Satellite People

by Hans Olav Lahlum

  I had to ask myself how I would have reacted in a similar situation, where a new will drawn up four days previously had cost me roughly 90 million kroner. Even though she was still to inherit 30 million or so, it was almost impossible not to be impressed by the eighteen-year-old’s self-control.

  It was in that moment that I realized that I was, if not in love, certainly hugely fascinated by the late Magdalon Schelderup’s young and seriously wealthy daughter.

  IX

  The gathering soon broke up once the will had been read. Having downed his sherry, Fredrik Schelderup excused himself as he had ‘celebrations to attend’. He left the room and no one made any attempt to congratulate him.

  Herlofsen and the Wendelboes were more polite in their retreat, but almost as fast.

  Ingrid Schelderup embraced her son, who was still visibly shaken, and helped him, it would seem, to regain his composure. Schelderup’s former wife showed a new, sharper side when she thanked her hosts for their hospitality, despite not having touched a thing. It was almost possible to see the sparks in the air between Magdalon Schelderup’s two wives. Maria Irene saved the situation by clasping Ingrid Schelderup’s hand, quick as a flash, to thank her and wish her a good journey home. Her mother then pulled herself together enough to shake her guest’s hand and to whisper goodbye in a manner that was not too spiteful.

  Leonard Schelderup had apparently still not regained the power of speech, but, he too did his best to smooth over any conflict by giving an apologetic shrug before leaving the room, and then the house, on light feet in the wake of his mother.

  Edvard Rønning Junior the lawyer and I were suddenly left on our own with four women: the deceased’s wife, daughter, sister and mistress.

  It was only now that I discovered that Magdalena Schelderup was sitting there with an inscrutable expression on her face and more than ever resembled an old owl. I would have given a lot to know what she was thinking. It struck me that there was something different about her but, rather annoyingly, I could not put my finger on what.

  Synnøve Jensen sat as though frozen on the other side of the table in her plain clothes, with her face in her hands, only now her future and that of her unborn child had been secured.

  You could almost touch the ice that chilled the air between the deceased’s wife and mistress. Again it was Maria Irene who suddenly saved the day – and this time without saying a word. She calmly put her hand on her mother’s shoulder and more or less pulled her from the room. Magdalena Schelderup followed them with her eyes but stayed seated, her face still thoughtful. She poured herself a cup of coffee. We watched her drink it in almost breathless silence, and waited for a message that never came.

  It was Rønning Junior who first stirred to action. He informed Synnøve Jensen in a sombre tone that if she came by his office with her bank book tomorrow or the day after, he would arrange for her to be paid the 200,000 kroner as soon as possible. He then gave her his business card, and shook hands with those who were still there before leaving the room.

  I thought I caught a hint of triumph and irony in the lawyer’s eyes when he shook my hand. But it was fleeting and I saw no reason to further complicate the case by starting an argument with him. Formally, there was nothing to quibble about. I had only asked him about the content of the current will and he had answered correctly. Strictly speaking, it was my own forgetfulness that was to blame as I had not asked whether there were any previous wills and, in that case, what they said. And in any case, I now had the answer to my question only a matter of hours later. But I would have liked Rønning Junior more if he had taken the trouble to tell me earlier about the other will.

  The sound of Mr Rønning’s voice and steps appeared to have woken the until now paralysed Synnøve Jensen to life. She lowered her hands from her face, put the business card in her pocket and left the room with a quiet apology for something or other.

  Magdalena Schelderup and I sat and looked at each other for a minute or so. The only thing to break the silence was the outbreak of barking as first Rønning and then Synnøve Jensen passed the dogs – by which time I was on my feet and looking out of the window. Rønning jumped just as much this time as he had on his way in, whereas Synnøve Jensen was obviously used to the noise they made. She walked past them unperturbed, and then on down the driveway, alone in the world, but, it would appear from my bird’s-eye view, with courage.

  ‘And now what do you think?’ I asked Magdalena Schelderup.

  A gentle smile crept over her wrinkled face when she replied.

  ‘Now I am thinking the same as you. In other words, how on earth does this all make sense and who on earth put the powdered nuts on my brother’s plate? And what is going to happen to those of us who are left?’

  Then she stood as well. I wanted to ask her something, but could not think of a meaningful question. And to my irritation I realized that I still could not work out what it was about her that had changed since we last met. I was left with the feeling that the older Miss Schelderup was not only a wiser woman than she might at first seem, but that she also knew more than she was saying.

  I had been sitting on my own in the room for a couple of minutes when there was a sharp knock on the door, and in came Sandra Schelderup. She had come to apologize for her earlier outburst, saying that the situation was obviously difficult and extremely emotional. She also wanted to ask if there was anything more she could do to help me.

  I had a couple of questions about relevant details. I asked when the dogs had come the year before and who was responsible for tethering them. She replied promptly and without any fuss that her husband had bought the dogs in the middle of summer. She had known nothing about them until they stood barking at the steps. She, her husband and one trusted servant were the only ones who knew the dogs well enough to handle them. Everyone else, including Maria Irene, kept out of their way.

