Satellite People

by Hans Olav Lahlum

  This did not sound entirely convincing. But neither did it sound unfeasible, I had to admit to myself. So in the end I made the snap decision to take the metal box, but not Synnøve Jensen, with me. I ordered her to stay at home until she came to the planned reading of the will at Schelderup Hall later that afternoon.

  Synnøve Jensen looked up at me, obviously alarmed, but immediately cheered up when I said that I would be there in person so she would be safe.

  On the way back into town, I felt pretty sure that Synnøve Jensen would keep her word and come to the reading of the will. Any attempt to flee would be as good as a confession, and it was not easy to imagine how she would escape. I felt far less certain, however, of the possibility that she might be the murderer.

  IV

  Back at the police station I first checked that the other envelopes contained the same two documents. I then sent both the metal box and the envelopes for fingerprinting, with instructions that it was a matter of urgency that this should be done before three o’clock.

  There was nothing much of any importance in either the census rolls or the police records about the key players involved, with the exception of Magdalena Shelderup who, in 1945, had been sentenced to pay a fine of 1,000 kroner and spend two months in jail. There was a short record of the reason: ‘membership of Nasjonal Samling and financial dealings with the occupying forces’. Magdalon Schelderup had had a clean record. Of the remaining guests at Magdalon Schelderup’s last supper, there was only a slim file for the elder son, Fredrik. He had been fined twice in the 1960s for driving under the influence and had had his licence confiscated. The second time, he had been charged another hefty fine due to his ‘highly disrespectful’ treatment of the police. He had accepted a fixed penalty and, as far as I could see from the file, had since kept to the straight and narrow. I made a routine note that Fredrik Schelderup perhaps had more temperament than I had seen thus far.

  Out of curiosity, I also checked the files of Magdalon Schelderup’s brother and dead parents. His brother had two minor convictions for attempted fraud in the interwar period, and at the time of his death in 1946 was being investigated for extensive cooperation with the enemy. His father and mother had reported the theft of some jewellery in 1915, but were themselves reported by the insurance company for attempted insurance fraud the year after. The case concerned the most precious piece of jewellery belonging to Magdalon Schelderup’s mother, a ‘magnificent red diamond on a gold chain’, according to the documents, which had been stolen in a burglary – something the thief, who had been arrested, had denied. The necklace was not to be found in the Schelderup home or anywhere else, however, and the case was eventually dropped.

  In short, I found nothing of any relevance to the current investigation, but did make a note of the chequered family history.

  As for the two Resistance men who were murdered during the war, I first made a phone call to Petter Johannes Wendelboe. I felt no need, however, to press him for names this time, and in the end I went through the archive of unsolved murders from 1941. The armed skirmishes from the 1940s were a thing of the past, and the fight against the occupying forces really became fierce only in the final year of the war.

  I quickly found the two cases in question, but could not see of what relevance they might be. The names were Hans Petter Nilsen and Bjørn Varden, who were aged thirty-eight and twenty-eight respectively, and lived in Bekkestua in Bærum, and Grønnegate in Oslo. Both had indeed been found shot dead in their bedrooms in the morning, Nilsen on 12 May and Varden on 5 September. Nilsen had lived alone and was found by a colleague when he failed to turn up to work. Varden was married and was found by his wife, who had been sleeping in another room with their small baby. No physical traces of the murderer were found in either case, and it was presumed that he either had keys, or managed to get in and out through an open window. The fact that both victims had been shot with the same weapon, a German-manufactured 9x19mm calibre Walther pistol, strengthened the theory that they had both been killed by the same person. The case was closed in spring 1943, however, due to lack of evidence, and there was nothing to indicate that it was ever followed up. A complaint from Bjørn Varden’s wife, which had been filed without comment in 1949, was the only document from after the war. The word ‘dead’ was now written across both files in red letters.

  The file concerning Ole Kristian Wiig’s death on Liberation Day in 1945 was somewhat thicker. There was a death certificate that confirmed Wiig had died as a result of two bullet wounds to the head. There were also statements from two police constables at the scene of the crime who both said that they had been standing outside the house when they suddenly heard a shot on the first floor.

  They saw Magdalon Schelderup at the window, who gestured to them that they should come up. They stormed up the stairs and found Wiig dead on the floor of the Nazi’s study. A few feet away, a young member of the Resistance was standing, paralysed, with a gun in his hand. Just as they came into the room, Magdalon Schelderup had snatched the gun from his hands and then declared that he had seen the murder. Bratberg was apparently too confused to give a statement there and then and was arrested on the spot.

  Magdalon Schelderup’s written statement was an accurate account of his explanation given at the scene of the crime. Bratberg had seemed distressed and confused all day and had suddenly shot Wiig without warning. Schelderup had added a rather sad sentence at the end to say that Bratberg was obviously mentally disturbed and that he and the others in the group should have noticed this earlier. The gun belonged to Bratberg and had his and Schelderup’s fingerprints on it, as could be expected, given that Schelderup had taken the gun from him.

