Satellite People

I

My start to Thursday, 15 May 1969 was certainly far from the best. I had scarcely got into the office before the phone began to ring. It was my boss, who asked me to come to his office immediately. I knew straight away that something was wrong. As 17 May was Norway’s constitution day, the day’s newspapers were, in preparation for the national holiday, dominated by advance reports about the launch of Apollo 10 in the USA and the launch of Thor Heyerdahl’s Ra expedition in Morocco. The short, concerned notices that stated there were still no developments in the ‘difficult and important’ investigation into the murders of ‘multi-millionaire Magdalon Schelderup and athletics star Leonard Schelderup’ did, however, warn that a possible media storm might be brewing.

Even though my boss was in the better of his two possible moods, this was, as anticipated, not a pleasant conversation. I understood that he and the rest of the station were, following the murder of Leonard Schelderup, under mounting pressure to get some concrete results. This in turn meant that there were others internally who were also increasingly impatient to have the case solved. The question as to whether there was anything new to report was therefore becoming urgent. If there was still nothing concrete, then there might be a need to increase the number of people involved in the investigation.

I told him the truth, that nothing decisive was imminent in the form of an arrest or the like, but that the investigation had made a number of important breakthroughs and that there was every reason to hope that both the cases would be solved soon. Yesterday’s written report was hastily supplemented with some of Patricia’s conclusions, without mentioning her name or the fact that I had been to see her, of course.

I finished by asking whether my boss, with his formidable experience and skills, could glean anything more than I had thus far from the available information. He smiled and shook his head pensively. The outcome was that I would work overtime on 15 and 16 May, and if no arrests were imminent then we would discuss the case again at some point on the 17 May holiday.

Once out of my boss’s office, I heaved a sigh of relief. Now, if not before, it struck me that there were obviously plenty of colleagues who would only be too happy to challenge my position. And I stopped at none of the other offices on the way back to mine.

II

If the start of the day had been a bit troubled, the rest of the day was all the better for it. The first telephone call was from Schelderup Hall. It was Sandra Schelderup who rang. Her voice was still friendly and respectful. She wanted to thank me once again for leading the investigation so well, and added that both she and her daughter would be very grateful for an update on the situation if I was able to drop by in the course of the day.

I had no real plans for the day, other than talking to Herlofsen and Wendelboe again. So I replied that I also had a couple of questions that I would like to ask them, and hoped that I could be there around lunch. She said that they looked forward to seeing me.

I had just put the phone down when there was a knock on the door. An out-of-breath fingerprint technician was standing outside, as he wanted to tell me in person about the sensational find from Leonard Schelderup’s flat. On a bureau by the door in the living room, they had unexpectedly found a single but clear and relatively new fingerprint that corresponded to that of one of the women who had been fingerprinted at Schelderup Hall following the murder of Magdalon Schelderup.

The faces of the women who could have been there flashed past me before he said the name. And it was the name that I hoped it would be. Two minutes later I was in the car on my way to Gulleråsen. I turned off before Schelderup Hall. This time I was very interested to hear what Magdalena Schelderup might have to say in her defence.

III

I arrived at Magdalena Schelderup’s flat with every expectation of solving the case. The result was nothing more than yet another depressing conversation. Either Magdalena Schelderup was a better actress than I thought, or she was genuinely distraught. Again and again she repeated that she had never learnt to tell the whole truth in time and that she should of course have told me this before. With tears in her eyes and desperation in her voice, she also repeated over and over again that Leonard Schelderup had been alive when she left his flat. And that she had no idea who might have killed him or her brother.

Her story was simple enough and, I had to admit, not entirely incredible. Following Magdalon Schelderup’s death and her interview with me, she had guessed that the finger of suspicion was pointing at her and Leonard, in the first instance. For want of children of her own, she had always got on well with her nephew. So the day after, she had called him and asked if they could meet to discuss matters. He had said she was welcome to come over. She had gone there early in the evening and they had had a pleasant enough conversation, given the situation. She had urged him to confess if he had murdered his father, and said that both she and the others in the family would understand if that was the case. Leonard had been categorical: he had nothing to confess. His aunt had, at the time, not been sure whether she believed him or not. Which she did of course now, she added, with a pained expression on her face.

Leonard Schelderup had, if one was to believe Magdalena, been relaxed for much of the conversation, but had suddenly become very agitated after a telephone call from an unknown caller around nine o’clock. She had been standing beside him and had been able to hear the voice on the other end well enough to make out the words. The person was accusing Leonard of murdering his father, and threatened that he might soon be murdered himself if he did not lay his cards on the table. The caller then hung up as Leonard replied in desperation that he had nothing to confess. He had been extremely agitated and wanted to call me straight away after the phone call. So she had beaten a hasty retreat. He had locked the door behind her. And that was the last time she had seen her nephew alive, she said, with tears in her eyes.

‘He liked you and hoped that you could solve the murder of his father,’ she added swiftly.

It was without a doubt well intended. However, we were both struck by it. I had, three days later, still not solved the murders of either Magdalon or Leonard Schelderup. And in the light of today’s conversation, she was now the prime suspect for both.

I asked why there was only one fingerprint in the flat, and why it was on the bureau by the door. The answer was that due to the gravity of the situation, she had not wanted to leave any traces in the flat of another suspect, so she had not smoked. She had been wearing gloves when she came in and had tried not to touch anything. Leonard had put out some coffee and biscuits, but she had on purpose not taken anything. She thought the fingerprint on the bureau was probably because she tripped on her way out and put a hand out to steady herself.

Magdalena Schelderup realized just how tenuous her situation was and asked me straight out if I intended to arrest her. The thought was tempting, especially given the conversation with my boss earlier in the morning. But I knew only too well how harsh the backlash could be in the event of hasty arrests, and had to admit that there was really still no evidence against her. And her explanation tallied with Leonard’s telephone call to me and the statements from the neighbour and Leonard Schelderup’s lover. It was of course possible that Magdalena Schelderup had returned sometime between midnight and three in the morning and then murdered her nephew. But there was no indication whatsoever that she had done this. So I concluded that any arrest would have to wait, but asked her to tell me immediately if she knew anything else of importance.

Magdalena sat and thought as she smoked her cigarette. Then she stubbed it out with determination.

‘In that case, under duress and against my will, I will confide in you something I promised many years ago never to tell another living soul, which is a promise I have kept to this day. And it is the name of the person who got me to join the NS in 1940…’

‘And that is…’

She hesitated for a beat, and then launched into the story.

‘My dear older brother, Magdalon Schelderup. He came to my house one evening, put an already completed form down on the table and asked me to sign it. He had done the same with my brother. It would secure the family fortune in the event of a German victory and would be of no consequence should the Allies win. Fortunately we will never know if the first conclusion was right, but the latter certainly was not. I know that from bitter experience in the years after the war.’