  I soon understood that there was something she wanted to tell me, but had no idea what. So I eventually asked whether she had any new thoughts, in light of the day’s events. She beamed and replied that one thought had struck her with renewed force. Given that Magdalon’s son, Leonard, and his mistress both had so much to gain from his death, and that he pointed to his son shortly before he died . . . And that, as we knew, his mistress was pregnant, even though Magdalon had been convinced that he could no longer have children . . . Well, then perhaps it was not so unthinkable that maybe they were in a relationship and had conspired together?

  She admitted that it was perhaps no more than wishful thinking on her part. But maybe it was worth looking into all the same.

  I did not like Sandra Schelderup any the better for this, but had to admit that her theory was not something that could be ignored. But I disliked her a little less when she once again apologized for her display of temperament, before adding that she and her daughter would now leave the case in my safe hands. They were certain that I would manage to solve the apparently inexplicable murder mystery. Her husband had no doubt known what he was doing when he contacted me. He had followed the case regarding Harald Olesen’s murder day by day and had sung my praises at its conclusion. I must of course just call or drop in at any time should I have any more questions.

  We finished the conversation by exchanging a few words about the continued police presence at Schelderup Hall. We quickly agreed that a police constable would remain on guard that night but would be allowed to leave the next day, unless anything unexpected happened that might give cause for concern. Sandra Scheldeup promised to call me straight away if she remembered anything that might be of importance and dutifully wrote down my telephone numbers in case she needed to get in touch quickly.

  At ten past five, I slowly descended the stairs that led to the front door. My progression was slow, partly because the situation had given me a lot to think about, but mainly because I hoped that I might bump into Maria Irene.

  And this, it turned out, was not difficult. She came out of one of the side doors on the grou
nd floor just as I reached the bottom of the stairs. It was of course no coincidence that I was walking slowly down the stairs or that she came out into the hall at that moment. I think we both understood that the moment we stood face to face. Neither of us had anything in particular to say, so it was a brief, pleasant encounter. She also assured me that she had full confidence in my investigative skills and dutifully noted down my telephone numbers in case she needed to contact me.

  I took the liberty of commenting on how impressed I was with the maturity she had shown in the face of such disappointment, given the strange story of the two wills. She replied that she of course wished it had been otherwise, but that 25–35 million was still an extraordinarily fortunate start in life for a young woman.

  I was uncertain as to whether or not to give her a hug when we parted, but wisely offered a firm hand instead. I noticed her mother standing like a silent statue a few feet away from the top of the stairs. There was now no doubt in my mind that I liked the daughter better than the mother. I still had conflicting feelings for the daughter, but had to confess to a growing fascination for the beautiful and serene young woman.

  I had an hour-long stopover at my office prior to departing for Patricia’s, but all I did was sit there looking through the case documents without becoming any the wiser. The mysterious letter that had arrived in the morning post lay on top. At half past five, I put it and the other papers in my briefcase. If I had not already needed advice and illuminating comments from Patricia, I certainly did now that I had received the letter. Unless somehow there was a rather well-informed and sardonic joker behind it, the letter entailed not only a sarcastic dig at the police, but also a threat of more murders.

  The faces of the ten guests who had sat round the table at Magdalon Schelderup’s last meal and during the reading of the will flicked through my mind as I drove to Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. It was not clear to me which of them might have written the letter, or who the letter’s threatening last line might be referring to.

  X

  After my experiences that day and the growing sense of unease at Schelderup Hall, it was a pleasure to enter the familiar and safe surroundings of 104–8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. The rooms were just as spacious and the stairs just as long as I remembered from the year before. Patricia’s father, Professor Director Ragnar Sverre Borchmann, was just as impressive and reliable but, if possible, even friendlier, when I met him at the front door. Either he had not been told about Patricia’s stressful experience during the dramatic conclusion of the murder case she assisted me with the year before, or he was doing an extremely good job of pretending to have forgotten.

  Once again he informed me that he had not seen his daughter as alive as she had been during and after last year’s investigation since the accident that had left her paralysed from the waist down. She was now already showing the same keen interest in the mystery surrounding the murder of Magdalon Schelderup and he had high hopes that she might be able to give me valuable advice. I thanked him heartily for letting his daughter be involved with the investigation, and he shook my hand for the third time when we parted. His goodwill had been rather a surprise. Talking to Professor Director Ragnar Sverre Borchman always took time, even when you said very little yourself. It was already a quarter past six and the starter was on the table when the maid showed me into the library with a small understanding smile.

  To my enormous relief, Patricia appeared to be unaffected by the strain that last year’s events had put on her nerves. She sat radiant by the table, ready to hold court, and showed no sign of having taken up smoking again as she had in the final stages of the our first case. The air was clean and Patricia’s face was as bright as the summer sun. I could neither see nor hear any changes in the now nineteen-year-old Patricia, compared with the eighteen-year-old with whom I had shared ten intense days of investigation the year before. The pile of books she was reading at the moment included a detective story by the American author Rex Stout, a Russian book with several chessboard diagrams on the front cover and a thick English book about the great battles of the First and Second World Wars.

