I shook my already dazed head briefly.
‘Sunday suppers like that are more often than not studies in boredom. However, there are six possible reasons why one might choose to go to them. For example, you might go for fear of risking a negative reaction from the host in the form of a change in the will or disinheritance. Or you might go because there is a strong positive motivation to meet someone else who is going, usually because you are in love with them and hope you will end up in the sack together. Or you go there to eat, drink or chat. However, none of these would appear to be relevant to Wendelboe, so that leaves the sixth possibility . . .’
I sent Patricia a questioning look, to which she responded triumphantly: ‘He went there to listen. Wendelboe went there time after time in the hope that Schelderup himself, or perhaps one of the other guests, would finally divulge something that it was very important for Wendelboe to know. And, as Herlofsen would perhaps say, I am 99 per cent sure that the something Wendelboe hoped to hear about is something to do with the war. Hence my great interest in the three mysterious deaths from back then. I do have some theories about possible connections but they are still very sketchy, so let us come back to them tomorrow. In the meantime, I would like you to check with the Wendelboes, and possibly also Herlofsen, exactly when the murders of the two members of the group took place, and the circumstances around them, and when Magdalon Schelderup joined the group.’
I promised to do this. ‘The other incident from the war, the one that took place on Liberation Day, is somewhat clearer, is it not?’
Patricia shook her head. ‘That one is also very interesting. And I would be surprised if you had not already noted one very striking detail. But again, let us leave that until tomorrow. Even though I do not have high hopes of what he could or might want to tell us about Magdalon Schelderup, you should try to talk to our foreign minister, Jonas Lykke, as soon as possible.’
I nodded eagerly. The legendary Conservative politician, Jonas Lykke, was Norway’s former prime minister and a great driving force behind the Conservative coalition government of the day. He had played a central role in the Resistance and in the treason trials after the war, and then went on to become a politician. He was definitely someone I should talk to about Magdalon Schelderup’s life during the war and later as a politician. And I had to admit that the idea of talking to Jonas Lykke was very appealing to someone who had followed his progress over the years on the television and radio and in the papers.
I ventured to say that in criminal cases, it seemed that satellite people functioned in much the same way as human flies. Patricia nodded at first, but then shook her head.
‘Yes and no. Both could obviously give motives for murder, but there are significant differences. Satellite people are often bigger and harder than human flies. They move faster. And it can get extremely cold out there in the highest spheres, especially on the far side of larger planets. And that is precisely where we find ourselves, high up in the spheres on the cold far side, in Schelderup Hall, in the middle of an inheritance dispute regarding Magdalon Schelderup’s fortune. The person behind our last murder case was a very strong person, but I must warn you that the person or persons behind this case may be even more calculating and dangerous.’
We were interrupted by the maid, who came in to clear the table and serve dessert. And although the rice cream was beautifully prepared and delicious, both Patricia and I were losing any interest in food. Patricia had truly picked up pace and raced on as soon as the door closed behind the maid.
‘You have no doubt already reacted to several striking similarities. The first that struck me was the reading of the will, with even the same lawyer. It can hardly be coincidence, and nor is it. From what Sandra Schelderup and Magdalon himself have said, the explanation seems to be clear enough. Magdalon Schelderup followed your last case in the media with great interest, no doubt because it was obviously an exciting game that struck a chord with him. When he then decided to write a will shortly thereafter, he chose a similar format and the same firm of lawyers. So far, so good . . .’
I nodded; there was nothing that surprised me so far.
‘And even though we are now most interested in the man’s second will, the first one is also of interest. Why did Magdalon Schelderup suddenly decide to write a will in August last year? If the decision had been directly inspired by the Olesen case, he would hardly have waited until four months after it had been solved and closed. The possibility of a connection here is underpinned by the fact that he also got the guard dogs, without any prior warning, at around the same time. So it is likely that something of interest happened here last summer. I would urge you to contact Schelderup’s doctor tomorrow and ask if he knows anything more about this. We may then also get the answer to another important question that struck me . . .’
She stopped for a moment, but continued with a mischievous smile when I impatiently waved her on.
‘That is, the method of murder chosen. Serving nuts to someone who is allergic of course has its advantages; for example, if there is a risk that you yourself might be asked to taste the food. But it is far less certain than using cyanide or any other lethal poison. Unless Schelderup’s health might otherwise indicate that a small dose of nuts would mean certain death. And if that was the case, who else other than he himself knew about it? That would be very interesting to know . . .’
I agreed with this and promised to contact Schelderup’s doctor the following day.
‘As for the motive, it is perfectly understandable that Sandra Schelderup would want to cast doubt on his stepson and mistress. Equally, it is not unthinkable that her conspiracy theory about the two being a couple might be true. However, I think it is a dead end that is leading us in entirely the wrong direction. Quite literally, I would say.’
Patricia laughed her withering teenage laugh without explaining why. Then she was serious again and started to summarize the situation and, fortunately, her preliminary conclusions were very similar to my own.
