Satellite People

I

‘So, what do you think we found in the late Synnøve Jensen’s coat pocket?’

It was five past seven in the morning of Friday, 16 May 1969. I had slept for no more than five hours, and then jumped into the car without eating breakfast. A clearly sleepy Beate had just put down a selection of rolls on the table at 104-8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. Patricia was sitting opposite me with a cup of steaming black coffee, wearing only a dressing gown, as far as I could see. However, she was looking at me with eyes that were as bright and alert as ever, and answered in her usual sharp tone.

‘A letter very much like the last one you received in the post. I have to admit that I cannot remember the exact words, but I would be very pleased to know.’

I pulled out the letter and almost threw it across the table in disbelief. The message was short, and that it resembled the last one I had received was undeniable.

Here, now.

So, the dictator’s sister has also gone.

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

Patricia had read the text in a flash and then looked up at me again.

‘I only have one question, but it is a very important one. Was the envelope containing this letter sealed?’

‘The envelope was sealed, as it was with the other two letters, with the same typed address.’

I really did not understand the significance of the question. But Patricia obviously did, as she nodded with satisfaction and even uttered a quiet ‘ha!’

‘And-’ we suddenly both said at the same time. I stopped and let her finish.

‘And perhaps there was a small mark on the back of the sealed envelope? Not green this time, but most probably blue.’

‘Red,’ I told her, giving her an impressed nod all the same.

Patricia shook her head, obviously annoyed.

‘Hopefully just arbitrary. Red is less usual than blue, but a common enough pen colour that might be found in any office or home without drawing attention. And I must say it tallies very well with my theory. We are nearly there now, the case will soon be closed.’

I nodded, slightly in awe, but most of all in delight that we were close to anything.

‘In fact, I have every hope that I will have a solution in the course of the day. Certainly to some of these apparently inexplicable deaths and events. But for that to happen, you have to carry on doing all the things that can be done today, while I sleep, think and preferably put on a few more clothes.’

I nodded and helped myself to a roll. Seeing the plate of food had reminded me how hungry I was.

‘I will do. And I suppose I should talk to the surviving guests before we meet again? I had thought of gathering them all at a meeting at Schelderup Hall to fill them in on our progress so far, no matter how unpleasant that might be.’

Patricia nodded and finished her coffee. She suddenly looked as though she had got up too early.

‘A splendid idea. I had thought of suggesting that myself. It could be very interesting to see who says what once they are together again. And let me know immediately if any more letters pop up. Now, is there anything else I can help you with before you go?’

I took the hint, quickly finished the first half of a roll and hastily grabbed another to take with me.

‘There is one thing that I have been wondering about. If the murderer was still there when I knocked on the door and Synnøve Jensen was so clearly still alive, why did the murderer not shoot her again? I initially thought that perhaps the shot was fired seconds before I came in, but then I would have heard the bang.’

Patricia immediately livened up. She leant forwards over the table and looked at me so solemnly that it almost felt like an accusation. Her voice was unusually brisk and passionate when she spoke.

‘I will tell you right away. Because the person who shot Synnøve Jensen is a particularly cold, intelligent and egotistical person. It is a heartbreaking story. The plan was to make the murder look like suicide, by leaving the pistol beside the body. However, something unexpected happened: the shot was not aimed well enough, so Synnøve Jensen was left to die slowly on the sofa. The murderer could have curtailed her suffering, but then the suicide plan would not work. So instead the murderer chose to stand patiently and wait until the victim died from the first bullet wound. It is likely that we may never know how many minutes this took. What we do know, however, is that this heartless plan would have worked perfectly if you had not responded so swiftly to Synnøve Jensen’s telephone call, and therefore arrived while she was still alive.’

Despite the lack of sleep, Patricia’s face was alert and engaged. She hurried on.

‘It is a truly despicable act to watch a person who is suffering die like that. And it becomes inhuman when you then think that it was a young, pregnant woman who was killed in her own home.’

I had to agree with her and put down the half-roll that I had been holding, uneaten.

‘It is, as you said, the epitome of human evil.’

Patricia waved a hand in irritation.

‘I was not talking about this crime when I said that, and it is highly unlikely to be the same perpetrator. But I cannot decide which is worse: what I was thinking about then, or this. It really is a grotesque case.’

Her voice was verging on livid and I suddenly noticed that she had goosebumps on her bare arms. I leant forwards spontaneously and put my hands on them. This touch of human warmth seemed to help. The goosebumps vanished and Patricia’s voice was friendlier than normal when she carried on speaking.

‘The big question with regards to last night’s murder is what happened in the minutes before the shot was fired, when the murderer first came into the house and then aimed the gun at Synnøve Jensen? It is true that Magdalon Schelderup’s key ring is still missing, but the key to Synnøve Jensen’s house was not on it. Right now, I can only think of one logical explanation, but there may of course be several.’

‘So…’ I started.

‘So, even though this is a very pleasant way to start a Friday, we should now both work separately for a few hours. I think the best division of labour is that you continue to gather information while I work with what we already have. But do give me a call if you come up with any questions later on in the day.’

I took the hint, withdrew my hands and stood up.

II

The last papers before the weekend were favourable, given the circumstances. The Labour Party conference had now finished but still dominated the news, and all the papers, with the exception of the Communist rag, Friheten, praised the party’s clear yes to the renewal of Norway’s membership of NATO. On the other hand, opinion was divided with regard to the Labour Party’s prospects in the autumn general election, and what significance the national conference’s unexpected vote in favour of demanding the introduction of abortion in Norway might have. The murder in Sørum last night was not covered by any of the papers. But the press had got wind of the news and the switchboard reported an increase in enquiries. I wrote a five-line press release in light of the ongoing investigation, stating that there would be no further comment.

At five minutes past midday, a police constable came running in to tell me that a witness from the night before had just come forward. He also warned me not to expect too much, certainly if one was to believe the witness himself.

I understood what he meant as soon as I saw the witness. He was a grey-haired, thin elderly man in a plain brown coat, who kept his eyes fixed to the floor as he twisted a cloth cap in his hands. When we shook hands, his was feeble and trembling.

‘I hope you’ll forgive me if I’m wasting your time, but… I don’t imagine that I have anything of much importance for you. But you see, I was up on the hill behind poor Synnøve’s house last night, and saw a car parked there. It was the wife who told me that they’d announced on the radio that anyone who was nearby was to report to the police immediately. I think I was the only one there; I certainly didn’t see anyone else. But I don’t really have much more to tell, so perhaps I should not have come.’

I assured the witness that he had done the right thing by coming. After a few minutes more, however, I also had to concede that he really did not have much of interest to add. He lived on a smallholding nearby and had been out walking his dog on the hill behind Synnøve Jensen’s house. The witness had passed the house at around half past eleven and was surprised to see a car parked up there in the dark. He had thought that it was perhaps the police or some other important people and so had taken a detour rather than pass too close to the car.