Then she added: ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

I thought about what Patricia had said about the chronology of events in 1940 and heard myself saying that I was not sure if it was of any importance to any of the murders, but that based on other discoveries I had made in the course of the investigation, I could in fact believe what she said about the NS membership.

Our parting was almost friendly. But my suspicion of Magdalena had only been strengthened by this latest failure to tell the whole truth. I had come there in the hope of a confession and left with the growing doubt that she actually had anything to confess.

IV

Even though I had more exciting things to ask both Herlofsen and the Wendelboes, I thought I might as well pop into Schelderup Hall as I was in Gulleråsen already.

Sandra Schelderup met me personally by the front door and looked as though she was in far better shape. She gave concise and clear answers to my questions. Following yesterday’s conversation, she had searched high and low without finding the missing key ring. The lock on the outside doors would be changed within a few hours and once that was done, she would not need to use precious police resources. There had been no signs of any disturbance at Schelderup Hall for the past few nights and the dogs had been quiet.

She said she realized that it was a very complex investigation and that I might not be able to say much more here and now, but that she hoped we were making progress. I confirmed this and said that we had our suspicions. Sandra Schelderup trilled with relief to hear this and said that her daughter wished to speak to me and would no doubt appreciate this news too.

V

The door to Maria Irene Schelderup’s room was closed, but was quickly opened when I knocked on it.

Her room turned out to be a combined bedroom and study. There was plenty of floor space, even though she had a separate corner suite with a television and stereo player, a large desk and a neatly made-up four-poster bed. In the doorway stood a smiling Maria Irene in an unexpectedly elegant outfit: a fitted black cocktail dress. The light caught the gold chain she was wearing around her neck and sparkled in the red diamond pendant.

Maria Irene had obviously been studying as some of her schoolbooks were lying on the desk, but she waved me in and closed the books. I commented that books on economy and law were not part of the curriculum when I took my exams. She laughed and replied that that was still the case, but that she was going to university in the autumn and, anyway, she was not an ordinary pupil.

I could not have agreed more, and queried whether such elegant working clothes were normal at Schelderup Hall. She laughed and replied with a quick wink that she only wore this when she was expecting very special guests.

I did not have much to tell her about the investigation, nor did I have many questions to ask her. As far as the ring was concerned, her answer was more or less the same as her mother’s, as was the case regarding the key ring and the situation at Schelderup Hall. The only thing that she added was an apology for her mother’s emotional outbursts in connection with the reading of the will.

We stayed sitting on the sofa all the same and time simply flew by. There was no doubt that Maria Irene still fascinated me more than any of the other parties in the case, despite the fact that as their pasts unfolded, their lives were far more gripping. There was something about the dignity and calm that she exuded, combined with her youth and beauty, which stood in sharp contrast to the outbursts from Magdalena Schelderup and the other older people who were nearing the end of their lives.

I allowed myself to say that it must have been very difficult for her to witness such tragedies in her close family at such a young age. Maria Irene assured me that she would cope, but admitted that the past few days had been very demanding. She thanked me with a very sweet smile for my concern.

Maria Irene placed her small hand on my shoulder as she said this. Her hand was softer and warmer than I had imagined. It was only now that I noticed that the top three buttons of her dress were undone, so that the upper part of her young bosom was visible.

I would later have considerable problems explaining even to myself what happened in the next few seconds. I seemed to leave my body in some peculiar way. I heard Maria Irene’s voice saying that she had found the last days here at Schelderup Hall very difficult and lonely, and that it would cheer her up immensely if I would dance with her. I heard my own voice saying yes, that taking three minutes out of my working day must surely be allowed, and certainly if it was to help her. I saw Maria Irene smile, lean forward, put a single on the turntable and start the record. The movement meant that even more of her bosom peeped out from under her dress and the gold chain.

Then, suddenly, we were up and I was dancing with her to the tune of a hit from a couple of years back, Nancy and Frank Sinatra’s duet ‘Something Stupid’. Under the veil of the music, Maria Irene whispered to me that it was her favourite song and that it was kind of me to dance with her. I replied that the song suited her well. I thought that Nancy Sinatra’s voice was very like Maria Irene’s, but that Maria Irene was more beautiful.

Whether I actually whispered this to her or not, I could not say for certain later. I remember that I thought her body felt safer and firmer in my arms, that her smile was more beautiful, and that her red lips were even closer to mine. I could hardly avoid letting my eyes slide down her neck, and did not even try. First they rested on the spectacular diamond, but then they slid down even further to look at her spectacular breasts. I was struck by the dizzying and slightly absurd thought that I had been asked to dance by a very beautiful young heiress who was worth at least 40 million kroner, in her home, when no one else was there.

We seemed to glide in circles over the floor as though entranced, with a slightly unreal feeling that I had never experienced before on the dance floor. But then again, I had stepped out onto a very special dance floor with a very special young lady. We were over by the record player when, to my annoyance, the music faded out. To my relief, Maria Irene let go of one hand and deftly put the needle down again.

We continued to dance and circle round the room for another three minutes. Our circuit took us from the sofa to her four-poster bed. As the melody faded for a second time, Maria raised her red and breathy mouth to mine. It stopped less than an inch away. I looked down into her dark eyes. And in that moment I felt certain that she would not object in any way if I was to do the only thing in the world that I wanted to do. In other words, to lift her up and kiss her beyond all reason.

Suddenly I was at the point where the temptation was so overwhelming that the rest of the world and all its worries seemed to disappear. This time it felt as though I forgot not only time and place, but also age and planet. I looked down into Maria Irene’s face, with an almost taunting smile curled on her red lips and a twinkle in her brown eyes, but still that bottomless calm. I felt a flash of teasing anger, and a deep desire to remove that taunting smile and peace from her face. In my ears I heard a kind of echo of Maria Irene’s voice from our first interview, remarking that Synnøve Jensen was surprisingly voluble in bed for someone who otherwise was so quiet. And I was instantly overcome by an irresistible desire to find out what sort of sounds were hidden in Maria Irene.

I had just lifted her up the tiny distance that still separated us when we were quite literally brought back down to earth with a bump by a noise outside in the hallway. There was a knocking at the door and an extremely irritated maternal voice said: ‘Maria Irene, if the detective inspector is still with you, please do not plague him with that terrible music of yours.’

It was the first time in the investigation that I had actually hated one of the parties involved. I would later be very grateful to Sandra Schelderup and shudder to think what might have happened if she had come a little later or, even worse, walked straight in. It is more than likely that ten seconds later I would have been standing there with my tongue in Maria Irene’s mouth. And it was not unfeasible that a minute later, I would have been lying on top of her on the four-poster bed, the spell felt so strong. But thankfully it was broken by her mother’s voice. I let go of Maria Irene instantly, as though she was burning – which in fact was perhaps not so far from the truth.

We each took a couple of steps back in our shared fear that her mother would open the door. Within five seconds, Maria Irene had reached the record player and lifted off the needle. And she had already fastened the top three buttons of her dress, so that her bosom was hidden again. Then, in one lightning movement, she pulled off the gold chain and hid it behind her back.