  As had been the case when we first met, we made no attempt to shake hands. Now that I was once again in the middle of a murder case, it felt quite natural to be sitting here, asking for advice.

  Patricia listened with intense concentration and made copious notes, while I used the time it took for us to eat the asparagus soup and half the beef tenderloin to tell her about the day’s events. As was her wont, she listened patiently until I had finished my account of the facts of the case. She finished her last slice of tenderloin and washed it down with a glass of iced water, deep in thought. And then she took off at speed.

  ‘First of all, I should congratulate you on another good day’s work. The case is clearly very complicated, but you have already managed to draw out an impressive amount of information that answers a number of my questions.’

  She pointed casually to the detective novel in the pile of books.

  ‘Your talents are indeed greater than those of Archie Goodwin in Rex Stout’s novels. So I for my part, despite being well under half the size, will have to try to surpass Nero Wolfe’s ability to spot brilliant connections without physically leaving the safety of my home.’

  Despite Goodwin’s popularity with the opposite sex, I was not entirely happy with the comparison. Nor was I comfortable with being reminded of what had happened, or what could easily have happened, when I persuaded Patricia to leave the safety of her home for a few hours during the last case. So I hastened to ask what she had to say about the case so far.

  All of a sudden, Patricia became very serious.

  ‘That this case is not likely to be any easier to solve than the last one, but that it may be even more gruesome. Although many things from Harald Olesen’s past were revealed in the course of the investigation, this Magdalon Schelderup already appears to be a man with some very unsympathetic sides – indeed, a man who might therefore leave an even more indelible mark on the people around him. We are obviously dealing with a rather unique murder in terms of Norwegian criminal history. I am starting to believe that we are also talking about a remarkable murder victim, for better or worse, but mainly for worse. So my first observation is that we will find an exceptionally strong connection between the murder and the victim’s life and personality. It is far too early to have an opinion as to who might have put the powdered nuts in his food. I can imagine several options that would imply that all ten guests could be murderers.’

  I nodded and ventured something myself.

  ‘I have also thought that there are similarities between this case and last year’s, and that your human fly concept could also apply to several of the potential murderers here.’

  Patricia shook her head thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, that’s true, but I would be inclined to say rather that we are dealing with ten satellite people.’

  She smiled at my confusion and quickly continued.

  ‘I’m so sorry, without thinking I used a term that I coined myself and have used so frequently since that I forget it is not an established concept for other people . . . Human flies are people who have experienced something so dramatic, not to say traumatic, that they continue to hover and fly round this event from the past for decades. Satellite people are very similar, but not quite the same. They are individuals who for whatever reason move in a more or less fixed orbit round another person. It is a phenomenon that can be found in many relationships and at all levels of society. For example, it might be a kind mother who even when she is a very old lady herself continues to circle round a sick child, or a son who though grown still gives his all to his father. It could easily be argued that our longest-serving prime minister Einar Gerhertsen’s editor brother was a kind of satellite person to his sibling. And the wife of the current leader of the Labour Party, our next prime minister, also only orbits her husband.’

  I noted that Patricia obviously knew a lot about Norwegi
an politics, but was keener to hear her explain the relevance of this new concept to the investigation. I did not have to wait long.

  ‘The phenomenon is in fact particularly evident in the wealthy upper classes, as is the case here. Many strong and powerful people, intentionally or unintentionally, encourage other people to orbit them like satellites. Magdalon Schelderup was undoubtedly such a person, and obviously had nothing against it. As a result, these ten guests have moved round him in their various individual orbits for years. And now it would appear that one of the satellites has broken loose from its path in a very dramatic fashion and crashed into the planet it was orbiting. This has sparked a highly unpredictable situation. All the fixed orbits have been broken and chaos threatens a universe that has lost its centre point and organizing force.’

  Now I understood the relevance of the concept. Patricia caught the fascination on my face and smiled.

  ‘As you see now, a little knowledge of geophysics can be useful in an investigation. Though things are possibly somewhat simpler down here on earth. There are also examples of countries where millions of people continue to circle round one dominating person for decades and decades. One can only wonder what will happen to a country like Yugoslavia, where the pull of ethnicity and religion is so strong, the day that Tito is no longer there as the unifying force. My guess is the country will no longer exist twenty years after his death.’

  Much as I found Patricia’s predictions for the future of Yugoslavia fascinating, if somewhat exaggerated and utopian, I was at that moment impatient to get on with my murder investigation.

  ‘So, you believe that even Petter Johannes Wendelboe is nothing more than a satellite person?’

  Patricia smiled.

  ‘Fair point. Petter Johannes Wendelboe is definitely a big enough character to be his own planet, independent of Magdalon Schelderup. But he has chosen to stay in his orbit year after year all the same. And he took his place at all these Sunday meals. The question as to why is therefore of great interest. Do you have any suggestions?’