The witness had not seen anyone there, and could not give any further details as to the make or colour of the car. He knew very little about cars in general. He apologized and explained that his lack of interest was due to the fact that there had never been any real possibility of him ever owning one. The car he saw had a roof and wheels, but he would not dare to describe it in any more detail than that.

The conversation depressed me, but it seemed to be even more painful for the witness. It ended with him sitting with his face buried in his hands.

‘After seventy-two years working in the fields, without ever having achieved much, I have to witness my poor neighbour being killed in her own home. And I was close by and didn’t check on her. It’s terrible, may the Lord forgive me,’ he lamented.

I tried to comfort the man and asked a bit about his neighbours, but there was not much to be gained here either. Both he and his wife had realized that Synnøve Jensen did not have an easy life. Her father was a drunkard and her mother was depressed. But the neighbours had enough problems of their own and had not wanted to interfere. No one had a word to say against Synnøve herself, but then no one knew her very well either. She had worked very hard and in recent years had really only come home to sleep.

I eventually asked the witness to wait a few minutes and went to call Patricia from my office. I did not think that there was anything more to be had from him, but could not let him go until I had checked with her.

Patricia was obviously wide awake now and listened thoughtfully to my brief update.

‘I have only one question for the witness, but it is potentially extremely important. Was the door on the driver’s side open when he passed the car?’

I did not understand why this was relevant, but I went out and asked the witness. He looked up at me in surprise, but quite noticeably livened up.

‘No, I am absolutely certain of that, I could swear to it – I would have noticed if the driver’s door was open. I would have gone to see what had happened then. There’s no doubt about that!’

Suddenly the man was upbeat, almost cheerful. He repeated a couple of times that he was certain that the car door had not been open and then asked promptly if it was important. I still did not understand why it was significant, but replied that it was likely to be of considerable potential importance, and I thanked him profusely on behalf of myself and the entire police force. The man shook my hand in delight and more or less flew out of the room.

The door slammed shut behind him, but was opened again half a minute later. He had come back to offer me a written statement that the car door had been closed, if that would be of any help to the investigation. I assured him that a spoken statement would suffice for the moment, but that we would contact him later should we need a written statement. He gave a jovial salute and promised that he would stay at home and get up early until the case had been solved.

So in the middle of all the horror, I sat with a gentle smile on my lips until well after the witness had left the station. Whatever Patricia had meant by her curious question, it had certainly saved the day and the mental well-being of a well-meaning witness.

III

It was with a pounding heart that I went to meet the constable who had been on night watch at Schelderup Hall at around lunchtime. His report gave no cause for concern, however. He had been awake at his post all night and had seen no sign of anyone trying to get into or out of the building. The dogs had barked furiously for a few minutes around half past ten, and then again at about one o’clock in the morning. It would seem that this was entirely unprovoked on both occasions, and the night had otherwise passed without drama.

Afterwards, I rang Schelderup Hall and suggested that everyone should gather there at three o’clock. Sandra Schelderup immediately said yes to this.

I was unable to get in touch with one of the eight remaining guests by phone. I felt my heart beating faster as Ingrid Schelderup’s telephone rang again and again without being answered. However, I soon realized what might have happened and called the hospital, and was informed that she had been taken in the same morning. The constable who had been on guard outside her house overnight had driven her there only an hour before in a very unstable condition. Once he was back at the station he could tell me that she had appeared to be in relatively good humour the evening before, and that the night had passed without incident. But the news of Synnøve Jensen’s death in the morning had affected her with such unexpected force it had caused another collapse. Mrs Schelderup had been given tranquillizers when she got to the hospital and was now expected to sleep until early evening. This was not hard to believe. And in any case, from what the constable had told me, it could be ruled out that it was Ingrid Schelderup who had murdered Synnøve Jensen last night.

The others were easy to get hold of, but hard to fathom. The Wendelboes had been at home together all evening, and Herlofsen had been at home alone. His son and daughter-in-law could confirm that he had been there, as they had had an evening coffee together around ten, but they could not be certain that he had not left the house later.

Magdalena Schelderup claimed to have been at home but there was no one to confirm this. She was extremely upset about being without an alibi for yet another murder.

As for Fredrik Schelderup, he had had a visit from his girlfriend, but had asked her to leave around half past ten, as he did not feel up to it. And from then on, until the morning, he had been seen by no one other than ‘the drinks cabinet and his bed’.

Everyone was clearly affected by the ongoing case and they were further shaken by the news of Synnøve Jensen’s death. They all categorically denied knowing anything about it.

Once I had called everyone, I sat and thought about what I was actually going to say to them. One thing that I was not going to mention at the moment was the existence of the letters. These could be an important lead, but where they might lead I still did not know. Either the murderer had left the letter in her pocket, or Synnøve Jensen was responsible for the letters herself, and in that case might also be behind the first two murders.

I could not quite bring myself to believe in the idea that the murderer had left the letter in Synnøve Jensen’s pocket. It seemed highly unlikely that the murderer would do that while she was still alive. This possibility was also thwarted when the fingerprint report came back: the only prints on the envelope were those of Synnøve Jensen herself.

It did seem to fit rather well that Synnøve Jensen had killed Magdalon and Leonard Schelderup. If she had known about the will, she had a possible motive for both murders. And a copy of the will had been kept at her house in the metal box to which she had a key, in an envelope with her name on it. But who had killed Synnøve Jensen was then an even more burning question.

IV

Understandably enough, the seven guests sitting in their usual places around the table at Schelderup Hall at three o’clock were very sombre indeed. They listened to my account of the situation following Synnøve Jensen’s death. I ended with the conclusion that there had been some important breakthroughs in the investigation, but no one had been arrested and no one had been named as an official suspect.

Following my update, there was silence. I had been prepared for loud diatribes against me and my investigation. It was six days now since they had sat at this very table and witnessed the death of Magdalon Schelderup, and his murderer had still not been caught. Instead, two further guests had been shot.

Fortunately, it seemed that none of those present wanted a confrontation of any sort with me. Maria Irene smiled almost imperceptibly when my eyes met hers. The others showed no reaction when I looked at them, but did show increasing animosity towards each other. Herlofsen scowled at the Wendelboes, and Mrs Wendelboe glared back at him. Every now and then, all three of them sent spiteful sideways glances at Magdalena Schelderup, who was smoking even more than usual and had a dark expression on her face. Sandra Schelderup looked alternately from her sister-in-law, Magdalena, to her stepson, Fredrik, but never with a pleasant face. Fredrik Schelderup sipped his glass of white wine and, for the moment, seemed rather unaffected by it all.

I was interested to see who would be the first to speak. Slightly unexpectedly, Magdalena’s rusty voice was the first to be heard. Her defence was offensive.