I heard my own voice say very loudly that I was happy to have the music on, but I still had to ask about the missing ring and key ring. Maria Irene answered – also in an unusually loud voice – that she had helped to look for both those things, to no avail.

The danger passed quickly. Her mother left without even trying to open the door. But the magic had gone and the floor was firm beneath my feet. I was back in my body and had, to some extent, regained control of my mind. So I thanked Maria Irene and said rather loudly that I had now got the answers to all my questions, certainly for the time being.

Maria Irene smiled again and assured me – again in a voice that was perhaps louder than necessary – that I was welcome back whenever there was a need, if anything cropped up where she might be of help. She then added in a very quiet voice that she hoped she would be able to invite me back at some point later, once the case had been solved and the investigation closed.

I gave her a sheepish hug as we parted. It was then that I noticed that she had opened the top two buttons of her dress again. I mumbled that she should take care in the meantime and retreated swiftly.

Sandra Schelderup was waiting by the front door. I got a fright when I saw her, but then calmed down again when she said that she hoped that I had not found the music bothersome. She added that her daughter had a strong personality and her rebellious streak had become more apparent in the days since her father’s death. I assured her that it was fine and that she had a super daughter and said they should take good care of each other until the case was solved.

Safely back in the car, I sped through the gate as I contemplated what had happened in those minutes in Maria Irene’s room and wondered if it was real or a dream. My conclusion was that I had in reality been uncomfortably close to what could have been my life’s worst nightmare. At the same time, it could also be the opening for a dream situation once the investigation was closed, if only we arrested someone soon. I promptly agreed with myself that this episode must under no circumstances be mentioned to Patricia. And that I would simply write in the daily report to my boss that ‘both mother and daughter maintained once again that they had no knowledge of the missing key ring or the missing ring’.

VI

By the time I swung in to park outside the Wendelboes’ house in Ski, I was more or less in full control again. The investigation was now my biggest and only passion. Contrary to the situation only half an hour ago, I was now deeply grateful to Sandra Schelderup because she had so inadvertently prevented what might otherwise have turned into a scandal. I could not bear even to think about what my boss and jealous colleagues would have said, or what the media might have written about the case. So I thanked my lucky stars that I had been stopped in time, and promised myself to be more careful in my personal dealings with the people involved. Certainly until the case was closed. And I hoped that the Wendelboes might help me to do this.

Petter Johannes Wendelboe once again opened the door himself. I asked him how he and his good wife were keeping and was told that, unfortunately, things were still much better for him than for his wife. This was the closest to humour that I had known Petter Johannes Wendelboe to come and I felt that it was a promising start. So I suggested that perhaps we two should talk on our own again, without his wife. He nodded and showed me into the living room.

I got straight to the point and told him what I had discovered about Herlofsen’s visit to Arild Bratberg. Then I waited in anticipation for some kind of reaction, which never came. This reinforced my suspicion that I was onto something now. I reminded him that he had given a clear no to my question as to whether he had been in contact with Arild Bratberg or not. He immediately confirmed this. But to my question as to whether his wife had been in contact with him he replied, to my surprise, yes.

I looked at him askance, without eliciting any further reaction. I finally fathomed what the situation was, and asked the right question: in other words, whether Herlofsen had contacted them after his visit.

‘Herlofsen came here one day in the middle of February and was unusually agitated. He had been to see Bratberg and heard the story as you told it just now. As a result, he was now inclined to believe that it was Magdalon Schelderup himself who had shot Ole Kristian Wiig and that he might even be the Dark Prince. He asked me to consider whether we should confront Schelderup or take some sort of action. But that never happened, of course.’

He fell silent. I was starting to get to know Wendelboe now, and had understood what was needed to prod him, which was a concise question.

‘But you considered it enough for your wife to go and visit Arild Bratberg?’

Wendelboe nodded.

‘She went on her own initiative, in fact, without asking me. Yes, it is true that she went to see him and that she returned with the same impression as Herlofsen. The possibility of confronting Magdalon Schelderup was discussed again later. But never realized. Certainly not by us.’

‘Certainly not by us… So you think it is possible that Herlofsen may have acted alone?’

He shook his head.

‘There is nothing to indicate that he did, but that is of course not to say that he didn’t. He came here to discuss the possibility. And we dismissed it.’

Wendelboe’s stony face closed again as soon as he finished speaking. It felt as if I was banging my head against a brick wall.

‘When you say confrontation or action, could that possibly include an attempt on his life?’

‘Herlofsen did mention that as an option. But he never acted on it, certainly not as far as my wife and I know.’

It frustrated me to admit that I was not going to get any further here and now. So I said to Wendelboe that I would unfortunately also have to confirm this with his wife. He got up without a word and went out into the hallway. I stood beside him as he called up to her that she had to come down.

She appeared from one of the rooms almost immediately, visibly frail, but dressed and on her feet. We sat at the table and I asked her the same questions as I had asked her husband, and was given the same answers.

Yes, Herlofsen had come to see them and talked about the possibility of either confronting Magdalon Schelderup or taking some form of action. Yes, she had gone to see Arild Bratberg on her own initiative and she also believed his version of the story. Yes, the three of them had discussed the possibility of how to tackle Schelderup afterwards. But no, nothing had actually been done. At least, not as far as she knew.

The atmosphere in the room during this conversation was sombre, but not unfriendly. I regretted that I had not asked Mrs Wendelboe to be there from the start, but had little reason to believe that it would have made any difference. The extent to which the Wendelboes’ version was true or not was not easy to say. But it struck me that whatever the case, it was watertight before I came to see them. So I asked them to stay at home for the rest of the day and not to contact Herlofsen. Then I drove across town to see him.

VII

I found Hans Herlofsen where one might expect to find him at half past three on a working day: in the office in the centre of town, hidden behind a pile of papers full of figures and columns. He remarked in a quiet voice that work was the only thing keeping him going.

I assured him straight away that that side of the case was clear-cut and fine, but that some other important issues had cropped up that we needed to talk about. He nodded and reluctantly pushed the accounts to one side.

‘You told me that you had not contacted the Wendelboes after you went to see Bratberg,’ I started.

The expression in his eyes hardened.

‘No, and they should not have told you that I did. I would not want in any way to cast a negative light on old friends from the war, and I was 100 per cent sure that they had nothing to do with Magdalon’s murder. But if they are trying to lay the blame on me, then I am now no more than 50 per cent sure. And, of course, I should have told you yesterday,’ he added swiftly, in his own defence.

My patience with the people who were only telling me half-truths in this investigation was starting to wear seriously thin. I remarked curtly that he should definitely have told me before. Then I ordered him, in his own interest, to tell me everything he knew that might be of relevance, regardless of whether or not it involved old war comrades, or anyone else for that matter.

