lain there in that very bed with him only a few months before. So I dressed myself up in black and went to the funeral and have since spent many an hour speculating about who might have killed him. But I have never found a sure answer.’

‘But you had your suspicions about who the Dark Prince was?’

She lit another cigarette. And once again it crossed my mind that there was something odd about her hands.

‘Yes, I have had plenty of time to think about it as I whiled away the hours here on my own. In fact I have had several theories over the years. But there is one that I believe in more than the others. I am going to keep it to myself, though. It is rather tenuous and I do not like spreading rumours.’

Her answer was absolute. So I moved quickly on.

‘And then there was the strange coincidence with Bjørn Varden. As I understand it, you happened to be in the flat only days before he was killed. Is that right?’

Magdalena Schelderup stubbed out her cigarette in a burst of fury and then slammed her bony hand down on the table.

‘My, everyone suddenly seems very keen to blame an old scapegoat. I won’t even ask if it was the Wendelboes or Bjørn Varden’s poor widow who told you that. I have always had nothing but sympathy for her. She lost her one true love in a much more painful way than I did. Though to be fair, she still had a child to live for, which is more than I did.’

The fire in Magdalena Schelderup’s ageing body flared up fast, but then died down again just as quickly. Her eyes were darker and her voice weaker when, after a slight pause, she spoke again.

‘I knew Mona Varden through her sister, who was in my class in the final year at school. We got on well back then. Then one day we met on the street and, as I had no children of my own, I was utterly charmed by hers. So I accepted her invitation to come in. I did not just turn up on her doorstep, and I knew nothing about the murder of her husband. In fact, I don’t think I ever met him.’

I had nothing more to ask her. But then, all of a sudden, I did, when I saw both of her hands on the table and realized what it was that was different.

‘But tell me, what has happened to your first engagement ring, the one that you said you would never take off?’

My apparently harmless question triggered an unexpected reaction. Magdalena Schelderup sobbed and hid her face in her hands before answering.

‘I wish I knew myself. I was wearing it when I drove to Schelderup Hall for the reading of the will on Monday. There was so much drama there that I did not notice until I was back home that I no longer had it on. The only explanation is that I took it off when I washed my hands in the bathroom before the will was read. I phoned immediately, but they claimed not to have found it in either the bathroom or anywhere else. So I just hope that it will turn up again somewhere, but it seems less and less likely. I have no idea who has taken it, but I am sure that it was one of the others who were there. They all hate me.’

I did not say anything. I had again hoped for an explanation but had instead uncovered another mystery. I remembered clearly that I had in fact noticed something odd about Magdalena’s hands at the reading of the will. When I looked at her bony old hands without any rings on, they reminded me suddenly of an eagle’s claws.

‘I am so upset about it. I drove around all the pawnbrokers in the area today, but no one has offered them anything similar. They would hardly have got any money for it. But I would give everything I have to get it back again. The ring is the only thing I have left from my love. Without it, I have nothing to show that we were ever together. For years I have had the notion that the day the ring disappears, I am not long for this world. I am a lonely old lady now and I perhaps believe in fate and other supernatural phenomena more than you young people do today.’

We sat in silence following her outburst. She seemed to be very old and tired, and I just felt more bewildered. Magdalena Schelderup’s missing ring was yet another mystery within the murder mystery. I promised her that I would keep my eyes peeled for the ring and would contact her immediately should it turn up.

She seemed to appreciate that and apologized as I left for being so emotional. New murders that unearthed old bodies were enough to rattle anyone’s nerves, she said. And it was easy enough to believe her, especially when I heard the safety chain going on only seconds after she had closed the front door behind me.

Magdalena Schelderup was increasingly becoming the incarnation of a bitter, lonely old woman. But I had to admit that she still had a sharp mind and sharp tongue. And I was not at all sure that she was not also a sharpshooter.

X

It was now half past six in the evening. The starter and main course had been eaten and the day’s events recounted. While we waited for the dessert to be served, Patricia sat in silence with a look of deep concentration on her face.

‘I do not like this case in the least, no matter how interesting it is. We are getting closer to the heart of the mysteries from the war and the past few days, but the details are becoming ever more alarming,’ she added after a pause.

‘The new letter…’

Her nod was very grave indeed.

‘That is one of the things I like least of all, yes. There may be a danger of more deaths. And what is more, the green pen mark on the envelope reinforces a terrible suspicion that I have and sends a shiver down my spine, even though I am sitting indoors in May.’

She was quite literally shivering in her wheelchair.

‘The letter is extremely short and very like the previous one, but there is not much more to be learnt from it, other than that it is possibly the same person who carried out both murders, or is there?’

To my astonishment, Patricia was already shaking her head.