‘We all fully understand that this is an extremely difficult case. But when those who have been killed are my brother and two of his four heirs, then there is every reason to consider who stands to gain most from this.’

And so all hell was let loose. Only two people sat quietly with inscrutable faces. And it was the two whom I now liked best: old Petter Johannes Wendelboe and young Maria Irene Schelderup. All the others were suddenly making a noise. Sandra Schelderup snarled that she was not standing for any such insinuations, when all the time she and her daughter were the only two who could prove that they did not commit the two most recent murders.

Magdalena retorted that she had not mentioned any names, but reminded everyone that alliances were a possibility and that no one had an alibi for Magdalon’s death. Then, for good measure, she added that there were those who still harboured grudges from the war. Herlofsen’s face flushed red and he pointed out that there were three candidates in the room and demanded to know who Magdalena meant. The otherwise careful Mrs Wendelboe waded in too, with tears in her eyes, and said that Magdalena must of course mean Herlofsen, but that she, if anyone, should be wary of raking up old sins from the war. Sandra Schelderup snarled again and snapped that it was easy enough to see who would gain from the will, but a good place to start might be someone who had inherited an unmerited amount without having an alibi for anything.

At which point, things boiled over for the until now calm Fredrik Schelderup. He shouted that he did not think it was any more respectable to screw your way to a fortune than to kill for it.

The electric atmosphere in the room meant that everyone rather bizarrely turned against Fredrik Schelderup following his angry outburst, despite the fact that he quickly regained control and only seconds later tried to apologize. Herlofsen and Mrs Weldelboe turned away from each other and now glared at him. Even Petter Johannes Wendelboe had turned discreetly towards Fredrik Schelderup. I noticed with a small shard of jealousy that Maria Irene had finally turned her eyes away from me and was now looking at her half-brother. Magdalena Schelderup was puffing furiously on her third cigarette and through the smoke blew out a question as to whether a statement like that might not constitute a confession.

With this, the pressured and slightly intoxicated Fredrik Schelderup let his mask slip completely. He roared his innocence, slammed his glass back down onto the table with such force that the stem broke, and added that he was the only one around the table that he could guarantee had not killed his father.

There was complete silence in the room for a moment. Six pairs of venomous eyes watched Fredrik Schelderup as he poured himself another drink and drained the stemless glass. Then he crashed the remainder of the glass demonstratively down on the table, stood up and asked if he could now consider himself arrested.

I replied that his outburst and behaviour had been noted. I would not arrest him, but that from now on he would only be allowed to move between Bygdøy and Gulleråsen with my permission. This was obviously seen as further provocation. He came and stood right in front of me and howled: ‘You can see for yourself the situation I am in. My father and brother have been killed, I am being accused of killing them, and all the people in this room can be trusted to try to kill me too. So tomorrow you can either arrest me or let me go to South America. Prison or Brazil are the only places I can now feel safe from these monsters!’

Before I could answer, he stormed out of the room and the building. Six pairs of eyes watched me in silence as I let him go. I wrote in my notepad with exaggerated movements to demonstrate that his behaviour would not be forgotten.

Sandra Schelderup had regained much of her composure, but her voice was still sharp as a knife when she demanded a continued police presence to safeguard her and her daughter until an arrest was made. Magdalena echoed this demand. I agreed to both on the spot. Magdalena Schelderup’s face called to mind an old owl when she gave a curt nod. She shook my hand briefly in passing and left the building without gracing the others with so much as a look.

Mrs Wendelboe leant forward and whispered something in Hans Herlofsen’s ear, who responded with a brief nod. I sent them a questioning look, and asked if there was anyone else who would like police protection overnight. Mrs Wendelboe looked at Mr Wendelboe, who shook his head. And, like a strange echo, Herlofsen did the same. All three of them got up to leave.

I followed them out into the hallway and asked Mrs Wendelboe what she had said to Herlofsen. She claimed that she had simply apologized for her outburst. Herlofsen confirmed this, but asked her somewhat curtly to repeat what else she said. She blanched, sent him a withering look, but then told me what she had said: ‘It must be either Fredrik or Magdalena.’ Herlofsen nodded his confirmation, said clearly that he believed this to be the case, and left the house in a rush.

I stood on the steps for a moment with the Wendelboes. I repeated my offer of police protection. This provoked the first comment of the day from Petter Johannes Wendelboe.

‘No, thank you. We will definitely not be going out, either this evening or tonight. And if any of the others should decide to pay us an unexpected visit, which is highly unlikely, they will receive a warm welcome.’

I thought I caught a shadow of a smile on Petter Johannes Wendelboe’s face when he said this. It occurred to me that he, unlike all the others, seemed to be enjoying the dramatic situation. But I was not able to discern if that was due to anything other than reliving some of the excitement of the war. A moment later, his face wore its usual stony mask. Both he and his wife shook my hand and then left without further words.

I loitered for a minute or two in the hall, apparently to think things through, and what I hoped and expected might happen did. Maria Irene came almost dancing down the stairs, smiling her mischievous smile, and apologized that the atmosphere at Schelderup Hall was unfortunately not at its best at the moment.

‘But let us hope that it will improve in the future, when this whole nightmare is over,’ she added, with a broader smile. ‘Do you think it will take long?’ she asked in a whisper. I replied that I hoped and thought that there would be a resolution within a couple of days.

Maria Irene nodded and looked up at me questioningly, but then nodded again with understanding when I just gave her an exaggerated stern look. I was given a brief hug before she tripped silently back up the stairs.

I stood there, looking up, for a few seconds after she disappeared. Then I went out on my own into the May day.

I left Schelderup Hall feeling remarkably unsettled. Following this gathering of the remaining guests from Magdalon Schelderup’s last supper, I understood better than ever Patricia’s description of them as satellite people in a universe that had lost its point of gravity. The situation still felt very unstable and unclear, no matter which way I looked. And it became no clearer when I returned to the office and discovered a new finding from the deceased Synnøve Jensen’s house waiting for me on my desk.

V

‘So, what do you make of these? A blue line on the back of the first envelope, and a black line on the back of the second.’

I put the letters down on the table in front of Patricia.

The letter with the blue line read:

Here, now.

So one of the dictator’s wives has now gone.

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

And the text in the letter with the black line was:

Here, now.

So one of the dictator’s friends has now gone.

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

Patricia sat and pondered for a while, but then gave a cautious smile.

‘This really is very depressing news, but does tie in rather well with my theory about how it all fits together. So these were hidden between the pages of two different books on Synnøve Jensen’s bedside table? And both envelopes were sealed?’

I nodded, without fully understanding the significance of this. Patricia fired her next technical question.

‘And the letter in Synnøve Jensen’s pocket, you only said that her fingerprints were found on the envelope? Were they on the letter as well?’

‘Only on the envelope. There were no fingerprints on the letter itself.’