He nodded, and started to talk. Unfortunately, his revised version was now very much in line with what the Wendelboes had told me. He admitted that he had contacted them in the middle of February, or 16 February to be precise, and mentioned the possibility of taking some sort of action vis-à-vis Magdalon Schelderup. They had resisted, but twelve days later called him back, after Mrs Wendelboe had also been to see Bratberg. They had then sat round the table and concluded that Magdalon Schelderup was guilty of killing Ole Kristian Wiig, but that the circumstances were so unclear that they did not feel confident enough to confront him in any way. So nothing was ever done. ‘At least, not as far as I know,’ he added, with some hesitation.

I felt a growing anger with the main players in the case. It was clear that it was the Wendelboes and Herlofsen who had been in contact with Bratberg, and that they had then discussed the possibility of killing Magdalon Schelderup. The Wendelboes denied any part of it, but did not rule out the possibility that Herlofsen had acted on his own. Herlofsen denied any part of it, but did not rule out the possibility that the Wendelboes might have acted on their own. And I had no evidence that any of them had anything to do with poisoning him. Once again it felt as though I had come up against a brick wall just when the solution was within arm’s reach.

I asked Herlofsen if he had any reason to suspect Mr Wendelboe. He waited a beat and then replied that he had once, twenty-eight years ago, heard Petter Johannes Wendelboe threaten to kill Schelderup, in connection with him joining the Resistance group. Wendelboe had been most sceptical about letting him join, and at Schelderup’s first meeting had said to him directly: ‘Welcome to the fight for the liberation of Norway. But if it ever transpires that you have betrayed any of us, I will kill you. And if you betray me, I will have made sure that someone else will kill you.’

Herlofsen then commented that it was not entirely unthinkable that he might have carried out this threat many years later. He added that it was the only time in all these years that he had seen anything resembling fear in Magdalon Schelderup’s eyes.

I noted this down with interest and promised both Herlofsen and myself that I would ask Wendelboe about it. Then I carried on with my offensive and said pointedly to Herlofsen that he still had things to explain, and that my conversation with Wendelboe might indicate that he himself had confronted Schelderup with his discovery.

‘Impossible, because…’ he exploded spontaneously.

His face suddenly flushed red. We sat in silence for a short while. Then I finished his sentence for him.

‘Impossible – because you had not told them. But you did, didn’t you? And that is why he changed his will.’

He nodded sheepishly. He put his hands down on the table in an attempt to calm himself.

‘It rode me like an obsession and I was starting to get desperate. I was more and more sure of my case, but Bratberg was dead and Wendelboe did not want to take it any further. They were all right financially, so I was the only one who could do it. So, having stopped at the last moment eight times, on the ninth day I went in to talk to him in his office. It was on 4 April, before I went home.’

There were sparks in Herlofsen’s eyes. I waited with bated breath for him to continue.

‘It was both the greatest and the worst moment of my life. No one could know how Magdalon would react to blackmail. But I felt more and more confident. My hate for him grew ever stronger and my frustration with my financial situation intensified. So one day I just marched in and said it straight out. That I had talked to Bratberg before he died and that I now believed that Magdalon was the one who shot Ole Kristian Wiig. Then I said that unless we could finally resolve the issues that continued to hang over me, I would be forced to share my suspicions with Wendelboe.’

‘How did he react?’

Herlofsen gave a bitter smile.

‘There was no reaction whatsoever. That was when I was convinced I was right. He just sat there in his chair and looked at me with complete calm. I have to admit that I was not telling the whole truth when I said just now that the only time I had seen Magdalon Schelderup show any fear was in 1941. To begin with, he sat in silence. Then he said it was, of course, all nonsense and speculation, but that one never knew what Wendelboe might believe, and it was perhaps time to draw a line under the past. So he took the promissory note and confession out from his drawer, handed them over to me and added that he would specify in his will that my debt to him was cleared.’

It looked as though Herlofsen was reliving the emotions he felt in his meeting with Magdalon Schelderup as he told me about it. His face lit up, but one could also see a shadow of fear in his eyes and a faint trembling in his hands. It crossed my mind that it only went to show that Magdalon still wielded enormous influence over the lives of those closest to him, even after his death.

‘I did not dare to take his hand. So I just accepted them and assured him that I would not make any more fuss. I added swiftly that if anything should happen to me, both Wendelboe and the police would be sent a letter informing them of my conclusion. He nodded and then turned back to his work, while I returned jubilant to my office and burnt both the promissory note and my confession to cinders over a candle.’

Hans Herlofsen smiled, but he was still trembling.

‘That was the greatest moment of my life since the war – greater even than when I saw my first grandchild. But then afterwards, a deep uncertainty came creeping over me as to what he might do. Even though I had warned him, I was on guard for the following weeks. I did not feel home and dry until the will was read out. He might not have done what he said he would, and he might have kept copies hidden somewhere of the documents I had burnt.’

‘But you did not leave any letters ready to be sent to Wendelboe in the event that you were killed, as that was not necessary. Because if you only confronted Magdalon Schelderup once Bratberg was dead, it was already several weeks after you had informed Wendelboe.’

He nodded.

‘Absolutely. I went to see them sixteen days before I went to see him. I would undoubtedly have been willing to take some form of action against him. But only if I could be sure that my financial situation was secured in this way and only if they were willing to be part of it. Once I had the papers I wanted, I would not have been opposed if the Wendelboes had murdered him. I have no idea whether they did or not. I only know that I had nothing whatsoever to do with his death.’

This conclusion was a disappointment that I should have expected. It had felt as though Herlofsen was in free fall. But he still categorically denied any involvement in the murder. There was no evidence that pointed to him as a more likely murderer than either the Wendelboes or Magdalena Schelderup.

I felt no need to thank Herlofsen, despite the fact that he had provided me with some very interesting information. So instead I reprimanded him for not having told me this before. It was already dawning on him just how vulnerable his position was and he was now visibly nervous.

Just as Magdalena Schelderup had done a few hours earlier, he now asked if he was under arrest. After a short pause for thought, I replied that he was still free for the moment, but that he was a suspect and that he had to remain available for further questioning over the next few days. He repeated that he had nothing to hide with regard to the murders. As I left the office, he withdrew into the world of numbers again with a faint smile on his lips. I felt rather uncertain as to whether the smile was connected to the numbers or to the way in which the meeting had gone.

VIII

Fredrik Schelderup and I definitely had a lower percentage of alcohol in our blood today. He was almost totally sober when I arrived, and had even tidied up the table since I was last there.

The first thing we talked about was the missing keys. He apologized for his outburst the night before and said that he would be happy to accept the offer of a constable to keep watch. He remembered his father’s large key ring well: it had always been a symbol of his power and control. His father had had a key to his door for years, but had never used it. Now that he was sober and had the safety chain on, Fredrik was relatively calm about the missing keys.

I used the opportunity to ask him directly whether he knew that his brother had a lover, but that it was not a woman. He was undecided for a moment or two, but then nodded.