‘In short, the last will gives both sons, the secretary, the manager and the ex-wife all a clear motive. But the previous will, which may have been the last one that anyone knew about, gives the daughter and her mother an even stronger motive. Of those sitting around the table, that leaves the Wendelboes and the deceased’s sister, who all could have reasons for wanting him dead that have nothing to do with money. So, for the moment, we certainly do not need to worry about any lack of suspects or motives.’
I had to agree with her, but quickly asked what she thought about the letter. The colour seemed to drain from her face instantly.
‘I do not like it one bit. I find the implied danger of further deaths in the letter very troubling indeed, especially as it was posted before Magdalon Schelderup’s death. The letter is one of the most alarming elements in this case so far, and it may well be a crucial clue. But for the moment, it is impossible to say where it might lead. It is highly likely that the letter was written by the murderer. And if that is the case, the only things we can deduce are that he or she for some mysterious reason wants to give the police some hints, and that he or she has only average talents when it comes to poetry. And given what we know so far, that basically would not exclude any of the guests.’
After the maid had collected the dessert bowls, Patricia asked suddenly whether I was still in touch with any of the people involved in our last case. I shook my head and looked at her, puzzled.
‘No contact with any of them?’ she repeated, with a careful smile. I replied ‘no’, and asked why she wondered about that. Patricia was obviously taken aback by my question, and answered abruptly that it was a good thing that I had nothing else to think about and could give my full attention to this new case. To which she swiftly added: ‘And I would strongly advise you in this case, too, to be wary of all those who were in the building at the time of the murder and to keep them at arm’s length until the case has been solved. It is possible that fewer of them have lied in their first st
atement than was the case last time. But that being so, there are more who have not told you details that might be of crucial importance to the investigation. In fact, I suspect that all ten are guilty of withholding crucial secrets.’
I nodded eagerly. ‘So you have no doubt that we will be able to solve the case?’
Patricia smiled. ‘But of course. There is always only one truth in a murder case. And it always comes to light when you have the skills to gather the right information and interpret it correctly. And we both have just that. Continue to delve for the information we do not yet have and give me some time to think over what we already know, and very soon we will have some breakthroughs. We already have far more interesting information now than we did at the same point in the last investigation. If it continues in this way, well then, my hope is that we may achieve our goal within about a week.’
I let myself be reassured by this, but already had an unexpected amount to think about. So I hastily thanked Patricia for the food and left, having made a preliminary arrangement to meet her again for supper the following day.
XI
When I got home I immediately phoned the main police station to say that I needed to speak to Jonas Lykke as soon as possible in connection with the ongoing murder investigation. My boss agreed that this sounded wise and, without hesitation, promised to call the Ministry of Foreign Affairs regarding my request.
At a quarter to nine I attempted to unwind by watching the Monday film, which was the German classic, The Blue Angel. And even with Marlene Dietrich on the television, my thoughts continued to whirl around unfolding events and the Gulleråsen murder mystery in Oslo. And then the phone rang for the first time that evening. It was by then five to ten. The voice on the other end was female and friendly, but with a tone of underlying anxiety. It was Sandra Schelderup. She was calling to tell me that a revolver had disappeared from her husband’s gun collection. The one he had kept with him in the bedroom and office in recent weeks was still where he had last left it, in the locked drawer of his desk. But another, older, revolver had now disappeared from the gun cabinet in the hallway. She did not know if it was loaded, or whether any ammunition had been stolen. It was impossible to say whether the revolver had disappeared in the course of the day, yesterday or some days before. But it was clearly not there. For many years the cabinet had contained two rifles, two pistols and two revolvers. And now the older revolver was missing. According to the contents list, it was a Swedish-produced 7.5mm calibre Nagant revolver.
I asked her who might know about the gun. She paused, said quite clearly that she and her daughter knew nothing about where it might be, and then added in a hushed voice that those who knew the house as well as they did were her stepsons and the secretary. She managed to curb herself in time and added that any one of their visitors might of course have known about the revolver and taken it with them. The cabinet had been locked as it should be, but the lock was not very advanced and a key from the neighbouring cupboard could be used to open it.
Sandra Schelderup sounded tired and frightened, which I could well understand. So I thanked her for calling and asked her to contact me immediately should she discover anything else of importance. She promised to do that and again stated how glad she was that I was the one leading the investigation.
XII
I was about to sign my first report to the commanding officer at around a quarter past ten, when the telephone rang again. This time it was Leonard Schelderup’s voice on the other end, sounding even more upset than I had heard it the day before.
‘I do apologize for calling you so late. But I have just had a telephone call from someone who did not identify themself advising me to confess to the murder of my father. I of course replied that I was innocent, but the caller hung up immediately. It was a deeply unpleasant experience!’
I agreed that it must have been and asked straight away if he had recognized the voice. The tension in his own voice was even more audible when he replied.
‘No. The voice was distorted and in any case only said a few words. But it did sound familiar all the same, as if I had heard it before, but I would not dare to say where and when that might have been. And that only makes things worse.’