Patricia nodded sagely, but also let out a heavy sigh. I asked her, anxiously, if that did not fit with her theory. She replied that it in fact fitted well, but pointed to a very depressing conclusion. I was slightly flummoxed as to what she meant by that in a situation where I myself would be more than happy with any conclusion to any of the three murders. In my mind I counted my lucky stars that there were no newspapers on 17 May, but was not overly optimistic as to how my boss would assess the status of my investigation.

Patricia looked at me for a few seconds without saying anything. Her expression was unusually friendly, almost affectionate. She just sat there looking at me. For some reason or another, I thought about Maria Irene. It was not a comfortable situation. So I broke the silence with a question.

‘A penny for your thoughts, Patricia?’

The answer was swift and unexpected.

‘Just wondering why you are still alive!’

No doubt I looked rather stunned at this. She carried on immediately.

‘Do not get me wrong, I am very glad that you are still alive. But has it not struck you as rather odd? Just imagine the situation the murderer found themselves in last night when you arrived. The murderer who had just shot Synnøve Jensen was standing behind her with a loaded gun in their hand when you rather inconveniently knocked on the door. Given that this is clearly an exceptionally intelligent and callous person, one might assume that the most obvious solution was to shoot you as soon as you opened the door, and then escape afterwards. Instead, the murderer carried through the suicide plan at ridiculous risk, leaving the gun beside Synnøve Jensen and then barricading themselves in upstairs, unarmed. Understandable if the murderer did not know who it was knocking on the door, or had reason to believe there was a large muster of policemen outside. But undeniably strange if the murderer knew that it was only you who was standing there.’

I had actually not thought about how strange it was that I was still alive. But I took her point when she put it like this and immediately asked if she had a theory about the connection here. To my relief, she gave a measured nod.

‘I really only see one possibility. And that fortunately falls into place with my overall theory of how everything fits together. But I am still not absolutely certain, and it is without a doubt a very serious step to accuse someone of murder when you have no concrete evidence.’

She hesitated, then asked abruptly: ‘What do you make of the situation yourself?’

I realized that Patricia was not willing to divulge her theory without knowing what I thought, and I had little to lose by revealing this in such a closed and highly unofficial space. So I launched myself out into the unknown waters.

‘I have to admit that I am not certain about anything. I think you are right in saying there is more than one person involved here. Yesterday, I was very close to arresting Hans Herlofsen. Today, my main theory is that Magdalena Schelderup was the Dark Prince and killed the two Resistance men during the war, but that Synnøve Jensen wrote the letters and killed the Schelderups, both father and son. Synnøve Jensen had planned several murders, most immediately Magdalena, who then beat her to it.’

Patricia stared at me wide-eyed for a moment.

‘You surpass yourself,’ she remarked, apparently serious.

My joy lasted for all of ten seconds. Because when she continued, it was far less pleasant.

‘I would not have believed it was possible to get so much wrong in two sentences, and at such a late stage of a murder investigation. Magdalena Schelderup is neither the Dark Prince nor the person who killed Synnøve Jensen. Synnøve Jensen did not kill either the father or the son, she never planned to murder anyone, and nor did she write any of the letters. And just to be clear about it, the person who killed Synnøve Jensen is not the Dark Prince, either.’

It was indeed quite a salvo, even for Patricia. Fortunately, I still had a trump card up my sleeve, and decided to play it straight away.

‘Are you certain that Synnøve Jensen’s murderer was not the Dark Prince? That it was not the same pistol that was used?’

Patricia shook her head vigorously.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It would be an incredible coincidence if it was the same kind of gun, or demonstrate a rather warped sense of humour on the part of the murderer.’

Triumphantly, I pulled out a sheet of paper and threw it down on the table between us.

‘Well then you are very wrong yourself, my dear Patricia, and I can prove it. I took this written report from the ballistics expert with me, just in case. It is 100 per cent certain that the bullets that killed Hans Petter Nilsen and Bjørn Varden in 1941 came from the same Walther pistol that was found lying in Synnøve Jensen’s house yesterday. The registration number has been filed off, so we will not be able to trace it, but it is definitely the same weapon.’

I later regretted that I did not have a camera with me. In a flash, Patricia’s face was transformed into the most surprised woman’s face I have ever seen. It was the face of a person who has suddenly seen their entire perception of the world, their whole view of life, crumble before their very eyes.

Then, just as suddenly, a relieved grin spread over her face.

To my astonishment, Patricia whooped loudly in triumph: ‘EUREKA!’

Then she started to laugh, a loud, coarse laugh. It was almost a minute before she had composed herself enough to talk again.

‘Please excuse my somewhat eccentric behaviour. But thanks to you, the final, most important, piece of the jigsaw puzzle has now fallen into place. It is incredible just how ironic fate can sometimes be.’

I looked at her, nonplussed. She chuckled a bit more, but was then suddenly serious again.

‘No more sympathy or other unnecessary luxuries. There really is only one detail left in connection with Leonard Schelderup’s death. Drive over to the hospital to see Ingrid Schelderup, and ask her as soon as she wakes up where the revolver was before she left it on the floor by the front door. When you have found out, come back here, then I will explain to you how this fits in with the other two murders.’

I looked at her again with a mixture of surprise and scepticism.

‘I thought we both agreed that Ingrid Schelderup could not possibly have anything to do with her son’s death?’

‘No one is saying that she had anything to do with her son’s death. However, the revolver which was used to shoot her son was lying somewhere else when she got there that morning. And where it was lying when she came in is of vital importance to the question of who shot Leonard Schelderup. And when I have my theory confirmed as to who shot him, I can hopefully quickly fill you in on how everything fits together, including who sprinkled the powdered nuts on Magdalon Schelderup’s food and who shot Synnøve Jensen!’

This was definitely too good an offer to say no to, particularly given my last conversation with my boss. So I got up and made ready to leave.

Patricia stopped me with a final brief remark as I stood up.

‘To misquote Sherlock Holmes ever so slightly, from one of Conan Doyle’s best novels: the point to which I would wish to draw your attention is what the dogs did in the night-time.’

I was totally lost.

‘But… if you mean the guard dogs at Schelderup Hall, they did absolutely nothing on the night that Leonard Schelderup was murdered.’

Patricia nodded smugly.

‘Precisely.’

I must have looked very bewildered, but Patricia was all secretive and jolly, and just waved me out of the door.

Three minutes later, I was in the car driving to the hospital. On the way there, I pondered Patricia’s mysterious parting remark, and could find no connection to the fact that the guard dogs at the Gulleråsen mansion had been quiet on the night that Leonard Schelderup had been shot in his flat in Skøyen. But in a strange way, I felt secure in the knowledge that Patricia had seen something that I could not, and that her explanation and solution were just around the corner.

VI

Ingrid Schelderup had slept heavily, but had just woken up when I arrived at the hospital. I had to wait a little while until she was in a fit state to talk to me. So I sat waiting for a very long half hour indeed, before being shown into her room at around half past eight. By then I had worked out the connection between who shot her son and the importance of where the revolver was placed. And I had to admit that it seemed highly plausible, to the extent that anything in this case did.