‘I might perhaps be lazy, egotistical and generally of no use to society, but I am not a criminal and I do not lie to the police. Yes, I have known for many years that Leonard was happiest in the company of men. I asked him about it when he was nineteen. I had had my suspicions for a while by then. Leonard was good at not saying anything, but was hopeless at lying. He admitted it straight away. He was terrified and asked me never to tell anyone. I promised that I would not. Then I added that I would be happy for him to keep it secret for my part too. It would hardly benefit my reputation as a party animal if people knew that I had a brother who slept with men. The ladies tend to think it is contagious and, what is more, hereditary. That is to say, a number of the ladies I socialize with do.’

I sent him a stern look. He caught it and quickly carried on.

‘We never spoke about the matter again. We both knew what he was and neither of us wanted anyone else to know. So I know nothing about his boyfriends. But I do not imagine there were many. I happened to drive past a restaurant last year and saw him sitting outside chatting to a well-known sportsman. It would not have been noticeable to many others, but there was a kind of intimacy between them that made me guess that my brother had a lover. It also explained why he was in unusually good humour over the next few months.’

‘And how did you feel about it?’

He shrugged.

‘In terms of my own opportunities, I hoped that it would not get out, but I was happy for Leonard to get his pleasure with whoever he fancied as long as I did not need to witness it.’

‘Did your father know?’

Again, there was silence for a while, and this time it was definitely more protracted. Fredrik Schelderup swallowed twice before answering. I registered with some glee a faint trembling in his voice when he did.

‘I hope you appreciate my honesty and openness now. Yes, my father did know. He heard it from me some days after the episode last year that I just mentioned. I thought that it might be of interest to him to know what his son got up to…’

Now I really did give him a very stern look indeed and could hear the indignation in my voice.

‘And the reason that you broke your promise to your brother was that you believed that it might be beneficial that your father knew this before he wrote his will?’

He looked down and nodded. When he spoke again, his voice was definitely shaking.

‘As I hope you understand, I am a greedy but honest good-for-nothing. Yes, I feared for my own position in terms of the will and reckoned that young Leonard would do well regardless. He has always been so determined and conscientious. And I have never been either, so have to get by as best I can with what I was born with: family money and a degree of intelligence.’

I did my best to show restraint and asked Fredrick Schelderup when this might have been, and how his father reacted. He thought hard, his brow furrowed.

‘I cannot remember the exact date, but it was late in the autumn, around November-December possibly. Father was a man of exceptional self-control. All the same, it was obvious that he was affected by the news and that he disliked it intensely. He said “thank you for the information”, and I cannot remember him saying anything like that since I came home from school with an unexpected top mark for one of my exams some twenty years ago. I have no idea if he ever talked about it with Leonard, nor if it was one of his reasons for changing the will. I certainly did far better in the second will than I did in the first, but fortunately that was also true of my brother.’

I noticed that Fredrik Schelderup was suddenly being very familiar with me, and I was not flattered by it, given the conversation.

‘So you broke your promise and let your brother’s greatest secret out of the bag, all to increase your own share of the inheritance. Not only that, you then went on to inherit millions more when your brother was shot. I hope you understand that these developments in the case now make you a prime suspect.’

His temper flared up briefly and there was indignation in his voice.

‘I understand that you have to regard everyone as a suspect, and that inheriting vast sums of money when both your father and brother are murdered may give rise to some suspicion. But other than a fatter bank account, there is no evidence that would point the finger at me more than any of the others in the case. There is absolutely nothing to link me directly to either of the murders. And I have just demonstrated my honesty by telling you something that I am not proud of in any way and that shows me in a very bad light.’

I assured Fredrik Schelderup that he was only one of several suspects in the case and had not yet been given any official status. He immediately calmed down again and said that he was happy to hear that. We parted without falling out, but also without shaking hands.

It was tempting to believe that he was a greedy but honest good-for-nothing. However, I was more certain of his greed than his honesty. A couple of times over the past day or two I had seen a glimpse of a far less jovial Fredrik Schelderup, who seemed to make an appearance whenever his interests were threatened. Despite all other apparent differences, he suddenly reminded me of his Aunt Magdalena. I could appreciate that living in the shadow of Magdalon Schelderup could not have been easy, even if in purely financial terms they had not a care in the world. But I still could not bring myself to like either Fredrik or Magdalena – and I dared even less to trust them.

IX

There was no news of any importance waiting for me when I returned to my office around four. I still had more questions for the Wendelboes, but they were the only ones, and after what had so far been a turbulent day, I desperately wanted to talk to Patricia before doing anything else. So in the end I called her and suggested that we had our daily meeting earlier than usual at five, to which she agreed. In the meantime, I wrote a short report which I left in my boss’s pigeonhole on the way out.

My meeting with Patricia was shorter than usual, and we agreed to limit the refreshments to coffee and cake. I omitted to tell her about my visit to Maria Irene, and mentioned only briefly my conversation with her mother at Schelderup Hall. On the other hand, I told her the day’s other news in great detail. Patricia nodded in appreciation.

‘The investigation is continuing to make significant breakthroughs. We now know who went to see Bratberg, and we have confirmation that the Wendelboes and Herlofsen did speak and may have had some form of plan to deal with Magdalon Schelderup. So now more than ever, all parties have some kind of motive to murder Magdalon Schelderup, but we lack any evidence that someone actually carried this through.’

She said nothing for a moment, but then carried on forcefully.

‘But we do know one thing for certain: the circumstances and incidents are so numerous that none of the guests could have acted alone. All of them could have committed one or more murders, but no one could have done it all.’

I could not follow her.

‘Maria Irene and Sandra have alibis for Leonard’s death. But the others, well, alibis are still sorely lacking…’

Patricia shook her head.

‘For the murders, yes, but not for other things. All of them could have put the powdered nuts in Magdalon Schelderup’s food, and all of them could have posted the threatening letters. But all of them could not have phoned Leonard to scare him. It would have been impossible for Magdalena to do it, as, according to the neighbour, she was already there. Hans Herlofsen was sitting in a meeting at the office when the phone call was made. And I think we both agree that Ingrid Schelderup could not have killed her son.’

I was increasingly bewildered.

‘What about the Wendelboes then? Either of them could have called him, or they could have phoned together, and committed both murders?’

Patricia gave an impatient shake of the head.

‘Yes, in theory, but they could not have slashed the tyres on Magdalon Schelderup’s car. They were still in Bergen when he telephoned you about that.’

It slowly dawned on me that this was not only true, but that it could also be of considerable importance.

‘So, what you are saying now is that it must be a conspiracy between two or more of the guests who are still alive?’

Patricia nodded pensively.

‘That is absolutely a possibility. It may also be that there was no organized conspiracy, but that it was more a case of out-of-orbit satellites crashing into each other. Which I think is just as likely. But it is definitely worth bearing in mind that there are obviously several people who have committed a crime here.’