My attempt to pacify Leonard Schelderup by saying that it might just be some prankster who had read about the case in the newspaper was of little avail. He thought this highly unlikely, as his telephone number was not listed in the telephone directory and was only known to his close family and friends.
I had to concede that this was a fair point, and immediately offered to send a constable round to stand guard outside his front door. At first he accepted this offer, but then abruptly changed his mind and asked that no one stand guard before tomorrow morning at the earliest. He repeated this twice. He promised to think some more about the voice on the phone and to call me immediately if he had any idea of who it might be.
Leonard Schelderup sounded slightly calmer by the time we finished our conversation around eleven o’clock. ‘Thank you for taking the time to talk to me this evening, and hopefully we will talk again in the morning!’ were his last words before he hung up.
I did not take the opportunity to ask about his relationship with his father’s secretary, Synnøve Jensen. It was clear from Leonard Schelderup’s mood that it might be best to leave it until tomorrow and to discuss it in daylight.
After I put down the receiver, I sat for a further ten minutes speculating on yet another small mystery within the greater mystery of Magdalon Schelderup’s murder. Even though the day had brought to light a lot of new information, the answer did not feel any closer when I finally went to bed at a quarter past eleven.
The day’s events had also taken their toll on me. I lay there until well past midnight, my mind churning over what had been said, half expecting the telephone to ring again. Then I finally fell asleep, only to be woken by a very odd nightmare. I imagined that Leonard Schelderup had rung me again and begged for a constable to be put on guard as soon as possible.
At a quarter past two I stumbled over to the telephone, annoyed with myself, and dialled the number of the police station to ask if it would be possible to station a police officer outside Leonard Schelderup’s flat in Skøyen. I knew that resources were tight and that posting an officer overnight was limited only to exceptional cases of imminent danger. But I suddenly had the feeling that this was precisely one such extraordinary and dangerous situation. There were a couple of men on duty in case of emergency and they promised that one of them would be outside the address given in Skøyen by three o’clock. I lay tossing and turning for another ten minutes, castigating myself first for having been overcautious and calling out a policeman in the middle of the night, and then for not having done it sooner. The alarm clock glowed a quarter past three by the time sleep overpowered my tired brain. I then slept heavily until the morning, unaware of the drama that had taken place under cover of darkness.
DAY FOUR
On the Trail of a Lonesome Horseman
I
Tuesday, 13 May 1969 was another day with an early start. My telephone rang at twenty-three minutes to eight, just as I put a cup of coffee down on the breakfast table. When I answered ‘Kristiansen, how can I help you?’ there was a couple of seconds of heavy breathing on the other end before a woman’s voice pierced my ear.
‘Is that Detective Inspector Kristiansen? If it is, please can you come immediately? There has been another murder.’
The voice was trembling, and yet impressively controlled and clear. I recognized it immediately as one of the voices I had heard at Schelderup Hall. It took a couple of seconds more before I realized it belonged to Magdalon Schelderup’s former wife, Ingrid. She spoke quickly and was remarkably informative.
‘I am in Skøyen, in my son’s flat. I came to see him this morning, but someone has been here before me. Leonard is lying on the floor with a bullet wound to his head and has obviously been killed. If you come, you can see for yourself!’
> The choice of words was rather odd, but her voice was still impressively clear for a woman who had just found her only son murdered. I vaguely recalled Patricia’s words about the hard and strong satellite people involved in this case. Then I mumbled my condolences and asked her to stay where she was with the door locked until I got there. She promised to do this, but added that it was too late to save her son’s life or to catch the murderer.
So Tuesday, 13 May turned into one of the very few days when my breakfast was left untouched on the kitchen table. It took me less than thirty seconds from the time I put down the phone to when I slammed the front door shut behind me.
The drive to Skøyen, on the other hand, felt incredibly long. I remembered what a great experience it had been to watch Leonard Schelderup sail across the finishing line with rare majesty, his long fair hair flowing, to win gold in the Norwegian Championships at Bislett the year before. I also remembered only too well his frightened face at the reading of the will, and his terrified voice on the telephone last night. Now that Leonard Schelderup had in one fell move gone from murder suspect to murder victim, my sympathy welled up.
Alone in the car, I cursed several times the fact that I had not come out to see him last night. For the second time in three days a Schelderup had phoned me and for the second time he had died before I could speak to him. My only defence was that I had offered to station a policeman outside and he had said no. This time I had even ordered a constable to go there several hours later. But the facts of the matter were still brutal: Leonard Schelderup had telephoned me yesterday evening to say that he was frightened and this morning he had been shot and killed.
The investigation seemed to be more complicated than ever. I had never truly believed that Leonard Schelderup had murdered his father, but no more than a day ago he had been the only one of the ten who had stood out as a natural suspect, in addition to Synnøve Jensen. And now that he had become a murder victim himself, it felt as though the mystery was getting deeper, despite the fall in the number of possible suspects. Apart from Synnøve Jensen, I could not pick out any one of the nine remaining as a more or less likely double murderer than the rest.
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