Ingrid Schelderup kept her dignity well in the face of the greatest tragedy of her life. She was sitting in an armchair, slightly slumped, but fully clothed. Her face was dead and her movements delayed. She looked at least six years older than she had done the first time we met only six days ago. I thought I could even see more grey hairs in amongst the black. Throughout our short conversation, her body seemed to be hanging off the chair. Her head sat atop her thin neck and moved very gently back and forth and her eyes were still alive. They stayed fixed on me from the moment I came through the door. She nodded faintly, but did not say anything or make any other movement.

I sat down with care on the chair that had been put out in front of her table, so that we were only a few feet apart.

‘I do apologize that I have to disturb you. We all sympathize with your grief over the enormous loss of your son, and we have no reason to believe that you have anything to do with any of the murders…’

She nodded almost imperceptibly again, but still did not say anything. Her tense, fearful eyes were fixed on me.

‘However, we do now have reason to believe that you have given us some false information regarding an important point which may be vital to the investigation.’

Everything in the room stood still for a few breathless moments. I still feared an outburst of anger. But all I got was another small nod. This time, barely that.

‘The revolver that was used to shoot your son was on the floor by the front door when you left. But it was not there when you arrived. Where was it then?’

I saw a ripple down Ingrid Schelderup’s neck, while her face remained blank. I realized soon after that she was in fact trying to speak, but could not find her voice. In the end, I saw no other solution than to assist her.

‘It was on the floor beside your son, wasn’t it?’

She nodded.

‘And the reason that we did not find his fingerprints on the revolver was that you had wiped them off.’

She nodded in silence one last time. Then she finally found her voice. It was still not much more than a whisper, but it was a pleasure to hear it break the tense silence between us.

‘I didn’t know what I was doing, and then later could hardly remember what I had done. The boundary between life and dreams was so hazy. And now everything is just a blur. But yes, I must have.’

And suddenly there was no more to be said. The truth about Leonard Schelderup’s death was painfully clear, both to me and his mother. She was the one who spoke first.

‘But you really must not believe that… Leonard did not kill his father. Quite the contrary, it was the death of his father that killed him. Leonard’s life was never easy, but he was the kindest boy in the world. He would never have hurt anyone other than himself.’

I nodded to reassure her.

‘I believe you. But no matter how confused and grief-stricken you were, you obviously understood what would happen – that if it got out that he had shot himself, everyone would believe that he shot his father and then regretted it. And you understood the importance of removing his fingerprints.’

She nodded.

‘I apologize,’ she said suddenly, her voice thick with tears.

I got up to leave, when she rather unexpectedly asked me a question.

‘The poor secretary who was shot last night… I didn’t really know her that well; she came from a different background, after all. But I hope for her sake and for mine… that things would not have been any different for her if I had told you the truth before?’

I desperately wanted to answer no. But I had to be honest, so I said that at the moment no one could answer that, and it was possible that no one ever would. At last there was some movement in the sagging body in the chair. With surprising speed, she lifted her hands and hid her face.

I quickly thanked her for her help and left the room as quietly as I could. I had thought of asking Ingrid Schelderup formally whether she still denied having sprinkled nuts in her ex-husband’s food, but I was now certain that she had not. And I had feared that I might have to ask her what she knew about her son’s secret love life, but that was obviously no longer of any importance.

‘We have nothing left to say to each other that matters any more,’ a seventeen-year-old summer love once told me at Åndalsnes train station many years ago. And rather oddly, this remark echoed in my ears as I closed the door to the sixty-year-old Ingrid Schelderup’s hospital room on Friday, 16 May 1969. I had the same feeling that we would not see each other again and that we would never have anything more of any significance to say to each other anyway.

It was only when I was on my way back that I realized how much I dreaded telling Petter Johannes Wendelboe. He would now have to take those seemingly endless steps into his wife’s room to tell her that Leonard Schelderup did in fact take his own life only hours after she called and threatened him.

I still could not fathom who had killed Magdalon Schelderup. But I thought to myself that whoever it was had started a chain of events that was claiming ever more victims, including some of the living. Then I thought about Patricia’s comment that all of the ten guests at Magdalon Schelderup’s last supper were satellite people. Two of them had now definitely crashed and two others were so out of orbit that it was uncertain whether they would ever find their paths again. And hidden in their ranks was still one, if not two murderers. And as I drove back to 104-8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street, I was more unsure than ever about who this might be.

VII

‘So there you have it. You have solved the mystery of who shot Leonard Schelderup. The answer is Leonard Schelderup himself.’

Patricia nodded glumly and took a deep breath in preparation for one of her longer speeches.

‘I should have dared to draw that conclusion earlier, but was uncertain because of the gun. The problem was not so much where it was lying, but where it was not lying. I did not want to risk accusing poor Ingrid Schelderup unnecessarily. The answer was really very logical to anyone with a minimal understanding of psychology. It would hardly be surprising if Leonard Schelderup had had suicidal thoughts earlier, given his great secret and his troubled relationship with his father and family. Poor Leonard was, as his sister said, strong on the tracks where he felt at home, but weak where he did not. And then he was forced out of orbit, into a highly vulnerable and unpredictable position in space. He clearly considered suicide as an option when he took the revolver from Schelderup Hall. What finally pushed him totally off course was the series of events later on in the day. First of all, his aunt urged him to confess, then he was threatened by a stranger on the telephone. We will never know for certain what was the final straw. I think it is quite possible that his conversation with you helped him through the first crisis after the telephone call, and that it was in fact his lover who quite unintentionally gave him the final, fatal push later on in the evening. Despite all his talents, Leonard Schelderup had been a very lonely person all his life. After all those years, he had finally found his love. Imagine the disappointment, then, when the only person he truly trusted and loved also urged him to confess. Who on earth would believe him then?’

Patricia gave a sorry shake of the head and concluded sadly: ‘His lover of course knew no better. Even though Leonard Schelderup pulled the trigger himself, it still feels as though he was murdered. In part by a conservative society that would not allow him to live the way he wanted, simply because he was different. And in part by the evil person who intentionally and in cold blood put him under impossible pressure by means of the well-staged poisoning of Magdalon Schelderup.’

I vaguely noted that Patricia had an unexpectedly liberal view on homosexuality, despite her conservative family background. However, I was so focused on developments in the investigation that I did not stop to discuss the topic.

‘There is, alas, not much that we can do about the former, but there is definitely something we can do now about the latter. Who was it who sprinkled the nuts on Magdalon Schelderup’s food?’

Patricia finished her coffee and then sat in contemplation.