Patricia helped herself to a piece of cake, but sat with it in her hand for a while before she started to eat it slowly.

‘I still think that Wendelboe would find it hard to lie to a policeman. Ask him about his wartime threat, ask if they discussed any concrete plans with Herlofsen about how to bump off Schelderup, and ask Mrs Wendelboe if she telephoned Leonard Schelderup on the evening he was murdered. I hope that they will give you answers that can help us progress. Otherwise…’

Neither of us said anything for a moment. I unfortunately had a good idea of what she was going to say when she continued.

‘Otherwise, we know quite a lot, but not what you should do tomorrow. I do not think there is much hope of squeezing out any more information and it is not obvious where else we might look. So we still lack a catalyst that will help to wind up the case.’

I nodded in agreement and believed that Patricia was thinking the same as me. In other words, that yesterday’s letter had implied that there would be another murder, and that was not the catalyst that we wished for in the investigation.

I left 104-8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street with an uneasy feeling that a new catastrophe was imminent, but I did not know where, when or whom it might impact. With a pang of anxiety, my thoughts turned to Maria Irene, who only a few hours earlier had been so soft and warm and trusting in my arms during our interrupted dance at Schelderup Hall.

X

I arrived at the Wendelboes’ house in Ski once again at around seven o’clock. This time it was Mrs Wendelboe who opened the door with a brave smile and showed me into the living room, where her husband was already seated. The atmosphere was tense, though they both said that they perfectly understood my situation and apologized for not having told me things before that they perhaps should. The tension eased a little when I said that there were perhaps also questions I should have asked sooner.

It was inevitable, however, that my new questions would ratchet up the tension again. As regards his sharp warning to Magdalon Schelderup during the war, Wendelboe immediately admitted to it. They had been in a very difficult situation and he had doubted Schelderup’s loyalty. Mr Wendelboe had, only in our last meeting, admitted that he would have considered direct action against Schelderup if it could be proved that he was guilty of killing his brother-in-law. He did not believe it was certain that Schelderup was guilty, and so had dismissed the idea of doing anything now. Herlofsen had outlined various possibilities and had mentioned times and weapons that might be used. The Wendelboes claimed that they had not wanted to go ahead with any plans. Neither of them had heard Herlofsen mention anything about poisoning, and certainly not in connection with powdered nuts or the Sunday suppers. That is, if one was to believe their joint explanation.

But the real drama happened when I turned abruptly to Mrs Wendelboe and asked her directly if she had telephoned Leonard Schelderup on the night that he was killed. She burst into tears. Her husband looked at me intently, but I also caught a small glimpse of respect in his eyes. Once again, it was he who answered.

‘My wife has had to live with a heavy burden and it has been weighing on her even more in recent days. We hope that it will not be necessary to tell Mrs Ingrid Schelderup about this episode. My wife and I had nothing to do with Leonard Schelderup’s death. But it is unfortunately the case that my wife phoned him and made a threat in the hope that he would confess to the murder of his father. We have obviously realized with hindsight that he had nothing to do with it, and that this does not have anything to do with his death. But it has been hard for my wife to live with the knowledge that she unjustly made such a threat to a young man who only hours later was killed himself.’

I looked questioningly at Mrs Wendelboe. She was still sobbing, and nodded three times before she managed to find her voice.

‘What my husband says is true; it is terrible, and he knew nothing about it. I knew that we had nothing to do with Magdalon Schelderup’s death. But we had only days before sat here with Herlofsen and discussed the possibility of murdering Magdalon Schelderup. I was terrified that Herlofsen would let it slip and that we would become suspects. The thought of how awful that would be for our children and grandchildren was unbearable. And given the situation, it seemed most likely to me that the poor young Leonard had killed his tyrannical father. I wanted to frighten him into a confession, but instead added to the burden of an innocent man in what were his final hours on earth. The world came crashing down around my ears when I heard that he too had been murdered.’

Mrs Wendelboe was so inconsolably distraught that it was impossible to be angry with her. I patted her on the shoulder and thanked her as kindly as I could for her explanation. She asked for permission to go and lie down and left the room with a bowed head. Her husband and I remained sitting and listened to her footsteps as she dragged herself up the stairs.

As he showed me out, Wendelboe thanked me in a quiet voice for my understanding.

‘As you have no doubt understood, my wife has been in a terrible state over the past few days. In a way, she has continued to circle round her dead brother for all these years. And recent events have just brought it all up again. She did not tell me that she had called until afterwards and I immediately said that I wished it was undone.’

I could not help but ask what he had thought the next morning, when he heard that Leonard Schelderup had been found dead. He gave a heavy sigh; things had obviously been difficult for him too.

‘I have to admit that I was actually quite relieved when I heard that young Leonard had been murdered. My wife and I were not involved in any way and the desperately unfortunate phone call was obviously of no relevance to his death. But the steps I had to take as I approached my wife’s bed that morning to tell her about his death felt like an interminable journey. As I entered the room, I thought that the worst thing would be if Leonard had committed suicide and it later transpired that his father had been killed by someone else. I think my wife’s fragile mental health would then have cracked and I would have had to watch over her day and night to ensure that she too did not take her own life.’

I nodded and then shook his hand. I felt sorry for Mrs Wendelboe. And I definitely felt that Petter Johannes Wendelboe was more reliable than Hans Herlofsen. But after the day’s revelations I did not trust either of them, particularly when it came to the death of the much-maligned Magdalon Schelderup.

XI

After my second visit to the Wendelboes that day, I felt empty, both physically and mentally. On my way home, I had to face up to the fact that I had no more leads to follow, either this evening or tomorrow. Following the day’s revelations, I now believed that the murderer was either Hans Herlofsen or Magdalena Schelderup. But I had no idea whatsoever how I would manage to get any evidence or discover a crack in the defence.

And, on top of all the other problems, I felt a physical exhaustion creep over me, which made it even harder to think clearly. I got home around seven, set my alarm for nine and lay down for an hour or two. I fell asleep almost immediately, but did not sleep well. The surviving guests disturbed my sleep. And then I finally slipped into a very pleasant dream where I was dancing with Maria Irene in her room at Schelderup Hall. Just as I bent down to kiss her, we were interrupted – this time by my alarm clock.

As I lay there for a few extra minutes, half awake, I had to admit to myself that I was more than fascinated with Maria Irene, I was in fact in love with her.

I felt sure that this had nothing to do with her money and property. The diamond on the gold chain, which symbolized her wealth, was no more than an insignificant detail in my memory from Schelderup Hall. The image that had burnt itself into my mind was her red lips, only a breath away from mine, and the glimpse I had seen of the tops of her beautiful young breasts. As I lay there in bed, I made a pact with myself that I would make a serious attempt to see the rest of them as soon as the case was over. In my dozing daydream, I lay with her for a few moments more in her four-poster bed at Schelderup Hall, with her mouth gasping for mine, her naked, moaning body under mine. She was no longer relaxed and in control, but quite the opposite; unexpectedly wild and passionate.