  Bratberg’s written statement was a chapter unto itself. I did not know whether to laugh or cry when I read it. According to Arild Bratberg, Wiig and Schelderup had been arguing when he came into the room and Wiig had been waving a piece of paper furiously in Schelderup’s face. Schelderup had suddenly darted over to Bratberg, snatched his gun from him and shot Wiig. Schelderup had then opened the window and waved to someone. After which he walked calmly round the table whistling, swinging the gun loosely in his hand and breaking into the popular song ‘Better and Better Day by Day’. When Bratberg said in horror that Wiig had been hit, Schelderup had, in his words, initially replied: ‘Yes, but that’s not so strange; after all, there’s a war going on out there!’ He had then commented that it was not unusual to have a lie-down in the early afternoon, and added with a smile: ‘And anyway, it’s only a toy gun. Try for yourself!’ Schelderup had then passed the gun to Bratberg, only to grab it from him again when the two policemen came into the room. As to the critical question of where the piece of paper was that he claimed to have seen, Bratberg stated that Schelderup had swallowed it before the policemen entered.

  Of all the many strange statements I had read, this was the most confused and desperate. The psychiatrist appointed by the court declared that Bratberg was mentally unstable, and he was sentenced to indefinite detention. According to later attachments, he had been detained in a closed prison ward until 1954 and had then been transferred to the mental asylum at Gaustad. He was released on probation in 1960, but had then been sectioned again following relapses in 1962, 1964, 1965 and 1967. The picture of a seriously mentally ill person who had committed a tragic and meaningless crime was clear enough. It was not difficult to understand why the case had had such a devastating effect on Ole Kristian Wiig’s sister and her family. But I did find it hard to see what relevance it might have to Magdalon Schelderup’s death.

  V

  Hans Herlofsen was punctual and arrived at midday as arranged. He was correctly dressed and visibly tense, and nodded in gratitude when I closed the door to my office behind him.

  I opened with a routine question regarding how he had travelled to Schelderup Hall the evening before. Herlofsen replied that he had, as usual, driven there alone in his own car, but hesitated slightly when I asked which car. He nodded reluctantly when I asked
if the blue Peugeot was his. It felt as if I was getting warmer already. I took a chance and tried a bluff: ‘Your relationship with Schelderup was fine for the first few years after the war, wasn’t it? But then something happened that I think perhaps you should explain in more detail . . .’

  I was prepared for a violent reaction, but it did not happen. It was clear, however, that I had hit bullseye. Hans Herlofsen started to tremble and seemed to sink back into his chair. He sat leaning back for a while, before he started to speak in a shaky voice.

  ‘I hope that you appreciate how hard it is for me to talk about this. I will be honest, but I pray that it does not need to become public knowledge, unless it should prove to have anything to do with the murder. And I can guarantee you 100 per cent that it does not,’ he hastened to add.

  I waved impatiently for him to continue, but did give an understanding nod.

  ‘It is an irony of fate that I, who have spent my life looking after figures for other people, have not been able to look after my own. There is one year in my life that I simply cannot account for. That year started on 12 February 1948 when I came home to Lysaker and found my wife lying dead on the sofa with our two-year-old son in her arms. And it ended on 14 February 1949 when I was met at the office by a furious Magdalon Schelderup, and was accused of defrauding his company to the tune of 107,123 kroner. I still remember very little from the intervening period. I know that I sent my son to my wife’s sister and I myself drank and gambled every weekend and most evenings. I have no other explanation for it other than that it was an extreme form of grief, perhaps combined with a delayed reaction from the horrors of the war. Whatever the case, I am still not able to explain how I managed to lose such a large amount, even if I did bet on the horses and gamble whenever I got the chance. And the fact that I could do anything so unthinkable as swindle Magdalon Schelderup is even more inexplicable.’

  I nodded in agreement. From what I had heard about Magdalon Schelderup thus far, he was certainly not someone one should try to swindle.

  ‘But you do perhaps remember what happened on 14 February 1949?’

  He nodded and swallowed.

  ‘Yes, very clearly, unfortunately. Magdalon was absolutely livid in his own peculiar calm way, as he could be when he lost money or felt that he had been cheated by someone. He said he would call the police unless I could put the money on the table in the course of the working day – with interest. I confessed to him that I had drunk or played the money away. Then I got down on my knees in front of his desk, weeping, and begged him to spare me for the sake of my motherless little boy. I promised that I would pay him back every krone with interest over time. I explained that my assets were worth barely a tenth of the sum and that I would not be able to earn the money if I was found guilty of fraud. He said neither yes or no, just told me to get out of his sight. He added that I might as well crawl out. So I did as he said. I crawled out of his office on my hands and knees and did not stand up until I was out in the corridor and almost tripped up his wife.’

  The memory was obviously deeply uncomfortable and distressing. Hans Herlofsen wiped the sweat from his brow and took a short pause before continuing.

