Satellite People

by Hans Olav Lahlum

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

  ‘So this Resistance group also carried out liquidations?’

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

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

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

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

  He nodded.

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

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

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

  Wendelboe shook his head firmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  XIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I nodded.

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

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

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

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

  XIV

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

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

  ‘And your conclusion?’ I asked, optimistically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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