‘That is, if possible, the most depressing part of the whole thing. Over the past few days, I have come to realize that the two who have lost their lives were perhaps the kindest of the guests round the table when the man they all orbited died. The murder of Synnøve Jensen was, as I have already said, cold-blooded in the extreme. The powdered nuts in Magdalon Schelderup’s food and the plan behind it are, even so, the peak of human evil and the work of an extremely devious and egotistical person.’

I waited in suspense for the name of Magdalon Schelderup’s murderer. But instead, Patricia started to reflect on his nature.

‘I understood very early on that the guests sitting around the table were all satellite people who orbited Magdalon Schelderup. But I did not fully understand to begin with how inseparable his dominant and extremely distinct personality was from the solution. You should always be wary of making psychological diagnoses of dead people. However, there can be no doubt that Magdalon Schelderup, behind his mask, suffered from severe narcissism. It is a condition suffered by many famous geniuses throughout history, including the philosopher Nietzsche. The symptoms are an exaggerated ego that often results in an equally exaggerated lack of consideration for others, and a pathological need for control. Life for Magdalon Schelderup was simply a matter of asserting himself, the line between the play and the player becoming ever more diffuse. And this is where the key lay to the mystery of his death.’

Patricia was silent for a long time following this introduction. I realized that she wanted to wait a little longer before revealing the name of the person who had killed Magdalon Schelderup, so asked instead what clues she had followed.

‘There were various factors that all pointed in the same direction. But the most important thing was the letters. One thing was the question as to why the murderer had taken the trouble to send them to the police. And the other was just how different they were. The first letter was very detailed; the second one that came in the post and the others that were found in Synnøve Jensen’s house were remarkably general and vague. They contained nothing to indicate any knowledge of the later deaths. In fact, we would probably have dismissed them as the work of a mad person, had it not been for the first letter and the few similarities. There was also the strange fact that the first letter was posted before Magdalon Schelderup’s death, whereas the second was not posted until after his son’s death.’

I looked at her with some scepticism.

‘So are you saying that the first letter was written by someone different from the others?’

Patricia shook her head.

‘I did consider that possibility. But gradually I came to favour the alternative possibility, based on the obvious technical similarities between the letters, and the fact that no one had seen the first one. This was that the letters were written by the same person, but that he or she for some reason knew more about the first death than the subsequent ones. Now that we know that Leonard Schelderup committed suicide, it seems reasonable enough that no one else could know the details before or after.’

‘But if the letters were written by the same person then, judging by the circumstances, they must have been written by Synnøve Jensen? How else would you explain the fact that the last letters were found at her house with only her fingerprints on them? Were the letters planted there by the person who murdered her?’

Patricia shook her head again, but only briefly.

‘The murderer could in theory have planted the letter in her pocket, but not the others in her books. She is the one who posted the letter after Leonard Schelderup’s death.’

I felt increasingly baffled.

‘I am sure that when we discussed my theory earlier on today, you were quite clear that Synnøve Jensen had nothing to do with the letters?’

‘I did not say that Synnøve Jensen had not posted one of the letters, or that she would not post any more. However, she did not write them. In fact, circumstances would indicate that she had not even read them.’

‘So it was not she who posted the first letter?’

Another shake of the head, but this time more definite.

‘No. If she had known anything about the first letter, she would no doubt have informed you straight away. Magdalon Schelderup’s death was a shock for his lover, and she probably knew nothing about how much she stood to gain from the will. The first letter, and that one alone, was posted by another person. By the very same person who, the day after, according to his fiendish and cunning plan, sprinkled nuts onto Magdalon Schelderup’s food.’

Patricia paused for effect and drank another full cup of coffee. The expression on her face was the grimmest I had seen. I had to prod her to continue.

‘So you are saying that the murderer is a man and that he wrote all the letters, but posted only the first one. The second one was posted by Synnøve Jensen, who had no idea what it said.’

Patricia nodded and released a deep sigh.

She pulled the Russian book about chess from the pile and put it down on the table.

‘When analysing a complex chess position, one first has to try to figure out several possible moves ahead. One then has to consider how the pieces will respond to the various moves. This can be extremely difficult, particularly when the moves are complicated and not obvious. The man who posted the first letter and who gave the remaining letters to Synnøve Jensen was in just such a position. He could to a certain extent predict possible future moves, but could not know for certain what would happen after the first death. People are by nature more unpredictable than chess pieces, so the possible future moves in this game would be even more uncertain. Which is why the letters are more vague. And why Synnøve Jensen was given several letters, which she was to send according to who had died. There were several possibilities, so Synnøve Jensen, simple and loyal woman that she was, made small pen marks on the back of the envelopes so she could remember which letter to send under which circumstances.’

‘So the man who gave her the letters was the same man who put the nuts on Magdalon Schelderup’s food?’

Patricia nodded.

‘He is the only one who could have got her to post the letters and she is the only one he could have trusted with such a task.’

‘This man was then perhaps also the real father of her unborn child?’

Patricia gave a bitter smile.

‘Without a doubt.’

I racked my brains. The only remaining male candidates were Fredrik Schelderup, Petter Johannes Wendelboe and Hans Herlofsen – and of course the now deceased Leonard Schelderup. One of them must have had a relationship with Synnøve Jensen. But I could not understand who.

‘The man with the powdered nuts knew about Magdalon Schelderup’s heart condition?’

Patricia sent me a puzzled look.

‘Of course, it is perfectly obvious that he did.’

‘But why did this man need to write the letters beforehand and then give them to Synnøve Jensen? Why could he not wait and see what happened and then send them himself?’

I definitely made myself vulnerable with that question. Patricia now looked at me with mildly patronizing eyes, as if I was a small child who could not understand anything.

‘For the very good reason that he himself would be dead!’

The truth punched home as she said this. And the impact was brutal. This was indeed a terrible truth.

‘So the man who planned it all, posted the letter, slashed the car tyres, put on the recording of the fire alarm and then with devastating precision sprinkled the nuts on Magdalon Schelderup’s plate was in fact…’

Patricia nodded.

‘Magdalon Schelderup himself.’

We sat in silence for some seconds. It felt as if the air itself was trembling with fear. Patricia’s thin arms were certainly shaking. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes before she continued.

‘As Sherlock Holmes so aptly said: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” But this is perhaps not so improbable when you consider Magdalon Schelderup’s distinctive and egotistical character. His whole life was about self-assertion and attention. He loved only himself and did not give a hoot about his family and friends once he was dead. Quite the contrary: he would have liked to kill some of them, if he could avoid being caught and having to face punishment. The man had a perverse need for control and power over other people. His secrets and the things that he had done in the past were starting to catch up with him. Herlofsen posed a threat, and behind his mask Magdalon Schelderup was still more frightened of Petter Johannes Wendelboe than of anything else. The danger that he would be found out was growing. The thought of suicide must have been tempting once he found out that he did not have long to live. His collapse in the doctor’s waiting room had given him a shock and he did not want to risk a more serious attack on the open street or at a dinner party. Magdalon Schelderup became a hunted man and was terrified of saying something that might give him away.’