‘This letter is very similar to the last one, but also very different. The same type of paper, the same type of envelope, the same type of stamp and the same type of typewriter. And both contain the same pretty useless rhyming. But whereas the first is very detailed in content, the second is noticeably vague. No date, no details of the murder, not even the name of the latest victim. There is nothing to indicate that the writer had even been to Leonard Schelderup’s flat. So it is best that we keep all options open for the moment.’

Beate came in with the dessert, which today was a delicious chocolate pudding with whipped cream. As usual, Patricia did not say anything while the maid was in the room, but then quickly carried on as soon as we were alone.

‘The disappearance of the ring is also ominous, even though I do not believe in fate or other such superstitious nonsense. Either Magdalena Schelderup is lying about why the ring has disappeared, or one of the others has taken it. Neither of which is accidental. So I am more or less certain that one of the parties involved now has the ring, and that he or she has a plan for it, though I have not the faintest idea of what that might be. And the fact that I have not the foggiest about something I need to know is very unnerving indeed.’

The latter was said with an ironic smile. But Patricia was serious again as soon as I asked my next question.

‘What are your thoughts about Hans Herlofsen?’

‘A lot of what he says may be true, but I doubt that it is the whole truth. The pot of gold left to him in the will, though overshadowed by the three main bequests, has been bothering me. It is not at all like Magdalon Schelderup to write off a debt as easily as that.’

I sent her a questioning look and she let out a patronizing sigh.

‘Let’s do a little thought experiment: you are Hans Herlofsen, you believe that Magdalon Schelderup was the Dark Prince, you owe him lots of money, you see that he is starting to get old and you have no reason to expect any generosity from his wife and daughter. What would you do?’

I thought for a while and had to admit that she had a point.

‘First of all, I would hope for the best, but that would not appear to be very promising in the case of Magdalon Schelderup. So, the other alternative would be to confront him with it.’

Patricia nodded.

‘Precisely – which is probably what I would do. Or discuss the case with Wendelboe, who I know Schelderup holds in awe. In fact, perhaps I would do both. Ask Wendelboe and Herlofsen about it tomorrow. When you speak to Wendelboe, ask him detailed questions about his wife’s involvement too. I suspect that he comes from the old school who would rather not lie to the police, but that he reserves the right not to say anything about things he is not asked about.’

‘The mysteries from the war, you mean?’

Patricia leaned forwards across the table.

‘We are discovering more and more interesting details and personal stories. It has been a very successful day in that way. Both Arild Bratberg and Mona Varden have been unable to move on from events in the past and are thus human flies. But they are also satellite people. Mona Varden is still orbiting her husband, nearly thirty years after his death. Bratberg had a kind neighbour who circled around him while he clearly was still caught in an outlying orbit around Magdalon Schelderup. And as far as the story from 1945 is concerned, I am surprised that no more attention was given to one very interesting detail in court. Hint: in search of lost time…’

Now, I had heard the book title In Search of Lost Time, but I could not remember who had written it, or see its relevance here. Patricia waited with a teasing smile until I lost patience and demanded that she give me an explanation.

‘It is incredible how often in court cases and investigations it is possible to overlook blatant problems in relation to time. It could be that there is not enough time for the given event to take place, or the opposite: that there is too much time. As is the case here. Magdalon Schelderup’s account may appear to be plausible. But quite some time must have passed between him waving to the policemen outside and them coming up the stairs and into the room; say half a minute, if not a whole minute. Which is a long time in a situation like that. The young Bratberg appeared to be completely petrified. And yet they came in at the door just as Magdalon Schelderup took the gun from his hand. He would have needed nerves of steel to shout out of the window when he was standing with an armed man who had just shot his colleague. But what is even more peculiar is that he took such a long time to take the murder weapon from the paralysed man. That may of course be what happened, but it could not have happened in the way he described in his statement.’

It did seem strange that neither I nor anyone else had thought about this. Out loud I said that I would definitely have thought about it had I been investigating the case. Patricia did not look convinced, so I moved swiftly on.

‘Whereas Arild Bratberg’s apparently insane statement…’

She responded on cue.

‘… given the time perspective, in fact works rather well, yes. It would seem that both the police and the court did not take the case seriously enough. The time issue is one thing. Another is that no one seems to have had intelligence enough to imagine that in some situations, apparently irrational behaviour is in fact the most rational.’

I must have looked puzzled, as Patricia sighed with exasperation again.

‘Imagine the following situation: Ole Kristian Wiig and Magdalon Schelderup find something in the flat that constitutes a shocking revelation, and it would be a catastrophe for Magdalon Schelderup if it ever got out. The only way to avoid this, then, is to shoot Wiig immediately before he can tell anyone. Schelderup knows that Bratberg is mentally fragile and that an unexpected murder might paralyse him. But how then would he escape and prevent Bratberg bearing witness? If he shot Bratberg as well, he would clearly be guilty. What would you do?’