This dream was definitely the highlight of the day so far. But one absolute requirement was that the murder case had to be solved before I could even begin to follow up on the dream. At half past nine, I got out of bed alone and moved into the living room. I spent the next hour in an extremely frustrating state where I could not think of anything other than the case, but at the same time was unable to make any headway.

XII

For a change, my phone rang at half past ten in the evening on Thursday, 15 May. This time it was Synnøve Jensen’s distraught voice that I heard at the other end.

‘Maybe this is silly… But Magdalon said something to me not long before he died, something that I don’t understand. And I also have something I think I should show you. I should probably have done so before. It is all very peculiar and I may have done something wrong without knowing it. Would you be able to come here first thing tomorrow morning?’

I hesitated a moment and then asked if she had received some kind of threat. She immediately replied no, and then added that it was probably not so urgent I needed to go there now, straight away. But I felt more and more uncertain. There was something about the intensity of the case and the memory of Leonard Schelderup phoning me in the evening and then being found shot before I could meet him the next day. So I pushed my tiredness to one side and said in a determined voice that I would come immediately.

It took no more than two minutes from the time that I put down the receiver until I had my coat on and was out through the door. But all the same, I felt reasonably calm as I left my house.

It was while I drove through the night alone in my car, heading towards Sørum, with no means of communication with Synnøve Jensen, Patricia or anyone else, that I was overwhelmed by a sudden unease.

This was probably due to a combination of the anxiety I thought I detected in Synnøve Jensen’s voice, the fact that Leonard Schlelderup had been shot only hours after he called me and yesterday’s letter warning of another death. Whatever the case, I felt a rising anxiety and put my foot to the floor. Visibility was good and there was very little in the way of traffic. In a strange way, the great silence and loneliness of the road only served to heighten my fears. My thoughts were preoccupied with what it was that Synnøve Jensen thought was so important to show me, but I could find no sensible answer.

I had been driving well over the speed limit, and at five past eleven I parked the car and made my way up to Synnøve Jensen’s little house in Sørum. The rain was pelting down so I dashed through the dark towards the front door.

XIII

There was no doorbell. I knocked hard on the door three times, without any response from inside. And yet I could see through the small windows that the light was on in the living room.

I called out to Synnøve Jensen, but still heard not a sound from inside. I hammered on the door for a fourth time. Then it occurred to me that it might not be locked. In the same moment, an icy-cold feeling told me that something was wrong, very wrong, and what is more, dangerous.

I knocked on the door for a fifth time. Then I opened it and went into the living room.

The sight that met my eyes was at first an enormous relief. Synnøve Jensen was sitting on the sofa facing me, wearing a simple blue dress, and there was no sign of anyone else in the small room. Her eyes were wide and they met mine.

Another even stronger feeling of danger flashed through me in those few seconds. Synnøve Jensen sat looking straight at me, but did not move. It was a relief when she opened her mouth. But this immediately turned to horror when the blood spilled out. I then noticed that blood was pouring from a bullet wound in her chest. The bullet had clearly been fired too high and missed the heart. There was a pistol lying on the floor by her hand. I vaguely registered that it looked rather old-fashioned, but I was more concerned about the woman on the sofa.

Her staring eyes were wide and frightened. The will to live still burnt bright in them. They told me one thing loud and clear, and it was important: Synnøve Jensen had not shot herself.

I grasped her hand. It was burning. The pulse in her wrist was still there, but barely.

Thoughts tumbled through my mind – that the murderer must have left by the door only shortly before I arrived. But I could not leave the fatally wounded Synnøve Jensen. Her hand held desperately onto mine, as though she was trying to cling to her life through me. Again she tried to say something, but was prevented from doing so by the blood. Her right hand clung to mine. She waved her left hand towards the back of the room, without much force. I instinctively looked up but could see no sign of anyone there.

‘Was it Hans Herlofsen who shot you?’ I asked.

Her eyes met mine, but I could not see any affirmative or negative response. The same happened when I asked: ‘Was it Magdalena Schelderup?’ I could not work out whether Synnøve Jensen did not want to confirm or simply could not.

Synnøve Jensen waved her left hand towards the back of the room again, with even less force. Her eyes looked into mine with a deep desire to tell me something, but she was unable to express what. Her free hand crept slowly up and stopped on her belly. Then her eyes closed.

For some reason, as soon as her eyes closed, I started to count the pulse in her wrist. I felt four slow beats. Then Synnøve Jensen’s pulse stopped.

I sat for a few seconds with her hand in mine before slowly releasing my hand from her dead body, which sank down onto the sofa with no resistance. I was gripped by a violent rage, in part with myself, but mostly with the faceless person I was pursuing. Synnøve Jensen was dead, and her unborn child was now dying in her womb. I had come a few minutes too late to prevent the murder and perhaps only seconds too late to hear Synnøve Jensen say who it was who had shot her. I had no idea what to do now. I had seen no sign of another living soul out there in the dark. It was most likely that the murderer was over the hills and far away by now.

I went over to her telephone and called for an ambulance. Then I rang Romerike police station to let them know that there had been a murder, and that I was already at the scene of the crime.

Then I dialled Patricia’s number.

I was worried that she might already have gone to bed. It was a great relief when I heard her voice after only five rings. I explained very quickly where I was calling from and what I had seen.

There was silence on the other end for a few seconds. Complete silence. It felt as though neither of us dared to breathe.

After a few breathless seconds, Patricia let out a deep sigh before starting to speak.

‘You said that you had just come in through the door, which was unlocked, and found Synnøve Jensen who had been shot and was dying, but still visibly alive with her eyes open. A pistol lay on the floor beside her. She could not speak but waved her hand twice towards the back of the room before she died?’

‘Yes,’ I confirmed.

‘But…’ she started.

There was silence again for a moment, before she mustered the courage and continued.

‘But then the shot cannot have been fired more than minutes before and it is unlikely that the murderer would dare to leave while she was visibly still alive. So then the most feasible explanation is without a doubt that the murderer was standing there waiting for her to die and when you knocked on the door, dropped the gun onto the floor and ran upstairs to hide in one of the rooms. In which case, he or she will still be there.’

Neither of us said anything. I turned around quickly and looked up the stairs. There was no sign of movement up there. However, the logic in what Patricia had just said was undeniable. Synnøve Jensen had tried to say something when she waved her hand around and she had indicated the stairs, not the door. There was a considerable chance that the murderer was still upstairs.

‘As the murder weapon is still there and as it is unlikely that the murderer would want to be caught with the weapon after the murder, it is likely that he or she is unarmed now. But one cannot of course be certain of that. As you have not heard any noises, you may assume that there is only one person. But of course, one cannot be certain of that either,’ Patricia’s voice said, with a sudden worried undertone.

I thanked her and promised to call back as soon as I had a chance. Then I put down the phone.