I had nothing to say. So I just nodded to Patricia for her to continue.

‘But Magdalon Schelderup did not want to die with the disgrace that suicide so often entails. It would be far better to die as the victim of murder, whether it was left unsolved or someone was accused of doing it. He planned a suicide that was camouflaged as a murder, and that would at the same time cause the murder of some of the people he hated and scorned most in his closest circle. Magdalon Schelderup wanted to go down with his colours flying; he wanted to continue to exert influence on the lives and deaths of those closest to him even after he was gone. But most of all, he wanted to fool everyone, including the police, as he had done during the war. This was his final game and charade. Last Saturday, he was finally ready to set the wheels in motion. Having first punctured the tyres on his own car, he started the ball rolling by calling you. Then the following day he continued as planned, first by putting on the cassette recording and then, in the ensuing chaos, by sprinkling the powdered nuts on his food.’

Patricia stopped abruptly, looked at me, and then carried on.

‘He needed an assistant to ensure that the game continued and of course chose his loyal and dependable secretary, Synnøve Jensen, who was the only person who really cared about him. She continued to orbit him even after his death and loyally posted out the letters as instructed. Presumably, he had also told her that the letters might be important to the police investigation should more people than just himself be killed. She would never understand the danger in which her dead lover’s game placed her. But she sensed after a while that something was not right, and rang you to tell you about the letters. Unfortunately she was a bit slow on the uptake and ended up calling you just minutes too late to save her own life.’

I had finally regained the power of speech and felt the irritation and wonder growing.

‘So I have been leading a murder investigation for five days when in fact there has been no murder, in a legal sense. Now, do not come here and tell me that Synnøve Jensen’s death was not a murder and that it was not a murderer whom I chased that night?’

Patricia shook her head and was deadly serious.

‘Absolutely not. Synnøve Jensen was without question murdered and you were chasing a cold-blooded and egotistical murderer that night; a person who, without knowing the truth about Magdalon Schelderup’s death, had seen an opportunity and taken the chance in the chaos that ensued. And while we do not need to fear any further action from the man who sprinkled the nuts on Magdalon Schelderup’s food, there is a considerable danger that the person who shot Synnøve Jensen might strike again. There is in fact every reason to fear that this person is planning to strike again tonight, again at one of the remaining guests. I cannot of course be 100 per cent certain, as the risk is enormous. But the gains are so great and the chances of getting away with it so good that I believe the murderer will take that risk tonight.’

I stood up without thinking.

‘That’s terrible,’ I exclaimed, spontaneously.

Patricia looked up at me with absolute calm.

‘Yes and no. It is terrible, but it could also be perfect. You may have another chance to do what you nearly did yesterday: that is, to catch the murderer in person at the scene of the crime. Even though I am fairly certain of who it is you are chasing, there are still potentially two people who might turn up tonight. However, you should get in touch as soon as possible with the person who is at risk of being murdered.’

I nodded earnestly.

‘In which case, where should I hide tonight?’

There was no turning back now, so Patricia did not hesitate for a moment.

‘In Fredrik Schelderup’s flat. Ensure that there are no policemen visibly standing guard and conceal yourself somewhere inside.’

‘Please excuse a silly question, but how will the murderer get in?’

Patricia gave another of her bitterest smiles.

‘Perhaps pure luck, but that is in fact not such a silly question. They will in this case come through the door, using the key from Magdalon Schelderup’s missing key ring. So check first that Fredrik Schelderup has not changed the locks, and make sure that he does not put the safety chain on. It would be rather a shame if the murderer could not get in to be arrested.’

I agreed and got ready to leave. However, Patricia waved at me to stop.

‘Just a couple of quick final things. We have already seen how cold-blooded the person who killed Synnøve Jensen is, so beware, and please keep your wits about you. And get some rest first. I can guarantee that nothing will happen before a quarter past eleven at the earliest, and possibly not until a few hours later, so you still have plenty of time.’

I nodded. My trust in Patricia was without limit following the day’s performance and her concern for me gave a touch of warmth in what was otherwise such a cold, cynical case.

‘And the second thing?’

‘I will keep the telephone within easy reach tonight. Call me if you have to during the night, but if you can wait until tomorrow morning sometime after eight, it would be preferable. I tend not to sleep very well during murder investigations.’

She had my full understanding for that and I promised to call her as soon as the night’s mission had been accomplished.

VIII

I ordered a constable to guard Fredrik Schelderup’s home at a discreet distance and in civilian clothes until eleven o’clock that evening, when I would myself take over.

Then I rang Fredrik Schelderup and fortunately this time was greeted by his easy-going, jocular self. I gave the situation a positive slant and promised that I would grant him permission to travel to South America tomorrow if there had not been an arrest before then. In the meantime, we would guard his home and I would myself spend the night in his flat. I joked that he would no doubt rather have a beautiful young woman to stay overnight, but hopefully the fact that she would instead be allowed to travel abroad with him tomorrow might be acceptable compensation. He immediately agreed to this and said, before putting down the phone, that in that case he had better call her and tell her to start packing.

I myself went to bed around seven for three hours’ kip, with the alarm clock set for ten. This went unexpectedly well. Only a couple of times did an image of the remaining candidates flicker through my mind, but I was still none the wiser as to who it was that I had chased the night before, or who I might meet in Fredrik Schelderup’s home that night. I fell asleep at ten past seven, strangely secure in the knowledge that a solution was close at hand.

IX

At a quarter past eleven I took over from the constable outside Fredrik Schelderup’s home, and rang the doorbell. My host was far from entertaining company now. He complained of getting a headache after his first glass of the evening and that he drank a couple more without it helping much. He went to bed around half past eleven, which, according to him, was the earliest he had gone to bed for several years – that is to say, when the intention was to sleep.

To begin with, I managed only too well without his company, but soon time started to drag as I sat at my post behind the door in the living room. By one o’clock, I was very sceptical of Patricia’s prediction, and by two I was thoroughly bored of the whole thing. The cigarette smoke that impregnated the walls made me more and more drowsy. At half past two, I caught myself dozing off for a couple of seconds.

But then at a quarter to three, I found myself wide awake on hearing a muffled sound by the front door. All my senses were on full alert by the time the door was opened with great caution a couple of minutes later.

A person about half a head shorter than me, dressed in trousers and a shirt, with a nylon stocking pulled down over the head, tiptoed in. I caught a glimpse of a key ring in the person’s left hand. The figure then glided silently across the floor towards the door to Fredrik Schelderup’s bedroom. The intruder was holding a small pistol in their right hand, but he or she appeared to be otherwise unarmed.

I was unable to identify the person in the pitch-dark. It was only when I slipped up behind the intruder and put my hand round their right upper arm that I knew that it was without doubt a woman.