I eventually realized where she was going and had to admit that, true or not, it showed creative thinking.

‘What I would have done, before it was my word against his, was perhaps to make up a simple and credible story about the other person in the room being the murderer. And then also behave madly myself in the hope that he would become even more confused and come across as the less credible of the two, even when he was telling the truth.’

Patricia nodded slowly in agreement.

‘Exactly. All of a sudden, the most irrational behaviour was the most rational. If that is in fact what happened, it demonstrates how terrifyingly quick-witted and cynical Magdalon Schelderup could be. So I am working on the theory that Bratberg’s apparently incredible account is true and that it was Magdalon Schelderup who shot all three Resistance men during the war.’

I had seen it coming now and was therefore not so surprised when Patricia dropped the bombshell that Magdalon Schelderup himself was the Dark Prince. The idea that the Resistance hero Magdalon Schelderup could also be a double agent and triple murderer now seemed plausible. But I was yet to be fully convinced.

‘The way you present it now, it all seems very plausible. But I would still like to keep the option open for the moment that it might have been one of the others, most probably either Hans Herlofsen or Magdalena Schelderup. Because that is equally possible, is it not?’

Patricia nodded somewhat reluctantly.

‘I don’t think that it is very likely, but yes, it is absolutely possible.’

‘And if we move on from the war to the murder of Magdalon Schelderup…’

Patricia nodded, this time in clear agreement. Then she carried on herself.

‘… then all options are still open, yes. However, if my theory is correct, it does not rule out that Hans Herlofsen or Magdalena Schelderup, for example, murdered Magdalon Schelderup. Thus far we do not know enough to rule out even one of his guests. They all have or could have strong motives, and the motives simply multiply and get stronger if he did commit one or more murders during the war. The real challenge…’

I had an inkling of what was coming, but it was unexpectedly fast and concise when it came.

‘… is not to explain why anyone killed Magdalon Schelderup, because everyone around that table might have wanted to do it. The real challenge is still to explain why anyone would kill Leonard Schelderup. And also why in the world the gun was left by the front door.’

I nodded.

‘Well, the mystery of the guest has been solved, at least. It would seem that you were right, that it has nothing to do with the murder.’

Patricia sat deep in thought again. It was obvious that she was struggling and more preoccupied with the murder of Leonard Schelderup.

‘Leonard Schelderup’s male lover definitely had nothing to do with the murder. The fact that Leonard Schelderup had a male lover may, however, be of some interest. I would be keen to know how much his father and brother knew. Do ask the brother about it next time you see him. But there is one thing that puzzles me, in connection with the will…’

She hesitated a moment, but then continued.

‘It may be of no significance, but it is worth noting. In the first will, Leonard Schelderup was left ten times as much as his brother. In the second, they were equal. It would seem that something had happened to improve Fredrik’s standing. So I would like to know whether Magdalon knew about Leonard’s secret and, if so, when he found out.’

I promised to do my best to find out. My visits to Patricia had a tendency to result in both important new conclusions and new tasks.

She stopped me unexpectedly for a moment as I was about to go out of the door. When I turned around, her face was sombre and pale.

‘I should perhaps say that I find this case more and more alarming. And if the theory that is forming in my mind is anything close to the truth, the case will be the epitome of human evil.’

The sudden gravity with which she said this took me aback, but reinforced my own feelings of danger and unease. I knew her well enough to understand that as there was still so much uncertainty, she was not ready to say any more about her theory. So I put my best foot forward and went off to carry on with the investigation.

XI

It seemed to me on the evening of Wednesday, 14 May that the case was becoming more and more intense. It was almost to be expected that the telephone would ring in the evening now, once I had come home. This time it was no later than a quarter past ten and I had just turned on the box to watch the evening’s documentary about the slums of New York.

Once again it was Sandra Schelderup’s voice I heard at the other end. At first I feared that there had been another death, this time involving Maria Irene. But there was no mention of catastrophe and no angry outburst. Her voice was controlled and in no way unfriendly.

She apologized for calling me so late. But she was suddenly unsure about something that was potentially of great importance, so she simply wanted to check whether we had found her husband’s sizeable key ring, either in his pocket or his office.

I replied, as was the truth, that we had not found a key ring of any size, and that she would of course have been told if we had removed anything from the house.

There was silence on the line between us for a moment. Total silence.

‘But…’ Sandra Schelderup eventually said, when the silence became unbearable. Then she went on in a hesitant voice.