I sat still for a brief moment, my eyes moving between the dead Synnøve Jensen and the empty stairs. I did think about calling the police station again to ask for reinforcements. But I was not sure that there was anyone upstairs and the risk that the intruder might escape through a window or over a balcony would only increase in the time that it would take to get any backup here. And what is more, I had no idea how long it would take to get more men here so late in the evening.

So I sat there, staring at the gun. With a pounding heart, I realized that it was an old Walther pistol, the same type that the Dark Prince had used to shoot his two victims during the war. The thought that the Dark Prince might be hiding upstairs made the possibility of an arrest even more tempting. So I made a hasty decision that there were not likely to be any fingerprints on the gun in any case, and picked it up with my handkerchief. Then, armed with the murderer’s own weapon, I mounted the stairs to the first floor. I vaguely registered that my watch showed that it was a quarter past eleven precisely when I started my ascent.

XIV

The stairs swayed and creaked alarmingly under my weight. But all was quiet on the first floor. There were three doors and I had no reason to choose one rather than the other.

So the most obvious thing was to start with the door closest to the stairs. It was unlocked and there was no light to be seen through the keyhole. I rapped on it twice. Then I opened the door with the gun raised.

There was no sign of life in the room. But I did see something that made my stomach lurch – I was in the deceased Synnøve Jensen’s bedroom. Her bed was made up for the night and by the head was a small cradle, standing ready for the baby.

I turned away from the cradle and could quickly ascertain that there were no hiding places in the room. Nor were there any possible escape routes. The room did not have a window, only a small air vent in the wall.

So I went back out onto the landing again and over to the middle door. When I looked through the keyhole, this also appeared to be dark and unlocked. Again I knocked on the door twice, without any response. With all my senses alert and the pistol at the ready, I opened the door.

This time I stepped into a tiny bathroom. There was evidence here too of how happy Synnøve Jensen was about her baby. She had made a small nappy-changing area ready by the very ordinary sink. There was not a trace of the person who had killed both the mother and her unborn child only minutes ago. And again, the bathroom did not have a window, just an air vent in the wall that you could scarcely get a hand through.

Only one door remained. If the murderer had run up the stairs, then he or she must have disappeared through that door. I could feel the tension bubbling in my body when I noted that the third door was locked, and that the key was on the inside.

I knocked hard on the door and shouted that I was armed and willing to kick the door down. There was not a sound from inside.

I squatted down in front of the keyhole and managed to push out the key that was in there with the help of my car key. There was no light on in this room, either, but I caught a movement in the dark all the same. My heart was hammering violently. All that separated me from solving the case and finding the murderer was the door and a few steps.

I knocked hard on the door again twice and called out that I was armed and could not be held responsible for the consequences unless the murderer now unlocked the door and came out with their hands above their head.

There was still not a sound from within.

I stood up and threw myself against the door. That was when I suddenly heard a very clear sound from inside the room. What it was, I could not discern. But the murderer was in the room and was doing something. This only served to strengthen my determination and agitation. The door looked rickety and one of the hinges was loose. When I threw my weight against it the first time, it shook noticeably. On the third attempt it burst open with a bang.

I managed to keep my balance, quickly stepped back and pushed the remains of the door to one side as I shouted: ‘DO NOT MOVE!’

The third room on the first floor of Synnøve Jensen’s house was a small storage space. There was not a person to be seen here either.

But there was a window in the room that was now wide open. Just as I charged into the room, I heard a thud on the ground below. The drop was no more than ten feet. Through the window I saw someone in a raincoat, with the hood up and gloves on, struggle to their feet and then run up the slope behind the house.

I tasted blood and my hunting instinct was stronger than ever. Only seconds later I hit the ground myself, and fortunately managed to stay on my feet.

XV

‘STOP!’ I shouted as soon as I had regained my balance from the jump, and fired a warning shot into the air over the head of the raincoated person.

This made no difference. The person in front did not even turn their head, let alone slow down. For a second I lowered the gun and aimed at the running legs. But at the last moment I remembered the order to use firearms only in situations where it was strictly necessary, or in self-defence. The fact that it was not a service weapon hardly made the situation any better. So instead I started to run up the slope. There was a fair distance between us now. However, it seemed to me that the person ahead was not running at a speed that made this discouraging. And the pace did not get any faster as the slope got steeper.

For some reason that was wholly inexplicable to me, I started to think about the deceased Leonard Schelderup as I chased after Synnøve Jensen’s killer. In my mind, I was back at Bislett Stadium, watching him audaciously catch up with all his competitors until, only yards from the finishing line, he overtook the final one. It felt as though Leonard was showing me the way in the dark, running in front on his light feet, his fair hair fluttering on the wind, as I pursued the person I assumed was his murderer up the slope. We were getting steadily closer.

I had almost halved the distance between us when the person up ahead reached the top and I got even closer when they stumbled and almost fell as the ground levelled off. Even though it was dark, I could see that the person was smaller than me, and thought gleefully to myself that I would easily catch up with them once I too reached the top.

That was when I heard a sound that made me swear out loud into the night: the impatient revving of a car engine starting up.

I reached the brow of the hill in time to see the car disappear. Synnøve Jensen’s murderer was still impressively cool-headed. He or she drove with the pedal to the floor and without lights. What I saw was the movement of the car as it rounded the farthest bend into the dark.

I found two unclear tyre tracks where the car had been parked, under the shadow of some trees where the ground flattened out. The footprints of the person I had been chasing were very light and would soon be washed away by the rain. It looked as though the shoes were a good few sizes smaller than my own. Not that that helped much. I could not rule out any of the remaining guests on the basis of those tracks and an unclear picture of the person I had pursued.

I had never felt so alone and such a loser as I did around midnight on 15 May when I walked back through the dark night and rain to the body of Synnøve Jensen. I had only been a matter of feet away from her murderer and from solving the whole mystery, but had failed to use the chance either to grab hold of the murderer or to discover their identity.

XVI

I called Patricia as soon as I was back in Synnøve Jensen’s house. She picked up the phone on the second ring and I thought I detected a light sigh of relief when she recognized my voice. I told her quickly what had happened since we last spoke. She exclaimed that I should have shot the murderer in the foot, but added hastily that I of course could not do that, given my orders. I agreed with both statements. She suggested that I should come to see her as soon as I could the following day, and assured me that she would be happy to welcome me any time between seven in the morning and midnight.

Right then I heard sirens and footsteps outside, so I wished Patricia a good night and put down the telephone. It was only later that I realized I had forgotten to ask her who she now thought had sent the mysterious threatening letters.

The case was becoming more and more of an obsession and my adrenaline levels were rising. Even though it was now past midnight, I could not leave the scene of the crime where Synnøve Jensen had been killed until the place had been searched.

The only thing we found of any significance was in the pocket of Synnøve Jensen’s coat – but the discovery was so sensational that my thoughts dwelt on it until I finally fell asleep around two. But the only conclusion I came to was that I had to talk to Patricia as early as possible the next morning.