I did not have time to think any more. The pistol fell onto the floor with a thud and then slid under a chair when I grabbed her arm. I had obviously instinctively thought that the drama would then be over, as the intruder was a woman who was not only smaller, but also slighter than me. However, the next shock was greater for me than for her. In her fright, she let out a piercing scream and with a furious movement managed to twist out of my grasp.

For a few seconds we stood facing each other, unarmed, in the middle of the dark room. Then there was a flash as she pulled a sharp kitchen knife from a pocket.

The woman with a nylon stocking over her head stood dancing on her toes in front of me, holding out the knife threateningly. We stayed like this, the one measuring up the other in tense animosity and fear, for a few moments. I did not dare to take my eyes off her for a second.

Suddenly she made a lightning thrust towards my chest. I quickly sidestepped and managed to move back at the same time. She did not follow up on this attack, but instead took a couple of steps back. With her left hand, she fumbled behind her for the door. Despite a dangerously high pulse, I took a couple of steps towards her. I got so close that I could see that her hands were shaking, but not close enough to recognize her, and not close enough to apprehend her.

Then she made another unexpected lunge, this time towards my throat and face. One moment I saw with horror the knife coming through the air towards my eye, and in the next I felt it slice cold and hard past my cheek.

A second later she lost her balance. This was precisely what I needed to kick her right leg from under her. She fell, but was cool-headed enough to keep a firm hold of the knife. There was another struggle, with her on her hands and knees on the floor, and me above her with my hands round her upper arms. Again she twisted and turned, with the strength of a desperate animal.

We continued to struggle on the floor. I had managed to get a firm hold of her right arm, but her fingers were tight around the handle of the knife. The small woman on the floor was stronger and had more stamina than one might expect on first seeing her. In the dark and heat of the struggle, it felt as though I held her right wrist forever before she eventually let go of the knife with a quiet groan.

Even without a weapon, my opponent’s furious fight to escape was not over. She lashed out, bit, clawed and kicked blindly and wildly with a panicked intensity. Her sharp nails scratched my bare underarms several times. A small eternity seemed to pass before I eventually managed to get out the handcuffs and snap them shut round her right wrist. She was such a wild, feral beast that she continued to kick and hit out, and I felt another searing scratch down my arm, until I finally managed to cuff her left wrist as well.

Following her first scream, she had been impressively silent throughout the whole struggle. It was only when the cuffs were on both her wrists that she spat out ‘NO, NO!’ a couple of times, then seemed to hiss. I sat with all my weight on her legs, initially in shock and with a racing heart, as she slowly stopped flailing.

My first attempt to pull the nylon stocking off her head provoked a new furious outburst. And my self-discipline broke. I manhandled her onto her back and straddled her stomach, leaving her legs to kick as much as she liked. Then I ripped the nylon stocking from her head in anger.

Just as I was unmasking my prisoner, the door to Fredrik Schelderup’s bedroom opened and the light was switched on. He stood swaying and squinting in the doorway in his dressing gown, with a wine glass in his hand. Fredrik Schelderup took one look at my prisoner on the floor, rolled his eyes and exclaimed: ‘It’s a good thing you were here on guard to stop her, Detective Inspector. She is not only a little too old, but also too difficult for me to want her in my bedroom.’

No more was needed to provoke another burst of rage from Sandra Schelderup. She screamed barely comprehensible swear words at her stepson, and kicked and flailed so furiously that I was almost frightened that the handcuffs might give way. Fredrik Schelderup looked down at her with scorn and fetched a length of nylon rope from a cupboard.

He remarked: ‘I wish you a continued goodnight, despite the unfortunate female company. It has happened to me more than once.’

With a slightly exaggerated yawn and no further comment, he retired back to bed.

I still did not like Fredrik Schelderup, but had to admit that he had a point. This hissing, hateful version of Sandra Schelderup that I was now alone with was certainly not one I would want to take home.

Once the nylon rope had been tied around her legs, she calmed down. I found the pistol, the knife and the large key ring on the floor. I felt another mysterious small metal object in her pocket. This turned out to be Magdalena Schelderup’s missing ring. It was such a cynical detail that I certainly did not look at Sandra Schelderup with kinder eyes.

At a quarter past three in the morning of 17 May 1969, I stood in the living room of Fredrik Schelderup’s flat with an almost trussed Sandra Schelderup. I felt enormous relief that an apparently inexplicable murder case had suddenly been solved.

At the same time, I suffered for the first time in my life what can only be called a panic attack. It came over me in the form of a bizarre fear that if I left the house, I myself would be shot or attacked in the few steps that it took to get to my car. The fear was so paralysing that to begin with I could not even go to the window to look out.

I had to convince myself that the fear was completely irrational and due to being overtaxed. I had no reason to believe that Sandra Schelderup might have an accomplice out there in the dark. In the end, however, I called the police station and asked them to send two constables over in a Black Maria as quickly as possible. The official explanation was that someone needed to continue to stand guard over the place while I took the suspect in.

When I finally had Sandra Schelderup in the back of the car and was driving to the station, I had to admit to myself that all the drama had taken its toll.

We drove for the first five minutes in grim silence. Now and then, I glanced over at my passenger to make sure that she was not planning to try anything, and could see that she was calming down.

‘If I confess, is there a possibility of mitigating circumstances, even if I have been arrested and am accused of murder?’ she asked in a controlled voice, just before the police station loomed into view.

I replied that that was something that the court would have to decide, but it was a possibility.

‘In that case, I hereby confess to the murder of Synnøve Jensen and the attempted murder of Fredrik Schelderup. But I do not know who shot Leonard Schelderup or who killed Magdalon Schelderup,’ she stated, after a pause.

I smiled to myself in the mirror and assured her that both those deaths had now been solved.

‘My poor daughter is fast asleep in her bed, gloriously unaware of all of this. I did it without her knowing, but I did it for her sake and the inheritance. She is the only one of my husband’s children who is suited to carrying on his work. Every mother has the right to fight for her children,’ she said, from the back seat.

I bit my tongue and said nothing. I detested Sandra Schelderup and had no wish to talk to her. But her next attempt to excuse herself made my blood boil.

‘I now regret what has happened, though I did it through sheer desperation and almost in self-defence. I did not kill Leonard. I would never do that. He was not a parasite and his mother is still alive. Both Synnøve Jensen and Fredrik Schelderup were parasites who were just waiting for my husband to die. Neither of them were of any benefit to anyone and neither of them had parents who were still alive. So Synnøve Jensen’s death was no great loss to the world, and nor would Fredrik Schelderup’s have been.’

I felt my anger rising and suddenly hated the very sound of Sandra Schelderup’s voice with intensity. I turned around and remarked with force that Synnøve Jensen had in fact been the mother of an unborn child that had died with her. Sandra Schelderup looked away as soon as our eyes met. The remaining minutes of the journey were spent in silence once again.