‘But it is not here. So someone must have taken Magdalon’s key ring. And it has keys to all the rooms, cupboards and cars here at Schelderup Hall on it, as well as keys to several other people’s homes. Magdalon liked to have keys to the homes of as many of those close to him as possible; it was part of his need to control.’

I felt a chill spread through my body and straight away asked which other keys were on the ring. Sandra Schelderup said that she believed he had the keys to both his sons’ homes, his sister’s and his ex-wife’s, possibly also Herlofsen’s, but probably not to his mistress’s and almost certainly not to the Wendelboes’.

I promised to follow this up immediately, and the first step in doing this was to ask Sandra Schelderup if she would like police protection at the house. She wavered, but then said that it was not urgent. It was perhaps more important to warn the others as soon as possible. I agreed with her and therefore finished the conversation. I did, however, add that she should give my regards to Maria Irene, which she promised to do.

I still did not trust Sandra Schelderup. Though she did seem to be getting better as the investigation went on. But I was by now already dialling the first number.

It did not take long to phone around. Mr Wendelboe confirmed that Schelderup did not have a key to his house – ‘not even during the war did he have one’. He denied any knowledge of the missing key ring on the part of himself and his wife.

Synnøve Jensen stated simply that her dead lover had not had a key to her house. Magdalon had at one point asked to have a key, but had unexpectedly backed down when she explained that she only had one and reassured him that her door would always be open for him: all he had to do was knock.

Ingrid Schelderup was at home and sounded relatively calm when I spoke to her. She confirmed that her former husband had a key to her flat. He had asked for it shortly after their divorce and she had not wanted to say no. For many years, she had hoped that he would one day use it but, alas, that had never happened, she added with a mournful sigh. Ingrid Schelderup promised to put on the safety chain, and, if possible, to change the lock in the morning. In the meantime, she would be very grateful for police protection. She was still shaken by the events of the past few days, so I arranged fora policeman to go to her house before I phoned anyone else.

Magdalena Schelderup was, understandably enough, not so pleased to hear my voice, but thawed as soon as she realized that I had phoned to warn her that the keys had been lost. About which she seemed to be remarkably calm. Her door was already reinforced by a security lock and an extra latch and padlock. It would appear that Magdalena Schelderup was the only one who was cheered by the disappearance of the keys.

Hans Herlofsen was curt and bitter in his reply that Magdalon Schelderup had always had a key to his house. It was the symbolic subjugation that pained and frustrated him most, but he was sadly in no position to oppose it. He did not trust what Magdalon Schelderup might do in a crisis, and had also secured his door with an extra padlock. Now that his son’s family were living on the ground floor, he reckoned the risk of any danger to be ‘well under 10 per cent’. Even if you disregarded Leonard Schelderup and the murderer, he was still one of eight possible victims should there be any more attacks. And in any case, he could not fathom who would be interested in killing him, now that Magdalon Schelderup himself was dead. In short, Hans Herlofsen also seemed to take the news with relatively good humour, given the circumstances.

Fredrik Schelderup, however, was in a foul mood, even given the circumstances. He sounded as though he had had a glass or three to steady his nerves already, even before I phoned. Whether it was the number of glasses, a late reaction to his brother’s death, or whether it was because there was a threat to his own safety was hard to say – though I strongly suspected it was the latter. He certainly lost his self-control when I told him that the keys were missing. It was a violent and in part incomprehensible outburst, the gist of which was that the police should have discovered this before and that surely, in 1969, a man should be able to feel safe in his own home, especially in Bygdøy. There was a loud bang when he threw the receiver onto the table.

He was, however, more subdued when he picked it up again a few seconds later. Despite the alcohol in his blood, Fredrik Schelderup was almost his usual self-centred and relaxed self. When he heard my offer of police protection until he got a new lock, he immediately accepted, but then added that the policeman standing guard must not stop two beautiful young ladies who might drop by, as they had nothing whatsoever to do with the case. I mentioned that there were a couple of other things that I would like to ask him about, but that it would perhaps be better to talk tomorrow when he was more sober. He laughed and signed off with a cheerful, ‘Here’s to that.’

After I had arranged for a policeman to go to his house, I sat there deep in thought. It was not hard to understand that Fredrik Schelderup was under enormous stress following the murders of his father and brother. But it felt as though I had seen a glimpse of another even more egotistical and slightly less jolly Fredrik Schelderup on the phone. All of the nine remaining guests from Magdalon Schelderup’s last supper had now been informed about the missing key ring. They had all denied any knowledge of its whereabouts. It seemed highly improbable that none of them knew. But when I eventually went to sleep around midnight on Wednesday, 14 May 1969, I was no closer to knowing who of the nine had the keys and what they planned to do with them.