  ‘There was absolutely nothing in the world I could do, so I went back to my own office and carried on working as best I could. All day I waited for the police to knock on my door. And eventually it was Magdalon himself who came in, without knocking, at the end of the afternoon. He put down two written documents on the desk in front of me. One was a confession to fraud. The other was a contract in which I declared that I owed him 95,000 kroner, of which 87,123 was an ‘unpaid loan’ and 7,877 was ‘unpaid interest’. The amount was to be paid back with interest at 10 per cent, in annual instalments of 10,000 kroner. And my house and all my other assets were held as collateral in the event of any default in payment. I was given half a minute to sign or he would call the police. I signed, and he left the office holding both the documents. I have never seen them since, but I have been conscious of their existence every day of my life. Year after year has gone by without us ever mentioning the matter directly. I have been his slave – I had to carry on working for him for whatever wage he himself decided to pay me and could never answer back, no matter what bile he spat at me. My life has been an endless toil, a never-ending struggle to meet those payments on 31 December every year. And in 1964, I had to pawn my wife’s last pieces of jewellery between Christmas and New Year in order to make it.’

  My head was spinning. The situation was easy enough to understand, but not the profundity of it. Among Magdalon Schelderup’s ten guests, there were already so many tragic fates and possible motives for murder.

  ‘But I have managed to scrape together every single payment. And I have not touched a drop of alcohol or filled in a betting slip since 14 February 1949. I have managed to keep the whole thing hidden from everyone, including my son. He thinks that I am just extremely thrifty with my daily outgoings and that I actually have a lot of money deposited in the bank. And I tell my neighbours that I am careful with my money and happy with the car I’ve got. But the reality is that I can barely afford a new bicycle.’

  ‘So, 95,000 plus 10 per cent interest a year, less annual down payments of 10,000 from 1949, leaves . . .’

  He nodded gloomily.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s still 66,361 kroner outstanding. My crime is now legally time-barred, so there is no risk in talking to the police about it. But I am still indebted to the Schelderup family. If the story of my embezzlement gets out, I might as well forget trying to get another job. I have saved nearly enough for this year’s payment and have 8,212 kroner in the bank. But I have nothing more than that, so if they got wind of my debt and demanded that I pay up now, I would lose my house and all my assets, and my son’s family and I would once again be on the street. My suit is deceptive: I could be forced to sell it too. However, the worst thing is still the shame and grief it will cause my son.’

  Hans Herlofsen looked at me with a pained expression on his face, and added: ‘And I guess that is what is going to happen now.’

  I made a feeble attempt to comfort the poor manager, but it was not easy. He told me he had no idea where the confession and the promissory note might be, or who else might know about them. But he should at least reckon that the promissory note and outstanding debt had been registered. If the company was broken up and dissolved, not only would all outstanding debts be collected, but his position might disappear. And if the company was not broken up and dissolved, the only possible solution would be for the daughter and wife to take control. And in the best-case scenario, there was a slim hope that he might be able to continue the current arrangement, albeit with higher interest rates and larger payments, he added with a bitter smile. His only hope was that there would be some kind of clemency in the will or some other papers left by Magdalon Schelderup. But in a whisper, he estimated this possibility to be ‘under 15 per cent’.

  I let Herlofsen go at half past midday. He apologized once again for not having told me everything yesterday. He said that it had felt as if the ground was opening up under his feet following the events of the past twenty-four hours, and I believed him. Hans Herlofsen steadied himself on the doorframe as he left my office, and I do not believe he would normally have done that.

  VI

  At one o’clock, an important part of the puzzle was solved when I received a verbal report regarding Magdalon Schelderup’s metal box and the letters inside. It was in part good news for Synnøve Jensen. Her fingerprints had naturally been found on the outside of the box, but they were old and unclear. The only fingerprints on the letters contained therein were those of Magdalon Schelderup. These technical findings did not prove Synnøve Jensen’s statement to be true, but neither did they prove it to be false, and that was what was most important here and now. The arrest warrant I had optimistically put on the desk stayed where it was, incomplete.

  The greatest surprise at the police station, however, came at a quarter p
ast one. A breathless constable knocked on the door when a letter arrived with the day’s post.

  The address was in itself striking, the constable said. And I immediately understood what he meant.

  The letter was addressed to ‘The head of the investigation into the murder of Magdalon Schelderup’. Of course, this was not so sensational in itself today, but became more so when it was established that the postmark on the letter was from Oslo on the day before Magdalon Schelderup was murdered.

  The content was no less sensational. A simple folded sheet, with the following typewritten text:

  Here, Saturday 10 May 1969

  So the old dictator at the head of the table is dead.

  Even the little miss to his right scarcely shed a tear when his life was snuffed out.

  How soon, I wonder, will you manage to work out who put the powdered nuts on the roast?

  If you do not soon raise that toast, there may be more deaths and fewer witnesses to boast . . .

  I looked up at the constable, who looked even paler than normal. He rolled his eyes and said that I should just say if I needed any help. Then he beat a hasty retreat.

  The letter was obviously written by someone who was familiar with the seating arrangements and menu at Schelderup Hall. As far as I could see, the letter had been posted the day before the murder – by a confident murderer who had laid a plan and felt sure of the outcome. I had every reason to take very seriously indeed the threat that more of the guests from Magdalon Schelderup’s last meal might be murdered. I sat and thought for a few minutes, in part about who the murderer might have in mind and in part about why the murderer had gone to the bother of sending the police a written warning.